I Think We Need A Song, Love

His lips parted as he mustered up the courage to speak his heart, sweat rising to the surface of his callused palms, his mouth not unlike a West Texas July. His brow creased by partial fear and partial anticipation. The laugh lines that furrowed near the edges of his eyes gave a James Dean-like mystery to his eyes, but they were somehow securely comforting - or so he thought. They were a green she had never seen, but she knew from the first time he looked into her that he would change her. She'd sooner be left alone than to look back into his eyes and surrender her life to his every desire. She knew it to be impossible to be in his presence and not fall for him. He spoke directly to her, never giving any room for innuendo and rightfully took his place as her Renaissance man, molded from his Mother's spirit, his Father's strength, his heart's passion, and his love's weakness. Again he inhaled. His lips parted. She knew the words to follow would forge their relationship one stone closer to down the road. The words came... I think we need a song, Love.

Tingles of relief and flattery flooded her every inch sending her into a quick shiver as though a cold breeze had blown on the nape of her neck. Intimidated by his every word, she knew he spoke with fortitude and intent. He had thought about every word of that short sentence; chose each word for some obscure reason, but he ended it with his adoring name for her- "Love". Her looks could build him up or break him down in a glance, the way his words did with the pause of an ellipses.

He once spoke of her to the clerk at the perfume counter, telling the dignified woman that he was looking for something that would draw nigh the feeling he got when they stood on the beach, toes in the sand, palms touching. The woman knew this moment he spoke of, for she'd had it thirty five years ago with her then college sweetheart which brought that loving smile one only sees from such a beautiful matriarchal woman.

After the shiver subsided, she smiled her secret smile nodded and spoke softly, "You are my song, Love".

Cosmo, Cover Girl, and Courage

If you've ever seen me eat anything off the bone, then you know I've a fairly decent metabolism. Much to the dismay of my friend Brandy, I can't help but tear up some chicken and or ribs when they're on the bone. In fact, I suppose if you've ever sat next to me at all when I'm eating, then you know I have Big Black's appetite and Rob's body. Indeed, it is that of an 11 year old boy.
So the other day I overheard a conversation between two women who were large women. By no means where they fat, but they were big. Both very attractive, well dressed, perfect hair, makeup, Gucci sunglasses, the nine yards...The conversation between these women, we'll call them Marissa and... hm... I don't know Constance. Both women were in their mid twenties to early thirties, professional, proper, but you could tell these two chicks could walk into any room and make it the place people want to be. Casually drinking their martinis with a twist of class and scene, they discussed ...in their words... "skinny bitches". Apparently, I fall under this particular sect of society. Regardless of the "inner fat kid" I affectionately refer to that lives within my dermis, the world sees a "skinny bitch". Marissa, Constance, I apologize for leaning in closer and taking eaves dropping one step further to listening. :) However, .... it seems to me that women that are not what Cosmo considers "ideal" weight and height proportions have a little bit of a chip on their shoulder. Granted, they have been self-conscious about their size for probably the better part of their lives. I'm sure when I was being heckled about the size of my breast, the shape of my apple bottom booty, and my ridiculously nappy hair that on a playground in a town or city across the US that these women were being heckled about that one solitary gene trait that is visible to the world upon introduction. I've a special place in my heart for anyone that struggles unhappily with weight. Trust. I'm very close to a lot of people that struggle with weight. I'm also very close to people that are big and completely happy with it. Look at Monique (sp?) and Queen Latifah. Both are incredibly beautiful, confident, and bigger. I've dated bigger women, and I've dated skinnier women. There is no difference in the beauty of a woman's heart. Her heart knows no size. Infact, if anything I would say that people that have those few extra pounds are generally nicer and more empathetic to the world around us. ... I didn't know for a long time that I fit into the class of "skinny bitch". I would see preppy little girls with their size one jeans and mini-skirts and Uggs (thank you baby Jesus for those), and inside would curse them or judge them. Eventually I came to realize that these women are just living their lives. It wasn't my place to judge them.
You didn't choose your genes. You didn't choose your hair, your eyes, your smile, your hands, your dimples, or your weight. Neither did I. I would never refer to anyone as a "fat bitch". Never. You and I live the same life. We eat the same portions. We eat the same restaurants and same food at home, we drink the same amount, and exercise to the most minimal amount possible, yet for some reason... my ancestory endowed me with a small frame. Please don't refer to us as "skinny bitches" any longer. We didn't do anything any differently than you've done, just got the long straw, so to speak. Refrain from comments like, "god, you make me sick! you're so skinny...", or "You can do that because you're skinny..." and all comments of the sort. Cut us a break! We're just livin our lives
That first stone is not for me to cast

