The Healing Space

When I search for knick knacks to make hearth and home a comfortable place to be, one of my essentials is the perfect chair.  My use of the word perfect should indicate that I”m not just referring to a folding chair, or some glorified stool.  The perfect chair for me is deeply colored and plush, with just enough room for me and a plus one.

In New Orleans, I’d found the holy grail of chairs:  midnight blue with large pillows and heavily padded arms.  It was perfect for me to sit in and read on a winter’s day.  The plus one aspect was more for my babies.  At the end of the day, I would sit with them in that chair, one at a time, and listen to them discuss the woes of kindergarten and day care.  I’d brush Finge’s waves, and undo Ladybug’s braids as they purged.  Sometimes we’d all pile in that big chair together, despite the fact that there was a perfectly comfortable, and large sofa only a few steps away.  The closeness was the thing that healed what ailed them.  I loved that part of the day.  Thinking back, I’m grateful for seeming to take the time to enjoy them as tiny kids, since college will be here before you know it.

The right chair is still a household staple.  We still have our times to crowd one another, and we love it.  As they are both gangly and uncoordinated, I spend more time catching elbows to the eye and boob, but I wouldn’t really trade it.  I can’t explain how satisfying it is to fortify your child’s spirit.  I like being the healer – the fixer.

Admittedly, sometimes I feel the need to be “fixed.”  Saying that holds a carnal implication for which I won’t apologize, but that’s not exactly what I mean.  I heal.  I fix.  Rare is the time where I am healed or fixed.  Make no mistake, I’m immeasurably blessed, and I have great friends who love and cherish me.  I’m so lucky for people who can tell when I’m not myself, and they step in to lift my spirit.  I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate.  I’d love to experience the teeniest bit of more that accompanies intimacy.  I’d love to sit in my chair, with a plus one whose fingers are buried in my hair sharing secrets, fears, or silence.  It’s seeking a different type of satisfaction and fulfillment.

But I”m not supposed to admit that, right?  Because that’s “thirsty.”  Ah well.  *gulp*


With a side of joy

“Others may only eat to live, but in New Orleans, we live to eat.”

That was how the old National/Canal Villere commercial told the story.  My mother absolutely hated that commercial.  She hated the idea of living a life dedicated to pleasurable excess.    “Ugh, that’s how heart attacks happen,” she’d roll her eyes and say.  She’s give a far friendlier eye roll when she’d call me a “creature of comfort.”  I like my sweaters cozy, my lemonade ice cold, and my music loud and exquisite.

As for my food, I want it delight the senses.  There’s nothing prettier than a perfectly red strawberry, or more fragrant than the spice trinity (onions, garlic, bell pepper) making a meal complete.  I love the feeling that comes with serving my children a meal, particularly when it’s something new.  So, I do sort of live to eat, in the most unapologetic way imaginable.

I’ll tell you a secret:  I’m a fat girl.  I know right.  I TOTALLY hide it well.  (You can’t see this, but I totally hit you with the hard blink.)  In choosing life and health, losing weight is a must.  When people embark upon various weight loss journeys, I always hear the same sentiment echoed:  I’m redefining my relationship with food.  I’m eating to live, not living to eat.  One of my favorite actresses, Rachel True, tweeted, “Food is not a hug.”  I’ll be the first to admit that as a woman, I have become an emotional eater, but even in my thin days, I loved to chow down.

I don’t want to choose between viewing food as a necessary tool for survival OR a surrogate lover.  I happen to believe that food was created to be enjoyed.  Otherwise, why would it taste, smell and look so good.  We could be eating that gruely goulash they ate in “The Matrix,” if it was merely about sustenance.  It shouldn’t replace human contact, but food should be experienced and savored.  So here’s to me mastering the art of enjoying a delicious meal and saying, “I’m all full.  Thank you,” with a huge, satiated grin on my face.


Last night, I slept for almost 7 hours.  When I woke up, I was boastful.  I was on some, “Who’s got two thumbs and 7 hours of sleep?! Awwww yeah!”  So tonight, the Sandman showed me who was running shit, and has made me his bitch.

This past week, I have been feeling extra sweet.  I don’t even know why.  I got off the train, and it seems that when I hit the air, I was enveloped by a blanket of sexy.  I go through that from time to time.  Not even for a particular reason.  I’m just feeling myself.  I went out this weekend, nobody was trying to holler, no random compliments on the train, nothing.  But good luck trying to convince me that I don’t have straight up deliciousness going on.

Tonight, the hour became late.  I became restless.  It was too late to eat.  TV seemed boring.  Maybe I could…I mean, I haven’t visited my no-no in quite some time.  For those of you who read me often enough, you know that when I detail my tales of self gratification, they always end in comedy rather than eroticism.  And yes, this visit to my no-no was no exception.  The thing is, my no-no has been really good to me lately.  It’s really been on some, “You don’t bother me, I won’t bother you” shit.  It’s not that I’m devoid of sex drive.  I just keep myself too occupied to think about it – much.

Tonight, my no-no  stood between me and the sweetest of sweet releases like Gandalf in “The Fellowship of the Ring” and shouted, “YOU SHALL NOT PAAAAAAAAASSSSSS!”   Then, my no-no demanded that I bring her a man.  Then she got saucy and said, “And he’d better not be a bullshit muthafucka either.”  Damn no-no.  She’s being  beggar AND a chooser.  Yikes.

And the thing is, there isn’t even a “well, maybe I should get to know him better” guy.  There’s still some baggage I’m getting rid of, and I don’t want to carry those issues into a potential new situation.  I mean, of course I have crushes here and there.  Actually, there’s a guy that I have a fairly healthy sized crush on, and I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m cute, but no more than that.   Plus, I’m fairly certain he’s not digging me like that.  And even if he were, I would refer you back to reason number one.  I think after the Heartbreaker (The Artist Formerly Known As The Chupacabra Hunter) gave me the working definition of the road to hell being paved with good intentions, that cut my appetite for being in a relationship.  Of course, there’s an expiration date on how long i can say he’s the reason for my lack of desire for a relationship.  Once upon a time, I believed that I couldn’t experience deep feelings for a person at all, and he proved that wrong.  I’m sure I’ll meet a brother that will, at least, make me rethink my position and get back on the horse (and other things) again.

I haven’t quite figured out how I will handle the burden of my own sexiness and the impending wrath of my no-no (I think that bitch is making a picket sign), but I don’t intend to let life pass me by while I find out.

I feel

Like I’m in a blanket, fresh out of the dryer, watching my favorite movie and drinking delicious cocoa with fat marshmallows, with a dollop of dark Dominican rum. I’m coming to the conclusion that I can’t control what I think, but I can control how I think about it.  I am learning how to be sad about something, without being depressed by it, you feel me?  My latest exercise is to use five positive adjectives for how I want my day to turn out.

There isn’t even much rhyme and reason to this post.  I just feel like I’ve got sunshine pouring out of me, and I figured I would share it.