I have been working a lot, which is good; it keeps my mind off of things. I was glad when June called and said that she had some things she wanted done around the house. I have shampooed all of her carpets, weeded and weeded some more, planted so many different flowers I couldn’t name them if someone put a gun to my head and what else? I can’t even remember.

I have worked everyday except for Monday, which is officially my “feel guilty for not going to visit my Dad’s grave” day. Sometimes my Mom asks if I would like to go with her on what would have been his birthday or on Father’s Day, but it’s always a Memorial Day request. I would like to say that it doesn’t bother me, going up there, but I’d be lying. My Dad is buried in the Veteran’s Cemetery (he was in the ARMY during the Korean War) and on Memorial Day they put a little flag on every grave. The cemetery is hundreds of acres and I guess it might be an enjoyable, peaceful place to visit, but I don’t want to go there with my Mother ever again. The last time that we went we took my kids, and Polly wanted to buy some flowers to put on my Dad’s grave. I asked my Mom four times if we could stop somewhere to buy flowers, but she just kept driving, ignoring me. When we got to the cemetery we had a hard time finding his grave because so many new people had been buried that everything looked different to me. When we finally did find it my Mom marched over to a garbage can, pulled some dead, slimy, withered flowers out, marched back over and threw them on the grave. “There”, she said, “now he has flowers on his grave.” I truly understand her issues with the man, hell, I am the queen of holding onto anger for years, but the way that she acted in front of my kids freaked them out. When we got home Polly cried because Grampa’s flowers were “yucky and gross” and it took me forever to calm her down. Plus, our friend, the one who recently died, is buried up there, and I would like to be alone when I go. I was relieved that my Mom called me to say she was too sick to go this year, we’d go later… But I am going to take the bus by myself. Alex has no desire to go; he doesn’t understand visiting people after they’re gone. I look at it as something for those left behind, a type of closure, a place to say goodbye.

That reminds me of the time my sister Maria was flipping through my phonebook and in the front I had written DAD’S GRAVE and the plot letters and numbers so that we would never get lost trying to find it again. My sister gave me a funny look and said, “Uh, Tammy, why do you have Dad’s grave in your phonebook?” I told her that I sent him a Christmas card every year and she totally believed me.

It is so hot today. When I got home I was so happy to see that Alex had cut the grass for me. He never cuts the grass. I was all ready to offer him sexual favors but he was curled up asleep. He hates fooling around when it’s this hot anyway. I had forgotten about that. I wonder if people with central air conditioning have more sex in the summer than those who don’t.

There is no pain, you are receding.” Roger Waters

Hopefully I will never be called upon to write an obituary or deliver a eulogy. To sum up the life of a loved one; I would end up writing a novel. Over the past few days I have experienced shock, pain, disbelief, guilt, anger… I seem to be moving through these emotions quickly, but it is a cycle that I am sure will repeat several times. I am even aware enough now to know that years, even decades after the loss of a loved one, I can suddenly be reminded of them and the pain will wash over me as powerfully as it did the first second I found out.

I took a break from writing here to let myself feel this and to let my thoughts drift from memory to memory. I could use words to describe our friend, “son, father, husband, soldier, friend”, I could talk about his laugh that always made me laugh or his enthusiasm for having a good time no matter what. I could tell you that he at one time was such a fixture in our home that I always set an extra plate at meal time and I had a stash of pillows and blankets for him to sleep on the couch always at the ready. I could try to convey the way his face lit up when my husband came home from work; such was the power of a friendship that had started when they were boys. I could describe the way I used to listen to him whispering softly to our baby Nathan as he danced him around the living room while I cooked dinner.

Out of all of Alex’s friends he was the only one who ever bothered to get to know me. The hours he spent sitting with me talking, listening, just letting it be O.K. to be silent, won’t be forgotten.

