Water, Water, Everywhere.

I am happiest when I'm near water, but I'm ecstatic when that water is contained within a lake. There is something about being from Minnesota that only my friends who grew up near a lake (or a few steps away from a lake) can understand. It's almost impossible to put it into words.

But today, on an early Saturday morning, I'm going to try.

There's a line in my poem, "Bijou," that reads: "I learned to swim among Ironwood and Maple." It's my favorite line. It makes me think of the trees being witnesses to everything that happened in and on and by the lake. And there was plenty. I learned how to swim among Ironwood and Maple. Learned how to hold my breath, tread water, float, keep my three obnoxious brothers from drowning me. I learned how to sit on the bottom of the lake with my friends and talk without swallowing the entire lake. Learned how to listen through the gurgles to make out silly words. Sometimes we would build forts under the canoe, or swim under the raft by the Iversons, using the headspace of air to spill our deepest secrets. I learned how to dive off of a dock, learned how to avoid leaches and bullhead's whiskers. I learned how to waterski behind a boat whose motor was so small I'm surprised it could even lift us up. I fished and cleaned the fish I caught with worms we would dig up in the moist hills around the lake.

There were days in the summer that my friends and I wouldn't leave the lake even to eat lunch. We'd forget about dinner, choosing to have sandwiches brought to us on the deck so we wouldn't have to change out of our suits. I considered swimming in the lakes, when I was a child, a bath. Never worried about my hair, or skin, or the sun's rays beaming down on us for hours. If you lived on a lake, you had several swimsuits, so you might have a dry one to change into if you were somehow convinced to leave the lake to go to church or to town for some errand or if a storm was rolling through. Putting on a wet swim suit, however, wasn't the worst thing that could happen to you. 

A few years ago, I went home and swam. I woke up in the early morning, put on my swimsuit, ran down the steps of my parent's new home by a lake I was not familiar with, jumped in -- gasping a little bit at the feeling of cool hitting my body all at once, then my insides practically exploding at the feeling of the water curling its way around my outside and insides so perfectly, then immediately laid back and floated -- looked up at the sky and watched the clouds roll by. I didn't notice time passing, or my father coming to the dock to see if I remembered how to swim, or even the fact that water was rushing into my ear canal where it would later nourish and house bacteria giving me one of the worst cases of water ear and inner ear infections I had ever had in my life. In both ears.

But I would do it again. And will in about eighteen days, I imagine. This time with earplugs.

And a prescription of penicillin just in case.

Have Plenty

This is not my nail polish collection. I have mine under my bed, on my wall, in one of those little organizer things on wheels, etc. But to show a smidgen of the magnitude of my problem, I needed to show a big picture of a collection. This picture shows about 700 bottles. I have roughly 400 more polishes than that. The good news is that I have not bought a bottle of nail polish in nearly a year. The bad news is I still want to buy more. I'm slowly going through my polish collection because there is no way I can ever go through the amount of polish I have. I know that seems rather obvious when looking at a picture like this, but for people who collect things like me, it doesn't matter. You can never get enough.

Without going too deep into the psychology of my issues, let me just skip to the bottom line and say: I have a problem. I believe it can be traced back to when I was four years old. There I was, freshly adopted, a little black girl in a town of about four hundred people (not kidding) and I started to have dreams. At first the tights dream was cute. In it I would wake up (in my dream) and wander over to my dresser, open up the top drawer, and a rainbow of tights would fly out at me. I was so excited because my mother only allowed me to have one pair of white tights and one pair of black tights. Before I get on the mom kick, though, let me say that it's not my mother's fault. We didn't have the money for extravagances. I didn't need a rainbow of tights, I just wanted it. I wanted to know that no matter what I wore, I would always have a pair to match. It was the feeling of fulfillment -- of having everything that I wanted. More than I wanted-- having plenty.

So I have brought this bit of neurosis to my adult life and I still collect things. I want more than anyone else. It's not exactly greed, because I share, but only if I know I won't run out. Never mind -- it is greed. I have to have extra, plenty, an over abundance.

