Focus 52: "Celebrate You"

In order to celebrate me, the current prompt of the Focus 52 project, I am going to donate my blog space to celebrating someone else.  Destiny is the 11 year old daughter of my friend Melia.  Destiny recently lost her life last week in a tragic car accident that also put her 15 year old brother Riley in a coma.  He still remains in a comatose state today.  Melia was in ICU with bodily injuries that included a broken clavicle, some bleeding on the brain and various lacerations and bruises.  While she is recuperating in one hospital, her son is across town in another, fighting for his life.  Her eldest daughter, Hailey, who was not in the car at the time of the accident, is left alone to run between the two hospitals where her brother and mother are currently staying.  A devastating position for an 18 year old child who is grieving the loss of her baby sister to be in. 

So what does this have to do with celebrating ME?

In a word, charity.  Sweet charity.  My one huge passion in life.  If there is ever an attribute that I would want celebrated about myself, it would be the fact that I am enormously passionate when it comes to giving to others in need.  I will donate time, money, material needs until I have nothing more to give.  It is the one area in my life where I feel I truly shine as a human being.  Giving to others in need makes me feel good.  It lifts me to a plane of existence more gratifying than even the most earth shattering orgasm.  Every time I can do something, anything, to help another person in a time of crisis, I feel elevated.  Closer to achieving a sense of nirvana. I am at peace even in the midst of chaos.  It gives me something to devote my ever abounding energy to and provides me with a better sense of self.  And, while it is said that charity should be a selfless gesture, any fool would know that simply cannot be.  There is a certain selfish aspect to it.  There is a certain rush or "high" if you will when it comes to knowing you have done something to potentially change the outcome of someones life.  I enjoy giving.  I enjoy doing for others.  I don't require thanks. I don't require gratitude.  I don't even require acknowledgment.  All I need is to be able to achieve that remarkably warm feeling of knowing that I was able to play a small role in making someones life just a little bit better, if only for a short while.

With all that said, I am inviting you to please visit my "Cause" page to help Melia and her family try to recoup from the tragedy of this past week.  While nothing on earth, any amount of money or gesture, can return Destiny to us, the family is in dire need of financial salvation.  The family is going to need financial help desperately to help pay for the enormous hospital bills, for Destiny's final arrangements, Riley's long term care, the entire families living expenses and of course, they will need money for legal fees to go after the repeat offender criminal that stole Destiny's life.

The family does not have a lot as they just moved across the country in hopes of starting a better life. They need the help of friends, friends of friends, relatives, etc., to get them through this difficult time.

While there are grass root efforts being made in her home state of Arizona, Melia has many friends who know and love her in other parts of the world as well. We are reaching out to the blogging/social media community in an attempt to help rebuild this woman's life.

Please help in any way you can. Even the smallest of donations are appreciated.

To date, we the members of the Cause have been able to raise nearly $2500.  However, the cost of Destiny's final arrangements far exceed that.  The need is still great.  Melia will need to be able to stay close to the hospital where her son is now in ICU.  This will cost money.  The family is without health insurance.  Daily bills for the ICU stay run in excess of $20,000 per DAY.  They will both require hospital type beds when they are finally released.  There will be legal fees to pay.  They will need special medical equipment for Riley, such a a wheelchair for him to use while he slowly regains function of his extremities.  The costs are overwhelming and endless.  Even if you are unable to donate yourself, just passing the word around to others and encouraging them to donate will help Melia and her young family to recuperate from this tragedy.

To celebrate me, I am celebrating the life of Destiny.  I am celebrating the fact that my dear friend Melia has lived to see another day.  I am celebrating the fact that Riley has not given up and that his battered body has youth on its side and he is putting up a strong fight for his life.  In fact, I could not think of a better way to celebrate MY life than to introduce you to them.  To be able to remind all of you how precious life truly is.  How to let you all have this serve as a reminder that life can change on a dime.  If this story makes you a little bit more wary on the road, stops you from running a red light (like the person who hit Melia did), makes you hug your children a little bit tighter tonight...then to me, those are small but enormously significant victories.  Little celebrations of life...and in turn, small celebrations of my life as well.

Tonight, I was speaking to a friend and mentioned that it deeply saddened me every time I had to write the words "Destiny's funeral" during updates to friends.  She said to me, "It is not a funeral.  It is a celebration of life."  And, she is right.  Melia has chosen to have people dress in every color of the rainbow, Destiny's favorite thing, in honor of her daughter.  No drab, somber black garb...but brilliant hues.  Greens, yellows, oranges, blues, purples...all as vibrant and alive as Destiny was.

