102 Days: Pompeii Pleases

I spent more than six hours exploring the archaeological ruins of Pompeii today, along with my kid sister.  Well, she’s 24 and a super duper archeology student in Israel and has already successfully managed an archaeological excavation.  So, it’s not really like I came in blind on this.  I have dreamed of coming to Pompeii since I was eight years old.

I remember that chapter in my social studies textbook like it was yesterday…

Visions of people simply frozen in time, covered in ash, a poor little dog cowers, food left in bowls, a lively, thriving civilization suffocated in an instant, to be forgotten for centuries.

Pompeii House, as it is today

And it was everything I could possibly have imagined.  It’s perfect.  Untouched.  A whole town.  Shops and food stalls and gorgeous mansions and apartments alike, temples and government buildings, theatres, palaces.  The works.  A town.  A really nice one.  The thing I loved the most was that I completely got the feeling of what it must have been like to live there.  The houses are beautiful, charming, comfortable places to live in.  The art is still there.  Frescoes with the timeless stories of Apollo, Venus, Jupiter, Juno.  The town brothel, yes, even a real true blue brothel, complete with what I now call the Roman Kama Sutra – Frescoes of men and women doin’ it in many different positions, above the doors of the sex rooms – yup, little tiny rooms with nothing more than a bed in them – still there – off of one corridor.  Five rooms down, five rooms up.  Must have had a lot of business. AND I just read on someone else’s outdated website that there have been 34 brothels found in Pompeii thus far.  I’m not sure how true that is, but having more than one or two is logical…I mean, healthy business requires competition, after all.  But then again, 34!  This person claims a lot of sailors and travelers would have been passing through, so it was only logical.  Right.  OK.  Brothels were called Lupinariums (Lupinaria?), our house of wolves.  Wolves?  Women as she wolves?  Here are some of the raunchy frescoes:

When I get to a place where I have more time (I’m at my small B&B in the outskirts of Sorrento) I may upload some of the pics we took today.  Charming stuff.  As it was raining more than half the day, we even have a series of avant’garde umbrella shots amongst the ruins.  And, oh yes, lest I forget, I am indeed publish a postcard series entitled: The Real Dogs of Pompeii.  I have adorable shots of many of the strays, all over the site.  Including this original mosaic – the first warning, ever, of its kind:

Cave Canem - Beware the dog

Tomorrow, you ask?  Well, tomorrow, dear friends, I’m headed to the Amalfi Coast.  That’s right, Positano and all your gorgeous neck breakingly high frighteningly thrilling colors and beach and Limoncello and fish and sun will be mine!  For a day, at least.  Then off to Napoli.  Yup.  Hanging with the gangsters tomorrow night.  You know it.  My sis has to, just has to see their museum.  And I?  I took the one less traveled by.  And that led me to Pizza.

Yes, I am exhausted.

Buona Notte!

105 Days: Ashram Poetry

So…I haven’t written for a while, and it wasn’t for lack of material.  It was because I without computer for too long, and I had too much material, and now so many f-ing errands…you get the picture.

An AUM Meditation Session

I went to an Ashram, the “Desert Ashram” an hour north of Eilat (in the middle of nowhere and in view of Jordan), an Osho Ashram – participated in many, many, many bizarre meditations, some of which I enjoyed, some of which terrified me, and some of which we just plain funny.  Lots of screaming, breathing, vibrating, etc.  And I went to a lecture entitled, “Secrets of the Female Orgasm.”  I was really hoping to learn something.  Instead, I have a hysterical story racked up for a future post.  Go figure.   I slept in a tent for 5 days.  I slept when I wanted.  Ate veggie food.  Read a great sci fi book I brought with me (Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card – read it, if you haven’t).  And basically, had an OK, pretty relaxing time with a bunch of bourgeois pseudo-hippies on an alternative spring break.

