Category Archives: marriage

Focus 52: "Love, Baby"

“Stay there. Just like that. I have my camera under the pillow.”

“What?”

“Sh.  Don’t move.  Don’t smile. Just stay…like that.”

*click*

Yes, People. I went “there”.  I always wanted a photo of us literally seconds after the the “big finish”.  I love the glazed over look on his face.  I love how soft his eyes are.  I love that I can’t help from biting my bottom lip like a schoolgirl with a big secret.  What you can’t feel in this photo is the warmth between our two bodies.  What you cannot see in this photo is how our legs are intertwined under our big down comforter.  How his right foot is playing with the bottom of my left foot, tickling me.  How the tips of his fingers are swirling soft, concentric circles just above the top of my ass, in that small indentation we women have in our lower backs.  What you cannot hear are the banging of two over taxed hearts and the huff and puff of the aftermath of the aerobic exercise we just completed.  Neither of us are particularly active people…except in this arena.  It is here that we can run the mile, vault the horse, stick the landing and end with a perfect dismount that even the harshest of Russian judges would have to give a “10” to.

This picture is not about two people who just had sex, bumped uglies, did the nasty, made the four armed machine, etc.  This photo is this weeks title:  Love, Baby.  After 11 long years together, this man still captivates me.  Every line, every dent, every nook and cranny.  His scent intoxicates me.  His eyes draw me in like magnets.  His breath on my face is like warm apple pie.  His hands feel like butterflies, flickering all up and down this expansive mountain of flesh that makes up my ample body.

And me?  What you are seeing there is a rare moment…only vaguely seen by previous lovers, but never quite the way my husband sees it.  It is vulnerability.  It is the taming of the shrew.  It is the moment that I become not just his wife or lover, but rather, his mistress.  His virgin.  His whore.  His Goddess.  His first time.  My first time. And what will be, for both of us, our last time…until the next time.

Each experience of making love to my husband is more intense than the last.  Orgasms be damned, for it is SO no longer about that.  It is about what I bring to the game, on bended knee if you will, for him.  He is not a selfish lover, by any means…but never in my entire sexually active life have I yearned to be more of the pleasurer than the pleasured.  Together we are a force to be reckoned with.  While we are working with the broken down bodies of what a man in his late thirties and a woman in her mid forties can offer, when it is time for game on, we are two eighteen year olds bringing 38 years worth of combined experience to the table. We are passionate, feverish, combining sweetness with the tart and tangy and softness with the heavy handed and hardened.  He is the yin to my yang and every move is done in perfect sympatico.

This picture.  It captures “love, baby” because feasibly, you will never meet another couple more in love than he and I.  Other couples aspire higher when they are around us.  I joke to my husband and say “we’re contagious, babe!”  They become better couples in our presence because they yearn to have what we do.  We’ve both heard it before.  “Oh, I wish our marriage was like yours.  You guys always look like you are having so much fun together.”  And, truth be told? We ARE having that much fun together.  We laugh during sex.  We laugh during nervous times.  We laugh in the midst of crisis…one of us usually cracking an inappropriate joke to lighten the mood.

It would sound as if I were bragging if it weren’t just merely the truth.  

It wasn’t always this way.  We had our share of problems in the very beginning.  His baggage came in form of a carry on piece of luggage with rickety wheels and a broken handle.  Mine came in a Louis Vuitton  8 piece steamer trunk set.  Once we learned how to put our clothes away and put the luggage in storage, our life together truly began and we haven’t looked back since.

“Lemme see the picture,” he says.

I show him.

“Aw, Baby…”, he whispers to me.  “You look like a little kid about to burst into laughter.  Was I that bad?”

“No.  You weren’t ‘bad’, goofball.  You were amazing.  You’re always amazing.”

“WE’RE always amazing,” he corrects me and kisses my forehead.

I put the camera to the side.

“Did you really have the camera under the pillow just for that,” he asks.

“Yep.  I always wanted to see what we looked like two seconds later, when we fall backwards in exhaustion.”

“We look pretty damn good,” he says.

Still biting my lip, I nod in agreement.

