Gypsy Island Girly's Open Salon Blog

Daughters and Moms

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 23:04:27 -0400

My daughter and I are sometimes at odds these days; while she has ended high school and is treading into the waters of looking for work to make money to travel through Europe, I sometimes barely do the dog paddle into this new life. Both of us are evolving and learning and not without growing pains. She loves cocking her head at things that I say, giving me the sideways hairy eyeball as if to say, “God mom, when did you get so dumb/thick/blind *(choose your description)?” Only of course Hayley doesn’t usually talk that way, she rather infers than actually speaks those kinds of words.

That hairy eyeball thingy...it’s somethin’ else.

So tonight it struck me as interesting when she says to the dog (after dismissing me without a hug, something we always used to do when we came together after parting for a whole day), “Hey there, lover.” Which got me to thinking: Maybe if I acted like Cookie, Hayley will treat me as well as she treats Cookie. Then again, I can’t quite picture myself walking around the floor on all fours, sniffing out the corners, an occasional lick, while wagging my tail. Well maybe the tail-wagging bit, I can probably handle that okay. But the rest...

Tonight, when Hayley does her thing and I do mine (we have decided that we definitely need some space apart for awhile), I attend a group that discusses the book, The Way of Mastery. It’s an amazing group with vision-minded people; clearly something that excites me and a group I want to continue to be a part of.

One thing about our hourly rented room stood out for me, tonight: a stone-cold television sitting on a table, facing the wall. What a great analogy, I think, for my daughter and I: It’s time to do some real visioning, turn off the stories, the illusions, the victim energies and be real; be in the present moment, touch one another’s hearts and live our lives with love and compassion.

He's Got it Bad

Tue, 28 Dec 2010 22:12:46 -0500

He’s got it bad. Really bad. The other night he looks at me tenderly, his eyes all gooey with love and he tells me, “Yeah, you were asleep in my arms and you were snoring. You sounded sooo sweet!” I can’t help but feel sorry for him; after all, a guy who thinks that snoring is sweet? What else will he find endearing?

I’m lucky—I’ve waited more than half my life to meet him and here he is: In my life, in my face, in my home. I’ve had to clear out the left side of the walk-in closet; that wasn’t too bad, when I finally remember to make room for him. This is all new for me. After searching ten years for “the one,” finding him has been almost surreal, as if we are both in a dream. Isn’t that his photo on my laptop? Well then, he must be real, my ego tells me—it’s living proof.

Yet it surely doesn’t feel real. Since our second date, he’s been camping out in my bed, in my house. Did someone invite him to do that? Did I? I am floating as if in a dream; I am feeling dreamlike. This is a dream. And this guy is my dreamboat.

Every morning, we both awaken early, around three-thirty; do I turn over and say goodnight, do I smile and close my eyes shut, again, to sleep it off? No, I stay awake. And he says something and I lose it; a couple drops of pee in the bed because he makes me laugh so hard. Damn him, anyway. Because of him I work hard at staying awake for my clients, when all I want to do is to take a heavenly quiet nap. In fact, sometimes I do, while my client is off sawing her own logs. This being in love business is something else.

I hold on to my tongue when he brings me chocolate; it is milk with almonds embedded in it. Doesn’t he realize that dark is the only acceptable kind I will eat and that really, if he intends on bringing me flower bouquets, the glass vase has to go? Only the most colorful flowers will do—and I don’t need a store bought vase to cheapen the look. I mean, really. Didn’t he fall in love with me because I’m uniquely flamboyant and flaunt my own style and thinking? Of course he did. He isn’t dumb. In fact, he’s more spiritually aware than I am, remembers to walk his talk more than I do. He’s not the one sounding like a truck driver in rush-hour traffic.

