Flirty Qwerty

All the good stuff – Sex, Love, & Relationships

Change Your Seat / Change Your Life

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I rarely sit in the window seat aboard any airliner. I don’t like the way the flight attendant leans over hoping you’ll help her do her job; as a highly hydrated individual, I feel positively trapped; and I rarely bother to look out the window so what’s the point. Don’t put this baby in the corner.

In fact, beyond the age of six, I can recall only three total times I’ve wound up in a window seat.

Two Years Ago:

Two years ago, this very week to be exact, I departed to a place farther than I’d ever traveled before. The UAE. Since my boss was a loyal American Airlines passenger, I’d have to become one also. Talk about a long journey to start from scratch.

When you fly alone you have a lot of time to just look around and think. I remember how oodles of unpleasantries flooded my mind as the boarding process persisted two minutes past the scheduled departure time: I had virtually no status here despite actually having some mileage with this alliance – it was very clear to see that American must have hit it out of the park with business travelers, let’s say oh, three decades ago, because every single dude in a crusty suit boarded before me. I knew I’d have to pee, but I was stuck between the window and a thankfully thin, but very sleepy looking woman who, believe it or not, had even less status than I; and they didn’t serve champagne, Dos Equis, or any other kind of suitable adult beverage for those of us who aren’t red necks.

All right, rant over. It was time to put some major patience powers into place because after an obscene amount of time, I’d be landing in a place that was sure to be a culture shock and that fact both intimidated and intrigued me.

So, I let this tinsel jet and two other One World birds take me to and from the sandy and stupidly opulent Middle Eastern city of Abu Dhabi – where, as fate would have it, my life was forever changed.  I’ll pause for your laughter or scoff, and I’ll even admit to reading that last line dramatically while proofreading. I’m completely aware how storybook “fate” and “forever” sound, but I’m no bullshitter either, everything truly did change.

It was there, over six hundred days ago, in a smoky bar with an eager, yet talented expat cover band, I met the man who would, at another place in another time and in a whole separate blog of its own, make me second guess every romantic decision I’d made to date, ultimately coming to the realization, with fear and excitement, that what was meant to be for me was still to come (spoiler alert: it’s another window seat).

Sounds flowery huh? And it is; in fact, my days are now filled with said flowers, real talk, laughter, understanding, dancing, affection, and a yearning I’ve never experienced in all my years of chasing where I am now. Yet, the most baffling part of it all is that I discovered all of this while away in some land where gender equality is non-existent and people smoke indoors like it’s 1940. I guess sometimes taking a few steps back really can move you forward in the right direction.

One-Year Ago:

I was sky-bound to a place strikingly different from the sheik and Ferrari-filled streets of the UAE. This time, I was flying to a land below sea level where flavors of creole and gumbo, sounds of trumpet-led bands, and the joys of to-go alcoholic beverages, bare breasts, and blinking beads shun the modesty of the East, all while contributing to the culture and celebration known as Mardi Gras. High-five, Thomas Jefferson.

It had been during one of our real talks that we shared our bucket lists with one another. He wants to take the kids and I on a safari one day, which is perfect because I want to ride an elephant again. We both wanted to party on a yacht somewhere picturesque, attend Fashion Week in NYC, and check out Mardi Gras.

In all honesty, hype aside, Mardi Grad isn’t that spectacular. It’s crowded, dirty, and smelly. For me, it was the company I kept that made the rolled ankle on a pile of deserted beads over hundred-year-old cobblestone worth it. We just laughed and danced and took a million pictures we’ll never even share because they seem to belong in that private memory bank. You know, the ones that are just for you and him.

Perhaps it’s to preserve how special it was. The moment I watched him dance without a care in the world. That smile, that rolling shoulder motion. It was like everything else around me fell silent and slightly transparent, because he was all I could see. Or the moment I caught him smirking at me as I chatted up total strangers because I wanted us to make new friends with people we’d never see again. He just let me be my butterfly self, and even though there were hundreds of loud people all around us it somehow felt like we were the only ones at Mardi Gras. Simply put, they’re the moments you can’t recreate even if you tried.

Today:

I’m once again going to give the “I’m a Western girl, in a Middle Eastern world” thing a go. Mark has business to tend to, but being as dedicated to nostalgia as I am, he’s invited me along for the ride.

