Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Inquiring mind

It’s been hard blogging since I only get a few minutes to develop an entry lately; then I have to stop, shut it down and either go to bed, go to school, or change someone.
So, yes, the posts lately have left everyone hanging. What did Monsieur think about Daddy? What did Daddy think about Monsieur? Well, I thought they got on famously but honestly, after your comments I had to ask both of them:

Yearning Heart: So you got home OK? How was your drive?

Daddy: Yup. Drive was smooth.

Yearning Heart: Did you have a good time?

Daddy: Oh, sure, it was great seeing you, Dutch*, you look like you really got your row there.

Yearning Heart: What did you think of [Monsieur]?

Daddy: He seems like a good guy. Real steady. [pause] What I think is more important is, what do you think about him?

Yearning Heart: [laughs] OK, OK.

Daddy: You like him?

Yearning Heart: Yes. Yes, I do.

Daddy: I like him OK, too. You think he’s close to gettin’ a car? He’s tryin’ to pay cash, right?

Yearning Heart: Yes, and yes he is.

Daddy: That’s what I can’t quite figure out, though I give him credit for it. Buying a vehicle without paying over time.

* Dutch, short for Duchess. What my daddy calls me.
After checking with my mom, I found out that my dad was worried that this Monsieur guy was some kind of dirt rancher/network jockey who (since he’s a consultant) never could hold a permanent job. The whole idea that he would live frugally so he could pay cash for a car really impressed my dad.

Naturally I had to check with Monsieur, too.

Yearning Heart: You and Daddy get along all right?

Monsieur: Of course. He’s quite likable, and it is easy to see how you grew up with a positive attitude.

Which, I hadn’t considered before. I guess I do have a positive attitude, compared to many.

Yearning Heart: Really. H’m, ya, I guess I do.

Monsieur: I am most interested in meeting the rest of your family, as well. In particular, your mother.

Yearning Heart: My mother? Why?

Monsieur: It is only fair, as you’ve met mine. Besides, we are all predestined to grow up to be our mothers, so I am most interested to see what is your destiny.

Yearning Heart: What a horrid thought! You take that back, right now! I will not be my mother!

Monsieur: I’m afraid there’s little that can be done.

Yearning Heart: [makes horrid face at Monsieur and heads out to exit, then peeks back at him to make sure he knows she is teasing him.]

Monsieur: Of course, the attitude comes and the attitude goes.

Yearning Heart: OH! [sticks tongue out at him.]

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

Last weekend my dad came to visit for a day.
He was off for Memorial Day, which was the day that he planned to move his aunt from a home near Dallas to a home in Kansas. So, he decided to take a few extra days off and come and visit me.
It went pretty well. Daddy and Monsieur were both in the same sort of military outfit, except that Daddy was in the U.S. Army in Viet Nam for a brief time, then he was stationed in Germany for the remainder. Monsieur was in the army (France) and was sent to Africa, the Pacific and Iraq. So they spent a good deal of time talking about that, but they also talked about raising kids and the weather.
It was a pretty good visit, I think. It was rather last-minute, but Monsieur didn’t have a problem with Daddy showing up with only a couple of days’ notice. Monsieur even ended up talking with him about American football, a subject I know almost nothing about beyond that you’re supposed to throw it by making it spin along its pointy ends. My dad doesn’t know as much about football as he would like people to think, but Monsieur was too gracious to say so.
We fed him, filled up his coffee, and gave him the shortcut directions for the freeway. He headed out Sunday morning.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

In Memoriam, MGBL

It’s been a year now, Maggie. Your kids are growing by the day. Littlest Boy can talk in sentences and pick out words on a page, Middlest Boy can read and recite poetry, Bigglest Boy (I think that’s him at right) can do middle school math and very good book reports.
Do you remember when you were at my apartment with my then-boyfriend SH? Something someone told me reminded me of that. You didn’t like him; he came on too strong you said, something like that. But you were gracious and friendly to him. Then he asked you what the Chinese tattoos on your leg said. You could have said that you didn’t really read Chinese that well or you didn’t recognize the characters. But you didn’t; you looked at the tattoos studiously for a few seconds, then you said, “It’s a traditional script, not used much in modern Chinese literature. It says, ‘If your dick were as disappointing as mine is, you’d get a Chinese tattoo, too.’” Then you looked up at him, and just before he was going to say something rude, you winked at him and completely disarmed him. “Actually, I don’t really know what it says,” you said. “I only learned a little Chinese when I was little.” He laughed.
Your boys are a real challenge. They require discipline and I am not strict enough. When Middlest Boy cries because he got in trouble, I want to give in, but I don’t. I keep a stern expression on my face as his face crumples up to cry, though my heart melts. When he finally goes up to his room to cry loudly and demonstratively, I go to your room, and I cry silently.
Your students miss you. E thinks I’m going to go away soon. When I was assisting at the co-op, I think that she was pushing me and your husband together in her own mind just so I would have that much more of an incentive to stay. But she needn’t have pushed or worried. I will stay for a while.
I give out copywork to do as discipline, like I hear you did. For the biggest kids, it’s 10 lines for the first offense, 20 for the second offense, and so on. I gave it to A the other day – she was rude to Middlest Boy again, and she did 30 lines of “Always show kindness in word and in deed.” Then she said, “This is much easier than when [Ms Maggie] used to make us do it in Korean.”
“She made you do it in Korean?” I asked.
“Sure, didn’t you know that?” A said half triumphantly that yet again she knew something that I didn’t. She got out her notebook. “Here’s one. And here are some rules in Korean she made us do.”
Have faith in your friends. Finish what has begun.

