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life is messy

September 15th, 2013 — 8:46pm

life is messy.
it is.
it is messy.
and most folks don’t like messy.
it’s true.
most folks like tidy & neat & wrapped in a bow.
yes, it’s true.
not all folks, but most.
we love the happily-ever-after, the non-confrontational, the clean sheets and yes, the neat drawers.
we do.
but life is not like that.
marriage, friendship, co-workers, neighbors, brothers/sisters, sisters/brothers, housekeepers, contractors, mothers/fathers…parents, children, pets.

pets are messy.

the list is long.
it goes on.

life is messy.
and messy is different – way different – than hard.

messy is cleaning up, mopping up, re-arranging, washing & drying, replacing, replenishing, renewing.
messy is cluttered closets, embarrassing basements, junk drawers, overgrown lawns, overgrown cuticles, unpolished nails, misshaped eyebrows.
messy is over flowing garbage.
literally & figuratively.
life is messy.

we say things and do things and rewind and rehash and remember too much.
we apologize too often for being all too human.
we push shit under the rug, and then pray & hope – out-loud & silently – that no one wants to vacuum.
we speak our truth and then wish we hadn’t.
we say yes, and wish to god we had said no.

we say no and wish to god we weren’t so impatient, impulsive.

life is messy.

it is filled with screaming & fighting & kicking & fuck you… no, no…fuck you.

life.
is.
messy.
it is filled with miscommunication, misunderstanding and mistakes.

and yes, life can be horrifying, unjust, painful, cruel, unfair and scary.

holy shit.
horrifying, and unjust and painful and cruel and yes, scary beyond belief.

life.
life.
life.

last week ken had surgery, and his anesthesiologist came in (right before the surgery) and told ken that because of his heart problem which, yes, we knew about, they would have to keep him – ken – in the recovery room for 24 hours. to monitor him, to make sure nothing goes wrong.
i know, i know… it’s a good thing.

monitoring, watching, but trust me, it’s very easy for me to go from oh he’ll be fine, to body bag in 30 seconds flat.

and so, we – ken & i – kissed, and said good-bye and i left…

and i sat in the waiting room and waited.
with other folks.
some were worried sick, some were texting, some were watching tv, some were drinking coffee, some were meditating, some were praying, some were talking about (or to) their spouses, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, friends, neighbors…some were just staring out the window.

the waiting room was filled with life.

life.

and then, after a few hours, i was able to see ken.
finally.
and the very first thing ken said to me was this:
we get to argue more.

life is so beautifully messy.

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choices

August 15th, 2013 — 12:09pm

the other day i drove by a billboard: a young woman holding a newborn in her arms, the caption read:

THERE IS NO OTHER CHOICE: PRO-LIFE.

huh.

there is no other choice…

i beg to differ.

i’m pro-choice.

i’m all for people making choices in their lives.

and, you know, they don’t have to make the same choices as me.

they can have their OPINION.

i love that i have choices.

i get to choose friends, and partners, and clothes, and food, and furniture, and politicians, and hair salons and doctors and restaurants and medication and pets and cars and all sorts of things, i get to choose where i live, and what i say, and who i love.

my choices.

and i just love that.

and sometimes i make choices and wow-oh-fucking-wow are they the wrong choices, so i get to make new choices, and hopefully i get to learn from my mistakes, and if not, well, then i get to make more choices.

and it seems to me that those who are so clearly pro-life get to choose too. boy oh boy do they choose. they get to choose who they love, and who they hate, what they wear and what they say, and who they vote for, and where they eat, and where they picket, and what they burn and who deserves to go to heaven and who deserves to go to hell, what kind of cars and houses they buy and  drive, and the company they keep. and you bet a lot of their choices i don’t agree with.

they’re not my choices.

so, it looks like everyone is choosing.

holy shit … everyone it seems is just like me: pro-choice.

and to clarify, i’m pretty pro-life also, i love – okay, maybe not every single day – waking up in the morning, i love that i get to kiss my husband and friends (yes, on the lips, thank you very much!). i get to watch the sun rise and set, i get to write and speak and share my thoughts, visit my friends, go to the movies, the theater, and laugh and cry and help someone else get through a day. i’m pretty fond of life. i think life is extraordinary, even in the worst of times. so, yeah, i’m all for life.

doesn’t that sound pro-life to you? does to me.

