A Word About Oklahoma

In spite of the excellent Mexican food, the last time I visited Oklahoma, I left with a bad taste in my mouth. It was last Thanksgiving and I was letting go of family. I felt disconnected and uncomfortable there and I couldn't wait to get home, here to Milwaukee, because this is my home now.

Or so I thought.

Spending this past weekend in Oklahoma City was like being in recovery. I submitted myself to the city and to my friends and family to let them heal me. I will be writing detailed posts about the friends and family part; but for now, let me tell you a little something about my home town.  For we have mended our fences.

It is amazing what a little oil money can do for a town. Do you know of any other downtown in the United States that is currently building a 50 floor skyscraper? I saw the cranes in action with my very own eyes. New retail developments are popping up like daisies. The Oklahoma City Thunder is the most beloved team in all of the NBA and a homeless man waved at me while crossing the street because even the homeless people are friendly in Oklahoma. Here's what the tower will look like when completed.

Or how about a $140 million dollar redesign of the downtown streets, plazas, sidewalks and parks?  They are even moving a part of I-40 to create a gateway to downtown via a large boulevard. If a major east to west thoroughfare is in your way, no problem, let's move it.  Is a river walk in a restored warehouse area enough for you?

The girls and I floated by Toby Keith's I Love This Bar & Grill, saw old Doc Blues singing on a patio, snapped a photo of Sonic's corporate headquarters, skipped right past Coyote Ugly, because well, you know we wouldn't have been able to keep Tina off the counters, and saw the most beautiful mosaic and waterfalls along the banks of the river walk.

Or perhaps sailing, rowing or kayaking is more your speed. Imagine a river so dry it had to be mowed twice a year. Dam it up, develop the hell out of it and viola, you have this.

 

Or you can drift away on Lake Hefner, found in the middle of the city with fully developed harbor frontage, restaurants, office buildings, walking trails and sail boats galore.

Did I mention housing is incredibly cheap, taxes are ridiculously low and the people are darn friendly? Oh and they have recently completed construction on not one but two state of the art Proton Therapy cancer treatment centers. Too bad they don't have a state of the art heartburn treatment center because here's an Oklahoma classic, chicken fried steak with fried okra, courtesy of Mr. Toby Keith. Pay no attention to the boob in the picture. It was there for proportion but it wasn't big enough so she had to use her hand as well.

My girlfriend Dolores escorted me on this whirlwind tour of all that Oklahoma City has to offer.  We drove around in her Saab convertible so I could pop up and snap photos. We stopped at this place and had a quick beer, which was free because, did I mention, people in Oklahoma are friendly.

We ended our morning at Big Truck Tacos where their motto is, "saving the world, one taco at time." It was so packed, they had to hang signs to remind people to be friendly. It can get a little pushy when a hungry mob is jonesing for one of those things. It was like Taco Crack or the best thing I've had in my mouth since, well since the last time I was in Oklahoma. Thank you Dolores for a wonderful morning; one that might very well change the course and direction of my life.

I guess it's safe to say I'm leaving this time around with only good tastes in my mouth. And good feelings for my hometown. My home. Where friends and family are plentiful and even the politicians aren't afraid to let it all hang out. Literally.

This did not leave a good taste in my mouth.  Sorry, had to go there, you knew I would.

Here's a little tease for my upcoming posts.  The Leaders of the Free World were in rare form during our "Night of the Iguana".

Bye for now ya'll.

Let Him Be - A Retrospective (#1 Son Part Two)

Before I continue to tell you the details of how the mysterious chiseled chin stranger became my baby daddy, I thought it important to give you a retrospective of #1Son's life thus far.

He was always happy, cool, gentle of spirit, quiet by nature but powerful in voice (some of which he hasn't fully discovered).

Poor child suffered early on with a clueless single mom who had free reign to dress him as I wished.  He is terrified of these photos but I hope he understands, none of this was his fault. He was a victim of my need to surround myself with "awwwww, ain't he cute" moments. I didn't realize how devastating this could have been to his manly development. Thank goodness he made it through without any lingering effects or propensities to dress in bow ties.

I took him out in public like this:
 

Clearly, I had some sort of disturbing fascination with all things Orville Redebacherish.  

