The Teddy Bear

Psychologist and author Patricia Evans describes a model of an abusive relationship called the Teddy Bear Model. I found it extremely enlightening so I thought I would share it with you here.

It starts out with a personality disorder in Person A (can be a man or a woman, but in the case of spousal abuse, usually a man) in which A develops a compulsive need to have another person on which to project himself. This person, Person B, fulfills certain needs in Person A, supporting him emotionally, uplifting him, making him feel better, adoring him, and providing a place for A to dump all of his negative traits and his fears.

Now Person B can be likened to a teddy bear. She is always ready to play when A is playful, always supportive, always sympathetic, always understands him, always adores him. He can put Teddy on a shelf and she will always be there when he needs her. She’ll always be happy to see him and give him what he needs. In fact, he becomes so enmeshed with his Teddy that he feels she is simply an extension of himself.

So, A~ comes home from work one day and finds his Teddy there on the shelf waiting for him.

"Hello, Teddy, I’ve had a bad day. I hate my boss."

"Oh, I’m so sorry. Your boss is an ass."

"Yes, I’d like to kick his ass so hard he could floss with my shoelaces."

"Yes, you poor thing. You work so hard and you’re so good at your job."

"Okay, well bye Teddy!"

And Teddy waves and he goes happily out the door.

Except one day, when he says good-bye to Teddy, she says "Where are you going?"

And he stares at her. Did Teddy just ask him a question?

"When will you be back?" Teddy asks.

Yep, Teddy is questioning him. That ain’t right. Teddy is supposed to sit quietly on her shelf until he summons her. She has no business questioning him, she is nothing but an extension of himself! Teddy is acting up and must be reminded of her place.

"What the fuck is your problem? You’re always questioning me! Can’t I even go out without you hounding me and wanting to know every little thing?! I’m going out! I’ll be home when I get home!"

And he storms out the door. And Teddy is bewildered. What happened? Does he really think I'm always questioning him? I only asked him where he was going and when he’d be home, was that wrong? Maybe he thinks I don’t want him to go out. I’ll just have to explain that’s not what I meant. He just misunderstood why I was asking.

So the next day, she says to him, "I thought you might be upset with me because you thought I didn’t want you to go out. I don’t mind if you go out. I just wanted to know where you were going and when you’d be home."

Uh-oh, now Teddy is trying to explain her point of view. Teddy doesn’t have a point of view. She is an extension of himself.

"Geez, can’t you just drop it! Why do you have to keep going on and on about things? Why are you always trying to start an argument?"

One day, Teddy comes home from work full of excitement. She finds him sitting in front of the TV and she rushes to tell him her good news.

"Guess what! I got an award at work today for that software project I completed under budget last quarter!"

Silence.

"My boss said it was the tightest 60,000 lines of code he’s ever seen!"

Silence.

"I got $250 and a little trophy for my desk."

Without taking his eyes off the TV, he says "No-kidding-that’s-great."

Looks like Teddy has forgotten her place again. Her job is to support HIM and his accomplishments, not to brag about her own. She must not be allowed to think she’s too smart, else she forget how smart HE is.

Teddy realizes he doesn’t want to be disturbed so she goes off to the kitchen to start dinner. Ten minutes later he comes in and finds her rinsing the hamburger meat in the sink before mixing it in with the spaghetti sauce.

"What the fuck are you doing!?"


She looks up, confused. "I’m just rinsing off the grease. What do you mean?"


"You’re washing all the nutrition right down the drain! I can’t believe you’re too stupid to even fix spaghetti right!"


"Washing all the nutrition down the drain? It’s just the grease. It’s fat. The nutrition is the protein and that’s in the meat."

Jesus-please-us, now Teddy’s contradicting him!

When Teddy looks up, she’s startled to see him turning bright red, fists clenched, shaking with rage.

"What is it? I always fix it this way. I’ve been doing this to our spaghetti meat for years, I thought you knew that. You never said it bothered you. I won’t do it anymore if it’s that big a deal. I just thought we didn’t need all the extra fat..." Again, she’s babbling, trying to explain because he must have misunderstood.