The events that led to him going from a near permanent fixture in our house to someone we only saw occasionally aren’t as important as I had thought. The fact that I heard about his death from my sister, who read it in the paper, and that it was too late for us to go to his funeral because it had already happened are horrible reminders of how sometimes life moves on and people slip away from us. I could sit here feeling guilty and I do, sometimes. I can think that it’s not fair that he was only given 37 years. I can feel that someone should have been able to save him; that we should have tried harder to help him, but deep down I know in my heart that you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

The last time that we spoke was Christmas day. I had tried to wear a dress and do my makeup and hair but I still was spending the day avoiding the cameras; feeling as if I was ugly, fat, and frumpy and a downright mess of a human being until he rang the doorbell. His face was beaming as I opened the door and he reached out to hug me, and then held me out at arm’s length, taking a good long look at me before exclaiming, “Wow! You look beautiful!” before he pulled me close and hugged me again. For that moment, when I heard that laugh that always got me started laughing, I saw through his eyes and I believed him. I felt beautiful. I told him that he looked beautiful too. I am glad that we had that chance to see him. I am happy that he had the opportunity to see our kids; to exclaim over how much they had grown and how much they look like Alex and me.

Once again I am reminded that I need to take every opportunity I can get to say thank you to those I have been blessed with. I need to learn to not be afraid to say “I love you”. Letting it be alright to feel is what I am doing now, after so many years of trying to become comfortably numb.

My sister called about an hour ago to notify me that she had found an obituary in the paper. The man who died was Alex’s best friend, and when Alex and I met in 1986 he quickly became my friend too. I last saw him on Christmas day when he stopped by with ice cream for the kids and beer for the adults. He was very special to me and it feels important right now to just take some time off to remember him. Thanks for understanding.

I could go on ad nauseam about the three hours I spent in my yard yesterday weeding and planting flowers, but that would probably be boring to read about. I will tell you that my lavender is blooming, and that always makes me happy. Speaking of weed, I found this link over at Dooce’s and laughed my head off watching it. It reminds me of the time a certain woman I know, who shall remain nameless in case she ever wants to run for public office, got stoned and freaked out because she thought her cat had eaten a poisonous plant. She picked up the phone to dial for help, but she couldn’t get through. Her husband found her dialing 991 over and over and wisely took the phone from her.

After I got done in the yard I was covered in mud so I decided to take a shower. The exact moment my clothes were off my cell phone started ringing. Yes, I bring my phone with me everywhere even into the bathroom; otherwise Polly will get a hold of it and send 400 text messages and place two or three calls to Bhutan as well. It was my Mom, who I could tell was driving because she literally screams into the phone when she’s in the car. “I am two blocks away from your house and I need to pee, can I come over?”

I can’t exactly say no, so I wrapped myself in a towel, and went to let her in. She opened her car door and motioned for me to come out. Front yard naked except for a towel action is one way to get to know my neighbors but I shook my head no.

Nathan went out there to help her because she had all of these bags in her hands and she needed help carrying them.

The bags ended up being everything she could collect from around her apartment that didn’t work properly.

I am, admittedly, a breaker of things. Alex is the fixer of said items. That’s just the way it is. I was, however, able to quickly deduce that everything she had brought was suffering from a case of the dead battery. She was so thrilled by my solution (!) to the problem that she wanted to go to the store at that very minute.

I pointed out that I needed to shower and she told me I looked great; I just needed to pull some clothes on. I am streaked with mud and there are those things that fall from the tree in our front yard (I have no idea what they are called) stuck in my hair.

So I get in the shower. When I get out she has paid each of my children five dollars to clean their rooms. Nathan got off easy because his room was already clean, but Polly’s room is never really clean unless I do it. She ended up giving Polly’s five dollars to me to hold until the room is finished.

As we were on our way to the store my mom mentions casually that she just placed an offer on a house. I am surprised because she always has me walk through the places she’s considering buying. It ends up being a house, with a guest house behind it, on a half acre. I smell something fishy when I hear the price and she reluctantly allows that it’s “a bit of a fixer”.

After the hell I just went through with her last house I made her promise me two things: That she would never, ever, buy another fixer upper, and that she would pay someone to move her stuff next time. Hold on a minute; I am going to enroll in college full time and I’ll be right back.

Anyway, after the store my mom asked me if I needed to go anywhere else, forgetting that it was her who needed batteries. I said no, but Nathan starts begging for McDonald’s from the backseat. I protested but my mom never listens to me so through the drive thru we went. Plus side, I didn’t have to cook dinner.