someone said to me a while ago that she was pro-life and, “didn’t think i was,” and so, i challenged her, and i looked at her and asked, “well, why, what makes you think that? what makes you think i’m not pro-life, i love life.” and she said, “well, because you’re clearly pro-choice,” and i said to her, “well yes, I am pro-choice. i’m both. pro-life and pro-choice.” and she asked all flustered, “how can you be “pro-life and pro-choice? how is that possible?”

and i said this:

“well, you know, i’m also all for pro-bowling, and pro-tennis, and pro-golf. pro-skating, pro-bono, pro-duce, and pro-phylactics.” and boy oh boy was she confused, like so ridiculously confused, and she looked at me, interrupted me, and said, “yeah, well, i’m talking about abortion. what about an abortion? you think that’s okay? you think having an abortion is okay? is that what you’re saying?”

boy oh boy oh boy, did she choose the wrong person to say that to. i looked right at her, right in her eyes, and with every bit of might & conviction in me i said: “well, it seems you’re trying to kill my opinion before i even get to finish what i have to say. wouldn’t you call that an abortion?”

she was speechless, and so, i chose to leave it at that.

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ragtime

July 25th, 2013 — 12:35am

(Excerpt from Marrying George Clooney, Confessions From A Midlife Crisis, Seal Press. Check out the vimeo at the end!)

The clock reads 2:34 AM.

I am determined to fall back asleep. Determined. I am determined to fall back asleep without any help from any sleep enhancement drugs — just plain old will and strength.
THE CLOCK NOW READS 3:47 AM.
Fuck it.
I turn on the light.
Dim, very dim, as to not disturb my husband, who is sound asleep and snoring.
I would like for you to envision what I now see as I roll on my side to grab a magazine, a magazine that is on his side of the bed because he wanted to see the photos of Brad and Angelina.
An eye mask, earplugs, a lip-drool thing that looks a bit like Bell’s palsy, and my favorite part of this whole nighttime sleep ritual: what my husband likes to refer to as a PENIS RAG — a piece of toilet paper wrapped around his penis.
This is what he does after he pees in the middle of the night.
He pees. He wraps. He comes back to bed, all while wearing the eye mask.
There is a trail of toilet paper from the bathroom to the bedroom.
I kid you not.
While having breakfast, I hand my husband a paper towel. He reminds me, in a semilecture sort of way, that I need to be more “green,” more conscientious, more eco-friendly, more aware of the environment —I should start using “linen” napkins, because paper napkins, paper towels, paper anything is a waste.
I am wasteful, and I need to be more eco-aware.
I tell him that he’s absolutely 100 percent right. Yes, I am wasteful; yes, I need to be more eco-friendly. I can tell by the way he tilts his head and sips his coffee that he feels thunderously victorious. I give him his moment in the sun. I let him bask. And then I do something I never, ever think in a million years I would do.
I say nothing.
NOTHING.
Not a word.
I know that actions – actions – speak much louder than words.

In the middle of the night, when Ken gets up to pee, folded ever so perfectly over the toilet-paper holder, is a linen napkin.

And because I am up at this ungodly hour, sitting at my computer, I can hear him – somewhat faint, but definitely irritated:

“Smartass.”

(and here is a toilet paper commercial vimeo link that is now running in France - love love love it)

http://vimeo.com/m/62470169

 


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marrying ken ferris, a blove (blog/love) letter

May 19th, 2013 — 1:27pm

(a love letter to my husband because our 20th – yes, 20th – anniversary is coming up in 3 days)

Dear Ken,
Thank you.
Thank you for loving me, for loving me good.
Thank you for putting up with my crazy little (okay, not so little) nut-dances & my shit. I don’t know how you do it, but you do, and you do it with such grace and kindness, and it just makes me love you more.
Thank you for the gorgeous garden, and the beautiful home, and the care you put into our lives.
Every single day without fail.
Thank you for holding me when I’m scared and worried.
That is a huge massive job, and you took it on without a fight.
Thank you for being so generous, in every way humanly possible.
Thank you for your passion, and spirit, and determination – not just in our life – but in the world you live in, you’re not afraid to speak your mind, open your heart, forgive easily, share your opinions, and fight the good fight.
I am so fucking proud of you.
Thank you for paying attention after I kick & scream & holler at you to pay attention to me.
Thank you for working so hard.
Thank you for the magic you seem to create in the moments when I so need some magic.
Thank you for being a very good man, a great husband, a spectacular gardener, a joyous friend, a sexy lover.

