Thank you, E!
Thank you, E!
Thank you, Mr. D, for another gorgeous birthday poem. You are my favorite writer of all time, and I love you more than words.
The first thought to come to my mind as I sit, and ponder my love for my partner is this (a smile makes its way to the tip of my lips, and I think): “I’m the luckiest guy to exist!”
So I guess it makes sense to compose me a list. To enumerate reasons why you are the shit. But it seems, as I think, that I always do this. So let me just give it a bit of a twist.
I’ll give you some insight, a window into, to the way that I feel, when I’m feeling on you. My thoughts as you do all the things that you do, and how your mere presence can improve my mood.
The touch of your skin, so soft and so smooth, immediately sets all my thoughts on the move. Progression from my soft and comfortable groove, to hot and excited, my dick’s hard and BOOM
We’re off to the races, I feel so alive! A second to breathe, then I race down your thighs. My thoughts at this time are admittedly vile, I wanna fuck now and not stop ‘till you cry.
But after I think, as you lay by my side, that I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect ride. Day in—and night out—with you by my side; my lover, my goddess, my sex toy, my bride.
I can’t help but think, as I ponder our love, that we are so blessed, from inside and above. The way that your body fits mine like a glove, sets my mind to spinning, I reel with thoughts of…
Your body, our passion, your sex and our love. Our time spent together seems sent from above. So pure and so precious yet filled with thoughts of, the hottest and nastiest, sexiest love!
Besides thoughts of loving (which I must admit, take up a good portion when thinking a bit), I can’t help but think of the way that you sit with our goombas, the joy on your face plainly writ.
My heart starts to swell up, the joy is legit. There’s nothing more special or precious to it, than the feeling I’m granted whenever I get, to be with my family, a bliss that won’t quit.
But back to my baby, the queen of the hour. My succulent, beautiful, delicate flower. The woman—the only one—who holds the power, to influence my mood (whether happy or dour).
But even at times when the mood has turned sour, and beneath the weight of her anger I cower, I know that it won’t last that long because our, love is the strongest, most beautiful flower.
A flower that blooms with the passing of time, that each day gets sweeter inside of my mind. Yet all flowers wilt when compared to my bride, mere candles compared to her brilliance of mind…
…the depth of her spirit, her beauty divine, her ageless persona much finer than wine; her aura, her presence, her passion, her drive. I pray that our sprits entwine for all time.
More often I think of our spirits this way. Moreover I realize every day, “I’ll do it tomorrow” cannot be the way. We need to live life to the fullest. Today.
But what does that mean? Should we go away? Should we practice yoga or meditate, pray? To find inspiration outside the mundane? Or embrace that mundane and fuck what they say?
For what is mundane when it’s me and my bay? Togetherness, both mind and body at play? Happiness, laughter and family? Hey—if this is mundane then I’ll take it all day.
‘Cause family is happiness, wouldn’t you say? Regardless of locale, at home or away. Together with you, and Big A/Litle A, that’s home to me, and that’s where I will stay.
To my little A,
You are the light of my life! I saw a sign the other day that reminded me so much of you. It said, “There are very few who possess something of that spirit that will brighten whatever they touch.”
I love you so much. Thank you, universe, for letting me be your mom (and yours too, big A!).
I probably don’t say it enough, but you are the best thing that ever happened to me.
You’re an incredible father, husband, lover, friend, life coach, writer, IT business analyst, therapist (my own personal!), comedian, reciter of esoteric quotes (“Who’s the Boss is not a food!”), and so much more.
You make me and our monkeys the luckiest girls in the world. Thank you for being you.
Big A, my love, you’re such a beautiful artist. Tonight I asked about your favorite kind of art form—painting, coloring, etc., and you said writing.
“Yeah,” you shrugged. “I do some of that.”
We have so many great artists in our family. Seema, Sunil, Yamboo. Ada knows languages; Nani is a brilliant chef. I write. Pretty well, I’m told. Daddy will never agree, but he actually blows me out of the water. The thing about writing is even when you feel you’re good, you always know you could be better. Or maybe that’s just the way you feel about any job you love. And I love being a writer! (I hope you and A2 will both keep a handwritten journal. It’s such a beautiful way to preserve your memories.)
But anyway… You were explaining accents to me tonight. What does that mean, I asked. You hummed in the same steady note and then squeaked. That, you said, was the accent. It was brilliant and funny and loud in the awesome way only you are. Then you explained what it means in art—something about big lines and then small ones? (You showed me as you brushed strokes on the page, and I must admit, despite my affinity for recreational herbal substances, I didn’t really get it.). But you did. And you draw SO beautifully. I don’t think I tell you that enough. I absolutely love your rendition of George Washington and Honest Abe. I love that you’re fascinated by history and that you think critically about the subject.
Tonight, in bed, you said you loved India. I assumed that’s because it’s the only foreign country you’ve visited, but no, you said. You told me how once everyone wanted to go to India because it was the land of gold and jewels. And how everyone there has beautiful dark skin. But you don’t like that there’s a lot of litter there. I said the water is also very dirty, so dirty that people who drink it can get terribly sick. (I thought of Flint). I said things aren’t very good for girls there either. (We talked about how Nani wanted to come to America, how she wanted a better life for me, how this is a place where women like her can become successful.)
