I'm Manifesting My Ass Off!

Have you guys heard of manifesting?

It's kind of like "The Secret" (which I haven't read) and kind of like positive thinking and visualizing with a little Voodoo mixed in. For instance, let's say I want to "manifest" a good trip when my Mom comes in 9 Days, 11 Hours and 14 Minutes I would make up a positive saying and repeat it often. The key though, is to say it AS IF IT'S TRUE and already happening. Say like,

"My Mom is here and we are having so much fun! It's so wonderful that she has not said anything mean about my weight, lack of a full time job or zero prospects of having a boyfriend! And even better, she doesn't want to go vibrator shopping because she's realized that is NOT appropriate mother/daughter activity!"

See?

Listen, y'all, I am not some California Kook. I'm straight neurotic East Coast pessimist through and through. But I gotta ask, "How's that been working for me?"

When my Dad was really sick and needing a heart transplant and we didn't even know if he would find a match in time, my Mom took him to a crystal healer (eye roll). My Mom is a former nurse so it's not like she's not a practical woman who doesn't believe in medicine.

The point is... she had to believe that she was doing SOMETHING. She was and is a woman of action and she could not stand by and be powerless and feel like she was NOT doing everything to make my Dad better. Did it help? Who knows, but we know it didn't hurt. And maybe somehow, it gave my mother something back, to believe she could do things and not just be a bystander in that horrible situation.

So that's where I am. I don't want to be a bystander in my life. There are some things I want and I am willing to say I WANT THEM! I am willing to draw up my list, repeat it often and being the Type A girl I am, even have it laminated at Kinkos!

Will it work? My answer was going to be, "I don't know but I know it won't hurt." Now I will say, after writing this, "Yes, it will work!" Here's why, I believe when we name stuff, we get it, not because it just magically comes to us but because it is... named and by being named we can take the steps to make it true.

Perfect example, today I was talking to my former boss and she said to me, "How are the boys?" The boys? My nephews? My former guy co-workers? Who did she mean? OH, THE BOYS! The guys in LA, the guys I'm not thinking about, therefore not putting any vibes out for, not dressing up for, not going to places where they'll be, not exchanging numbers with and not having awkward yet thrilling first dates with.

OH, THOSE BOYS!

I know it's something I want but it has not even been in my realm of possibilities. Now it is. It's on the list.

Okay, so here's what I want to know from you guys, just because I am so curious about this recent phenomenon of people really looking up from there lives and wanting to change, to make their lives more meaningful and have purpose. Mine came out of circumstance but I'm wondering, do you feel that way, too? What do you feel is missing? What new things are you trying that are helping?

Let's open up the convo and help each other out. Thanks ladies!

This blog is dedicated to Mom jeans.

I'm Manifesting My Ass Off!

Um... I Think That's Gonna Leave A Stain

We have so much cool blog fun to catch up on.

I owe you guys stories on Adventure Bowls, Weeks 3, 4 & 5. Also, check in next week because L and S are taking me sympathy Pre-Shopping in preparation for my mother's visit and anticipated immediate demands for a vibrator. They're going to get me comfortable roaming the aisles of a sex shop without looking and feeling like an obviously guilty Catholic.

But today, oh, today we are sick. I felt it in my stomach, it was turning over in a way that you have no reason to believe you are going to throw up, so you do no preparation in the throwing up, like say, running to your bathroom, and instead it comes upon you so quickly and violently that you roll over and throw up on your bedroom carpet.

And as you are running for the bathroom because, um, it's coming again, you are sure that you glimpse this horrifying sight out of the corner of your eye:

Your ten pound Chihuahua treating your floor like it's his very own snack bar. Oh! Note to self: "Don't let that little beast kiss you on the lips tonight."

So, welcome to my life. We're taking a snuggle and cuddle in the bed to get better and we'll catch up on Saturday, if not before!


This blog is dedicated to dogs who act like Hoovers.

Um... I Think That's Gonna Leave A Stain

Alone With Her

This blog is updated because a reader caught me "rewriting history" even though I didn't mean to. I will highlight the parts that I changed and if you are curious what set this in motion, please read Martha's comment and my reply to her.
My Mom is coming to visit in three weeks. I want to feel excited and I do feel excited but I feel nervous, too.

We have not been alone since her nervous breakdown.

This past Christmas we talked about my Mom and Dad coming to visit me here in California because my older sister wasn't coming home. Then my younger sister decided she'd like to go have Christmas with my older sister. I didn't want to go back to that house, where it all happened and where I had not been since it happened, and be all alone.