Venice

I’m going off to Italy in a day and a half.  Yup.  Italy.  With my family.  We’re converging from many places all over the world.  My two parents from Chicago, my doctor sister from NYC, and my sort of student sister who lives near me but went to Italy 2 weeks early to make a mega-vacation out of it.  The ‘rents bought a cruise for us all last year before the economy went crunch.  So, we’re going.  It’s paid for.  I’m going a week early in order to hike around Pompeii, a dream since I learned about in 3rd grade, eat the world’s best pizza in Naples, experience the majesty of the Amalfi coast, meet up with both sisters for three days of Roman extravagance, and then all three of us are meeting the parental units up in Venice.  For the cruise.  The worst idea for a vacation, I think, as I have terrible motion sickness and have been stockpiling Dramamine (and its Israeli equivalent) since I learned of this idea (thank you Mother).  And from there, Croatia (for 8 hours), a bunch of Greek islands (for 8 hours a pop), and one Turkish island (again, 8 hours).  It’s bad.  I mean, it’s barely a taster.  It’s not even one night.  It’s a stroll, a meal, a souvenir shop, and hey, it’s time to get back on the bus…except it’s a giant boat.  Nothing says Stupid American Tourist like a giant white cruise ship.  Ugh.  And I’ll be one of them.  There are formal nights, too.  I have to go to black tie events…I’m a backpacker for f’s sake! Oh well.  Can’t say no to a free vacation, right?  When we get back to Venice, Mom and I zip off to the other coast and do 4 days in Cinque Terra (dream come true for me, again, lots of hiking, quaint vineyards, artisanal cheeses, views, hiking, food, wine, ham, cheese, wine, and did I mention food…and hiking?).  We end the trip with 1.5 days in Milano before Mom joins me on a flight to Israel…where she’ll be extending her visit for 2 months!!!!!  Which is why, dear friends, readers, countrymen…I got myself a ticket home – Stateside – that be right!  My first trip home to the States in well over a year and a half!  Yeehaw!  And it means I avoid dear Mother for one out of her two months invading my space in Tel Aviv.

I promised poetry, though, right?  Well, if anyone cares for bad poetry-exercise-prompted written at an Osho ashram, there’s some below.  Knowing me though, it’s kind of funny and dirty and crude and cynical.  Everyone was writing about the sky, the sand, the emotions, the sounds of the birds…bla, bla, bla.  WordPress has taken out all my stanzas.  I don’t know why.  So I can’t tell you where one should begin and one should end.  Oh well.  I tried.  Like 5 times.  Go figure, wordpress.  Really.  Well, here we go.  Here’s my take on the Ashram, in verse, no less:

Prompt 1: write a poem of no more than 6 lines which has the title “Desert” or “Kiss”

Desert

There are no more to conquer

No sands too dry

No heat too harsh

No thirst too great

No.

There are no more deserts to conquer

Only from which to escape

(notice me cheating…always…there are 7 lines in that one…cheeky, cheeky…)

Prompt 2: Write a poem on the theme, “The Zorba the Buddha Festival” (the name of the festival I was at, if you can believe it or not)

(translated from the Hebrew…she made me…I don’t like to write in Hebrew…I’m bad at it)

Why do they say Pestival with a “P”?

And not Festival with an “F”?

Why do they wear such stupid clothing like these?

Do they think they’re in India?

Why do they search for answers here?

Do they think the hippies know the secret of life?

The bourgeoisie is coming to the desert

Caravans, caravans, caravans

Toyota, Hyundai, Daihatsu

iPod, Arak, North Face, Crocs

Searching for themselves.

There are no answers.  There are answers.

They go home.  Sand in the car.  Dust in the hair.

Hope remains.  Life goes on until the next pestival.

(it sounded better in Hebrew.  The nuances were lost.  Can you tell?  Too bad I can’t type in Hebrew…not that anyone could read it..)

Prompt 3: Write a poem based on specific physical observations.

