Saturday, July 30, 2011

The Girls

My breasts don't so much as look you in the eye to greet you anymore as say "Hey, wanna hang out?" so I was surprised when a male friend recently was shocked to find out my bras are padded, underwired and lift me to within an inch of my eyeballs.  Or chin.  Whatever.  Point is,  he was surprised (and maybe a tad disappointed?) that the beautiful melons stretching out my t-shirt had been enhanced.  Enhanced.  He said it like it was a dirty word.  I learned years ago that a girl's best friends are her chicken cutlets.  My sister's second wedding?  The one held a month after my engagement ended, where I held in tears on the alter while she said her vows... again...?  HELL YES The Girls were enhanced that night.  I needed to feel good and damn it if a little push and lift in my bra didn't do the trick.  Waist cinched - breast heaving - several Cosmopolitans before we made it from the pictures into the reception ensured it was a good night... or at least, a good looking one.  To me.  I was drunk.  I looked delectable.

So yeah, The Girls aren't as naturally social as they were some years ago.  But those perky little things you see on twenty-somethings everywhere, barely concealed by cute tank tops and running bras?

Can they do this?  [Editor's note: this portion of January's blog has been censured for content.]  No?

I didn't think so.

Well, The Alternative is Worse

This aging stuff sucks.  I'm just going to lay it out here at the top, let you know where I'm coming from.  I'd like to roll the clock back about 15 years and take better advantage of the 5,478 days that have passed since I was young.  I'd like to know my womb is a springy, abundant nest ripe for fertilization and that I have many years yet in which to select a worthy fertilizer.  The world would still be my oyster.  Time is the enemy of the aging and everybody knows it.  I wish...  I wish...

I wish our hair stayed whatever color we wanted it to be.  Like, if we wanted it red, we squeezed our eyes closed and envisioned tomatoes, rusted car doors and copper pennies.  I'd wear different colors depending on my mood, but silver or gray would likely not be in my repertoire.  I'd save those colors for Halloween or stage plays when I was playing an older character.  Sadly, no such luck... my hair is a golden brown, save for the dull pieces of gray that have recently started camping out on my crown.  What's left of my crown, that is.  It started thinning out some years ago.  Were I a Franciscan monk I would be excited - keeping my head clear for God would be that much easier.

I wish our joints stayed supple and limber until we were 100.  I'd walk 10 miles a day, in flip flops no less.  My back wouldn't start to compress less than a mile in.  That dull ache that appears until I'm off my feet would never come.  I'd be such an accomplished walker, being on my feet for hours would be no feat at all.

I wish the messed up relationships early in our lives slid out of our memories like the three items on my grocery list invariably do if I don't write them down.  I'd have long ago forgotten how my brother hated me, how his insecurities and God knows what else caused him to be so mean to me, having the hideous effect of making me believe no man could love me.  A lifetime later and hours spent on a couch have convinced me this isn't true, but changing patterns set long ago has continued to challenge me.

And of course I'd keep my womb as springy as it probably was those 5,478 days ago.  I think the reason women start getting antsy about our clock is because we know it's going to stop ticking at some point.  We just aren't aware of it in our 20's.  Why should we be?  But start hanging out in the upper 30's, oh yes.  Oh yes we hear the clock.  We know it's now or never.  We start perspiring at the thought of putting off a family a few more years, even if we're having fun in the now and don't have Pampers burning a hole in our shopping carts.  This fertility stuff stinks, that's for sure.  I wish I could just bottle it to be used at a later date.  Like, a quick trip to Kmart to pick it up.  Blue light special on Fertilized Wombs, aisle 5.  Pick up our blue light special while you can, ladies.

I have no idea what my future holds.  That's half the trouble of aging.  When you're young you may not know what's coming but the possibilities are still infinite, so it's less jarring.  As an old lady [Editor's note: January insisted on including this obviously self-pitying epitet despite its inaccuracy.  The term 'old lady' is generally disallowed from this blog.  The editorial decision to allow it here was made because January has been whining so much it was the only thing to quiet her down.]

Oh God, I really am getting pathetic.

So let's recap:  Aging sucks.  Natural hair dye is good.  Fertility should be available in big box stores.  Any questions?

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Les Fridays

It's Friday night.  The neighbor starts texting me.  We go back and forth for about 10 minutes during which time he says he's home watching TV.  Then he invites me to come watch TV with him and I tell him I will in a little while after I [insert excuse].  I do my [insert activity], then walk the two doors down to his apartment and plop down on the loveseat, perpendicular to the couch where he plants himself.  We pick a movie, he tries several times to get me to sit on the couch with him (I stay on the loveseat), and we begin watching.

About three minutes into the movie he begins touching me, extending his arm awkwardly to my knee/lap, stroking it.  I place my hand somewhere between his hand and my crotch - because invariably, his stroking hand will start roaming north.  His damn roving hand distracts me from the movie and I, exasperated, finally say something bordering between blunt and cute along the lines of "Get your hand off me you idiot, and JUST STOP TOUCHING ME" only it comes out more like "Your hand is distracting me; I can't enjoy the film!  Tee hee hee."

I throw the tee hees in there to try and soften the blow.

It works, for about three minutes.  Then he starts again with the hand on my knee/lap.