So I invited my parents here. Then the fear came. What if she had another "episode?" Where would I take her? Would they accept her insurance? (I'm very practical.) How would we get her home after?

I thought how I reacted when it first happened the Christmas before last... and it didn't make me feel very capable of being able to handle anything happening to her this Christmas. I'm not quite ready to describe exactly what went on that night, I will just say that I burst into tears and when running for my little sister.

My mother came after me, downstairs. The things she was saying were just... crazy and frightening and even though I can now reason, that was not her, she was not there... all I could do was run, past her and up the stairs to get my father.

E and I had just taken him out to lunch that day to say, "Something is wrong. Something is very wrong." He insisted it wasn't, Mom was fine. He said we should do a toast to all his girls being home. We did and he said, "Don't clink any booze outta my glass."

I know. I mean, he was kidding. But we were all kidding ourselves. Hiding. Having a drink during the day to deal with what would come just that night.

What's strange is, I have no memory of what happened just before it happened. That seems so unbelievable. It was late, why were we all up? Something must have made it happen? What was it?

But it was me who burst into tears and E who sprang into action. First with the plan to get her into bed, then to drug her so we could come up with a better plan. Then hunting and pecking all over the house to find all of my Mom's pills.

I was hiding down in E's bedroom when she brought them to me. There were 6 or 7 bottles. E, "All different doctors." What? Some were anti-depressants. Some were anti-anxiety. Some were sleeping pills. Then E got out my Mom's date book with phone numbers and just started calling. She didn't care that it was 1:00am. She was a private detective, on a mission, trying to put the pieces together of how my Mom, a therapist herself had conned so many doctors into prescibing conflicting meds. Yeah, she's a therapist... so that's probably how.

I did end up pulling my end. It's amazing how we fall into our strengths. E was good with the factual stuff. The talking to doctors, the calling of my Mom's friends to see who knew what when (and shockingly, they all knew, for a very long time...). I was good at cooking for my Mom, sitting with her, keeping her on a schedule.

But I wished I had been E. She had the strength. Although, I did one day (this automatically brings a smile to my face) go into my father's bedroom while he was sleeping, rip off the covers and he jolted awake. "What? What?" he said. I said, "You knew this has been going on for a year. We're not playing this your way anymore. We're playing it my way. And if you back down to anything E or I say, we're getting on a plane and leaving you to handle this all alone."

"Okay, okay," he said.

I had to leave the room, because I was so shocked he went along with it. I didn't want him to see the surprise on my face.

So I guess I have to remember that part of me when she comes out here. I can handle it. I can handle anything.


This blog is dedicated to readers who leave comments after feeling a little awkward that the blogger may have just revealed a wee too much about her family.

Alone With Her

I Saw Myself in Forty Years and It Ain't Pretty!

While adopting (or trying to) a new healthier way of eating, I had to scrutinize the pots and pans in my pantry. Because pans that are hard to clean because they have scuff and scratch marks, are not used and therefore useless.

Yes, that's why I have not lost weight. Bad pans.

I promptly threw my two pans out and was left with one cake pan. That was two months ago. A sensible person would have run out and bought a new one, maybe ordered two pans online.

But no, I had to almost burn my whole apartment down to get the job done..

I was steaming some brussel sprouts and grabbed the hot pan with a cloth napkin I had stolen from The Beverly Hills Hotel. Having not shut the burner off, it promptly caught fire and I had to drop the burning cloth on my hardwood floors and douse water all over it.

Note to self, "Don't be shocked if you don't get your rental deposit back."

So off to Marshalls I go because I love a bargain and I love even more that they have a nice selection of Cuisinart pans with non-stick cancer causing Teflon. Sold!

Of course, I can't be at Marshalls without perusing the clothes.

I'm looking at a cute hot pink sleeveless number that would probably fit over one of my shoulders in about forty pounds when I see a woman... maybe 60, or 65... okay, maybe 70, (I'm not good with
numbers). She is holding up a pair of pants that might fit over one of her hips in about forty pounds and exclaiming to her friend, "Maybe I should just get them. I can hang them in the corner until I lose the weight."

And that's when I realize that I am seeing me, at Marshalls, in forty years.

I buy things that don't fit and hang them in the corner. There they are, bathing suits and jeans and little summer dresses. It's like my bedroom has become some museum for my size 8 future.

