Miss Chatterbox Strikes Again

I've always been the kind of person who eats, instead of not eat, whenever I'm stressed out.  In my wardrobe (and the general areas around it, which include boxes, laundry basket, storage, hidden corners, Miss Chatterbox's playroom, rags' closet etc.), you'd find three different sizes that would correspond to my state of mind at the time.  

Duh, of course I'll take the burger!

For the sake of my ego (ahem I'm NOT letting you know of my actual sizes, and yes, I'm THAT vain), let's call them: Small, Medium, and Large.  

So in the past few months, heck yeah, I've been gaining a few pounds here and there.  And went up a size or two... or three.  Fine, fine, right now I'm wearing all my Large size clothes, ok?  My munching activities have shot through the roof in response to recent crisis in the marriage area, and obviously sitting on my booty writing posts and reading all of your fantastic writing out there have not helped.  

Lucky me, I'm fashionably prepared.  I have my reserve pile of Medium Large clothes and have moved it (once again) to the forefront of my closet.  Oh, by the way, here's a tiny fashion tip: those loose-fitting silk-crepe pants that have elastic waists from the current 'I-borrowed-these-from-my-boyfriend' trend work wonders and could save you lots of money.  They are very accommodating to any kind of sudden weight gain/loss because they can practically fit up to three sizes.  Of course they are no longer loose-fitting now--more like, um, tight and body hugging--but hey, that's not the point, ok?

Anyways, I was in the middle of getting dressed the other day, when Miss Chatterbox came into my room.  We were going out for lunch.  I was putting on one of my Phillip Lim's elastic-waist silk pants, one I know for sure would fit my size at the moment (thereby saving me from meltdowns that occurred whenever I put on something that couldn't fit) and still give me the look (and illusion) like I hadn't gained a pound.

Okay, here's a little insight about Miss Chatterbox for you.  She's a girly girl who thinks I've got great taste in fashion.  She would compliment me on my outfits and tell me "You sure look great, Mommy."  

That was, until now.

Here's what she said upon seeing me standing there, feeling very confident in my Philip Lim's pants:  "Um, that pants sure look... relaxing, Mommy."  

Wait. A. Minute.  'Relaxing'?  What's THAT supposed to mean??  I was aiming for chic and slim look, NOT a 'relaxing' look!  Whatever that meant, 'relaxing' just didn't sound too complimentary.  Especially coming from Miss Chatterbox.  Who used to say a lot of 'great's.  And 'great' was not the same as 'relaxing,' no matter how much anyone would try to argue with me. 

Now, perhaps other (wiser, more mature, emotionally-balanced) moms would know not to take their barely-seven-years-old children's comments too personally.  But of course I wasn't those moms.  Have you read my post I Want It in COLOR!!! - "This is Me" Meme Gone Awry ?  Need I say more??

I hate to admit it now, but that little cheeky thingy who happens to be my daughter was right.  I do need to lose weight.  I can't be in denial forever.  I have to get back to exercising regularly and not indulge in too much sugar.  I need to move my body more, and by that I don't mean just my fingers.

Gah, I hate it when Miss Chatterbox is right!!!

The (Spy) James Who Loved Me

The assignment:

This week, we gave you the beginning and the end of the story – sometimes the very places we get stuck – and asked you only to come up with the middle.
You were to start your piece with “We had to leave immediately” and end it with “And then we realized we were already home.”  Limit is 600 words.

The Spy James Who Loved Me


We had to leave immediately.

James quickly cut the restraints on my arms and feet.  The concrete door that had locked me from the outside world was now a mangled pile of rubble.  The light and smoke from the hole on the wall stung my eyes, having been accustomed to the dark for so long.

James scooped me up from my fetal position on the filthy floor into his strong arms.  I wanted to say something, but my mind felt disconnected from my body.  All I could think of was how good it felt to be that close to James.  He smelled like bourbon and gunpowder; the latter roused me out of my dream-like stupor back to the situation at hand.

We had to get out--alive.

I tried to gather my surroundings, but lifting my head sent it spinning, and everything went blurry.  My eyes only caught glimpses: of sparks coming from charred wires hanging above, crimson bodies scattered like ragged dolls, and cement walls with no windows in sight.

I knew James was moving as fast as he could, but deadly bullets continued to close in on us.  The roar of machine guns and voices shouting in a language I didn't recognized echoed from every direction.  Metallic smell of fresh blood saturated the air.  Panic started to unfold from deep within me, making me nauseous.

Sensing my distress, James tightened his hold of me and said, “I’m here, Sweaty sweetheart… I’m here.”  As always, his voice did wonders to my body.  I wished we were somewhere else, ripping at each other’s clothes, tasting and pleasuring our bodies into sexual oblivion, instead of being in this hell hole!

