Honor the memories

The mind’s nostalgia reel is powerful when the film projector’s light flashes and bounces off the wall. There are no showtimes set in stone or advance warning.

I reminisce about childhood toys or old memories not because I want to dwell on the past, but the yearning to honor it.

I love memoirs and antique stores for that reason. Remembering a time when life was less of a sticky mess or no pressures to be someone or something that I can’t be.

My siblings and I are incredibly sentimental. We annoy everyone around us with our constant quoting movie lines.

The other day my brother Nathan texted me about coming over for Christmas. We proceeded to text  lines from “A Very Brady Christmas” and we weren’t even discussing it. It is crazy the way the mind makes connections and moves on to a new subject in rapid fire.

The other day a person mentioned collecting toys from childhood and products from that time. Immediately I tried to remember things my family used. The first flash was of Rave Hairspray. The stinky smell and the hard locks of hair that didn’t move even if in a hurricane.

My thinking went to me as a child with my head in the kitchen sink. Mom was scrubbing my hair and Palmolive dish soap as shampoo (no dish pan hands Marge).

I could feel her jagged finger nails scratching my scalp and the suds stinging my eyes red. “I’m going wash that grain right out of your hair,” she sung as she scrubbed and rinsed my hair. The water spilled on the back of my Care Bear shirt. Then she took a brush and yanked and pulled at wet snarly brown strands of hair.

The same person from the other day mentioned Stretch Monster from the 70s. I couldn’t figure out what the was so I Googled it and found a snake, a green monster and Stretch Armstrong.

My brain jolted and I remembered playing barbie with a little friend. We didn’t have enough Ken Dolls and Barbie needed a date. I glanced over and noticed a stocky toy with flabby arms and yellow hair. His skin was shiny and rubbery. So he took Barbie for their picnic date.

Barbie…My favorite barbie was Perfume Whitney (1987). I circled it in the Sears Christmas catalog in red ink. Whitney was a brunette and wore a powder blue ruffled dress. Her makeup complimented her soft facial features. She didn’t show off a toothy grin, which made her appear reserved. The locket in the box was for me to wear and has perfume scented gloss in it. I was one happy girl to get her on Christmas when I was 8-years-old.

The mind is like a photo book filled with snap shots of life at it’s best and worst. The pictures change depending on what is going on and what sets off a memory.

 

 

 

A Writer’s Insomnia

Drip, tick, drip, tick. The leaky faucet and clock are reminders it is the middle of the night. The stickiness of the heat is resolved by a quick kicking off of blankets. Tossing, turning to get the body in a relaxing state.  My brain won’t stay on silent. Rapid and fast visions flash like lightening. What should I make for lunch tomorrow? How am I going to pay that bill? What did so and so mean on Twitter? Why can’t I get a writing job? Then suddenly a snore erupts from the sleeping lump beside me. Blushing green with jealousy that he is in a dreamy state and I failed at a good night’s rest.

Somehow I drift off for a mere moment and this cluttered mind hits recharge.  Thoughts fire off like a shot.  How do you get gum out of clothes? I wish I lived in New York. I don’t want to deal with the stack of files on my desk. Eyes strained red and bags under them adding to the heaviness of my face.

In the morning I somehow dress myself. I consume several cups of coffee and try to appear as if I am functioning. My thinking is fogged and words slowly spoken. It takes tolerance not to scream at people who suggest counting sheep or drink myself into unconsciousness.

The mildew of the day stains and strains the heart. Often tragic stories such as a fatal fire, bombing, random shootings replay in my jumbled head. The current job market, economy, loved one’s health issues weigh my body down.  I fear and crave the night because that is when it is quiet enough to be with my own thoughts.
Stress and anxiety are evil conspirators that wreck havoc in the sleep pattern. A doctor once prescribed me with a sleep aide. Only those work temporarily.

My only saving grace is writing and meditation.  All writers have some torment that jabs our sides until we are awakened. Insomnia to a writer is a way of saying “write this down or ponder this”. As a writer I could use my condition as a handicap or a tool in my own creativity. I would rather spend my night writing than listen to the sound water dripping from the faucet and pinging a bowl in the sink.

The Seven-Year Itch

Ball and chain, the old lady, old man, the other half. Marriage and committed relationships certainly have some creative nicknames for the betrothed. It implies something that has aged yet still attached despite circumstances weathered the relationship. It the circumstances that thrash and violently shake love’s glue that holds couples together. Even the strongest union is tested at various points in the relationship.