But the more I keep adding to the collection of "Clothes That Will One Day Fit," the more crowded the room becomes, the more used to it I become, until all the jeans and bathing suits that are supposed to serve as a reminder, only fade into the background.

My shrink did once give me one great piece of advice. "Stop futurizing." It means, stop living in the future when I think I'll be thin, when I think I'll be worthy to dress better and look cute. I tried to put it into practice, but it never registered fully until I saw "Future Me" at Marshalls, buying herself pants that were four sizes too small and hoping that they would one day fit.

So, right there at Marshalls, I circled back my shopping cart to the place where I had found two of the cutest tops and exchanged my "future size" for my "now size." That felt good because now I can actually wear these tops this week instead of "date of unknown origin."

I even came home and packed up my clothing museum. Off it went, into a drawer.

Although, I'm not perfect. As I unloaded my new purchases from Marshalls, I had to laugh. There was just one "future me" shirt I could not resist. But only because it was the last one and on sale for $5.00. Tahari for $5.00! Intricate sequins! The most beautiful blue color that flatters every face and skin tone!

I know, I know. But progress, right? I'm a work-in-progress, people!


This blog is dedicated to veggie hot dogs with the works.

I Saw Myself in Forty Years and It Ain't Pretty!

My Emotional Well-Being is Directly Linked to The Size of My Butt

My butt is big.

Today I got a postcard from the ladies at Weight Watchers. They want to know where I've been. They even signed their names, Jenn & Deb, in different color pens in fancy cursive so I would know it was "personal."

I imagine them in a corporate meeting:

Big Time Corporate Type Guy with 3% Body Fat: "Okay and we're gonna need to figure out how to push more of these 2 point bars and where is Adventure Grrl? Our stock has taken a drastic downturn since she's not paying for weekly meetings and hoarding all the Thin BBQ Pretzels."

Debbie: "We've canvased all the "Sizzlers" and "Outback Steak Houses," we can't find her anywhere. Usually she can always be spotted within five feet of an All-You-Can-Eat baked potato bar."

Jen: "This is serious. We should send her a postcard."

PS, those pretzels are laced with crack and I don't care if they are in individual size packs - I want three at a time or I want none. Okay, I just want three at a time.

Yeah, I've fallen off the WW wagon. My butt is big and it's starting to get hot out and here I am facing another summer with a big sweaty butt. Sometimes, because I can't see my butt, I mistake it for a smaller size butt and then I will like, knock a glass of wine off a table because I didn't think my butt was all the way over there.

I want to be thin. I'm just in a weird head space where I just don't want to do the work to get there. Which makes no sense because I used to LOVE the gym. In a really unnatural way. Like be sad if it was closed or refuse to go to a hotel that didn't have one or get into brawls with people hogging my favorite machine.

Right now I want to make a t-shirt that says, "I Used To Be Thin." I just want to say, "I'm not always like this, I swear." I don't want my big chunky butt to define me and hold me back from things.

But I feel it is and it does.

You should see how I can get out of a pool party in four moves or less.

"I don't have a bathing suit"
"You can borrow one."
"Um... I have really bad period cramps."
"Oh, you know what's great for that? Soaking in a jacuzzi, we'll get it heated up!"
"I think I broke my leg/arm/pelvis."
"That's okay! We have one of those harnesses that lower you into the pool from when my Grandpa visited!"
"I have a rash called fearofnakedflesh-ititis and it rapidly spreads if it's near any kind of water. Sorry."

And VICTORY is mine. I gotta remember just to lead with that disgusting rash thing. Or maybe... just head back to WW.


This blog is dedicated to diet products laced with crack.

My Emotional Well-Being is Directly Linked to The Size of My Butt

Because You Asked That I Be Honest

Inner Dialogue while writing this post: "Are you sure you want to blog about this? You know, you have that funny story about how you're sure your viginity has grown back. Maybe you should tell that story. Give the people what they want."

Sorry looks like you're gonna have to wait until Friday for that one. Instead, I give you this and say, it is taking every fiber of my being not to hit "DELETE."

When I was 24, I felt like my world was falling apart. My Dad was sick again and needing a kidney transplant. I found myself not only stunned, but just as unprepared to face this surgery as I had at 14 when he needed a heart transplant. How could I be in the SAME place in my life, twice in my life?

Scared, unprepared, emotional, angry, regretful, powerless.