Thick, crusty, yellow and warped

The monstrous ugly duckling

Amongst his fair brothers

Protruding above the others in their line

This was not a congenital condition, oh no

No genetic abnormality disturbed his birth

He grew, identical, from toe to tip

Like all his adorable kin

But this little piggy went to market

And that little piggy went home

And while this little piggy ate roast beef

Our little piggy got a mushroom pie

The shameful secret that cannot be hidden here

Under woolen warmth or stiletto style

And thus, and thus, this is the story of the seemingly normal

Seemingly sweet, kind, desert dusted

Feet of my rebirthing neighbor

(Do you guys have any idea how many people suffer from toenail fungus?  It’s nasty.  I mean gross.  I’ve got one borderline nail that I’ve been treating with lacquer-medicine for months now because there is no way I’m turning into Franken-toes.  This person grossed me out to the extreme.  Cmon folks, take care of your feet.  I don’t have the best ones, I know it, but I try.  I try.)

Finally,

Prompt 4: write a poem of no more than 5 lines that contains the words “sex” and “surfboard” and contains a variation on the word “pain”

(Joy of joys…)

Sex with him was to be

Better than chocolate!

Like the best rollercoaster,

A magical surfboard ride!

Hell, he was just another painful poke

And why have a I regaled you with horribly bad ashram poetry?

1) because I can

2) because the Israelis thought I was a bloody brilliant modern day Emily Dickinson (ha!)

3) to prove that I did not, nor do I ever intend to DRINK THE KOOLAID!  Booyah!

4) because I’m procrastinating right now on a massive to-do list…

Goodnight y’all, and good f-ing luck to me!

140 Days: Xanax Solace

I’m a bit woozy, as I took a xanax an hour ago or so.  Not the best day.  Well, an eye opener.  My writing workshop consensus was that my book, although ridiculously promising at the beginning, needs a lot of work in the middle and end.  I mean, when they gave me the critique a while ago on the first third, it was through the roof.  The kind of stuff that a publisher would have a wet dream over.  And now I realize what a grandiose mountain it is I am really standing before.

I felt really alone today.  Really wanted to cry and be comforted by a mother.  My mother isn’t the type.  So not the type, it’s laughable.  All my life I never realized that I approached her with so much hope that she’d finally just embrace me without opening her mouth.  With pure acceptance.  Without curious, suggestive, self-centered, egotistical, judgemental jabs.  And I spoke with my father today for the first time in what must be over a month or maybe even more.  I think it’s like more like two.  And the weird thing is, I don’t have the strain with him as much as with my mom.  He just doesn’t call and is so busy and in so many countries, I never know when to call and where I might find him.  It was nice to hear his voice.  But it made me so sad.  I wanted to cry, to tell him that it is quite possible I’m terribly depressed and that I’m not sure my meds are working and that I feel that my life is insignificant sometimes and that I don’t know what the solutions are.  But I couldn’t say anything.  We just talked about my travel plans for the spring, and he helped me with his industry-insider knowledge in booking some flights.  And part of me was so angry.  So angry at him that I couldn’t say these things.  So low.  And all we did was “talk business” as usual.  I’m pretty sure I sounded strained.  You know, when someone asks how you are, you always say you’re fine.  Even though you might be the farthest thing from it.  Why open Pandora’s box?  Why tell a parent who can’t do anything to help you and usually gives you advice you don’t care to hear because it’s conservative and insensitive, that you’re lost and scared and miserable?  It would only hurt them.  But then who do I turn to?

I took a xanax, not something I do often, maybe 2-3 times a year…but it’s gotten closer to 4-5…not a dangerous amount.  Because I was sensing myself start to spin.  I called a friend on the phone and she didn’t answer.  I would have called one or two others, but it’s the Sabbath here, and they’re religious and won’t have their phones on or won’t answer.

