Gardening Really is Better Than Sex

The Back Story:

Here’s how it all went down. I literally asked a guy I’d known less than five months if I could hijack some of his yard and build a garden in it. His own level of crazy should have been apparent in the fact that he said yes, but at the time, I was more focused on the idea of never buying tomatoes again.

 

So we started our garden. Yes, somehow along the way it became ‘our’ garden; I suppose it has something to do with the fact that he bought the tools, the seeds, and ya know, the land on which it lives… minor technicality. But the important thing to note is that we started it during that really sexy time in relationships where you’re all gooey and stupid and excited about each other. In the beginning we were in the yard digging dirt and looking at stars and preparing this plot that was going to make all our fiber-rific dreams come true!

Very, very romantic.

But a garden, much like a relationship, is more than a hobby. It’s really hard work. It takes A LOT of attention, and we have to invest A LOT of time into making sure it’s okay; especially in the beginning when there’s all the hope in the world for it, but is also in its most fragile state.

The idea of a garden is fun; but it gets real, and it gets difficult.

The Situation:

The last two weeks for Mr. Asterisk and I have been… real. Real in the garden means hard earth, hot days and mosquito-filled nights. Real with Mr. Asterisk means I’ve found myself mentally measuring our garden plot, trying to determine how much more work it would take to dig a nice cool spot for him. No, no, not like a permanent spot, just one I could put him in up to his neck, and leave him there while I take a mental breather.

In all things seemingly relevant right now, we bring completely opposite experiences to our garden and our relationship. He grew up in the country in Jamaica planting and growing, and has been divorced. I grew up in the city avoiding dirt like the plague and have never been married. And we both tend to forget that there’re strengths and weaknesses in the way we’re both used to operating. So after a couple of weeks of trying to have him deported (I can’t, he’s totally legal) he finally enticed me back to his place, using our garden as bait. We worked silently on our respective parts. He had the more laborious job of turning more ground and preparing the land for more fruit. I was picking out the remaining weeds and tending to the progress we’d already made. Our tasks in the garden could not have metaphorically correlated to our roles in our new relationship any better.   

We talked a little while we worked, but nothing too wordy. We were sweaty and working hard but the more we worked, the closer I felt to him. We were going at it for quite some time and both of us were pretty spent. But for the first time in several days, I found myself ready to forgive him for his latest flub. He found himself wanting to do whatever it took to keep me in that moment as long as possible…

The Assertion:

See where I’m going with this? I could be totally wrong, but I’m willing to bet most people who’ve lived outside of God’s will where sex is concerned, could attest to the fact that sex has the powerful knack to make all things (seem) better. God created it that way. He knew husbands and wives would need something to remind them of their commitment to each other when the butterflies aren’t there.

But Mr. Asterisk and I aren’t married; so, those who can’t mattress dance, garden.

We’re learning to dig up what was, to prepare for what could be. We’re learning to not take its existence for granted, and that it’s going to take constant TLC. We’re learning that some days will be easier than others. Our zucchini is teaching us that some things we really really want, may very well not make it into what we’ll eventually have.  We’re trying really hard to leave out artificial pesticides and enhancements; and trusting God that He’ll bring us the harvest of His plan. We’re learning the best things don’t (and shouldn’t) happen overnight; we’re learning patience.

We’re learning more in the yard than we ever could have in the sack.

The Proof:

Now, I’ll be the first to admit, horizontal polka can be fun, but has anyone EVER walked away from it with a full heart, a restored spirit, a relationship that will live to see another day, a watermelon AND kudos and tips for future performance from their mom?

Me thinks not… I rest my case.

Looks like a salad to me!

Hey Conservatives: Let’s REALLY Talk About My Lady Parts

Are you kidding me? It’s March… 16^th… 2012. It’s officially been 90 days since last I wrote. I’m quickly realizing my dreams of being a published author are a little… lofty. I’m pretty sure I could get a book out; in fact, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I know I could. The problem would come if it needed to be edited or expanded. Or heaven forbid if the publisher wanted me to write another one (and they would, because my book is going to rock).   It would sit there, and sit there until something came up for me to do that was dire enough that I could not afford any distractions or wasted time-THEN I’d finally get started on my next best-seller.

So while I should be working* (what’s in a deadline?) I really really have to get this out of my brain or else I’ll sit here. Stuck.

Enjoy. Disagree. Comment. Share.
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I’m at dinner. It’s quiet, and clean, and dimly lit; the perfect environment to really talk and play catch up with the new person in my life*. But I can’t.

The wine on the table is calling my name, because something tells me it would pair perfectly with the pasta our waiter just placed before me, but I haven’t tasted either. Because I can’t.

I’m shaking; uncontrollably. Not because I’m cold, as is typically the case; no, today I’m in pain. Excruciating, doubling over pain. It feels as if someone keeps giving me a sharp, powerful elbow to the lower abdomen every 5 seconds or so. And each time they jab me, the pain radiates through my back, my butt and down the front of my thighs.

I’d cry if I could, but crying makes me sniffle, and then I’d move, and the last thing I want to do right now is move. Mr. Asterisk looks as if he wants to cry too. He says he feels completely helpless right now. He’s right.

There really is nothing he can do. Three months ago I stopped taking birth control. The generic version I was taking, at $72 a month, while unemployed and uninsured, got to be too much. Trying to squeeze everything I could out of my finances, I decided the birth control was the only thing left to give up. So I did.

Mr. Asterisk is confused. He’s not understanding why this month is so different. He didn’t know I was taking birth control before. He didn’t have to, because we’re not sexually intimate. You know my stance on that, but he’s also decided that we’ll wait and see if God blesses our budding relationship into a marriage and then we’ll do things the right way. I’m not positive, but I bet even the most politically conservative would agree, that at least partially counts toward a strong value system.

I tell you this to let you know, I wasn’t taking  the dreaded B.C. as a family planning solution; I was taking it to give me back a quality of life I’ve missed for the several years before I began using it.  I have endometriosis and fibroids.

Without going into the gory details, what this means is my natural, God-given menstrual cycle wreaks havoc on my body each month, in the following ways:

• Extended and heavy menstrual cycles
• Pain throughout the month (not just during ‘hell week’)
• Severe anemia ( because of heavy bleeding)
• Low energy levels and difficult concentration (because of the anemia)
• Frequent urination (from the cysts in my uterus pressing against my bladder)
• Dizzy spells

I’m employed now. I’m no longer ‘mooching off of the government’ through unemployment. I’m paying taxes. I’m paying tithes. I’m even paying a premium for ‘health insurance’ each week. But as a contractor, my health insurance means, after I reach a $5000 deductible, they’ll then give me up to $1000 (after my co-pay of course) for medical attention… I’m essentially uninsured.

So I still haven’t gotten back on the pill, even though I’d love to.

And I can’t offer a sex tape, Mr. Limbaugh, in exchange for the resources to maintain the decency of my womanhood, because it doesn’t exist. Sorry.

I also can’t promise not to stop a life from forming, because with the promises Mr. Asterisk and I have made to each other and God, I won’t be getting knocked up anytime soon anyway. You’re going to have to deal with it.

So with all that being said, I ask my right-winged counterparts, who think they have the right to be all up in my lady parts, because of their strong Christian and family values: How does your denial and protests of the resources that can help me and others like me enjoy living a life, reflect your God given values? How does wanting to be able to enjoy going to work, or having a dinner, or simply living life, without invasive surgeries (which could possibly impact my fertility as well) make me a ‘slut’? How is it that you don’t want universal (or even affordable) healthcare, but you do want to shut down a facility that offers options to women for the good of our entire health and wellness lives?

I pay taxes, and tolls, and contribute to my community; and I don’t receive any government assistance. And as an American citizen, I do so proudly! But I have to ask, when there are millions of people like me, doing the exact same thing, what’s America doing for those who can’t? Why won’t you who claim to love her most, remind her that she has enough? It’s high time she start living up to her promises of the pursuit of (healthy) happiness. If you love her so much, you’d expect the best for and from Lady Liberty.

In the meantime, out of my business with your judgment.

 

(*I totally have gossip)

Who Knew? I’m Gay!?

I’ve been itching to post something here since I posted my last diatribe, but nothing worthwhile seemed to come to mind. Actually, that’s not true, lots of things have come to mind, but I’ve found myself in some positions where self-censorship is kind of a necessity. Interestingly enough, last night I got so desperate to write, I actually tried to write about the fact that I had nothing to write about outside of the tons of stuff I can’t write about… But it all just seemed too confusing, so that post now sits with the 10 others that I was supposed to publish months ago… Maybe I’ll scrap all those and write a post about why… forget it.

The point is, this morning, not 10 minutes ago, God must have answered my prayers when He sent me blogging gold. Apparently, I’m gay.

How a Dog and a Dream Have Ruined My Thoughts on Motherhood

It’s 6:00a.m. when I’m writing this. I’ve been awake for about 30 minutes, which is odd considering I only went to sleep about three hours beforehand. I’m awake for two very distinct reasons; neither of my non-human children will let me sleep.