It's amazing how all your unresolved issues will come back to haunt you when you've done nothing to deal with them the first time.

Today, there were so many things I wanted to post about... silly things, like the joys of half price Easter candy. But I could feel that I was trying to hide from something. An uncomfortable feeling that reading all these old journals of mine was giving me. I hoped if I stayed with that uncomfortable feeling and continued to turn pages, it would show itself to me.

And then it did.

In this entry, I am writing about the unimaginable death of my cousin Michael when I was 14.

"The thing about Michael, that loss has always haunted me. It's weird how I feel... I guess I'm surprised that I actually FEEL. I'm crying because I miss him but also because I know what it's done to me. I've put up this wall to my friends, my family, to the people who should mean the most to me. And it freaks me out that I could put up a barrier where I won't let anyone mean ANYTHING to me.

"I just don't want to go through it again. (At this point, I had no idea, that I would indeed go through it again with David's death). I don't want to be torn up, devastated again by losing someone I love. It feels better just to feel nothing than risking ever feeling again. But I'm only 24."

Ten years after Michael's death and I still had not moved one inch away from my grief and I let it TAKE so much from me.

When David died two years ago, I was so used to just retreating into myself. It just did not occur to me to handle it any other way. Or so I thought. Then I read this from the day I found out David had been killed:

"And he says (my boyfriend at the time), 'What can I do for you?' And I say, 'Nothing.' But I want to say, 'Please don't let me be alone. Come over, come into my bed and hold me. Be there for me like I've never let anyone be there for me before. Let me be vunerable and scared and cry and feel comfort.'

Instead, I hung up the phone."

I knew that if I started crying, it would never end. I would cry for David, but certainly, all the pent up grief from Michael's death would drown me.

Same place. In my life. Twice. And again.

I started this blog because my uncle told me that he was not going for the death penalty for the person who killed David because my cousin would want his killer to have a second chance. As David's second anniversary of death was looming, I thought of that story. I thought, "David would want me to have a second chance, too."

That's when I got out of bed and started telling the truth about my life. Letting you guys be there for me like I have never let anyone be there for me before.


This blog is dedicated to blogger's remorse and holding back from the delete button.

Because You Asked That I Be Honest

Single White Female Seeks Wounded Puppy/Man-Boy: Directionless, Mother Issues, In Love With Dysfunctional Ex-Girlfriend a Plus

This weekend, I found myself doing the most important of pre-preparation tasks for my mother's visit. That is, bundle up all personal journals, place in box, double duct tape, mark with sharpie "TOXIC: DO NOT OPEN, place down in garage under a filthy drop cloth and place something very heavy in front of it, say an old non-working air conditioner.

(This is why I keep old non-working air conditioners, because of nosey mothers.)

But before I boxed my them up, I stacked them up by the bed and decided the take a break from "The Other Boleyn Girl" and read my journals, the writings of my past. Only, instead of curling with what I thought was the equivalent of "Bridget Jones' Diary," I found I was reading some kind of horrifying Stephen King novel.

In all my years of dating, I dated THE SAME MAN. Their names may be different, but their pasts were interchangeable. Emotionally distant, lost, difficult relationships with parents (one that was almost always an alcoholic), usually still in love with an ex-girlfriend (my specialty) who, herself was "special needs."

"Special needs" is these cases meant: a cheater, anorexic, mother who committed suicide, brother who died of a heroin overdose, heroin addict herself. Yeah, I know how to pick 'em.

The more they love someone else, the less they could love me. The less the could love me, the more comfortable I felt. Maybe I didn't feel lovable enough. Maybe I thought if the spotlight was on me instead of their exes, they'd find all my flaws and surely, we'd be done.

There was one love, in particular, who I especially lived in the shadow of his ex-girlfriend. She was blond and very thin (heroin will do that). There was some sort of... elegant mystery to her. Beautiful pictures and his warped sense of reality in the stories he'd tell me about her, did that.

Years later, I saw her on a documentary on "Bravo."

She said she believed in time travel and extraterrestrials.

That's who I was intimidated by, haunted by. All those years, that's who made me feel unworthy and less than. Extraterrestrials... AND time travel.

The last BF, though, he was a good one. A man. No visible or invisible signs of scaring. Had we not started dating just before my cousin died, it might have worked. There were carefree months of bliss when I thought, "I finally broke the pattern."

