B.O.B.

We're all friends here. We're in the circle of trust, right? We can share anything.

I will be attending my first sex toy party.

I don't think I've talked much about all things sex before. I guess it's not something that comes up in normal conversation. My preference in lubrication doesn't mix well with Alice's most recent food aversion.

I suppose there's no better day than today to have the sex talk. I like sex. I'm not one of the women you hear about who avoids it like the plague, faking headaches left and right. I think I have an average sex drive. I think I am averagely adventurous in bed. I mean, I'm not a prude, but I also don't have the need for a bullet disguised as a pen. Have you seen this? A pen that doubles as a writing divice and a vibrator all in one...and it actually writes! I suppose some people can't risk being caught without a pleasure tool, you never know when the situation may present it's self. The boyscout of the sex world! I guess I'm not that adventurous. Don't get me wrong, I've had my share of public sex. I've just never felt the need to bring toys into a public quickie. Maybe I've been missing out.

See, the thing is, I have a confession. A sad, sad confession. Brace yourself...are you sitting down?

I don't own any sex toys.

gasp

I'm the only woman in her early thirties who's never owned a vibrator. I don't even know how it's gotten so out of hand. Like I said, I'm not a prude. I'm the first to admit I pleasure myself. And, I'm lazy. So what the what?! I'm the perfect candidate for a battery operated tool to give me a hand. Talk to your friends, your sister in-law, probably even your mom, they have all owned a rabbit or a magic wand or something equally as pleasing. I'm the only one. And instead of solving this problem, I just keep whining about it. I've whined since last summer. I said then, enough is enough I'm buying a vibrator! But I didn't. It's not that I'm embarrassed to walk in a sex shop, I'm too lazy. I'd have to take the time to find someone to watch Alice so I can walk the three blocks to the shop. I mean, I think they'd frown upon me bringing her with me. I attempted to buy one on Amazon, but I got sucked into reading review after review and before I knew it I was reading reviews of anti aging serums instead.

I've been doing it the old fashioned way for far too long. My time has come. The party's Sunday. Soon enough I will say, how in the hell have I lived without this beauty for so long?! Every woman needs a battery operated boyfriend.

The D Word

I haven't written in a week. I haven't read a book in months. I haven't been to the gym in an equal number of months. I've cooked a handful of "real" dinners in many more months. I haven't finished any of the projects I've started in a very long time. Hearing all of this, I have a sister that would be whispering the dreaded D word, suggesting maybe I seek help.

depression

I don't know if she's right. Maybe she is. Maybe she's not. Personally, I don't even know if it matters. I know I have the power to fix all of this laziness. See, that's the thing, I see all of the above as a laziness rut. I was successfully blogging, reading, exercising, and laughing not so long ago. Things weren't great then and things aren't great now. The only difference, I stopped holding myself accountable. I stopped demanding more of myself. I allowed the holidays to be one great big excuse.

I thought 2013 would be a swift kick in the ass. I'm afraid I was wrong. Even though my actions haven't changed much, I have felt a mental shift trying to take hold. I've used my crockpot a few times recently. I've been baking. I've renewed my gym membership. And today I start reading again. I'm taking a class at Alice's school on promoting social emotional competence in children and my friends I'm required to read a book. Slowly but surely I'm taking control of my actions. I don't know if I'll be able to shed the D word from some people's perception of me. Like I said, maybe they are right. But, with every post I write, every mile I run, every chapter I read I feel better.

Color Virgin

I did it. Finally. I highlighted my hair blue. I know what you're thinking, midlife crisis. I'll have you know this is not a midlife crisis. A third-life crisis, maybe. If it was a midlife crisis I would have highlighted my dreadlocks blue. Mark my word, I'm going all out when I reach "midlife."

I alluded to my desire for color back in July, and even though it was only a dream there was truth to it. I have toyed with the idea of purple or blue for several years now, knowing that the "socially acceptable" window was getting smaller by the day. So, the morning I found a brand new grey hair on the left side of my head, I knew it was time for color.

Being a color virgin, I knew I needed subtle. As much as Fifty Shades of Grey would like you to believe a virgin can handle kinky fuckery, I'm not a believer. A virgin needs to start out slow, test the waters before diving in head first.

Well. That doesn't look very impressive. I swear, it's blue. I did say I wanted subtle and understated, but honest, it's blue. Let me try again to highlight the highlights.

There. It's blue. Vibrant cobalt blue. I've been deflowered. Maybe next time I'll look into the kinky fuckery side of color and highlights.

 

Life Absent of a Mother

You know the saying, "time heals all wounds." Maybe you've even said it yourself in an attempt to comfort someone. I am here to tell you, this is not true. Not at all.

Some wounds never heal.

My mother died 6 years ago. Everyone said it will get easier, it hasn't. It's still just as hard to know I will never see her again. My mother never met Alice. She asks about her all the time.

"Mama? Did you take those pictures of your mama because you wanted me to know what she looked like?" she asked me just today on the ride to Toys R Us.

I am forced to spend the rest of my life trying to teach her about a woman she will never meet. Even when sometimes I'd rather not. Even when sometimes I'd rather just cry.

I walk through my days, motherless. Most days it's just that, life absent of a mother. The dishes are loaded in the dishwasher. The towels are switched to the dryer. The dog is fed. And then, there are the moments that hit like a grenade to my core. The moments that force me to think about the severity of everything I lost. The moments that make me relive it all over again.

Recently, I visited a very good friend's father in the hospital. Sitting in a chair in a small room filled with machines and wires and monitors, it all came flooding back to me. Six years flew past me and it was yesterday. It was my mom lying in that bed. It was my mom talking about the food she requested for tomorrow's breakfast. It was my sisters and I talking about the next days agenda and who would be there in the morning. It was my mother's room the nurse walked in when she wrote her name on the board. It was my mother's styrofoam cup with the bendy straw sitting on the bed tray. It was me worried and terrified about what was going to happen next. I sat in that chair and mindlessly chitchatted with my heart and my mind a million miles away.

I live a motherless life and it isn't getting easier.