Late Fragment.

We Had Joy, We Had Fun.

I Went to See My Congressman.

I know I've been totally lame lately.  I don't know.  Life just kind of rolls on by. 

But today, I want to talk about something.

I remember being a kid, going with my mom and standing outside the voting booth while she cast her vote.  I think she's the one who first gave me the idea that your vote was secret, and that you didn't have to share whatever choice you made with anyone else. 

I remember being with my dad and asking him what "impeached" meant, when that word was bandied around in the Nixon days.

I remember being handed my first voter's registration card, by Inspector's father, with the R already stamped on it.

I remember campaigning in 1988, going door to door and driving little old ladies to their polling places. 

I remember the casting a vote for Bill Clinton way back in 1992 in someone's garage in Manhattan Beach, California and being so full of hope and promise... and I remember casting a vote against that same man four years later.

This weekend, I stood in line for over three hours to vote.  But this time was unlike any time before.  I honestly had no idea who I was going to vote for until the moment I had the ballot in my hand.  One of my paralegals opined yesterday that anyone who was still undecided was "a retard".  Hell, I've already voted and I admit, I am still undecided.  I'm not sure if that makes me a retard, or a realist, or what.  But I am worried that neither of our choices is qualified to lead us through what lies ahead.

You know what though?  I still voted.  It's important.  We, as citizens, have an obligation to participate.  And I am proud that I did, especially in an election that I feel so ambivalent about. 

And you should too.  We get the government we deserve.  Let's try to be worthy of better four years from now.

Doncha Get to Feeling Independent.

Die Young. Stay Pretty.

One of the things that I think about a lot for no good reason is the time that Inspector and I lost by breaking up all those years ago. Although I suspect that the intervening years have been good for us as a couple - that without the failed marriages and the lessons therein learned, without the growing and changing we’ve both done, without the life we’ve both had a chance to live – we’d have wound up divorcing each other, rather than here, in our forties, thinking about spending the rest of our lives together.

But still, there are things I regret not having shared with him. And by extension, things I begrudge those others in his life who did get to share them with him. I know it doesn’t make sense, but it’s what it is, isn’t it? I’ve learned in the past year and a half that I am actually insanely jealous. Or at least I am with him. I hate the women who came before me, who he loved before me, simply because he did. And I hate the women who came after me, who he loved after me, simply because he did. Okay, some of them I hate more than others, and in some cases I’ll argue I have good reason… but I’ll also admit that it’s completely ridiculous. I am secure in our love. I do not worry that he still carries a torch for any of these women. Nonetheless, I’d be happier, I think, if they never existed at all.

I hate that I am not the first woman he ever loved, and I hate that I am not even the first woman who broke his heart. And even saying that, I see how stupid it is. Truth is, I hate that I ever broke his heart more than even he can know. I am equally glad that he was the first man I ever loved, glad that he was so many of my firsts, even my first heartbreak. I am so happy that after all these years he finally knows what an important role he played (and continues to play) in my life.

I wish I was there when he got his first (and only) job. I wish I had been there for the first dog, the first home, the first new car. And while I am aware of how much I would have missed that was an awful lot of fun in my life, I wish he had been there for each of those things in my life too. Would I have still gone to law school? To business school? Impossible to say.

David, in his supremely southern way, thought himself a living, breathing version of Pat Conroy’s Tom Wingo, from The Prince of Tides. He called me Lowenstein. He taught me a thing or two about regret. But he also gave me these lines that I can recite verbatim without even thinking: “I look to the north and wish again that there were two lives apportioned to every man and woman.  Behind me the city of Charleston simmers in the cold elixirs of its own incalculable beauty... But it is my secret life that sustains me now, and as I reach the top of that bridge I say it in a whisper, I say it as a prayer, as regret, and as praise.  I can't tell you why I do it or what it means, but each night when I drive toward my southern home and my southern life, I whisper these words:  Lowenstein, Lowenstein.”

There are still times I wish I’d been given two lives, or three, or four. But I do not want to live my life whispering my regrets. Someday, a long, long time from now, Inspector's name will be the last thing he hears me say. But between then and now, I’d like to try for no regrets.

2006: A Year In Review.

January 2006:  I am involved with Joe, but the flame burns perilously low after the visit in December where he chided me for asking if he was ever going to leave his wife.  I tell a friend that this is the year... one way or another, I am not spending my 40th birthday alone, I am not attending my baby brother's wedding alone. 

February 2006:  Joe and I have the mother of all fights.  I tell Daisy I think we're finished.  I cry a lot.  He doesn't understand why his inability to make a single fucking decision feels like a rejection.  I cannot explain it in a way that makes sense.  I tell him that I need him to do something.  He pays me lip service. 