Not to brag, but we have a pretty impressive list of both similarities and contrasts, which I think contribute to our compatibility as a couple. One of which is that he’s a window seat guy and I’m an aisle girl. It really is the simple stuff, guys. So I’m standing there in the aisle, tucking my belongings into the overhead compartment, when this ever-thoughtful man of mine offers to switch with me because our business class seats faced towards the economy class and he figured I wouldn’t be real keen on being gawked at by Arab men eating cheap airplane food on plastic trays. Yes, my hair is visible and blonde and my body is curvy, now lower your gaze, sir.

Looking around, I knew right away that they’d still be able to see me in the window seat, but when your man is chivalrous it’s best to accept his kindness. Plus, as my mind smartly shifted to my last few window seat experiences I was quickly reasoning how unwicked this seat must actually be. I mean, occasionally sitting there has kind of worked out wonderfully for me. Besides, I don’t feel so trapped in between him and a view. And there won’t be anything awkward about crawling over him to use the restroom. In fact, I think I’ll drink more water now.

Honestly, and in total hindsight of it all, it’s crazy how different things can look when your perspective changes. Now, I can gaze out this double pane window overlooking the middle of anywhere and know that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. Or I can neglect to look out the window at all and just see him. Either way, the view is nice.

Before lying back to let sleep help dissipate this 14-hour journey, I begin to wonder where my annual contract with the window seat will take me next year? If it’s with him, I’ll go anywhere.

Dear John: The better letter the man of your world needs to receive

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Historically, Dear John letters have been bad news. For the recipient that is. With one opening salutation, women were given the passive power to announce, without any chance of rebuttal from the man, that she was done and it was over. Talk about hand-delivered heartbreak. Or freehand freedom. Potato, potata.

I couldn’t have been more than seven-years-old when I first learned of such a tactic. I doubt it was even appropriate for me to be watching this particular television program, but what can I say, pop culture had a heavy hand in raising me. Now, I can’t recall the exact program I was watching, but I do know that a woman left the letter in an envelope on the fireplace mantle and departed with several suitcases. And when the man returned sometime later, he removed his cowboy hat with great sorrow as he gripped the letter between his fingertips. I had questioned how he knew it was for him as the envelope had been marked Dear John, but his name was Matt.

My parents vaguely explained that this was her way of telling him she didn’t love him anymore. I remember feeling so sad for that cowboy. What had he done to deserve this?

Nowadays, people dump your ass via text message or by simply changing their relationship status on Facebook to single, only to receive 43 likes all at your humiliating expense. It’s still a passively cruel world.

So what about the great boyfriends? What sort of letters do they receive? Somewhere over a Midwestern sky, Denver bound, I started pondering this optimistic outlook. Whilst in a champagne cloud, my gaze fell upon my sleeping boyfriend’s face and I knew right then what this “John” and all the great “Johns” deserve to hear:

Dear John,
I love you. What, you’ve already heard that seventeen times today so now it seems impersonal, or even tired? That’s the thing about that three worded phrase. It has this awe-inspiring way of being everything you ever needed to hear at one moment, and then just some words the next. I understand that. So how about accepting one of these three worded phases instead? You’re so special. You are great. You deserve happiness. You’re my friend. I support you. You are hot. Let’s make babies. I trust you. Hold my heart. I am yours.

You see, when I simply say that I love you, my dearest John, all of those phrases are what I actually mean. Now do you see how much easier it is to just sum it all up to “I love you”? And you thought I couldn’t keep a long story short.

But because this letter is long overdue, and there really is so much more to say than these three worded phrases permit, allow me to continue.

I believe in you. I believe in who you are and what you’re living for. I believe you’ll do what you say and say what you mean. You are a good man and you have my support to pursue your dreams and enjoy this life.

I am happy to be apart of your life. After all, you’re the man my heart’s been searching for. I want to be your friend. I want to be the one your smile falls on. I think you’re smart and I know you’ll succeed.

I have faith in our future together. Quite frankly, tomorrow just wouldn’t be the same without you. You’re my favorite person to spend time with and talk to. You’re damn funny, and keeping up with your wit makes me happy.

I recognize that you work hard to provide a comfortable lifestyle for us. These efforts and dedication do not go unnoticed, and are very much appreciated. I am proud of your professional accomplishments. It’s with immense gratitude that I say Thank You and Go Get ‘Em, Babe!

