Back to Reality

It’s Monday morning and I seem to have lived through the wierdness vortex, mostly by just staying indoors all day Sunday.

The top goes down on the Miata today, so I’ve got that going for me.

I got so much done at home this weekend by the simple expedient of just being at the house that I’m all fired up for work this week.

Good thing, too, since I’m dead broke and MUST bill some time in order not to starve to death. LOL

I got a lesson in the written word last night.

I’m so proud of my writing and I think I express myself so much better in writing than I do verbally. I rely on this ability to be clear and precise with words. Except, when it fails, it fails big time.

I wrote a letter to someone I care about. I tried to tell them how much I really really care and that I would always care, no matter what.

What they READ, however, was: You’re OK, but leave me alone from now on.

How did that get so fugazi?

I’ve been told in the past that my emails are harsh and unforgiving and punishing. Each time, I resolve to work harder to say exactly what I mean and leave no room for doubt about my position, which is almost never intended to hurt unnecessarily. I don’t ever want to be unkind. Mostly, my motives are pretty pure and my intentions are benign.

It just doesn’t seem to always come out that way.

I know for a fact that I’ve faced the same thing in this blog.

Sometimes, the confusion over what I meant and wrote isn’t my fault. One person mentioned in my blog just flat made up something hurtful as my words. When we went back to the text, the words imagined weren’t there. Nevertheless, the reader found the “tone” hurtful and harsh. I wonder what there is about how I express myself that gets that reaction. I mean I understand how that happens when I’m TRYING to be mean. That happens sometimes in my profession. But, when I want to be understanding and comforting and what is read is hurtful and harmful?

Part of the problem must be in the tonelessness of the written word. A big part of my verbal communication has an ironic tone in it that can’t be expressed in writing. However, as I write, I hear the emphasis on one or another syllable and it makes perfect sense to me. In black and white it can be a very different thing.

So, here’s the deal. When you read what I write, try to remember that I’m a mostly genial guy and don’t really harbor grudges or angry thoughts about much of anyone. Those people I have a problem with can generally tell because there’s no mistake or judgment to make about my intention to give them a piece of my mind. The vast majority of the time, I’m just making an observaton or a joke or don’t care enough to skewer, only to cheep cheep cheep my birdlike protest at the nature of the universe.

Unless you are George Bush, Ann Coulter, Dick Cheney or Don Rumsfeld, you are very likely off the hook with me and I probably either really like you or at least like you enough to tolerate your flaws since I need for you to tolerate mine.

Don’t just sit and stew and be offended by something I’ve written. Come ask me. It may be I was trying to tell you how much I love you and it just came out wrong.

Gotta go. It may get up to 80 degrees this week and I’m going to enjoy the hell out of it and I’m going to start by putting the top down on the car.

C U later.

Wierdness Vortex

I think I’ve been dumped into some kind of wierdness vortex the past day or so.

It’s not bad. Life is still good. But, it seems like large swaths of my life are just a degree or two off plumb. Not quite right.

I’m not even going to try to explain, but some wierd stuff has been happening, even if it’s small wierd stuff, it’s still a little disconcerting.

I would say disgruntled, but I’ve never been gruntled, so I won’t use that word.

So I went into hiding today.

I really haven’t answered phones, text messages or emails all day. Didn’t go anywhere much except the grocery and ate at home. When I did go out, like to Starbucks and briefly to the Paseo, I hid out in corners and drank a little coffee and moved on. I’m hoping that being a moving target will dampen the wierdness doppler effect.

I wrote letters today. Not emails or anything like that. Honest to goodness handwriting on stationary that goes into the U.S. Mails just as old school as it gets. Even used an old fashioned fountain pen.

I get so much crap in my mailbox. Bills and throwaways. That’s it.

Don’t you LOVE getting a card or a letter? Something personal in the mail from a real person you might want to actually hear from?

It makes my whole day.

Got one the other day from The Gary.

I would have jumped up and down and skipped around with joy, but I’m too old and sedentary for that kind of display. It wouldn’t be my “look”, would it?