We reached an emergency staircase where the air smelled like sweat and piss.  We were climbing up the stairs when I heard a loud snap.  James stumbled, but quickly regained his footing.  I lifted my hand to gently caress his jaw, silently thanking him for risking his own life to save mine.  I didn’t realize I was crying until I tasted saltiness on my lips.  James, I love you.

James suddenly spun around, in his right hand was his beloved Walther PPK semi-automatic pistol.  He fired at our chasers below, then aimed upwards and fired some more.  Two bodies fell off from the railings above.

James continued upward towards the rooftop.  I wiped the tears from my cheeks using the back of my hand, only to find it smeared with blood.  That’s when I noticed the growing red stain underneath James’ tuxedo.  He’d been hit.

“James, let me go. I’m slowing you down,” I managed to say.

“I’m not leaving you behind. Miles better get that helicopter ready for when we reach the top.”

Just when I thought we would never reach it, we saw the opening to the rooftop. Outside, we saw the helicopter, its rotor blades sending swirls of dust and debris our way. James moved sideways to shield me from the headwind.  Let’s go home, James…

I felt another pair of arms taking me away from James, but I didn’t want to leave his side.  I kicked and screamed for James, but I was too weak to put up much of a fight.  Then I heard a shot and saw James fell down on his knees.  His eyes were looking straight at me, his lips forming the words “I love you.”

And then all hell broke loose.

Bratatata

Bratatatatatatatatata….

On my TV screen, Daniel Craig—in his James Bond tuxedo--was being chased by the bad guys with machine guns.  I had fallen asleep watching Casino Royale.  I couldn’t believe it was only a dream… I was totally enjoying my role as James Bond’s girlfriend!   We were fighting to get home...

And then I realized we were already home :)

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Most Likely To... Have Friends in High Places (Part 3)

This is part 3 of a series of posts titled Most Likely To..., which are--basically--my life story.  If you'd like, you can read:

• Most Likely To... (part 1) here, and 
• Most Likely To... Marry a Rich Guy (part 2) here.

My friend Leigh was a trust-fund baby.  Her future, at least financially, was secured the moment she was born.  Leigh's parents originally came from a small, little-known town miles away from any major cities.  Neither her mother nor father had ever received formal education; yet in spite of their humble beginnings, Leigh's father had a knack for business and became successful in several manufacturing and properties ventures.  He was truly what you would call a self-made man.  Leigh's mother was a full-time housewife who stayed home to raise her six children.  She was a devoted wife and mother; she was the heart of the family, a motherly figure who kept the whole household going and every one together.

Compared to Leigh's parents, my parents came from a far more 'sophisticated' background.  Both my father and mother were college-educated; my father was an architect and my mother was a doctor.  My mother was the daughter of a highly respectable doctor and college professor.  She was beautiful and brainy.  My father's family wasn't as well-known, but since young, my father was known as the town's most handsome bad-boy.  He was charming and dashing; girls literally fell on his feet.  My father was also used to getting whatever he wanted.  He was his parents' favorite son, and they spoiled him rotten. 

My parents met when they were fifteen.  My father was my mother's first boyfriend; my mother was neither my father's first nor last girlfriend.  They dated for 8 years (during which my father had already two or three-timed my mother) before they got married.

Marriage didn't stop my father from being a womanizer.  He also became addicted to gambling.  When he won, he would splurge all the money on expensive watches, cars, and more women.  When he lost... more than once my mother had to pack up at a moment's notice because he had gambled our houses away.  Although he was never physically abusive towards my mother and me, when he's angry he would smash mirrors or windows until his fists gashed open.  He would challenged random men to fight if he caught them talking to my mother.  He would drive like crazy to intimidate my mother while I was cradled on the back seat without any car seat.  

My mother was so hurt and betrayed by her marriage to my father, that she came to invest her entire life on her studies and career--at first as a way of deflecting the pain, and later, as the only thing she knew how to do.  

My parents divorced when I was three years-old, but their fights and bitterness continued for years afterwards.  So deeply hurt and betrayed was my mother that since then she had come to invest her entire life on her studies and career.  At first it was her way of dealing with the pain; later, it became the only thing she felt confident in and could rely on.

My father went bankrupt by the time I was five years-old and never recovered, leaving my mother to raise and support me single-handedly.  Her experience convinced her to provide me with the best education she could possibly afford, in order for me to one day be financially independent (because as she said, men simply couldn't be trusted).  Hence my enrollment in expensive private schools and college.  Her hard work was enough to pay the bills, but we couldn't afford anything else or have any savings.

It intrigued me, the comparison between Leigh's parents and mine.  Compared to Leigh's parents, my parents had everything going for them: brain, beauty, background.  Yet their lives suffered because they made a series of bad choices that affected them for the rest of their lives.

