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.

Carve Diem

This is my friend, StanLe, on his Trikke.

I just wanted to share an experience I had last night with my friend, Sharon. She again asked me what my 5 year plan would be and I had an Oprah moment (you know that "ah-haaa" thing).

Once again, I couldn't come up with anything like a career plan or whatever, but I got very passionate about one topic. I could feel my face lighting up when I blurted, "I can only see that I feel like the luckiest person on the planet. I have free time to do what I want, and I want to get a trikke and just ride it all over Long Beach, spending days just exploring the beach areas, and getting slimmer at the same time."

And that was enough. I didn't feel like I had to try to change the world or create a new cancer cure or write the great American novel or become a millionaire. I saw myself just BEING. I've got to wonder if this is a human thing, this having to make a mark on the world, or if it's just my thing. But I can let it go and just be alive.

And I have this guilt that because I am being sponsored by my social security fund, that I must feel sick to warrant it. Or appear sick, whatever that looks like. But the way I understand it, Bipolar illness is a tricky, sloppy beast. Best to keep us medicated and calm. Please don't misunderstand, my drug regimen is sacred, I would never stop taking my meds, even when I feel good. That's why I feel good.

And getting a Trikke will make me feel really good!

Dork of the day

Just recently I got my first ipod. I had to learn how to operate it, load songs and create a library in itunes. Technology has such a learning curve.

I now use it wherever I go, on the bus, walking, anytime I want to communicate to anyone, "please don't talk to me."

So it was that I came home yesterday after listening to my music rather loudly, ya know, like music is meant to be listened to. After taking the earbuds out of my ears I noticed that my right ear was muffled and felt blocked. I thought that it was due to the loud volume I had just been enjoying. Or maybe, well never mind. I was thinking I would have to go to the doctor to have my ear checked.

I sat down to watch the news. Still not able to get that ear problem off my mind. I started to take off my earrings when my finger brushed against something sticking out of my ear, the padding from the ear bud, you know that white plastic that surrounds the metal speaker. I removed it and, problem solved.

And now you know why this is entitled "Dork of the Day".

Willa, a great lady

I found Willa in a pet store that I frequent. No one wanted her, she was too old at 5-6 months old. People like their kittens a few weeks old, not months. I couldn't get her out of my mind and I couldn't stand the thought of her in that cage day after day. So after a month I took her home. She is the silliest cat I have ever cohabited with. And one of the most beautiful.

She is always ready to play and instigates lots of trouble with my 12 year old, Jake, who just wants to have his belly rubbed. Daisy takes up a lot of her energy, tracking, crouched with her butt wiggling, getting ready for the pounce. Daisy is a tough kitty, she can take it and give it back as well. They are great mates.

Willa sits on the arm of the couch next to me while I watch TV. She only recently started to like being petted, she had to get used to it. And the strangest thing; I hardly ever hear her purr. Sometimes I have to have my hand on her neck to feel the vibration of it, but sound? No, not really. But that's ok, she's not perfect and neither am I.

Who's this?

Did you know this woman is walking the streets of Long Beach?Is she wanted? Respected? Does her point of view matter to anyone but herself? Read on and decide for yourself...

As a wise friend once said "I don't see images that reflect me out there, so I create them for myself."

So here we go!

waking up?

I have been celibate for close to 10 years now. I just haven't thought about sex for that long. I think it's the antidepressant and other psych meds that I take. I've been dead from the waist down for so long that I'm surprised I can walk.
Lately I've noticed some stirrings, some attractive men, men who I wish I was 20 years younger to attract. This is distressing because any of the men who might be attracted to me are men I would never be with. They are grey or fat or disturbed. There are no intellectual grounds where we might meet.
A few years ago I had a "friend" who wanted me. He was in his late 60's and in a wheelchair. He tried to kiss me and when I pulled away he basically said there must be something wrong with me. Y-e-a-h, you were not sexually attractive.
So, the stirrings arrived like an Xmas gift in January. Followed by disturbing dreams where what I want is possible. I am in my mid-20's and beautiful again. I can have anyone and there they are. The man I passed on the street that I thought lovely. Or the guy I wanted to do nasty things to because of the look on his face. He looked like he'd like it rough. Then the sun rises, and I'm back in my 50's body, obese and with no gut-wrenching options. Could it be that my psyche is attempting a comeback?
In dealing with men in my 20-30's, I seduced them. I took the power and had sex with them, then tossed them before they tossed me. I wasn't going to sit around and hope the phone would ring. And yet, I still waited for the phone to ring. And it didn't, because I didn't play the game the way men wanted it done. I was the mouse, turning the tables on the cat. It got me a lot of exciting sexual conquests, but that's all it was, just conquests -- no trophy, no forever after.
A friend from high school that I recently reunited with was surprised I never married, she asked "how do you do that, not get married? I don't understand," and I guess that is how. Taking the power away from the man, who needs to choose, who needs to decide "I want her forever." Or in today's standards, a few years.
And so, I stand alone. I am in charge of my fate, it is not intertwined with some other person's ideals of what wife and mother look like. I never did a man's laundry, never cleaned the house for him. I was not going to be some man's servant, taking his menu for dinner. I will not end up like my mother, thank you.
I never compromised. And this is where I failed. Now the options have dried up and I'm like that man in the wheelchair, and only thinking sex is for the attractive. But sex is sloppy and ugly, we are primitive, grunting, beasts, not thinking about producing an heir but getting our nut. I don't want to be that vulnerable, I don't want to be dependant upon anyone else, even for pleasure. I don't want to be that undignified. But I kinda want sex.