I realized no one gets such missives because no one sends them.

So, I buckled down and wrote some letters. Maybe it will inspire others. Maybe many of us could get cards and letters and short notes of greetings. Something that doesn’t require me to buy a matched pen set or a kitchen appliance, if you don’t mind.

I was just looking at Diatribe 101 and Kat with a K’s Mom is trying her wings. YOU GO, GRRRL!!!!

Mcarp has hit the 156 milestone over at 3:40 a.m.

Oklahoma beat K State by a narrow margin.

There is normalcy out there. I looked around and I’m pretty sure (PIMP JAY! ) there’s normalcy around me.

I just happen to be in a little sliver of time/space where there are car wrecks before my eyes and “ghosts” from my past and chance encounters with Eros. It’s a little confusing, but there it is. What’s a guy to do?

Hide.

Well, that’s what I did, even if it’s not what you’d do.

Shut up.

Life is good

The sun is shining and the top is down on the Miata.

Life is good.

Went to Rococo last night and caught Shy’s trio doing some jazz standards and they knocked Coltrane out of the ballpark while I did a little snoochie boochie (fans of Kevin Smith films will have to help me with the spelling there) with the lovely Juliet.

Life is good.

It’s Friday, the end of a productive week, and I have several options for this evening, mostly including the Brave Combo show at VZDs, one of my favorite OKC cultural “events”.

Life is good.

I spent some time with a friend late yesterday afternoon at Flip’s and I don’t have the romantic troubles I listened to.

Life is good.

I made a couple of AA meetings this week, my quota, and heard stuff I needed to hear, as is almost always the case if I’ll just listen.

Life is good.

I saw a 7 day forecast that says next Wednesday it will be 77 degrees in OKC. Amazing at this time of year.

Life is good.

I got snuggles and cuddles and kisses this morning first thing and got to pet and smooth a stomach. Sinatra is still simply the best.

Life is good.

De Shan is back from Australia and this old town can light up again.

Life is good.

My family is in good health and no one is in jail or bankruptcy court.

Life is good.

Dropped by to see my tobacconist, The Pink Lady, who I simply adore and think is wonderful, and picked up a couple packs of my favorite cigarets while looking forward to the 1st, when the bars and cars and restaurants stop allowing smoking and I’ll try once again to quit.

Life is good.

Don’t bother to trouble me with your troubles today, folks. I’m not listening.

Life is good.

Post Valentine Tragedy

From: The Onion

    Girlfriend Dumped After Valentine-Candy-Related Weight Gain

February 20, 2006 | Issue 42•08

MONTCLAIR, NJ—27-year-old LeeAnne Copeland’s decision to consume an entire box of Valentine’s chocolates over the course of five days led her boyfriend of 10 months to end their relationship Monday.

Michael Kristoff, 27, a part-time bartender, gave Copeland a two-pound, red-satin-lined box of Russell Stover premium assorted chocolates on Valentine’s Day. According to Kristoff, Copeland “really packed on the pounds” in the days that followed.

“It was noticeable,” Kristoff said, describing a bulge on Copeland’s midriff. “She seemed completely unaware of what she was doing to herself physically, and I found that very disconcerting.”

The weight gain, which Kristoff estimated to be between three and five pounds, transformed the young woman into “kind of a porker,” according to Kristoff.

“Before the candy, LeeAnne was an active person,” Kristoff said. “She was always hopping around, straightening up her apartment, going to the gym.”

However, the chocolate, coupled with a snowstorm that shut down much of the Northeast, “gave [Copeland] an all-too-convenient excuse” to spend a week watching DVDs and eating chocolate.

“For the next couple nights, when I’d come over I’d notice her stealing into the candy box, cramming her face,” Kristoff said. “She even made a joke about it, telling me that she could see why they put Valentine’s Day in February, when it was cold and snowy and there wasn’t much else to do but eat. Like it was all a big joke to her.”

Kristoff said he was repulsed by the sight of Copeland eating.

