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Archive for June, 2015

A Small Helping Of Poetry

DROPLET

I’ve waited for you to return
And bring me closer to you.

I’ve watched as others ran down your
Eyelids and brushed against your lips.

I’ve seen them crowd around your
Shoulders and caress your neck.

The lucky have traveled over your breasts
Or gotten lost between them.

Many have slid down your fingers
And slipped through your intimate places.

I’ve watched as they’ve relished
The feel of your skin, cool under their heat.

I’ve studied the pleasure they’ve brought you
When washed over your lovely face.

I’ve envied those who’ve made it
Down your thighs and worshipped at your feet.

My turn to please you is coming
With merely a turn of your hand.

I’ll drift over your eyelashes
And warm your perfect cheek.

Sliding down your luscious neck
I’ll devote my existence to your care.

I’ll soothe you as I travel down your back
And over your inviting curves.

I’ll wander down the back of your leg
Taking in the beauty of you.

Before I leave you
I too will worship at your feet.

And when I’m gone
I’ll have left you changed.

As I will be changed for always.

 

Monique P.

Category:

Beauty, Change, Desire, Love, Poem, Poetry

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Grateful For The Little Things

Some days you crawl into bed and think, “Thank goodness this day is over!” Even on those days there are things to be grateful for. As I crawl into bed tonight I’m thankful for my 2 sweet Chihuahuas that like to cuddle me when I sleep alone. I’m grateful for my Siamese cat, Ziggy, that lies by my head and softly purrs me to sleep. I’m grateful for the books I read to relax and drift into another world so I can rid myself of any negative from the day. I’m thankful for the good parts of my health and that I have a job that pays the bills. I’m thankful for texts from my wonderful friends, my partner and especially my gorgeous daughter (non-biological from a previous relationship) that always make me smile and feel loved. I’m thankful for free Kindle books. I’m grateful for the beautiful flower baskets my partner bought for my front porch. I’m grateful for a car that runs and medical insurance that covers my hearing aids. I’m grateful I have a stylist who always does my hair perfectly. I’m grateful for swimming pools and nice breezes. I’m grateful for the deer and the black squirrels and the baby bunnies I see wandering around the area. I’m grateful for good coffee and dark chocolate. I’m thankful for the nice dinners out and the foot rubs and hugs I get from my partner. I’m thankful for my generous friends and family that think of me and surprise me with gifts even though I’m so far away. I’m thankful my father remarried a wonderful woman who gave me a wonderful little brother. Although my step-mom is gone from this world I’m thankful she no longer hurts from cancer. I’m thankful for the amazing years I had with my grandma and all the wisdom she shared. I’m thankful for my two amazing aunts who are also wonderful mothers. I’m thankful for friends I can talk to about literature and cooking and movies and love. I’m grateful for love and hope. I’m grateful I am smart enough not to give up on either one of those. I’m thankful for my ability and willingness to learn new things. I’m grateful the world is changing in some wonderful ways. I’m grateful for daisies and peonies and the smell of jasmine.

I’m grateful I have a voice and I’m not afraid to use it. I’m especially grateful for those of you who care enough to read what I have to say.

Be thankful everyday.  No matter what you do or do not have, you have more than some and sometimes that’s just enough.

Monique P.

Category:

Books, Chocolate, Cooking, Daughter, Family, Friends, Grandma, Gratitude, Hope, Love, Pets, Relationships

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Perspective

My busy brain is constantly finding things that are wrong. I think about things that have gone wrong or that I’ve done wrong. I fret over things that might go wrong or the worst possible outcomes. I think about “what ifs” until I’ve worked myself into tears. When something bad happens to me I curl into my little ball and just want to feel sorry for myself and others to say “There, there. It will be okay.”  All this real and imaginary “wrongness” has caused me to take up the lovely habit of grinding my teeth very hard in my sleep.

This last Thursday I went to the dentist for my usual cleaning and check up.  I’ve always enjoyed my dental appointments actually. They made my teeth all clean and bright and all the attention was focused on me and someone saying, “What great teeth you have” since I’ve never had a cavity and never needed braces. No pain, no bad news, no huge medical bills since insurance always covers cleanings.

Then, after 42 years of my lovely pearly whites getting a clean bill of health, the absolutely worst happened. Cavities. Not just cavities, but also a broken tooth! My grinding habit has led to consequences I hadn’t realized were possible. I do it so badly that I wake my partner with the irritating sound and have gradually flattened many of my back teeth and apparently broken one. All this leads to less protection for my teeth, especially for the inner areas that need that hard exterior to keep the nerves and roots safe from decay and disease. Well, I botched that up pretty good obviously.