It’s late and he’s going to be catching a 4am plane to California for work.  It’s nearly 2am at the time the photo is taken.  I roll onto my side, pulling him with me.  My back is pressed into his chest.  I can feel the soft tendrils of his furry chest tickling my sensitive skin on my back.  His arm is raised above my head…our fingers interlaced.  His other hand rests in the dip of my waist, his fingertips grazing my lower abdomen.  I can feel him breathing into my hair, heavier and heavier.  He murmurs something almost inaudible, but I caught the tale end of “I love you”.  I answer him by pressing my hips a bit harder into his.  His breathing slows and hard, heavy breaths give way to light, exhausted snores.  There is music playing in our bedroom, soft piano music playing low.  The piano sounds soft and low as the oboe that is playing over it sounds vaguely like a woman crying.

Until I realize, I am the woman crying.

You see, my heart will be taking to the sky in less than two hours.  The better half of my soul will be 3000 miles away from me.  There will be no one to have a midnight snack with.  No one to giggle with me at America’s Funniest Home Videos.  No one to eat dinner with.  No one to talk to in the middle of the cold dark night.  No one sharing the warmth of my bed.  I will be alone for a week as I am every month for one week a month and as always, it will break my heart yet again.

I miss him already so my heart knows to instinctively cry.  I sob inwardly so not to wake him of his precious hour of sleep before having to board a plane.  The alarm rings forty-five minutes later.  He slips out from under the blankets.  I feign sleep.  He kisses the top of my head and goes in for his shower.  I hear the water running and it hurts so much.  I reach out and grab my camera, still sitting on the edge of the bed, just under my pillow.  I flip through to the picture I took.  Look at that moment.  I can’t help but smile.  That sweet, sexy innocent moment now forever preserved in time.  I bite my lower lip to suppress what could either amount to a giggle or a choked up sob. 

He is packed and leaving.

“I love you baby,” he says.  “It will be a short week.  And, when I get home…we have our special Valentines Day weekend at the beach.  Just you, me, dinner at The Pearl and a balcony view of the ocean.”

“Can’t wait,” I whisper.

He kisses my lips softly.

“All the love in the world, Angel,” he says.

“Nothing but love, Baby,” I reply.  And with that, he’s gone.

Monday comes.  I wait for the Focus 52 prompt, excited to see what the challenge will be for the week.

“Our prompt this week…,” she writes, “why, it is Love, Baby!!”

Love, Baby?  I laugh.  I laugh so deep and hard that it almost hurts my belly.

I grab the picture and run to my blog.  Sometimes, fact is stranger than fiction and the story just writes itself.  Who would have thought that a picture would accompany it as well.  I “frame” the pic with a Polaroid type effect to make it look like an instant moment in time.  Something captured and clandestine.  Something sneaky and sexy…like the Polaroids you have hidden away in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. 

So there you have it.  The story of the photo.  The story of our loves…and nothing but Love, Baby.

Nothing but love.

Day 5: Something You Hope to do With Your Life

This is going to sound so trivial. The answer came as quickly to me as the question did. What I hope to do with my life, I am already doing. In a lifetime, 44 years worth of drama, heartache, pain, suffering, highs and lows, etc., the only thing that I wished to be doing with my life right now is celebrating it.

That is precisely what I am doing.

For the first time in my life, I can look in a mirror and say “I’m happy”. Not just a little happy or happy with certain aspects of my life. No. Truly and legitimately happy with every single portion of my life right now.

Truth be known, I am one lucky bitch. I have a husband who absolutely adores me and lets me know this consistently through not only his words, but his actions as well. He is loyal, a hard worker, dedicated to his wife and kids, generous and above all, he is kind. Kind almost to a fault. He is the kind of man who buys a homeless person a sandwich on the street. He pulls over to give stranded motorists a boost even if he is running late for something. He calls 911 when he sees a car swerving all over the road and follows that car to make sure that no one is harmed until the police arrive and take over. He is a good soul. He makes an effort every single day to do something in the name of God and his family. He is truly a selfless human being and I am utterly honored and blessed to have him as a partner in life. My best friend in every single sense of the word.