The Most Important Moment

Lat in the night - or perhaps early in the morning, my pup heard a bump- or maybe she didn't, but the neighbor dog did and that triggered my little Jack Russell to suddenly experience a spurt of courage and growth and in an instant turn into the bull mastiff's twin. Her protective defenses went up and she was for the duration of maybe two muntes The Sandlot or Hooch or another protective dog with a name far more fierce that Scout. But my Scout was awakened from a quiet slumber deep beneath the quilts and sheets somewhere touching my feet. See, my Scout has a security complex and must alway be in the company of a human or her best friend and nemisis, Asmo. That's neither here nor there. From her slumber she chareged the window to size up the bump in the night. Much to her dismay-there was no one outside, but in that moment she first heard the Massive Mastiff next door there was nothing so important in all her little terrier life. Tearing through the sheets like a maniac, struggling to find the head of the bed as said maniac would battle out of a straight jacket until alas... free. Darting towards the window, ripping the curtains back pressing her face beyond the blinds electrified with adrenaline and ready for her protective heart to defend my sleeping one. There was nothing more important to Scout in that moment than being in that window. And so it is also me - This morning I had the tenacity of Scout when I woke. Our hearts both sizably measured up and our imaginations left unbridled. Whatever may be on the loom is for my wild pen to create.

A Notion of Importance

"I'll have a triple venti, half-caff, sugar-free, vanilla, skim latte". "You want a triple venti, half-caff, sugar-free vanilla, skim latte?" "Yeah", she mumbled as she dug deep into her Coach bag while quickly fetching her falling Dulce & Gabana glasses from her mound of perfectly highlighted hair. "That'll be 8.79. I NEED A TRIPLE VENTI, HALF-CAFF, SUGAR-FREE, VANILLA, SKIM LATTE!" I stood there, knowing I should have disregarded my desire to step out of my comfortable, non-conformist box by visiting this urbanized, over-priced, commercial deliverer of the Nectar of the Gods I commonly refer to as ..."coffee". Fact-of-the-matter is, I did not disregard such notion.

It all started three weeks ago at a fine dining restaurant in my quaint little town known locally to have the best wine selection to accommodate every plausible desire of dinner one may have. I had a fantastic (let me also mention that I only bring this up now, in the middle of my story only to express the fact that my mind quickly retreated back to this very evening as I stood behind Trista Trophywife) dinner of five courses with two appetizers, two entrees, and a wonderful creme brule. With the exception of the last mentioned, each course served with an astounding wine of baroque proportion from a far away land like... Portugal, Italy, and even Southern California, and Austin, Texas. The last of the courses brought out, being the desert, was recommended with either a rich Honduran coffee or a sweet Port from an undisclosed vineyard in Naples. Not having a fancy for Port and being an utter addict of coffee, I opted for the first recommendation from the waiter-by-day-theatre-actor-by-night server. Little did I know this moment was going to change my life and in fact one of my morals. I quickly drank the first of the series of three cups of warm, delicious, smooth... not-over-roasted, coffee with no cream, but a tad of raw turbine sugar. You see, I am somewhat of an activist of the Planet and try to consume less when given the utmost convenience provided, and this moment provided just such. The second was sipped down more slowly with a tad of cream and a slightly smaller than regular spoon-full of sugar. Having worked in the "food service industry" (in an effort to be politically correct) I know that the likely hood of getting a cup of decaf on request means little to nothing in the eyes of anyone paid an average of two dollars and thirteen cents in a job that pays the bills while he or she pursues a life of vibrancy through some other passion. Bottom line: I wasn't gettin' decaf. I couldn't help my new love for this exotic Honduran coffee! I thought perhaps I'd found a new bean! Something yet to hit the mass-supermarket aisles! Something so rare that my little locally owned corner-store coffee shop could not afford yet! Eureka! I've found the perfect coffee bean!! Somewhere near the end of my third cup, they are after all eight ounce cups and I'm used to at least twenty ounces each morning...I decided I had to know more of this romantically alluring steaming cup of goodness. I inquired of our ambiguously gay server for more information of my new Central American Amore. This is where my great revelation came. "Oh, it's just Starbucks." I blinked. I swallowed, quickly recanting on all my pleasure of my three oh-so-enticing cups of delicious hot blackness that the people of Honduras had hand-picked especially for my liking! I JUST ENJOYED STARBUCKS FAR MORE THAN I'VE EVER ENJOYED ANOTHER CUP OF COFFEE!!! Panic rushed through my veins, knowing I had just compromised my boycott, my largest and most staunch boycott I proudly boast of! GONE! I inhaled, swallowed again, smiled politely, and expressed my tribute to his returned civility.