My father's womanizing and gambling ways was a huge reason I was determined to NOT make the same decisions my mother had.  And I went straight for the obvious: I would never marry someone like my father.  Looks weren't important, financial stability was first and foremost.

It may sound pretty normal coming from an adult looking to settle down, but I was already thinking that way for as far back as I could remember.  When I was twelve or thirteen, and my friends were talking about how cute so and so was, what went on in my mind was entirely different.  My mind immediately went: "Well, good-looking as he may be, how much money does his family have in the bank?  Will it be enough to afford the kind of life that is different from the life I had growing up?"

That was me growing up.  It was drilled into my mind that I wasn't going to fall for a mere pretty face the way my mother did for my father.  Look at all the good it did her!

So hanging out with Leigh and her wealthy friends suited me just fine.  I've adapted to their lifestyle: the way the dressed, the way they talked, they way they perceived things.  I've observed details such as the way they held their drinks, their body language, the subtle gestures they made...  I no longer felt inferior; I knew how to carry myself among my affluent friends.  For some reason I felt safe, like I was exactly where I should be.

Leigh was not only the big sister I never had, but she inadvertently became my ticket to the high society.  She taught me the importance of networking, and of "swimming with the big fishes."  She taught me how to spot the wolves in a sheep's clothing (i.e. those who pretended to be rich by the cars they drove, the branded clothes they wore, the flashy watches they sported) as opposed to those who were truly, honest-to-God-wealthy.  She taught me things my mother never told me, like:

• Most guys just wanted to get into your pants (big surprise there).
• Yes, he's a cutie and an amazing kisser, but seriously, he made you pay for dinner?!?
• Never spend money on a guy more than what he's spent on you.
• Rich, but stingy?  NEXT...
• Be careful of whom you dated, because women were always more emotional than men.  You might think it was just for fun in the beginning, but then you sleep with him and before you knew it, you had abandoned all common sense.

If you're starting to think that Leigh would have made one heck of a great pimp, I don't blame ya.  She was 100% money-oriented.  But Leigh also had integrity.  She told me that discipline and good work-ethics were even more important than the amount of money a guy had.  A guy must know how to earn money, because wealth could always come and go.  "Don't ever settle... Go for the best," she used to say.

I didn't think it was ever possible to find someone who could measure up to Leigh's standards.  Until I met Ash.  He passed all those 'tests' in flying colors.  And I fell for him hard.  Like oh-my-god-I-can't-breathe hard.  The only thing was, did he feel the same way too about me? 

(to be continued...)

Read part 4 here.

WANTED: Some Sex

This post is based on this week's TRDC Write On Edge's Red Writing Hood prompt: 
Let's get all steamy up in here and write about sex.  But there's a twist.  You can't write about the act.  I don't want to read about any heaving bosoms or girded manhood (please tell me someone else giggled besides me).  Limit is 600 words. It can be fiction or non-fiction.

WANTED: Some Sex

Gosh, when was the last time I had sex? Honestly? Ages ago. I can’t believe I’m actually going ahead and writing this prompt. Because this is as good as it gets: I haven’t been getting any.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, or wondering why this girl isn’t gettin’ any, let me explain it in a nutshell: my husband says he doesn’t love me anymore, and we might or might not be getting a divorce. But, I’m not here to complain about that. I’ve dealt with that.

I just haven’t dealt with the lack of sex yet.

My besties Ms. Lips and Mrs. Mouthy would testify that I’m not [usually] a very sexual person.  In fact, they’d laugh and tell you, “You’re actually talking sex with Sweaty? Seriously?!?” I’d like to think it has something to do with the anti-depression meds that I’m taking, but mostly it’s probably just my tendency to be on the extreme side of things.  Somewhere in my mind, the fact that I am a ‘mommy’ had apparently short-circuited my libido fuse. For years following my daughter’s birth, sex was the last thing on my mind.

But to give me some credits, no, I wasn’t always like this. I used to buy racy—really racy--lingerie and wore them.  I’ve had frantic sex while my cousin was banging on the front door of my apartment.  I’ve had sex videotaped (uh huh. Let’s hope you won’t see it anytime soon on the internet.  That would NOT be cool).  I’ve had sex naked on a beach under the moonlight (oh yes I did).  I’ve had sex in front of mirrors too (kinky, but true).

Then, slowly those lingerie were replaced by boring, but oh so comfy, grandma panties and wire-less sports bras. Forget late-night fumblings underneath the blanket, I need my beauty sleep! Gone was the spontaneity, replaced by practicality:

• ugh, do I really want to take another shower?

• And re-apply my day/night face/eye/neck cream/serum?

• Honey, can you go brush your teeth first, and while you’re at it, wash ‘you-know-what’ junior a bit, and perhaps put on some cologne and/or that aftershave that I like?