That being said, if your work world took a financial hit of any kind for any reason, I’d gladly serve tables or clean houses or drive a taxi, paint my own nails and shop at Walmart if that meant helping take care of us. What I’m saying here is that my love for you is completely impervious to the economy. I have your back, as you have mine.

I know you have my heart, too. I can sense that it’s always on your mind. You wonder how it feels and make great strides to keep it full and safe. You never intend to hurt me. You’re a man, you will make mistakes, but I know you hold my heart in a safe and adored place.

Speaking of hearts, I love the chest that holds yours. You are extremely good-looking. The attraction I feel towards you is powerful, and borderline perverted. I have a yearning for you that even my lingually-inclined tongue can’t articulate. To put it mildly, I want to be near you or on you as often as possible.

This attraction is smothered with friendship. You’re my bro and I’m your best gal. We can depend on each other and feel fortunate just be hanging out and to have found a connection so real. I won’t ever undervalue your friendship, great boyfriend.

Last, but never least, I love you.

Love always,
Your smitten and adoring girlfriend who wishes you’d wake up so we can share some sharp banter and cold champagne

It’s no surprise to those who know me, but my “John” is actually a good man named Mark. On the rare occasion I’m not ogling over him, I will catch him watching me, looking and loving through all my layers. And I will let him stare even though I feel self-conscious, because it feels good to be under his gaze, and I trust him. I trust him with my heavy heart and eclectic emotions.

I am meant to experience this world and all its love with Mark. And he with me, I do believe. I’d ask you to wish us luck, but we don’t need that; we have love and our love has a letter filled with sincere three worded phrases, plus all the other words “I love you, dearest John” really mean.

A Happy Hour Life

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Somewhere in the Sydney sky, Los Angeles-bound, I curiously peruse the “classics” movie selection of my in-flight entertainment. A journey this lengthy has more minutes than the latest new releases can even begin to occupy, so why not? Plus, the boyfriend is fast asleep so the film selection is truly mine. I quickly decide upon “How to Marry a Millionaire.” Its synopsis goes something like this:

Three models with modest means become roommates in a Manhattan apartment that is very much out of their wallets’ reach, even cash combined. But this is neither here nor there, because the apartment is a major part of their elaborate scheme and completely necessary. Because of the apartment, they may act the part of wealthy women, living a wealthy life. And who do wealthy women meet and marry? Well, wealthy well-to-do men, of course. Oh, and it stars Marilyn Monroe. Naturally, my jet-lagged interest has piqued.

Before pressing play, I recall my own marriage plot with a sheepish, yet still hopeful smirk:

When I graduated from college, my boss graciously gave me a month sabbatical to travel, party, sow my oats or whatever, in hopes that I’d return to the office no longer a student intern, but a hard-working career woman – such a cool dude. And so I did. I went to Mexico and Las Vegas. I went on dates. I shopped and did lunch with girlfriends. I slept all day. I watched TV all night. Needless to say, I sowed several joyous oats. After all, I couldn’t possibly let el jefe down so early on the job.

Amongst all of this carefree, adolescent joy, I, in my own weird Jamie-way, began mentally preparing for the next stage in my life: the post 9-5 work day happy hour. You see, I considered this activity a direct route to my future. While I’d left college with a degree in journalism, I didn’t procure that MRS degree that I assumed would be so simple to achieve. I decided that it would be different this time. I was, after all, more of an adult than I’d ever been before. And happy hour is something that adults do. They meet one another, do adult things like drink wine with cheese, and they pair off into marriage. And so my best friend and I would set alarms, rise and shine around noon, get all dolled up in respectable daytime makeup and flattering career ensembles – you know, blouses and bottoms other than cut-off jean shorts – and frequented bars where we suspected other college-educated, white-collar men might grab a beer, or if he’s fancy, a martini. This went on for a few months.

To be perfectly honest, we never really met anyone of interest. Things were different now. We weren’t just college girls anymore. As the months went by, we really did become career women with higher expectations. Thanks for the drink Mr. blah blah, but it doesn’t warrant my phone number, much less a date.

Without even realizing it at the time, my thoughts were precisely on point with “How to Marry a Millionaire” actress Lauren Bacall. There’s a scene where she hustles a casually dressed man out of their apartment, even though he bought them all champagne and deli meats for lunch, proclaiming: “The first rule of this proposition is that gentleman callers have got to wear a necktie. I don’t want to be snobbish about it, but if we begin with characters like that (Mr. Casual) we might just as well throw in the towel right now.”