Jump forward two and half weeks... here I am, behind Trista Trophywife, standing in line in my jeans, flip flops, and cap on a cool morning as the world quietly slumbers through the fog and drizzle. I thought I could sneak in and out before I noticed my own presence. Thank you, Trista; You are the single source behind my failure at this feeble attempt. Well, you and your triple venti, half-caff, sugar free, vanilla, skim latte of course, but I do not despise you for your absurd, insane, ridiculous, status-quo coffee order! No, it isn't you to blame.. it is The Man. The Man of delicious Honduran Coffee which created a mammoth desire upon my pallet for more! For The Man has made this accessible to you. I cannot hate you for that. I can however hate you for digging for change for approximately two minutes and thirty five seconds for seventy-nine cents rather than just getting twenty one in change.

This Could Be The Kiss That Counted

This brilliant one-liner from Catie Curtis rings true to my heart...
With each "first kiss" I've experienced, somewhere beyond the back of my mind further down than my heart-pumping ventricles to my core is my gut. This is where I've always known with each first kiss, that in fact... "this could could be the kiss that counted".

The Chance Family

There once was a chance I did not take. This chance came and blew by me with no regard to the fact that I, being the one to take said chance for granted, may have a second thought, my ambition or lack of luster there of, nor the hunger in mind to perhaps one day reflect back upon this chance, not unlike now... with regret. To you, Chance That Blew By Me, I say Shame! Shame on you, Chance! May I call you Chance? Why didn't you put me in contact with your cousin!? I assume he is your cousin due to the very name of which he is commonly referred by, "Second Chance". Perhaps he's closer than your second cousin. Are you not related to an entire brood of "chances"? I know you must be familiar with the stunning Missed Opportunity, who stands at the edge of the shadow and taunts those who have passed her by. Forgive my assumptions and arrogant ignorance, however... Occasion is your near twin! Nonetheless, why not contact him on my behalf? Why must you seal tightly the door and let my imagination run wild with fear, possibility, and curiosity without giving my eyes even but a glimer of what you may hold? Sigh..... screw you, Chance. Perhaps giving you a second thought is in vain at this point in our relationship. Do we even have a relationship now? You've moved on without me, and likely have fallen for another who just wooshed you away in your chancy little arms! HA! Take that, Chance! I hope your new owner uses you and takes you for granted for the very nature of which you are; A CHANCE!

Crackling Paint

I find myself standing entranced near the window sill. The paint has crackled from the slow leek of air brushing past for near eighty years. I can see the many layers of paint- layers upon layers. I wonder not if the woman that picked the ageing yellow to cover the red knew the effort she was to endure. My mind did not think of her husband sitting in his rocker, as I had imagined so many times before, reading his evening paper smoking his pipe by the low light from his lamp. No, this time my mind stands still as I face this paned window. Protected by the very thin glass, knowing at any moment it too can shatter like any other glass house.
I know you've come while I was away. I can smell your perfume in the air and hear your laughter filling the void of which once conversation stood tall. We made our own memories in this cottage. The wooden floors have scuffs and mars from our heels shuffling in the wee hours before dawn to the sound from the old wind up phonograph. Perhaps your timid energy lingers here in the silence of this now, every increasing empty silence.
Farewell, my Phantom Lover, Farewell