The “Seven Year Itch” (1955)  staring the bombshell Marilyn Monroe proves my point. The movie was about a successful man who felt lonely and bored. His wife of seven years and child were away on vacation. The neighbor was a sexy blonde who was a symbol of excitement and newness he was seeking. All the feelings and fantasies were products of his mind. She wasn’t interested in the man. It took feeling jealous about his wife and another man to snap him out of his day dream.

There are instances when the itch is a sign the relationship is not the right fit. Possibly something or someone else is needed to satisfy the needs of a person. It is human decency to discuss the upset before betrayal occurs. Could it be that maybe the the other half of the couple has lingering doubts too?

If we were completely honest with ourselves we would admit to having a slight itch from time to time. It could be in a form of a neighbor, a colleague, movie star or dental hygienist. Attraction happens whether acted on or not.

To get at the root of the dilemma there must be a closer inspection of what is going on. Notably if a person contemplates straying, it is because something is missing in the relationship. What is missing might be found in another person or self damaging behavior. The missing poster might include sex, time spent together, attention, stability. It is innate in humans to seek to satisfy a need. When hungry we eat, thirsty we drink and when sad we may drink, have sexual relationships or just cry. Each time a need is satisfied it may take something stronger to rid us of it. An itch comes on unexpected and seems to travel or jump once scratched. Suddenly fingernails are running on the face, leg and back. Skin once soft now aggravated and scratch marks up and down the body.  No matter how the arm is stretched, the satisfaction is out of reach.

*Greta was married for twelve years when she experienced an itch. Her husband was working different hours and spent all his free time drinking beer with his buddies. She was left cleaning the house and taking care of their four children. Repressed and lonely, Greta started to have an interest in their local car mechanic.

When he smiled at her, his blue eyes twinkled. He was knowledgeable about cars and knew what the car needed. Possibly it was mere case of transference. What was missing in the marriage was found in the mechanic. The mechanic wasn’t overly attractive but the qualities he represented gave her sparks of passion. She spent dull moments thinking about the wild and hot the sex that would ensue. Also seductive details of how the forbidden romp would begin. The mechanic although at times flirty was attached as well. Greta may have crushed hard on him because it was safe and knew it could only go as far as fantasy. The mechanic would never risk his relationship or employment for a roll in the hay with a person he barely knew. Greta while infatuated, would never step over the boundary line into an affair. Despite the intense urge to scratch, she just couldn’t bring herself to attempt it.

Compare Greta’s situation to being on a diet and caving into a tempestuous fudge brownie. Of course it would bring moments of pleasure but a few pounds of guilt on the thighs would soon follow. Lets face it, guilt weighs more on the mind than an orgasm (no matter how intense it was). Hardly seems worth it in the long run.

If a relationship isn’t working than there needs to be an honest introspective and airing of feelings. Otherwise satisfying the itch won’t make the unpleasant emotions go away. It is just self destructing behavior filling a void that could have been avoided in the first place.

Snow Globe

Snow globes, transparent sphere in a delicate glass prison. Once false move the fragile contents can shatter in a sopping mess on the floor.

So safe under the protective bubble. A cozy red brick house with tall trees and snow mounds.

Cheerful figures with rosy cheeks. Fuzzy mittens and vivid face facial expressions painted on.

Every other day it is a state of snowing or well, nothingness. Don’t the occupants get overheated? Don’t muscles become strained and of in need of a stretch?  I guess not since it is eternal winter within the shell.

How dreadfully boring life must be to collect a layer of dust and water inside to tint a brownish hue.

Snow globes are unrealistic. Inside are perfect little people and snowmen living happily in a small enclosed space.

There is no such location. I have looked high and low and it doesn’t exist.

My current vision is snowy and static like an old television screen. I don’t remember a Wisconsin winter this harsh in years. Yet here it is, not welcomed.

Wind chills in the negatives as moods deadened by the avalanche of bad timing.

Suppressed frustrations settle at the bottom of the glass. No movement causes the white glistening pellets to remain stagnant.

That is until something or someone shakes it’s round body up and down. The synthetic glittery snow swooshes around the sphere. Gushes of water in a tidal wave splashes over the scenery.

While there is a sense of sadness and frustrations within my heart, it is not indefinite.

To be stuck in one moment in time is not for me. I prefer real life and not just a sudden jerk of movement to tip my world upside down.

The Talk

Boys will be boys, sniffing their armpits to evaluate if a shower is in order. Putting the empty milk carton back in the fridge and killing ants with a magnifying glass. These boys grow into young men on the verge of adulthood.

Having lived my whole life as a girl I may not be totally educated on testosterone versus hormones. Given the fact I have six brothers, I have earned a honorary degree.

I understand the curiosity about sex.

