Journeys

We were bundled on a train to New York to celebrate my birthday.  Our overcoats were in our laps, our scarves still dangled from necks.  I picked little wool fuzzies from the scruff on Adam’s face.

He couldn’t wait until we reached our favorite hotel in Chelsea, he handed me a gift while we jostled past the Oranges toward Hoboken.

Adam had made me a book.  Beautiful, handmade paper, bound together with gray silk ribbon.  In it, he transcribed a poem, attributed it to the poet and signed, “in my own hand, through my own heart.”

I knew the poem, but tried to reread it under Adam’s loving gaze.  Tearing, smiling, giddy, and a slight bout of motion sickness.  He loved me, I knew.  But this effort was love embodied.  And this embodiment would someday deserve forgiveness.

I thanked him and kissed the soft place between his side burn and his ear.

I never threw away the book.

*

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-ee cummings

*

Dear readers,

Our journey together is at a temporary rest.  I am emerging from my second adolescence into a new phase of my life.  Another journey, another adventure.  I urge you to subscribe to the blog—note the place to do so on the right. You will  be notified when I post again.  I will be continuing this blog—hopefully just as funny and poignant– once the new journey takes shape.

Thank you for your readership.

Always,

Tessa Dante

Untitled II – Connection

“Your profile looks like bad medicine.  Bad medicine is what I need.”

Someone wrote this to my friend Roxanne.

What can we tell about this person?

1. Bon Jovi afficionado

2. Has the written cadence of the Fonz.

3. Not going to be getting a date anytime soon.

The third makes me sad.  We will never know what Mr. Bad Medicine eats for dinner or what music he plays in his car.  We will never know what kind of Mother’s Day card he sends to his mum.

*

Guy at Party: Are your breasts real?

Tessa: Huh? Yeah.

Guy at Party: Do you want to go shooting some time?

*

My friend Julie was dolled up for a date.  Her beau of three months came to pick her up, said he was tired, and asked her if she was okay “hanging out” at his apartment. Now, to me and the planet, this seemed like a euphemism for some hot and steamy sex.  Julie really wanted to go out before the hot and steamy sex, but she knew his life was hectic and so she agreed. Their date?  She sat on the couch watching Futurama.  He snored.

Now while this might be a serene date once the newness wears off, and this might even be intimate.  But this wasn’t his first nap!

Although both may ultimately involve beds, the man needs to learn Dating Time does not equal Napping Time.

*

Ariel:  It was so nice to meet you the other night.  I’d like to see you again.

Tessa: Me too.  I really had fun.

Ariel: Do you like movies?

Tessa: Sure.

Ariel: We can see a movie.

Tessa: I’d love to.

Ariel:  I’ll bring over a DVD and we can watch it at your house.

Tessa: Huh?

*

Julie made her man roasted chicken and a plum pie.  A chef whom is rarely cooked for—he relished every bite.

*

Adam hates trees.  Well, not really so much as he hates hiking.  He let me take him hiking up in Pt. Reyes where we proceeded to find a newly dead deer, body picked clean, head fully intact.  The deer’s eyes were clear, as if they pleaded, “remember me.”

Adam is also not fond of camping.  After the dead deer incident, we went camping in West Marin.  We hiked, we cooked.  After dark, we stood on our picnic table listening to something large chase and kill something small.

The next time we went camping, he brought a gun.

Just kidding.

But he went again, he loved me.

*

Bowling.

Just cuz.

I scored a 62.  And another date, miraculously.

*

Margot’s love used to bring her a muffin every morning.  If she were away, he’d tack the muffin (it was in a bag) on her front door so she’d find it when she returned from the gym.

We don’t call him muffin boy anymore.

*

Yummy rustic bread.

That’s all Joy can really remember about this romantic date at a restaurant near a lake, but she remembers the date was a marathon she didn’t want to end.

*

We went mini-golfing under the flames of LA.  After a tie game, he beat me at every arcade game.  We chose the meekest child to give our winning tickets to.  Note to self: meek kids are cute, but they don’t say thank you.  They are too stunned by giant adults leaning down and handing them the ticket equivalent of a stuffed teddy.