Maybe he finds that attractive in me, sees that as sexy. A grown girly, acting more like a teen, exuberant energy; soaring through the clouds with my playful, childlike imagination. He’s the same way and he understands this, unlike most men who act like laughing and poking fun at yourself constitutes being arrested. Or running in the rain, naked, or eating food with your fingers…or dancing in the grocery store. In fact he once instigated it in Whole Foods, suddenly grabbing me from behind and tonguing me in the dairy aisle, oblivious to the sauntering cop. I love that stuff, I live for that kind of stuff; as a rebellious girly, I thrive on that kind of thing. How did I get to be so lucky, how did I get exactly what I want?

It isn’t enough that we both love to dance, both love music—wouldn’t want to live without it; we both have newly grown daughters that resemble one another; both practice spirituality, love to read about it in bed; both get into cooking and eating healthy foods; both practice yoga and using our bodies in exercise and lovemaking as often as possible; both putting our relationship over everything else; believe in drinking lots of water, every day and feel orgasmic in hot water, whether it’s a hot springs, bathtub or the ocean; we both ache for travel adventures; want to create work/play for ourselves that generously means service to others…all that wasn’t enough, I had to manifest more: synchronicities and deep connections that continue to blow us both away. What did I start, here, anyway?And can I continue it, with grace?

He says I manifested him into my life—says that I’m responsible for calling him to myself. How exactly did I do that? Was it the endless hours of praying, of wishing, of hoping? All I did was reply to his profile on okcupid.com. It was easy. And here he makes it sound so mysterious, so magical. Just answered his ad, as simple as that.

And just because he keeps me waiting for several days until he answers, it doesn’t mean that he is any less intrigued; in fact, he is bowled over by me. I’ve mesmerized him from the beginning. And now I can’t shake him (I admit it—I love all the attention and the whoopla and the humor). I can even stand all the silly texting, every single day, the constant communication. Isn’t that exactly what I asked for, a communicative man? Well, here he is. Weep no more. Celebrate. Dance. Light up. He’s the best thing that happened to me in ages.

There he is, his picture on my laptop. God, he’s sexy. It’s time to be grateful. And god knows that I am. Man am I grateful. After all, he’s not only my sweetheart, my lover and my boyfriend; for goddess sakes, he’s my very best friend in the world—and we plan to marry.

Socks and Other Thingys

Fri, 8 Oct 2010 00:10:26 -0400

I could easily go into business with all the thingys that guys end up leaving at my house. I could make a fortune. The only trouble is, I’d run out of space to put the stuff.

First there was the guy who left his expensive runner’s shirt and socks. We had both thought it was an omen; that it meant he was to be back for another round of fun—no such luck. His stuff ended up at Goodwill. Then the next guy left his shorts and socks (what is this thingy with leaving socks at my house, anyway?). His I easily threw away as I was afraid I would be contaminated by his dandruff, which happened to turn up everywhere, including the back of my lipstick red couch.

Then there is the short-term (two and a half week) tenant, who I was helping out. He left behind a plastic lid container and (what else?) a lone sock that was in the dryer. Recently when my daughter still lived with me, her boyfriend left various socks and undies around the house. And there’s the most recent trail: a guy I have dated for around two-and-a-half weeks; he left his cell phone and—naturally—a pair of his socks. I’d like to think that the guy who left his cell phone was connected with me on a deeper level than the other ones. At least that’s what he continually told me. Our very first meeting included a very sweet kiss in the center of a very chaotic and busy restaurant. From there on, we touched one another’s hearts with our hands and it only became more exciting and sweet, at the same time. And now I have his cell phone (and socks). I tried paging him, yet he hasn’t responded; I don’t know if the call goes to his cell phone—however as I paged him, I watched his cell for signs of movement and didn’t see any. So maybe he’s just playing coy. Or maybe his cell phone is turned off. Either way, it’s a sad tale: he and I really clicked (as he mentioned, several times); we really connected on many levels.

This morning he told me he wished we had met a year later. He’s a married man, separated and living apart only two months. He most definitely isn’t as available as I had thought, since he didn’t disclose this information until our first date, halfway through dinner.