“I’d seen her eat before, but it was nothing like this,” Kristoff said. “You could see chocolate dotting her teeth and tiny strings of saliva between her lips and traces of nougat and coconut on the corners of her mouth.”

Kristoff added: “It made me sick.”

Copeland initially refused to eat the chocolate, according to Kristoff.

“She was all, ‘Oh, no, no, I can’t eat all these, they’re way too fattening,'” said Kristoff, impersonating Copeland. “She was trying to get me to eat most of the box, and was really stubborn about it.”

“It’s kind of ironic, considering how this has all panned out,” Kristoff added.

Kristoff said that as he watched Copeland take her first, tentative bite of a strawberry cream, he had “this out-of-nowhere premonition.”

“It struck me that the chocolate-eating could be a foreshadowing of things to come,” Kristoff said. “If I took her out to a steak place for her birthday, would she finish her whole meal? And what about holidays like Thanksgiving? When I got to thinking about the wedding cake, that’s when the alarm bells really went off.”

Despite these strong reservations, Kristoff said he “remained in deep denial for several days.”

“I tried to make it work,” Kristoff said. “I tried to tell myself that maybe the old LeeAnne would come back once the chocolates were gone, but I didn’t think I could wait it out.”

Kristoff severed ties via a brief e-mail.

Copeland said the sudden breakup had left her devastated, confused, and “so depressed I can’t eat.”

Reached for comment, Kristoff said: “It’s too bad she didn’t display a little bit of that self-discipline earlier… We might still be together today.”

Letting the cat out of the bag

It’s been a big week for Sinatra.

Sinatra, my blue eyed mostly Siamese, does not think of himself as being named after a jazz/big band singer and movie star. He believes “Sinatra” means: “tamer of small, fluttering things, He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, Lord High Executioner of birds, mice and other living things, and Owner of all dirt he surveys.”

After a great many attempts, Sinatra has finally overcome the challenges of climbing the magnolia tree that sits just outside the kitchen sliding glass doors in the inner courtyard at the front of my house.

He got all the way to the top and from there was able to follow a limb onto the roof.

Once positioned there, he screamed at me:

“Look! Look! Look! Daddy, LOOK!”

I looked.

He was on the roof.

He climbed down off the roof after examining the spoor of the various squirrels and birds who had been there before him.

I say he climbed down, but that’s not entirely accurate. He sort of slid down clumsily, but I didn’t mention that to him.

I gave him his now traditional treat: six drops of milk in a blue saucer.

He was on top of the world, Ma, top of the world.

Then, the oil tank blew up.

The very next time he was out of doors, he learned that there are other felines in the world.

Those of you who’ve been reading this blog long enough know that there was a time when a neighborhood cat I called Tuxedo because it’s black and white had a litter of kittens last year and that the litter charmed me (and a certain young woman of my acquaintence) by lining up on the window sill outside my bedroom.

Those kittens are now more than a year old.

Sinatra is not quite six months old.

After the victory over the magnolia, Tuxedo and one of her last year’s litter happened to wander into my yard as they have sometimes done over the past year.

They have the idea that my back yard is their hunting ground for little brown birds, at which they mostly just yeowel.

To Sinatra, this was a revelation.

There are OTHER cats in the world.

HIS world.

HIS yard.

HIS sanctum sanctorum.

Oh, my.

He was by the sliding glass doors at my kitchen table and they were a good 40 feet away at the other end of the house.

He hunkered down as if it were a nuclear attack drill.

They paid him no attention whatsoever, except for a single glance that sent him skeedaddling towards me and the doorway.

I’m afraid that I did not do a very good job of explaining to him about the other felines and, even had I done so, he was so shaken that he was in no mood to listen.

Since then, there has been a new Sinatra.

This new Sinatra is practicing “The Pounce”.

My feet and shoes have been repeatedly pounced; sometimes three or four times just between the bedroom and the kitchen.

My ankles have been pounced, as have my pant cuffs.

The ficus tree in my office has been overturned three times now by The Pounce.