The advised treatment: 2 fillings and a composite to rebuild the broken area.

I wasn’t actually scared because I was too busy being pissed. I mean, 42 years is a long streak to break ya know? I could have rescheduled for the fillings or just do it then. I always think it’s best to get things done and over with if you can. Back in the room where the fillings were to happen I noticed one of the square panels overhead had a light out, messing up the pattern on the ceiling.  This at least had me preoccupied momentarily. I hadn’t even really noticed the two minty q-tips that had been stuck in my mouth and left there until the minty flavor was followed by what felt like gigantic lips and a tongue that I no longer had control over. Extremely odd sensation.

Even when the dentist sat down next to me and started explaining the procedure I wasn’t panicked, mostly because by then I couldn’t feel my face much less the inside of my mouth.

There are a few things the dentist fails to mention about “the procedure” that if you haven’t experienced a filling I will forewarn you about. First off, the drill, even if you can’t feel it, sounds like a construction zone inside your head. There’s a drilling sound so loud it’s like standing next to a pneumatic drill working on gigantic screws going through concrete.  This was followed by what I swear was a jack hammer. Even vibrating me enough to notice through the numbness. Then a more drilling which immediately is followed by the smell of burning rubber.

For those of you around my age you will probably remember the Bill Cosby joke about being in the dentist chair with instruments in his numb mouth and drooling and trying to say he smelled smoke. There was a time when many of us went around giggling saying, “Moke! Moke!”

Needless to say, I no longer find this funny.

It really does smell like smoke!  Exceptionally foul-smelling smoke, like your tire caught on fire! This, I was informed by my dentist, is the smell of decayed tooth being drilled out.  Thank you for making me entirely disgusted with my own mouth!

Once the dentist was done drilling out the ICK the tech came in to fill and fix.  That part was not bad. (Unless you include the part when it felt like she needed to just unhinge my jaw to pull my mouth open far enough to reach my top teeth in the back.)  The dentist came back in and said all was well, gave me some instructions and sent me on my way still numb and drooling just a tad.

I went home, took my recommended ibuprofen and promptly dozed off. 2 hours later, after apparently grinding even harder due to the numbness and managing to bite the crap out of the inside of my cheek, I woke up in tears. The right side, where both a filling and repair was done, was completely fine. The left side felt like someone was trying to rip all my upper teeth out.

Having never had a filling before so I called the dentist’s office to see if this was anywhere close to normal. I was sobbing so I’m not sure she heard me very well, but just moments later the tech who did my fillings called me back and asked me to come back in to make sure all was well. They took x-rays to make sure no voids were left where they filled and the dentist came in to show me the x-rays and explained how my left filling was so deep it pushed against the wall protecting the nerve and probably bruised the nerve. A prescription for a few days of “the good drugs” and I was sent off.

The rest of the day and night I stayed in a fetal position with a swollen cheek and sore mouth wishing someone was there to baby me.  I even text my best friend who is 1000 miles away because I know she’s been through these things AND without numbing or pain medicine because she’s allergic to nearly everything. I told her she was my hero. I couldn’t possibly imagine doing all that with no relief. During our texts I found out she was also having unexplained jaw pain and, of course, without pain killers.

I was without a doubt feeling sorry for myself anyway.

The next day I received a message that jaw pain turned into also a shortness of breathe and chest pain. Her blood pressure was way too high and she was admitted to the hospital. Tests revealed she’d had a heart attack.

My best friend is 37 years old. She’s recently lost 40 lbs, quit smoking, began eating better and exercising. She has a husband who adores her and two great teenage boys. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen to people like her. ESPECIALLY since she can’t have anything for pain or any kind of sedative. (Did I mention she’s 1000 miles away from me?)

Saturday morning things weren’t going well and a heart cath was done sooner than scheduled to find she had a 90% blockage in one area and a stent was immediately put in. Thankfully tests showed no significant damage to the heart.

I’m so grateful her husband was by her side for the entire weekend because when any pain began he was on top of it and had nurses checking on her immediately. His presence was the only thing that eased my mind.

Imagine for a moment going through all of that with no more than Tylenol for pain and nothing to keep you calm or sedated. Suddenly my mouth wasn’t so bad. My teeth didn’t hurt that much. The cold drink was just a minor annoyance. The fear of another cavity down the line just a blip on my radar.

I can’t possibly find the words to convey how much respect I have for this woman. I said it before, and I’ll say it again, she is my hero.