I took the originals and scanned them.

I took the originals from her, that you had written out; I scanned them and have two of them here. I don’t know what they mean; no one else did either. Monsieur made a guess from memory, but he isn’t too sure. But the next time A acts up in school, she’s doing her lines in Korean.
I wish I could be more strict with them, but I guess I still am a kid; when they act up I kind of act up a little too, which only encourages them. When Monsieur and I review the day, I sometimes get a mini-lecture on discipline. He is very supportive and it’s all very constructive, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get this part down.
Do you remember when I was in Oleanna as the professor’s wife and the director was wanting a certain read on a line and she didn’t know what she wanted? I had to guess, and I didn’t do that well. And then the part got cut? But I’m sure of my place here, I just wish I had a better feel for it.
Oh, Monsieur… Maggie why didn’t you tell me how difficult he was? Probably the same reason I don’t go into it in my journal: because you were in love with him and couldn’t represent him to anyone else in a negative way. He thinks so quickly and he really keeps me on my toes. He’s easily the most active dad at the co-op and he still teaches when I have to take a boy into their appointments. (They still have the same doctors that you picked out.) He is very stubborn and he works too hard, he’s hard to get anything out of him emotionally beyond fierce pride in his family… gosh all of that describes your boys, too. I want to take care of him but I don’t know what I’m doing. I am still trying to remember where everything goes, and I hope I do all right. I try to control my temper and, believe it or not, Bigglest Boy is helping me with that, when he sees that I’m stressed he sort of takes over as lieutenant parent. He then sounds like his dad with a different accent. He puts his hands on his hips and orders the other two boys around.
We all miss you. I’d give up myself for you to be here. Monsieur has grown completely silent since yesterday. His eyes are distant and he barely answers, and he goes out into the woods or the garden a lot in the evenings. When I go out there to him after he’s been out there an hour or so, he says hardly a thing. And I know you visit sometimes because I can feel you, a little. If only you could do anything from where you are; if you could just fill us with that gladness you create, if only, if only, if only… well, you’re busy, I’m sure, but maybe you know someone.
I am holding something of who you are with me, something that you have left; some mark of who you are on who I am.
I can bring you back to my mind even though death’s door may stand between us.
And if I meet you on the other side, I will know you.
Yet I still yearn to see your face and hear your voice and speak to you and hold you in my heart.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

And you have to make sure it's dead; there's nothing more dangerous than a wounded fly

[Exterior night. Monsieur & the Yearning Heart, laying next to each other, exhausted on the screen porch in a mattress.]

Yearning Heart: Exhausted.

Monsieur: Good.


Yearning Heart: Fly, on my foot. I don’t want it to lay eggs in me.

Monsieur: Well, wiggle your foot, and the fly will realize you are not dead, and find someone who is.

Yearning Heart: I can’t move. Exhausted.

Monsieur: Well, then, you can see where the fly may have obtained that mistaken perception.

[[Yearning Heart] throws pillow on [Monsieur] who stands to return pillow fire. [The Fly] buzzes around the room, [Monsieur] catches [The Fly] in one hand, flings it to the the ground, and steps on it.]

Yearning Heart: My hero.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Have a guess

I refuse to be one of those women who say, “Guess what I’m thinking. Guess what I want. Go on, guess. If you guess wrong, you lose power in this relationship and I will hold it against you for the rest of your life.”
What do I want for my birthday? Check my wish list. (The one I sent you. Wasn’t that easy? It sure was!)
Is there something bothering me? If so, I promise to at least say, “Yes. I’m gathering my thoughts.” I will try to never say, “Nothing,” if it’s really something.
When I’m in the middle of an argument, and I’m cornered, I promise not to be threatened by that. I won’t say, “Fine!” when I know I lost. I will say, “I didn’t realize…” or “I’m not being clear, am I?” or “Does this not make any sense?” or even, “I’m sorry.” I WILL say I’m sorry.
There’s this woman named Kim who was … very concerned about Monsieur when Maggie passed away. I didn’t write about her but several of you know about her. She’s cute. No, she’s not; I’m cute. She’s beautiful. Very. Really his type in a way that I’m not; she speaks three languages and is very successful and obviously loves him. She called him three times a week when I first got here; she was one of those people who were just, well, very concerned. She saw me once in church, came up to me and said, “I’m really glad you’re there with the boys. He really needs that right now.” Later she said to me, “Well! You two are really getting close,” making it sound like a question she might have business asking. Yes, she wanted him and don’t tell me I’m making it up; I could tell. I will not ask him if he found her attractive. I’m not going to force him to lie to me like that. I want to know, but I don’t want him to tell me what I know is true, so I don’t ask; I don’t want to know that bad. I can guess.
I don’t want to ask painful questions of him right now. I have listened to so many guys bitch about their girlfriends, and I would die if I knew I have become one of those women to him. I just don’t want to burden him right now. I’m not going to make him guess what I need and I’m not going to let things I don’t know bother me. When I feel like I have a right to, I’ll ask. If something is up, I promise to say so.
So mote it be.

Monday, May 22, 2006

The Irish Question

A woman went to Ireland to attend a 2-week company-sponsored training session. Her husband took her to the airport and told her to have a good trip.

The wife answered, “Thank you honey, what would you like me to bring for you?”

The husband laughed and said, “An Irish girl!”

The woman said nothing to that, but kissed her husband and left.

Two weeks later he picked her up in the airport and asked, “So, honey, how was the trip?”

“It was very pleasant, thank you.”

“And, what happened to my present?” he asked, smiling.

“Which present?”

“What I asked for… the Irish girl?”

“Oh, that? Well, I did my part, but now we’ll have to wait about nine months to see if it’s a girl.”

Sunday, May 21, 2006

My Mornings

[Interior, kitchen, early morning. Three children run around the kitchen getting ready for the day. Peppermint sits at the kitchen table, drinks coffee.]

[Middlest Boy]: [Off] Pepper! PEPPPPPPERRRRRR!
[Peppermint]: What?!
[Middlest Boy]: [Entering] My shoes are too tight.
[Peppermint]: [Middlest Boy], sweetie, they're on opposite feet. Take them off and try again.
[Bigglest Boy]: [Off] Peppermint? Is it pants day?
[Peppermint]: No. You can wear shorts.
[Littlest Boy]: [Entering, carrying a toy screwdriver] Peppymitt?
[Peppermint]: What precious?
[Littlest Boy]: [Looks in her cup] Wizz it?
[Peppermint]: What I’m drinking?
[He nods.]
[Peppermint]: Coffee. It’s not for children.
[Littlest Boy]: [Puts toy screwdriver down, reaches for her cup] Me gets coffee.
[Peppermint]: No, precious, you get water. Here’s your water cup, you can bring it in the van.
[Littlest Boy]: Want coffee.
[Peppermint]: Coffee is a tool of the devil and the instrument of our destruction. Also it makes your bladder hurt. You don’t want that. Here’s a banana.
[Littlest Boy]: What’s ‘precious’?
[Peppermint]: You’re precious.
[Littlest Boy]: Me [Littlest Boy].
[Peppermint]: You’re my precious [Littlest Boy].
[Middlest Boy]: OK my shoes are on now.
[Peppermint]: Nicely done.
[Middlest Boy]: Will you tie them?
[Peppermint]: I will. How’s that?
[Middlest Boy]: I think it’s … too tight.
[Peppermint]: Hmm. [checks] Well, you’ll need them tight if we lose containment and have to get into our EVA gear and leave the capsule. Right? Because there’s no atmosphere. You don’t want your socks to get sucked out into space, do you?
[Middlest Boy]: I guess. I guess they’re not tight anymore.
[Peppermint]: OK, into the capsule. [Bigglest Boy], are you ready?
[Bigglest Boy]: [Off] Yes!
[Peppermint]: Do you have your homework?
[Bigglest Boy]: [Off] I didn’t do my math!
[Peppermint]: Ooo! I hope your teacher doesn’t find out!
[Bigglest Boy]: [Enters] Ha, ha. Do I have time to just do it now?
[Peppermint]: Nope. C’mon, get in the van. Your father’s in the van, too. [With emphasis] And he’s waiting.
[Bigglest Boy exits, running out the front door at top speed.]
[Littlest Boy]: And me!
[Peppermint]: And you. Up you go. [picks up [Littlest Boy] and holds him, balancing him on one hip, finishes coffee and sets the empty cup in the kitchen sink]
[Middlest Boy]: Peppermint? Why do you drink coffee now when you used to not drink coffee?
[Peppermint]: Well [Middlest Boy], because remember when I was telling you in science class the other day? that without chemicals and their processes, life itself would be impossible?
[Middlest Boy]: Yes-s-s... but –
[Peppermint]: This is one of those chemical processes that, without it, my life would be impossible.


Saturday, May 20, 2006

Time for a joke

I was going through my old archives from graduation year and I realize I used to tell jokes more often. This one is from Alicia who is now in Omaha, being a married woman. She says, “Here is how you handle people who won’t let you have a good time:”

A woman was at her hairdresser’s getting her hair styled for a trip to Rome with her husband. She mentioned the trip to the hairdresser, who responded, “Rome? Why would anyone want to go there? It’s crowded and dirty. You’re crazy to go to Rome. So, how are you getting there?”

“We’re taking Continental,” was the reply. “We got a great rate!”

“Continental?” exclaimed the hairdresser. “That’s a terrible airline. Their planes are old, their flight attendants are ugly, and they’re always late. So, where are you staying in Rome?”

“We’ll be at this exclusive little place over on Rome’s Tiber River called Teste.”

“Don’t go any further. I know that place. Everybody thinks it’s gonna be something special and exclusive, but it’s really a dump, the worst hotel in the city! The rooms are small, the service is surly, and they’re overpriced. So, whatcha’ doing when you get there?”

“We’re going to go to see the Vatican and we hope to see the Pope.”

“That’s rich,” laughed the hairdresser. “You and a million other people trying to see him. He’ll look the size of an ant. Boy, good luck on this lousy trip of yours. You’re going to need it.”

A month later, the woman again came in for a hairdo. The hairdresser asked her about her trip to Rome.

“It was wonderful,” explained the woman, “not only were we on time in one of Continental’s brand new planes! but it was overbooked and they bumped us up to first class. The food and wine were wonderful, and I had a handsome 28-year-old steward who waited on me hand and foot. And the hotel was great! They’d just finished a $5 million remodeling job and now it’s a jewel, the finest hotel n the city. They, too, were overbooked, so they apologized and gave us their owner’s suite at no extra charge!”

“Well,” muttered the hairdresser, “that’s all well and good, but I know you didn’t get to see the Pope.”

“Actually, we were quite lucky, because as we toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder, and explained that the Pope likes to meet some of the visitors, and if I’d be so kind as to step into his private room and wait, the Pope would personally greet me. Sure enough, five minutes later, the Pope walked through the door and shook my hand! I knelt down and he spoke a few words to me.”

“Oh, really! What’d he say?”

“He said, ‘Where’d you get the shitty hairdo?’”

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Plans? Who, Me?

He drops me off at school every morning with the children. Kisses go all around to the boys, and there is usually a quick discussion about household logistics. This morning, however, he asked me if I had plans this evening.
Plans? I don’t have plans in the evening! So I told him no, that I was free. I spent the day wondering what was up.

So, tonight, he made a very lovely dinner and opened some of his brother’s wine. His brother bottles his own wine, since he has a small vineyard back in France. The wine was actually quite awful – I was too embarrassed to say so in case I just have no taste for wine. But he tasted and said, “Garrgh!” with a very comical cartoon face! so we poured that one out, and opened something else. Dinner was beautiful, with some kind of bean casserole along with some kind of very tender, thin-sliced roast beef that he told me the name of but I didn’t write it down. I will say it had this crust over it, like pie crust, very flaky and yummy. Men who cook well are hot.
Afterwards, he again started asking me about my plans, and asked about what I had said a few weeks ago.
He asked me if I was still happy here, and I answered that I was.
“And this life,” he asked me, “will sustain you for quite a while?”
This life: chasing boys up the stairs, teaching little minds, discovering the universe and wiping noses. That life I turned away from: chasing grades, chasing a career, trying to get one break after another, discovering that most of an acting career, isn’t is all about acting; an acting career is all about waiting and being told ‘no’. Do I want to be told ‘no’ again? Or do I want to stay in the heart of this man, and his family?
Will this life sustain me? I’m blooming! Oh, yes, I thought, going into a trance….
“Oh, yes,” I murmured to myself more than to him.
“Are you quite certain?” he said. I snapped back from wherever I was.
“Yes, I am, quite certain,” I said, simply, wondering where this was leading.
“I only ask because, as I am sure you are aware, I have come to depend on you for so much, and perhaps I have a hard time describing to you how I feel about you.” He looked away, and then he said, very quietly, “My feelings are not easily shared, right now.”
“Monsieur, I understand completely.” I held his hand.
“Just because I may have a difficult time expressing my feelings, does not mean I do not have such feelings,” he said, and it took some time for him to get that much out.
“You don’t need to explain yourself,” I said, still holding his hand.
“I am certain that I do need to explain,” he replied. “I want you to know that I have very strong feelings for you. I have become very attached to you, and I would like this relationship to be on very solid footing.”
I waited, listening.
“I have told you that I had sought grief counseling, as you recall after Maggie….” He paused.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Of course one of the things they tell you is not to make any major life decisions for a period of at least one year: don’t sell the house and move. Don’t change careers. Avoid … romantic relationships. This is sensible, and can help the grieving process by not–”
I interrupted him, rolling my eyes. “Ya, ya, ya. I know all that. We’ve been over all that.” I put his hand up to my face, and kissed it. “What is it, exactly, that you’re trying to say without having to say it?”
“I have not been able to treat you as well as you should be treated, and I am sorry for it,” he said, all at once.
“What are you talking about?” I said quickly. “You have been wonderful. Apology accepted.But you really haven’t been so bad. What is it you are really trying to say?”
Bien,” he continued, “I am not the sort of man who would have a woman live here, under my roof and under my care, enjoying her affections, unless I have hope of something further.”
“Something further,” I repeated. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“Something long-term,” he replied in a voice just above a whisper.
“Again, accepted,” I said gently.
“You don’t know what it is that you’re accepting,” he said, smiling.
“Well, then you don’t know what you’re offering, or to whom you’re offering it,” I replied. “Let me ask you this: how do you really feel about me?”
He smiled, and said, “It is my own failing that you would have to ask.”
“And since I have to ask, what is your answer?” I could feel my yearning heart, beating in my throat.
“I love you, and I hope that you remain,” he answered.
I felt as though I would burst. I could feel my face get red, my eyes starting to get teary, and I’m sure I was trembling. “And I love you,” I said. “More than you’ll ever know. And I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”
“I want to ask you something more,” he said, “but I find that I am not able to do it.”
“Ask me when you are able,” I replied. My eyes started flowing and suddenly I was weeping, at first trying not to let him see my tears, but it was hopeless. I kissed him anyway and I felt my heart, my mind and my body turn to complete mush. Mush and goo, and it was soaking my face and my panties, and I needed him so badly.
“Do you,” I said, between kisses, “have any idea,” another few kisses, “how much I want you,” kisses, “right now, at this very minute?”
“I do have some idea,” he smiled.
I pulled back just a bit. “You’re, um, not going to turn me down, are you?” I looked at him.
“No,” he said, “I think that would not be a good or kind thing to do.”
“No,” I said firmly, “it would not.” I sat back, expectantly.
“You’re very demanding,” he said, smiling and took a sip from his wine glass. How can he, I thought, just sit there and sip wine after I almost hump his leg?
“Demanding? I’m a brat,” I countered, then I smiled. “Can you handle me?” I was teasing him, but he was teasing me, too; so I figured, all’s fair.
Bien, I am sure I don’t know,” he said, laughing. “I don’t think that you’re a brat, at all. You’re very responsible, and you’re quite well-behaved—”
“In public,” I agreed. “But in private, when it’s just you and me,” I lowered my voice, “and when I really,” then I leaned over to him and I lowered my voice to a whisper, “need you inside me,” I finally said, kissing his ear, “that’s when I’m hard to handle.” My hand traveled up his thigh. I kissed his mouth, and his hands went to my waist. I sat on his lap, and put my legs on either side of him. I felt like I was electrically charged.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Finding the right man or the right bra

is pretty much the same, almost-hopeless, exercise:
  • You look for one that supports but doesn't cut into you.
  • It should look good by itself when nothing is over it, and it should look good in clothes.
  • It shouldn't reveal too much and it should stay on you right.
  • Try not to let your mom pick one out for you.
  • Some last longer than others.
  • And when it's completely worn out and there are big gaping holes near the cups, it's time to let it go; don't let your kids play with your old ones, no matter how much fun they think it is or how cute they look playing with one.

The Yearning Heart is so hard to buy things for

Anyone who can, visit my wish list and tell me what I want for my birthday, which will be this Sunday on May 21st. I have no idea what I want. Well, ya I do, but I mean, something from a store.

And they still haven't found what they're looking for

This week’s Search Engine Referrals Fun:
  • ass fucking
    ([yawn] - that one has jumped the shark, I would think - oh but they’re coming from a domain in Greece… ‘nuff said.)
  • what is avowe
    (from Turkey, and I’m impressed that someone finally found my Talk Like a Pirate Day post after almost nine months)
  • girl masturbating mirror
    (hmm … interesting idea)
    and the usual suspects:
  • pussy (5 different visitors)
  • nipples (3)
  • naughty girl (7)
    but my personal favorite has got to be:
  • northwestern women’s soccer underwear and blindfold

Monday, May 15, 2006

Where I'm Coming From

I am from the land of fire ant invasions and preventative tetanus shots, too.
  • I am from the prairie, rolling hills of yellow wheat, from Grape Nuts and John Deere.
  • I am from the clapboard house with plain white siding, a screen porch and a carpeted basement, smells of cinnamon, of fertilizer and cattle feed.
  • I am from the sunflower, the prairie nettle.
  • I am from County Meath and County Sedgwick, from red hair and freckles, from Aunt Beatrice and O’Keane, from old feuds and old alliances, from fast friends and slow-cooked brisket.
  • I am from the warm hearth, from “why don’t you have off your coat and set a while?”
  • I am from the secret clubhouse in the tree, from the suicide swing dive-bombing into the cattle tank.
  • I am from Sunday school and catechism, from incense and cassock.
  • I’m from the red earth and from the Emerald Isle, from cabbage and pork belly and tuna casserole.
  • I am from the infield t-ball home run with two on base, from the first house you call, from the chicken soup for the mom with the flu, from the volunteer fire brigade and the emergency calving.
  • I am from scrapbooks, Calcium Gluconate 23% Milk Fever Treatment, from Indian paintbrushes and from ten-foot snowdrifts followed by Indian summer, from the old cedar chest and the new Danish furniture, from the satellite dish and the drive-in matinée.
with apologies to George Ella Lyons

Superior Mother Jumps the Gun

I’m trying – so hard – not to get ahead of myself here. My mom doesn’t help much.
I called my mom for Mother’s Day and, after chit-chatting about gossip and news and recent local tragedies back in my hometown, I told her about my Mother’s Day card.

Mom: Stepmother? [Long pause] Gosh, that sounds like it’s really getting serious.

Yearning Heart: It was serious already, Mom.

Mom: Yes, I know, but I mean! [Another long pause] What are you going to do?

Yearning Heart: I don’t know! I think the ball is in his court, don’t you?

Mom: That ball has been in his court for a while, dear. You better sit and think and ask yourself whether or not he’s really going to want to marry you any time soon, if he does at all.

Yearning Heart: Well, you know, it hasn’t quite been a year, Mom. I don’t have any right to start demanding anything.

Mom: What do you want, dear?

[Long pause]

Mom: I remember how when you were little and your friends used to have pretend weddings when you were, oh, I guess about 9 or 10 years old – do you remember that? You’d always be the minister; you’d never want to be the bride.

Yearning Heart: Yes, [laughs] and I remember playing Barbies and whenever I would stage a wedding, Barbie would walk out on Ken before the ceremony and go off to be a successful single woman; I think a doctor or something.

Mom: Yes, she would end up going to Colorado Springs to shack up with that cowboy doll you had.

Yearning Heart: Yes! [laughs. Another pause.]

Mom: Do you remember watching Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman?

Yearning Heart: Ya, I do. I loved that show.

Mom: Do you remember how Dr. Quinn fell for that rancher recluse way up in the mountains?

Yearning Heart: Yes, Sully, he was cute. I liked him, in my little teenage way.

Mom: And she adopted those three kids?

Yearning Heart: Yes, I remember…

Mom: And they got married, right? and she had a baby?

Yearning Heart: [quickly] Mom, I see where this is going.

Mom: Well, I was only thinking of you, sweetie.

Yearning Heart: I’m not Jane Seymour, Mom, much less Dr. Michaela.

Mom: I know, angel, it’s just kind of odd. Eerie, really, the parallels…

Yearning Heart: It’s a totally different situation.

Mom: Are you two going to have kids?

Yearning Heart: MOM!

Mom: I’ll shut up now.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

My first card

Click to view larger image
I got this card today. I cried. The boys and Monsieur handed it to me at breakfast. I opened it and it was so beautiful, but the front said “To a Special Stepmother”.
“They didn’t have any ‘Happy Mother’s Day to Aunt Peppermint’ cards,” explained Bigglest Boy.
“Oh, that’s all right, sweetheart,” I assured him. “I think I like this one better anyway.”
“We all signed it,” said Middlest Boy.
“And me!” said Littlest Boy.
“And me,” said Monsieur.
“I can see that! Thank you,” was all I could say.

“Thank you for that card, Monsieur,” I said later as we were cleaning up after breakfast. He was washing dishes and I was clearing the table.
“I wanted it to be more,” he said. “Something a little more substantial.”
“Oh, I think that is pretty substantial,” I said. “No one has ever called me ‘stepmother’ before.”
“Did we presume too much?” he asked, turning to me.
I put my arms around him. “Not a bit. Although to be fair, you should explain to the boys what a stepmother is.”
“Indeed I have,” he said, “and the two oldest boys seem to think that describes your position in the boys’ life.”
“Of course, we would have to do one or two things before it’s entirely accurate,” I said, and kissed his nose.
“Well, you know how impatient boys can be,” he smiled.
“Stepmothers, too.” I went back to cleaning the kitchen. When I turned around again, he was looking at me. I winked at him, though I was trembling inside.
He winked back, and blushed.

Saturday, May 13, 2006

Continued, by request

(Continued from here.)
He came downstairs at 10:00, took my hand and led me to bed.
Closing the door behind us, I turned to him and said, “I’m really sorry about being such a–”
“Now, we have already apologized and forgiven each other,” he interrupted.
“Okay,” I nodded.
He kissed me and I responded very passionately, hoping that he wouldn’t change his mind. My hands were on his chest, then down to his waist where I undid his pants. He laughed slightly and said, “You really do need this, don’t you?”
“I told you I need it every day, Monsieur. I wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true.” My arms went around him and we stood there for a few moments, intertwined, my body moving against his. I pull my pajama top up and put his hands on my breasts then arched my back hungrily. His hand went over my breasts and he let his fingers tease my nipples, toying with them with an almost distracted leisure. I closed my eyes then put my hands up his shirt and around to his back, tracing his spine with my fingertips up to his shoulders. His muscles were so tight but as I kneaded them I felt him relax. I slid his shirt off and kissed him, then pulled back to look at his chest.
“Golly, you’re so yummy,” I said, then realized I sounded so trite and silly. I didn’t want to say anything stupid again so I lowered his underwear to the floor, helping him step out of them, and ran my fingers over his cock, gently touching it to even more hardness; I cupped his balls in my hand. He knelt and slid my underwear off. He cupped my vulva in his hand, spreading my pussy gently open with a finger then teased it slightly; I was so aroused I could feel everything swell and start to flow. I wanted to give him pleasure, too, so I pulled him to his feet, pushed him back on the bed and took his cock in my hand.
I love how hot it feels; how it throbs and moves around in its arousal, how the flange around its head starts to swell and expand like a ripening mushroom.
I crawled up on top of him, rubbing my small breasts against him and kissed him. I kissed my way down his body, teasing him, running my tongue in a line down that delicious trail from his navel to his pubes. I looked up at him and his eyes were closed.
“Is this okay?” I asked him quietly.
“Oui,” he replied hoarsely. His hands went to my face and cupped it, pulling me to his lips. He kissed me again and then tried to pull me on top of him, but I had other plans.

“He pumped his cock, driving it into my mouth and out again while I let it try to penetrate its way into my throat.”
I pulled away, got between his legs and lifted them, I ran my tongue over his cock and got it good and wet, then I opened very wide and took the head into my mouth. He gasped. I licked it then sucked it, starting gently and then moving faster, bobbing my head as I sucked, toying with his balls with one hand as I touched my pussy with the other. I got my finger good and wet inside me, then I fed it to him, giving him a taste of myself as I let him suck it. He turned me sideways so he could slide his fingers inside me, opening me up, moving his fingers in a circular motion, making me frantic as I sucked his cock. My mouth opened as wide as it could and he pumped his cock, driving it into my mouth and out again while I let it try to penetrate its way into my throat. I can’t say I took it all, but what I did take got it as good as I could give it.
He pulled me off of his cock and I pouted but he turned me around to lay on my back, and he pressed his face deep into me, splitting me with his tongue and burying his nose into my ass. His tongue moved surely and directly, licking and sucking me then pulling it out to replace it with two fingers. “Oh, fuck yes,” I moaned, then I came as his fingers went from a gentle circular motion to a strong, steady pumping, fucking me with his fingers as his tongue went up to my clitoris. His mouth clamped onto it, and the slow suction drew my climax out, my back arched, my head went back and I saw tiny lights explode in front of my eyes again and again. I cried out and held his head against me as each orgasm rippled through me. I think I lost consciousness for a few seconds.
I don’t remember being turned over, but I remember being on my knees and him rubbing his thick cock head against my pussy, I moaned and pushed back against it. After my orgasms I was tight, swollen shut, but I pushed back against him gamely and soon was rewarded by his thick shaft pushing its way past my engorged labia. I reached between us to feel him. I like the way it feels, all stretched when he’s inside me; I like the way my labia seem like a rubber band almost at its breaking point. I rubbed myself wantonly as he let himself go, biting my neck, whispering in my ear in French and calling me his angel, his sweet, his dear woman.
I came again and was a bit noisy; he pushed my face into a pillow and told me to bite down. I obeyed; his rhythm getting faster as I raised my ass to meet him. I stopped biting the pillow long enough to beg for him to come and fill me, to take me, telling him my pussy was his to fuck, then I felt it hit me again and I went back to chewing on the pillow case.
He pulled his cock halfway out and I felt so hungry for it; I moved back and forth against it, but he just held it there, perfectly still. It was so agonizing for him not to move. I moved against him, calling him a selfish man.
“Selfish, am I?’ he laughed. “You naughty girl, I will give you a selfish man.”
He pulled his cock out as I begged for him. He turned me over, picked me up and carried me over to the wall. He pulled my legs around his waist and then began to fuck me hard, pinning me against the wall with his body as his hips pounded me over and over again. I looked over at the mirror on the dresser and I could dimly see his cock disappearing into me, just before the sparklies went off again in front of my eyes.
Tears were running down my face as I confessed what a naughty girl I am, how I had been wanting him so badly, staying up late at night masturbating, visiting Lady Ann’s Brothel online and taking up man after man, lusting not so much for anyone else but for the attention and for the feeling that I still was desired. I confessed a dozen things, but he still was silent, his eyes were sometimes closed and sometimes burning into mine; and he still fucked me selfishly, deliciously, and thoroughly.
Finally he held me tightly to the wall, his head held up and I could see the veins in his neck as he gasped, held still, then moaned. I felt him expand more inside me and then I felt it running down me, down the crack of my ass and drip to the floor. Still he held me to the wall and I saw a tear slide down his cheek. I kissed it away and told him I’d always be here, his forever and always, as long as he would have me.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

In re: acting

I am getting some of the hardest questions lately in my inbox and comments. Among them:
>>Are you still going to be an actress?
>>Posted by Obesio to The Heart Approaches What It Yearns at 5/10/2006 12:05:48 PM

Short answer: not today.
Long answer: Recently I spoke to several of my drama teachers and coaches and asked them if I had a chance on the stage, since I never seemed to get the kinds of parts that I wanted to get back in college. They all had varying degrees of the same answer: “You have heart and you want it badly but you are not really ever going to be a good actor. With work you can be a better actor, but that spark of something that most really, truly good actors have is not within you.”
Now, being faculty, they said that in a much kinder, gentler way, such as:
  • “There are things that you can do with your acting that do not involve acting in the theater, such as teaching drama, PR, public speaking blah blah blah…”
  • “You might try to hone your skills by pursuing other venues and you may end up finding something worthwhile and rewarding blah blah blah…”
  • “You have a wonderful personality and a great warmth that could turn into something big for you, although it may be nothing but disappointment for a long time yet blah blah blah…”
You know what? I think I am happy right where I am for now. There has lately been a lot of interest in the local HomeSchool network for doing a theatre program, especially since your correspondent is now a part of that HomeSchool network. They are thinking, “wow – we got a real actor, with experience in directing/stagecraft/tech and literature, maybe we could herd some of these hammy kids into a production of Where the Wild Things Are or something.”
Although I think it would be more fun to get the 9- to 14-year-old boys to do Glengarry Glen Ross, just to channel the young hormonal need to say the word ‘motherfucker’ every eleven seconds into something lofty and fine.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

National Teacher's Day/the Yearning Heart is Likely to Burst

Today is National Teachers Day – the hand made card I got from two of my students was sweet but that is not nearly as sweet as last night, the first time Littlest Boy told me that he loved me:
“Night night. I love you [Littlest Boy].”
“I yuv you too, Peppymitt.”*
*Trans.: “I love you too, Peppermint.”

Monday, May 08, 2006

Some Scenes Go Better than Planned

Monsieur is so frustrating. I rehearsed the whole apology scene to myself in the mirror, ready to explain myself without trying to justify it, trying to be a grown-up. So what does he do? He apologizes as soon as he comes through the door.
I felt like I had been such a bitch.
Then he tells me that I should try to get out once in a while, have an evening with K or by myself, or maybe on the weekend just go out.
I do get out by myself occasionally to run errands, but he told me that I should get out just for time for myself. “I failed to consider this and I should have known, you see.”
Also he told me not to let things build up so much so that I blow up suddenly, since it makes him nervous to see me in “such a state” (his expression).
I asked for his forgiveness, which he gave without a pause, and he asked for mine. I gave it to him, too.
“Let’s agree on one point,” he said. “Let’s not be sorry anymore, as it was just emotion rather than a disagreement. I suggest, let’s not talk about that, as it is behind us, but talk about how to arrange matters so that you can run errands, visit friends in town, or do whatever is necessary for your sanity.”
He was being so damned reasonable; I felt like a bitch all over again.
I’m no good at apologizing. I’m defensive and self-righteous, and I have this huge streak of pride that will someday be my undoing. People who have not worked with me think I’m all sweetness and light, but I have this fierce temper when I don’t get my way. I guess I’ve been bottling it up, and I blew up at him, which he didn’t deserve, and doesn’t deserve.
I tried to keep my face completely serene for the rest of the day, but inside I was moping. I think he could tell, because when he was bringing up the boys’ clean laundry last night he asked me if I was still angry.
“Of course not,” I said, and I hugged him. “I’m not very happy with myself, though.”
“I would suggest that you find a way to forgive yourself,” he said, “since you are forgiven by me.”
I nodded.
He kissed my cheek and whispered again, “would make-up sex help matters?”
I turned beet red, sneezed, and said, “Oh! Monsieur, I don’t deserve you!” I was beaming.
Ma chère, you deserve far better than me, but I am all that I am. If you are not too exhausted after we finish bedtime, then I shall put [Littlest Boy] in his own bed and stay with him until he falls asleep.”
The next hour I somehow managed to control the butterflies in my stomach until all the boys were in bed. I showered & shaved (I wanted everything below my eyes as smooth as possible), put on something not-to-slinky but still soft and touchable, and then waited in the living room for him.
He came downstairs at 10:00, took my hand and led me to bed.

Sunday, May 07, 2006

love means saying you're sorry when you have to

Well, we had a little tiff.
We disagreed about something or another, and now I am so upset I can’t remember what it started as. I do remember that it was important at the time, and it had something to do with logistics – we have only one vehicle, and I had to stay behind while it was taken out.
Now I remember, I wanted to be the one to take the van in for maintenance, and Monsieur said he’d rather do it. It’s his van; it belonged to Maggie really so I shouldn’t have fussed about it. I just wanted to get away from the kids for a while, and be by myself for a change. But it wasn’t a good opportunity for that, and I made a big stink, and now I’m sorry. I am trying to bring myself to apologize the minute he gets back. So, I blog.
I just wanted a break, even sitting in the lobby of a Jiffy Lube for 20 minutes would have been nice.
Now I have to apologize. Suck it up, girl.

Friday, May 05, 2006

Friends With Bootycall

Fortunately WHNT Huntsville AL is right on top of this disturbing story.
Ever have a Friend with Benefits? Someone asked me that, and as I think back I realize that, no, I never did.
There were a couple of times that I dated guys and we got along great but we didn’t exactly want to move in together. But, we didn’t sleep with other people, and when it was time (I think in both cases they actually wanted to date another woman) we were friends as we broke up. But I never had a “booty call” or FWB or anything like that, only because I never met anyone that I wanted to sleep with but not form an attachment with. I can, however, see the benefits.
Articles like that one which focuses on “teens” and this one, which is seems to be written by a college student for college students, tend to make it sound like the woman is always the one who ends up getting hurt. That didn’t seem to be happening among my friends, though, but maybe that’s because my statistical sample is so small. I knew three – no four – girls who had “booty calls” and none of them formed any sort of attachment emotionally, dumping them when they got steady boyfriends. Of these, I know one guy ended up in love with the girl, and the break up didn’t go so well.
I don’t know any straight guys with regular “booty calls”. That is, I don’t know any guys who admitted that their SOs were really booty calls. I know one guy (I’ll call him “Steve” because that’s his real name and I doubt he’d care) who called the married-but-separated girl he was with his “girlfriend” (I’ll call her “Lorie” for the same reasons above). However, I suspected at the time that Lorie thought of Steve as her rebound booty call, while Steve was pretty certain that Lorie fell for him and left her husband for him. Then she got a job in another state, and it was “So long, Steve, and thanks for all the sex.”
Did anyone ever really have an FWB? Did you fall for him/her? Did he/she fall for you? I’m not really interested in gender data, but stories.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

School Schedule


  • Art History/Poetry
  • Grammar
  • Spelling/Phonics


  • Spanish
  • Math
  • Classical Music
  • Independent Reading


  • Literature
  • Bible
  • Geography/History


  • Penmanship
  • Memory Work
  • Additional Reading


  • Science
  • Latin
  • Natural History/Outside
My hope is that we have enough to do to stay out of trouble. Especially me.

Maggie's Margin margarine

This is from the margin of something else Maggie wrote about a mutiny in the British Navy during the Napolean wars. I do not know if it is a quote from an actual mutiny trial or not, but it’s really a treat to see it in her handwriting:
“…I heard the deceased, abusing of the prisoner in a most dreadful manner; he first called him a Dutch galleot?-built bugger, damned him, and asked how he came to be in the ship, or who brought him into her; then he damned the person whoever did bring him. I could not afterwards make out what the deceased said, as he was in a horrid passion, but Jos. Bates, yeoman of the sheets, bade him kiss his arse – he was no seaman….
I would love it if people talked like that – using bade as the past tense of to bid – or even using the word bid not in reference to something on eBay.
I bid you consider it, gentle reader.
? I have no idea; due to a stain that smells like margarine, this word is almost illegible.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

86 the Wingnuts

When I worked in that little diner in Austin, I remember there was a cook who would “call” the tickets. He was hilarious, because there was this “code” he would use to tell the other cook what orders were coming in.
For example, I would turn in an order that had a short stack of blueberry pancakes, a #5 (ham and cheese) omelet, a Breakfast Special and two eggs, scrambled, home fries and whole wheat toast. The ticket was written automatically by the order machine:
#1 OE scram HF WW
and he would pull the ticket off the rack and call out “Short Blue! BuFu! #5! WW! SCRAM!!!” and then they would put the food on to cook. I liked the way he yelled, “SCRAM!!”
He also had other codes, like for a “to go” order he would yell, “Walkin’!” at the end of calling out the order.
It was really funny to hear someone talk that way. I tried to talk like that, unlike the other waitrons, because it was fun and it really broke up the monotony.I would have fun with him by making up my own weird codes:
“Hey, Manny: Wingnut Slipstream, Mary Nine with a Cow! Horse Fist!”
And he would reply back, “Sorry, we’re 86 the Wingnuts till 3 PM.”