A Quick State of The State

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For those of you who follow this blog with any degree of regularity and/or consistency, you know that I have the worst luck in love.   I pick emotionally fractured men.  Perhaps, it’s all the result of water seeking its own level.  I mean, I can’t deny that I”m not the most mentally healthy bottle in the wine rack…

Then again, I’m not sure anyone out there pounding the pavement of life is without mental or emotional sin in some form or fashion.

But with me?   I collect these men.   Like a menagerie.   They gather round me like I’m this Pied Piper of the Mentally Frayed.   In fact,  a few months ago, I broke up with a man who’s emotional flaws  were so massive, he’s destined to one day be the face of Thorazine.

I had a conversation with another man recently who’s having massive priority issues….namely in that I’m not one of them.  Now, the old Laurie would’ve pouted and stomped her feet and demanded his time and attention, but she would also have been willing to settle for whatever crumbs she could receive.   My self-esteem was such that I would’ve been content to be the seventh most important item on his life’s “To Do” list.  And I was.   I was irrelevant .   From what I understand, I barely bested an upcoming rectal exam.

Be that as it may, I’m relatively proud of the fact that  I’ve emerged from the ashes of all my failed relationships like this mighty Phoenix…but with a  damaged wing.   Admittedly,  I’ve not completely nursed myself back to complete emotional  health, but the mere fact that I’m no longer willing to put up with that which I once was willing to put up with, means forward progression.

But progress has come with a price.  I’ve done some idiotic things to get and keep a man in my life.    

I’ve begged and pleaded.

I’ve cried and moaned and turned myself into women I wasn’t and never wanted to be.  The willing forfeiture of your identity is a tragically heinous  thing and I did it repeatedly. 

Back in 1979, I fell head over heals in love with a fifth string University of Texas Longhorn fullback.  He was also a heavily starched Polo shirt wearing UT Frat Rat who worshipped God, Texas and William F. Buckley, but only when Reagan was busy.  I became this sad, pathetic sorority girl wana be, but I couldn’t pull it off.   I tried to walk the walk and talk the talk and wear the Anne Klien Espadrilles, but I looked like an obvious  knock-off  “Prado” bag  in a sea of real purses.  I still shake my head over that ridiculousness.

Then, I (an inveterate carnivore) became a Vegan for an old Hippie in the early 90′s.

I learned Spanish for another.

I lost 40 pounds for one man because he liked his women thin.  “Women” being the operative word.

And I tried like hell to care for all of them.

And I failed at every relationship.   I never cared that much about any of them.  Not enough, anyway.

But the bigger issue here is that I just didn’t care enough about myself.

So, my self-imposed “no man moratorium” continues and I won’t allow any dalliances or brief flirtations to the contrary.  Now isn’t the time.   It is however time to employ steely resolve.   I still have wounds to heal, lessons to learn and strategies to plan.

And by lessons, I mean learning from  previous mistakes.   

I’ve learned the hard way that there are certain things you simply cannot tell a man.   For example, referencing the current  geo-political climate in an argument for your cause isn’t a good idea.   

Never attempt to tell a man (crazy or sane) that if he DOESN’T fall in love with you, the terrorists will win.

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A Personal Revelation

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There are about 5.9 million reasons why one should never be explicit on a blog.    Once you hit the proper button, these tomes become public  domain for the world to read and pilfer.   Perhaps, the ruthless sorts in the literate world can take this info and use it against you later on.    Though in my case, I’m really not sure what how that would be applicable.

Running for public office is NOT in my future and let’s say for one insane second, that an ambitious wild hair to run somehow took up residence in my ass and put me on that path–even then I would be pretty damn honest about my past which admittedly, has  had a few unsavory and untoward moments.  Nothing illegal mind you; these are things that would most definitely get me grounded for months.

Case in point:  Bill Clinton.   He used extremely bad judgement in admitting he “tried marijuana”, but never inhaled.    

I’m now gonna do what I’ve always done with this admission:  I’ll go Irish on Billy’s blatancy and say Crock O’Shit.