"ANY MORON KNOWS THAT ALL THE FLAVOR IN THE HAMBURGER MEAT IS IN THE GREASE!! What an idiot! You’ve ruined the entire meal and I see you’re even burning the vegetables too. You’re so stupid. You just wasted about seven dollars worth of good hamburger meat."


And she begins to cry, looking around miserably at the vegetables and the "ruined" hamburger meat.


"I’m not eating that crap. If you had a half a brain you might be dangerous, you know that? I’m going out."

And he storms out the door. And Teddy begins to go over the course of events, trying to figure out exactly when she had enraged him. What had she done? She's pretty sure it wasn't really the hamburger meat, for clearly his rage was all out of proportion for a guy more generally the laid-back, relaxed sort of guy who takes things in stride--at least he used to be and still is around other people. She alone brings this out in him, if she could figure out what it was she did that made him so mad, maybe she could explain it to him and he would see that she didn’t mean it. It must have been a huge misunderstanding for him to become so angry that he called her names.

Another day, Teddy comes through the door balancing the baby on one hip and a grocery bag on the other. She’s in a great mood, still singing the song that was playing on the radio in the car as she goes into the kitchen to put the baby in his high chair and the groceries on the counter.

He is watching TV, sulking. He’s been in a rotten mood all week, still having problems with his boss. Now, here’s Teddy, all smiles and sunshine. Can’t she see he’s in a bad mood? She is an extension of himself, she must reflect what he’s feeling. She must offer support and sympathy. And instead she’s in there singing??

"Hey, keep it down, would ya? I’m trying to watch the game!"


"Sorry, hon." She pops her head around the door and says to him, "Would you mind getting the other bags of groceries from the car while I get the baby started on his lunch? He’s about to eat my arm off if I don’t feed him soon!"

What, she still doesn’t get it? Still with that damn cheery disposition. I guess she’s going to need a lesson on what kind of mood we’re in today.

He gets up and begins stalking around, looking for his shoes. He throws down the remote control, kicks the stroller out of the way and generally makes a dramatic presentation of his tantrum. But she is back in the kitchen now, happily feeding the baby, gurgling and making baby talk, and still with the damn singing! She doesn't even care that she's made him mad, the evil bitch.

A few minutes later, he stomps into the kitchen with the last of the groceries and faces her with an accusatory stance. "You didn’t buy any bagels, did you?"


"Hmm? Bagels? No, I didn’t." She doesn’t even look up, she’s still making funny faces at the baby.


"Great. Thanks a lot! You know that I always take a bagel to work with me in the morning, but you don’t care. You don’t care about anybody but yourself!"

Teddy most definitely should have known that he wanted bagels. She should always anticipate his needs. She is an extension of himself, she should already know what he wants.

"Did you want bagels? You didn’t mention it, I didn’t know. You used to take a bagel to work with you but then you went on the Atkins plan and you said you would just grab some eggs and bacon from the cafeteria at work."


"You are such a selfish cunt. You don’t care about me! You don’t care about the baby! You probably didn’t even buy any baby food or diapers, did you? I can’t even count on you to do the least little thing for me around here. I guess I’ll have to do it myself since you’re too selfish to consider anyone else’s needs."

And he slams out the door, presumably to the store to get bagels.

And Teddy falls into that familiar limbo world of disorientation that follows his tantrums. What happened? Did he tell me he wanted bagels and I forgot? No, I'm sure he said he was going low-carb this week and wanted nothing for breakfast. He didn’t give me a chance to show him he was wrong about the baby food, I did buy plenty of it. Does he really think I don’t care about my family’s needs? What did I do to make him think that?

Another time, she spends thirty minutes in the deodorant aisle of the store because she knows he needs deodorant but can’t remember which brand he prefers. Should she just pick one and then offer to bring it back and exchange it if it’s the wrong one? Should she call him and ask? Maybe she should just go home and check and then come back so she will be sure and get the right one. No matter what, he will think that she’s too stupid to remember his brand preferences or that she doesn’t care enough to know.

