Tag Archives: self-delusion

So, Hush, Little Baby… Don’t. You. Cry.

Guess who just hibernated for half a day?  Not kidding, kiddos:  Twelve hours of sleep!

And I would’ve kept going if it weren’t for my self-delusion that someone out there was waiting for my words; that my art was relevant (some days), and that this daily activity made up my life’s meaning (for now).  On such mornings, I wonder what it would be like if I had a child to feed.  Or a goat.  Would I still exercise such selfishness in my sleeping habits?

And let me tell you, my kiddos:  I’ve got sleeping habits galore.

According to my motha, I was never the child to refuse a midday nap.

“Vera?  Boom!” she would order me whenever she caught me spying on her from behind the bars of my crib.  (She’d always be saying my name in such a way as if I were perpetually in trouble.)

“Vera?!  Boom!”

That shorthand command for sleep would interrupt all of my activity, and I would collapse into slumber.  I could be gnawing on my toe, or constructing caves out of crocheted blankets; or trying to balance on my pigeon toed feet while frowning at our black-and-white telly:  If mother said “Boom!” — I was out, in seconds.

At first, it amused her to no end.  She’d wait for me to be entangled in the most awkward position, like trying to reach one leg to the top bar, or braiding myself into a pretzel.  (Apparently, I was always quite bendy.  Still am, to this day.  My lovers — are so lucky!)  On command, I’d drop everything and hit the pillow; and she would laugh and laugh — in the way that only my motha could:  violently and shockingly loud.  Then, she’d tell my father to go check on me.  (Apparently, tucking me in was his duty alone.  Still is, to this day.  My lovers — are so unlucky!)

For a while there, she swapped my name for “Boom!” altogether.  Why waste her breath, right?

“Boom?!  Boom!”  (She’d still be saying it in such a way as if I were perpetually in trouble though.)

Eventually, the joke got old; and although motha still utilized shorthand for most of her parenting, she would no longer laugh, at my expense:  violently and shockingly loud.  It must’ve made me sad then.  I don’t really remember.

These days, it is my lovers’ lot to suffer through my sleeping habits’ galore.  Many have testified to some violent shit that goes down on my side of the bed.  Some have even had bruises to prove it.  And many have wondered about all the heat and sweat I produced when in the grips of my unconscious:

“It’s like a war zone, in the tropics — sleeping with you,” one of the departed joked.

And if I get comfortable enough, I can fall asleep anywhere; which is why all of my beloveds harbor anecdotes of my naps in the strangest and most unlikely places.

“I was afraid to walk out of the room,” another, most recently departed recently testified.  “I’d come back:  and you’d be flat on you face, asleep…  I’d have to wake you up, just to make sure you were alive.”

Yesterday, I fell asleep on the beach, my kiddos, waiting for a brown honey to join me.  She was running late:  My love.  But while I was dreaming of her hips and soul (both quite generous); while I was listening to my own heart moan with gratitude for this love (one and many); while I suddenly discovered myself no longer alone in this lonely city; someone must’ve said, “Boom!” — and I was out, in seconds. 

Or may be it was the hissing of the Pacific that knocked me out.  It was so violent and purposeful, kind of like my motha’s laughter.  Fucking lullaby.

Or perhaps it was the background murmur by a group of young French boys who insisted on dropping their towels two meters down from my brown ass.

“San-tah…  Moni-kah?” they took turns pronouncing.

“Shhh,” the Ocean joined in; and I was out, in seconds.

Occasionally, I’d wake up, look back over my shoulder and catch one of the boys grinning his silly smile, at my ass, then my face.

“Yourr velkom,” I’d think.  My brown love was still running late; so I waited to go back to sleep while watching the planet do its thing from underneath my Lorrie Moore novel, with which I’d covered my eyes.

At a mat nearby, an aging, balding athlete was fixing a bulge underneath his navy blue speedo.  He would seem ridiculous, but his bulge was no laughing matter.  And he was oh so serious!

“Mazel tov,” I half-thought, half-dreamt, and turned my face the other way.

I watched young, limber women get dressed.  The way they got up, caressed themselves from dust and sand; the way their hair flapped in the wind, like the Golden Fleeces — it made me wonder if they were already in my dreams.  Their curvatures blocked the sun.  (Or was it Lorrie Moore, on my face?)  I watched the intricate workings of their zippers, and buttons, a ties; and they would be so focused and calm, I had to have thought them up.

A handful of young kids walked by my head — each a mixture of several countries — talking their eco-politics.  Oh, they were so of the now!  Bits of sand got separated from their feet, landed in my hair and woke me up — to their now.

I rolled over.

At the other end of the beach, half a dozen of boys were playing volleyball.  I watched them move, so unlike me.  So unlikely.  One young one was standing to the side, with his hands on his locked hips.  He reminded me of a three-year old I’ve never had; and of a man-child I’ve just finished having.  I started to weep, into the open pages of Lorrie Moore.

But:

“Shhh,” went the Ocean.

And I was out, in seconds.

‘Cause My Momma Taught Me Better Than That!

Once upon a time, I had a lover…

(What does this have to do with today’s celebration of Mamas’ Day?  Hmm, I dunno.  Maybe ‘cause my motha is the most sexually liberated woman I’ve ever known?  Or because, after every break-up, she is the first to bless me to “Go forth — and fuck!”