• Oh but my head has found that perfect spot on the pillow already and if I were to move…

• Um, can you not touch my hair too much, I just had it styled and it’s such a pain to put it back together afterwards.

Okay, so where was I? Oh yeah, the lack of sex, when you’re [possibly] going through divorce.

Given my previous record when it comes to sex, you would’ve thought that I would have no problem whatsoever dealing with this little ‘inconvenience.’  But oh no, not I!   I didn’t mind not having sex when it was my choice, but the moment it became a no-choice, that’s when my body decided, hey, some a LOT of sex would be good.

No kidding, those reverse psychology bullsh*t apparently works on me. I want what I cannot have.  As always.  For the first time in years, I want to wear those racy lingerie again.   I want to feel breathless, my pulse quickens, my sense heightened.   I think of the pleasures that comes from lying entangled, limbs to limbs, skin to skin, just tasting the taste and inhaling the scents off each other’s skin.  I want to be desired, touched, filled, consumed.   I want it fast, slow, roughly, and gently.  Oh for f*ck sake, what I want to say is, JUST GIVE IT TO ME already!!!

So there.  That’s my take on sex.  Right now I’m so horny I could hump a tree.

-THE END-

Friday Hops

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The Almost Happy-Ending, by Kir from The Kir Corner

Note: This is a guest-post by Kirsten from The Kir Corner.  If you want to know what I have to say about Kir (!), you can read To Kristen, My Friend, With Love, which serves as a prelude to this post.

The Almost-Happy Ending

“There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose your heart’s desire. The other is to gain it.”

-George Bernard Shaw

We all love a happy ending, don’t we?

You know the classic, boy gets the girl; the crisis is adverted, good trumps evil?

I admit that I am a sucker for that scene myself; the passionate kiss, the sword held high in the air, Rocky yelling for his Adrienne with a bruised and battered face.

Yep gets me. Every. Single. Time.

But here’s the shameful secret about my love affair with the happy ending that I am having a hard time confessing, please lean in a little closer, I also enjoy the conflict that gets us there and I don’t always believe in a happily ever after.

Whew, that was hard.

Now, it’s not that I don’t want to.

As a self proclaimed “hopeless romantic“ I embody all the traits and trappings of a person who would give it all up for love and believe in the magic of a world where mice made my dress, the shoe always fit and the rotten good for nothing villains got what was coming to them.

Yet, time and life has taught me many lessons.

One of my favorite movies, “THE MIRROR HAS TWO FACES” with Barbra Streisand and Jeff Bridges has a scene where Barbra’s character talks about that while the “happily ever after” is the desired ending what happens after you get it?

She explains: “They never tell us about Cinderella’s incessant need to clean the castle, cause she missed her day job.” (Cue the student laughter and my pensive pondering)

See?

How many of us have thought that once Prince Charming rode up, the white dress was worn, the job position was secured or the baby we so desperately wanted was born our life would start?

We would be good, better or for lack of another way to say it, “Happy?”

Once upon a time, long before I met my husband, I fell for a man.

We would have made a perfect romantic comedy.

We had attraction, friendship, sex and even the angst that makes all of it interesting.

One of us would call, the other would not. Jealously was inserted when one or the other decided to branch out, date someone else or simply play the games of love.

Yep, we were one step away from a ticket price.

I loved and hated him and I know that he will always own a piece of my heart because of that simple fact.

See, we never “sweated the small stuff”.

Oh sure we gave plenty of time to the big stuff, the vision each of us had for a life, what we saw in our combined futures and what it was about each other that didn’t fit in that frame.

What we never bothered to look at and ponder was the small stuff; the easy way we were together, the fact that our differences could serve us well in a world of children, jobs and stress; that our chemistry could percolate instead of explode.

We just saw the Big Picture and never looked beyond it.

I’m not saying I wish for that life or that man, quite the contrary, but what I am saying is that if I had gotten the Hollywood ending with him, it would have been a lie, made up, scripted and completely false.

But it probably would have been a box office hit.

That quote at the top of this post popped up on my daily quotes on Saturday.

Exactly when I needed it to remind me that sometimes getting the happy ending you perceive and long for is not the end of the story. It might be just the beginning, it might lead somewhere else, and it might teach you something about yourself that you just never knew.

The Happy Ending is a farce; it’s just a door to another room filled with new obstacles and decisions, a place for more compromises and a boatload of lessons to learn.

But it’s also a place filled with the anticipation of new adventures and the simple and sincere hope that our lives mean something and so do the people in it.

That’s why we pursue it.

Because whether you lose your heart’s desire or a gain it, you will always find that you grow and stretch beyond yourself because of it.

The lesson in it will reveal itself eventually and when it does you find that reality is better than the fairytale and that the kiss is still magical, the sword is still held high and you really are the hero of your own boring, but truly amazing, life.