Oh, the woes of contemporary dating. At least—as a writer who loves to write about relationships—it gives me plenty of fodder. So the question is this: is the fodder/writing more vital to a writer than the quality of relationships? If these guys were ultimately boooring, could I write about them, would I want to? I’m an obsessive writer—it’s always going on in my head, whether or not I pursue it onto paper or computer. Do I create all this drama just to have something to write about? And is there a deeper meaning to the left behind socks? Could it mean I'm not grounded, but flying willy-nilly in unfettered bare feet? And is this a bad thingy, necessarily?

This is getting a bit too heavy for my little brain; I think I’ll hermit myself awhile and look for some missing socks at my house—in the meantime, I’ll be writing about it.

I'm so Tempted

Fri, 16 Jul 2010 15:07:24 -0400

You know, your (ex) friend is right: I’m too good for you. It’s not easy for me to say that; after all, as one who practices the art of spirituality, I (perhaps naively) like to think that we are all beautiful souls. Looks like I might be wrong about that.

The first time we met, my gut told me to go far away and never come back for more. You slouched in your chair, with a pout on your face, as if you were five years old. I’m really not into pedophilia and even though you kept telling me, “If you don’t want to see me again, just block me on the site; really, it’s okay, I won’t mind” I didn’t want to play that game. Maybe I should have blocked you, then. Maybe I should have listened to your words and my gut, at the time.

You called me again, several times, actually, before I decided to answer. We went out to dinner and you surprised me with your sense of humor. You made me laugh.

We courted, then kissed; your kisses wooed me, like you actually knew what you were doing. After we would kiss you said to me, “Don’t look at me with that goofy look in your eyes!…” You didn’t want me to like you. Why did you continue to call? Your self-esteem was truly in the toilet.

Then we were hanging out at my house and your fingers went somewhere I didn’t expect. They felt good being there and I let go, the feeling washing over me: a guy who knows how to touch. There was something in your hands, your fingers, your touch that got to me.

I was easily led into your bed; after all, I wanted more of that touch. We made love at least two times and then you lost it, over the phone. We were innocently talking, as we did, for a length of time. I said something, nothing crucial, in fact extremely inconsequential; you said, under your breath, “Idiot.” I was a bit flabbergasted; did I hear you right? Exactly what were you angry about?

When I asked you to repeat what you had just said, it was obvious you had said it because you didn’t repeat it. So I told you I had to go (too many conversations, lovemaking later?) and hung up. Your word and tone made me feel a little saddened; I knew I did nothing to provoke you and wondered why I was being treated that way. As Rodney Dangerfield would say, “I don’t get no respect.”

I like being a peacemaker when I am able and when I read something that reminded me of you and our situation and what you just might be experiencing, I forwarded it to you, with a short, sweet note. It flew back into my face, with: “Take me off your email list.” Ever so wanting to reconnect (god only knows why) I wrote something back and your reply was simple: “Take me off your email list.”

So I got the message. I easssily forgot about you, the shenanigans and all; the drama that seemed to accompany the laughter. I deleted your name and number from my phone list. I wasn’t sorry, I felt relieved, actually. Read: RELIEVED.

Then, out of the blue, I got a message from you, something about how my facebook account popped up on your email. You emailed me to let me know. I deleted your email—poof! gone!—and it felt good. I thought how much nerve you seemed to have, thinking that I want to be friends with someone who is verbally abusive. (Abusive: according to you, the “buzzword,” the one that easily riles you, makes your chest hair stand up as you beat your chest with your fists and explode, your neck veins popping out along with your eyes.) Let me tell you this: I am not responsible for your anger. Feel it. Know it. Acknowledge it. It is all yours and yours alone. Own it. No one else will. Not even me—surprise.

Soon after, you called me, yet I didn’t realize it was you, since you were off my phone list. I was surprised to hear your voice and didn’t quite know what to make of it. You were soft-spoken, sweet, disarming. You apologized to me and asked me for forgiveness. It moved me, what you said. Your words, so innocent, your heart, so open. I forgave you because I realize how important it is to forgive (first of all, ourselves); the absolute power and strength of forgiving.

Then you asked me, if I want to see you, again. My mind wasn’t sure, my heart was tempted (actually I think it was just my sex organs) so I gave in. “Sure,” I told you.