This kind of relationship almost always escalates over time until verbal abuse and temper tantrums are not enough to keep Teddy in line and physical assault becomes necessary. Teddy must not be allowed to be influenced by anyone but him, so her friendships and outside relationships are blocked or tainted. She’ll notice that he gets grumpy when she spends time with her friends or family, so she spends less and less time with them. Soon she is left with no support structure and no way to compare her disorientated confusion to reality and figure out what’s happening. Without some emotional link to reality in the outside world, she will continue to spin around in her mind and wonder what it is that she is doing to cause this. If she could only figure out what it is, she can fix it and then they can be happy.

When Teddy decides she’s had enough and tries to leave, he will do anything to keep her. He must not lose his Teddy. And she wonders, if he really thinks I am so stupid and selfish and unattractive and rude and inconsiderate--why doesn’t he want out of this as much as I do?

The necessary ingredients for this kind of abusive relationship are

1) Person A with a particular personality disorder that prevents him from seeing Teddy as a separate person. Because Teddy is the person he has enmeshed with and projected himself on, she is the only person he needs to control. Every other person he interacts with may regard him as kind, sensitive and charming. Also, this is a true psychological need on his part. If the illusion breaks and Teddy escapes, he will feel very uncomfortable and intolerably restless until he finds another Teddy to project onto. This is why abusive men always have a new girlfriend or wife, sometimes within days of the end of the previous relationship. Teddy is the only solution to his pain and much easier to get and more satisfying than therapy.

2) Person B, Teddy, with particular traits of her own. She is humble, generous, tolerant (forgiving) and has moderately low self esteem. Her self esteem will be further damaged by the abuse, making the Teddy illusion that much stronger and harder to break.

Someone's Leaving the Island

I read an article recently claiming that studies show blue eyed people to be more likely to possess above average intelligence. I have not found that to be true. In fact, the most brilliant people I know have brown eyes. What the heck, let's see if it's true. Post your answer as a comment here, and be sure to include your eye color so we can determine if there's a correlation toward intelligence.

Blue Eyes:
The Hardest Logic Puzzle in the World

A group of people with assorted eye colors live on an island. They are all perfect logicians -- if a conclusion can be logically deduced, they will do it instantly. No one knows the color of their eyes. Every night at midnight, a ferry stops at the island. If anyone has figured out the color of their own eyes, they [must] leave the island that midnight. Everyone can see everyone else at all times and keeps a count of the number of people they see with each eye color (excluding themselves), but they cannot otherwise communicate. Everyone on the island knows all the rules in this paragraph.

On this island there are 100 blue-eyed people, 100 brown-eyed people, and the Guru (she happens to have green eyes). So any given blue-eyed person can see 100 people with brown eyes and 99 people with blue eyes (and one with green), but that does not tell him his own eye color; as far as he knows the totals could be 101 brown and 99 blue. Or 100 brown, 99 blue, and he could have red eyes.

The Guru is allowed to speak once (let's say at noon), on one day in all their endless years on the island. Standing before the islanders, she says the following:

"I can see someone who has blue eyes."

Who leaves the island, and on what night?


There are no mirrors or reflecting surfaces, nothing dumb. It is not a trick question, and the answer is logical. It doesn't depend on tricky wording or anyone lying or guessing, and it doesn't involve people doing something silly like creating a sign language or doing genetics. The Guru is not making eye contact with anyone in particular; she's simply saying "I count at least one blue-eyed person on this island who isn't me."

And lastly, the answer is not "no one leaves."

My Beloved Julio

So many of you have expressed an interest in knowing, so this day I will share my memories of Julio. When I’m feeling rather sassy, I may refer to Julio. If my affection for you is great, I may even call you by his name. It is an endearment, an honor, to be called “Julio” by me. In my fiction, you’ll also find references to him when I need a name for a minor character. Not “George” or “Bob” but always “Julio.”

