Twelve Years and Wondering

I'm sitting at a local coffee shop, working on getting a job, working on moving my things to Austin from Charlotte, thinking about moving my stuff from Indiana to Austin, hoping to get my favorite from Orlando to Austin, and it occurred to me. On February 2, it will be 12 years since I was in a major car accident. Normally, I don't dwell on such things, but I was just contemplating the blessings that I have received since then.

That moment, on a freezing cold, bright and clear February day, I was sixteen, huddled in my letter jacket and heading home from track practice when I pulled out in front of a semi truck. I remember it now, and it's making my palms sweat, and my eyes sting just a little. I saw it coming, I inhaled a sharp breath, and felt with my whole being, the crash, pop, the metal twist, the explosion of glass and the crack of my pelvis as it split into two. I felt myself spin and jerk, and I knew I was going to die. I watched the front of the truck as it penetrated the passenger side, then it miraculously climbed onto the hood and avoided my frail, expendable body. I spun; the truck flipped, spilling tons of grain into a vacant field. My truck spun almost until it his Allison What's-Her-Name's driveway, an eighth of a mile from the intersection.

People rushed toward me as I kicked my way out of my mom's Chevy Blazer, broken pelvis and all, the door covered in bloody scratch marks and debris. I stood up before someone told me not to. Then my world went dark, and I lost my sight. My first thought was that I would never see my dad's smile again. That memory still makes me teary, and I was overcome as someone led me back into my demolished truck. Slowly, as my blood pressure evened out again, my sight came back like a numb limb that has been slept on too long. I sat there, on my mom's leather seat, thinking 'oh boy I'm in trouble', and 'Oh God, I need to tell Emali that I'm okay'. I'm not quite sure which thought took precedence, but they were both in the forefront of my mind.

Eventually, sirens made their presence known, along with the medics I had known since childhood. They laughed with me, and comforted me while we made our way to the hospital. When we wheeled into the trauma bay (I ended up working that the same hospital's ER later on), Bill and Kyle were there waiting for me. Two guys from my high school who knew I was in trouble, and came to help me. I'll never forget that.

My parents showed up; Emali and her parents showed up. I heard her family coming all the way down the hall, and I remember being overwhelmed with sorrow that I had put them through that, again. I miss that closeness. But everybody was there, and three days later, I was released from the hospital, with a broken pelvis and a concussion.

It's been twelve years, and I have never forgotten how lucky I am, and how blessed I am for everything that happened that day. I don't usually wax poetic about such things, but I am so blessed to be here, so blessed to have the opportunity to walk every day (the docs thought I was paralyzed for a bit), I have the opportunity to express myself, to hug my family and friends, to express my love, to chase my dreams, to be thankful for every small thing that comes my way. I am especially thankful for my two guardian angels, and for all the people who were there to catch me when I fell.

All these years later, the overwhelming sense of blessing and awe are as powerful as they were back then. Good God, thanks.

Saturday Night Fever

No, I'm not wearing a polyester suit, and there are definitely no disco balls hanging from my living room ceiling. I do, however, have a different sort of fever this evening.

I left work at my menial, mind numbing job this afternoon with a new resolve to bully my way into a successful position. Today was particularly annoying; people suck, and I am a servant/server to idiots. This isn't just my imagination - people, en masse, are dumb, and it's frustrating when they are bossing me around. What's even more frustrating is when people don't tip. Do they not realize that I get paid two dollars per hour? Do they also realize that I'm being cheerful in order to milk them for a good tip? Hello! This is not rocket science. And I'm a little pissy tonight - there is a silver lining, however.

Every day that I walk into work, tie an apron around my waist, glue a smile onto my face, and pretend that I love everybody (even when they suck), I come that much closer to opening a door - a door to that internship, or to that job, or I meet that person who knows a guy who knows a guy, etc. I hold firm to that hope, even if it smells like baby back ribs.

So tonight, when all of my peers are out having drinks and relaxing away their Saturday nights, I am on my computer, searching and applying for jobs that will open doors. I'm researching small business loans, and I'm setting up appointments for graduate programs. I scheduled two meetings with graduate admissions folks at both UT and St. Edward's here in Austin. I'm just going and going in hopes that next week a door will open. So, come on people! Help a sister out.