He made a picnic dinner—we shared cold salmon and pesto with a crisp sauvignon blanc.  We chased the fire, we shared the stories of our year apart, and began to reconnect.

Reconnect.

*

There are good dates to be had.

Untitled I

“Be careful about this whole reconciliation.”

“I will support you no matter what.”

“Can you trust this?”

“Don’t be impulsive.”

“Use your head.”

“Go slow.”

“Be careful and think here.”

Misperceptions galore.

Of me.

Grief Self vs. Past Self

Our LA life vs. Our SF life

Our life.  My life.

Subtlety vs. Category

“You’ve always made good decisions.”

“I’m jealous.”

“Part of me worries.”

Me too.

Fear of not trusting.

Fear of trusting too much.

Fear of screwing it up.

Fear of it being too late.

Fear of judgment.

Fear of the unblazened road.

What I don’t fear is loss.

What I don’t fear is him, his reach, his growth.

“I’m hopeful.”

“More importantly, what are you feeling?”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I want what you want.”

Too soon for reflective writing.

Too soon to find the poignancy.

Too soon to find the funny.

I am finding my way.

We are finding a way.

The Perfect Whirling Dervish

Today, in school, I counted 11 seats in the front row.

My cat has fleas.

Don’t sleep with a student.

Two are facts; another advice, quite patently obvious if you ask me.

I wish the director had advised on killing fleas. That would have been helpful.

But no, he told us that if we went to a fraternity party, we should leave if we saw one of our freshmen students drinking.  We all laughed, what loser professor attends a college fraternity party?

Yes, yes, I am seeing someone younger.  But he is a full two years out of college.

And he was never in a fraternity.

That, I am sure, puts your mind at ease.

The director talks of us growing as teachers, professors.  

For the past ten years, my average evaluation is 4.9 out of 5.

How much better need I be?

Perfection.

perfection |pərˈfek sh ən|

noun

the condition, state, or quality of being free or as free as possible from all flaws or defects

When I get  a 4.8 on an evaluation, I call my friend Margot and lament the student who thought my communication skills merited only a 4 out of 5.  “Am I not articulate enough?”  I scour the class sessions and remember any off moment.

“It must have been that day I garbled my words and sounded like W,” I tell my friend.  “To make it worse, I laughed and told the class, ‘I sound just like W.’  She was probably a republican and thought I was being partisan.” 

Not just factual. 

Or, I continue to my friend, “was it the time I didn’t know the answer to the student’s question, and instead of admitting the truth and turning the question over to the class, I flubbed it and bullshitted an answer?”   

I stayed up all night after that mistake.

I blather, “was it after I stayed up all night, thought through a great answer and called the student at home to tell her?”

“No,” my friend Margot says. “That wouldn’t have affected your communication skills evaluation.  Was there a place on the scantron for stalking?”

*

I have a problem with perfectionism.  Don’t mistake this for being detail-oriented.  Just count the typos in this blog.  I hate typos, and the people who make them.  I see sloppy proofreading as a character flaw.  But I can’t seem to stay focused long enough to catch them all.  It’s just so much easier to self-loathe.

I am a perfectionist who loves to say yes—I love the learning curve; sure, I’ll try that!  I would love to teach another class!  I would love to write that!  I would love to be in that book club!  I would love to see you again!

And I love to excel at all I say yes to.

The result isn’t always pretty.  Think Tasmanian Devil clad in tight jeans and a black tank top dancing as a Whirling Dervish. 

Now put her in a university setting.

Or in front of a computer screen writing.

Once, in such a moment, I was teaching a class, pacing to and fro in front of the seminar room.  I had just given the students a huge assignment—I needed to carry the assignments in a banker’s box.   I wrote something on the board, cracked a joke and backed up to make my final point. BAM.  I fell butt first into that damn box.

Legs and arms flailing, I kept talking.

At least I knew all my students were paying attention.