Julio was my first love. He was but a lowly goat-roper, and I an aspiring barrel racer. I used to watch him perform, my teenaged hormones all tingly at the sight of his rippling manly muscles as he roped and wrestled those animals to the ground and then tied them down. I wanted him to do the same to me. When I rode my horse, ever faster, racing, pushing for more speed, more agility around those turns, my thoughts were on him. I gripped my pony between my legs and experienced sensations that bewildered my young mind.

My daddy hated him. My mama loved him but wanted a better life for me than she had; she wanted me to marry the wealthy Toad instead, who lived on the other side of the tracks and never touched a goat in his life. Alas, the choices we make in life, and I often wonder what joys my life would have revealed to me if I had married my beloved Julio instead of the wicked Toad.

Actually, y’all, Julio was the name of a cook in the restaurant (Judge Bean’s) where I worked as a waitress when I was in college. He was the only cook in the kitchen who spoke any English, so when the waitresses or managers needed to speak to someone in the kitchen, to give instructions or to ask a question, they always shouted through the window, “Hey Julio!” We’d all say “Hey Julio!” even if Julio wasn’t in the kitchen that day, and the cooks would always answer to it. After a while, it became a joke, just a funny thing to say, and pretty soon we were all calling each other Julio.

This strange, quirky habit stayed with me to this day, and I often greet people with a hearty “Hey Julio!” when I’m in a goofy mood. That’s it, not as interesting as a tale of star-crossed lovers, I know. Just another idiosyncrasy of being Tess.

"I'll Call You"

What the heck is that, exactly?

Is that a promise? A fervent hope? A cruel joke? A euphemism for "Don’t Hold Your Breath"?

I think I can say with certainty that I have never uttered those words to someone without the sincere intention of actually picking up a telephone in the not-distant future and dialing that person’s number. In fact, I can’t specifically remember a time when I said "I’ll call you." and didn’t do it.

So what’s up with guys who, apparently, make a lifestyle out of the insincere "I’ll call you."?

Is it safe to assume that men make that statement with the same sincere intent...and then for some reason change their mind? Perhaps there should be an etiquette for letting the person, the callee, know that the plans have changed and that there will be no phonecall forthcoming. He’s thought it over and no longer intends to call, in spite of what he said at the end of the date.

Or maybe at least "I’ll call you" could be amended for accuracy. Maybe guys could end a date with "I’ll call you if I don’t change my mind." Or "Maybe I’ll call you." Wow, that "maybe" just changes the whole meaning of the statement, doesn’t it? Now the callee knows that he might call but he might not. She knows the score.

Why obscure the score by saying you’ll do something and then not doing it?

My best friend Sissy has a boyfriend, Bill, who says there is an implied "B.I.D." after each "I’ll call you." Any time he says "I’ll call you." you can assume that he means "Before I Die." Lest Sissy get the wrong idea about the time frame associated with the expected phone call.

Still, B.I.D. implies that he does indeed plan on calling, eventually, right? What about when a guy intends never to call? How about "I’ll call you--I.Y.D." (In Your Dreams).

Remember that Friends episode when Chandler kept having to go out with Rachel’s boss even though he didn’t like her, because he couldn’t stop himself from saying "I’ll call you." at the end of each date? Is that what this is about? You can’t think of a polite way of ending a mediocre date with someone you don’t want to see again?

How about this--if you feel compelled to say "I’ll call you" to be polite, how about go ahead and call for the same reason, to be polite. Say thanks for the date, take care, hang up. You don’t have to ask her out again just because you called.

Or better yet, end the date with a polite "Good luck" or "Take care" instead. How about "Have a great weekend, hope all that works out for you with your boss." How about just "Good night."

We can take the kiss-off phrases a lot better than a false promise.

Really, if you’re ending your mediocre or bad dates with "I’ll call you," what do you say at the end of a really fantastic date?

Don’t tell me."How do you want your eggs?"