I love you, E!

Monique P.

Category:

Friends, Worry

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Dreams 2.0

I was in the 4th grade when I remember someone asking me what I wanted to be when I grew up.  My answer came without hesitation, “a mom.”  My Sunday school teacher giggled and said, “Well first you need to have a husband for that.”  I was baffled at this concept.  Why?  I didn’t want a husband.  I only wanted the babies and the house with the white picket fence. I already decided I was going to be a math teacher so I’d be home with my babies when they were home from school.  In 4th grade I had it all figured out.

Life doesn’t always deal us the hand we imagined. I found out early I was unable to have children of my own due to a hormone imbalance that, at that time, didn’t seem to have much hope of being corrected. At age 40 I had finally gotten my body and hormones in balance and began ovulating for the first time in my life. I started seeking a donor immediately so I didn’t waste my small window of opportunity.  I found a good match. Had one failed attempt. Then again life happened. My partner’s mother was diagnosed with lung cancer and she was preoccupied with caring for and worrying over her mother, understandably. I planned to give her time to get through that so we could try again. Then her mother didn’t make it out of the hospital. Again, I decided, I could wait. I felt the thing I needed to do was be there for her and not be selfish. Also, the idea of pursuing motherhood without her emotional support was just not something I could fathom. A year went by and we were more distant than ever, her mother’s death still taking it’s toll on her in almost every aspect of her life. I had to make a decision. So I decided to try again. I found another donor. Then the time came, the days were right and all the hormones were lined up and I just couldn’t go through with it. I canceled my appointment, sat in my room and cried until I finally fell to sleep. I would’ve been a mom with possibly no partner or one that was not emotionally present and I didn’t believe I could do it. So I had a choice to make and I made the hardest choice of my life. I chose to give up.

Their names had already been chosen. If I had a girl she would have been Leonora Noel, “Nora” for short. If I had a son he would be Oliver Nelson Maxwell. I spent several weeks grieving these children I would never have, while at the same time trying to appear fairly put together to the outside world. I didn’t want anyone to see how much I already loved these babies that were never even conceived. I’d see a baby giggling on a TV commercial and tear up. Friend’s and family were having babies and grand-babies and I could only smile and congratulate them and try so very hard not to hate them for my misfortune. That was the hardest part. It wasn’t that I wasn’t happy for the gorgeous babies they had been given to love, but I also hated them for my unhappiness.  It didn’t have to make sense, as emotions rarely do. Even telling this story now I feel just how selfish and self-involved those feelings are, but they remain and I just have to learn to trust that it will be ok and it will get easier.

The stress of having made this choice to give up plagued my sleeping and waking hours so much that I was having fitful sleep, worse than usual and grinding my teeth down to nothing. These things just made other things worse. My mind still all over the place, inability to focus on anything for more than a moment, increasingly tired, headaches, constantly on the edge of tears, what felt like hormones with multiple personality disorder, physical pain from anxiety, nightmares worse than usual and having ground my teeth down so badly I managed to get the first cavities I’ve ever had in my life and broken a tooth. Then here’s the kicker: my gynecologist informs me I’ve entered into perimenopause. (Basically the early stages of menopause before the shit hits the fan.)

No matter whether I had made the choice to give up or not, mother nature had already made it for me. I’d been mentally beating myself for a month or more about being too cowardly to continue trying only to find out the choice was moot.  I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh at the absurdity of it. I cried, of course, because that’s just what I do.

Since receiving this information I’ve been searching my brain and my heart for something to focus on. Looking for something fulfilling to throw myself into as much as I’d thrown myself into wanting, wishing and trying to have a baby. I find a lot of satisfaction and feeling of accomplishment in being a good and supportive partner.  I love having dinner made and laundry done and making sure every need I can meet is met.  However at this time this is not an option for me. Then there’s my other love. The one that’s always there and never leaves. The one that I can ignore for weeks or months and still it seems to welcome me with open arms when I turn my attention back to it. My books. My love of literature of all kinds and my love to write. I’ve had novels, short stories and poems rolling around in my brain since childhood. Some made it to paper or even floppy disk, if that doesn’t show my age I don’t know what does, but many copies have been lost throughout the years. In my head though they are still there, mostly improved in fact.

I started this blog not knowing for sure what I would write about.  I figured I would share my random musings on whatever subject was I was tossing around at the time. I’d share a couple of the short writings I have managed to get saved again, on flash drive this time. (Welcome to the 21st century!)  I would be open and honest about hard to talk about subjects and things people often avoid mentioning. I’m not afraid of controversy. To each their own opinion, right?