Somewhere around the three-quarter mark in the film, he asks me how my feet are.  I lie and say they're fine.  He picks one up and starts massaging it, kneading it expertly as only a former masseur can do.  He's a former masseur.  I am butter in his hands.

He gets up to retrieve some lotion and at this point the foot rub becomes orgasmic.  And by orgasmic I mean, were anything other than clitoral stimulation capable of bringing me to orgasm, this would be it.  Well, this a few other things I'll not go into here.  In any case - you get the point: Best.  Foot Rub.  Ever.

The film hasn't even ended when he starts asking me for a bisou.  Just one, he says.  Just a little bisou, come on, come on.  Give me a bisou.  I tell him "Knock it off jerk, I'm trying to watch a movie here.  Can you not freaking keep trying to kiss me?" only it comes out something like "Philippe, non! Je ne veux pas t'embrasser.  Regardons le film... tee hee hee."

I use French to soften the message.  I don't want to kiss, let's watch the film.  But I'm not dicking around here; kissing this man is like bringing my lips in for a car wash and coming out with a Detail Supreme.  My lips, teeth, tongue and the southern portion of my face get cleaned.  I'm pretty sure if I do it often enough the paint's gonna come off the finish.  So I try to keep it to a minimum.

The credits start rolling as he leans over again.  "Give me a kiss.  Give me some bisous.  Come on.  Let me have some.  Just one.  Just one bisou."  By this point I'm worn down, exasperated, relaxed from the orgasmic foot rub, and just not wanting to fight anymore.  But the memory of big, sloppy lips making their way all over my mouth is strong.  "Philippe, tu me fais folle.  Je te donne UN bisou," I say, hoping my cutesy offer of one kiss while simultaneously telling him he drives me crazy will make it quick and simple.  Alas, the tactic fails me miserably and I have to tell him to stop kissing me.

I'm going to leave, I say.  Good night Philippe.  No, I don't want to hug you.  Really, having you press your semi-erect member against me while you lick my face, ear or neck ain't doing it for me.  Goodnight!!

Call me, he says.  Call me.

Out I go.  It's a long 10 second walk home.

I sometimes wonder if I'm living in purgatory, heaven being somewhere where French men kiss me hotly on the neck without leaving a trail of saliva, hell being a round room with no door and a big set of wet lips chasing me around and around and around.  God save me.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

That Summer in Manhattan

The early days of living in New York City were by all reaches of my memory a bit magical.  I lived in a large apartment with enough other young women to field a basketball team.  Or given that most of us were actresses, you might better think of us as Six Characters in Search of an Author.  Those were heady days.  College friends filled the neighborhood and the rest of the city held friends in the making.  Nights were spent drinking at a selection of choice bars, usually in the same order beginning with our local and ending far enough away that justifying cab fare at 4:00 am was easy.  Life was as easy as it can be before careers and the pressure to find a mate settled in.  When you're single at 23 you take it as an edict to meet as many attractive men as possible, kissing some, dancing with others, flirting with the friends of a few.

I did have a few boyfriends during that time, men that I kissed, danced with and flirted with their friends - but dated exclusively and happily.  Walking through Manhattan holding hands with a man you like feels like you're playing out a scene in a movie.  In fact, one summer evening I did just that...

The fellow I was dating was tall, a bit thick around the middle, very smart and also a touch arrogant.  I remember when we met - it was on a July night at Midsummer Night Swing in Lincoln Center.  He had been seeing a friend of mine, though she told me she wasn't crazy about him and was going to break it off.  He and I laid eyes on each other and it was all over.  With her blessing, we had our first date that weekend... our romance the perfect summer event.   One evening we were taking a walk and ended up at Carl Schurz Park, watching the East River flow by, smelling the air get thicker in anticipation of a storm.  It started to sprinkle so we started the walk home.  The sprinkles turned rapidly into large drops and suddenly the sky opened up.  East 89th Street turned into a shower.  Warm, furious summer rain poured down on us.  We tried running for a minute, but it really was hopeless.  Laughing, we stopped in the middle of the road and pulled in to each other in a passionate embrace.  Even remembering it these fifteen years later I am struck by the passion, the water running down our cheeks, our arms, our toes, doing nothing to cool down the heat.  This was my most cinematic of personal scenes and Hollywood could do no better.

So if George Lucas was the auteur of That Summer in Manhattan, Judd Apatow would pen the sequel.  Taking place fifteen years later it would find January still single and making her way through a city on a coast 3000 miles away.  She would be a blogger, writing of her adventures with men and her difficulty in accepting getting older.  One day she would remember the young man, her former co-star.  She would Google him.  And she would find that he too is now living in this city.  Over time though, this formerly struggling journalist would have ascended the throne of a large publication.  He would also have gotten married to a Jewish woman, converted for her, had a bris in his 30's, and changed his last name to hers.  That's right, he would now go by John Wussy-Smith, the bachelor, foreskinned days of John Smith long gone.  He would be as arrogant as ever (and retained his spare tire) and January, realizing she had dodged quite a bullet those fifteen years ago, would raise her glass to offer a toast to the happy couple.  She would then blog about the great cinema they made that summer but not without mocking the man.  Perhaps the sequel would be called I'd Have Let You Keep Your Balls

Perhaps in the sequel January would find a partner of her own.  I'd like that.