I watched Catfish the other day.  It's my guilty pleasure, and I have a pretty good idea of what makes people pretend and lie and scheme in order to have more. It all gets traced to the same thing: a lack of something in one area makes an almost unbearable need to drown another area to a breaking point of indulgence. Silence and neglect from your parents creates a deficit that you feel you need to fulfill by getting love and caring from a stranger. It never will be enough though. I know that a catfish will never stop at one person -- they need more affection because that one person might not be available. Catfish doesn't only mean you steal pictures and pretend to be someone else -- it also means you steal or lie about affections, afflictions, problems, heartaches, experiences -- anything to get you something more. More love. More attention. More sympathy. More.

Ask me how many red fingernail polishes I have. And I will argue with you, knowing I'm insane. They are a different hue, I'll tell you. I may need that shade for this or for that. And I'll organize my reasoning like I'm a lawyer on a case with naked fingernails. Yeah. I hardly wear it. I just need to have it.

A person who is lacking in one area in their life will always hoard something to make up for that void. The thing that becomes the filler is not important. Before I stumbled on fingernail polish, I collected lipstick. Before that I collected eyeshadows. Before that I collected pens. Journals. Stationary. Cards. Things. All putty. All filler.

So I needed to find in this stuff the hurt that never quite got healed. And I need to fill it with my own knowledge that I will survive. That little kid with the big hurt is going to make it, just like the adult me will take on any obstacle and survive. And then I will be able to let go of the stuff.

And I'll dance from sheer joy and lightness.

What a Girl Wants

 So, what does a girl want, Kari? First, a disclosure:

I know I am not a girl anymore, but I like the name of the song -- what a girl wants. You know, Xtina. Anyway -- please don't go feminist movement on me and tell me you're not a girl  (also a song, by the way!). Also please note that I'm not speaking for every girl. I can only speak for me. But "What this woman wants" doesn't catch you as well as the title I chose. :) 

I often ask the question about what people want on the page Lesbian Love and Advice, and I get the same canned responses. Everyone knows that you don't want games, you don't want a player, you want honesty, you want commitment and love... those things should just be assumed. No one enters a relationship not wanting to be loved. What I'm curious about are the things we don't always ask for, but secretly really need. These are the things that could potentially break up a couple -- leaving the person to write a "Dear LLA" letter about how they "didn't see this coming."

So here is my list of six things I want, but don't always think to ask for, but am always happy when I get.