My children. They are growing, thriving and are two of the most amazing young adults I have ever seen. My daughter is a fantastic mother, raising her two children under the age of two so adeptly and with such ease and grace. She makes it all look so easy, balancing her children with her responsibilities as a wife and a full time employee. Her husband has proven himself to be a good person and a very doting father. They just celebrated four years of marriage and seem to be happier now than ever before. My son. My son…my little musical prodigy, just began his first year of high school, leaving behind a football for his Les Paul. He is an individual through and through. He doesn’t take shit (like his mama) and he is thriving in school. He is polite, yet sarcastic. He is funny and articulate. And while he tries to act like he gives a shit about nothing (typical teenage boy AND he gets that from his mother as well), he is a caring, noble and honest person.

My grandchildren. Oy, the lights of my life. Sadie will be two years old soon. She drives everyone nuts with her independent attitude and her impatience. She is a diva in the making. Loves to climb, run, jump and do everything all the boys do. She is an absolute angel. Liam, my little chubster. The little man. Bubba Schwaz as we call him, much to my daughters chagrin. The most docile baby you will ever meet. Always happy. Just wants to be held all the time and loves to snuggle. The two of them are absolute blessings in my husband and my life.

My parents. God love ’em both. Esther and Harold. Both alive and kicking, driving each other crazy. They are insane, loud, boisterous, annoying…and I wouldn’t have them any other way. Dad turns 70 years old this year, a huge milestone for someone who was very ill once upon a time. I am grateful to have them in my life and to have them be as supportive as they are. I also am grateful to have Esther 1200 miles away. 😉

My home is large and inviting. My cars run. We have a savings that allows us to vacation once or twice a year. My husband makes a good enough living that it has allowed me to go back to school and work towards my Masters degree in Social Work. I want to work with addicts and also with GLBT and Questioning Youths. I am doing a lot of volunteer work with The Trevor Project (thetrevorproject.org), an organization that is working with gay and lesbian children and teens in the hopes of protecting them against bullying and taunting. With the recent rash of suicides that have taken place among this particular demographic, it is more important than ever to me to dive into my volunteering head first and make my education really count for something.

My dogs are fine and shit in my kitchen on a daily basis. My cats are wonderful.

Lastly, my friends. I have spent the past year weeding out the poison, carefully cultivating the garden so that only the most voluminous flowers will bloom there. Sure, there were some tricky spots along the way. I pulled a few weeds that were really flowers in disguise. I planted some gorgeous flowers that turned out to be venus fly traps. But now…now I think I’ve got it to where I need it. To where I want it. To where I can be the great big oak tree and be surrounded by the beautiful landscape of my carefully formed and nurtured friendships. This has been a year of surprises for sure. Those I would have never thought I could have trusted in a million years turned out to be ferociously loyal friends. Then, there were the friends that I thought I knew oh so well, who turned out to be nothing more than the fertilizer…the absolute SHIT in my field of beauty.

Regrets along the way for some missteps with a few of them? Certainly. But none so compelling that I feel the need to make further amends than I already did. One managed to surprise me…but what surprised me more was how little I ended up caring in the long run. As long as I have those who know me and love me, flaws and all, I am a-okay in my little world.

So, something I hope to do with my life? I’m doing it. I’m living it. I’m living it happily and I am living it well.

It was a long time coming.

It’s all in the attitude, Baby.

It took me time to understand. Admittedly, at times, I still don’t.

He worships this body of mine, this body of breadth and depth. Certainly, he has a selection of waif-like goddesses, all dying to be a part of his harem, and yet, it is at my alter that he genuflects, night after satiated night. While I might get into bed feeling like the Michelin Man on some nights, I leave there a as a Playboy pictorial.

Attitude, baby. It’s all in the attitude.

I was prone to breaking out my old pictures from my former “thin” days. The days before the babies wore down my breasts in their battle to defy gravity. The days when my stomach was a “tummy” and I wore the word “voluptuous” like a crown. I would show him that, once upon a decade ago, I was slender and sleek. In showing ‘him’ these pictures, I was saying, “Look, I was once what every man desires.”

He dismisses my memories and dives for my mammaries.

It’s amazing how easily distracted I can be. I obsess over this body. I see every bump and bang along the way, appraising it like a recently wrecked Mercedes. When he touches me, I am the star of the showroom. I have no mileage and there are no dings or dents. I am an accidental goddess, and I blame him. When the touch is just right, my stomach, normally my nemesis, reacts like a third breast. It stiffens. It hardens. It wants to be kissed.