"What an amazing thing for a mother to do," I thought to myself.

She opted not to dress Destiny in a formal dress and fancy shoes, but rather, a pair of jeans.  A Justin Bieber shirt.  Her favorite DC brand rainbow shoes.  She chose to let Destiny leave this earth the same way that she came into it...with her own sense of style.  A ferociously independent little girl who had the gift of gab, a smile that could start a fire with its brilliance and the eyes of a mischievous angel.

Indeed, this will truly be a celebration of life.  And I can think of no better way to celebrate me...than to celebrate her all too short, but incredibly purposeful life.

Goodnight, sweet Destiny.  Rest well...and remember that every time I see a rainbow in the sky, I will know it is you, asking God to please redecorate the world.

You are loved.

Focus 52: "Close Up"

This is a close up of my mouth in a very unfamiliar position.

Closed.

And, because of my closed up mouth...millions of women, like you, like me, are going to die.

Closed up mouths lead to the take over of closed up minds.  Closed up minds equal the doors of Planned Parenthood closing up as well.  

With the recent passing of a Senate bill in Congress that is now going to remove federal funding from Planned Parenthood, you will now start to see changes.  Changes that I personally have not seen since the 1970's.  You will start reading about women, dying, because they could not get basic gynecological care due to lack of funds.

So what does a close up of a closed mouth have to do with this?

Complacency.  Because women did not speak up.   Because women did not protest this with outrage, with vehemence, with determination.  We, the fairer sex, have once again allowed suited men (and women) in Congress to enter our uterus and determine what our rights are.  Even though providing abortions is a small part of what Planned Parenthood does—and is isolated from federal funds within the organization's structure, by law—the amendment passed 240-185.

Is this the beginning of the end of Roe v. Wade?  Are women in our lifetime about to be relegated back to the days of back alley abortions?  Will we once again read about women who fall prey to quacks with dirty folding tables and rusty scalpels performing our abortions, leaving us bleeding, mutilated and dying?

What Congress does not seem to realize is that abortions are only one EIGHTH of what Planned Parenthood actually does for women.  This organization also does pre-screenings for diseases such as cervical, breast and ovarian cancer for women who cannot otherwise afford to have these services done.  They provide testing for HIV, AIDS and various other sexually transmitted diseases.  They offer education and birth control for low income sectors of our society.    Let's not forget that Planned Parenthood makes sure that the rate of unwanted pregnancies and teen pregnancies stays extremely low.  Without their services, it is estimated that there will be 1.9 million unwanted and preventable pregnancies each year.

1.9 MILLION.  You read that correctly.

In a society where we can scarcely afford to take care of the population that exists right now, can we actually afford to supplement an additional 1.9 million more babies coming into this world?  This has little to do with abortion, but much to do with lack of birth control for those who cannot afford the doctors visits to obtain birth control, let alone the monthly cost of purchasing it.

It is not hyperbole to say that women will die as a result of this bill. It's the horrible truth. Women who are uninsured will avoid seeking annual exams, pre-cancerous lesions on the cervix will be missed and will develop into cancer, breast masses will not be detected early - some women will die.

In addition to this, more will have unplanned pregnancies. Abortion rates, ironically, will increase. Only these medical interventions will be peformed by those not likely to have proper credentials, equipment and who are seeking to prey on the weakest members of our society - the poor. 

Sound outrageous?  It is.  And if this makes you angry, you should be.  You need to be on the phone calling your senator, you need to be planning how you'll support the person who runs against the incompetent moron in your district who voted for this reprehensible bill. This must be stopped. We cannot blindly allow women to step back into the dark ages of back alley abortions and black market adoptions. 

Are you part of the reason this bill passed?  Rip the tape from your lips, open your mouth and start yelling.  Yell for your daughters.  Yell for your granddaughters.  Yell the way women yelled back in the mid-seventies when they decided that they were no longer going to allow government to take away our basic fundamental rights of reproduction control.  Those women yelled to protect our future.  We should be yelling for the next generation of women and girls who may fall victim to this heinous crime. 

I'm yelling.  I've been yelling.


You should be too. 

Focus 52: "Love, Baby"

"Stay there. Just like that. I have my camera under the pillow."

"What?"

"Sh.  Don't move.  Don't smile. Just stay...like that."

