PromQueenSubdued

I have accidentally become addicted to John Updike. I did not mean to. I meant to read A Month of Sundays and move on to other novels by other authors.  But, that is not what happened. Couples leapt off the shelf and grabbed me by the shirt collar. Then Witches of Eastwick on audio jumped out at me the last time I was at the library. All this fiction flying out of the stacks! And now, I am so entrenched that I cannot put down James Yerkes's John Updike and Religion: The Sense of the Sacred and the Motions of Grace. Yes, I know, when I am reading commentaries, I have gone off the deep end.

Updike's quote which moved me from solidly interested to seriously crushing was delivered when he was receiving the Campion Medal: "... the Christian faith has given me comfort in my life and, I would like to think, courage in my work. For it tells us that truth is holy and that truth-telling is a noble and useful profession; that the reality around us is created and worth celebrating; that men and women are radically imperfect and radically valuable." YES! YES! YES! That is a totally sexy statement to me. I love the idea that there is a a sacredness to telling stories which have deep truths at their core. Certainly this is evidenced in Christ's parables which pepper the gospels. And, of course, non-religious folks could feel all these things without needing a creating God at the center. But, I do have one, a creating God that is, and hearing Updike speak about how his faith influenced his work has me reading differently.

Another essay discusses why he picked his topics. He said that sex, religion and art are "the three great secret things".  Updike states he chose to talk so much about sex because it was nearly universal. And, it was an entry point into the other two. Plus, sex, in his opinion, and in the opinion of Freud and Kierkegaard and others, and death were uniquely and critically linked. Sex was the ultimate manifestation of feeling alive in the face of our eventual death.

I strongly remember the first time I  heard this. It was fall of my junior year in high school. Our English teacher had just gotten her doctorate in theater at Berkley and come back to Texas to take care of her aging parents. She had no ideas about what you should and should not say to a room full of hormone laden 16 year olds. During a discussion on Hamlet, she went off on the pairings of sex and death in literature. She really went off. Hijacked the entire lecture with examples from Shakespeare, Cole Porter, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Hemingway ...... and others who now escape me.  Our suburban minds were shocked. We sat there wide-eyed and stunned. However, It was all we could talk about at lunch. Most of us had not "gone all the way" and the whole idea of orgasm being "the little death" certainly confused us. Even if we had messed around in the backs of cars, the guys were rarely talented enough yet to get us screaming for deities and fighting against our own mortality. 

Interestingly, Valentine's Day seems like an interesting day to explore such passionate themes. And where better than poetry. First, Updike, in a somewhat silly, sensual poem titled "Food". And then a favorite of mine which very gently combines  sex and death, in the midst of a sonnet about love and loss. Enjoy. And may your day be filled with sensuousness and passion.

Food by John Updike

    It is always there,
    Man’s real best friend.
    It never bites back;
    it is already dead.
    It never tells us we are lousy lovers
    or asks us for interview.
    It simply begs, Take me;
    it cries out, I’m yours.
    Mush me all up, it says;
    Whatever is you, is pure.

Love Sonnet XLV by Pablo Neruda

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because--
because--I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run
together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty
distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander lazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

I went to a concert out of town and decided to get a hotel room  on Friday night so that I did not have to do the three hour drive home solo at midnight. Because I do not travel for work, being alone in a hotel is an unusual event for me. It was luxuriant to set my own bedtime and wakeup time. No early morning, “Hey Mom, what’s for breakfast? Pancakes, right, because it is a weekend?! And bacon? Or omelets? Or  ** insert any food here which requires mom to rise and prepare with the speed and accuracy of an IHOP short order cook** ?”

None of that. Just bath, cool room, lying naked under big covers and sleep. Glorious, dark, uninterrupted sleep. Until 8 in the morning. When I was awakened by a knocking on the wall. A headboard knocking on the wall. Rhythmically. Repeatedly. And, at a nice pace; not too fast, and not too slow but, as Goldilocks would say, just right.