Sometime in February, after telling Larry I'm going to, I call my lawyer and instruct him to go forward with the divorce proceedings.  Larry and I have been separated long enough as far as I am concerned.  I want to take my name back.  The wheels of justice begin to spin.

March 2006:  Late Fragment is born.  I admit that I'm not sure why I started this blog, except that C. kept asking me to.  And also, because I found out that Joe had been blogging himself. 

April 2006:  I start writing in earnest.  It feels good.  And somehow, writing about all those boys I loved helps me put my life in perspective.  I interview for a job at a local university.  I don't get hired.  I am relieved.

May 2006:  I celebrate my best friend's birthday, again for the 4th time without her.  I get divorced.  Pixie starts to limp and is diagnosed with cancer and I make one of the hardest decisions of my life.  I buy tickets to attend ACL with Joe, even though I know when I buy them he is never going to come.  I enlist Daisy as his alternate.  May comes in with a whimper and leaves with a howl.  It is not a good month for me.

June 2006:  In retrospect, the most pivotal month of the year.  I go camping with Daisy and our kids.  We talk a lot.  A lot.  Maverick calls, and keeps calling.  And while I was in Williams, Arizona waiting to take a train into the Grand Canyon, Inspector emails me, asking about Pixie.  By the time I've left the Canyon and meandered to Las Vegas, Inspector and I have gotten to this conversation I write about later.  I come home from that camping trip and struggle with the relationship I am having with Joe, and the possibilities life is presenting me in both Maverick and Inspector (here, and here, and here.)  Ultimately, I decide to end it with Joe.  Contrary to his opinion, it is not an easy decision, nor is it an easy thing to do.  But I am, and remain, convinced that it was the right one.

July 2006:  I go get lost in the woods.  Inspector and I go from talking by email once or twice a day to talking by email all the time.  By the end of the month, we are (gasp!) talking on the phone too.  I tell him I have an extra ticket to ACL, and I offer it to him.  At first, he pretty much ignores my offer.  By month's end, he accepts it. And suggests that we have a practice weekend together beforehand.  My mother chimes in that she thinks that's a good idea, as she thinks he and I may "just want to punch each other in the arm" when we see each other for the first time again.

August 2006:  August 18th.  I absolutely do not want to punch him in the arm.  No question.   

September 2006:  Inspector plans to come back Labor Day weekend.  A hurricane threatens.  I get a phone call from Inspector five days before he is due to arrive, telling me that he is worried about me, that his dad thinks he should just fly down now.  I call my mother.  She says "He's not asking if he can come weather a hurricane with you.  He wants to take care of you.  He wants to know if you'll let him.  He wants to know if you will let him into your life."   I call him back and tell him to come.  Larry and I fight.  Still, I am glad he came.  In some ways, it changes everything.

Two weeks later, Inspector and I attend ACL together.  It's an amazing good time.  I cannot believe how easy this is, this loving him again.

Oh, and at the end of the month, I get my tits done.

October 2006:  More of the same.  I spend a couple of weekends with Inspector, including one at his house.  Joe moves his blog, but makes a big production out of it.  My life goes on in its happy little way.  I sigh contentedly.

November 2006:  I get offered a couple of jobs, and eventually take one.  I go to Boston and see Bob Dylan.  I spend Thanksgiving with my family and Inspector, feeling thankful.

December 2006:  I turn forty.  And I do not spend my 40th birthday alone, as I had promised myself I wouldn't last January.  I spend the holidays  with Inspector.   

I am happy.  I am so, so happy.  My life is so full and there is so much that I see on the horizon.  I honestly think that 2007 will be my best year ever.  Because this is what I see ahead of me in the coming year.

I will start my new job, and though it will be a transition (one that may be difficult for both me and my kid) I believe that this is the right job for me, and that I will find it both rewarding and interesting. 

Inspector's marital issues will be resolved, and once that happens, he'll be free to move forward in his life, which more and more becomes our life.  I've grown really tired of goodbyes in airports, and I am very much looking forward to living in the same house, sharing the same daily routine, waking up every morning wrapped in his arms.  There're a lot of details between where we are today and that scenario, but I am looking forward to dealing with each of them, so as to get to that part where we wake up in bed together every day as quickly as possible.

Probably a new house, I'm guessing. 

Oh, and a new tattoo.  I decided a couple of nights ago what I'm getting, and when, and where.

Happy New Year.  Make it your best ever.

Gonna Hold a Revolution Now.

Hey.  It's election day here in the United States.  And that's important.  You have to get out and vote.  You have to.

I actually don't give a shit about your politics.  I don't care who you vote for.  (Inspector's dad just fell to the ground, clutching his temples and screaming "noooo!")  But I do care that you vote.