“What’s success,” you asked. And then you answered it before I could. “Happiness?”
“Yes, my love. That is exactly what it is.”
“You’re very successful, mommy.”
I am. Undoubtedly.
$3 bartender fucked me! I’m enraged! Indignant! And also a tad bit vindicated. (I knew it was you all along!)
Ugh. There’s nothing I can do about it now. But blog. So here’s the story:
My gift card is for a hospitality group, which owns a handful of high-end restaurants in the state. I went to one near my job and asked if they could check the balance on my gift card. Lo and behold, there was a $50 credit. I asked the manager if my credit card could be retroactively reimbursed. It could not. I called the restaurant to see if I could work any sober magic. I could not.
So now I’m just the victim of a bad financial buttfuck. Or is it just my own bad karma? I don’t even know.
But yesterday Mr. D and I went out on one of the first dates we’ve had in a while. Fridays have actually newly become “our nights,” since the kids sleepover my parents so we can volunteer at a farm on Saturday mornings and receive fresh produce in return (win-win!). Anyway, this is only our third week doing it, and we haven’t really been on a date in forever. Like I want to say a year. Which, if true, is totally nuts. (Is it just we’re too busy working, parenting and “life-ing” to carve that time for ourselves? I think that’s definitely part of it, but things have also been getting better for us, in so many ways. The girls are going to bed beautifully and independently–and as parents of notoriously needy sleepers, this is a Joe Biden BFD. Anyway, we’re finally at a good place, where we can theoretically enjoy alone time on weeknights. But by the time 9, 9:30 rolls around, I’m beat. He is too. We’ve been on almost a month’s dry spell, and my literary erotica has suffered as a result! But I digress…)
So last night I picked a fancy restaurant (where we also have a $50 gift card) and got dolled up. But I forgot to make reservations. (Big mistake. Huge!) After dropping the kids at my parents, I called and asked if we could do an 8:15 but are told to come at 8:30. When we got there at 8 and saw a packed restaurant with a 4-person table, I wondered if maybe we could take that seat. As I’m about to ask (or perhaps right as I did), a four-person party waltzes in, just in time for their reservation, and Mr. D and I, freshly high, make an awkward and abrupt run for the door.
We decide to kill time at a bar down the street. I’m overdressed, not in a ballgown way, more in a little-too-fancy-for-a-place-
Anyway, when I told Mr. D about the stick in my ass, he laughed. It was already 8:20. We should go back, I said. This was clearly the kind of restaurant where people kept their reservations. We paid and left, the half-drunk glass of wine causing me even greater anxiety. Though when I get like this, the last thing I need is to down alcohol too quickly. Not a good combo.
We had a quick smoke before heading back to the fancy restaurant. When we arrived, we realized there were still no open seats. So we waited and finally snagged a place at the bar. The wine we ordered had this sour taste that reminded me of the two-month-old Black Box in our cabinet. When I finally got the bill, I ended up leave an embarrassing tip: $2 on a $20. That’s really not bad for two glasses, but here’s what makes it obnoxious and uncouth: I originally wrote 3, then scribbled 2 on top. Cheap as fuck. My one girlfriend is probably reading this in shame for me. And yes, I know it’s wrong, but here’s my meager justification: These little dollar savings here and there are part of a larger effort to save money by not eating out, or only doing Happy Hour meals/drinks/etc. Anyway, I was immediately taken aback by sticker shock. I was also annoyed by the sour, overpriced wine.
And I was high. Uncomfortably, not-my-best-self high.
But I immediately regretted the tip and spent a ridiculous amount of time during dinner wondering if I should give the guy the lone $5 in my wallet (which I’ve been reluctant to spend because having cash, even the smallest amount, has miraculously kept me on budget!). Anyway, my plan was just to approach him with the bill and a “sorry, I’m a bit too high” apology. But Mr. D, who suffers from social anxiety far more severe than my own, advised against this, and really, I was in no position to be talking to strangers.
I’m finally able to let it go, and Mr. D and I end up having a great time. The food was good, but no match for the company. I’m so lucky to share my evening and life with a man who loves me, flaws and all, and keeps my crazy brain as sane as possible. It doesn’t hurt that he’s hilarious and can relate the most absurd, absolute best stories. (Like when I went to the bathroom and the host, upon seeing my crumpled napkin on the seat, slowly leaned over with textbook OCD and proceeded to fold it back up, working in abject silence while never breaking eye contact with Mr. D).
When the check eventually came, I handed over the gift card and my own credit card, ready to not fuck up the tip this time. Then the waitress returned to the table. Apparently the gift card we never used had a $0 balance. Which is nuts because my mom actually received it in a swag bag for a recent “women in business” recognition.
At this point I’m no longer high, but I may harbor some residual stoner paranoia and wonder if this is the bartender fucking with me. Or maybe it’s just my karma. Actually, I totally think it’s my karma. I had this negative energy that I needed to shed. And somehow I finally did.