My date went well.  He was exceptionally smart.  We have a lot in common.  But I sensed I wasn’t quite all there.  We are going to meet again.  But I need to have a heart to heart with myself, if such a thing exists.  My gynecological issues these past couple months have been scary and uncomfortable.  I can’t pretend that the idea of sex isn’t still off-putting.  It is.  I want to get to know people.  Just people.  Sometimes I think I’d give almost anything up to have unbelievable sex just once in my life.  Maybe even pleasant good sex.  Other times, I know in my gut that I’d be more than OK if I’d never have sex again in my entire life.  Funny.  It’s a take it or leave it.  Sometimes I feel (or rather I know) that I’m really missing out.  Other times, I really know it’s not worth it.  Sex has brought me nothing but worry and discomfort and jeopardized my health.  I don’t know what it feels like to burn with desire.  Maybe I’m not capable of it.  But I know I need a partner.  I need to keep dating.  I want to built positive relationships, have strong friendships, weave a varied and colorful and supportive basket of people around me.  But the intimacy thing.  Sometimes I wonder about hypnosis.  I’d really like to dig to the root of my problems.  I was never physically abused as far as I know.  But after all my years of dating, of sexual dabbling, and therapy on top of it, to still be so uncomfortable, so panic striken, seems fishy to me.  Regular yeast and urine infections, along with the worry of STD’s and pregnancy, for crappy sex that feels a bit uncomfortable at best just isn’t worth it.  Keep the dirty knobs away.  For the moment, anyway.

148 Days: Just My Luck

I’m pretty uncomfortable.  My depression this past month may have a more physical explanation than I thought.  I was assuming my “feminine” issues were psychosomatic.  It’s in my nature.  But today, I got confirmation that it wasn’t all in my head.  It seems I have a urinary infection AND a yeast infection.  And who knows how long I’ve had them.  Could be up to a month and a half at this point.  Though I’m doubting the urinary one could have been around that long.  I mean, that could actually kill you (don’t think I’ve not been panicking about it all day as I ponder my aching abdomen).  More like one caused the other caused the other and was exacerbated by stress and my head and goodness knows what.  Bottom line.  I’ve been really uncomfortable.  Really really uncomfortable.  I promise never to have sex again not that I even want to the concept disgusts me so much, and by the way please tear out my vagina, you’d be doing me a huge favor, kind of uncomfortable.  Ya, I’m just that unlucky.  Not only has sex never really done a damned thing for me, now I’ve got these very real, very painful issues to deal with.  And here’s the real doozy – the 4 horse pills per day for ten days antibiotics that I’m on will likely give me another yeast infection (ya, I got one now to begin with, and the good doc gave me meds for that, too).  It’s a cycle, cure one, get the other – cure that, get the other.  I’m destined to itch and burn for eternity.  Sounds like hell, no?  And what sin have I committed?  Goodness gracious.  And here I sit, chugging water, cranberry juice, parsley water (not as disgusting as I expected), taking something like 7 different pills per day at different times, and now I’ve got to deal with messy gelatinous inserts for the yeast issue.  Just my luck.

The only productive note – I’ve been keeping the kitchen clean-ish, the dishes washed within a day, and I paid someone else to do my laundy – worth every damned overpriced penny.  I can be a grownup.  Even though my private parts may never work properly.

188 Days: “The Vagina = A Zoo”

Words spoken by a gynecologist whose door I’ll not darken again.

No warnings will I provide.  I’m just being frank.  Not graphic, for any members of the male species who deign to read this.

For about a year I’ve had an issue with yeast infections.  I never had one before January 2008.  Never.  Now, this is my fourth, or something like that, in a year.  This could be for several reasons, the biggest one, I suppose, being sexual activity.  The more you have, the more you’re prone.  Throw in a lot of stress, too much sugar binging, and latex condoms, and this could be a recipe for disaster.  I’ve never been very sexually active.  Sort of a here and there, whatever, sort of a deal with me.  I’ve also never been in a long term relationship, so I’ve not yet gotten to get “practice” having a lot, often, with one partner.