Representative government is a great idea.  It's an inspired idea.  It's a modern marvel.  But it really only works if the represented vote.  Otherwise, strong, mobilized special-interest groups wind up choosing who represents us.  And somehow, in that case, "represents" starts to look a whole lot more like "oppresses" and "us" starts to look a whole lot more like "them". 

If you don't vote, you have no right to complain.  If you don't vote, you get, without question, the government you deserve.

So, step away from the keyboard and vote.

"We're gonna elect a president! (No more kings)
He's gonna do what the people want! (No more kings)
We're gonna run things our way! (No more kings)
Nobody's gonna tell us what to do!

Rockin' and a-rollin', splishin' and a-splashin',
Over the horizon, what can it be?
Looks like it's going to be a free country."

-School House Rock

That's What You Do.

Confidential to Inspector:
Thank you, darling, for being who you are.  For coming to my rescue in the face of a hurricane a tropical storm kind of rainy weather.  For playing "airplane".  For making bubbles.  For making me come, again and again and again.  And again. For feeding me coffee ice cream in bed.  For being willing to jump into this pond.  For reminding me that great risks promise great rewards.  For loving me, and for allowing me to love you.

Yes.  I am completely and totally swept off my feet.  Mission accomplished.

"...at this point you rush right through me and I start to drown..."

Even Kisses Me Like You Used to Do.

Let's start with a theory of mine, okay?

When you learn how to do something, that particular way of doing it, that habitual practice of it becomes, for lack of a better word, your neutral. 

If you learn to drive with your hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel, and your left foot firmly on the floor, your eyes scanning between the dashboard, out the windshield, and in the rear view, and you do that enough so that it becomes second nature, well, that's your driving neutral.

If you learn table manners, don't eat with your elbows on the table, chew with your mouth closed, etc. and such behavior happens without any thought on your part any more, that's your mealtime neutral.

(Yes, to the detractors out there.  I know I don't drive that way.  And I know I eat with my elbows on the table.  Unfortunately for me, my neutrals aren't always the proper way.)

So, right.  Do I have a point?  I do.

What I realized last weekend as I lay in bed with Inspector is that he is my neutral, my starting point for when it comes to touching a man.  Everything I know about how to touch a man, I learned from touching him.  And with every man that came after him, I was always having to make constant albeit sometimes subtle adjustments to what I did most neutrally. 

And I suppose, if you follow this to its natural progression, it stands to reason that I could then manage to touch Inspector without really thinking about it... and I suppose I probably could.  But I don't.  I find that when I touch him, I am so aware that it is easy and that it feels good and that it seems right.  I am focused on how easy it is.  I am, in fact, amazed by it.

All right.  I'll admit it.  I am also focused on how much I like touching him.  And how happy I am that I can.

He'll be back here on Friday.  Have I mentioned that I cannot wait to touch him again?

We Don't Have to Take Our Clothes Off.

Last night, on the phone, Inspector said "It's not just about the sex, right?  It's about companionship and stuff, too.  You do want to punch me in the arm every now and then, don't you?"

And I teasingly replied, "Um... um... um...  oh, yeah."

But the truth is, it's about the whole damn thing.  Remember back when I talked about Kenny?

Well, the thing is, Inspector is a triple threat too. 

Oh, Do I Dare ... I Have the Touch.

He is behind me, lying on his side, with his arms around me so that I am tucked into his body and held there.  His hands trail over my body, making it come alive.  My nipples get hard.  My pussy gets wet.  I start to rock my hips and press myself back at him.  I start to pant and whine and moan.

"I love your hands on me," I say.

A moment passes, and then he whispers into my ear, with intensity "What else do you like?  Tell me."  But I can't, because I cannot make my brain work to form thoughts and sentences with his hands touching me the way they are.

So he starts to feed me my lines, right into my ear.  Right into my brain.

"I love you fucking me."  and I repeat it.  I do love him fucking me.

"I love you licking my pussy."  and I moan, and repeat.  Because, oh God, do I love him licking me.

I start to whimper.  I think I tell him I am going to come.  And he just keeps on whispering in my ear.

"I love how easy it is to make your nipples hard."

"I love watching you touch yourself."

"I love watching you make yourself come."

"I love watching your face when you come."

"I love how it feels to be inside you...your cunt clutching at me."

"I love the way you get that little catch in your breathing."

"I love listening to you come."

He goes on.  I come.  I come again.  I am working on saying "I'm coming" but goddamn, it's hard to talk when I am.  I say it.

He kisses my hair and says "Good girl.  I know two syllable words are hard."

And this is what I am thinking about as I drift off to sleep last night, and what I wake up dreaming about this morning.