Or to quote her more precisely, that shawty says:  “Vhen van penis leavez — replace vith anozzer!  NEXT!”

Motha’s pretty rad, in an insane kinda way.)

So, anyway:  Once upon a time, I had a lover.  A friend of a friend, he’d been flirting with me for years, warming up all of my orifices with not just his Tall, Dark and Handsome routine but with his talent to make me laugh that equalled to that of my motha’s.  (See:  my shawty is gonna be all o’er this rant blog!)  But the one thing I’ve learned from a previously debauched affair of my late twenties is this:  Never settle for leftovers.

You see:  The player — had a girl, and a lovely one at that.  Of some exotic Eastern European heritage, she was driving him insane with that untamed, shameless sexuality we Slavs are known for; but also with her snappy ‘tude.  After the first few years, the girl’s sassiness transformed into bitchiness, and she was making this player suffer, for real.  But no matter how much he complained to me about being mistreated, I kept my ears open — but my Frederick’s of Hollywood on.

Naturally, when the mean Eastern European dumped his confused American ass — he came running to me; and call me an idiot, I received him with my arms — and legs — open.  (Frederick’s of Hollywood — OFF!)  But instead of nurturing him through his break-up into my Next Ideal Boyfriend (Tall, Dark and Handsome), I agreed to act as a stand-in for the woman who’s walked out on him such a short time ago, her perfume still lingered in the air.  And in his bedroom.  And in his car.  I mean:  I could taste the lovely inside his mouth!  Brutal.  Yet, still:  I signed-up to be the rebound.

When we agree to that, my darling sistas, I guarantee we don’t make our mamas proud.  So, okay:  I’ve refrained from the dignity-raping, karma-wrecking, heart-breaking role of the Other Woman.  But when I climbed on top of that player right after the Love of His Life has climbed off — I did myself no justice at all.  For lost loves take time to mourn; and not until the brokenhearted commit to wrapping-up their tragic acts can they be willing to start the next chapter.

Once upon a time, I sat butt-naked on this player’s kitchen counter to compensate for our height difference; and while I was nibbling on frozen mangos and his neck, he pulled away and said:

“When you walked in tonight…”

“Yeah?” I purred, moving on to the earlobes — and more mangos; but he stopped me by cradling my chin with his manly hand the size of my lil’ Eastern European face.

“You looked so beautiful — I thought, ‘WHY IS SHE HERE?!’”

Once upon a time ago, I shrugged off the player’s comment as some odd compliment by a man which would take me years to decipher.  I didn’t have years!  I was a horny woman, on a mission!

But after just a month, that affair would go shit.  Despite our friendship (or perhaps because of it), the man treated me with flippancy and indifference; while I kept telling myself that after enough time, he’d snap out of it — and there I’d be, in all my goodness ‘n’ glory.  And, of course:  We’d live “happily ever after”!  But one night, he stood me up for a film date — and surprisingly quickly, I was over his manly taint.  (That man was lucky my motha was never made privy to that ending of our love story; or she’d pull a Tony Soprano on his ass — and the Tall, Dark and Handsome would be no more.)

Last night, something crawled up my ass.  (Settle down!  I wasn’t having sex.)  I couldn’t sleep.  Oh, yes!  I remember:  I was releasing the most recent love of mine, upon his request.  It took me a couple of weeks to stop throwing tantrums and realize the man just didn’t want me.  Despite the excuses he granted me:  bottom line — he wanted out!

With my self-delusions evaporating on every exhale, I slid open my windows and turned off the lights, letting the hollers of youth playing their Hollyweird games on my street enter my sanctuary.  How I was hoping that their voices would overcrowd the one dominant one in my head — and in my very gut where there lives my motha’s intuition — and I would distract myself enough to reunite with the illusion that I finally got the man I wanted!

“He’ll change his mind.”

“He’ll come back.”

Yet, there I sat, in the dark.  Alone.  Alone — again.

In the midst of this post-break-up meditation, I heard the ghost of the Tall, Dark and Handsome…  and asshole!  (Sorry:  Motha has taught me better than to lose my graces; but during break-ups (and behind the wheel of my sports car), I often suffer from Tourette’s.)

“WHY IS SHE HERE?!” reiterated the player; and suddenly I realized that besides being complimentary at the time, his comment was a recognition of his unworthiness — of me! — and his unreadiness to be with a magnificent woman my motha has taught me to be.  He needed to pay his dues, still; to suffer through more bitches in his life; until he himself realized that he deserved to reach for the goodness I was proposing with my taut body (again: thanks, mom!) and my generous, compassionate, exceptional heart (ditto!).

Now, this rant is not about horn-tooting.  (Hah!  That sounds naughty:  “horn-tooting”.)  It’s more than that.  This — is a fucking parade through your towns, cities and hamlets, my ladies.  To celebrate you — the magnificent daughters of your magnificent mothers — is my mission.  But since I may not be around during your own personal lapses of self-worth, I pray you listen to your mamas; for they are the ones reminding us that we deserve to be loved by men who, day in and day out, strive to be worthy of us. 

But then again, in this unhappily ending story, it’s not about our self-esteem (and if you ever let a player affect it, I myself will go Tony Soprano on your taut asses).  It’s about the men’s.

Until then, we, good girls, are better left alone — and single — and magnificent, just like our mamas: