Ildith

But I must.

You must not look back.

You told me this as you walked away. I must not look back.

How was it ever so easy for you to abandon everything we built?

Do not look back, you said.

I hesitate. Images of promises, of comfort built by love between us, by stolen moments giggling in bed while the street cleaner moves past the open window.....

I consider what my life will be if I leave as you demand.

You told me once that you could close your mind, walk away and cast out those with whom you are done. I never believed that would include me. Yet, this is what your dictate means.

Leave. Do not look back. You will be punished if you look back. 

Punishment. What more could there be? You are asking me, a person who trusts so rarely to turn my back on the trust I gave to you. To leave. To walk away from everything, as if nothing mattered, as if none of the words were real.

It is over. Walk away. Do not look back. For your own sake, don't look back.



I walk on. I shield my eyes, placing my hands up to cover them. A physical reminder to not. look. back.   It becomes a mantra: Do not look back, do not look back, there is nothing there for you, do not look back.


Yet...we both know I must. It is  my nature.

My feet stop. I pivot on my right heel and turn my body first, my body in slow motion as my eyes finally behold the destruction. The disintegration of everything. The ruin I sensed, but could not see. The undoing that I had to witness to understand.

I am frozen. I do not mind the wind as it disassembles me, carrying bits of my flesh to parts unknown. My dismantling brings relief as I untangle from the confusion of promises I never expected to be broken. A rabbit licks my ankle, attracted to the salty taste.

You said to not look back. We both know that I couldn't do that.

Shamhat

Further proof that I was born in the wrong era.

I would have made a most excellent courtesan.

Essence

I have been on an inquisition for a new perfume.

I am a funny creature,  for smells and what people smell like are intimately important to me.  I imprint to smell.

My own perfume choices are carefully considered. I have had phases through my life in which I use perfume to become something or someone.  I know, instantly, if a scent is not going to work for me. I lean in towards people and try to smell them without seeming creepy or cannibalistic.

One of the ways Terrance snared me was his exquisite scent the night we meet. Not overwhelming like most of the boys in 1990, smelling of Polo or Drakkar...but close, sophisticated. Something different. He smelled.....right.

This choosing is taking time. I have to sample a number of scents before I can decide. I have to consider what season I will be wearing them, and what they remind me of when they linger on my skin.

I try a new fragrance and ask Terrance to smell them. He hates this. He refuses to place his nose to my proffered forearm. Emily, however, is always willing to engage in this exercise with me. She, too, is a creature for whom smells are part of how we engage with the world. In fact she still, daily, wraps her arms around me and inhales my scent. I am mother to her. I am strength and security and unconditional love.  Whatever my faults and misgivings, I am her olfactory rock of Gibraltar.

My decants arrive and I place them in the bathroom to be sampled. I choose one each day and test it on my skin. Some fade quickly, others spark something in my memory causing me to reject them. This happens with jasmine heavy fragrances  I don't care for those, although I can't tell you exactly why. I find them cloying and overpowering.

Some require second and third wearings before I can get a sense of who these perfumes are and of what they speak. Lutens Filles des Berlin is one of these. I like it, but do I want to commit to it? Do I want this scent to wrap it's tendrils around a specific part of my being?

Some are instantly obvious. Commes des Garcons Red Carnation intertwined itself around me from the moment I opened the decant. I walked into the hallway and Emily said "THAT IS AWESOME!" She recognized it as a smell that belonged on me immediately. Peppery, with bright carnation overlayed with a musky rose and cloves...Oh, the cloves.

Others, like Creed's White Flowers or Spring Flowers are lovely but are too delicate for me. I am not delicate. I have never been, nor will ever be delicate.

With others I have high hopes that are never realized after wearing the scent for the day. Lutens  Daim Blonde, Tubereuse Criminelle, Vitriol D'Oeillet and  A La Nuit all get the "meh, not for me" and are relegated to the sample box.

Others, like Lutens Silver Iris Mist make me stop and wonder. What is this on my skin? Why do I like this despite not knowing how I feel about it?

I wanted to love Etat Libre d'Orange's Putain des Palaces. I mean the name alone made me want to love this scent. Alas. It did not wear well on me and gave me a headache. Like this, Tilda Swinton however gave me the same sense of not knowing how I felt about it. I ordered a larger sample so as to wear it in a variety of settings, getting a sense for how the scent lives on my skin.

I am like a feral child, sniffing and circling on the scents I like. Discarding some, moving others to a second wearing I keep circling back, sniffing, snuffling, inhaling all the smells.  I exhale, hard, through my nose - clearing it of memories.

In my continual becoming, I seek that which belongs to me while not yet knowing.

Happy Fluevog Day!

It's true.



I still have fabulous fvcking ankles.




43, bitches!!

My Closet

It is the end of the academic semester and I have survived a full year as a Professor. I have also very recently had a birthday, turning 43 years of age.

In the final weeks of school with the stresses of teaching, getting students ready for their presentations, grading papers, seeing student teachers and meeting with their cooperative teachers some things have been placed waaaaayyyyy to the side.

One of those things? My closet.