Thank you for being oh so funny.
For making me laugh.

I am so frickin’ lucky. and yes, yes, I know, I know … you are too. But today it’s all about you. Tomorrow it can be all about me.

I so very much love you.
And, I like you plenty.
I like you a lot.
Me

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suzanne braun levine: G is for GIRLFRIEND

April 20th, 2013 — 11:24am

Suzanne Braun Levine is a force of nature.
A great force of nature.
She is a mighty woman, a fierce editor, a glorious truthful writer.

You Gotta Have Girlfriends. (go to Amazon, and please, purchase this book!)
Girlfriends.
They sustain us. Fill us. Nurture us.
And sometimes, yes, they can break our hearts.

Suzanne has written an e-book about the importance (emotional, spiritual, and physical importance) of having girlfriends post 50. And good God, I just love the tag line: a post-fifty posse is good for your health.

How perfect is that?

The book is filled with hope and joy, the sheer power of friendship. It is filled with so many truths. So many you’ll recognize and nod, and see yourself in.

And she lays it all out in this glorious small compact necessary e-book.

She shares stories, and insight. Friending ourselves, the poison of toxic relationships, friends that last a lifetime, and yes, friends that last a moment. The good health of friendships.

We women – friendships – literally keep each other healthy.

In person, Suzanne is a magnificent gorgeous soft-powerhouse. The kind of woman you hope will be your friend. On the page she is more of the same, and after reading her, you long for that friendship even more.

What I love about this book, is that in reading it, I don’t feel alone. Unfortunately, you can’t dog ear an e-book, but trust me when I say that each page has a gem or two you want to remember, engrave in your heart. Suzanne shares her wisdom, her insight, her years of strong well-worn friendships starting at MS. magazine and how fortunate we all are that she’s so great at sharing.

Buy it, read it, share it, and please, oh, please… create circles of trust.

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retirement: round one

March 15th, 2013 — 11:51am

ken and i are together 24/7.
okay, you know what, that’s not entirely true, we’re not together 24/7, we’re together more like 48/14. we’re together so much it feels like we’re fucking conjoined.
‘hey, i have to pee.’
‘no, no… i have to pee.’
ken is retired, and i’m a writer. if you say retired and writer ten times really fast, you’ll get what i mean. it ends up sounding like retarded fighter. (i know, i know, I KNOW… politically incorrect) i work from home. i’ve worked from home since we’ve been married, which will be 20 years this may. i thought we had been married 20 years last may, but apparently i had read our marriage certificate wrong. so now we get to celebrate 20 again.

the point is: ken used to get up, and go to work, and i would be home writing.
well, that’s not entirely true, ken would get up, and go to work, and i would make believe i was writing, and then ken would come home and ask how my day went, how the writing was coming, and i would lift both hands in the air and say, ‘oh my god, my fingers hurt from writing all day long. i need a mani-pedi.’

and yes, god yes, my pants caught on fire.

day in & day out.

he would leave, and i would stare up at the ceiling, coffee cup & cigarettes near by (when i was a smoker, i’m no longer a smoker, but there are many days, more than i can count, that i wish i were still a smoker), and i would think about everything i wanted to write about, but didn’t want to get up off the couch. thank god for cats, they don’t need to be walked. they can entertain themselves and toss little balls around and be happy & content. many days i longed to be a cat.

ken would spend 12, 13, 15 hours working on a film or TV series, and come home spent, exhausted, depleted, and i would be lifting my hands up to the heavens feigning arthritis, and have the chipped nails to prove it.

and there were many, many, many days – an amazing amount of days – that ken would go to work (leaving at 4, or 5 in the morning), and i would get up, and sit at my computer, staring endlessly at the screen and screensaver, and then click my way over to solitaire, and/or writing/returning emails, and/or reading every piece of dreck online that i could find. and there were days, many, many, many days, when i would figuratively bang my head against the fucking computer screen slash screensaver, and then, when i heard ken’s key in the lock, i would instantly click on a WORD DOC, and make-believe i was writing.

how was your day?
oh my fucking god, my fingers hurt.

look at my chipped nails.