A cassette tape, gone wild in its box next to the black music machine, has been pounced and tamed all over the living room floor. The tape has been pulled off its spool and bitten into at least four pieces.

Every shoelace in my closet has been pounced and tamed.

Toilet paper is pounced and tamed into small bits, evenly spread in all three bathrooms.

A dryer sheet is in tatters on the kitchen floor.

Scarves are pounced, as are bathrobe ties.

The lumps at the end of the bed under the covers have been repeatedly pounced after lights out.

Why do those pounces after lights out get you thrown off the bed, Daddy?

Sinatra has also taken to speed.

I’m not sure he’s into NASCAR since he’s never seen such a thing in my house, but, for any reason and/or no reason whatsoever, he will gallop away at hyperspeed, a white and black streak of uninterrupted cat that stretches from the kitchen table to the living room couch.

He can go at full speed down the hallway towards the bedroom and be sitting at his leisure on the bed before I get to the entryway.

He’s learned to speed into the television room, bounce off the ottoman onto the back of the couch and from there into the window behind the blue curtains in a single, zen-like bound, the thought and the deed all the same thing.

Zip he goes behind the living room curtains, only to pounce the curtain pulls and dash from there onto my office chair, rip a piece off the Chinese jade and carom off the ficus and then attack my ankle, all while I’ve only taken the five steps from the sink to the washer/dryer area.

I finally figured out this spurt of energetic pouncing and zipping and taming.

He’s training for the big fight.

He’s preparing to defend his territory.

They may be bigger cats, but it’s HIS yard.

He’s getting into shape.

He’s honing his skills.

He’s going to be a contender.

He’s quite proud of his accomplishments.

He jumps up onto my lap, generally when I’m wearing black and can be duly covered with white shedding — have I mentioned it’s the newest in decor and fashion? — and demands to be paid attention.

He’s going to be the next heavyweight champeeeen of the world.

Except, I’m not thinking about his upcoming bout with Tuxedo or her litter.

I’m thinking “snip, snip”, if you catch my drift.

Isn’t that just like a God? You think you are doing exactly what you should be doing and what will be pleasing to the master of your universe, and the next thing you know, you’re castrated.

Fixed? I’m not broken, daddy.

Know how to make God laugh?

Tell Him YOUR plans.

I love snarky

Jack Shafer at Slate Magazine has the most snarky column I’ve read in a long while about the blonding of television news readers.

It’s not so much column as it is slide show and it chronicles how much more blonde female news personalities have become. It’s not just the women since Chris Mathews, e.g., gets thrown in, but it’s mostly the women.

The before and afters for Andrea Mitchell and Katie Couric are funny as hell.

There’s a periodic table for the blonding of newscasters.

Special mention for Greta Van Sustern’s blonding plus plastic surgery.

I didn’t realize there had been books written on the blonding of America; “Big Hair” is the name of one of those books, and just the title alone cracks me up, having lived so close to Dallas, TX, the home of bleached big hair women.

Fewer than one in 10 adults have naturally blonde hair, but it’s estimated that more than one in three adult women display blonde hair. That’s a lot of peroxide, folks.

However, at the last, Shafer goes into sacred territory — big lips. He suggests that female newscasters will all adopt “Fox Lips”, a kind of vagina dentata that follows the Angelina Jolie popularity. He describes one newswoman as having a mouth that looks like two oily, red eels mating angrily. YIKES!

Post Script: point taken, mcarp

A little quiet time on Tuesday

Somehow it seems all right that I haven’t done so much blogging lately because mcarp’s been so prolific. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but that’s my excuse.

Had a very relaxing couple of snow days here at the house. Didn’t get out except a few blocks to the 7-11 for a box of the all important cat food. Most of the time, I stayed in my robe and slippers.

Watched a couple of good movies (Clockwork Orange, e.g.) and did a little writing on my novel.

In most ways, it was a better holiday than a real holiday since I didn’t have to drive or go through a cavity search. No rushing to the museum or the bus for a tour of a landmark and no having to get used to new and different night noises in an unfamiliar bed.