Hi Fidelity

Of all the human behaviors that fascinate me, I’d like to understand this one most of all. It’s not so much that I don’t understand infidelity, it’s more that I don’t understand why we, as a society and as individuals, create an institution (marriage) that is so blatantly false as to be ignored at some point by one or both partners throughout their lives. Why do we pretend to believe that we, against all odds, will never experience adultery in our marriages? I’m obviously jaded, having been hit on by so many married men, but I have seen it happen even in the strongest, most loving relationships. Much more often than not.

In general, movies are kinder to unfaithful women than to unfaithful men. Male characters typically require no good reason to fool around and the results are often disastrous. As an adulterer in Fatal Attraction Michael Douglas pays a high price for his indiscretion. Again, as a near adulterer in Disclosure he faces serious consequences. The message is the same in both cases: bad things happen to a man who lets his willy wander.

But women in movies are often given good reason when they cheat. Often their husband is abusive or non-attentive. Even when they cheat for no good reason, they get off with little or no consequences. In Unfaithful, Diane Lane cheats, but the disastrous results are due to her husband's actions, not her own. Meryl Streep in Bridges of Madison County experiences no consequence for her infidelity and is in fact portrayed as an extremely sympathetic character. In The Notebook, Rachel McAdams spends a weekend orgasmic and sweaty in the arms of her old boyfriend before breaking off her engagement with current boyfriend. She gets to live happily ever after. Why are women given license to cheat? Do audiences dislike seeing a woman brought to ruin by her disloyalty? Does it reflect an actual cultural double standard in the way that we regard cheating?

I have seen statistics that show that women cheat more than men do. If this is true, and if film portrayal of it can be believed, then we can imagine that women cheat more because they are more unhappy in marriage than men are. Men, having less reason to be unhappy in marriage, cheat only for selfish reasons.

However, I don't believe this is the case. I believe that in real life, women face far harsher judgment in the community when they cheat. So the treatment of unfaithful women in movies is quite interesting.

I've never understood why cheating is so common. And the thing is, it’s so common that I don’t know why we pretend to be shocked by it anymore.
On one hand, I recognize our ridiculous cultural prescription that clings to the notion of mating for life. I know how unromantic I sound. Believe me, I can succumb to the thunderbolt of love as easily as anyone. I can relate to the desire to commit, to declare one's eternal devotion to another. I have done it twice. But when I look back on twenty years of adulthood, I'm in awe of the changes I've gone through as a person. How silly to assume that two people going through such massive change and maturity will always be happier together than apart. Not that they can't possibly do that, but it's pretty silly to assume they will! So yeah, I guess I understand that cheating is one way of handling that.

What confuses me is cheating as a more desirable option than ending the relationship. If your marriage is not meeting your needs, how is it improved by compromising your character and cuckolding your spouse? Stay together for the kids? The kids can handle a mature divorce much better than a family ripped apart by betrayal.

My analytical mind has come up with a few answers. For one thing, some of us crave drama. Nothing more dramatic than having an affair. Or sometimes the person you’re married to makes you happy and meets most of your needs, but not quite all of them. In an effort to get all your needs met at the same time, you keep the spouse and shag the neighbor on the side. And sometimes, as with my ex, cheating is a means of one partner holding power over the other.

And I guess for men, having more than one woman at a time is a strong fantasy that never really goes away. It’s the classic rock-star success symbol: scoring with multitudes of gorgeous babes. For the average man, two semi-gorgeous women is a close enough approximation to the ideal. Leaving one woman for another simply misses the mark—they have to be simultaneous.

But I believe in commitment, I do. I have to. It’s meaningful and true. I refuse to be so jaded that I don’t value honesty in my relationships. It doesn’t have to be forever, but it must be true while it lasts.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

I wish also that you have friends, whom even if evil and rash, be bold and loyal, and that at least you can trust in one of them beyond doubt. And since life is like that, I wish that you also have enemies. Not many, not few, but just enough, so that from time to time you may question your own “truths”. And that among them, there be at least one who is fair, so that you do not be too sure about yourself.

