The fact is I do want to write for other people. I love people, or more especially, persons. (Actually I also love groups of people. But only when I’m drunk.)
For example, I want to write, for people (—no I’m not drunk, it’s 06:38 in the morning, duh. I’m actually, in this case, serious about the plural form—) who are worried about meeting their special someone on Blindr, or whatever it’s called. I want to tell them/you about how my husband and I met at a bar. Yet somehow, 17-plus years later, here we still are.
It was the early 90’s. Fresh out of the 80s. Pre-dot-com boom. Back then, in my serial-monogamy phase, nearly every guy who’d ever meant anything to me, romantically at least, was one I’d met at a party or a bar.
The fact is, in this confusingly crowded-yet-isolating modern society, that in spite of its toxic tendencies, alcohol is a social lubricant. Perhaps Blindr is too. (I dunno, ’cause I never tried the latter. Never had to, yet, at least [knock on wood] because I got so d*mned lucky, and Prince Charming said “Yes.” Or rather I got him to get me to say yes. But in spite of alcohol…(Secrets Revealed time…) it took one year before our first kiss.
Bomb drop. I KNOW. That DEFINITELY wasn’t my idea. And it certainly wasn’t his, either. But I had baggage (in a full-on, or at least, semi-Suitcase One), plus an unspoken rule (master manipulator that I’d become) that I would NEVER chase a guy. And he had baggage, plus an unspoken rule that he would never #MeToo a girl. (Not a bad rule. A great one, actually. But he took it to the extreme. And the rule wasn’t called that, then. Hashtags didn’t exist in the normal world, except on these new-fangled-back-then things called touch-tone phones.) So all he and I did, it seemed, night after cheap-drinks night, was jump each other’s proverbial bones, in our alcohol-sauced fantasies, while in real time we melted into each other’s eyes, snuggling (or moshing) chest-to-chest on the dance floor, to the dulcet tones of Nine Inch Nails, or “Cock the Hammer.” Or Herbie Hancock, if it was 80’s night.
“Cock the Hammer” (Cypress Hill. As in “Cock the hammer/It’s time for action”) was actually our unofficial song. No I’m not kidding. No I never listened to the lyrics. It’s what was playing at the time, and it had a damn good beat. That’s all. I swear. (One thing’s for sure, I definitely didn’t know it was about guns. Not sure if that makes me look any better…)
Anyway. How could two 21/22-year-old people, one reasonably attractive and one DOWNRIGHT FLIPPIN’ GORGEOUS (I’m not joking. He was/is insanely hot), both so attracted to each other, go so long without even kissing, you might ask, in that oversexed era of sex, drugs and rock-n-roll?
Let’s see. Figuring that out will take a bit of a journey through time. And that journey will involve books, ideals, rolling down grassy mountainsides at dawn in hand-sewn dresses, a real-live-deer-in-headlights running down a Canadian main street, a silver puzzle-ring solved in seconds, and most of all, perhaps, a drunk-driving accident. And a few guys and girls in between.
Shall we begin?
[Rewind to 1986.]
[OMFreakinG. I was actually going for Salt-N-Pepa when I went down the YouTube rabbit hole, but how cool was that. #DJAngelo]
1986. I’d just finished word-binging on the long row of seductively white-spined Barlequin Presents novels in my grandma-and-grandpa’s spare bedroom. (Yes. Let’s stick with B-swaps, and yes, that’s the racier, bodice-ripping “Presents” series of Barlequins, not the more chaste “Romance” series. And no, I don’t think my grandma had a clue I’d read any of them, much less all of them.) Series are already like crack for OCD/ADD book lovers (and IBEA bookshelf lovers). Throw in a bunch of wildly-innocent-but-Barbie-doll-proportioned heroines, and savage-beast-turned-prince-charming love interests, stick ’em in front a lovesick girl who gobbled fairytales like Lord of the Rings was about to unfold before her very eyes in the Canadian backwoods of her suburban backyard, and we’ve got a bookcrack problem.
I was around thirteen, on the cusp of puberty. (Awful word, “puperty.” Sounds like “pubes.” Let’s instead call it… morphing into a girl-woman-butterfly. Whatever.) Anyway, at that tenderly raw time in my life, what I probably should have been reading was some 80’s version of TCOYF (a millennial-era book called Taking Charge of Your Fertility). That is an mazing, “science-y,” easy-read, secret-revealing reference book, by the way, which would have explained to me why I was about to see not only reddish-brown stuff, but also white stuff in my underwear, at regular (or sometimes irregular) intervals (can’t believe I’m writing this on the Internet, and I’m not drunk, and no I didn’t have a monthly recurring venereal disease, because I’d never had sex nor would I ever actually feel like it until—)
Aw, man…. My reluctant-to-read little seven-year old came in, a few precious minutes ago, to snuggle up against me. (Hashtag-MomentsOfBliss).
Tends to happen, with kids, as most parents know. Stolen steamy moments, interrupted. And although little Z came in whining, he was hypnotized into silence, as usual, during this otherworldly time in the morning, by the words appearing like seeming magic across the digital page of my laptop. Except that this time, he’s actually reading them. Out loud. Go figure. The one time I am actually writing about S-E-X, he wants to read, out loud. And no amount of quickly-trying-to-scroll-up-or-down-the-page-between-typing is distracting him from it.
(—“What does “S-E-X” mean, Mama?)
(—“It means sex.”)
Gotta go. Time to help the kids get ready for school. And talk with them, quite likely (as what usually happens, laced through all the everyday tasks), in a kid-friendly (well-one-can-always-try) way, about all the stuff I’ve just written about here.
Catchya later, peeps (as we used to say in the eighties).
[Post-school run, and no I didn’t have time to talk with the kiddos about anything, after writing-a-post-like-that-up-till-the-last-possible-minute, are you kidding me? #RealityCheck #SadSacrifices #ButMaybeLaterAfterSchool]
P.S. [Post-school run] Isn’t the below vid freaking amazing? Last weekend I listened (through headphones) to Herbie Hancock at MuPop, the region’s pop music museum, and maaaan, were the kids not-even-embarrassed to see me “break it down” (sooooo badly) in the middle of the dance-floor-I-mean-show-room. Not embarrassed, that is, because there was no one else in that room except us. Hashtag-ThingsILoveAboutLivingInTheZoneOfEmptiness.
Yup, that was me breakin’ it down at minute 02:35.
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P.P.S. Turns out Herbie’s a Buddhist. Like Tina Turner is. And, like Tina does, he chants Nam Myoho Renge Kyo. I was hoping to find a YouTube track of Herbie’s version, too, but I didn’t. So I share with you instead something perhaps even more amazing, from said living legend. It’s this:
Good gods, what a crazy, beautiful evolving world this is. Brilliant shining stars though they may be, if Tina can do it, and Herbie can do it, and even white guy from A-Ha can do it (I can say that, can’t I? Coming from “white privilege” as I do?), then, maybe, just maybe, so can the rest of us, too. We can be old and cool.
Ciao for now,
for real this time.
This post was built from “one true sentence,” just like the last one was.
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OHHHHHH SHOOOT. Just one more thing. US friends, please go VOTE in the Midterm Elections. Like right now. Or after work. Whatever. Just do it, today.
#BlackLivesMatter #AllLivesMatter #BorderChildren #FamiliesBelongTogether #MakeChange #SaveDemocracy
Notes/refs/disclaimers/OCDocumentarianisms: Written and published 2018-11-06, then unpublished immediately afterward when I was reminded it was voting day for the USA; published a “vote now” post instead, then republished 2018-11-20 (with the original post date)…]