So herein lies the dilemma.  After one year where all my time was spent grieving the loss, teaching a small class-load, crying over Adam, noodling my novel, and sitting in therapy, I’ve signed on for a makeup year. 

Bring in the Whirling Dervish costume.

The mistake was probably made when I signed on for three commitments at one university, one commitment at another. . . all while attending grad school in creative writing, redrafting a novel, and writing a blog.

Er, not to mention seeing Matthew.

This year’s goal?  I am not, not going to embrace perfectionism. 

My best will be good enough.

Mantra.  Say it again.

My best will be good enough.

Do you feel my relaxed attitude toward life?

Can’t you sense my Zen calm?

Can you glean the control I feel over my emerging new life?

And so here it is, just when I’ve got it all under control.

Adam is back.

 Stay tuned…

The Fertile Void

An apology on my lack of posting.  School has begun and time is more limited.  I will continue to post—I have big adventures in store for my readers.  Big.  So big, you will have to sit down, take a deep breath, and pour yourself a scotch, light up a joint.

As these adventures are midarc (meaning I am living them in this moment), they have not percolated into witty or poignant writing.   My life right now is more of the Aaaaaaah and Ooooooh that is life’s rollercoaster.  Although this is so big, it’s more like base jumping.

And yet, today, I share with you something on grief.

When Adam first left me, I really did have the hubris to say I wanted an “A” in divorce. 

While that aim for perfection in all that I do is exhausting, limiting and ultimately failing, the strive to heal without scarring was good instinct. 

I bought books, a library shelf full: Finding the New You; Divorce? You Can Do It!; Don’t Kill, Chill; Dating After Divorce for Dummies. 

All were in larger print with white space and diagrams detailing the stages of grief—as if Adam had not only broken my heart when he left, but stolen my cerebral cortex.

The exception was The Grief Recovery Handbook: The Action Program for Moving Beyond Death, Divorce, and Other Losses, by John W. James and Russell Friedman. 

Notice I bought the book with the word “action” in it.  Even back then, I saw myself in motion, eschewing the navel gazing preconceptions I had about grief and healing.

I pull this book off the shelf at times, rereading passages, sometimes just holding it for comfort. Glancing through it recently, I found a scrap of paper, a brainstorm of recreating life anew after Adam left.  It was from the early days when I had escaped to my family back east—my stepmother’s name is printed on the paper. 

During those early weeks, I mostly cried and slept, and haunted my dad’s house.  But when I had the energy, I brainstormed.  Here is this particular one:

    Look at courses in LA

    Explore writing workshop

    Explore Europe/Asia trip

    Pick a play for Sunday

    Ask friends to visit

    Sketch out weekends in LA so not alone

I did some of this, not all.  But I brainstormed—a madman creating new lives or entrees to new lives because it comforted me in a time when I felt as if I were waiting for my new life to begin.  I was waiting.  Limbo.

My therapist so wisely calls this time the Fertile Void.  There is no illusion of control, and you are still with grief.  I mean “still” as in unmoving versus “paralyzed,” which would cast judgment on the person as if she should move.  But in that stillness, I rediscovered peace, there were seeds of a new life planted. I found healing.

I am still in my fertile void, although I’m not there everyday.  At times, I miss the stillness, the utter vulnerability of that painful limbo…as my life is jam packed with new and excited.

Yet it began with The Handbook, which gave me permission to be me:  to feel like shit, to cry and stomp my feet in hysterics, for me to miss Adam terribly, for me to walk through the pain, for me to read and make lists, for me to write letters to store away forever.  

And in those beginning days, when my family and friends were trying to fix me, it gave me the power and the language to say, “that’s not what I need right now.”

*

From The Handbook:

“All relationships are unique, no exceptions.”

“Recovery means ‘discovering and completing’ what was unfinished for you in your ‘unique’ relationship.”

“Grieving people want and need to be heard, not fixed.”

“To a certain degree, effective grief recovery is about being heard.”

“Grief is painful.  It is supposed to be. … Approaching grief naturally has much more long-term benefit than any other option.”

“Accept the naturally occurring pain caused by your loss.”

Intermission: Be My Match

My Christmas and Chanukah gifts are chosen this year. I am giving everyone 11,002 Things to Be Miserable About, by Lia Romeo and Nick Romeo.  Broken condoms and dead puppies made the list.  As did global warming, untreated sewage and lawyers.

Misery is listed in random order (Chlamydia is right before Your Childhood), unless authors Lia and Nick concluded that Chlamydia, the quiet VD, was just one iota more miserable than Frank Lillo seeing my underwear in the fourth grade and telling everyone they were diapers. [They weren’t.]

Butt acne.  On the list.  That would, indeed, make me miserable.

And this gets me to my point today.  So many of my friends use internet dating services—nerve to eharmony.

Over the years, I’ve helped market my friends—writing that first intro, crafting lists of interests and desires.

Yet after the basic stats, most of these “ads” have similar themes. Something clever, something earnest, something vulnerable, something dreamy, something fun.  

No one writes, “I compulsively pop pimples, so I don’t mind butt acne.” 

Most of my friends list their traits and the traits of their desired as smart, well-traveled, intellectually curious, liberal, good sense of humor.

Save the political view, who would want the opposite of this? “Dumb and xenophobic stoic desires same in mate”? Who writes, “I love global warming, untreated sewage and Chlamydia”?

Sure, you want someone who reads, enjoys hiking and appreciates good food. 

But after a few years together, what do you really want?

 As we age, we want someone to overlook the gray hairs and the stray hairs.  We may even want someone to pluck them.

 While I’m not yet in the ranks of internet daters, I’ve given this some thought.  Here is a rough draft of my personal ad:

Wannabe intellectual who gets by on fair amount of smarts seeking same only with some cash on hand to do the pretentious things she wants to do but can’t afford to do and refuses to sell out to do. 

Must tolerate serious mood swings at that time of the month, although you cannot blame it on that time of the month. 

Must like having back pimples popped.  Any pimples really.

Hiking, traveling, New Yorker reader, progressive or more, but don’t be too PC or I will mock you.

Understand sarcasm and irony.  And the difference between them.

You believe hair product is not a total necessity in life.

Your answer to “I feel fat,” should be truly responsive.

You like to clean more than I do, so housework is split according to who likes to mop more (hint: you do). 

You must not object to cat sleeping under covers and spooning you. 

Must enjoy some nagging.

You can’t want me to breed.

You find persnickety, opinionated vacillators an endearing challenge:  “I don’t care.  Thai or Mexican, whatever you want.” . . .“You want Mexican?  Oh, I really think I want Thai now.”

Your family should probably be as dysfunctional as mine or I will feel weird.

*

Margot is visiting and so I made Margot list her desires.  After I forced her to go deeper than smart and well-traveled, she came up with this:

Daily foot massage.

The ultra-feminist she is, she wants a handyman who knows what to do with a car.  He must like to build things. 

Must love her cat—and the cat, Camille, must feel loved.  This is not because Margot is a crazy cat woman, this is because Camille will urinate all over Margot’s bed if Camille doesn’t feel appropriately loved. Margot has been through many comforters.

Must be as obsessive about working out as she is.  Note on this: Her current boyfriend was normal.  In great shape always.  Now he often complains, “I feel fat.”   For Margot, this is love.

Must be tolerant of shoe collection and her revulsion to Keds. 

Cannot expect her to wear hair in ponytail, suggestion to do will so may result in death.  Costume lover preferred.

Willing to always be wrong.

So.

In reviewing these lists, I thought I’d also inform you that Margot and I have a retirement plan with one another in case our matches don’t work out.

Get Thee To A Nunnery: The Finale

Bile.

Diarrhea.

This was not the way I wanted to re-lose my virginity.

The first night with Sam passed in a routine: snuggle, hot flash, nausea, run quietly to bathroom, puke bile, rest on tile floor, brush teeth, swig mouthwash, hurry to couch, snuggle with Sam.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Was this a psychosomatic symptom manifesting itself because I was not being ready to be with a man just three months after Adam left me?

