A Note on Recovery

I really intended on writing during my recovery, but I didn’t.

First, I should give a medical update: I had my surgery in September, recovered speedily, and was back at work by mid- to late-October. Here is the strange part of having surgery while one is single: the scariest part of the surgery for me was the meeting with the surgeon before the surgery, where I initialed that I could die, where I initialed that I could be paralyzed, and signed that I understood a bunch of other unlikely but possible side-effects.

But during the surgery and afterwards, I was surrounded not by family, but by friends who lived near me. I was really surprised at how comfortable I was with the whole situation. I am a very private person (ergo, the blurred image of me more than a dozen years ago), but it was so nice to have so many people help me at the surgery and afterwards.

I remember the “it takes a village to raise a child.” Turns out it takes a village to raise a divorcee as well.

A really quick update.

In the past, I have been accused of being a tease. And you know what, I can’t dispute that fact. I have found that being a tease gets results. What else can I say? If one never gets whatever.

I am conquering the world, I suppose. I have gotten divorced from the love of my life, I have moved half way across the country, and I have a new job. I have made lots of friends . . . which I was really not sure I could do . . . and I have dated a bit.

I have been writing, but really just for friends.

And next week, I will have a major surgical operation. It has taken me quite some time to arrive at the decision to have the operation. It is dangerous but necessary. I know there are a few people who still monitor my blog . . . a blog that has been really dormant for a couple of years.

Once I get home from the hospital, I may write. I am not sure how I will feel or if my writing will be any good. I will be on painkillers for more that a week, so I might just describe the colors in my convalescence room.

And what is sort of funny to me is that even though it is major surgery, I am as concerned . . . or more concerned with what scar my neurosurgeon will leave.

I'm Not Back

For the handful of people who have me listed as a feed, I am not back. I just needed to post and image, and and since I really have no other presence on the web, I am using this old Blogger account. Sorry that the image has nothing to do with the blog . . . I just needed a way to post an image.

For those of you who know me . . . or I should say, "who knew me from my writing", I would hope you would be surprised that I am participating in one of these multi-player something or other games. Well, it is not not truly something I would have predicted for myself. I guess I got hooked at the beginning because there were these "quests" . . . if you clicked on a few things, the computer told you that you did a good job and rewarded you with a few little digital prizes. I am by no means a gamer, but if someone says I am doing well and gives me a gift on top of that, I am a complete sucker and will stick around. Sort of happened with my writing here . . . no digital gifts, but the praise in the comments and the mention on other blogs hooked me. My dirty little secret, I suppose.

Well, the game does not praise me anymore and the small group of people who I met online and was part of their group threw me out because they thought I was communicating with a bully. So I am sure it is a matter of time before the game loses its allure completely. And honestly, making things is much more appealing than fighting people. On the blog, I liked creating blog entries and building up people's confidence by saying good (and true) things about their writing. It was not as fun to tear down someone's writing - point out a comma fault or an argument that, well, was not cogent.

Sorry about the tease. Part of me wants to come back and write every once in a while, but I am not sure that would be a good idea long term. Book ideas still in my head but not on paper. And I hope the best to each and every one who I met while blogging. I hope there are a few still around.

Marlo Thomas Tweets?

I was reading a blog the other day, and it said something having a conversation with Marlo Thomas, then comma, a best-selling erotic novel writer. It seemed that Marlo Thomas started writing erotic novels. So I clicked on the link, which brought me to her Twitter account. Apparently the person who wrote the words were a bit vague, and the comma separated two idea; it was not their attention to attribute the "best-selling erotic novel writer" description to Ms. Thomas. Anyway, I clicked on a link from her Twitter account, and it brought me to one of her videos.

I had not seen Ms. Thomas for years (really just remember her in Free to be You and Me), and although I was unable to identify her with how she looks (she looks really good, actually, for a 73-year-old; I would have guessed she was 50 by her appearance), her voice has not changed at all.

The video went to another Marlo Thomas video, and another one. And I loved her videos. They made me feel like I was 10 years-old again, listening to someone tell me how to live my life. I don't know exactly how to explain it, but it was comforting. I felt like I was listening to her words on a record player (not a turntable), sitting on my twin-sized bed, floral colorful printed bedspread, the whole little-girl enchilada. I like feeling like a 10-year-old every once in a while.