All I wanted to do is nap!

I wanted to get up this morning and have a productive day of job hunting, following up on internships, and wowing the world with my personality. Instead, I woke up at noon, feeling like absolute crap for the fourth day in a row. I still feel like I have recently been hit by a truck, and a fever has now presented itself into my pajama-wearing life. This sucks.

So in between moping and sneezing, I worked on a band bio and hit a wall. So then I thought to myself, Self, you need a nap before you go to wait tables tonight. So as I lay me down to sleep, pulling my Lambie over my eyes (a blindfold of sorts), I hear someone rap-rap-rapping at my chamber door. No, it was not a raven, but I do quoth that it was my landlord.

The very same landlord who didn't know about Em's puppy Zeke, or my baby Foster. Ooh boy, did my butt cheeks clench when I heard her key turn in the door! I felt like a naughty kiddo who just got busted for coloring a crayon self-portrait on my bedroom wall. I was trapped - and forced to tell the truth to a complete stranger. She's lucky I didn't sneeze on her.

Well, at least now the dog's out of the bag, and I can be free to let the dogs bark at the door, whenever anyone knocks at it. Be it a raven, or a mean landlord.

And then, it hit me

The other day, I came home from my eleventh straight day of work, and I took a nap. Three hours later (!) I woke up with a raging head cold. I read a study once where the final conclusion was this: the body knows when it can relax and heal, so it suppresses any illness that comes along until that time when it can be dealt with efficiently.

Well played, body, well played.

I had so many errands to run yesterday, including dropping off some serious cash to my future landlord here in Austin. Did I do it? Nah. I slept and drank tea. But do you know what else I did? I ran, and I ran further than I had in a while. Then I lifted weights, and felt so incredibly accomplished. And then when I woke up this morning, I felt like I had gotten hit by a Mack truck. Oh, dear God.

So, guess what I did today? I worked, and then slept through Emali's run, and then I woke up feeling like crap. But after I woke up fully, I dragged my sick ass out the door and took off for a run, and though I really wanted to stop and crawl home, I made it!

Right now you're thinking, 'big effing deal', and that's probably what I would think, were I reading this out of nowhere. But there is a point, I promise.

Point being, I've not pushed my body in years. Even back in high school, I was the first one to stop running, or to say 'fuck it' when things got too tough. I realize that there is a distinct parallelism between body and mind. I need to keep pushing my body, that's true, but what about my mind? I've kind of let things slide since this summer.

I haven't challenged myself, and it's high time that I do. So, as I sit here coughing myself to death after a run I probably shouldn't have taken, I realize it's time to step up my goal game a notch or ten. The question is, where do I go from here?

Pobriety? Poredom?

Either way, I'm poor. Let's review: Jessie had a good job, Jessie lost her job, Jessie became a nomad for a while, and then Jessie landed back in Austin, TX - quite a ways away from where she began, in Charlotte, NC.

So, now all my worldly dreams have come true: I'm poor as hell and waiting tables at the very same restaurant where I used to work before I left Texas in order to finish my Bachelor's degree. Hmm, now there's a full circle.

To be continued . . .

Reference sites

I got so wrapped up that I forgot to add my websites. Whew! All this sex talk and I've got the vapors! Anyway, here are some links just in case you would like to begin a sexual revolution of your own. This is by no means comprehensive, but a good start.

http://www.netdoctor.co.uk/sex_relationships/facts/orgasmtrouble.htm

http://dodsonandross.com/

http://dodsonandross.com/blogs/eric-amaranth (This is a blogger, Eric Amaranth, who explores the male perspective of sex, and he does it in a very fun way! You'd be surprised.)

http://dodsonandross.com/sexfeature/bitches-bisexual-dykes (No, this isn't just about bisexuality - it's about a woman's sexual power)

Whore, Party of One?

I am a whore.

Okay, I'm a reformed whore. (?) What the hell kind of sense does that make?