And then David died and I retreated into the inner regions of myself. Somehow I excelled at work but I blew chunks at "relationship." Days on the sitcom I worked on were filled with laughter, the best story ideas, incredible joke pitches; the evenings I drove home were filled with tears and the nights, Ambien.

There was no time to connect. And that led to, well, the disconnect, the downfall, the end.

And now I am here. Shockingly, unbelievably grateful for my mother's visit. Without her, I wouldn't see -- is it how far I've come? Or how far I don't ever want to go back? Either way... either way.

The last one, before the good one, I did make the declaration, "Never again." No more men with mother issues, ex issues, drinking/emotional withholding/lost in the head light issues. I just don't have time. Not because I want to get married or have a baby or that I am on any kind of time clock.

Just because I don't have time. For suffering. For crumbs when I want the whole cake. For picking myself and dusting myself off. And there's fear in that, the decision to only want to give time to the good ones. Because from now on, I can't build men into something they are not. I can't give everything when there is nothing for me. I can't lose myself in someone and be secretly grateful that I will have to show nothing of myself.

But there's some sort of exciting challenge in that. And I like that, in an oddly terrifying sort of way.

This blog is dedicated to champagne & "Peeps" on Easter.

Single White Female Seeks Wounded Puppy/Man-Boy:
Directionless, Mother Issues, In Love With Dysfunctional Ex-Girlfriend a Plus

To Tell The Truth

Yesterday I was buzzing with excitement, totally psyched about a new project I was working on when my phone rang. It was my friend L, speaking in very hushed tones. Hushed tones, to me, are reserved for speaking about something scandalous like bad boyfriends or perhaps, robbing a bank or a convenience store.

L: "I think I found a massager for you mother."
Me: "You don't have to do that. I have everything figured out--"
L: "But it's right here at CVS. It says it's for your neck but it's
so obvious it's for your (lowers voice) clitoris."
Me: "Could you NOT say (lowers voice) clitoris?"
L: "Fine. Neck massager... for your lady parts."

And even though I begged off, she would not be diswayed and proceeded to stalk me with cell phone photos of discounted "vibrators" disguised as neck massagers.

See, that's what happens when you keep a blog about your life? Nothing is private, ever again.

Several years ago, before I became a writer, I was on a TV show as a post production supervisor when I ended up writhing in pain and decided I probably had a good twelve minutes left to live and, liking living and wanting to continue to do so, promptly drove myself to the
hospital and checked in.

The next day, they took out my IV, clipped my lil' plastic bracelet off, and back to the office I went. I never told anyone that I was having complications from donating my kidney to my father. Why? Because I knew my Dad was ashamed that he had risked my life to save his. So we never talked about it. We never even "pre-surgery" talked about it. (For historical accuracy a letter was exchanged. But letters are not talking.)

He said, "I hear you're coming home." And I said, "Yes, I am." And then when I did, on the day of the surgery, my mother drove us up to Boston like we were going to the Aquarium or something but instead, we went went to the hospital, donned cotton gowns and caps, they sawed us open and took something out of me and put it into him.

Not many of our relatives knew but one did send me a Coach purse. That's when I realized the magnitude of what had happened, because, Coach purses ain't cheap.

The point is, I used to think, "I must not tell this story. My dad will not feel good if I tell this story."

Now I know, it's my story to tell.

Still, if I were to tell the truth, the truth would be, as far as I've come, I am not really ready for everybody to know every story about me. Yesterday, after finding out some very important persons were going to be looking at my blog, I mini-freaked and raced for the phone. My friend A answered.

Me: "Take down my blog from today!"
A: "What? Why?"
Me: "Because! Just do it!"
A: "But I haven't even read it."
Me: (Monster voice) "TAKE IT DOWWWWWWN!"

I have a very scary Monster voice.

I was later told that A went careening through her house, shoving and everything anything out of her way, to get to her computer and erase the post.

It was too honest. I was not ready.

I hope there will come a time when desperate calls from CVS about (sighs, eye roll) $14.99 massagers or stories about my and my dad's surgery or even the experiences of these past two unimaginable years will not stir fear or self-consciousness in me but for now... the delete button is a beautiful thing.

I'll get there. I will. You'll know. Because I promise to re-post the post I took down, when I do.


This blog is dedicated to relentless friends with camera cell phones.

To Tell The Truth

Let's Talk About Sex Part 4 Mom, "V"s & Double "A" Batteries

All your advice has been so amazing. First, I thought the most brilliant plan would be to shop for one or two ("sighs", shakes head) "sex toys" before my Mom comes and then present them to her when she asks when we can go shopping.