You wanted to see me right away and my schedule was too busy; each time we talked, you asked if I am coming over to your place. The telephone sexual tension was high and we flirted, teased and got excited with our energy and our words each time we talked. And we talked every day.

On the first date, sitting in the car was just too much for me; I wanted to touch you. I suppose we started out on a “bad” foot, as pretty soon the car was steamy and the windows were all fogged-up and you were moaning. I left the car before it got way too serious and you didn’t bother walking me to my front door.

We made a dinner plan for the following week; we both looked forward to it. You called me early in the day, saying you would call me after you finished work. When you called, you were shopping at Target and asked me if there was anything there that I wanted. I don’t associate Target with anything food-related—at least not anything appetizing—and was a bit perplexed about us having dinner. Did you intend to make something at your place? Were we just snacking instead of a full dinner, because of the day’s heat? What was your intention, anyway? Apparently, my confusion confused you and it certainly made you feel angry. I haven’t the slightest idea why, I just wanted to clarify and that seemed to make you crazy. You said you had to go and we hung up. An hour later, when I didn’t hear from you, I called you, apologizing for any hurtful thing I may have said. I know that in your past you were accused of being abusive with legal ramifications and you are sensitive to that word. As soon as I jokingly had said you were being abusive, I regretted it. Yet you denied any hurt from our conversation. You assured me that you are not an angry guy; in fact you are a very happy guy (aside from the 4-minute ranting you had done, earlier). My gut had a hard time believing you.

You cancelled our date. A part of me felt disappointed; I had really looked forward to spending time with you, laughing, being silly and maybe more. We hung up and I felt saddened, again, by what had ensued. I realized I could have handled it better and so I called you back, an hour later.

I apologized again, hoping you would really hear it with your heart, this time. You must have, because you invited me over—to spend the night with you.

I eagerly drove to your place, yet not rushing; another friend wanted my time and attention and I sat in the car, after I had arrived at your place, finishing our conversation. I felt confident, relaxed, assured as I climbed the stairs to your apartment.

You opened the door—and made a face, because I had brought my dog, as I had mentioned on the phone. Then you baby-talked her, the next moment. I wondered why you had asked me to come, when you didn’t even appear glad to see me and didn’t offer me a hug or even a smile. Later, when I mentioned that, you said that you hadn’t yet showered and was filthy from your long, hot work-day. I accepted that, maybe too easily. You knew I was coming—why hadn’t you showered earlier, before I came? “I never said I was a good time manager,” you excused yourself.

We hung out on your bed, because it was the coolest room in your apartment. You said you just wanted to “do nothing” and you assured me that you didn’t invite me over just to have sex, that you wanted my company and that was first and foremost. Soon, we were touching one another. You told me, as you have before, that you are glad that I like touching you in every kind of place. And especially one certain place. You call me the “Cock Whisperer.” And it appeared obvious that I turn you on, as you had said. In fact, you remained excited the entire couple of hours that we lay there. My own excitement was building to a crescendo from mostly the anticipation.

The way we spoke the sacred, sensual language of touch, without words. The way I whispered in your ear, “I like talking like this.” It was turning out to be a mystical, magical evening. Our heads touched, our faces rubbed against one another’s, you ran your fingers across my cheek and lips and I sucked on and kissed your fingers. For some moments, it felt like the most beautiful, awe-inspiring connection and I was moved. I believe you were touched, also: I felt it in your caring touch. Even for those short moments, the sweetness, the tenderness and the love that permeated through each of our hands to the other’s body was unforgettable.

We ended up falling to sleep, instead of making love. All during the night we touched back to back or front to back or front to front. I felt that maybe our relationship had a chance.

It can be so tricky, this chemistry stuff. It’s tough for me to put a finger on why I am so attracted to you—your physical makeup, your energy, your sense of humor. And when I shared with you that I am attracted to “macho” and that you are macho, you laughed. Yet there is most definitely something rough and raw about you, that I crave. It does make you sexy and I appreciate it. Are you not used to that?