1. A girl wants attention.  Yes, yes, yes. Attention is good. Real good. I love lots of attention. If you don't have attention to give me, however, I'm more than happy to wait until you are able to give me the attention I so desperately crave. Wanting attention is not a bad thing. A girl saying she wants attention should not cue the valet to get your car so you can make a fast getaway, either. I'm currently dating a woman who works all.the.time. But she gives me a whole lot of attention when she has it to give and that's what counts. Good morning texts. Good night texts. Texts on breaks during work. Phone calls on the way to work. Phone calls on the way home from work. Phone calls before we go to bed. We are probably sickeningly over the top when it comes to attention, but I give her equal amounts. And why? I don't want her to think that I take her for granted. I don't want her to wonder if I'm thinking about her. I want to know I'm on her mind and I want her to know she's on mine. It feels good. I like it. 
2. A girl wants compliments.  Yes, I might not be good at taking a compliment in. I may argue, and tell you you're crazy. But I like being told I'm pretty. I like being told I have pretty lips, or soft skin. I like being told I kiss well. I also like compliments about my writing, or compliments about how sweet I am or how I make you laugh. I love to give compliments because I like for people to know I appreciate and adore them. If I am not showing my appreciation for my partner, then some slut woman might come along and scoop in -- she'll fill my woman's head up with all kinds of compliments she secretly needs to hear from me, and maybe that will fill a void. No, thank you! Back up Sistergirlfriend, I got this. It's not just because I'm worried about someone stealing her that I tell her how beautiful I think she is -- she'd be beautiful even if she was with someone else (not really, but it sounded good)-- I want her to know that I see her beauty in everything that she does and in every way that she is. People need compliments. They are like hugs for your insides. 
3. A girl wants to laugh.  If you can make me laugh, you have won a part of me forever. I love to laugh. If you have a sense of humor (dry with a side of sarcasm) you're in. Laughing is good for you. It makes you healthy-- is proven to reduce stress and lower your blood pressure if it's too high. It's a work out for your heart so it makes you stronger. It also curbs grouchiness and bitchiness. Many, many of my bitchiest moments have been eliminated because of laughter. It's a tool to make me put down my weapon, my suitcase, my argument I think I need. We need to have more fun in our relationships. It's not that serious. It really rarely is. 
4. A girl wants to be shown off.  Now, here we come with the facebook stuff. This is why statuses matter. Disagree if you want, but go ahead now (if you're not with someone) and change your status to "in a relationship" or if you're in a relationship and the name is there, take her name off and just leave it as "in a relationship" and see what happens. Yes, if she knows you are together it shouldn't matter, but ask yourself how she knows you're together. Do you go out at night? Do you introduce her to your friends? Do you know the name of her mama and did you text her for her birthday last week? A girl wants to know that you are proud to be seen with her, and if you are having a facebook romance and she doesn't have the luxury of being on your arm at a party or at a restaurant or at your friend's wedding in a few weeks, then your status is EVERYTHANG. Facebook aside, I like it when she tells me she showed a picture of me to one of her friends, or when she tags me in her posts, or when she comments on a picture and then steals it for her wallet, or whatever else she does that makes me feel that she is proud to be seen with me. 
5. A girl wants you to remember.  "I know you don't like green," I told her today while writing this post. "You remember the most random of things," she replied. And of course she is right. I don't remember well. It's taken me forever to remember her birthday, and I still have to ask her what sign she is, even though I can look it up and she reads our horoscopes out loud practically every day. I blame it on my age, but I think it's probably more a cause of my inattentive ass. Not remembering important things will take a toll on the relationship, eventually. If someone has to repeat things left and right, then they begin to feel that their words are not important to you -- that they are not important to you. So I've taken to writing things down. And when I don't hear something that she says, I try (I'm trying!) to say "can you repeat that, I wasn't paying attention."  It's not fun to admit you're not paying attention, but it beats having her have to repeat things over and over again. On the other side of the coin, I want her to remember everything I tell her (and she does!) so it's only fair that I put in the effort to remember things she says as well. 
6. She wants to feel safe.  I want to feel safe emotionally as well as physically. I don't want my heart broken, so I will look for possible hints of that happening and bail whenever I see the markers. A person's temper, the way they handle conflict, the way they handle their own emotions, the way they are with family and friends -- all of these things will be clues for a woman in how safe they will be with another person. Will you walk on her right side or left?  Will you text while driving or even multitask while driving? Will you use drugs or smoke and drink? Will you let things bottle up and then explode or do you talk about things or walk away until you can? How are you with your money (what little or how much you have?) Do you give to other women the same kinds of things you give to her. (I'll say it again.) Do you give other women the same types of attention, compliments, time, and pieces of you you give to her. All these things fall under the category of "safety." It's human nature to not want to be hurt. If you're not on the side of wanting to protect and eliminate as much hurt from her life as possible, then you can only be on the side of introducing hurt to her. 

There you have it: the six things this girl wants.

What are yours? 

Why the rush?

My news feed on my Lesbian Love and Advice profile page looks a little bit like this:

• Screw her. I'm done. I can be happy by myself. 4/20/14
• I think I found the one. Only time will tell.  4/30/2014 
• I'm in love. I can't believe I finally found her. Thank you Jesus.  5/3/2014
• "Engaged" 5/10/2014 
• Shaniqua Jackson Abdul (My ex) called. She sounds good. Looks better. (She sent me tons of pictures -- some partially nude. No biggie -- seen it all before, except that new piercing!) But I'm happy and told her. 5/20/2014
• Now friends with Shaniqua Jackson Abdul. 5/21/2014 
• My girl is just gonna have to understand that my ex is my best friend. I don't want her back, but she knows me better than anyone. 5/31/2014 
• Married! I'm so happy. So in love. We're already looking into having kids together.  6/3/2014 
• I hate love. Biggest mistake I ever made. I can't believe she thought I was cheating, and then went out and cheated on me with her ex. Isn't anyone loyal anymore? 6/4/2014. 

Seriously, loves. Why the rush?

Being alone is not a bad thing. Working on yourself isn't a bad thing. I can tell you that in my forty-seven years of life, a blink of an eye in the moment of my life was spent with another person.  I'm not proud of that. I would have liked to have been with someone and had a family and been thinking about retiring and traveling and graduations of our children and things by now. But that's not how my life mapped itself out. And while it was in the process of being planned, I went on with my life. Being alone isn't the worst thing in life. Being with yourself and spending time alone prepares you for being with someone else. You have to know who you are before you can be with someone else. If you don't know how you deal with your own temper, how can you teach your partner to? If you don't know what makes you happy, how can you even begin to expect your lover to know? And if you don't know who you are, and what gifts you have to offer, then my guess is that your life is going to pretty much look like my time frame up there times about four for each year of your life.

Why the rush?

Being in a relationship is lovely, don't get me wrong. But it's almost like these days people don't understand that you can have friendships that can give you intimacy as well (albeit a different kind, granted). You can have hobbies that provide you with something to spend your time on. You can join organizations that give you a sense of community. You don't have to find the first available person in which to attach yourself to in order to be validated. You don't need another person to tell you you are amazing or beautiful or desirable. And, if you want me to go there -- you don't even need another person to give you an orgasm. Find some erotica, get yourself a toy and have at it. Because some of the quickie relationships I see going on are not only doing a disservice to you as a person, but a disservice to the other person as well. And for what? A self esteem boost and an orgasm?

Putting myself and my plans onto another person would mean that I have nothing to work on myself. I have books to write, and a 5K to run one day. I always wanted to teach spin classes at a local gym, and I swear one day I will lose the weight I have been trying to lose now since Michael Jackson was alive and black. I'd like to finish my education, maybe. Maybe teach. And then there's the volunteer work I want to do -- mainly tutoring. There's places I want to travel to, and there are many people I want to meet. I do not need to be in a relationship to achieve all these things. For me to moan and cry about not having the perfect partner when I have all these things I can accomplish without the perfect person by my side feels like I'm putting a whole lot of pressure on a stranger to complete me: all of my dreams and all of my hopes and desires wrapped up in a status change.

Again, why the rush?

I'm the kind of girl…

I'm usually always barefoot. I liked running around our lake home in as little as possible, and that meant no shoes for me. Maybe a pair of flip flops, but that was even pushing it. If need be, I'll put on some dress shoes and I admire a nice pair of heels. I think that shoes make the outfit more often than not, but at the event you'll find me with my feet curled under neath me and my shoes under the table.

I'm usually always in a well worn t-shirt and shorts or leggings if I'm relaxing at home. I love being comfortable and I will mourn a great t-shirt, letting it be buried only when the holes in it reveal more than is proper for a woman my age to be exposing.

I can not sleep if my feet are dry. I will have to put lotion on my feet right after my shower at night because dry feet will wake me up.

I will sell my soul for a great pen. I'm stuck on sharpie color pens at the moment, but even those are a little bit not so perfect, although they are close enough.

If I start a new project, a new book, a new journal, a new plan for losing the same weight I've been attempting to lose now for a decade, I will have to have a new notebook to plan it all out. I have to. It's law.

I sing all the time. Nonsensical stuff mostly. When I'm cleaning up I'll make up songs. When I'm lost and driving around in circles I'll make up songs. I sometimes catch myself and laugh at myself. It doesn't stop me from singing, that's probably when my singing gets even better.