but now we’re both home.
we go to bed together, we wake up together.
well, that’s not entirely true, we go to bed together, but ken gets up – wakes up – a few hours before me.
he no longer works.
he loves retirement.
well, he doesn’t love love it, but he likes it plenty, and there are days i can find him swooning as he listens to the beat of his own iPod.

and even though i have my own room – yes, a room of my own – and even though we live in a fairly large, very comfortable house, i am no longer at ease lying on the couch staring up at the ceiling imagining grand stories that i will write, or wishing i had a pack of newports. although, truth be told, i still long to be a cat.

i replaced solitaire with facebook, and internet bowling.

i recently told ken that he has completely – completely and utterly – upset my daily rhythm by being home with me 24/7. that his being home with me completely disturbs, shakes, rattles my need, desire to be lying (yes, face-up) on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about all the things i want to write about but can’t, or won’t. that his being around, tip-toeing, lurking, being in the very next room talking out-loud to himself upsets my creative juices. that his coming into the living room, sitting down in the chair – while i’m staring at the screensaver wondering if i should go back to the black and white photos, or the squiggly colored images that would pop up every 60 seconds – disrupts my delicate thought process. that his retirement has stunted my growth as a writer, as opposed to the pack a day i smoked.

but the truth is, the dirty truth – the ripped from the headlines truth – is that his being home with me 24/7 (or really, truly more like 48/14) doesn’t allow me to lie to myself.

there i said it:

his being home with me doesn’t allow me to lie to myself.

i can no longer make believe i’m writing when i’m not writing.

and so now when he asks me how’s it going, i lift my hands up to the heavens, and i say: i’m leaving it up to the universe. and without missing a beat he says, you are the universe. and goes into this long amazing gorgeous lecture about faith and self-love and power, and owning our stories, and how words have power and tells me what a grand writer i am and no, no, no… you don’t need to be perfect, you don’t need to be perfect…just write…just write, he says. write, write, write, write, and then he kisses me on the forehead, and rubs my shoulder, and offers me a hearty thumbs up, and then mouths the word: WRITE!

i really wonder how this retirement thing is gonna work out.

hmmm.
maybe, just maybe…
maybe…
maybe…

i should write about it.

or make-believe i did.

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hello fear

February 3rd, 2013 — 3:03pm

Fear.
In Webster’s Dictionary, it is defined as an unpleasant feeling of apprehension or distress caused by the presence or anticipation of danger.

In the Thesaurus, the word fear is synonymous with terror, dread, horror, fright, panic, alarm, trepidation and apprehension.

Fear.
Some people wake up with it, some folks go to bed with it, and some of us even carry it around like a handbag – clutching it, holding on to it with every fiber in our being. We are afraid of being abandoned, being disappointed, being left behind, being dismissed, being discarded, being successful, being a failure, being defeated and being forgotten. We’re afraid of being loved, being hated, being recognized, being looked over, being found out, being happy, being depressed. We’re afraid of life, and we’re afraid of death.

Fear.
We push it down, suppress it, ignore it, transfer it, obliterate it, annihilate it, repeat it, and dismiss it. We give it power, control, time and energy. It keeps us knotted in a ball and our stomachs churning – we become tense and angry, resentful and bitter. It works its way through our bodies like a tapeworm – slipping and sliding through our systems and when it hits a nerve, the nerve – whoa – paralysis. And then what? We try to get rid of the fear. We’re afraid someone’s going to leave us, so we pick up the phone and start calling incessantly. We’re afraid someone won’t like us or love us, so we do everything humanly possible to get that persons attention. We’re afraid we’re not good enough or worthy enough, so we manipulate or strategize how we can be needed or wanted. We’re afraid of failure, so we sabotage every opportunity. We’re afraid of our own opinions, so we lie. We’re afraid of being powerful, so we make ourselves small. We’re afraid of being found out, so we keep ourselves at a distance.

Oh, the list is long.

One way I dealt with my fear was by making it the very foundation of my life – my jumping off point. The place where I made decisions, made choices, and yes, took action.