But then someone said that right now my Mom needs support and that made me think that, if, the second she brings up the idea of us going "V" shopping together, I throw rubbery, vibrating things at her in disgust and run out of the room, well, THAT would not be very supportive.

Clearly, the person with the problem here is me. And after being raised ultra-Catholic, I have kind of resented having to find my way around my own sexuality with no help or advice and certainly many times too mortified to ask for help or advice, only to wish that I had: "It does what???? It goes where???? Wait, is that last thing he suggested even legal????")

(PS, for the person who said they didn't even know how to use a tampon in the comments section, well I thought I did - I put THE WHOLE THING IN. Yes, THE WHOLE THING.)

So, here's my Mom, still young and perky at 62 and she has had no one to ask about these things either. I would like to try and be that person. I just have to practice not going completely white, fainting and throwing up each time a "V"... ugh, a vibrator is brought up.

The solution (besides wine?): I am going to go with my two sexperts pals L & S on a maiden voyage to the sex store. It'll be like a pre-shop where I can ask the people what would be best for my Mom and get myself a little more comfortable. (We might need ten of these trips. They'll be like fire drills, except with chardonnay and barf buckets.)

Deepest fears? I think it's when commenter EM said that she once went shopping for "oils" with her Mom. It never occurred to me that there might be BROWSING and LINGERING in the other aisles of the sex shop. First, it's oils, next it's ticklers, then it's bondagey handcuff thing-ys!!! I thought the vibrator was my problem? Instead it's only the gateway drug to whips and full body rubber suits!

Perhaps I should not have given up my therapist.


This blog is dedicated to Ben & Jerry's ice cream.

Let's Talk About Sex Part 4
Mom, "V"s & Double "A" Batteries

Let's Talk About Sex Part 3 This Time... There's No Escape

Yes, we're going to talk about naughty things but before we do that, let's talk some BLOG BUSINESS. I see you lurkers out there, peeping my pain for 20 or 30 minutes at a time, hundreds and hundreds of you a day. And you don't leave comments? What are you savages??? You comments are directly related to my self-esteem!

Okay. Let's get to the sex. I'll set the scene. My mother and I are in the hospital waiting room before we go see my Grandmother who we've just learned needs open heart surgery. My Mom says she has something she really wants to talk to me about.

Let me add that my mother has a Prayer Day for each of my family members and went to Church three times this week, once on Sunday, once on "The Feast of the Blessed Mother" and once on "The Feast of the Epiphany." Three times! She is a GOOD GIRL. I've never heard her swear in my life.

Okay, we're at the hospital. And... Action.

Mom: "I really want to talk to you about something."
Me: "Sure."
Mom: "I think I want a vibrator."

Inner Dialogue: "Do Not Laugh. Do not laugh. Do not LAUGHHHHHHHHHHH."

Me: (tentatively) "Okay."
Mom: "And I would like you to help me pick one out."

INNER IMAGINATION: I pass out, I'm spayled face down on the waiting room floor. Nurse: "We've got a Code 51: Daughter down due to too much info about Mom's SEX LIFE! We need a crash cart and a time machine to erase the last five minutes of her life."

Somehow I got out of it, what with keeping vigil by my Grandmother's bed and my mom going to Mass 24 hours a day. Soon it was time for me to leave. The day I left, my Mom and I are having a tearful GOOD-BYE in the driveway.

ME: "Mom, don't cry, I'll be back soon."
MOM: "But we didn't even get a chance to look at the catalogues."

You know... for her vibrator.

I swear she said it as sincerely as if she was saying, "But we hardly had a chance to spend any time togther." ("LOOKING AT VIBRATOR CATALOGUES!")

I go back to LA... and it's not long before she calls me. She coming to visit. She already has a plane ticket. Won't spending some girl time together be fun? (No, no! It will not be fun!) I don't want to go vibrator shopping with my Mom.

What was the point of dedicating all that time making me ashamed about sex and my body like a good Catholic Mom just to throw it all away?

Deepest fears? I think it's when commenter EM said that she once went shopping for "oils" with her Mom. It never occurred to me that there might be BROWSING and LINGERING in the other aisles of the sex shop.

Oh, God.

Perhaps I should not have given up my therapist.


Feel free to guess how soon my Mom will bring up the topic. I'm guessing within 24 hours.

Let's Talk About Sex Part 3
This Time... There's No Escape