[I see all of you nodding your heads.  See me stomping foot:  “But people.  Sam’s cute!”]

You’d think I’d have asked him to leave.  I even engaged myself in a conversation about it.

Logical Tessa: You can ask him to go.  He will understand.  And if he doesn’t? Then he is not worth it. You are 41 years old. Get some rest.

Just Re-Devirginized Tessa:  But maybe I can get laid again in the morning.

I am an optimist:  I believed my headache would go away.  I believed Sam didn’t notice the evening’s activities.  I believed I would run out of bile eventually. 

I believed there would be more sex.

That day marked a new me. Permagrin and spring in step aside, I began exercising again, my appetite returned.  I didn’t sniffle or weep in support group, I burst in and actually sang out, “I had sex!”  [Yes, in hindsight, this exuberant outburst was probably inappropriate.]  

After my exclamation, I put my hand over my blushing face and disintegrated into a fit of giggles.  Those giggles let me sleep more soundly, which resulted in better focus, which resulted in stronger writing and stronger teaching.  That first night with Sam was the first step out of the abstruse, dark hole that was my grief.

Think about it.  Someone rejects you for a life alone, and three months later…

Despite the migraine, the diarrhea, the bile, the potential embarrassment, I was attractive to someone.  That’s saying something.

The adage goes that women grieve, men replace.  Justice to one’s self lies in the middle.  We need to grieve to heal.  But we also need to replace.  A friend of mine once told me I needed to have sex with someone new because I needed to wash off the taint.  She was right.

It was a new beginning.

Intermission: Car Accidents & Cowboys, The Movie

Natalie has casted my blog.  I don’t have a publisher, an agent, a movie or a book.  There are no screenwriters adapting, development execs schmoozing or studio heads noticing.  I am a writer who has published short stories in literary journals only writers read.

I’ve got a national audience of, er, 100.

But I’ve got friends with big dreams.  Natalie confirmed that Sandra Bullock is playing her.  Who else could stalk college boys and open a door with tissues up her nose and still be cute?  Someone else in that role might make it creepy, she said.

This was a carefully considered decision.  She rejected Jennifer Aniston out right—“She’s just not ethnic looking enough to play me.”  

While Sandra Bullock wasn’t ethnic in the least, Natalie thought she had “that certain something.”  Plus, “I live in the DC area, and she’s from Arlington.  Do you see the connection?”

Yes, I do.

When you cast yourself in the movie of your life, there are several important decisions to make: 

Do you cast yourself based on looks? Do you cast yourself based on your essence?

Do you see yourself as The It Girl?  The Femme Fatale?  The A-Lister?  The Character Actor?

Natalie is my dearest friend.  And now I know how she wants others to see her:  Beautiful and cute, feisty and nice, smart and goofy. 

She cast her husband with Rupert Everett, handsome “in that pretty way” and metro-sexual.  He wanted Hugh Grant. 

Natalie, an unforgiving casting agent rejected Hugh, “I can’t get over that prostitute thing.”

Her husband, by the way?  Not British.  With the shortest hair I’ve seen. 

Is a foppish do his secret desire?  Does he imagine long locks swinging over his brow?  Running his hand through it with each awkward moment?

I bet it is.

Natalie informed me I would be played by Angelina Jolie. 

Now this is clearly evidence that she wants something from me.  I don’t know if it’s money, a respite from the kids here in LA, or a kidney.  But there’s something coming.  Some big favor.  “But I did cast Ms. Jolie, Tessa.  I could have more realistically cast Janeane Garofolo or Sandra Bernhard. Or if we skewed you older, Kathy Bates.”

Joy embraced the idea of casting.  She told me that her San Francisco group of friends once cast themselves: Bridget Fonda, John Cusack, Owen Wilson, Cameron Diaz, Jack Black.  An All Star Ensemble Cast! 

Except for poor Bridget Fonda.  This was cast so long ago, she’d only get second billing now.  Downgraded to a supporting role.  

With the blog, Joy bypassed us and went straight for the men.  Adam would be played by Daniel Day Lewis. 