Everyone recalls the first time dirty thoughts started to bang around jumbled brains. The naked stone statue in the art store resulted in pointing and giggling by onlookers. An older kid using a sexual term sent a jolt to our innocence. In seventh grade some kids had a slam book and one question had a weird sounding phrase involving a cherry. My brother came home and asked my mom what the term meant, he was slapped across the face.

I wonder if society spends too much time worrying about girls and their self esteem issues that boys are being neglected.

Pornography gives an unrealistic idea to boys as to what sex is.

Am I an expert? No! To be candid, I can still count the number of people I have been around the block with on one hand. As a woman I feel compelled to give an education lesson to young boys.

1. Sex isn’t really that random– In these adult movies, the scenario is usually the same. Some mailman, doctor, manager, flight attendant, etc  are chilling out when some busty and frisky chick happens on by. Usually there is little conversation other than words that would make Howard Stern blush. Cheesy music starts playing and it is ON.

Realistically it takes more than a smile and a hunky guy to get women in the mood. I certainly don’t reward my mailman in that fashion! While there is something called instant attraction, it takes more conversation to make it all the way. Woman love a guy that makes her laugh and wants to know some tidbits about her. Like for starters her first name.

2. Sex isn’t always earth shattering– Elaine from “Seinfeld” said it best “fake, fake ,fake.” I’m sorry to crush the notion a woman climaxes every time she has intercourse. Honestly, it takes understanding each others bodies and asking questions as to what feels good. All women ‘fake it’ at one point or another.

It is about time management. We have things to do and places to go. We have to get up early in the morning. I’d put money on it that Crystal Glass (a porn name I made up), the blonde nurse in the adult movies, is faking a lot. I’m sure as a serious ‘actress’ she gets tired of all the ohhs and oh my Gods.

3. Women are not contortionists– Some of those women have been in the ‘biz’ a long time and are very uh..bendy. They appear to love having their bodies manipulated like that. Truth be told, the women probably don’t like it (see number 2). While it is fun to be open to new things, and healthy to experiment, women know what they will not do. No matter how much a man begs. Unless we are green and have a horse name pokey (insert obvious joke) I  don’t see the scenes from “Fifty shades of grey” being tried out. Sorry fellas.

I’m not trying to make the male species feel bad about pornography. It can be a good way to spice up a relationship or get through a lonely period. I want young men to realize what they see in adult films or on regular films is not realistic. How would they feel if women held men to those standards? We as women know not every man is hot and well endowed. It takes getting to know someone to feel a spark of interest. What one person labels as not good looking; is good looking to someone else. Love and sex takes time. Knowing this and respecting women is what makes a boy transform into a man.

Messy

It is messy. Garbage thoughts leaking from a bag, the stench of tossed away dreams. A thin layer of plastic is no match for the heaviness that pokes holes as spoilage seeps out. I think I’m defective as I’m never truly happy. I keep wanting and yearning for things that are beyond my grasp.

My head is floating in puffy clouds with no intention of coming back down to earth. I day dream and fantasize, those delicious vignettes probably belong in the trash bin because I know I don’t have the guts to consume. They eventually go bad as I never acknowledged them out loud.

There is so much about me that I leave out of conversations and interactions. I’m passionate, creative, romantic and sensitive. If all the thoughts could escape the confines of where I hid them, it could be problematic on different levels.

If I could I would run away to New York City and never look back. I suffer from romantic brain. My dream used to be to marry someone on the busy streets of Manhattan. Baby breath pinned upon my chocolate locks of hair, egg shell colored business suit clung to my curvy body. The event would end as I passionately kissed a tall man with dark hair. After the vowing and promising we part ways as if having a quick exchange. Then meet up later for a dance on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. The skyline would serve as my maid of honor and the island bearing witness. I feel silly in these child-like plays that go on in my head.

Relationships and careers are messy. For some reason it is hard to tend to both simultaneously. For so long I didn’t focus on writing. It was one of those thoughts I keep in a Tupperware container and shoved in the back of the fridge. It would catch my eye sometimes when I felt restless and had a craving. Somehow it never grew stale and rotted.

Now I am a writer, a success that was years in the making. My face is either on the computer or on the phone. My love life has taken a hit. His attention is glued to Facebook or television. Arguments over a lack of money, lack of affection, lack of effort bogs me down. There is no money or time to take a vacation or get coffee together.

One car, student loans, bills and family woes are not helping us.

Coping methods have included commiserating with wine, junk food and Adele songs. I keep cramming the unwanted thoughts and feelings in the trash bin. The bag now full and plastic stretching thin, I’m scared the rift will expand and all the thoughts will tumble out and be exposed. It will be ugly and messy. At least we can be messy together.