I'm sorry little buddy.  I didn't know, really I didn't. But gosh darn, awwwwww, ain't he cute?

Back to the story.  I seem to always be ahead of the trends, like the Barbara Mandel song inferring she was country when country wasn't cool.  I had a baby daddy before baby daddy's were all the rage. The young man from the bar became my boyfriend. We hung out in my sparse apartment because it was generally clean. This was a sharp contrast to his sparse apartment which was generally disgusting, like you're afraid to use the restroom kind of dirty. But the guy was cool, quietly intellectual, musically inspiring and sensitive. He listened to me and cared about the random thoughts of an early twenties mess of a girl.

I suppose it was effortless for him to listen to me when he was equally as troubled and unsure of the direction his life would take. He was also easily taken advantage of in the sense that he didn't bother to ask me if I had birth control measures in place.  I'm sure he assumed I did. He never saw it coming or had any notion that at that time in my life, I was singularly focused on having a baby and he was to be the lucky sperm donor.

When I informed him of my pregnancy after three months of dating, I couched it in a way to clearly give him the option of staying or leaving, with a subtly, ever so deftly implied preference for him to go. We had only been "playing" real life for those three months, like when you were little and you pretended to have a job and babies.  He wasn't ready to be ushered away from that superficial world, kicking and screaming into a life of real responsibility. I knew it wasn't in his plan and I was grateful that he let go without much fuss or fight.

With pressure from his ragingly oppressive mother, he did enter back into our lives after #1Son was born. We even attempted a reconciliation of our relationship but it was not meant to be. I had the inner stirrings of my now well honed mother bear instincts manifesting in me and he still wasn't quite ready to be a dad, outside of his vague impersonation.  I didn't ask for money, I didn't ask for help in any way really.  All I asked was that he be all in or all out. I didn't want to raise my child with a half committed father figure skipping in and out at his leisure.  The final decision was mutually transparent.  Baby daddy out.

Believe it or not, I consider him one of the good guys. Like a parent who gives up their child for adoption because they want a better life for them, he did the right thing by me. He knew I had it under control and he was afraid he would mess something up. He gave me this child who carries his gentle traits, musical ear, tall stature, wicked sense of humor and even the interesting facial structure and chiseled chin that drew me to him from the beginning.  

(To be continued......)

Betty Friedan, Simone de Beauvoir and Me

I am still somewhat new to blogging and as such, I consider my blog a work in progress. I am hungry to learn more, to study the nuances and components of a good blog and to endeavor to make my blog appealing to my audience. Very early on, I came across an intriguing, if not addicting blog called, “Ask and Ye Shall Receive”. The domain name gives away the premise as does the cartoon character of the grim reaper residing in the corner. If you ask, you need to be prepared to suffer the consequences because they are located at “iwillfuckingtearyouapart.blogspot.com.”

The writing is magnificent; they are free to be brutally honest, wickedly blunt and constructively critical. It all works because the people they are tearing apart have asked for it. Countless bloggers dare to put themselves under this microscope of harsh scrutiny in spite of reading the disclaimers essentially telling them to bend over and grab their ankles. They ask anyway.

I’m fairly certain I must have had a few glasses of wine when I submitted my blogging for their flogging. What WAS I thinking?

It has been months since I did it. I have read all their reviews since and I had pretty much given up, thinking it must not have made the cut, thank God. I was breathing easily; imaging my impetuousness had not gotten me into trouble after all. Then it showed up – the notice that I had asked and I had received.

With my heart firmly settled in my throat, I clicked over and read the review, prepared by Madame Bellicose herself. I didn’t get shuttled off to a guest writer; I was to take my spanking from the mistress of doom, the blog’s proprietor. They have a rating system ranging from a “flaming finger” (the worst) to “four stars – I fucking love you”, (the best). Obviously, being the competitive person I am, I wanted nothing less that the full four fucking love.

Essentially, you could say I got a good review – three stars are not too shabby. She liked my writing, thought I was talented but she couldn’t go all the way with me because we differed too much in taste. Plus, my background was perceived as too busy with fairies and such. My intent to create chaos amidst the calm of a sunset was distracting. It made it difficult to read and my words were certainly worth reading. Enough said, fairies gone.