In the morning, the alarm woke me up. While napping for a few minutes afterward, I had a couple of powerful dreams. In one, I was with a guy who looked into my eyes and told me (he was a new lover who I was excited about), “You are lamore.” I knew he meant love. The other dream was so fleeting that all I caught was the message: spirit wants you to move on.

You left the bed, first. You didn’t say good morning; you asked me if I wanted coffee. When I asked you if you had creamer, you became exasperated, waving your arms like a large bird about to take off into the blue sky and demanding in an upset whining tone of voice, “Do you want coffee?!?” God I hate whining. I said no, quietly. You went to take a shower and while you were in the shower, I left. Didn’t say goodbye, didn’t leave you a note. I’ve never done that, before. Yet it felt like the only intelligent thing to do—just walk away. You’ve asked me many times, why I like you. I guess I like you for what I feel I see, in your eyes: the true spirit you are, only made of love. Then again, I won’t tolerate your rudeness, your cold, effacing manner and your anger. The anger that you have told me in a finger-pointing way, over and over again, you distinctly don’t own. Really now.

That same day, you call me, leaving two messages, saying that I must really be mad at you because I didn’t answer your calls; that’s not the case, though, I’m busy with my life. I don’t get home until late and was too tired to talk with anyone, even you. You comment, “You know you can call me at any time and especially since we just spent the night, together.” Wow—did I just hear that right? A guy who wants to be called, after sleeping together? How sweet.

Still, your anger is paramount and you put the blame on me, saying, “You’re an angry person.” Ahhh, well. You’ll get it, someday. Or maybe you won’t. Don’t bother calling me, though. I’m already off to better and brighter moments.

Get Me in the Gut

Wed, 31 Mar 2010 11:03:57 -0400

Upon finishing another gut-gripping essay in Anne Lamott’s Grace book, I reel. Thoughts and inspirations of essays come flying at me, like in a mountain snowstorm, driving late at night while tennis ball-sized glaring white snowflakes fling wildly against the windshield, as if in a tunnel of white madness. And here in my head, madness roars.

I think about the raw thingys in my life I can be writing about: the pathetically torn black panties that I continue to wear because I dream and fantasize about the guy who will rip them off me—the fact that I don’t currently have a lover doesn’t even phase me, because I know he will come. (Arrive. Knock on my door. Appear.)

Although I was never an alcoholic (with the exception of the time I swiftly downed a whole glass or two of Oozo, because of a guy, of course and becoming comatose after praying into the toilet, I saw angels, dancing in a circle, in the place where my third eye is) Annie and I both acted as if we relied on “drugs” for many years. Raw thingy number two and my personal drug of choice: struggling with obsessive compulsiveness in my childish childhood habit of putting my middle finger in my mouth and sucking (of course I’d much prefer a body part related to the love of my life yet since I didn’t have a lover, my finger substituted in my increasing orally fixated wants/needs). It’s a habit I’d spent endless time wrestling with, until I met this powerful teacher.

I'm a professional Caregiver. It’s a most rewarding career, as I learn from every client that I spend time with. This woman, who I’ll call Sonia, was telling me about her drug of choice and how she quit. For many years, Sonia was a cigarette smoker. Then one evening, while absentmindedly reaching for a cigarette and finding that she was out, she panicked. That’s when the epiphany came to her: “I didn’t own me, the cigarette owned me.” I balked, I felt as if I was hit over by an out-of-control tennis racket. (That says a lot about my own will power that is about as firm as a stretched-out rubber band.) I asked her how she handled it; when she wanted another one and the desire and drug were too much—did she cave in, I wanted to know? “I had freedom when I quit. I realized that I was completely free, when I stopped smoking.” I loved her story. She is my new hero. Me, I believe in caving in—regularly—no matter what it is.

On the note of heroes, I keep thinking that Anne and I should be best friends—after all, we are both single parents and have been, for years, our teenagers the same age, both are an only child and Anne and I seemingly wild artistic souls whose love for our babies teeter on insanity. One minute we are madly in love and the next—passionately wanting to strangle.