Boy this came out boring anyway, didn’t it? Sorry about that. Maybe tomorrow I’ll write out the story of the time I went out for a pizza and ended up with a gun held to my head.

Meanwhile, I’m off to see if I can finally master the fine art of folding fitted sheets. If I wasn’t married, I’d totally be actively pursuing Martha Stewart.

Alternative Titles:

1) Maybe if I spread this green stuff on my face and lie down the kids will leave me alone for five minutes.

2) My web cam takes even crappier photos than my cell phone, and that’s not easy.

3) Mom said that everywhere your mask cracks while it is drying you will get deep wrinkles. Was she right?

4) ” I thought what I’d do was, I’d pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn’t have to have any goddamn stupid useless conversation with anybody. If anybody wanted to tell me something, they’d have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. They’d get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I’d be through with having conversations for the rest of my life.”- Holden Caulfield from “Catcher in the Rye” by J.D. Salinger

5) There is nothing wrong with your computer. Do not attempt to adjust the picture.

6) If I stare at this light for too long, will I go blind?

7) The Mask 3- “Actually Yes, My Mental Illness Is Contagious.”

I’m not convinced death and taxes are certain.

Mom’s return from her Ireland trip.
We talked for hours and she told us about the places she went, the food she ate, and the people she met.
One of my favorites took place when she took the bus to the airport from Dublin.
A man gets on the bus and asks the driver, “How long does it take you to get to the airport?”
The driver asks the man, “Do you have a watch?”
“Yes”, the man replies, looking at his wrist.
“Well”, the driver says, “time me.”

Human sexuality has always been a subject of great interest for me. Growing up I felt very isolated because in my family sex wasn’t ever talked about, except to say that it wasn’t to be done until we were married. At a church rummage sale, of all places, I came across a box sitting on the floor filled with paperbacks; it contained the Holy Grail for a young girl like me, a stack of Nancy Friday books and one book containing Penthouse letters. As my hands shook I tried to figure out how I was going to get these up to the table where the nuns, who were also my teachers, were taking the money. I decided the best course of action was to grab several more paperbacks and hide the books in the middle of the large stack. My idea worked. She just counted the spines quickly while they were still in my hands and told me they were a dime a piece. I managed to not get caught by my parents and when we arrived home I hid them under my bed. Over the years I would read those books until they fell to pieces and in the same way I devoured the copy of Anais Nin’s “Delta of Venus” that I picked up somewhere else.

While I had plenty of reading material to pour over, I was lacking someone to discuss my own personal sexuality with. Once while at a slumber party, during a game of truth or dare, a girl was asked to admit a secret that she was ashamed of, something she had never admitted to anyone. With obviously significant hesitation, she admitted that she had once had a dream that she was having sex with someone famous, and that she had become so excited she had touched herself when she woke up. The girls squealed and laughed in horror, some of them burying their faces in their pillows. To make matters worse, when she was asked who the famous man was , she admitted that it was Henry Winkler aka “The Fonz” ,from Happy Days. The poor girl spent her remaining years at that school having people look at her, make the double thumbs up sign, and say “Aaay!!!!”

What I should have done was hugged her at that slumber party and told her that I too had fantasies and dreams. I could have admitted that Chef Brockett from Mister Rogers turned ME on; he with the gravely voice, always whipping up treats in the kitchen.

As I aged things finally began to turn around for me. I found friends I could talk about sex with. Masturbation changed from something that no one would admit to into something just about everyone admitted doing. I began hearing, from friends and even coworkers I didn’t know very well, fetishes they had, and what they fantasized about. A lot of it was pretty basic, some of it was off the wall, but surprisingly, to me, only a few things really grossed me out. I am not saying that everything I heard was a personal turn on, just that it seemed natural to me that people would be aroused by different objects, or different thoughts. I was also fascinated by where these turn ons came from. I asked some people if they knew why they were turned on by feet, or lingerie (when their boyfriend was wearing it), or by having their hair pulled. No one seemed to know. They just liked what they liked. One woman broke down and cried because she fantasized about being raped and she had felt guilty about it her whole life. She had never been raped; she was certain that she’d be devastated if she was, but she couldn’t seem to stop her mind from those thoughts. That woman I did hug.