As the years passed on, happy hours sort of morphed into a friendship activity. I realized that I didn’t really enjoy being picked-up at a bar. I didn’t like the sloppy come-ons, I don’t want to pretend to be interested in your life, and I’m tired of searching for excuses as to why I’m not available tonight, or ever. I came to the bar to catch up with my friend. She isn’t my wingwoman and your company isn’t necessary.

Damn it. Where was I suppose to find my MRS now?

My love of the happy hour was reinvigorated when they became mandatory for work. They were called receptions, not happy hours, but we in the biz recognized this time as, “mandatory fun.” You go, you drink, you network, you shoot an email and connect opportunities. Boom. To me, it was the happiest hour of all. I was getting paid to mingle and I never had a tab.

More years crept by. Receptions, networking, after dinner drinks, emails – all in a day’s work. So imagine my surprise when I met a college-educated white-collar man of serious interest in some bar in some city because we were both partaking in mandatory fun. When I saw him again, months later in some new city, he was in a suit, with a necktie. I remember it exactly. I don’t even have to close my eyes. I can recall the way I melted into my chair as I lapped his tantalizing appearance into me. Finally, my hours and hours of happy hour had paid off. This was it. He was what I’d been blousing-up for and toasting to all these years. And in that instant, I couldn’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t be available to him right then, and forever.

I’ve been dating the suit for exactly one year. Still, every thing he says interests me. Every suit he wears seduces me. Every happy hour with him is the best happy hour I’ve ever had.

Cheers to never throwing in the towel and cheers to the Happy Hour!

The Fall

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Since I spent my high school days as a student government kid, I’m currently cramming in extra hours post work and during daily life to help plan and promote my 10-year high school reunion.  It’s crazy it’s been 10 years already.  Amidst flipping the pages of my senior yearbook and accepting that I live a very different live than the one I had planned for myself when my whole life was this school and these pages, I randomly and suddenly remember a scene from the WB’s hit show Dawson’s Creek.   This particular scene is more vivid than others and doesn’t even include any of the leading stars.  Here’s how I remember it:

Dawson’s dad discovers that his wife, the love of his life, has been hiking her pencil skirt up for a co-worker.  He tells her, while standing on a bridge, probably near the creek, that he remembers falling in love with her.  I remember how inspired, and heartbroken, it made me feel.

He then proceeds to tell her, and with an impressive amount of strength considering the situation, that he just fell out of love with her – and not a single thing about it is empowering.

When this episode aired, my parents had already divorced and my boyfriend was a dick.  This scene has resonated with and bewildered me ever since.

How in the world can someone pinpoint the exact moment his or her heart quit yearning for another?  And why did they let is stop?  I’m not questioning the ability to fall out of love; I am just genuinely awe-struck by the fact that someone can recognize the exact moment.  The only firm recollection I have of truly “falling out of love” with something I absolutely dug are things like: Taco Bell after having eaten it twice daily throughout freshman year at ASU, or MySpace once I was introduced to Facebook, or pineapple mind erasers after four too many mornings of not really recalling the night prior.  I don’t need any of those things ever again.  But loving a person, I will always want that.

I’m a Libra – I’m said to be in love with love.  I have had several boyfriends.  And like my four-times-married great grandmother was once quoted, “I loved them all for their differences.”  I’ve just always been guilty of allowing a love affair to slowly wither away, similar to the way I keep dead, welted bouquets of flowers on my table for days longer than I should – I keep them, although scentless and completely color deprived, simply because I love having flowers in my home.

Some people pray for clarity.  Those are the patient ones.  Others are impulsive and say precisely how they feel when they feel it, and act decidedly so.  Me, the Libra, is somewhere balancing in the middle searching for inspiration as if it were a dim fishing boat in the middle of a dark, raging sea.  The boat just keeps floating forward because it’s hopeful that there’s calm just over that wave.  But what if the boat is going the wrong way? A Libra might wonder if the journey is wrong, but the destination, that being love, will always be right.  A Libra leans into love, even if she falls.