At first I didn’t recognize the person she was describing. I’m no feminist; I’m a delicate, southern lady, thank you very much. Then I read through some of my posts and I saw it. It is there, a thread that ties the entire purpose of my blog together.

It’s my blog and as all bloggers know, we start a blog for ourselves but ultimately we want others to follow us, to buy what we’re selling, to get the essence of our voice and to connect with us. I feel perhaps I was chosen to tell the stories of my life involving a lot of “Mr. Whatevers” to inspire women, to make them laugh and cry but most importantly to make them think.

I have just begun to peel off the layers of my life and as I explore the meaning of it all, I shall not walk through the valley alone. For you see, it is not just my plan to be a positive influence to women, it is my life to be constantly influenced by the positive women who inhabit it. That’s who I am. If that’s being a feminist then clear me a spot at the table.

Willing To Lie About How We Met

I could write an entire book on the topic of internet dating. In fact, I seriously considered it as a project until I researched the books already in print on the subject. Every angle, every nuance, each and every annoying, hilarious aspect of internet dating had been covered to ad nauseam. What could I possibly add to that depth of literary profusion? I mean seriously, how could I top "Internet Dating for Dummies"?

Dating in the virtual world is a fact of life, especially for the over 40 crowd. We've put the stigmas behind us and embraced Match.Com as if it were our pushy grandmother whose sole purpose in life is to marry us off.

I remember my first experience with online matchmaking. It was three years ago and I was a little over a year post divorce. I felt I was ready to get back out there but didn't really want to start bar hopping or desperately crashing my cart into the good looking guy in the produce isle. I spent hours developing a thoughtful profile, after all, I am a writer, right? With my usual flair for tapping into the deepest meaning of the universe, I laid it all out there with my most earnest and keen desires. "To look at him is to see within my own soul" or "We will feel as if we've known each other for many lifetimes" type stuff.

The end result was a portrait of a woman with high standards, looking for an educated, worldly man who possesses the abilities to cook and be romantic but also can don a tool belt and turn me on with his fully loaded, impressively large caulk gun. He has sturdy shoulders and is not intimidated by a successful woman but he knows this same woman can be reduced to a pile of rubble after watching a Hallmark commercial if Cousin Flo is about to visit.

This man dresses well, can pick out an excellent bottle of wine, is athletic, compassionate, open minded, spiritual, tall, witty, successful, exceedingly handsome and charming enough to rival the best of the Disney Prince fantasy dates. (Prince Eric anyone?) I went on to include photos of myself and use impressive words to portray yours truly as one smart cookie.

After a few weeks of exhausting myself answering every email and wink, setting up lunch dates, meeting for a quick drink here or a cup of coffee there, I realized I had made a grave error. This is how my profile should have read:

Looking for a man with straight teeth and a job.

The numbers were staggering. I ended up receiving six months free on the Match.Com guarantee so I whirled on this not so merry-go-round for a year. At the end of the year I had encountered just over 10,000 potential suitors. Early on, I had to develop a thick skin to eliminate the riff raff. Here's my short list of characteristics that would send my right pinky finger into action with a quick triggered delete.

1. The only photo you have of yourself was taken while standing in front of your bathroom mirror.
2. The only photo you have of yourself was taken while standing in front of your bathroom mirror with your shirt off.
3. The only photo you have of yourself was taken while standing in front of your bathroom mirror with your shirt off while flexing your free arm in a Mr. Universe pose.
4. Your deepest desire is to have a woman that can go from jeans to an evening gown.
5. In the background of your photo, it is clear you are a hoarder.
6. You are fashioning a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off or a mullet.
7. You are fashioning a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off AND a mullet.
8. You are listed as "athletic and toned" but your body hasn't seen toned since 8th grade gym class.
9. You are 45 and have never been married.
10. Unless 1969 was the year of your birth, you should not use the number 69 in your profile name.
11. You are unable to write in complete sentences, or you skip capital letters and punctuation all together.
12. Your photos consist of your car, your boat, your Harley and your dog, all without you.
13. You describe yourself as a fungi looking for a petri dish to land on and grow.
14. Your favorite restaurant is the Olive Garden.
15. You are too poor or too cheap to pay for your Match.Com membership so you cleverly sneak in your email address....you can find me, you know where, boogiebear69 at that place that rhymes with wahoo dot com.