I used to imagine studying sexuality in college. When I enrolled for the first time I tried to take the class “The Psychology of Human Sexuality” only to find out that there was a waiting list with hundreds of names on it ahead of mine. I finally just broke down and got a copy of the textbook and read it. I found it interesting in parts, but lacking in many ways.

For several years my Mom owned a house that had been converted into a four plex. In the beginning only family lived there, but over the years as my siblings and I all moved out and then eventually had some sort of life crisis that required us to move back in (my sister Maria used to refer to it as The Hotel California), my Mom often rented out some of the units to other people. Sometimes I got along very well with these people; sometimes I avoided them at all costs. There was one woman in particular my sister Maria and I just loved hanging out with. In the mornings we would take turns making coffee and then sit on the front porch with our mugs. We talked about all sorts of things as we took turns holding Nathan, who was a baby at the time. One day this woman, I’ll call her Dee, mentioned that she had a thing for men in uniform. My sister started talking about how sexy she felt when she wore a tool belt. I wasn’t really interested in the conversation as I was too busy craning my neck, looking for the mailman. They finally started to chide me, “Come on. Cops, firemen, Marines?” I turned to them and replied, “No. Mailmen.” They laughed and laughed, my sister even going so far as to hold her stomach, as she rocked back and forth. “You’re attracted to our mailman?”

I tried to explain, “It’s not the mailman. It could even be a mailwoman. It doesn’t matter who it is. It’s not even the uniform. It’s the bag they carry, a bag filled with possibilities.”

At that point they stopped laughing and started listening to me. I had never verbalized this before, and I knew my “bag filled with possibilities” line was going to come back to haunt me later, so I tried very hard to articulate my thoughts. Everyday, except for Sundays, I looked forward to the mail. There was always that moment right before it hit my box that it could be anything. Of course it was almost always bills, coupons, junk mail, and the occasional magazine. Sometimes, however, the most exciting thing would happen and in my box would be a handwritten letter.

It mattered who the letter was from, of course. Getting a letter is always really cool, especially now that email and the telephone have almost done away with handwritten correspondence, but if someone I am attracted to takes the time to sit down and write me, it is a huge turn on for me. This might come from the one guy I had in my life who seemed to get what I was meaning when after he had written me an eight page letter in cursive, complete with little drawings down each side, I looked at him and said, “You give good ink.” The next day another letter was pressed in my hands, and then the next day and the next…

I also love paper. I have been pulled out of the office supply section by a bored friend or family member at more than one store. I love the clean sheets of paper, so ready and waiting for the flow of someone’s pen. I love that wax you can buy, melt, and drip onto the back of an envelope, pressing a stamp into the middle of it before it hardens.

Doing research on fetishes yesterday I was surprised that the third hit I got off of google was an article categorizing a fetish as a mental disorder. I mean, I can see how it could be. But if an adult is taking part in something that brings them pleasure, whether it is alone or with another consenting adult, why is that classified as an illness? I also came across this, which I found to be an interesting read.

I have come to terms with the fact that oftentimes things that I was curious about as a child will be things I will continue to wonder about as an adult. I used to think that age brought wisdom, which it can, but it can also bring more questions instead of all of the answers that I thought I would find. The only thing I am certain of is what I had an inkling of as a little girl. We are sexual by nature and it can be and should be considered normal and healthy. I hope that I have been open enough with my own kids to encourage them to grow into well adjusted sexually comfortable adults. And for those times when either I or my kids feels uncomfortable discussing a certain topic, fortunately there is the amazing Heather Corinna, who has poured countless hours into creating a book I recently purchased that I expect will end up as worn out as the ones I hid under my bed. She also has a website for teens that I wish I could have had as a resource when I was a teen.

I swear. I just had to say, Belle! Perry Como, I love him. Check this out . I was watching it last night and Polly came and sat down beside me. She watched for a few seconds and then looked up at me and asked, “Mommy, do you think he’s handsome?”I noted that she said handsome instead of cute or hot, which are her usual words for attractive. “Yes, I do.” I replied. She watched me watching the screen for a little while longer and then asked, “Does dad know?” I laughed, but I’m thinking he might soon, especially when I ask him to get me some Perry Como songs for my Ipod. He had a voice that makes me melt inside, seriously.