Camryn (the world’s best, jerk of a dog angel) sprawled lengthwise across my bed, has two front paws in my neck, and ChristChic Magazine has her little baby claws all up in my brain. They’re relentless. 

I’m going to admit something to you, it’s very odd attempting to talk about ChristChic so openly here. As Editor-in-Chief (of an online lifestyle publication that seeks to capture and encourage the varying and diverse voices of the contemporary Christian experience- yes, cheap plug), I spend a lot of time trying to be neutral and professional and pulled together. I’m all, “Hey! This is great! It’s so awesome! It’s going to be amazing!” to my contributors, and “I’m sooo confident and sure and secure that this is going to be huge, because God is in control” to people who show interest. According to them, I’ve got it all under control.

But YOU know better.

In No Particular Order: I’m Sorry. I’m an Artist. I Miss You.

I miss you guys, a lot. You all may have very well abandoned me by now -with good reason- but if you ever come back, I’d like the record to state: I miss you, and I’m sorry. I’ve been away far too long. We have catching up to do. Like, SO much catching up to do. But we’re not going to do that now. Right now, I’m just going to cannonball into this post I wrote on napkin and receipt paper while having a bowl of chicken and mushroom soup at Grand Lux Cafe, and reading my newest literary inspiration: The Artist’s Way.

I’ll climb out of the pool soon, and get you all wet and drippy while we chat, but as for now, I’m all hopped up over new discoveries and successes, and I’d like to share the following…

However many years ago, I wrote a poem. It was called “Don’t Tell Me I’m Not An Artist.” In the poem I chided those who accused me of not looking or sounding the part. I told them I set my own rules, boundaries, definitions; and I dared them to try to change me. I accepted my art as is, and I embraced it.

As years moved on, my art felt silly; so I abandoned it. I stopped writing; consistently. I’d dabble, I’d have random idiomatic bursts, but I didn’t see the value in it. I didn’t connect with it on a level to which I could consider it to be “artistry.” I started writing again about a year and a half ago. With this blog. At about the same time, I started finding myself connecting with other artists. I say ‘other artists’ now, but I didn’t then. Then, I still didn’t consider myself one of them. I envied them. I admired and supported them. But they were still an “other.”

As life would have it, through a circumstance that came up because of my writing I was asked to write a piece about myself that explained where I fit into their world. And I did. I fit just fine. I fit because-today in an AHA! moment, I realized I fit- not because of what I wrote, but because of who I am. Who I’ve always been.

Here’s what I do finally get, again, readers. I’m an artist. A real, live, artist. Keyboards, paper napkins in restaurants, Sharpie pens, and pencils and jump drives are my tools- but they are no less, I am no less… artist.

Aunts, Uncles, no God-Parents…

I’ve been absent because I’m pregnant.

Kinda.

Okay, not like actually pregnant; pregnant in the way-too-dramatic-artsy-fartsy-writer kinda way. Ya know, metaphorically speaking.

I’m pregnant with emotion and idea and project. It’s the project part that’s kept me away from you. And probably my Adult ADD.

I’m starting an online publication. It’s called ChristChic Magazine, and it’s a lifestyle magazine for Christians like me. The kind who marries God one day, and drops accidental F-bombs the next. The kind who loves the Lord but battles with Him too. The kind who hates abortion, supports the right of a woman to have one, and then loses sleep over the idea that she actually might do so. The kind who likes material things and identifies with other facets of life outside and inclusive of  Christianity. Not the ‘I can do what I want because God knows my heart’ Christian; but the Christian who really wants to get it right.

It’s also for the person who thinks life ends after dedicating themselves to Christ. The “I’m just not ready yet” person. The one who plays Russian Roulette with their salvation because they fear what they might lose (talk about irony). I want to show the world Christianity can be sexy.

Love: Depends on where ‘In’ Is…

(Editor’s note: The second of those unchronological* posts I talked about back then…)

Anybody who knows me, or kind of knows me through this blog, probably knows, I suck with relationships. I mean, I don’t think I suck, per se- I actually think I’m pretty awesome- but me and dating just doesn’t work.  Ever.  I acknowledge this to you because I’m highly aware that me talking about love and relationships, probably sounds a lot like listening to Oprah wax poetic about healthy eating; kind of hard to believe her. But I think I’m on to something guys, and if you’ll just hear me out, this might be good.

*Deep breath* I think I may be in love with a man I’ve never dated.  