I’m unpardonably disinterested in the Olympics. I just could not care less.

As we near the first of the month, I’m having my usual money worries. So silly, but it’s this way for me every month; part of the cost of being your own boss, I guess.

Spent some time with a new friend this afternoon, “Lucky”. You know it’s a good conversation if you’ve talked for three hours and when you get up to leave you think it’s only been about 45 minutes.

One of the things we talked about is my desire for a butt implant. I’m dog ass tired of having my buttbone cushioned by less than a quarter inch from the wooden pews of courtrooms and churches.

Besides, I’d like some ass to hold up my pants. Even after I’ve had pants tailored, you can still see I have absolutely no ass at all. Thanks, mom and dad.

Of course, I’m glad I don’t have a big, fat, droopy ass. I’d like an ass kind of like maybe an NFL wide receiver. Something high and round. It can’t be too big or my little stick legs would look even more strange than they already do. Just enough to let me sit comfortably for more than 3 minutes and hold up my relaxed fit jeans.

O.K., so I’m vain. Get over it. But, if you win the lottery or something and have just oodles of cash lying around waiting to be spent on one luxury item or another, wouldn’t you consider “having a little work done”?

If your answer is no, then you must be considerably younger than me. And, mcarp, you can shove your zen up your bhudda with your not knowing, not understanding, no ego stuff. I KNOW you’d have work, you former TV star, you. The rest of you over 40, c’mon. You can lie to me but you can’t lie to yourselves. You get $200 million in a lump sum and you aren’t even going to get botox and collagen? Bullshit. Maybe not this year, but two three years from now? Yeah. That’s what I thought.

O.K. So I’m the only one. Maybe The Gary.

Anyway, damn right I’d have work done.

Maybe not really a butt implant, but I’d have work.

You can harvest every hair on my body to push back the tide of my receding hairline and get ready to see me wearing Foster Grants over my eye work. What waddle?

I would lipo and re-insert, tuck, fill, freeze, dermabrade and snip and then insist I was 65 years old just to hear people say I look good “for your age”, damnable phrase that.

All that despite the fact that, as they say, the years have been good to me. Goodness, that’s true if you’d seen pictures of me from back at the dawn of time in my teens.

It doesn’t have to make sense. I’m only blogging because mcarp can’t carry the load of publishing blogblah!!!

comment on comments and a long talk about love

been writing this blog for months now and the biggest written response ever is to a piece about my kitten.

“chickpeabree” who are you in real life? I may already be in love with you.

you be like Sinatra and I’ll be like your puppies.

Chinese proverb:

A fish and a bird might fall in love, but where will they live?

Sometimes I wish English had the 14 different words for love the Greeks used. Brotherly love, patriotic love, god-like love, lots of different words for love. Agape. Perfect love.

After it’s all said and done, aren’t a lot of us just looking for that love we will NEVER get — the love we didn’t get when we were kids. Can’t go back in time and make us feel loved as children. No matter who loves the adult us in the here and now, it won’t substitute for that childhood love we missed. It’s the wound in the soul that just won’t heal, the slash across the heart we can’t forgive or forget.

As I age, the difficulties of love compound. I have my baggage. About a ton of it. Steamer trunks and makeup cases, two suiters and overnighters. These bags naturally accumulate with experiences and experiences naturally accumulate with age. So it also is for everyone I meet. Every single woman I ever will meet for the rest of my life will have experiences, some good and some bad, with men. No virgins at my age. And, therefore, the difficulties get more complex. I get less trainable and more brittle with every passing day. So does everyone else, especially the eligible women in my age brackets — they have children and hot buttons and have learned ever more effective methods of manipulation to get their way. It’s not a gender thing, kids. I’m not being a misogynist. I’m learning how to manipulate better and better every day just as they are. The more immutable my boundaries, the more I want perfect forgiveness and flexability in YOUR boundaries.