Now, I really like hearing about people sexploits. I read erotica – a lot of erotica. I even occasionally write some. I have been to naked places where people are having sex near me. YouPorn does not inherently squick me out, although it rarely inspires me to greatness of my own. But, in these occasions, sex is likely to be on the menu for me sometime soon as well. These things are a prelude to ramp-up the excitement level for some action of my own in the near future.  Solo in a hotel, hearing a happy couple do what happy couples do in hotel rooms on a Saturday morning was, frankly, annoying. Instead of celebrating their bump and grind, I was pissed off that it was not I playing mattress hockey.

It is has been over a year since the hubs and I dashed out of town to a hotel solo to spend  one Saturday morning avenging the spirit of the short order cook that appears 51 weekends a year.  Apparently my soul is hungry for such shenanigans.  Time to cash in those Marriot Rewards. * smile *

Last Friday I trekked out of town to spend a few hours each with 3 friends I have known since high school. The time spent with each of them was wonderful, amazing, insightful, joyous and tear-filled. Each session had big emotions and big reveals. The afternoon felt like a mix of a 6 hour therapy marathon and the season ender of "The Biggest Loser", "Home Makeover" and "American Idol" all in one sitting. (Not that I watch those - still fan girl for "The Office" and "Californication". But, from hearing others talk, the big reveal moments are always emotion-filled). One comment, among many, that had me mulling is, "Anger is a dragon protecting deep treasure."

Also last week, a different friend told me I worry too much. This would be a good time to add that in this season of life, I find myself strongly relying on my friends for their insights about me. I think I am in the mood to be coached. I have signed up with a personal trainer, and am seeing the results of another person's eyes and expertise looking at my habits and helping me change them. I feel like I am asking this of my dear friends, too. "Hey, btw, when you have time ............ could you remind me who I was before cancer and heart attacks and mortgages and parenting turned me into a bundle of nerves? I know I have grown and strengthened, but I think some whimsy and joy got left along the road when I did not mean for it to. What do you think? And ..... when you have more time to think about ME, how the hell do I get it back? Just curious .... if it is not too much of an imposition."

I find myself looking backward and forward in time, but having a hard time hanging out in the present. And I want to be in the present. I think it is important. One of the things that most amazes me about Christ is his ability to know the past and the future, but still have such laser focus on the moment at hand. Plus, thinking far in the future, promotes that aforementioned worry. "Distance creates monsters in my head," I wrote to a friend today. In relationships of importance, for me, this is especially true. If I am used to talking to someone like my mom every week, then when I have gone two weeks, I begin to fret. When I have not had a real or cyber conversation which lasts long enough to drink a cup of tea as we chat in a relationally expected time period, I create imaginary monsters.

And monsters put strain. I act insecurely. I imagine woes where none exist. I seek affirmation. And I have been creating this particular flavor of monster as long as I remember. And I am pretty fucking tired of it.  I deeply want to get to a place where when distance of time or talk occurs, my first thought is not, "Wonder what I did to offend?" but "I wonder what joys and challenges are so filling both of our lives that we are too busy to catch up?"

Because I know for me, the flash of anger dragon will always hang out at the gate when important treasures of my heart feel threatened. And monsters will keep popping up on distant horizons as relationships ebb and flow. But they can be nicer "Pete's Dragon" style dragons. And funnier, cuddlier Sesame Street monsters. And I can learn to giggle with them when they come out to play.

Two readers offline asked me what cheese could be so grand that it caused me to lose my equilibrium and hit my head. (Aside - why offline? Happy to hear folks are reading, but you can post here. Just make up a name and a fake email if you do not want me to know who you are. Am I mean to Arthur when he comments?)

Okay, you who asked are probably the one who are annoyed when I am hanging out in food and politics instead of sex. Truth is, if I am not having sex, then I overcompensate with amazing food. I have occasionally wondered if I went a month with exactly the type and frequency of sex I wanted (selfish I know), if I would not care the slightest about epicurean delights. Something tells me they are very related for me, both being such hedonistic pursuits. Perhaps they actually beget each other. But, if you ever hear me doing a week on Chick-Fil-A and beanie weenies, you should wonder what the hell I am up to.

