A simple review of Shine: a Burlesque Musical:

Go See It.

And for some possibly pertinent tidbits:

• Burlesque
• Music
• Dancing
• Silly, sexy, and sarcastic humor, and
• Innuendo
• In well-balanced doses
• Rampant references to kinky sex
• Includes three of my favorite Seattle performers, Polly Wood, the’Luminous Pariah, and Paris Original
• Five Seattle shows remaining, as of this moment.
• Buy your tickets via this link or at the door. If you collect wristbands, buy the $45.00 ticket, and you’ll get a VIP VIP VIP wristband to wear.
• Yes, there is air conditioning in the theater. Veer to the right as you enter for a seat with the most AC blast, and veer left to stay out of the chill.

An observation:

• Possibly not good “first date” material, if you identify as more straight-laced than kinky. Which is not to say, don’t go if you’re not kinky; it’s just to say.

An endorsement:

• The audience included several of Seattle’s most renowned and intellectual kinky folk, some of whom had come to see the show for second time.

Oh, and the storyline of SHINE is of saving a theater that has seen better days. Yes, this is a oft-told story—that could fall flat on its false-eyelash wearing face. But in this instance, it’s just right.

Go.

Yesterday there was a huge rainbow in the early evening sky. David and I saw it from my window; he explained that it was made up of particles and smog. I argued that rainbows are what happen when angels have orgasms.

Later, in my sleep, I dreamed that the rainbow had come closer and closer to my apartment building. I could see it with one end of its pretty arc there in the swimming pool outside my window. And then I knew that it would come closer, until I would be right beneath the end of the rainbow. I stood and awaited its arrival.

When I woke I imbued metaphor on my dream, and came to believe that the rainbow right on me was about me being my own treasure. Or perhaps, about the rainbow recharging my heart-of-gold.

Whatever the meaning, it was a great dream to be inside of.

Photo of the same rainbow from a different angle, by John Cornicello and used with his permission.

A few things to cover today. Succinctly, sex, sex, sex.

∞ First up, dating and sex and the infernal question, “Who Pays?”. As in, we are on a first date, who pays? And the question is answered with humour and insight by Single Ape. I especially like how he says

When you ask someone out, you’re inviting them into your world for a bit. It helps your case about a million-fold if your world is generous to them.

Of course Single Ape is addressing things from the perspective of a man asking out a woman, and the implicit agenda that the man wants to get laid. But I think the advice holds across circumstances and situations–boys, girls, courtship, companionship. Single Ape helps you sort out who picks up the check and why.

∞ Next, sex and happiness. Pfizer to our rescue. Because their recent survey found

that 57 percent of men and 64 percent of women were not satisfied with their sex lives. . . . the research also found that sexual dissatisfaction is primarily related to erectile dysfunction (ED) . . .

As reported by Jessica O’Reilly for Carnal Nation

And of course the Pfizer little blue pill is the answer.

This is so American. First, that so many people would be so mired in unhappy or unsatisfying circumstances. Secondly, that an isolated element of sex–in particular, an erection–would be blamed. And third, that a big corporation would be doing the “research” to reveal a problem for which they happen to have a solution.

Come on people. Really? First off, sex is sooooo much more than penetration with a penis. And lastly, sex is sooooo much more than penetration with a penis.

∞ And for my third topic, and further to all of the above. I have been thinking a lot about how we would have fewer problems to solve if we had more tolerance and appreciation for each other.

You know, the thing about how we can’t really know what someone else is going through, until we walk in their shoes. And, “don’t knock it until you’ve tired it.” And, “one man’s poison is another man’s meat.” Or however that last one goes.

The gist being that people in our society waste a lot of time and effort criticizing other people—instead of just, oh, I don’t know, maybe reaching out and lending a hand instead? Or, celebrating each other, and the fact that we’ve managed to get this far; let’s see how much further we can get if we build each other up instead of tear each other down.

I don’t mean to rant, here. I am seriously thinking about how to enable this kind of shift.

There’s this group on Facebook that is called “Correct Spelling, Punctuation and Apostrophe Use.” Now believe me, I am hyper sensitive to all three of those things (although I lean to the use of serial commas). But I also believe that to judge a person based on their ability to handle spelling, punctuation, or apostrophes, well, it’s as if you are judging me based upon my in-ability to sing, do card tricks, or surf.

Really.

So what does this have to do with sex? Oh yeah, right.