Lady Marlin

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Something really grown up is happening.  In fact, I’ve been heard gasping, “life is happening!” on numerous occasions to several wonderful people who make my world go round.  And on the contrary, it’s also been brought to my attention that some things haven’t happened at all.  Here’s the mature yet static line-up:

My oldest and longest best friend, the one I used to play motorcycle mamas with, is getting married to an older, successful man.  When that day comes, I know she’ll be the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen and her walk down the aisle will be perfection – I mean we’ve only been practicing “the walk” since we were three.

My most fun friend, my crazy counterpart, the one I’ve danced with in tutus on tops of furniture in after hours nightclubs and other louder-than-life establishments is considering starting a non-profit, and might even leave Sin City in her Jordan hightops’ dust once and for all.

The number of friends with babies is really starting to rival the number of those without.  And as far as I’m concerned, you really shouldn’t have a baby in a bar.

Men look at me like I’m supposed to be someone’s wonderful wife, and are completely baffled to learn that no one has locked me down yet. They also vocalize that all my boyfriends should have known better.  I accept the compliment and ponder the reality.

And my guy’s little guy, we’ll call him Kyle, wishes I’d turn 30 because he feels like that’s a “nice age” for me to “become a wife and mom.”  It is currently 8 days before my 29th birthday.

Yes, I’m pretty wide-eyed and in awe of all of this life happening before me.  I also keep myself quite busy reassuring everyone else that I really am OK with my unwed relationship status and unused childbearing hips, which is actually a great relief – this contentment just might be the single thing I’m not bat shit crazy about.   I’m calm and going with the flow, I just don’t see what the big rush is.  So after the fourth, “when are you going to marry my dad?” inquiry of the summer, I took a stab at real talk.  I explained to Kyle that I like being a girlfriend and dating, because once we get married, I’ll never date again, and I really enjoy dating.  His mind was blown to bits; and as he skipped off, the way all small 6-year olds do, he looked at me like, “You pick up my confused bits, Smilfy.”  And so I did.  I know he’ll need them for the next time he tries to will a marriage on me.

People, children especially, crave structure and tradition and stability.  I get that.  I also feel it – on occasion, about some things.  Thinking back, I know that I shared Kyle’s enthusiasm for marriage when I was young and wore an unbroken heart on all my sleeves, but like I said, life happens – things like divorce, infidelity, career ambition, and newly single moms who don’t know who they are at age 42 because they’ve been married since they were 18 tend to tarnish the shine that matrimony used to gleam when my best friend and I took turns playing the dashing groom and white pillow case veiled bride. I’d like to say that all of this romantic experience and observation has made me vigilant, because it sounds more eloquent, but the truth of it is, I’m just scared.

My boyfriend, the one I’m enjoying dating and calling my bf, recently compared me to a marlin.  He says it took him well over a year to reel me in; I just wouldn’t come aboard.  And that even now, it occasionally looks like I might just jump ship with no notice, for no clear reason at all.  I looked into his soft, lash-lined blue eyes and gripping, expressive eyebrows and felt equal parts guilty and glad.  Guilty, because, in hindsight, I probably didn’t need to put up such a long fight; especially when I could feel his adoration for me from the moment we met.  My gladness though, that was a proud feeling.  I could picture it – I was a majestic marlin thrashing in a sea of house music, resisting his affection for fear of losing my sense of self, my independence, my balance, my single status.  Aren’t all fish afraid of getting hooked?  I was actively fighting for me – the only person who I could ever really rely on.  I fought and I fought.  And then I let myself get caught.

I watched Kyle walk ahead of me – kicking rocks in his path, still shaking off bits of his mind – and made a Smilfy promise to fortify his big heart in the same way I have learned to protect mine.  He will grow to know that love is as grand and real as it feels; more important than even the best storybook could detail; more special than a box of candy; feels more magical than a bear hug; more fun than riding with no handlebars; and worth waiting for, because when you’re beautiful and independent – even if you are a little scared – only the strongest fisherman will do, and in the mean time, it’s best to enjoy the waves, they’re the journey that majesty is made of.

Saint She

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When a young woman flies an airline with zero status a few unfamiliar things happen: she boards nearly last and undergoes/ignores curious and bored stares from sardined passengers who have already fastened themselves into their seat belt as if claiming uncharted land; she gets to sit in the window seat instead of the coveted aisle – which has always felt like such a trap; and she, quite surprisingly, re-discovers herself.