WARNING: This is a graphic blog entry, sexual and raw in nature, and is not intended for the faint of heart, or those plagued with random cases of the 'vapors'. Of course, if you already read my blog, this is nothing new. Please, continue.

The funny thing about the term 'whore' is that it usually carries a negative connotation; I look at things a little bit differently, and it has served me interestingly, if not well. In high school, I looked at sex through pure, innocent eyes. I wanted to wait until I was married, or in a secure relationship before I gave myself away. My parents didn't talk about sex.

Do you remember the sex talk you had with your parents? Here's mine:

Mom: Have you had sex?
Jess: Umm, no. (With nobody except my right hand, that is. Of course, I omitted this.)
Mom: Do you know about sex?
Jess: I think so?
Mom: DON'T EVER LET ANYONE STICK ANYTHING IN YOU.
Jess: Good talk, Mom.
Dad: Scratches head, turns red and runs.

That night, I flipped my bedcovers back to find a couple of circa 1962 sexual education pamphlets tucked under my pillow. I read them, and getting excited by the 'anatomical diagrams', got off to my very first porn. Thank you, sexual education pamphlets.

From then on, I was more than a little confused about sex, so I secretly consulted with my dad's "hidden stash" of Hustler and Playboy magazines. My first honest thought: So every woman is a lesbian? My second thought: Penises are intriguing.

Then came Kurt. Aah, the first real boyfriend, the one I wanted to make sweet, beautiful, perfect love with. I envisioned a picnic on a warm June day; flowers, wine, assorted luncheon meats (it WAS a picnic), and of course, Kurt dressed like the cover of a Harlequin romance novel, his long hair ruffled by the breeze . . . Instead, I got a basement at 4 a.m., and the bemused thought of: Really? That's what all the fuss is about? Clearly I did it all wrong!

The natural next step was to consult Cosmo, which of course, had all the answers. Oh dear God, what a mistake. Suddenly, I was trying to pose like a supermodel while in the throes; desperately trying to remember all the tips in the 'touch him this way, and he'll BEG for more' section. All the while, and this has carried on up until very recently, I didn't enjoy sex.

(WAIT. Let me be clear. I almost always have enjoyed my sexual experiences, but have never mentally and emotionally let myself go enough for a man to get me off. That has happened by accident, of course, but I always closed the most intimate and wonderful part of myself off. Which, I believe, is why I used to go through sex partners like underpants. The other explanation, of course, is that I really enjoyed a sexual buffet.)

The thing is, I am 28, and in the middle of a sexual/sensual revolution. Since the only person I want to have sex with is a few states away, I have plenty of time on my hands (giggity) to figure out what makes me happy - and more importantly, how I can convey these things to him. You may ask, 'Why Jess, is this important now? Why not years ago when you were just a junior whore?' The answer is that in my life, I continue to evolve. And now that sex is being denied me, I can do nothing but explore my sexuality. And frankly, this is the best gift I could give myself.

I used to have sex with different men, with the thought that one will magically know and understand my body with zero prompting from me. And HE would be 'the one'. Silly, yes, but every little girl has her fantasy (some girls dream about their wedding day - I dream of orgasms and fast cars; books, and well-read, articulate men). Regardless, I had an AHA! moment about a month ago.

The problem wasn't with these men; the problem lay with me and my unwillingness to explore, and to let my guard down. My personality requires that I read about something before I understand it, and absorb it into my life, so I checked out a few web sites (links to follow) for some education. I think the best advice I got from these sites wasn't advice at all; it was the knowledge that sex "is like a dance; it's about giving and taking, and the partnership of two people". I had lived so many years thinking that I was a second-class citizen in the bedroom, and that my sole purpose was to blow his mind, and if I got off, all the better. But that's a bit of nonsense now, isn't it?

Now, really, think of it. Sex is like a dance. It's about giving, and taking. It's about exploration, and learning about one another in a safe, open way. I guess that instead of eating from the man buffet (i.e. being a traditional 'whore'), it's more satisfying to open up to one repeatedly, explore and enjoy the dance.

John, come dip me ;)