Grannies with Herpes

I know they're out there. I'm almost-granny-aged and I've got them. Who knew they spread like sparks in a Santa Ana wind. Estimates were said to be 30% infected in the 1980's. We thought they spread from small fiery opal blisters. But no -- anytime, anywhere.

They don't spread on toilet seats. Can't get 'em in a pool. You don't need a passport to get them, just be out of condoms. It only takes once. And once they come, they stay like an unwanted friend on the couch.

Wow, how many little herpes soldiers did I disperse during my herky jerky sexual nights, when all it took was someone interested in hearing a poem I wrote. And of course some Stoli. All I can say is "sorry, guys."

So how many grandpas out there have the sores? I will never be able to look an older man in the eyes again...

Here we go again

Today I saw a woman pushing a cart full of bags. Her face was sunburned and lined. Her eyes were bloodshot and teary. Her nose was bright red. She had to be about 53 but she looked 68.

I realized she looks how I feel inside when I am on my down cycle. As I stated before bipolar II is sneaky just like the fog. It is a fog that creeps not only into my heart, but into my muscles as well.

Just when I was walking daily, it crippled me into submission. I just tripped. One day on the couch turns into five. My body just aches and there is no reason. I feel sickly. I sleep all day and am awake all night. I usually see both the sun rise and set during the same day.

Calls from friends go unanswered. I start contemplating the meaning of life. Again. I chain smoke cigarettes and I hate each one progressively more than the last. Why...Do...I...Do...This???

And the sugar I eat! Cookies, brownies, cakes, candy, candy, candy. I am diabetic, but I don't think about that while I'm eating.


"Just get out there, Jeri"
coach shouts. "Just do it!"

And I know, now I know, that all I have to do is to pull myself off the couch and take a walk. I don't even care if it's just a block that I walk. "Just get out there," coach Jeri shouts. "Just do it." And so I do. Finally, grudgingly.

I haven't walked for about 8 days now, but I am walking quickly. I am still strong. My pace becomes powerful. I keep going. Each block under my heels makes me feel stronger. I can do this. I can still do 26 blocks without any trouble! My body is still there for me.

I feel like shit because I eat shit (figuratively). If my body is my machine, then I perform as well as the meals I miss, or the ones I over-indulge during. Don't get me wrong, I love feeling on top of the world. And that is how I feel when all pistons are firing correctly. And I'm eating greens, blues, reds and yellows.

So the cycle continues. I'm climbing back up, I'm feeling better, I'm making phone calls. This time I was down eight days. I find overall my good days do outnumber the bad. I guess life for me is like riding out a storm, once the rain stops and the wind slows, I get my bearings, I no longer walk against the wind, and that always lasts longer than the storms.

Trying a Trikke

Tuesday was a magical day. StanLe and I went to South Bay Trikke so that I could try a Trikke and talk to Andy, at South Bay Trikke (SouthBayTrikke.com), about the details of the impending purchase. I got lessons on how to ride because one can't just hop on and maneuver "cambering". It must be taught. I also got to ride an easier motorized trikke which automatically corrects leg movements.

It was a blast! I was surfing through time and space, like a land surfer! I was gliding and rocking back and forth. I felt muscles I had long ago retired. But who cared? I couldn't stop. And this instrument was secure with two foot pedals and handle bars with hand brakes. I was getting praise on how quickly I was learning so I stepped it up.

Next lesson was circles and figure eights, which is a safety movement in case someone steps in front of the Trikke. I was committed to a circle and out stepped a car bumper. I panicked and cranked the handle bars in the opposite direction which made the trikke stop. It didn't stop me. I flew over the handle bars. Next moment... face hitting asphalt. Luckily my nose was there to stop my fall. It was also lucky that Andy is a fireman and knows what to do in an emergency -- keep me calm and apply ice.