After a while, the cue must have run out of Marlo Thomas clips, and I was snapped into reality by some other person – perhaps Tory Johnson talking about career advice. And I was not ready to put on a pantsuit and act like a grownup.

Speaking of women with interesting names (Marlo), I have a confession to make: I get Alanis Morissette and Avril Lavigne mixed up in my head. Ironic is one of my favorite songs, even though it does not make sense. And I really though Avril sang Girlfriend.

Don't pretend, I think you know I'm damn precious,
And hell yeah I'm the mother fucking princess,
I can tell you like me too and you know I'm right.

Having Your Cake

When I used to blog – and I was fairly good at it – I would write first thing in the morning, and then check on the blog a couple of times per day, harvesting the comments like plump, juicy red tomatoes in the afternoon sun. I would respond to the comments, being oh, so pleased with myself.

When I was a little girl, we had a garden in the backyard. In late July and August, I would be responsible for picking the tomatoes. I would travel down each row, looking for the bright red treasures, sometimes exposed for all to see and sometimes hidden under two well-placed leaves. That is really what I enjoyed about the summer; finding the gifts, either easily spotted or well-hidden. The comments I would pick were so similar. I knew I could count on Deb, on Grant, on Ian, on some others to write comments. And then there would be occasional readers, unique readers, just different readers commenting on my words.

Now it is different. I write in the morning, and I read a few blogs after I write. I do this perhaps three times per week, knowing that I need to read others' writing to feel more connected. Instead of taking several hours per day, paid for by my employer, I now spend about 30 minutes three days per week. I still get to do all of the things I normally do, and then three times per week, I get to write a bit.

I am having my cake and eating it too, I suppose. Comments and tomatoes. No mention of cake.

Ode to a Vibrator

Deb wrote something on Friday about stifling. And, well, it inspired me to write a few verses of poetry. When I was in high school, we had to write a lot of poetry – and since I hated it, I rebelled by making fun of many of the teachers in the school. You see, my English teacher was the advisor for the school’s literary magazine, and I did not want any of my words going in that thing. So without any fanfare, here is an original poem by Leesa.

Ode to a Vibrator

Oh, my three plastic egg,
So discrete and cute,
With a remote control that’s easy to use,
This “friend” of mine is a bute.’

I got you as a gag gift,
Accepting it made me blush,
Who knew you would become a welcome friend,
This fact you have to hush.

I don’t need to shave my legs,
I don’t need to brush my hair,
I just need to ensure the batteries are fresh,
Before I place you . . . there.

You’re always at my bedside table,
I am never ever in need,
You never say things to pressure me,
Into doing the deed.

I don’t have to be polite,
I don’t have to laugh at your jokes,
I don’t have to make coy suggestions,
Before you pleasure me with your electronic strokes.

You are designed for going out,
You are designed for playing an erotic game.
I can’t imagine bringing you to a bar inside of me,
For I am much too tame.

Oh, my AA-powered friend,
I don’t have to lie,
If I want you three times per day,
My actions don’t have to be sly.

You expect nothing from me,
You silently sputter and hum along,
I don’t have to wear a push-up bra,
With a matching, uncomfortable thong.

So while you don’t take me to dinner,
Buy me roses or other mushy stuff
You bring me something (cough) few men have,
And trust me, that’s more than enough.

Curse of 27

I saw an article today by E! Online, entitled "Did Amy Winehouse Suffer the Curse of the 27 Club?". I really wanted to blast the statistics, but the article itself claimed that no more people died at 27 than at any other age. That would have been my point. The article also said that numerologists dislike 27 because the digits add to nine.

Have you ever noticed that numerologists are all about simple math? I mean, they deal with additions and subtractions, and translating letters into numbers (Nero = 666).

Well, I looked at the people who died at 36, taking the numerologists's perspective, and here are some of the famous people who died at that age: Lord Byron, Bob Marley, Marilyn Monroe, And princess Diana. And the weirdest thing about that the entries is that princess Diana is listed as "Diana Spencer, much-photographed glamorous blonde and Elton John song topic (July 1, 1961 -- August 31, 1997)." I would think princess of England and heir to the throne at one time trumps glamorous blond.

Tomorrow I will post an original poem. Be gentle.