I have stretch marks from my bouts of birthing babies.

“Roadmaps. Reminders of where you have been in your life”, he states as his tongue maneuvers the dangerous curves of my highways and bi-ways. He drives onward; upward from the deepest valleys to my purple peaked mountains majesty. There are no stop signs on this road. There are no detours to drive him away. No reason to yield and everything is slippery when wet.

If I close my eyes, I am the autobahn, riding him, rather than the other way around.

I have learned to be on top and allow my landscape to be lingered upon. The sweet liberation in the realization that he is not assessing what is right and what is wrong. He is listening to my breathing in response to his. He is godlike, holding the whole world in his hands, being able to see all of me, from heaven to earth. He is not thinking that I weigh more than he, but how I glide so stealthily, so weightlessly upon him.

Moreover, he is filled with pride, while filling me.

He created this misfit, this accidental goddess by allowing me to remember I am more than a body. I am a mind that wanders. I am a soul that fulfills. I am a breath of fresh air and a heart of gold. I am the eyes of the compassionate and the laughter of a child. Astride him, I am patience being pushed to the limit and poetry in motion. When release is achieved, he never releases his hold. I smile. I smirk. I remind myself that I am beautiful in the dark and the light. I remind myself that he is panting helplessly beneath me and I was the cause. I was the cure. I put away my old photographs permanently. I never want to be her again, as he does not desire “that girl”, only this woman.

Attitude baby, it’s all in the attitude.

About the Drama…last words on the subject.

I am going to outline my feelings on the matter, once and for all, because I am not going to continue addressing the emails I keep getting on the subject. I feel like I should have an “auto-response” set up by now. So, here it is for everyone to read.

1. Let me clarify: I do not hate Adam or Britt. Not by a long shot. If you are writing me to get me to jump on that bandwagon, I am not on it. I care about both of them a great deal. While I am disappointed by some of the things that have gone on in the past few months, I cannot or will not bring myself to hate them.

2. I don’t care about the indiscretions. As I have said before, I have had my own share of affairs on previous husbands in the past. They were wrong, just as theirs was wrong. Having an affair behind your spouses back is an act of cowardice. I fall into that category as well. I am absolutely, positively NOT judging anybody for that at all.

3. The “birthday party” incident hurt a number of people. Some opted to get over it immediately. Some dwelled on it a bit longer and held it in to the point where they felt a little bitter about it. I fall into the latter of the two. I spoke to Adam about it and felt it best that we just let it go, water under the bridge I believe is the term we both used. And, while I did continue to snark about it even after that conversation, that was wrong of me. I am, from this point forward, letting it go. For those of you who haven’t yet, let me suggest that you do. If you feel slighted, I understand. It was hurtful, but, there comes a time when you just have to move on from that emotion. I am choosing now. There will be no further discussion on the matter from me.

4. If you want to know about Hilly, please write Hilly directly. I am not her spokesperson or her manager. She is a big girl capable of answering any questions you may have for her. I can’t speak on her behalf. I can tell you that she is just fine and has moved forward with her life. Any specifics will have to be addressed to her.

5. The ONLY thing that I do remain angry and disappointed about is the motorcycle issue. I told Britt that I found it tacky and disturbing. She knows how I feel on the subject. If you feel the same, write to her about it, as I did. I will state, for the record, that I am still hopeful that the money she raised for that motorcycle does NOT go to a motorcycle, but to a charitable organization of some sort. I don’t agree with pandering to your readers for money unless it is a financial crisis situation or you are doing so on behalf of a fundraiser. While I believe her intentions were pure (and I am basing this on a conversation I had with her directly), I still believe that it is the wrong thing for the right reasons. I have lost a modicum of respect for her for doing this…but that doesn’t make her an evil person. Just a bit misdirected. I am still holding out for the chance that she realizes that the money that was raised belongs in the hands of those who truly need help. A motorcycle for your husband does not qualify. But, in the end, that is her choice.