I couldn't think, it hurt so much. I felt the blood and tears flowing down my face. All I could hear was "breathe Jeri, breathe." The ice felt good against my nose. And StanLe's strong hands on my shoulders kept me from flying off into hysteria. I didn't cry, I knew it would hurt too much.

I had to "get back on that horse" that bucked me off if I ever wanted to land surf again. So after about 30 minutes I got on the motorized version and rode safely up and down the street until the fear dissipated.

Special thanks to Andy and StanLe, they got me through a nightmare

experience. Even though I have bruises, I am once again dreaming about cambering.

My swolen eye... and fat nose

I'm a procrastinator

I have 5 days of dirty dishes in the sink. I keep putting off washing the dishes and now I have no clean spoons or forks or well, knives either. It is at this point that the dishes are piled about two feet high and it's starting to smell of old garbage. I'm noticing small fruit flies. I'm no good on my own.

I have a helper, Angelica, who is on vacation. So, it's up to me. When I do dishes, my back screams for me to sit on my ass. I do have a "condition" that makes my back so vocal, it has something to do with arthritis and fibromyalgia. So Angelica comes almost daily, to help me take are of my details.

I'm also a person who doesn't pay all her bills on payday. I shoot them out a bill a day. I like to think it's so I can hold on to the money for a few more days. It's still spent way before mid-month anyway, I don't know who I'm fooling. I also put off doctor's appointments, blood draws or physical therapy.

Am I sloppy or disorganized? I don't think so. I just know I would rather do things tomorrow, because tomorrow's a better day.

I acted all ghetto today

I passed a neighbor on the street, Tony. He taught some of us in the building about paper mache. He was a too talkative man with past glories that he was still reviving, so I lost interest. But before I did, after every class, he'd bum a cig from me.

So as I stated earlier, I passed him on the street today and he was smoking and I was wanting. So I asked for one. He looked at me like a two-headed pile piece of crap that fell from the sky. And he kept walking. That was when I shape-shifted into ghetto, and shouted at his back, "well, you've bummed them from me before!" It slipped out like a step on a banana peel.

He probably didn't even hear me with his ear buds inserted. But there were innocent bystanders present. I caused unwanted drama. I was visible and I don't like that.

Pussy Love

I have a little gardian angel that I call Daisy, although she has plenty of nicknames. Anyway, she is a ghost kitty. She only comes out if I'm alone or maybe if someone is here for several hours. I knew and loved her mother, Magic.

Magic was an alley cat who was very successful. She was a prolific kitten producer. She ran her neighborhood on the mean streets in urban Long Beach where I volunteered for PAWS/LA (more later). And she had her final batch of kittens in our office. So I sort of helped Magic raise her last batch.

I handled those kittens every single day, getting them used to people so they would not be feral. They developed like polaroids before my sight. I promised Magic these kittens would be safe.

When they were just weeks old they would climb all over my shoes, batting at each other like little king kongs on the empire state building of my Nikes. Daisy only approached if I was on the floor with my toes pointed skyward. They were doing things kittens do, jumping on top of each other or crouching with wiggly butts before a chase would begin. Ahh, the wistful, baby days. They were such precious little cargoes of purr and soft fur. Little souls, or gardian angels I like to think, vulnerable to so many bad hands, screeching tires and parasites.

I found homes for them, all except the shyest, smallest one, Daisy. When all the kittens were adopted I took her home, she was just too shy. I felt the need to protect her from well, nouns.

Almost 2 years later, she spends her time divided between the closet and the bathroom, sleeping on top of my clothes hamper. Her best friend, Willa, keeps her company on the toilet seat. I know this because I find them together upon most of my visits there. I hate to displace a sleepy kitty, but nature calls.

As soon as I pet my little angel, she purrs and squirms and cranks her tail to the side -- mating position #1 -- she has a deep-throated purr I can hear across the room. This squat reminds me of her mother, that lusty, slutty mother of 9+ litters of kittens.