In fact, when I first birthed my daughter, Hayley and I was reading Operating Instructions, I thought, why the hell isn’t Lamott being charged for abuse—if not physical, then mental? How can she get away with this stuff? Now, I look back with envy. How come I wasn’t writing my true thoughts about the painful side of breastfeeding, when Hayley’s innocent mouth felt like daggers digging into my yeast-infected nipples and we passed the yeast around, from her mouth to my nipples and back. You could have peeled me off the ceiling, back then.

I breastfed Hayley until she was over five years old. The yeast infection was resolved and Hayley and I were both addicted to the closeness, the nurturing and the healing affects of my milk when she wasn’t feeling well. Plus, it beats the heck out of listening to a crying, whining child when all we had to do was attach her mouth to my nipple, bringing sweet silence and a surge of hormones, like I had just smoked the best pot. What could beat those natural highs?

Anne also wrote on Salon (and I write on Opensalon—not quite the same rah rah, since anyone and everyone can begin a blog on Opensalon, yet still, it’s in the family). See how much we have in common, Anne?

In her simplicity, Anne and I also have in common our circling of stories—how we begin at one point, stray all over the world as we go, then come full-circle to our original point. And it doesn’t need to be earth shattering. Like Buddhist beliefs, it just is. Shot guns don’t go off, horns don’t announce endings—or beginnings, for that matter—the epiphany lies in the gentle shift of the breeze, as the in and out of the breathing of the ocean. Life isn’t really about sudden and terrific evolutions—these take time, especially if change is something that makes you break out in a rash in conspicuous places, like me. The subtler the change, the easier my monkey-brain can deal with it and the more evolved and long term it turns out to be.

While after reading some authors’ writings, I feel inspired in a positive way, Lamott motivates the ugly, the unthinkable and the raw out of the deepest part of me.

I never understand how some writers come up with unexpected endings and twists—real life isn’t like that; how do they make that stuff up? I don’t know if I could come up with that stuff if my life depended on it and that’s why I could never seem to write anything capable of being published in either Chicken Soup books or Reader’s Digest. My stories are always too subtle for those readers, too seemingly benign when really they are earth shattering because the shift has already began; it’s not just guns and roses for a New York minute then life back on the range. My changes actually happen. Not to say that these other writers’ don’t; I’m just more realistic about mine...if not teetering on the edge of boring.

Life isn’t about suddenly shouting boo! to someone appearing from around the corner—it’s not about popping kernels of popcorn, after the oil is burning hot. It’s about journeys, consistent paths, seasons of emerging, growing, then dying, to re-seed into earth’s luscious breeding ground where new births always follow.

Coming home from a hike in the mountains, my date d’jour and I see billowing smoke and he decides it’s from crashed plane wreckage because it’s so black. Arriving home, the smoke is several blocks away and I later learn some kids lit matches and set fire to a field, nearby. Hiking around the area the next few days, you could still smell the smoke and the grass was charcoal black.

Just a couple of months later, the grass has grown back, greener than the rest of the field, more vibrant and alive than ever.

In the not too distant past, my writing was forlorn; I was married to a man who acted like a child; most of the time together we were like preschoolers at Montesorri, doing our own thing in the same room, only not peacefully—we were always at one another’s throats. We’d need a “teacher” full-time—therapist, third party, surrogate parent, etc.—to pull us off one another (when we weren’t fighting we were fucking—both thingys that guys are known to be doing at any available moment). Sure, I could see some of my trials and tribulations as humorous; yet it has been more recently that I am able to take myself less seriously and admire not only my good qualities, my failings, as well. Laughing at myself is pretty much a daily thingy. Someone has to do it.

As I step my legs through my torn black panties, I realize this epiphany: it’s time to drive to Target and buy new, untorn ones. I mean--do my panties own me? As my mother’s generation used to say, you don’t want to be caught with torn panties if for some reason the paramedics arrive to get you and need to pull off all your clothes.