I'm the kind of girl that is happiest when I'm comfortable. I will primp and put on make up and fancy clothes and even put my toes into the most uncomfortable shoes for the right woman and I'll enjoy every moment of it. But whether or not we stay together will depend on how fast she helps me take all of that off as soon as we get into the comfort of our own home.

I'm the kind of girl who is just as happy staying in for the evening with you. On the couch. Doing our own thing. We're sharing the same space. We're sharing the same moment, the same … we're just there. Together. And we don't have to talk. We don't have to have this shared experience where we're doing the same thing together for me to be comfortable just as we are. Every now and again I'll look up at you sitting there and smile. You'll say "what?" in this accusatory tone and really, I won't be thinking about anything other than how nice it is to be the kind of girl that is happy being with you.

I'm the kind of girl that is happiest when things are the simplest.

I'm the kind of girl for you.

Alice

People often say that pastor's kids are the worst, and I'd have to agree with them. Pastor's kids are often times much more rebellious, far more promiscuous and are probably behind many children's descent into hell. As a child whose father was the pastor of all pastors,  I can say that I probably taught your child to smoke, to drink, to lie, and probably shared a cigarette with her behind some shed somewhere in the sixth grade. I was bad.

On the outside,  we resembled the perfect family. We were better than the Brady Bunch with fewer children. We had the rainbow household -- black and white kids living together in perfect harmony (cue Stevie Wonder's "Ebony and Ivory" here), sitting in the front pew during church and showing everyone on Main street how to not only tend their own yard, but how to look as holy as possible doing it. No one ever knew our secrets, although many people knew where to look to find them. No one knew about my father's temper, about my mother's passive aggressiveness, my brother's drug addiction, or any of the abuse any of us endured by the hands of another. But every Sunday we would sit there looking as though nothing had ever happened during the week; smiling while the older people pinched our cheeks and patted us on the head while congratulating my parents on a job well done. I knew at an early age that I was part of their report card.

 Sometimes I would imagine the Brady kids having secrets, too. Maybe they knew Carol was unhappy with her marriage or that her husband was really in love with his secretary. Maybe Jan and Marcia really hated each other, and no one really paid attention to Cindy and Bobby unless they were busy trying to break records. And Alice -- well, Alice knew all the family dirt and where to find the broom and dustpan.

I wish she would have been our housekeeper.

A good, scary thing.

She embarrasses easily when I talk about how beautiful she is, which I find endearing.  I don't know the proper words to use in describing a boi's attractiveness. Handsome sounds like I'm pushing an agenda too far, and pretty is out of the question, so beautiful remains.

Besides, beautiful can be used to describe men, too.


This is what happened -- my version:

I was playing a game on Lesbian Love and Advice where I was an admin. And she submitted a picture.  The object of the game was to guess how old the person was. She looked about 25ish. I sent a message back to her saying something corny but honest like, "You are beautiful." To which she replied, "Thank you."

Yeah.

The End.

Except she hung around the page, and we talked the way that you talk to someone you're kind of interested in without sounding completely like a dork. And this went on for many, many days -- I mean months until finally she inboxed me a question/comment/rant and I replied. And there ya have it.

In a nut shell.

Today I watched a movie called Pleasantville. It's my favorite movie. (Janelle is saying I have a hundred thousand favorite movies in my ear as I type this right now. And she's right, of course. I do. But Pleasantville is in the top of that thousand favorite movie list). The movie is about a black and white town until people start experiencing things that make them "colored." Would it sound too sentimental right now to say that Janelle is my "color?" She's added all these vibrant tones and qualities to a life that, until her, seemed sepia-toned. There were occasional colorful spots here and there, but nothing quite as saturated until she came into my life.

Now that I've seen hues and possibilities, I'm not sure I can go back to what I had before. The experience has spoiled me. Made me want more! Now I want texture, and scents and tastes and everything that would make my world more than a sitcom with canned responses and timed laughter.

And no matter how scary that is, it's a good thing.

A good scary thing.