If only I had been with Daniel Day Lewis for 12 years.  Or 12 days.  Or 12 minutes. 

This is where casting your life gets confusing.  I am not playing me in the movie.  But in the casting game, aren’t we—the stars and us—the bestest of friends?

Director: Adam meet Daniel.  Daniel meet Adam.  Adam, move off to the side.  Keep going, going.  That’s it.  Behind the craft service table.  That’s it. Keep going.  Open that door.  Good.  Close it behind you.

Director cont’d: Natalie and Sandra stop goofing around. Yes, Sandra, I know Natalie is your best friend and that she is the only person who gets you.  But you can catch up later at the party you’re throwing for her.

Director cont’d: Daniel, meet Tessa.  Now, in the flashback scene where Daniel as Adam has sex with Tessa for the first time, how about we time travel and have Tessa play herself?

We’ll all be gorgeous with perfect comedic timing.  We’d be so hot, the screen will burn.  Because surely, that’s how we look all the time.  There is no plain jane among us. No one without a Q rating please. We are A-listers.  Stars, really.

Character actors without a modeling contract need not audition.

Casting is a serious business.   It seems a movie deal is right around the corner. 

More Sam in the Next Post.

Get Thee to a Nunnery? Maybe an Infirmary -Part Three

I knew that if I looked up, Sam and I would kiss.

Time passed in slow motion.  I weighed the pros and cons.  He was a friend.  Pro.  And Con.  I felt safe with him.  Pro.  He was going through his end-of-marriage crisis.  Con.  Maybe Pro.  I strategized while rubbing his leg.  His hand—slender but masculine massaged my neck.  He could be a massage therapist, I thought.  Pro.

I looked up.

Wham!  Flat on my back.

 What came next would make every hetero teenaged girl swoon.  It was just like in the movies.

 Waves crashed against the shore.

            Nape of neck kissed.

 Hair grabbed.

            Face held.

 Lips bitten.

            Bodies intertwined.

Twice.

I had been worried for naught about not knowing how to have sex with someone new.

Grief makes you fuck better.

Reread it.  It’s true.  I’ll write it again.

Grief makes you fuck better. 

In the midst of grief, there are no barriers; you are just too emotionally exhausted.  Raw.  Turned inside out.  All your nerve endings are tingly.

This makes for mind-numbing but physically over-stimulating sex.

Afterward, Sam and I laid on the couch.  We didn’t talk about what had transpired, that would come two days later.  He rubbed my back and we fell asleep wound tightly around one another on the couch.

Well, I’m lying.  He slept.

I thought.  

I wanted to ask if he’d be more comfortable in my bedroom, but I just didn’t feel ready.

Therapist: Tessa, so you felt ready to have sex.

Tessa:  Yes.

Therapist: But not in your bed.

Tessa: Yes.

Therapist: And while ready for the most intimate of acts, you don’t feel ready to have a man sleep in your bed?

Tessa: Exactly.  How is this a problem?

Therapist:  You don’t see an issue with intimacy?

Tessa: I just had sex. I refuse to see an issue with intimacy.

Sam turned on his side.  And spooned me.  He didn’t snore, but his breathing was clockwork.  I didn’t ask and snuggled into him.  I thought some more, reliving the physicality of moments before.

A migraine knocked.

It began slowly, with a pain behind my eye.  I hoped I was just dehydrated.  I carefully edged out from under Sam and got some water.  I climbed back under his arm. 

He kissed me. 

I pressed my finger into my eye to relieve the pain.

I counted to ten.  One.  Mind over matter.  Two.  No pain.  No pain.  Three.  If you think no pain, there will be no pain.

Four.  Hot flash!

If you’ve never had a hot flash before, let me introduce you to my incoming headache hot flash.  One part of you—your head, your lower back, your neck suddenly gets so hot, sweat bursts from your pores.  At the same time, you might shiver from the precipitate change in body temperature.  The hot spot spreads so quickly, you soak yourself as if you had run a race. 