My friend, SuzArt, says she’s no longer seeking a man who is perfect, she just wants someone who can match socks. It’s a bitter joke, of course, because it’s SuzArt. Nevertheless, it’s an important point. If you lower your standards enough, there’s someone out there who is more desperate than you. We become so desperate for someone to understand and put up with our crap that we clasp everyone who seems remotely likely to hang in there for more than a weekend. Then, we’re surprised when we find ourselves desperately hanging on to someone who doesn’t love us and that we can’t stand.

For whatever it’s worth, here’s how I feel about it:

A. The nature of relationships

All love relationships have three overlapping parts (triune brain, Skip?). Each person must be intellectually challenged and challenging. Each person must be emotionally fulfilled and fulfilling. Both must be sexually satisfied and satisfying. If you only have one of those things with your partner, you’ll either not last long or have a very sick relationship. Two of those things can drag out a relationship for a long time, but it will ultimately fail. It takes all three for a rewarding and lasting relationship.

Mind, body and spirit. All three have to match.

Not easy.

B. Passion is key

From my perspective, it’s better to give yourself passionately to the relationship and fail than to never give yourself over to your passion. Yes, it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. For me, I must be led by my hopes and not driven by my fears or I am lost. While it is true that you will not be hurt if you never let yourself be vulnerable, neither will you ever be fulfilled, nurtured and at peace with your nature as a human being. I do not like going from one woman to another. I do not like having to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. I will not die, sleep and have dreams of a real life that I miss out on by staying on the couch watching television. Like Teddy Roosevelt, I insist on getting in the ring and fighting, even failing, rather than be one of the cold souls who never knows what it’s like to fight for anything. More than that, I wouldn’t want to lose the good times I’ve had in several relationships, even if it means I must suffer the heartache of the end of the relationships. I’ve had my share of spectacular failures, but they were made spectacular by the intensity of the good stuff that preceded the end. The pain of the ending does not diminish the joys of companionship while it lasted.

I will never give up because to do so is to turn my passion for life against myself and for me that is a recipe for a slow and painful death.

C. You, me and us

For every couple there’s the three again. There’s you, there’s me and then there’s us; the “us” is like a third character all its own.

This is an incredibly important point.

You can be a very good person. I can be a very good person. The relationship can be shit.

Unfortunately, we tend not to blame the relationship, we tend to blame each other.

My experience as a divorce lawyer has taught me a good lesson there. Blame is the most worthless of activities when it comes to relationships. There’s usually plenty to go around, if it becomes necessary to someone. But, it’s a lose-lose deal. You blame me and I’ll blame you. Then, instead of any good feelings about someone whom you once cared about greatly, one is left with the bitterness of blame.

What about the dawg who runs around with other women?, you may ask. Isn’t he to blame?

Of course, his running around is not good. On the other hand, my experience teaches me that more often than not, whoever is running around it’s because one or more of the three things (in part A.) is missing. The relationship was sick before the running around killed it. It seems to happen most often when one or both of the parties are unable or unwilling to identify and articulate some other problem in the relationship. Does that mean I condone promiscuity? No, but it does mean I understand it for what it is. On the whole, adultery is merely the symptom of a greater problem.

If you think about people you know in relationships, the importance of the “us” third party becomes apparent. You know people you don’t understand how they can be together when you think of them as individuals, but you know the relationship works. He’s dull. She’s silly. As a couple, they are fun and they relate well. He’s a great guy. She’s a terrific woman. Together, they are a train wreck. Fire is good. Gunpowder is good. Together, explosive.

There’s also the “too much of a good thing” phenomenon. It’s like when you were a kid and had your best friend over for a sleepover and try to extend it to Sunday. By the end, you’re both grumpy and at odds. Sometimes, togetherness gets to be too much. Especially at my age. I’ve got times when I want to be alone and clip my nose hairs and trim my toenails and take a large, long crap and read a book. I don’t want company. My oh my but that’s a problem if you need some reassurance just when I need solitude. I love you, honey, I really do, but will you please get off my back? Again, it goes both ways.

At one time, John and Joy Reed Belt lived side by side in a duplex. That seems at times to be so very smart. As we get older, it seems smarter all the time.