That leads me to believe that this Arkansas bred “poli-playuh” ate his weight in pot laced brownies.    There coould be no other explanation outside of downing  THC capsules.  OK, so he may never have inhaled, but the cat obviously swallowed…..a verb that would come to mean something entirely different in the latter half of his second term in High Office.

You see kids, I have danced on the bottom rung of the show business ladder.  Being on local and regional radio and TV can give your name some semblance of  public recognition.   For example, I worked on a very, very, very popular male oriented morning show in Houston.   We worked blue and admittedly, we were funny.   Our audience covered a wide array of people…from white collar to no collar.   From lawyers to the lawless with the ladder being the far more audacious.  

At an remote broadcast,  I was approached by this man who asked me to sign his penis.   Yep…wanted my signature on his penis.    As the only female on an 11 member morning show, you learn very early on to think quickly.   He lowered the front of his pants to the appropriate length,  displaying what God and his parents’ combined DNA had given him.   I thought to myself, if this asshole wants to be inappropriate, I’ll play. 

I looked down at his member and told him and the crowd surrounding us that I’d be happy to sign it (and thinking this would completely diffuse the situation through abject humiliation), but based on the size, only my initials would suffice.

The son of a bitch STILL wanted me to sign it.

But beyond that,  I was never overtly narcissistic in thinking that I could sit down in front of the camera or crack a microphone and say something pithy that could alter the course of someone’s existence.   But I was certain if I could entertain  my audience to any degree;  if I could make them chuckle, then I could at least, perhaps, maybe  alter someone’s mood and that in and of itself, is win/win.

I also noticed that if I was brutally honest and went public with a few  thigns…not everything,  but a few things; issues with which I had struggled, then others could relate and they’d call in to the show and an open and honest dialog would ensue.

Discussion leads to détente which leads to the breaking down of barriers and understanding which in turn, leads to healing.

And/or years of psychotherapy.

What all of this is leading to is the fact that this past April, I turned 50 and even though I’m still a great piece, I am  (in what I pray to the Great Shiva Goddess) experiencing the last vestiges of menopause.    

That is my personal revelation.

To those women in my audience who have yet to experience this delightful course of physiological transition based on gender chronology; to those men in my audience who never will, it ism physically speaking, one of the worst times of my life.   

I can handle free range periods.   The ones that go and come when and where they want to?   That’s not so bad, but the hot flashes are.   Many woman have attempted to write about this period in their lives with a Bombeckian approach.  I loved Erma, too but I don’t think even this esteemed lifestyle humorist ever quite hit the proverbial nail on the head when it came to fully describing menopause.

Specifically, the hot flashes.  

I don’t know if I can do any better, but considering I’m in the throes of  one mother of a hot flash as I type, I will do my best.

It is as if Satan himself has crawled inside me and after an afternoon of eating fetid cheese, pig knuckles and harbonero chilis, decided to light his farts with a blow torch. 

My body stays in a constant state of thermogenesis.  I am a blast furnace and I radiate heat.   People standing by me can actually feel the radiation in all directions.   Plus, my hot flashes are fever inducing.  Not only that,  I have been forced to become painfully aware of sweat glands in parts of my body that ordinarily, don’t sweat…like toenails, teeth and moles.

I have been told by my sister, Karol and other women who have tread this schvitzy path (creating mud in their wakes) that the end is almost near.

Fine.  Groovy.  I’m OK with endings–this one especially.   And I really don’t care that  my cessation of menstruation brings with it a new title:  crone.    I almost feel honored to be allowed into the sorority. I will consider myself better for the wear and certainly more wizened by the experience.

I welcome change.   

To hammer home that point, I recently cleaned out my bathroom closet where I came face to face with reality…..and boxes of personal items that once so aptly represented fertilty and maidenhood.    I could say goodbye to these once vital items and toss them out,  but I was raised by two parents who were raised during The Great Depression.   I have had “waste not, want not”  engrained in my psyche.

It was time to get creative.

That said, three tampons now level out the uneven feet attached to the wrought iron legs of my dining  table out on my patio and two boxes of extra long Kotex will no doubt help me, Laurie Kendrick, singlehandedly bring back the wonderfully flattering 80′s  fashion look of  big shoulder pads.

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