~Victor Hugo

Touched for the Very First Time

Tell me your first time story. I don't know why, but loss of virginity stories turn me on. It's my favorite part in all those silly Harlequin romance novels. The formula has changed a bit now, no doubt, to accommodate the modern woman, but once upon a time every romance novel heroine had to be a virgin until she was deflowered midway through the book by the manly hero. Always in these unrealistic scenes, he handles her gently in spite of his burning loins driving him to get busy and rock that ass. For her, it only hurts for a second before the pain is driven away by the rising tide of passion that washes over her and carries her to glory in a mind-blowing orgasm together with her man. Luv it.

Y'all, if my first time story was the least bit interesting or erotic, I'd tell you. It's not. So I'll tell you someone else's first time story.

This man's name was Julio. I dated him for about a month. He was mid-40's clean-cut, very conservative. He was a Catholic altar boy (not when I met him—I mean he had been an altar boy as a child). Although he claimed to be agnostic, he still attended mass every week. He talked a lot about guilt and sin. You get what I'm saying, he was very Catholic.

So this young man, Julio, at the age of 20 had not yet committed the sin of fornication. He was a virgin. As was bound to happen, he acquired a girlfriend who was free of the burden of guilt and shame associated with sex. She just wanted to shag him rotten. Every time they made out, she would push him to go a little farther and his defenses grew a little weaker.
One of the things I love about this story is the delightful gender role reversal. It was the chick pushing the guy to go all the way. What a hoot!

So one night they got well past third base but not yet a home run. She slithers down and starts giving him a blowjob. Reader, this just fascinates me—the power of guilt and shame was so strong that he was not able to enjoy his first hummer. He wanted it. He kept trying to push the disturbing thoughts out of his mind and concentrate on the pleasure of the gift she was giving him. But he began to go mad. Auditory hallucinations—he heard his mother's horrified voice crying out to him in shock, "Julio! What are you doing?" Then he saw the anguished face of Christ floating over him. He was filled with self-disgust and shame. So ashamed he thought he might throw up.

Needless to say, he lost his erection and put a stop to the night's activities.

Now Julio was more normal than you may be thinking. He did not dedicate himself to the priesthood, nor did he break up with his girlfriend and buy a subscription to Playboy so he could spend the rest of his college days jerking off. He wanted sex. So he thought a lot about it over the next week or so and brought himself to a comfortable compromise. As long as he didn't actually do the hibbedy-dibbedy then he needn't feel guilty. Oral sex was okay because he wouldn't actually do anything. Whatever sin she was committing by sucking on his sausage was between her and Jesus. But he himself would be sin- and guilt-free.

And eagerly he did set out for his next date with her. He wondered how to actually get her in the position he'd last had her without asking her or taking any action whatsoever.

Fortunately, her goals were in harmony with his own and it wasn't long before he was laid back with his eyes closed, pants around his knees, while his girlfriend gave kind attention to his manhood.

Suddenly something happened. She climbed up on top of him and put himself where he could do the most good. For her. Before he could freak out, she'd rolled them both over and he was on top of her, doing what comes naturally.

It didn't last long, but he was able to deliver the goods without collapsing into spasms. In fact, when it was over, he felt fantastic. He thought he could hear angels singing a hallelujah chorus. He couldn't stop smiling. He knew he'd grown at least six inches taller and if he stepped off a bridge he had no doubt that he could fly.

Wow. What had he been waiting for? He wanted to turn around and go back to his girlfriend's house, pick her up and do it again.

Unfortunately, after turning him into a sex maniac, the girl lost interest in him and it was a while before he had the opportunity to experience nirvana again.

What an interesting thing—to go from the extreme of paralyzing guilt and shame to the extreme of glorious acceptance of himself as a sexual being. I asked him, "What happened to the guilt and shame? It didn't just go away, did it?"

Well, what happened was he had an Epiphany with that first sexual experience. He had not hurt anyone, he had not lied, he had not committed a crime, he had not taken anything that was not given to him, he had not disrespected anyone, he had not betrayed anyone. He had not done a single thing that felt wrong. Why, exactly, was he supposed to feel guilty? Because someone had told him that God didn't want him to do that? Why would God have a problem with two people privately sharing something special and giving each other pleasure? With a world full of people killing, hurting, cheating and destroying each other, Julio figured God's least concern was the configuration of body parts between two people making each other feel good.