D. Doing the nasty

1. Sex is so problematic.

It’s ruined so many otherwise good relationships and cemented so many bad ones.

Sometimes it really does seem like our parents, grandparents, siblings and all our former lovers are sitting at the end of the bed making comments while we make love.

Make love? Also when we’re just fucking. Yeah, I think that’s two different things, indistinguishable to the observer but obvious to the participants.

Sometimes you want to make love. Sometimes you just want to be good and fucked. Sometimes, it changes in midstream. Sometimes, it’s hard to say what you want, except that you know you aren’t getting what you want.

2. Sex can really kick up some strong stuff in us.

Most recently for me, here’s some observations … .

I understand you want monogamy. It’s a good thing since it tends to promote trust, a vital ingredient for a good sex relationship.

I don’t care about m0nogamy as much as I care about sexual satisfaction. I need monogamy, mostly, to have a sexually satisfying relationship.

However, it gets to be a trap.

If one is promised and determined to be monogamous, your partner has some control over your sex life. He or she can withhold sex and you are left without recourse. To go to another partner destroys the essential trust in the relationship, but your trust is impaired by their refusal to consider your desires plus your inability to make them have sex when you want it.

In my view, some sort of agreement to provide sexual satisfaction 24/7 must be a part of the mutual promise to be monogamous 24/7. In my view, sometimes you should gut up and have sex for the sake of the relationship, even if your heart’s not in it at the start.

Maybe that’s just me.

3. The most important sex act is kissing.

It’s the one we do the most often. It’s the platform from which all other sex acts are launched. If the kissing isn’t good, I won’t be happy. If the kissing is great, I’ll put up with a lot of downside in other areas.

Just about everything else can be worked out or taught or something. I don’t think you can teach good kissing. It’s either there or it isn’t. If I kiss you and leave you, it doesn’t mean you aren’t a good kisser, it does mean it isn’t the kissing I’m looking for and don’t know what else to do. I think it’s a real insult to tell someone they are not any good at kissing. It’s not likely true. Bad kissing for me might be good kissing for someone else. I like my kissing a little on the “dry” side. Not too much slobber, if you don’t mind. I like both light and hard kissing in its place and I like to work up from light to hard and then back off and start the spiral again at a slightly higher level.

I’ve had some great kisses.

I’ll never forget a kiss on an elevator, nor another on a dance floor. Those two women are long gone, but they will always be in my memory. I like the unexpected kiss. I like the highly anticipated kiss, the one you’ve been waiting for.

I rarely like the drunken kiss. It’s too bad so many women (men too?) can’t let go and kiss until and unless they’ve had a few drinks. I understand inhibitions, God knows, but I prefer to believe I’m being kissed because I’m worth it and not because you are out of your mind.

4. Everything is sex

If you’re doing it right in a relationship, everything is sex. Getting up in the morning and having coffee together is just foreplay for the next time. Going to the grocery together is foreplay. Cooking dinner together is foreplay. Quietly cuddling on the couch in front of the television is foreplay.

When the relationship is good, everything you do together is done with love and attraction.

As a result, both parties are getting the emotional fulfillment they need to make the sex really great. It builds the trust and caring and concern and everything else that’s necessary to really good lovemaking. It can also just build the lust needed for a good fuck. Couples should do both. They should make love, of course. They should also just haul off and screw the brains out of their partners every once in awhile, just to clean out the pipes and have fun. Both of those things are made better when everything is foreplay, everything you do together is sex.

5. The one night stand

Ugh.

You can find yourself in a place in your life where it seems like a necessary evil.

For me, it mostly leaves me feeling used and empty.

Once you’ve made love with someone you really care about, fucking someone you hardly know just won’t get it.

It’s like drinking to forget. It works for a night, but then there’s the hangover. Whatever you were trying to forget is just all that more poignant the next day. The gap between what you want and what you get is too great for me.

Will I do it again? Probably. Hope springs eternal in the human breast.