And I’m getting over a bad infection now.  Officially, it should be over, or over tonight, with all the meds I was given.   This was the first time it was borderline painful.  There was blood, too, from I suppose, irritated skin, chaffing, who knows, which really really scared me.  So, off to the doctor I went.  And both the GP and the specialist I went to see were so very very helpful, that I think I’ll nominate them both for doctor of the year award.  As if.  Report them both to the medical board, while I’m at it.  Neither one examined me!  Not one!  When a patient walks in and says, I think I got an infection in my foot, you look at the damned foot.  Now, when I patient walks in and says I think I got an infected vagina, you’d think at least the gynecologist would put me in the stirrups!  But no.  No.  Take a pill, says one, have a cream, says the other. ” Yeast infections are just a part of life for a sexually active woman, why, if you’re very active, you could get one once a month.”

LIKE HELL

And thus begins

“The Tale of the Gluttonous Gyno”

(horns sound a la medieval Disney-esque film)

Once upon a time a maiden was distressed.  Her maidenhood long gone, the disuse of her god given figure gave her a right to her maidenhood, if only by title, as yet.  Alas, a kindly knight had charmed her silly, and one thing led to another (with words, I’ll not mess about willy nilly), and now the poor maid found herself with a bothersome itch way down in her unmentionables.   This itch became quite a bitch and transformed itself to a sharpening pain of whose magnitude increased in an embarrassing proportion.  With a drop of pink on her toilet roll sheet, she took matters into her own hands, and took advantage of the socialized health care in her native Kingdom of Isra-el.  Almost like magic, a doctor could see her, but at the mention of “Yeast Infection,” his tone withdraw warmth, his eyes rolled, and his fingers typed furiously on the keyboard.  Two printouts he handed her, a prescription and a referral, and out she was rushed, the door slamming behind her.  Well!  At least there was hope, she thought, an even better doctor will have the answer!  But the only “Women’s Doctor” as they subtly called them, that could see her post haste was an hour away in a far off shire, two bus rides and a long walk away!  I will get to the bottom of this, yes I will, so she booked the appointment and googled the bus route maps.  Upon her arrival, exhausted, sweating, hot, and enraged by her endlessly long journey on public transport, she could not immediately find this mysterious doctor’s office.  Into one building she went, checking every door plaque on every floor, without any luck.  She tried next door, again checking furiously, her heart pounding, the minutes to her appointment ticking away, until  kindly receptionist showed her the way.  “Afeka Medical” it said in huge letters, why how could I miss it the first, the second, and third time?  Some people were huddled outside, sucking down their cancer sticks, “how ugly,” thought the maiden, that here where pregnant women visit all the time.  But the clinic was lovely, the waiting room tastefully decorated, the soap in the loo smelling divine, and she took her seat, her sweat slowly cooling.  Soon, yes soon, she would have her chance to speak with the man who knows the answers.  A few minutes pass.  A few minutes more.  And then one of the smokers, a most portly, waddling man enters the office and walks down a hall.  The doctor will see you now, the receptionist tells her, and she could hardly believe it.  Yes, this man, this ashen, obese (so obese his belly flopped way over the buckle of his belt), lousy excuse for a human being, not to mention a doctor, was her new government-sponsored gynecologist.  The gleaming office reeked of cigarettes, and at the mention of, yes, again, Yeast Infection, his eyes rolled, and he said, listen, the “Vagina is a zoo.”  He proceeded to take out a sheet of paper, and on top wrote:

Vagina = Zoo

Beneath, he drew a box with a vertical line down the center.  On one side, he made a list:

Warm

Wet

Dark

Closed

You see, that makes the vagina a kind of hothouse.  There’s tons of stuff living and growing in there.  You’re worried this is your fourth yeast infection?  It happens all the time.  And then, on the other side of the box, across from the list, he starts drawing:

#   ***** ~~~~~~ &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&^^^^^^^^^^^^^^@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~((((((((((((((###################(&*&(#@*&#(*^$@(#*&(@*#&)(!*@&)(!*#)(*@$&)(*@$&)(*@$&)(@*#&)(*&!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&*(*&(*&@$#(*&!@&^!%@^&%$!^%@$$$$$$$$$$$!^*^%$*#^@*&$#^(@*&$^&