While most human beings – at least the ones I know – have a garden variety of fears, I will share one of my very own ‘personal, favorite’ fear story/experiences as an example. For many years, many more than I care to divulge, I dated men who were absolutely 100% toxic. By toxic I mean self-involved, arrogant, insecure, and abusive men. (And let me just say, as an aside, bad boys – in my opinion – are different then bad men. Bad boys have some charm, and often have tattoos, and sometimes, but not always, look like Sam Shepherd and/or Viggo Mortenson/Morgenson. Bad men lean much more toward nasty, cruel). Okay back to my toxic men … the more they didn’t want me, the more I wanted them. If they didn’t call, I would call them – incessantly I might add – making up excuses as to why I needed to speak with them. If they didn’t show me affection, well, then, I would shower them with affection. Not to mention buying them gifts that ranged from small and cute, to expensive and extravagant. All the while, my insides were desperately churning away. As I write this, the image that comes to mind is a hamster wheel. Yes, a hamster wheel – trying to keep up with the fears that were overpowering and overwhelming me, and all I kept doing was taking what I thought was the appropriate (yeah, right) action, making the appropriate causes (uh, yeah) to have a good, healthy, loving, sexy relationship. But what I was really doing (YES!) was making causes and taking action to get rid of the fear. And so, it would just perpetuate, a different man, but… exactly the same frickin’ experience. And like every bad horror movie, the boogeyman fear monster would come back: bigger and weirder and more frightening then the previous time.

A friend of mine – a very spiritual & kind friend – told me I needed to understand the fear – the fear of having a healthy, loving, sexy, reciprocal relationship – to look it smack in the eye, and understand the root of it. He emphasized the word ROOT. When I rattled off all my fears, alphabetically I might add, he said, “No, no…no…it’s just one fear.” Huh. The concept of getting to the root took on a visual meaning for me: weeds. Weeds, spreading, carelessly, uncontrollably throughout a gorgeous, lush garden. You can’t just deadhead weeds, they’ll grow back even more abundantly, fiercely. You have to pull them by their very roots so that they stop growing. Stop spreading. You gotta rip them out.

After a few weeks, I became completely focused. My single-minded thought, prayer was to get to the root of my fear. First, understand it, and then, yes, get to the very root of it. I was going to absolutely understand with every fiber in my being what it was I was so deeply afraid of.

It finally occurred to me while in the back of a cab, sitting in bumper to bumper traffic – the aha moment, the breakfast at epiphany moment – I was deeply, hugely afraid of being abandoned. It was connected to a childhood trauma, one that I neatly tucked away and conveniently forgot about. As soon as I understood what the fear was, I completely and utterly understood the action(s) I took perfectly matched the fear I was experiencing. I was afraid of being left, so, BINGO, I did everything humanly possible to hold on to these men. A phrase that ran through my mind was ‘desperate breeds desperate’. The minute I understood my behavior, it all made sense.

Then the gods tested me.
I met Ken.
I determined that I would no longer be held hostage by my fear.
For two weeks every time the fear took hold of me (and trust me, I was in a frickin’ head lock), I let it run through me like the flu. When I felt the impulse to call him because I hadn’t heard from him, I talked myself out of it. When I felt the urge to buy him a little gift, a little trinket, I bought myself something instead. When I felt the need to spontaneously run into him by driving, or walking, or jogging around his block seven hundred times I reminded myself that that could also be considered stalking with possible jail-time and or community service attached to that action. Every single day, over and over and over, I reminded myself that if he, Ken, didn’t want to be with me, well then, fuck him, I didn’t want to be with him. No. No. No. No. NO. NO. NO. Period. And yes, god yes, it took everything in my power to control my urges, actions, behavior. After all, my chasing and wanting bad men had become a self-destructive free fall.

After two weeks of doing major battle with my own personal boogeyman fear monster, it no longer had power or control over me, and just like that, seriously – just like that – the fear upped and left, and quite naturally Ken took its place at the table.

And he’s been sitting there ever since.

What I realized, understood, the minute you have the courage to look something smack in the eye – whether it be a person, a challenge, an obstacle, or even the monster boogeyman, the minute you connect with it, the minute you face it, the minute you challenge it – it no longer has any control, any power over you.

You win over the fear.

And then you go out, and buy yourself a bottle of really good champagne – really good champagne – and raise a glass to you.
Fabulous, fearless you!