6. I said some very nasty things on another blog. Upon re-reading what I wrote, I realize that there are some things that I probably should not have said. They were hurtful and mean, representative more of the hurt and disappointment I was feeling and came out malicious and vile. This is not the way I want to come across. I am not usually that ugly unless provoked. I am not happy with some of the things that I wrote even if they were accurate. Of course, there is nothing I can do about that now, but here, for the record, I wanted it to be known that I am not encouraging anyone to bash Britt or Adam. There are times when you should just learn to shut up and walk away from a situation. I am still mastering that art as I have never been one to just clam up. Please do not write me any more emails with your laundry lists of what you hate/dislike about them. Write your own blogpost about it, email them directly or talk amongst your like-minded friends about it. I am not answering any more emails on the subject.

7. Definitely do NOT email me for tea and sympathy when it comes to your own hurt and disappointment with regard to Britt or Adam and then continue to have fun little blog comments and tweets sent to them. Wow. Hypocrites to the umpteenth degree. Be big boys and girls and talk to them directly. Please.

As for me, I am washing my hands of the entire matter. I am done. Most of what happened did not involve me. The things that did are the things I spoke about. Beyond that, I suggest you speak directly to the parties involved.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand…that’s all. CP is closed for business on this subject.

Next?

Well, that took awhile…didn’t it?

I finally snapped out of last weeks despair sometime this week. It coincided with Valentine’s Day for the most part. My hotband took me out to the beach hideaway that we love so much. We went for a very romantic (read: EXPENSIVE) dinner at another little hole in the wall that we don’t share with others. Then, we went back to the hotel and had absolutely incredible sex. No. Really. Incredible. I did something for him that I had not done in a very long time.

I played “dress up” for him. Yeah. Trashy lingerie. Big heels. Red lipstick.

The works.

Since being on my medications for bipolar disorder, it is not often that I feel creative anymore. Don’t get me wrong. Feeling sexy is a permanent condition for me. I have really good self-esteem and have always been proud of my body, no matter how big or small it has gotten over the years. However, the medications, while sparing my overly active libido, have completely taken away my desire to have fun with my sex life like we used to.

Ah, I remember the days of giving my husband lap dances in funky little outfits. Yep yep. The products of manic episodes. Alas, those manic episodes, while they still exist to a certain degree, no longer possess the punch of a Napalm bomb quite the way they used to. Plus, we’re together 10 years. There are only so many tricks you can pull out of your hat before you retire the magician, you know what I mean?

Anyway, after V-Day, he spent 9 wonderful days at home as the airports he usually flies out of were snowbound. I had this magnificent creature 24 hours a day for 9 days straight. What I have discovered is that he is a far better medication than anything I take out of a little brown bottle on a nightly basis. He’s fun. Even when he isn’t being funny…he is still fun to be around. He makes me laugh effortlessly. Even when I am being pissy and moody, he still manages to elicit laughter from me.

But, because he makes me feel so good…I tend to ignore my medications. I figure, I’m feeling pretty good. I don’t need them right now. So, I don’t take them. Three days will go by. Then, I will take one med here, another med there…not taking them steadily as I should and all of a sudden…

Thud. Depression.

I am trying to manage my brain. Really I am. I try to do the right things, but there is this little bit of defiance in my personality that doesn’t quite let me manage my care the way I should. Fuck the medicine. I WANT to be manic sometimes! I want the energy to clean my house, go shopping, make some dinner…LIVE a little.

It’s really hard having bipolar disorder. Really hard. Especially when you have the variety that I do, which is rapid cycling bpd. It’s hard to keep up with yourself. Right now, it’s nearly 4 am. I haven’t been to sleep. I’ve been up reading stories on serial killers all night. I am positively obsessed with serial killers. This is not a good obsession for someone with a mental disorder.

People like me should obsess over kittens or little fluffy things. Sparkly toys. Shiny things. Not mass murderers.

So, okay. I’m back on the game again, though not sleeping. But at least I am not in that deep, horrible funk I was in last week. Sometimes, I go back and read my posts and think…who the hell wrote that??

I will look at this one next week and wonder the same exact thing.

I have a really good post looming in the back of my brain. I wanted to post it yesterday, because the timing would have been great, but alas, my fingers and brain would not cooperate. But it is a good story that needs to be told.

In the meantime, a bowl of froot loops is in order.