Now, however, I will also use this blog as a way to renew my passion for words. I’ll write about what I’m reading, what I’m writing and what I think about writing. This will be a place to discuss my fears about being not good enough and my pats on the back from some of my friends in the writing world. I’ll talk about authors and books I love and passages that just really hit home.

Keep following to see what might come out of my brain next.  You just never know with me.

Thanks for reading!

Monique P.

Category:

Babies, Hopes and Dreams, Writing

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The Rhythms of Life

As far back as my memories go I remember looking for rhythms, connections, lists, boxes and even equations that put things into a perspective that allows for my understanding of it.  There’s a rhythm to almost everything we do or can expect as an outcome from something we do.  I remember the most minute details from the most obscure happenings because of the connections they immediately made in my head. I’ve put everything in one list or another or in a box of some kind so that I know where to find it in my brain and where it should be in my life. I’m speaking figuratively of course. People who know me would tell you I’m completely disorganized in my outward life. It’s the world in my head that exists in this manner of organized craziness.

In times of major chaos in my life I’ve turned to mathematic breakdowns of the events surrounding me down to the most irrelevant details. (e.g. I can tell you the percentage of people who were wearing a watch in my first ever group therapy session at the age of 18.)  I find these things comforting. The rhythms and mathematics don’t change. You can rely on them to remain undaunted by a bad day or change of heart or some form of emotional upheaval. Math is undeniably consistent. One plus one will always equal 2. 4/4 time will always be four beats per measure, from Mozart to Katy Perry to John Lennon.

Once a connection is made it is unbreakable. That connection is always there, even if you don’t wish it to be so. Once you love her she will always be someone you love(d). Once you meet him you will always have met him. Once your heart is broken it will always know what it is to be broken. Once you share your first dance they will always be the one who you first danced with. Once you hear a song and it makes you weep a place in your mind will always know that twinge of sadness when it hears those notes and lyrics. For me these connections also cause me to remember things I have no need to remember. I can tell you who most celebrities have worked with, lived with, married and divorced from and what performances of theirs I liked most. I can connect one author to another simply by a phrase repeated by one that I read by the other months or years prior. Words are possibly the strongest of connections for me. Once it’s said or written that connection is also never to be undone. Words are explosively powerful things, but more on that subject another time.

I suppose from this perspective I can adequately say that I find security in consistency.

The boxes in my mind come in to play when I need to sort through anything in my life, come to a new understanding of something or figure out how something went askew. I mentally unpack a box to see if what I believed to be one thing is really in that box of similar ideas or objects or if I need to fit it in to a different box. Everything has a box. People, places, times, memories, relationships, knowledge I have, knowledge I wish to have and the biggest box holds the contents of the life I dream to have some day. I’ve rearranged this box numerous times and tossed some contents out while adding others. In this case I suppose we all do. If I could give you a visualization of the boxes that support and hold the things I have tried to figure out in my life you might say I am a hoarder.

Lists. The all important lists. These exist everywhere in my world. They are both real and unreal. Necessary and unnecessary. Important and not. Accurate and absolutely not. Many times they contain the handbook of “life as I see it.”  This includes: Lists of rules; rules I have for myself, rules others have put upon me, rules I put on others. Lists of hopes; Hopes for the ones I love, hopes for myself, hopes for day-to-day life, hopes for the future. Lists of needs; needs that must be met for myself by myself, needs that I need met by others, other’s needs I can meet and ones I cannot no matter how hard I try. And so on and so on.

It’s these things I have mentioned that keep a smoother rhythm in my life but, at the same time, also cause it to be so incredibly scattered. My mind seems to work like a processor. I evaluate every action, word, sound, response and feeling at every moment of everyday and place them into their correct location or at least the location that makes sense to me. Like a processor I’m considering these dozens of things at once at all times. Unlike a processor it overwhelms me to a point that I feel I must block out all thought by any means. For me this is not as easy as it is for some I have encountered as I do not do drugs of any kind nor do I find much pleasure in drinking very much or very often. I block out my thoughts with other people’s thoughts, as in books, movies and music. Many times I’m processing so many things I just need to talk and let them out, yet at the same time my words aren’t as fast as my brain and I start talking about one thing and five completely separate ideas later I have no idea what it was I had started talking about in the first place.

And there you have it; the disorderly organization of my messy mind. The rhythm and flow of life as I know it.

Welcome to my world.

Category:

Crazy, Relationships

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