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50 shades of gray hair

February 1st, 2013 — 3:25pm

i stood, and waited at the corner for the light to change.

there he was, at the diner across the street, sitting at a small table by the window.
an edward hopper kinda moment.
he was reading the menu.
i was struck by his profile.

i watched as he read the menu carefully, his index finger going up and down the list of breakfast items.
i watched him nodding.
he had made a choice.
he closed the menu.
i watched as the young, lanky waiter came over, and took his order.
i watched as he handed the young, lanky waiter his menu.
the waiter smiled. a sweet smile.
the kind of smile that is filled with hope for a more generous tip at the end of the meal.
i watched the waiter walk away.

i watched as he snapped opened the new york times – folding it, creasing it – and then began reading the news on the front page.
i watched as he took a deep breath, exhaling, and then he shook his head in disgust at what he was reading.
bad news.
too much bad news.

i watched as the waiter brought his coffee, along with a small glass of milk.
he didn’t look up at the waiter, he was too engrossed in what he was reading.
i watched as he poured some milk into the coffee without ever taking his eyes off the paper.
he took a sip.

the light changed.

i started crossing the street, and as if on cue:
he looked up from the bad news, and turned toward me.
he took a sip of coffee, and offered me a smile.
a sexy smile.
he looked me up and down, checking me out. he winked.
the kind of wink that says: i like your ass. be mine.

he could’ve had me right then and there, but i saved all of that for later.

after all these years my ken fills me to the brim.
my heart still melts.

so, here’s to love.
hot sexy middle-aged love.

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born again christian louboutin

January 28th, 2013 — 11:16pm

This is about shoes.

One of my all-time very favorite topics, as well as shopping pleasures.
That’s called a twofer.
I love shoes.
I’ve loved shoes my whole life.
And truthfully, for the first six years of my life, I thought my father’s name was Buster Brown. Can you imagine how devastated I was when I found out his name was Sam?

My very favorite part of going back to school was back-to-school shoes. Actually, in truth, it was my only favorite part of going back to school. While I wasn’t too fond of having to break in my new shoes, it seemed like an awfully small price to pay to own a new pair of ox-blood round-toed Weejun loafers. Even now, when I close my eyes and inhale, I can still smell that leather.

But this is not about back-to-school shoes, or new Weejuns, so let’s get right to the point.

It’s about shoe dating.

I have often wondered if shoes could pick out a partner …

For example, do you really think a pair of black Florsheim lace-ups, say men’s size 11, would ever have the courage, the all-out ballsy courage to ask out a pair of women’s size 9 backless Manolo Blahnik’s on a date? Hello, Earth to Florsheim, come in, Florsheim – that would go under the category of ‘fantasy.’ However, I’m pretty sure that coupling a men’s size 10 Merrill’s with a women’s size 9 Bass or any style of Nike would last about two, two and a half years.

Tevas, on the other hand, either in leather or fabric, would look good with a pair of J.P.Tods patent driving shoes (in any women’s size), or a pair of flat “Audrey” Ferragamos. That pairing could last a lifetime and even produce a couple of children.

But Marc Jacobs would never, not in this lifetime, be caught dead on the same side of the street with any pair of CROCS, regardless of whether one or both feet were planted firmly on the pedal of a Harley Sportster 883. That goes under the category of “assisted suicide.” And a pair of 3.5 inch black patent pointy Christian Louboutin’s can catch the eye of a pair of Prada suede chukka boots in about three seconds flat.

Sometimes it’s just about plain unadulterated passion – the kind of pairing that often happens in loft type elevators, and/or smoky jazz clubs. No first names or phone numbers are exchanged, but God’s name is invoked more often in a short period of time than in an entire lifetime of church going. The heels on those shoes are frequently replaced and repaired due to excessive European travel. They are also envied and talked about behind their sling backs.

Ever wondered if a pair of Kenneth Cole married a pair of Cole Haan’s what that hyphenate would look like? It would look like Kenneth Cole-Haan. And that would go under the category of “power couple.”

And if Timberland boots dated Rockport shoes, my guess they would vacation in Maine, probably in Kennebunkport, and somewhere down the road, say in about eight years, there would be a sexual scandal. That would go under the category of “Presidential hopeful.”

And let’s not forget Thom McCann, because chances are everyone else will.

Let me tell you about a pairing I saw last night. A pair of sexy sequined kitten-heeled thongs looking very much like YSL, standing right next to a pair of sexy, worn frye boots.

Sexy and strong willed, standing toe to toe.

And that would go under the category of “equal footing.”