Well, the above-mentioned Facebook group recently posted a photo of a love note that some guy had written for his sweetie. And the note was full of spelling and punctuation errors. So the group lambasted him.

Really? People!

Let’s take this as an opportunity to say something like, “Dude. You can’t spell for beans, but a love note! Marvelous idea. Think I’ll go write one myself, thanks for the reminder.” And spin someone’s “faults” into a deed that makes the world a better place.

And the sex in that?

Setting aside that a love note is one of my favorite forms of foreplay, here’s the sex. Sex is made of many things. Sex is different things for different people. Don’t judge. Keep trying. Mix it up. Relish what works. And, talk about it.

And in that vein, let me present an opportunity for all of you in the Seattle vicinity to set aside pre-conceptions, walk your edges, and try something new that is often viewed as “bad” (but is also often viewed as way too much fun).

Go spend a weekend learning how to tie up people. Wrap them up in rope, tie knots, and confine them. Max’s two-day bondage intensive. Registration closes soon.

I know you geeky scout boys are salivating at the notion.

Photo: by Alicia and used with Creative Commons license.

Things have been going along pretty swell. I’ve had myself on the he-is-dead plan and on lock-down—no meandering into spaces where my ex might be or may have left a trail. It’s been working okay, and with the new paradigm and regime, my number of melt-downs has diminished to almost nil.

Nice.

I have been looking and moving forward. Existing in my day-to-day realm in a mostly right-here right-now kind of fashion, with emerging dreams and hopes for my future.

Then, wham.

I’m going along minding my own business, reviewing Facebook, seeing what my friends are up to. And a photo pops up, posted by a friend.

Slap. I come completely undone.

Said friend is house-sitting at my (ex) husband’s home. You know, the home that used to be mine too.

Said photo is something like this:

Raccoon mom and her young kits. A sight that became pretty common at our house, a sight that Perry and I shared often. A sight that was precious to us. And seeing my friend’s photo on Facebook, of this year’s raccoon kits, shot me through the heart, suddenly and painfully. Reminding me of so much that was so dear to me, and which is not part of my life anymore.

Okay. So that was a few hours ago now. Since then I’ve managed to do normal things—wash dishes, sweep, fill my little bird feeder, and ponder the severity of my response to the photo.

And I pondered this blog post. I knew I had my own photos that are similar to the picture my friend posted this morning on Facebook,and could use one for this post. So I started browsing the older photos on my external hard drive to find it. Which means of course coming across things such as, wedding photos, and other snippets of the good days with my (ex) husband.

Great. Rip me open again.

But it was settling somehow. I’m still not sure how, but somehow.

Maybe it was by way of some of the other photos that surfaced during my browsing. And these photos tell me that I am not completely crazy. That I was not stupid in my surprise last August when my (ex) husband let on that he wanted a divorce.
May, 2009, roughly 90 days before the split. We are seriously apartment hunting in St. Louis, having just spent two weeks of intense time there, attending to his factory. We’ve acknowledged that the business runs better (is more profitable) when we are right there participating in the daily operation, ergo, we’ll be spending a lot of time in St. Louis. So much time, that it will probably be more economical to rent our own place rather than rent a motel room.

We even explore the possibility of buying the abandoned vacant lot and house that are next to the factory, going down to the courthouse and investigating the old records. We consider refurbishing the house for our own use, and maybe turning the vacant lot into garden space that our apartment-dwelling employees could use.

Back home, we go to Mt. Rainier. We climb a tree, hella high and cross a bridge that is slung between two trees, hella high. I feel brave, and like this summer is going to be a beauty. We bring home a log to build a fountain in our pond.

July 7, it is our wedding anniversary. He buys me plants for the garden we have been working on and shapes the number “2″ from the slate shingles he has been having fun with, carving them into arches and so on as he builds a shed. I plant the chartreuse bleeding heart in the little garden alcove I have been wanting for a long time—our “sex garden” where we can lounge together naked and gaze up into the huge green leaves of our big leaf maple tree.

I won’t say that it was a carefree summer. I go back to the office for six weeks to cover for someone out on medical leave, and that really cuts into my summer time. I am ill a lot, that vague malaise the strikes me down sometimes. I am frustrated that working and illness eat up so much of my time. I miss some goals I had set. I nestle into the window seat to recuperate, and do a lot of writing. From that perch, I watch my (ex) husband work hard on the outside areas of our home, and I get out there whenever I can to garden or sit with him, appreciating the improvements and dreaming of what else we will do.