(this represents all the squiggles and lines he draw, supposedly representing “animals” or bacteria or something)

Aghast by what she was seeing, the maiden still wanted some answers.  This thing sitting before her was still getting paid.  What can I do to prevent this happening again?  Says the well-informed maiden.  Nothing!  Says the ogre.  What about taking acidophilus?  That hasn’t been proven to do much of anything, says the ash tray.  What about eating yogurt?  Applying yogurt?  No, doesn’t help, says the gelatinous lump of flesh.  So there’s nothing I can do?  No.  How often can I get these things?  Well, if you’re really sexually active, once a month.  Not so sexually active, three or four times a year.  The fleshy monster handed her a prescription for a cream, with no instructions, mind you, and she bolted for the door, 2.5 minutes after having entered this room.  Thankful this creep hadn’t examined her, and fuming that she could potentially expect to have a yeast infection every month, like menstruation, should she care to have an active sex life, she stormed off to the bus stop for the long ride home.  Afeka Medical, a-fecka you!  Dr Nicotine-Blubber!

OK, I got carried away.  Asshole doctor.  Impressive socialized healthcare system.  But very unimpressive doctors.  And I’m still really confused and miffed about this whole thing.  If I’m sensitive to this, to sex, to latex, whatever, am I doomed to have yeast infections regularly forever?  Married women out there, women who have lots of sex out there, please answer me with some feedback.  I don’t believe this to be true.  I’ve never heard of this being the case.  I someday would very much like to be a married person, or at least a person who can enjoy sex (which hasn’t been the case thus far).  I really want my new relationship to work here, and I’m afraid I’m ruining it myself.  I’m just trying to heal here.  I did buy the acidophilus tablets.  I’m taking them twice daily, as the bottle says.  I’m also eating a ton of yogurt, even though I hate the stuff.  And I’m off sugar for a while, as hard as it is.  I’m just wondering if it’s a latex allergy.  Those things can develop.  Because I didn’t have a discharge this time.  Just horrible itching.  Though doubtful, it could be an STD.  Why did those asshole doctors not examine me!  Should I have insisted?  Should I go back there?  Should I wait my turn and see a female doctor?  This is completely unacceptable.  And as I know I’m prone to physical psychosomatic conditions (yes, month long “urinary tract infection” last year proved that), stress really affects how I feel in that part of the body.  God I am so screwed.  Or rather, I’ll be totally un-screwable if I can’t figure this out.

So, if you’ve read this far, I’m open to advice and ideas.

Thanks.

259 Days: Fear of Grandma, Sex, and Dating

Weird title, I know.  Had a great day, for the most part, walking all over town on a Friday — best day of the week for it.  Tel Aviv is most alive on Fridays.  Markets are overflowing with people.  Restaurants have lines out the door.  The streets are full of people rushing around, or enjoying a leisurely stroll, eating ice cream, crepes, falafel, or lafa with labaneh abd za’atar.

But I’m at home now, and I should head out.  Why?  Invited to a movie.  Don’t feel like moving, but I know I should.  I think I got into a bit of a funk when I got home.  Why?  Grandma.  Or Savta, in Hebrew, as I shall call her.  She had been around.  She drops by unexpectedly all the time.  It’s not cool.  Yes, this is her place.  She allows me to live here.  But nobody else would be, if not for me.  And I really take care of the place.  She could call.  She could write a note and leave it on the door.  She could ring the bell, and if I’m not there, come back later.  But no.  It’s because of the cats.  They are teething, I think, or they’ve recently picked up a bad habit.  And because I live with artwork, I am constantly afraid they will chew up a painting.  A legitimate fear, believe me.  But I have taken measures.  Placed extra boards on top of the stacks of watercolors, and I’ve turned the oil paintings paint-size away, and move them around a bit, to make sure there’s no damage.  Well, the cats have started eating up the boards.  No harm done, I just make sure that they always cover the paintings.  How on earth am I to scold a cat when I’m not there when he chews?  When I came home, I saw that Savta had placed newspapers and magazines and plastic bags over the boards.  She must be livid.  She didn’t even leave a note which is customary.  She will expect me to call her.  And there is a voicemail message, and I’m afraid to check it, because I’m almost certain it’s her.