NEXT!

After a year, I did meet someone who had most of the qualities I sought; I thought he might even be "the one" but as it turned out, he was a spineless, coward who couldn't stand up to his ex wife or deal with the slightest variation from his extremely limited perception of the norm. God knows, my life has very little to do with things that are normal.

The good guys are out there and you CAN find them with a click of your mouse, just be prepared to dig deep, delete often, and meet more than one guy who looks nothing like his photos and bares little to no resemblance to that fictitious Disney Prince character he created in his deeply thoughtful, earnest and keen, giant, whopping heap of funky smelling baloney profile.

But that's just my opinion.

Another Fine Text You Got Me Into

I thought I might have created a new word yesterday. Textlexia. Twice in one day I had misinterpreted entries  aimed at humor, into hurtful, disappointing revelations about his character and our future together. Did I mention I also had PMS?

I woke up this morning wondering if, in fact, textlexia was already a word so I did what everyone does when they need to find out if something exists. I googled it. I found several entries for the word in a site called the "Urban Dictionary" - who knew there was such a thing? If I'm just now brave enough to be texting, I'm certainly not supposed to be aware of things like an urban dictionary containing an entirely different language than that taught by Mrs. Humpfreys in the 7th grade.

Afterall, I have to rely on my 23 year old son to tell me how to speak and write text or to translate text speak into the Queen's English. He even had to tell me how to talk about texting when he caught me referring to the act of sending or receiving a text as text mailing. "Mom", he says with a slight hint of smarmy exasperation, "it's text messaging".

In my very early, rudimentary texting days, a friend once told me to make sure to type little emoticons to ensure the meaning of my texts. A wink ;-) for example, would indicate you were joking. Since I didn't have the benefit of a wink yesterday, I was left to determine the meaning using the time honored female tradition of deductive reasoning. ;-) ;-) Yeah right. This amounts to immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusion and dismissing any other possibilities. All while managing to create a parallel universe where whatever he said must somehow be your fault.

I did find a meaning for Textlexia in the urban dictionary; however, it wasn't related to misinterpreting the meaning of a text. Officially, textlexia is 1.) the accidental use of text language when writing manually, like in composing a business letter or resume or 2.) the inability to spell words when using those frustrating predictive text modes. I tried to find a word to fit my situation but there are approximately 587 words in the urban dictionary using a derivative of the word text. Seriously?

Some of my favorites were Text Massage or getting a text when your phone is on vibrate; Textcrastinate which is to delay your text response or Textually Frustrated which is what happens when you're communicating with a textcrastinator and they are not meeting your textpectations. Since text rhymes with sex - there are tons of sexually suggestive text-slang words but my favorite is the classically simple Textual Intercourse, which when performed means you have consummated your relationship (and you need a cigarette). Can't you just hear it now, "I did not have textual relations with that woman."

After exhausting my research on all forms of the word text, I went on to look up hundreds of other words. With each new word I felt more trendy, increasingly hip and smart, like my 28 year old assistant. It felt like I was an unpopular kid who was finally allowed to hang with the cool kids. Like I was allowed to join a secret club where you have to know what cankles are or that the use of finger guns is strictly limited to creepy people with porn mustaches.

In the end, it looks like it's going to be up to me to coin the phrase to describe the affliction I experienced yesterday. I've decided I had a bad case of Textmorphic Disorder (TMD). Morph from the Greek Morphos meaning form, shape or structure and Disorder from the way I have lived most of my life. It will be defined as the inability to extrapolate tone, inflection or meaning from a text based communication.

There are a few basic guidelines I've come up with to help others who may find themselves impaired with TMD.

1. Do not jump to conclusions.
2. Do not use deductive reasoning.
3. It is best to textcrastinate to a perceived hurtful text - or better yet, do not respond at all.
4. If you have PMS, use the phone!
5. If you did fire back a 'WTF?' or 'SOB!', quickly follow it up with, "sorry, fingers slipped, having issues w/ texterity today.

I wonder if it wouldn't be a lot easier if we could simply all agree to ban the use of sarcasm in text mode. Or, at the very least, it should be mandatory to give a little text wink at the end of a potentially hazaardous message. Or maybe I should just not take things so seriously. Did I mention I have PMS?