Today she wears sunglasses, as all cool yet aloof girls do, and she actually looks beyond her smoky lenses and through the window her new seat has afforded her.  Alas, this real estate may be more “excuse mes” away from the lavoratory than a hydrated young lady would prefer, but it also offers something unexpected, and splendid – the great wide world in the shape of an oblong rectangle for as far as little brown eyes can see, which is plenty far for her.  And today, she just so happens to need to see her world.  As her anomalous aircraft takes-off she numbingly looks down at the routes she cruises, the places she frequents, the mountain she hikes, the life she lives and the memories she makes.   Today she is leaving most of what she knows behind for a new world she knows nothing of.  A world of splendor, religion, and tradition – a far away world that she knows nothing about and this makes her heart skip a beat.

There’s always been love, to some capacity at least.  To her, love is all there is.  It can take her places, and then bring her home again.  It is as right as the rain couples embrace under, as true as the beat in her fighting heart and as extraordinary as an Arizona sunset.  Love is what makes her world at peace.  She isn’t a hippy.  Not really, anyway.  She is, however, an absolute romantic, sort of a heartbreaker and, even though she wouldn’t know what to do with a beautiful ending, an inconsistent ever-after seeker.

She has always brought love, evoked love, made love.  She’s even made a few men pine for and fall in love with her in just a single night’s time – quite frankly, this is most of all she’s ever known.  And this inspires her.  You see, to her there is no “happy ending,” because that concept is yet to exist, assuming that it really does, of course.  She revels in the now so hold on tight.  She is the woman who reveres her past even if it’s sticky for the simple truth that it’s made her who she is today; impulsively and passionately makes the most of her present; and bashfully throws out a rope to wrangle her future half accepting that it might not catch anything proud or pretty.   Despite all this, she is an opportunist; she is heartfelt and kind, playful and fun; and she loves.

She is the type of lover who smiles at her suitor; finds the good in him, and commends him so; she laughs with him; encourages his story-telling; cheerleads his dreams, caresses his arm; leans on his shoulder; and looks longingly into his eyes as if she’s been searching for him all along.  No, she isn’t methodically misleading him into serving her the full moon on a silver plated platter; she’s simply exercising all the female finesse she’s ever known and expecting nothing but the very best from “the one.”

If you’re in search of her, find her.  If you’ve just met her, don’t stop getting to know her.   If you have her, keep her. If she’s left you for another world, ask her to come home.   If you’ve already lost her, hope that the next man realizes her worth.  May there always be red roses and blue violets in her Valentine’s Day.  And may you find your Saint She.

Layered Love

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I am the 6th grandchild to Nonna Constance “Connie” Alford and Grandpa Russell “Bud” Alford.  I wrote this for Nonna’s 75th birthday, and in honor of their unwavering love for one another.  Image

The definition of love is quite simple: an intense or deep affection, a romantic or sexual attachment to another person.  It is both a noun and a verb.  The word itself is readily used to describe something or someone we take pleasure in.  Perhaps its most incredible quality is its ability to challenge, and often conquer, its counterpart hate.  Love is just that powerful.

The complexities of love are that it’s a choice and a commitment.   It takes time, requires respect, commands communication, and trust had better come standard.  I’m of the belief that love is a gift.  Not everyone will be fortunate enough to experience it – some people lose it, some just never find it.  But Grandma Connie and Grandpa Bud are two people who not only found it, but they fostered it, put faith into it, and continue to have it today.

Although I have witnessed but half of the 58-years my Grandpa and Grandma have been loving each other, simplicities and complexities alike, I can discern that their love, rather their true love, has defied the odds and stood the test of time.

It was recently explained to me that a person changes every ten years or so.  Typically, their values stay intact with what they’ve always believed, but as a person they grow and evolve differently with each passing year.  Since then I have wondered how couples manage to stay together for decades – what have they accomplished that other couples simply can’t, or won’t?  How do we ensure that when we change, we welcome this growth, but that we change with our partner?  Now I can’t pretend to know the details of the work my Grandpa and Grandma have obviously dedicated to their love life, but I do commend them for all their efforts and commitment to one another.  It’s the kind of love that the romantic in me looks-on with admiration and expectation for my own future.  It’s also the kind of love that the small logical part of my heart recognizes as a layered love.

Allow me to reveal their wonderful layers.