I had three cheeses. The first was Fog Lights by Cypress Grove. I had tried their Humboldt Fog before, and it amazed. Fog Lights is a knock your socks of tart, flavorful cheese. You would think stinky, but it is not. Unless you did not like the flavor, and then that taste-olfactory connection would lead you to believe it smelled bad. This is a Grand Dame/Diva cheese. No one else has room onstage if you are eating this one. Instead of a more traditional ash line ( that is what Humboldt Fog has) this has ash all between the cheese and the rind. It is a soft goat cheese, and normally with those I eat the rind, as I did here. But should you choose to do that, this cheese really belongs at the end of the meal in a true cheese course. Think assaulting your taste buds with wasabi, then trying to taste the nuances of food. Not very damn likely. It was wonderful. It was amazing. I will certainly eat it again. But it is not for the faint of heart. And at room temp the rind remained a little stiff, so next time I think I will just scoop out the gooey goodness in the middle to see if that makes it play better with others. If you are unsure of your audience, Humbolt Fog is the safer, delicious choice.

Cheese number 2 was Nancy's Hudson Valley Camembert. This cheese at room temperature is meltingly delicious. On apples - it was the bomb. Last night its star status was obviously eclipsed by the Fog Lights. I think the Hudson Valley felt a little pouty at being relgated to second fiddle. It was so close to a triple cream that I kept checking the label. Amazingly wonderful. Perfect to share. Any fan of soft cheeses would love this. Even here it is not getting the due it deserved because it was so upstaged.

Cheese number 3. If I hade been doing a cheese tray for company, obviously here I would have put a cheddar variant. Or at least something orange. My personal fave here is Cahill's Porter Cheese because it is laced with Guinness and it looks amazing on the plate. But, this was for the princesses, so I picked my favorite semi-hard Spanish cheese, Iberico. it is a blend of three milks, and it is not as dry as a manchega which makes it easier to slice when on the board. Their vote was that it ws too soft. Good Lord. My 12 year old said, "Mom you could have just bought Port Salut." What a sassy little cheese snob I am raising! So, when I am including cheese for them, one click softer than a brick of parmesan is apparently as soft as I am allowed to venture.

The frommage amazed, however my scale and my pocketbook will have me back in life-sans cheese for at least a month. It will take at least that long to run off the effects of last night.

The Queen is having a rather slow afternoon. Unloading groceries from the back of the minivan, distracted by the astounding quality of cheese she was going to consume for dinner tonight, her royal majesty hit her forehead extremely hard while closing the hatchback. Sink to her knees hard. Curse out loud hard. Drop the bags hard. Still seeing stars 2 hours later hard.  My forehead is developing a lovely shiner. People at church tomorrow might think my husband beats me, but they know he is kind, and I am klutsy, so probably not. Thank goodness I decided to get bangs covering my forehead this fall. I still have the energy to assemble the cheese tray and cook the side dishes, but I will have to pass off grill duties to the spouse.

What I really wanted to chat about today though was my new dream sex toy. Guess ............... what do you think I would list? ................ Are you picturing it? ........................ My answer is ............. a kitchen timer. Yep, that is what I meant to say. I am still all about kissing this week. Cannot get it out of my brain. And, I think any sex is better if it starts with great teasing, ramping up kissing. The rules should be no hands under clothes. You are free to tease from the outside: stiff cocks through jeans, taut nipples through bra and shirt. But the only exposed skin contact is that which is normally exposed in everyday public life. And lots of kissing. For 30 minutes. I would be tempted to cut the fun short. Hence the timer. I think if I did this, at the end of the 30 minutes, the sex would be sheer magic. Just thinking about it is making the possibility of sex sparkly and making my head spin. Oh wait, those are the stars from hitting my head.