Archive for February, 2017

I’ve been married a long time.  22 years.  Or two years, depending on how you look at it.  (We remarried on our twentieth anniversary). But when you’ve been with someone for a very long length of time, things that may have seemed unthinkable in the beginning become matters of non consequence.  Bathroom with the door open? Then? Perish the thought.  Now, I’m not sure either of us notice.   All the gross yet necessary aspects of grooming, picking zits, clipping toenails, swabbing ears, while once we only performed them behind closed doors, we now barely notice and have been known to do them for one another.  You see, when you’ve shared a life with someone for longer than you’ve lived without them, those little secret titivations that you once kept hidden become inconsequential. I mean, he has literally watched other humans exit my body, what other secrets could we possibly have.  

And yet.  

Sunday is our relax day.  By late Sunday afternoon or early evening, you will usually find us all curled up together in the basement rec room smothered under quilts and watching a movie.  And so we were. Husband and teens all, just this past Sunday. 

I can’t remember precisely what it was we were watching. It might have been bates motel, but, there was a teenage love scene. It was all softly lit and filmed with artful hints of flesh barely visible as the two teen lovers tumbled under a sheet.  Completely under a sheet.   I started to giggle. Then I started laughing.  I mean, it was totally rediculous.  No one has sex completely under a sheet.  Least of all teens.  I remember back when everything on my body still pointed up.  Who the hell hides that? 

Of course they all wanted to know what I was laughing at.  So I told them how unrealistic the whole scene was.  “Plus”, I said. “Think about the Dutch oven factor.” My 18 year old snorted.  “As if you’d let one go when you’re doing it.” 

“Well not on purpose,” I intoned.  But, you know, sometimes you can’t control it.  So….it happens.  And you try to keep it quiet.  Secret sex fart.”  

By now the family was howling and while my other two teens were wondering out loud if that was really a thing, my husband was laughingly aghast that it wasn’t only him.  “YOU do that???”  I winked him. “More than you know.”  

So the secret is out. Like the quietest fluff slipped out into the night.  Because marriage is not only the good, it’s also the messy, the silly and the farty. 

I wouldn’t have it any other way.  


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We are all telling the same story. We are just telling it in our own way, our own voices.  There is no plot line I can invent that has not already been covered by someone else, better, worse, excitingly, indifferently. It’s been done. What makes it unique is my voice, my take on it. 

I once tried writing with someone. It was like trying to make a story out of two separate languages.  Or by one person painting while the other one sings.  Sure, it could be beautiful, but the differences were glaring.  I have utmost respect for writing teams who compliment one another and make their voices blend.  

I think of my story like a great piece of music.  First, I had to find the melody.  My own voice.  This has taken a lot of time. A lot. I’ve tried a few genres over the years, a few different mediums. I had to find one that fit me best.  And over the years I found my main harmonizer.  That person whose own song, own story, best complimented mine. It wasn’t easy. Because sometimes those chords which seem so perfect can turn sharply into something harsh. And we added sub-plots to the story we were weaving, which made it more intricate, complicated and beautiful, of occasionally chaotic.  

And again, it’s the same story.  A person, looking for meaning and connections, finds a person looking for meaning and connections and they  try to find those things together, in one another. It’s a story most of us are working on.  

So when I am writing I try to listen to great pieces of music.  I try to put myself into a state of mind where I can interject myself into the melody of each characters’ journey. I want to imagine how their story would go, if they were sitting down in my kitchen and talking to me.  

Because it’s not a new story, what I write. It’s just told in a different voice.  

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