Right now, however, nope. I’m not in a place in my life where it appeals to me. I’d rather go home to Sinatra than face that “how do you take your coffee” question in the morning.

E. Miscellaneous

1. Talking

There’s a saying heard at times in court that there are some bells you can’t unring. It’s the same with words. You can apologize until the world is level, but once some things have been verbalized, it’s always going to be there in the air between you. Oh, if I could only take back some things I’ve said to someone I love. The oddest thing about this phenomenon is that it doesn’t work the other way. A million “I love you”s won’t be any good if there’s a “I hate your fat ass” floating around.

2. Expectations

An expectation is merely a resentment that has not yet ripened. If you merely expect your partner to do this or do that or understand this or that, you will soon be filled with resentment at their failure.

3. Character flaws

We all have them. Your partner will also have them. Do you really want a partner who is “perfect”? I think the best we can do is look for a partner who has flaws we can live with and hope they can live with our flaws, whatever they may be. I HATE being treated like a second hand car that will be just fine once I’ve been washed, waxed and get a new carb kit. I am NOT a house to be repainted and carpeted and the kitchen cabinets redone. Please don’t treat me that way until you are perfect. Physician, heal thyself. Then, you can start work on me, as long as I don’t mind being hooked up with a saint. I don’t want a saint. I want a live, honest-to-goodness woman. I’m never going to be perfect. If that’s what you are looking for, move along. Start dating seminarians or something.

4. Hold my fucking hand!

I flirt. The lovely Juliet says I “clock” every woman who passes. Maybe so. Try just holding my hand. I’m not going to change some things about me, even if they are odious. But, if you hold my hand, the flirting and clocking is harmless. Let it go at that. Besides, I need the physical reassurance. It’s a two-fer. You take the sting out of my flirting and you also bind me closer to you. Is that so hard? Isn’t it better than a fight neither of us will win?

5. You can’t get it right

You aren’t perfect.

They aren’t perfect.

The relationship isn’t perfect.

Get over it.

really important stuff

This was Sinatra’s first snow.

It made him jump and dig and run back and forth.

It got on his paws and it licks off strangely.

It doesn’t smell like the front courtyard should smell.

In places, it’s like the marble floor in the entryway — you slip and can’t get good traction when you make a fast turn.

Great fun, but even in a fur coat, it’s cold and he wants inside NOW.

Once inside, a purrfest follows the obligatory bite to eat.

C’mon, dad, pet my furry face and I’ll put my bad breath right up to your nose.

Look! It’s the little blue circle thing from the milk bottle that didn’t quite make it to the trash! NEW TOY!!!

Is that Sinatra on the CD player?

I’ll play in the living room with the blue circle thing while you build a fire.

Can you read Umberto Eco while I sit on the book?

C’mon, dad, pet my furry face and I’ll put my bad breath right up to your mouth and nose. Little kisses, you know. You give ME little kisses and YOUR breath stinks of cigarets, so it’s a fair deal.

Great! Naptime on the couch in front of the fireplace. I LOVE naps.

Is it time to eat?

Pet my furry face. Now my tail. Now my belly.

The buttons on your shirt got wild and had to be tamed by a master feline.

NOW is it time to eat?

Why do you continue to sweep up the cat litter I’ve taken such care to put on the bathroom floor? Here, I’ll fix that. Good. A nice spread of traction on the linoleum. Don’t clean that up again, I’m tired of having to scratch out litter every time you get a hair up your ass.

Now pet my furry face. Kiss me.

Good boy.

Now it’s time to eat.

See these bowls?

Hey, see these bowls?

Hey, see these bowls?

Hey, see these bowls?

I’m going to bite your ankle.

Look at the damn bowls!

I’ll untie your shoe, that’ll make you feed me.

LOOK AT THE DAMN BOWL

OK.

Now pet my furry face.

Let’s get another nap, dad.

No?

Just me, then.

Don’t mess with me.

Pet your own furry face, human.

I’m taking a nap.

Let me know when it’s time to eat.

Yawn.

Later.