*click*

Yes, People. I went "there".  I always wanted a photo of us literally seconds after the the "big finish".  I love the glazed over look on his face.  I love how soft his eyes are.  I love that I can't help from biting my bottom lip like a schoolgirl with a big secret.  What you can't feel in this photo is the warmth between our two bodies.  What you cannot see in this photo is how our legs are intertwined under our big down comforter.  How his right foot is playing with the bottom of my left foot, tickling me.  How the tips of his fingers are swirling soft, concentric circles just above the top of my ass, in that small indentation we women have in our lower backs.  What you cannot hear are the banging of two over taxed hearts and the huff and puff of the aftermath of the aerobic exercise we just completed.  Neither of us are particularly active people...except in this arena.  It is here that we can run the mile, vault the horse, stick the landing and end with a perfect dismount that even the harshest of Russian judges would have to give a "10" to.

This picture is not about two people who just had sex, bumped uglies, did the nasty, made the four armed machine, etc.  This photo is this weeks title:  Love, Baby.  After 11 long years together, this man still captivates me.  Every line, every dent, every nook and cranny.  His scent intoxicates me.  His eyes draw me in like magnets.  His breath on my face is like warm apple pie.  His hands feel like butterflies, flickering all up and down this expansive mountain of flesh that makes up my ample body.

And me?  What you are seeing there is a rare moment...only vaguely seen by previous lovers, but never quite the way my husband sees it.  It is vulnerability.  It is the taming of the shrew.  It is the moment that I become not just his wife or lover, but rather, his mistress.  His virgin.  His whore.  His Goddess.  His first time.  My first time. And what will be, for both of us, our last time...until the next time.

Each experience of making love to my husband is more intense than the last.  Orgasms be damned, for it is SO no longer about that.  It is about what I bring to the game, on bended knee if you will, for him.  He is not a selfish lover, by any means...but never in my entire sexually active life have I yearned to be more of the pleasurer than the pleasured.  Together we are a force to be reckoned with.  While we are working with the broken down bodies of what a man in his late thirties and a woman in her mid forties can offer, when it is time for game on, we are two eighteen year olds bringing 38 years worth of combined experience to the table. We are passionate, feverish, combining sweetness with the tart and tangy and softness with the heavy handed and hardened.  He is the yin to my yang and every move is done in perfect sympatico.

This picture.  It captures "love, baby" because feasibly, you will never meet another couple more in love than he and I.  Other couples aspire higher when they are around us.  I joke to my husband and say "we're contagious, babe!"  They become better couples in our presence because they yearn to have what we do.  We've both heard it before.  "Oh, I wish our marriage was like yours.  You guys always look like you are having so much fun together."  And, truth be told? We ARE having that much fun together.  We laugh during sex.  We laugh during nervous times.  We laugh in the midst of crisis...one of us usually cracking an inappropriate joke to lighten the mood.

It would sound as if I were bragging if it weren't just merely the truth.  

It wasn't always this way.  We had our share of problems in the very beginning.  His baggage came in form of a carry on piece of luggage with rickety wheels and a broken handle.  Mine came in a Louis Vuitton  8 piece steamer trunk set.  Once we learned how to put our clothes away and put the luggage in storage, our life together truly began and we haven't looked back since.

"Lemme see the picture," he says.

I show him.

"Aw, Baby...", he whispers to me.  "You look like a little kid about to burst into laughter.  Was I that bad?"

"No.  You weren't 'bad', goofball.  You were amazing.  You're always amazing."

"WE'RE always amazing," he corrects me and kisses my forehead.

I put the camera to the side.

"Did you really have the camera under the pillow just for that," he asks.

"Yep.  I always wanted to see what we looked like two seconds later, when we fall backwards in exhaustion."

"We look pretty damn good," he says.

Still biting my lip, I nod in agreement.

It's late and he's going to be catching a 4am plane to California for work.  It's nearly 2am at the time the photo is taken.  I roll onto my side, pulling him with me.  My back is pressed into his chest.  I can feel the soft tendrils of his furry chest tickling my sensitive skin on my back.  His arm is raised above my head...our fingers interlaced.  His other hand rests in the dip of my waist, his fingertips grazing my lower abdomen.  I can feel him breathing into my hair, heavier and heavier.  He murmurs something almost inaudible, but I caught the tale end of "I love you".  I answer him by pressing my hips a bit harder into his.  His breathing slows and hard, heavy breaths give way to light, exhausted snores.  There is music playing in our bedroom, soft piano music playing low.  The piano sounds soft and low as the oboe that is playing over it sounds vaguely like a woman crying.

Until I realize, I am the woman crying.

You see, my heart will be taking to the sky in less than two hours.  The better half of my soul will be 3000 miles away from me.  There will be no one to have a midnight snack with.  No one to giggle with me at America's Funniest Home Videos.  No one to eat dinner with.  No one to talk to in the middle of the cold dark night.  No one sharing the warmth of my bed.  I will be alone for a week as I am every month for one week a month and as always, it will break my heart yet again.

I miss him already so my heart knows to instinctively cry.  I sob inwardly so not to wake him of his precious hour of sleep before having to board a plane.  The alarm rings forty-five minutes later.  He slips out from under the blankets.  I feign sleep.  He kisses the top of my head and goes in for his shower.  I hear the water running and it hurts so much.  I reach out and grab my camera, still sitting on the edge of the bed, just under my pillow.  I flip through to the picture I took.  Look at that moment.  I can't help but smile.  That sweet, sexy innocent moment now forever preserved in time.  I bite my lower lip to suppress what could either amount to a giggle or a choked up sob. 

He is packed and leaving.

"I love you baby," he says.  "It will be a short week.  And, when I get home...we have our special Valentines Day weekend at the beach.  Just you, me, dinner at The Pearl and a balcony view of the ocean."

"Can't wait," I whisper.

He kisses my lips softly.

"All the love in the world, Angel," he says.

"Nothing but love, Baby," I reply.  And with that, he's gone.

Monday comes.  I wait for the Focus 52 prompt, excited to see what the challenge will be for the week.

"Our prompt this week...," she writes, "why, it is Love, Baby!!"

Love, Baby?  I laugh.  I laugh so deep and hard that it almost hurts my belly.

I grab the picture and run to my blog.  Sometimes, fact is stranger than fiction and the story just writes itself.  Who would have thought that a picture would accompany it as well.  I "frame" the pic with a Polaroid type effect to make it look like an instant moment in time.  Something captured and clandestine.  Something sneaky and sexy...like the Polaroids you have hidden away in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. 

So there you have it.  The story of the photo.  The story of our loves...and nothing but Love, Baby.

Nothing but love.

Focus 52: "Frame"

Frame.

I had a bunch of ideas for this word of the week but nothing really came to fruition.  With midterms going on, I was sort of pressed for time.  The way I wanted to use "frame" wasn't in the cards...but then, my husband, my biggest source of inspiration said "Why not a door frame?"

And I thought, why not, indeed?

So, welcome to the front door of my home.  If you had any clue or have been reading my blog for some time, you would know why this particular door frame means so much to me and my family.  A year ago, we were being thrown out of our original home due to foreclosure.  Nothing we did, mind you, just victims of circumstance.

You can read the story surrounding it here at "This Old House", a post I made a year ago. 

This picture, taken one night when we first moved into our new home, means a lot to me.  It was the symbol of a new beginning.  This front door has seen the entry of my grandchildren.  It has been the gateway to many parties, a lot of laughs and of course, a few tears.  But, this new home has also been the source of safety...a place where I now know I will never be asked to leave ever again.  I will never have to come home to see chains on the front door.  I will never have a process server come up to me and say "Sorry, Ma'am, but this house is being seized by the bank."  I will never have to call my husband in California ever again and say, "baby, they lost the house on us.  We're homeless as of next week.  What are we going to do?"

It will never, ever, happen again.

So, while this might not be the home where my first granddaughter came home to, or learned to walk in.  While this may not be the house that my husband and I dreamed of buying once upon a time, it is better than what we had, because it is safe.  It's in a fantastic neighborhood, surrounded by a cop, an ex-marine and a private detective.  It has a much bigger backyard where my grandbabies can run around in.  It is a stones throw from my sons school bus stop.  It is beautiful, spacious with vaulted ceilings and a large, bright and welcoming kitchen.  There is a step down living room with cherry wood floors with an amazing warmth to it.  The bedrooms are large and expansive.  There are windows everywhere, not like our past home which was dark and dreary.  But most of all, it is inviting.  It envelopes all who pass through it like a secure hug.  Surely, it is not the house itself that make a home, but rather, the love contained within.  But this home that we have made fits us like a glove.

Coming home one night, I noticed how it glowed, like a beacon in the dark...welcoming us in and assuring us that we will never go back to where we were a year ago ever again.  It is where new memories are being made, where happiness and love abound and where all who enter through that front door frame are friends.  People I trust.  People I love.  People who embrace me and whom I embrace in return.

It is our home.  And, should you ever be in the neighborhood, it is your home as well.

Drop in.  Any time.  The door is wide open.