Also, I couldn’t read “Interview With a Vampire” either. My husband loved it so much that he wanted me to read it. I started it over and over until I finally gave up. I did, however, read every page of Anne Rice’s erotica.

I love these guilty pleasure comments. John Denver seems to be a common one. I was expecting Smokey Robinson, Neil Diamond, Julio Iglesias and maybe even a little Jimmy Buffett.

Ok, back to the real writing, if I can get anything done in between phone calls from my Mom, who returned from Ireland last night and has so much to tell me that my phone has been ringing all morning. I told her she should just come over, especially since she claims to have tons of gifts for everyone, and one of them just has to be a fine whiskey, doesn’t it?

Do I remember someone saying that talking about your dreams is one of the lowest forms of communication? I am going to do it anyway.

Last night my dream was the following. I was at a strip club with my all time favorite writer, Charles Bukowski. Instead of it being like a regular strip club, (well I’ve only been to one in my life and that was under horrific circumstances, but that is a story for another day perhaps), it was like an old theater with a stage and then the rows of seats. I was seated beside Buk, but leaning over, practically in his lap. I was rubbing up against him and he was telling me about the awesome food they had there as we watched the women dance.

When his plate came it had this huge juicy steak on it with a pile of vegetables on the side. The few of you who “know me” might remember that I am a vegetarian; I have been for twenty years. Although many have assumed that I do it for health reasons, like for the same reasons I smoke Camels, or because I care about animals; I swear to God anyone who has spent anytime hanging out with chickens or sheep will realize that anyone who eats them is probably doing the world a favor; the truth is I can’t stand the thought of eating dead animals. (Damn that was a long, poorly written sentence. I’m not changing it.) It just sickens me. Eating animals. Not writing crappy sentences, obviously.

So in the dream my mouth is watering and I wanted that steak so badly that I finally couldn’t stand it so I ordered one, rare. I drowned it in steak sauce, ate it quickly, and ordered another one. Bukowski told me that if I promised to have sex with him daily until he died he would give me 2000 dollars per month, buy me a strip club and let me manage it. I quickly agreed. I like that idea. I would train my dancers in the old style burlesque dancing, which was really so much sexier anyway. I would pass out free condoms at the door. I could hand out copies of the book “She Comes First”, and make sure the men took their drunken asses home to their wives in a cab instead of driving. I would go out of business in a week.

When I awoke this morning I was very hungry and I felt sort of strange about the dream. I don’t think I’ve ever craved meat in such a way. Maybe what I’m craving is A-1?

Did this entry have a point? Not really, huh? I am frazzled today. I have this notebook where I jot down ideas for journal entries. If my shrink got a hold of it he would probably change his diagnosis and up all the meds. I’ll have to start referring to it for ideas. Some ideas on the list: Rubik’s cube, Licking Spoons, Destined For Greatness, Breakfast of Champions $1.99 special, A Mom, an Aunt and some Q-Tips, Laughter at the Most Inopportune Moments, I have Better Hair Than You, You Ice Cream Cone Licking Bitch. See what I mean? Looks crazy, but every one of those sparks my memory and I could write an entry based upon my scrawling. If I don’t write it down soon after I think about it it is usually gone.

I found a book to read now that I’ve finished “The Names of the Dead”, which I recommend by the way. The descriptions of the war in Vietnam were very graphic and might be troubling to just about anybody, but it was a good read. The new book I am reading is “Sophie’s Choice”. Look at me with the feel good material! It’s on my mental list of books I feel as if I should have read by now, but I haven’t. When I was younger I used to lie when confronted about such books. Someone would mention Pride and Prejudice or something else that supposedly everyone has read,and I would lie, nodding my head as if I’d read it. Then I did read it and I thought blech, what was everyone raving about? That’s not the point though. Now I don’t feel as if I have to lie. I have never completed an Ayn Rand novel. See, try it. It feels so freeing. It’s the same with music. As a teen and a young adult I would cover up my true taste in music. Now I can admit that not only do I have some Fleetwood Mac songs on my IPod; I have some Bee Gees on there as well.

What secrets are you hiding in your music collection? Do you pretend that you finished War and Peace? Do tell.