Sam had pulled a blanket up around our bodies.  I pushed my feet out so I’d cool off.  Now, my feet were cold, my torso was hot, I was damp and caught a whiff of emerging body odor.  Mine.

On the bright side, I wasn’t feeling the eyeball pain.

I breathed deeply.  Relax, Tessa.  Inhale. 

Exhale. 

Inhale.

An overwhelming wave of nausea. 

Deep breath.  Deepbreath.  Deepbreathdeepbreath. 

Nope, that’s not going to work.

I hurriedly slid out from Sam’s embrace (not difficult since I was damp from sweat) and hurried—tip toe tip toe tip toe—to the bathroom.  I threw up a slice of pizza.

I laid my head on the cool tiles and listened to the toilet’s whir. 

Aside: Is it weird to be comforted by the sounds of a toilet?  I can’t decide whether it’s the reminiscent sounds of the womb or whether it’s mere relief that you got to the toilet in time to vomit.

Nervous that Sam would wonder what I was doing loitering in the bathroom, I convinced myself that it was just the pizza disagreeing with wine and sex.  I felt.  Okay.

I brushed my teeth, popped two Excedrin and headed back to Sam.

He lifted the blanket up for me and pulled me close.

Ah.  Just a nagging pain behind the eye.  The stomach felt settled.

I could live with that.   As I snuggled in with Sam, another hot flash hit the small of my back.

Followed by nausea.   Quick and rising. 

Followed by another kind of rumble.  Deeper.  Lower.

I eased myself off the couch with as much grace as I could muster and ran to the bathroom. Thud, thud, thud.

Bile.

Diarrhea.

This was not the way I wanted to re-lose my virginity. 

Stay tuned…

Interlude in A Major

“Adam & Tessa”

August 29, 1996 – July 26, 2008

R.I.P

Within a week of July 26, 2008, I told myself I would name a star for my relationship with Adam.  So that era of my life would be honored and serve as a light toward a future ever brighter. 

The future looks bright.

Today is my new birthday.  One year ago today, Adam suddenly and unexpectedly left. He handed me a note: ninety percent of our relationship was wonderful, but he wanted to find that other ten percent.  Life as I had known it was over.  Since then, I’ve struggled through a dark canal of grief, emerging into a rich and textured life full of new possibility.  

My grief and heartache are not gone.  They are shadows.  Lurking.  Phantom limbs that unexpectedly remind you of their previous existence, of what they represent, of what could have been.

But with those phantoms come a more finely tuned vulnerability, a greater sensitivity to other people’s pain, a newfound ability to lean on those I love.  

I am grateful, so grateful to my friends and family all around the world who formed a latticework of support.  They held me up.  I simply cannot fathom how lucky I am to be so loved—and that is bliss.  What I feel most days is not heartache, it’s grateful joy.

Still, I am always searching for a simpler cure  for maladies of the heart:

 Embryo of lotus pip is effective to cure heartache.   Interestingly, lotus pip is effective to stop chronic diarrhea.

Now I just need to figure out how to get my lotus pip pregnant.

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In the seventeenth century, Swiss doctors believed the opium, leeches and a trip to the Alps would cure nostalgia.

Hotel Concierge:  Will you be needing anything else to make your stay at the Alps Spa and Hotel more comfortable?

Me (holding up a Ziploc bag filled with leeches):  Do you know where I can store these?  I smuggled them in on the plane—that was a bitch getting these through security, I tell you.  They wouldn’t believe leeches had been prescribed by my doctor!

Hotel Concierge: Yes, yes, people can be so intolerant.  I can store your leeches in the jungle swamp we keep behind the hotel just for this reason.  I’ll just have to tag them so we’ll know they’re your leeches.  Room 617?

Me:  Yes.  Thank you.

Hotel Concierge: Anything else?  Perhaps I can book you a massage?

Me:  Any idea where I can score some opium?

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Ancient Egyptians used birth control: crocodile dung, honey and oil.

And I thought latex smelled bad. 

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I promise, in my next post, more on Sam in Get Thee to a Nunnery.   Thank you for reading. –Tessa