In 2008, sometime in between Grandma’s 71st birthday and Great Grandpa Babe’s 95th, Nonna and I sat side-by-side in Northern Italy.  Beyond our tour bus’s oversized windows laid enchanting, picturesque hills of Tuscany.  I’m not sure if it was the romanticism this land evoked, the love letters and poetry our tour guide was regularly passing me, the wine we undoubtedly enjoyed with our lunch, or perhaps a combination of the three, but Nonna got to talking about life and love, and I happily hung on every single word.  She smiled, and even giggled that grandma-giggle as she told me about her and Grandpa’s unexpected first date.  Apparently Grandma accepted a date with some other lucky lad who was pining for her love, but he was too nervous to come to the door to meet her mom and dad so his friend, my brave and handsome Grandpa, went to the door for him. It was here on this amazing trip that I learned fate really does have a little something to do with true love.

Fate is the layer that brought them together, and it’s certainly the layer that pulls at your heartstrings in a “they were meant to be” sort of way.  But Grandma and Grandpa’s true love is filled with fun and consumed with chemistry, too.

Chemistry is often described as passion, a deep desire, a spark.  Boil it down and you’ll find that chemistry is rooted in and outwardly professed with affection.  Affection is the most conspicuous expression of love.  It’s important to show our partner that we love him or her; we should hold him and touch him and never think twice about being as close as we can.

As a child my cousin Ashley and I would play dress-up in Grandma’s long, silky nightgowns.  It never dawned on my innocent mind that these fabulous “dresses” were her lingerie; I only cared that we looked like beautiful ladies who could rule the world.  As an adult, I consider that lace and silk-stuffed drawer the spark that a couple works to keep ignited.  And I see that Grandma has been Grandpa’s world all this time.

When I close my eyes to think fondly of my Grandparents, I see smiles and I hear laughter.  Now I’ve never done anything for 58-years, but I got to believe that if he’s still having fun goosing her booty, and she’s still laughing about it – well then, they’ve got that vital thing called chemistry.

An affinity to one another is essential, especially after years upon years of matrimony, but a layered love like this is also about an emotional connection, a special bond, a friendship.  This is the part of love that keeps couples strong when the fate seems distant and the chemistry is out of reach.

I wholeheartedly believe that my grandparents are each other’s best friends.  They travel together, play games together, have made houses homes together, and have spent a lifetime raising one big ole family, together.  They made four children, who made 10 children, who have made 15 children so far.  I said it before, and I’ll say it again, love is a powerful thing.

Now, Grandpa set the bar pretty high, and Grandma is pretty wonderful, but may we all strive to have a layered love like theirs.

Here’s to fate, to chemistry, to friendship and to family; and if I ever get to meet the man who chickened out on his date with Nonna, I’ll give him a grateful hug and wow him with the greatest love story there’s ever been.

Sharing is Not Caring

jamiemurdick 1 Comment

“What’s your crew name?” a 5’8” man asks while tying his boat up to ours.  His eyes are the single attractive thing about him.  They are sweet in a way.  There’s also something very telling about them.  It’s very obvious that they see me naked and on my knees.  I wince and start chugging my bud light. 

“I don’t know.  I’m not sure,” I reply.  This is my first trip to the lake this summer and I just met the guy whose boat it is, so I don’t know anything about a crew name. 

I turn around to see a brunette woman wearing revealing bikini bottoms and pasties.  Her breasts flop in every which way as she excitedly jumps up and down and hugs another woman.  I scan the line of boats beyond her star covered nipples to find beer bellies, bare booties and a plethora of pasties.  The lack of modesty isn’t what’s weird to me, the lake is always like your wildest/worst college party, it’s how old everyone seems.  And how natural all the breasts are.  No wonder that guy thought I had a pretty mouth.

Clay squeezes past me to help my eye guy, his fingertips graze the small of my back.  He is, without a doubt, my most beautiful guy friend.  I am in absolute awe of him nearly every time I see him.  The eye-banger guy and I suddenly have something in common; I am totally fantasizing about being underneath him. 

“Are you guys on the website?” eye-banger asks, looking Clay up and down.  I wonder if he’s fantasizing about him too?  I shudder at the thought and finish my beer. 

“Nope, just came to party,” Clay responds, flashing his radiant smile.

“Well you do realize that this is a planned party, 95% of the people here are swingers,” he says nonchalantly, and confidently.

I am immediately thankful that I rocked my over-sized shades, because my eye-brows moved up at least an inch.  I feel the urge to refill my koozie and head for the cooler. 

“Oh-a, that’s cool.  No big deal.  I’m Clay, and this is my wife Natalie,” he says showcasing the silver band on his ring finger, as if that would validate our bogus matrimony, and reaches for me.  I smile like a dutiful wifey. 

Eye-bangers eyes light up.  “Great to have ya,” he says all too excitedly and hops back into his boat.  We wait until he’s in conversation with others before we erupt into quiet laughter. 

Placing a firm grasp on my hips, my gorgeous husband speaks softly through his impeccably white clenched teeth, “Oh my god, this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever done, ever, and I’m here with you. How is this happening to us?  This is crazy, I can’t wait to tell everyone tonight!”

He leans into me and rests his nose on top of mine.  I breathe steadily in through my nose, purse my lips and close my eyes.  I imagine his lips on mine and run my fingertips up his firm stomach. I can hear him smile as he gives me a soft Eskimo kiss to the rhythm of bow, chicka, bow, wow.           

I sigh and digress from my daydream, “I know, I know!” I whisper with intentional enthusiasm, “I was wondering why everyone was so old.  We are the youngest people here, for sure, and the most attractive, obviously.  Everyone is gunna want to do us.  Crap!” 

We share a timid smile.  Clay suddenly twists my body around with one swift push of my hipbone and one tender pull of my opposite shoulder.  Aroused, hopeful eyes await us.  I can see all their nasty, little thoughts floating next to them like a primetime news anchor’s lead story.     

“Let’s pick out our swap couple, hunny,” he whispers into my right ear. 

His breath is warm and his lips are moist.  I think about how he would feel and bite my lip.

“Well, definitely not that couple, hubby,” I say, nodding my head towards the man who has his hand down the back of a woman’s bikini bottoms.  Her suit is circa 1996 and his busy hand makes me want to cross my legs.    

We laugh in unison and continue surveying our options.  It takes us but two seconds to confirm that it’s slim-picking.  All but one couple are people that neither one of us would ever throw a fuck.  Ever.  However, staying true to the “when in Rome” mentality, we decide on a couple off in the distance.  They sort of look like older versions of us, that is to say if he inflated his body full of hormones and I worshipped the artificial sun gods.  Nonetheless, their bathing suits are cute and they have nice firm bodies.  Her tight, tan cheeks are the prettiest scenery on the water, besides ourselves of course.  Plus, this couple appears to be the owners of the most impressive boat in the cove.  It makes me want to sing, “I’m in Miami trick!”

Feeling relieved to have found a semi-suitable swap couple, just in case some fuglies make an aggressive move on us, and apprehensive about even being here, we agree that a shot is in order.  There are light and dark options in the cooler, but Clay remedies us something pink and sweet. 

“I know what my baby likes,” he says with the same smile that makes me melt every time he sends it my way.  It slowly drops as he looks above my head.   “I could never do this.  I don’t ever want to be married and then just give my wife away.”

I study his expression.  He looks genuine and as heartbroken as a 22-year-old gorgeous bartender can.  I am amazed at how suddenly conservative we’ve become.  We are both entertained and frightened by the taboo soiree that surrounds us.  I, however, observe it and resolve that I don’t ever want to be a wife.  How could I?  I see no pleasure in falling down the slide of despair more commonly referred to as marriage.   A woman in love evolves from the irresistible girlfriend, to the oh-so-lucky fiancé, to the beautiful bride, to the boring housewife, to the fat mother, to the housekeeper, cook and nag, to the stranger in his bed, to the deserted.  Oh yes, and in some special scenarios like today, the bait.  I’d rather lay down and be kicked in the gut. 

“Here’s to us and one of the craziest tales we’ll ever tell,” Clay raises his glass and winks at me.  We toast our first drink as man and wife. 

He whisks me off my feet and carries me through an imaginary threshold and jumps into the water.  I quickly swim away from him to tinkle, those beers I slammed went right through me.  He knows exactly what I’m doing and splashes me.  I’m not even finished yet when we both look over to see a man performing oral sex on the boat right next to ours.  From this perspective, a low-budget porn has never looked so good

“Ummm, we’re going to need more alcohol.”

My nostrils flare with repulsion, I nod quickly, demonstrating the deep desire to be numb.  “Let’s make it a double hunny.”