So began his crisis of faith. However, you can take the boy away from the altar but you can't take the altar out of the boy. Julio dumped me because I was "too sexual." He'd be ashamed to introduce me to his mother, he said. Seriously. Did he think that I don't know how to act around someone's mother? Did he think I might whip a dildo out of my purse and offer to let her borrow it?

So anyway, that's my favorite first time story so far. Tell me yours…

Patience

When we slept, he stretched his leg across the wide bed, mumbling, half asleep, “No. I need to be touching you.” And so his foot lay always against mine, or his hairy leg caressed my smooth one, and he talked in his sleep, with many sweet things to say.

I breathed his breath into my lungs like a shotgun hit and held it there, wanting to get higher on him, intoxicated. Delirious. And on our last morning together, I kissed the back of his neck and whispered, “Don’t forget me.” It was my way of casting a spell to hold me in his memory. I thought he was asleep, but he startled me by answering, “No way. I promise.”

Since we parted, I have, as I tend to do, descended into purple shades of madness, and he cheerfully says, “You’re so cute.” This should absolutely drive me fruity, but instead it calms me. Here is a man who finds my madness cute. He seems not afraid of it. He is rather insane himself.

We both admit to jealousy, neither of us wanting to discuss what there may or may not be to be jealous of. It would be ludicrous to make unsubtle promises or declarations at this point. We both have very full lives to live with a thousand miles in between them.

This morning I woke up before the alarm and quietly watched the sunrise for a few minutes from my pillow, thinking of him, of course, wondering if he might be thinking of me. My alarm clicked on, the radio station, precisely with the opening bars of this song. Almost like it was magick. Must be my week for heavy metal rock ballads, I thought, as I reached over to turn off the radio so I could get out of bed. Then the words stopped me, and I lay there a bit longer, listening.

Shed a tear 'cause I'm missing you

I'm still alright to smile

Girl, I think about you every day now

You know how I am, how could I not close my eyes and feel him in that song?

Sit here on the stairs

'Cause I'd rather be alone

If I can't have you right now, I'll wait dear

Sometimes, I get so tense

But I can't speed up the time

But you know, love, there's one more thing to consider

Said woman take it slow

Things will be just fine

You and I'll just use a little patience

It was like those days when his bed was “our” bed and he needed to be touching me—this morning he reached his heart across the miles and touched me in my bed for a few minutes. What a nice way to start the day.

He Was There

Wow. I looked up and he was just there. I wasn't looking for him. In fact I didn't even want to be there, I tried to get out of going to New York.

He was just there, that first day and every moment of all the next few days, he was there. So connected to me, like I could actually see and feel the glowing red cord between us. Vibrating. A chord between us. Harmony.

He was right there. With his sexy-ass Titus Pullo haircut and his entertaining voices and his technical skills and his vibrant energy that fills whatever space he is in with electricity.

Crazy days of working, crazy nights of passion and talking and acting silly, and then I came home.

I'm left with these things: his tee shirt, which I will never wash; the cork from a bottle of wine we shared; a gum wrapper chain made by my nervous hands when they wanted to be touching him instead. And hope---this ZAP! I thought would occur only once in my life, well here it is again, and this time connected to a man not entirely untouchable and one intrepid enough to confess to being a little bit zapped! by it too. If nothing else, I possess the comforting knowledge that I'm not broken or wasted, I can ZAP! again when properly inspired.

I'm left also with the confusion of conflicting urges--to laugh and cry at the same time. A woman should not indulge in grown-up affairs if she cries like a little girl to see it end.

Did it end? How could it not, I am here.

He is there.

Isn’t it amazing when the universe puts you exactly where you need to be, right when you need to be there, so that something truly extraordinary can happen and change your life? The trick is to get out of your own way so the universe can do its job.

Winter in New York always makes me think of this movie.

ser•en•dip•i•ty - the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for

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