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pro-my-life-choices

January 22nd, 2013 — 12:46pm

i choose life everyday.
i do.
i am so Pro-life, as in: i love my life.
maybe not every single day. some days I wanna crawl into a ball and hide, and stay under the covers, but generally, mostly, pretty consistently, i am pro-life. i am all for everyone making their own decisions, their own choices for their own life. i don’t wanna make your decisions for you. i don’t wanna pick out your clothes or shoes for you. if you wanna wear pastel colors and look pasty, hey, that’s your problem. not mine.

let’s talk choices.

many, many…many years ago i had an abortion. truthfully, honestly, cross my heart – i actually had two abortions. two that i’ll talk about. share. and on both occasions i sat alone in a waiting room with other young women who had also made bad choices, bad boy choices. and because we had made bad boy choices we were sitting all alone waiting to terminate our unwanted pregnancies.

let me just, for a second, tell you what that feels like, sitting alone, waiting to be called, to be taken into a room where you’re surrounded by kind strangers, and filled with thoughts of great sadness.

great guilt.
great shame.

it all begins with wanting someone to love you. that boy over there. the cute one. you want him to notice you, love you, pay attention. good god, you’ll do anything for him. you want him to like you, to love you back. you drink, you smoke, you flirt, you tell him yes yes, please, yes… and then maybe you end up in the back of a car, or in the basement, or in his room, or in the locker room in the gym and you let him have you. take you. you give yourself away. you think if i give him this, he’ll want me, love me, want more of me. you don’t think protection, or safety or disease, or pregnancy. you only think “i want you to love me.” and then you don’t hear from him, he doesn’t call, ever. you sit, and wait, and he doesn’t call and then you miss your period, and feel sick and think it’s the flu, or a cold, or a stomach virus, and then you feel really sick and start to gain a bit of weight, and he doesn’t notice you, he ignores you, and then you go to your doctor, or some doctor with a friend because you can’t tell your folks, and the doctor does a blood test and some urine test and tells you that your pregnant and you’re 15. maybe 16. and the guy that you liked, wanted, loved doesn’t even care if you’re alive and god knows he’s not going to want you more because you didn’t care enough about yourself to protect yourself, use a condom, tell him “NO, you can not cum inside of me,” and you find yourself sitting in a clinic with people who are kind and loving and brush your hair our of your eyes and say, “you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine,” and you want to believe them, and then someone holds your hand and says count backwards from 100 and the next thing you know that same someone is standing over you with a glass of orange juice, lifting your head ever so slightly, and saying, ‘take a sip, a little sip.” and then you get dressed and you feel shame and guilt and empty and lonely and you wish that you liked yourself enough to not have let that boy – the one who doesn’t even know you exist, who doesn’t even say hello to you in the hallways, who doesn’t even look at you out of the corner of his eyes – into your heart and soul and body. and you feel dirty, empty and dirty.

and yes, those were my choices: both the bad boy that i wanted, and loved madly who didn’t love me back, not one iota, and the abortion. and that choice that i made, the abortion, that one, that one saved my life, and that boys life.

and then there’s another choice… there are girls out there who get pregnant and have babies at 14 and 15 and 16 and then a year, or two later, they are overwhelmed, and unprepared, and no longer with that boy, and SOME of those young girls, some, they kill their babies. their child. they murder their babies, because they can’t do it anymore, they can’t do it alone because they’re overwhelmed, and underwater, and life is a burden. life is a heavy, hard burden and they’re only 18 years old, and they end up in prison.

and all those lives … all those lives… are ruined, destroyed, no longer.

there a thousands upon thousands upon thousands of young girls in this country that get pregnant, have babies, and then they abandon them, or hurt them, or kill them.

what kind of choice is that?
where’s the pro-life in that?

my choice was tragic. it was tragic from the get go. i didn’t know at the age of 16 that I could love me, love myself and that would be okay. more than okay. more than enough. i didn’t know that.

but those choices: having a baby, killing a baby – those choices are horrific.

we must teach our girls and our boys to CHOOSE TO LOVE THEIR OWN LIFE.
period.

and that is what PRO-LIFE should be about, not this crap about overturning Roe V. Wade, or closing down abortion clinics.

i have an idea, how about:
CHOOSE YOUR OWN LIFE.
LOVE IT. LIVE IT. WEAR IT WELL.

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