By Friday it was so bad that I took what I needed and fled, slamming the door behind me in an effort to unsee the horror that had manifested.

I fell to sleep last night at 8:30 p.m., sleeping through until 11:00 a.m.. As Terrance asked me what my plans for today included I said:

"Clean the rabbit litter. Straighten my bathroom. Put away the massive stack of clean clothes and all the things on the floor. Maybe grade some things. But not the closet. The closet is too much for me to bear, at the moment."

As I worked through my Saturday list, the closet began to make its presence known. It was going to be impossible to put away the clothes and clean up the shoes on the floor unless I entered the closet. I had 12 pairs of shoes that needed to be put... inside the closet. There were skirts and shirts and dresses that all belonged...in the closet.

Damn it. I was going to have to address the closet.

See that pile on the floor? Um, Yeah. That is a pile of shoes.
A giant pile of shoes.
Also, some hats that have fallen, a multitude of discarded scarves and some bags that held summer clothes that I raided when we had a two warm days last week.

See the shoes? I should feel shame, but I can't. Aren't they lovely? Even all jumbled up in that hot mess?

Left side of closet is dresses. Right is skirts and blouses.

As is clear, the system has gone to hell. Shirts are mixing in with dresses, sweaters are flung all about and next years Christmas cards have been haphazardly shoved in a sweater space.

My careful attention to shoe boxes is no longer in evidence.
Things have reached crisis stage.

About an hour later, we have some movement. Most of the shoes have been returned ( lovingly) to their appropriate boxes.
I am crooning soft songs, promising to never treat them that way again.

"Shhh, shoes. Mama will never treat you like that again...until next end of semester."











Coco comes in to investigate. She approves of my progress.
I move to quickly pick up the purses she will begin to chew.

After nearly four solid hours, Order is restored.

Hats are back on the wall where they belong. Shoes have been returned ( except for the brown crocodile ones that are in the car) and all garments have been re-organized with their peers.








I step back and gaze over my kingdom. I turn to Emily and say: "Your mother has a hell of a lot of clothes. And Hats. And Purses."

Emily looks up from her Kindle, nods and returns to her reading.

"The thing about that squirrel is..."

I had a meeting at the coffee shop across from the University this week to discuss a collaboration on a grant.

I arrived early, so I was marking some papers while sipping my cup of coffee.

The other other people in the coffee shop were four elderly gentlemen. They could not have been younger than 75. They were having their coffee and conversation.

I settled in to read papers, the final leg of the journey of marking the research papers of my largest class.

The oldest gentleman was talking the loudest, but it was soothing talk. They were discussing what birds they had seen at their feeders when Elder says this:

"The thing about that squirrel is....(he pauses). He had a really fat ass!"

Now, I burst out in full laugh. I mean, truly. I couldn't hold it in.

I've not encountered swearing in the artful way to which I had grown accustomed. I, it shocks none of you, am a potty mouth. I swear constantly. A lively and descriptive swear can really bring a thought home.

People here in Wisconsin? Not so much with the swearing.

I look up, laughing. The elderly man see me and begins to apologize. I tell him that it is not a worry, it wasn't the swear but the noun that surprised me.  A fat assed squirrel.

They gentlemen quiet down for a moment. I return to marking. The gentleman begin to rustle as they gather their coats.

It was at this moment, just as the Eldest was getting up to leave that he makes the most extraordinary statement I have yet to hear in La Crosse Wisconsin:

"I'll tell you what...I was over at that Java Vino the other night and there was more puss than you could shake a stick at! I mean every woman in La Crosse was in that place drinking wine with her girlfriends! Wall to wall women!"

And with that, he bid his comrades adieu.

It was all I could do to keep from hugging him as he left while expressing my adoration of his salty language.

Fat assed squirrels. And Puss. They make the rockin' world go round.

Kegel Ninja

Emily: What is up with those commercials?

Me: The transvaginal mesh commercials? Yeah, they are kind of terrifying. (I am reading student papers)

Emily: Why on earth would you get something like that?

Me: My guess is that is has to do with issues once you have a baby and your pelvic floor goes to hell.

Emily: WHAT?

Me: (Putting aside papers) Well, yeah. Once you have a baby you really need to be doing your Kegels to make sure that everything stays in place...and your bladder and uterus don't need to be meshed into place.

Emily: Kegels?

Me: You know what Kegels are...right?

Emily: No, Mom. I don't.

Me: Well, they are kind of like....pushups for your vagina.

Emily: You're kidding me.....right?

Me: No. I am serious.

Emily: (laughing) How do you do them?

Me: Well - you know when you are peeing and you can squeeze  to stop your urine? That's how you do a Kegel. You don't know when other people are doing them, you just do them whenever.

Emily: Do YOU do these?

Me: Oh yeah, honey. I do them all the time. I'm doing them right now and you have no idea. There is no way I am having my bladder and vagina fall out as I am walking down the street.

Emily: This is horrifying. Stop it.

Me: What? Doing Kegels? No. I just did ten more.  You'll never know. I'll be driving you home and doing Kegels.  Pushups for my vagina!

Emily: You are scarring me for life.

Me: That's my job!

Am I doing Kegels? You'll never know......