The whole time I knew Magic (4 1/2 years) she was either showing or delivering or nursing kittens. And she was about 2 years old at that time. When we finally shut her baby making machinery down she was pregnant again. Later, she was secretly adopted by a caring transgendered lady with a yard, thank you, Irene. I hear she runs that neighborhood too. So Magic, know your last baby is protected and safe and I promise to keep her that way.

Ready, set, GO

I know, why don't I live the life of an artist, constantly creating or ruminating over my next embryo of an idea? Yeah, my rent is paid and I have free time. I'm inspired, so do I really have to be miserable to birth art? Only future posts will display those results.

I'm getting organized. I now have an eraser board, with which to organize my thoughts.

That reminds me, FIRST blog recommendation -- read a very compelling blog at: RandyBoydsBlocks.com -- (I know -- shameless)

And in a few weeks my trikke will come from the birthday fairy.
I'll organize photo shoots around LB with StanLe (aforementioned), then create visionary shots with photodraw, then write something. Try not to be trite. And -- click -- publish post.

And did I say I had free time? Are you ready to dance with me?
Photo by Randy Boyd

It's only gross if you're ugly

As written is previous posts, I kinda want sex. But there's a problem, anyone who would be attracted to this old, obese woman is probably a troll. As I age I find my options are quite limited. Without going back and retreading a former rant I'll leave it at that.

So what does a horny soul do with so few options? After all I can pick and choose in my dreams. But what about those moments when I can't control my dreams or I have to be conscious? Do I collect images of men and get my vibrator out and just shake myself into oblivion?

I remember a movie I saw in the 80's called "chatterbox" about a woman's vajajay that was quite vocal and got the young woman into all sorts of trouble. Poor retch. But I can relate. It's getting vocal down there.

It was so much safer to stay in a self imposed celibacy, not thinking or feeling about the carnal joy ride. And yet, I feel so much more alive. And relating to men in a "what might happen" sort of way is fun.

And yet I can't see myself doing the two headed dance until I loose about 100 pounds. Boy, talk about extended foreplay.

Cougar? No thanks

I hate this term, "cougar." It sounds like a woman who is over the hill who preys on the young. A woman squeezed into a too tight dress with lipstick on her teeth. Even the images that come to mind are of predatory women who hit and run, being so lonely that all they can get or hope to achieve is a one night stand. After all, most men will "tap that" with anything that has a pulse.

So the tables have turned. Women have come a long way, now we can be the aggressors. This is a good thing, don't get me wrong. But labeling us as "cougars" is just another way men get a grip on a powerful woman. And put her down.

This is such a pejorative term, "cougar". It just seems like these women are chasing their lost youth. And maybe that's the point. After all men preyed upon us when we had tight skin. Didn't we think they were chasing their lost years? Why can't a woman do the same?

I would love to consume a youthful, beautiful body just like the next person. I just don't want to be labeled a "cougar" while doing it.

P.S. Listen to Melanie Fiona's single "Give it to me right"!

Intellectually Crushing

I have a crush on a young man who is old enough to be my son. He works in a place I frequent, sorry no clues other than this. He is not cute, but I think he is. He is small and has crooked teeth. He always looks like he just woke up, kind of disheveled, and he looks down a lot. Is he a shoegazer?

I was watching a Bette Davis movie last night and one of her lines was "there is something exquisite about wanting something you will never have". That is how I feel about this boy/man.

I like thinking about him, like what does he read -- if he does read -- or if he likes art, or if he's a good kisser. I think he probably isn't because he's too young to have much experience with "the ladies". But you never know these things until it's too late.

So the other day I was at his place of employment and he was assisting another customer, and when he saw me I noticed he quickly smiled as he turned around, not smiling at me, but smiling because I was there. It was a little smile, one that would have been missed, yet it wasn't. When it was my turn he held my gaze for a longer than normal time. Were we flirting?

I was looking and thinking this when I realized he was just very stoned. So who knows, but it's exquisite just wanting.