We talk about buying an Airstream trailer from my brother. Each evening we share a cocktail “on the veranda”—our perch that overlooks the ravine—and we talk about our days and watch the herons and other wildlife. We admire the phenomenal growth of the redwood trees we had planted. Then Perry cooks dinner for us, using our infra-red grill and we dine “al dente”—our vernacular for “al fresca.”  Nothing is 100% perfect, but so much is so lovely. I feel grateful and blessed.

Today, seeing these photos from the months just before the split wasn’t easy on the heart, but they did alleviate the sense I’d held that I must have been totally checked out to have not seen that my husband was leaving me. His video infers that he was leaving all summer. I still don’t know at what point he really decided to leave me. It doesn’t matter.

But it has been painful to believe that all those months our lives were awful and I was completely obtuse to his feelings. There were many very, very bright parts of our lives together last summer—I can see that in my photos, and somehow that makes me feel better.

Don’t infer that I am confabulating that we will re-unite. I’m not. And I do not want that.

But I do need to know that my experience last summer was not something I made up alone in my head. And, it was not.

I am ready for this pain to leave. I want to stop hating. I want to return to writing here about beauty.

But the hurt continues. I sit and look out the window at the glorious pink of the blooming cherry trees, and tears stream down my face–I am sad and angry and confused. And I worry a little that this deep emotion will never let up.

My dear friend, Carmi, checks in on me nearly every day, saying, “Good morning. How are you today, my love?” This morning I replied, “I hate my ex. I don’t enjoy being a hater. It hurts. I can’t believe how much I still hurt.”

And Carmi says, “You still love him, that’s why it hurts. You can’t say you hate something you don’t love in some way.”

Oh.

Earlier I made a snarly post on Facebook, my attitude getting the better of me. “I am stunned by how much I still hurt, and am thinking some phenobarbital would be perfect right about now.”

In their comments my friends say all the right things, and I love them for it, but it fails to assuage the pain in my heart, even their encouragement to pursue the Zipless Fuck.

I’ve had that actually (well, not exactly but nearly, and a little inadvertently, but nevertheless). It was great in the moment, but later he gave me the “I want to be your friend speech” which really is a candy-coated rejection.

And rejection is the last thing I need these days, seeings as I am still reeling from this most recent–ultimate–rejection. So I am better off I think, staying away from anything that might include any semblance of a brush-off. So, no Zipless Fucks. No dating, either.

But back to the hate. And the pain.

I am reading a book my friend, Elke, wrote a long time ago. It includes a chapter about healing, and it suggests that I ask my heart, mind, soul, and body what they have to say about this situation. And then, ask them what they need in this moment.

So I ask.

My heart says that she feels cheated and short-changed. And I understand that my heart means cheated out of an opportunity, short-changed of something that was beautiful.

Then my heart pipes up that she wants things to go back to the way they were, when they were good.

I tell my heart gently that that is not possible. We cannot go back. Then she says, “I want him to be happy.”

I sit quietly (with tears still rolling down) and I let this soak in. It is true, I want him to be happy and my sense (my belief) that unraveling our marriage was no particular key to his happiness, well, I wallow in that. (It’s pathetic, I know.) But mostly it makes me sad.

My friends give me (unsolicited) reports of bumping into him at parties and events around our city, and they say, “He looks like hell.” At first–from my hurt and angry place–I gloat at this news. But I realize now that those reports break my heart.

I cannot change the past. I cannot change someone else. We all know that. But these new understandings of my feelings about what was and what no longer is … well, the understanding helps me diffuse or re-purpose the pain. Right now, that’s golden.

Photo: I Hate How Much I Love You by Nawal Al Mashouq and used with Creative Commons License

I bought a dress to wear to the family reunion!

Finding the right dress is an accomplishment–something traditional that suits my non-traditional sensibilities. Something that will be attractive but not overtly sexy, something charming but not white-bread. In other words, something neutral yet unique. A challenge, eh?

The Reunion is in September in Missouri and is comprised of my husband Perry’s father’s progeny, and their progeny. I have never met any of them, and in fact, Perry has seen his father, Orlando, only three times.

Perry sometimes says that he was “bought over the backyard fence” and although it smacks of drama, it’s pretty true. Perry’s birth certificate says that he was born February 10, 1960 to Dorothy and Howard Emge. But actually, Perry is the love-child of teen-agers Orlando and Patricia.