See, I’m more afraid of my grandmother than of my parents.  Funny that I talk of fear?  Yes, it’s fear.  No matter what, I know she loves me.  But that doesn’t change the fact that she is nuts, crazy, psychotic at times, and just a real pain.  She has screamed at me countless times throughout my life, told me I am a beast, a horrible human being, and worse.  She needs to be medicated.  But she teeters within the range of sanity most of the time.  It’s just — scary.  It’s almost good I’m in her life to keep an eye on her, NOT vice versa.  And I haven’t told her I’ve left my job.  I haven’t told her about India.  Why?  She lectured me about two weeks ago about how I have to be responsible, that she doesn’t take rent because she won’t from family, but that she wants to know I’m putting aside money, as if I were paying rent, so that someday sooner rather than later I can have my own home.  Sure.  Legit.  But here’s the thing, there was so much hype leading to this encounter I believed she would kick me out.  I came to terms that I might have to in a matter of days.  She’s just that unbalanced.  And she’s paranoid about having enough money.  OK.  Fine.  But I tell her repeatedly that I’m very unhappy at work, but her line goes — an income before everything.

Why do I care?  I don’t know.

And I’ve been thinking about sex.  My complete disinterest in it.  At the moment, especially, but predominantly over the course of my life.  I think I have been very concerned with whether I could get it, whether I was having it, whether someone wanted it from me — than it.  Because once the lights are out and the jeans are on the floor, I become stiff as a board.  And I’m not a man here, this is not some exciting metaphor.  I wonder if there could be a disconnect between my body and my brain.  I wonder if it’s possible that my brain cannot tell when my body is aroused.  Because if it’s all psychological, I have way more therapy to get through.  Or if I was right back in high school and I am in fact gay.  I’m pretty certain on the Kinsey scale, I’d be smack dab in the middle.  I am pretty certain that for me, at least, dating men has been a choice.  It has been exciting.  I’ve fallen in love.  Glimpsed some intimacy.  But as I’m a petrified naive, goodness knows what of a person, I haven’t had a real relationship.  And truth be told, I’m much more of a women-person.  I like men.  I love men.  But I am more comfortable around women on a day to day basis.  It could be my upbringing and experience, sure.  But here’s the thing –  in public, who do you notice more, say, when you’re sitting in a cafe for the mere purpose of zoning out and people watching, men or women?  I notice women.  Infinitely more than men.  I think most women would, though.  Women are by far more interesting to look at, from a purely aesthetic stance.  The clothing, the accessories, the huge variety of body shapes and sizes, the hairstyles, the shoes, the asses, the breasts…women are beautiful.  They are the beautiful sex.  Sure, there are beautiful men, but most of the time we ask ourselves whether they are gay.  So, even though I pay a lot more attention to women, it doesn’t mean I’m swooning after them.  In fact, I am not.  I’d feel it, right?  Arousal is something you can feel.  But still…  I don’t fell arousal looking at men, either.  And the few times I felt tingles, well…I can’t even be certain.  For me, it’s about the person.  And I have had plenty of crushes on women and men.  Thing is, I see myself with a man.  It’s a man-woman-child-dog-house-carport-lawn kind of picture.  I’ll take a woman if I fall in love her.  But I’ve been programmed for the former.  And because I feel so little in the groin, I go for the men.  Because whether dating men or women, dating is an effort.  A huge effort.  Dating both gendres would spread me too thin.  But I’m considering it.  Considering it.  Because what if I’m missing something?  I’ll take Heather Has Two Mommies, if I’m happy with it.  I will.  But it’s a matter of looking.  And I don’t know if I’m ready to be a lesbian in Israel.

Heather Has Two Mommies