Sixteen, unmarried, and pregnant is not a pretty picture for a girl’s future, but Patricia intended to keep her baby. Unbeknownst to Patricia her parents were making other plans with some folks down the street, Howard and Dorothy Emge.

Money changed hands, Perry was born, and Patricia’s parents locked her in a room for the next five days as Perry was passed along to the Emges. Patricia and Orlando were forbidden to ever see each other, and in time they did go on to meet other loves and build new lives.

Fast foward twenty-some years. The Emges are deceased (they were in their fifties when they adopted Perry) and Perry meets Patricia. Another decade passes and he finds Orlando. (There are grand stories about these meetings, and other nearly-missed meetings, but those are for another time.)

Since then, although Perry has developed relationships with Patricia and her other progeny, he has not had the same opportunity with Orlando & company.

This means of course that the upcoming family reunion–from Perry’s perspective–is not really a re-union. Yes, they are all ostensibly “family”–but all he shares with them is DNA; there is no mutual family history, no shared lore, no common experiences.

We are honored to be invited to this gathering. I mean, really. Although his existence was never kept a secret, Perry is the bastard child, appearing in the flesh after everyone is grown. No one needs to include him, really. We wouldn’t even have known there was any reunion. But he has been purposely invited.

So he and I talked about all this. The honor of the invitation, and respecting that. The likelihood that we would feel awkward and uncomfortable at this gathering. The distinct possibility that we would have little in common with the others. Or if we do have common ground, how difficult it will be to discern that in the format of a Family Reunion. But on the other hand we recognize that serious, significant connections coalesce at unpredictable, unforeseen times and places.

After our long chat about unknown families  Perry and I retired for the evening and settled in with a movie. In that way the universe has we unwittingly selected “Cider House Rules”, a tale about children growing up without their “real” parents, and the human quest to understand where we come from (and where we are going). And so we spent another two hours immersed in stories of unplanned children and missing families, the reunion in September in the back of our minds.

We continue to grapple with understanding what is the right thing to do. Do we move aside the barriers that hold us back from going to this reunion and show up at Aunt Mary’s Cafe for the reunion? Or do we opt out?

Tonight we will watch “Antwone Fisher” a movie about someone who doesn’t find his family until he is an adult. In another of those interesting twists, this is the movie that was playing on the plane the day Perry flew out to Tahoe to meet Orlando. Perhaps this film will gel our decision.
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My dear, dear friend, Tiberio Simone, is an artist of many dimensions.

Now he might tell you that he works with food, and technically that is true. But at the core of whatever he creates, is love.

I have had the joy of being in his kitchen, where time and time again I have seen him craft a meal from whatever is in the larder. And, using the simplest of ingredients, he prepares a masterpiece–of taste, scent, and visual stimulus. And, time after time, the meal is more than anyone else might achieve with the same ingredients. There is always something more-than-usual about the meal that Tiberio lays on the table.

It’s simply that Tiberio’s main ingredient always is love.

I am not kidding and I am not exaggerating; see it in this video–the tenderness with which he tends to his models, the passion, sensuality, and deep feeling.

I have had the fortune to be one of Tiberio’s canvases. We have worked together many times creating theatrical, living desserts, pushing the bounds of “food” and arousing our audience’s senses–sharp chef’s knives thrilling, powdered sugar wafting through the air, torrents of spicy chocolate tempting.

Steeped in love and elevating the sensual. Erotic.

Just threw an assortment of expired condoms in the trash. It’s been two years since I needed any, and these have been kicking around in the bottom of my sex-basket. I kept them around I guess for the same reason I kept spermicide and morning-after pills–in case one or another visitor to the house might need to borrow them.

Time for fresh supplies, although I don’t see myself going shopping just yet. Honestly, I’ve really copped an attitude. Initially, when my husband said he was through with the marriage, I was holding out, resting on my hope and our vows–and the notion of sex outside of marriage didn’t even come to mind.

In the weeks since, I’ve seen that there’s no resurrecting the marriage and I’m moving on. But I still have this perhaps antiquated notion that until the Decree of Dissolution is issued, I am married–and I just don’t feel right about having sex with someone besides my husband (which, in case you didn’t notice, isn’t going to happen).

Now I know that he says he read on my blog that I had sex with someone and that’s serving him to justify his own gallivanting (um, I’m not sure where he read that).

But, like I said, it’s been two years since I had sex with anyone but Perry … and the way I feel right now, it could be another two years before I really need new condoms.

(I’m sure my book project will fix my attitude about that however.)

Photo by Merfam under Creative Commons license.