I have a friend, who I met when I was 16, met again in college, and met again like a month ago. Neither of us can figure out why our friendship has never actually turned into a consistent one, but that’s probably because we don’t spend too much time really thinking about it. We’re too busy having a blast.

Thank God for dull knives and bad boyfriends

(C.D’s Note: Remember all those posts I told you would be coming, but probably not chronologically? Alright, I know it’s later than promised, but this is one of dem…)

Yeah, this is the purpose of knives...

Typically, there’s nothing positive about a dull knife. You can’t kill or cut anything with it- friend, foe, or fowl.  And maybe I have issues, but whenever I think of knives, something should be cut or killed.

So a dull knife really gets my goat, because it’s harder and takes longer to reach my intended goal. But today, I discovered the positive to that reality is, that it also hinders me reaching a dangerous destination as well.

See, although I was attempting to sever through a Pink Lady Apple with the wrong side of the knife-my hand pressing hard and firmly into the blade-I didn’t cut my finger off. I didn’t even break skin. It hurt just enough to get my attention and make me say ‘Enough!’ and change my behavior. My mind, completely cluttered with work, and returned unemployment, and the impending move, and my broken uterus, and possibly finding myself in love*, was just not “on.” I was going through the motions, without even being close to aware, but the dull knife, in all its shitty glory saved me.

Should probably go this route next time.

And so I had an epiphany. How many other times in my life has a frustrating situation, stopping me in my tracks, saved me from disaster? The biggest one I can think of is *drum roll please*… the ex. I know, I know, get over it already! But after the explosion, I’ve never been so committed to healing myself of that situation as I am now, so if it means I have to cow chew the cud, then it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

New World has a(nother) nickname

So I made it; safely and soundly, to New World. I packed my beaten up Ford Fusion to the brim, then my passenger came along and packed it some more, and the three of us loaded into the almost-qualifiable-as-a-jalopy and we took off. I guess technically, there were four of us, but since I’m pretty positive God was this awesomesauce force field around us all, He doesn’t get passenger credit.

We started our journey at around 7:30 Sunday morning. The plan was to split the drive in approximately four-hour shifts. That would have been a stretch, I thought, considering I didn’t get much rest the night before (the going away party and the nerves didn’t allow for it). So I was all mentally prepared to throw in the towel at any moment, when I realized something was happening. I couldn’t let go of the wheel. This car I’ve been driving for five years now, seemed to finally sync perfectly with my everything. In music I’ve listened to a thousand times, I started hearing instruments and bass lines and melodies I’ve never noticed. Ingrid Michaelson sounded like she was in the backseat. Erykah Badu just may have been on my lap. The music was alive, the car was domesticated and calm, and the road was inviting and forgiving. So I drove. All the way to Stop 1; about 9 hours away.

I expected to be exhausted. I expected to want nothing more than my own bed, in my own home in Bohemia. What I wanted when I got there, was to test out this new GPS system, and find the nearest Dairy Queen and pharmacy. 

Help! I’m desperately missing my first love

I have like 11 drafts of posts sitting in my queue. One of them talks about a gnarly date I went on. Another speaks about the details of how New World is coming to be. Another about a revelation I had about that guy. Probably three more about this fabulous camp I just worked with for the past several weeks; complete with stories of Australians. By far the most interesting forgotten post, is probably about me pondering over the possibility of falling in love with someone you’re not dating. None of them have made it to the all mighty published page. Because for some reason, none of them seem to really paint the living-color portrait that I’ve been existing in recently.

This, my friends is amazing and heartbreaking all at once. Living a life that feels too full to write about and really do it justice? Amazing. Deeming yourself a writer and not feeling like your writing about the easiest subject in the world- yourself-is up to par?  I think I just shat myself…

Not only that, but yesterday I used “hear” instead of “here.”

Thanks Graphic Hunt for providing the imagery...

No, really. I’m about to uproot my entire life to chase a dream of being Lord knows what, but understanding it’s solidly rooted in writing, and my writing talents have left me? I want to say I’ve been too busy. That’s only partly true. I have been incredibly busy (not that you’d know why; I haven’t written about it), but who’s too busy to do what they say they live for? No one who’s serious. So I’m recommitting. Again. I’m not putting the stress on myself to even try to do things chronologically, but I’m going to post everything in my saved drafts, during the next two weeks. Did I just make a committment? Hate those.

Oh! And I’ll probably be posting some new things given that I leave for New World on Sunday morning. I’m anxious to make the journey, but I’m even more eager to share it with you.

On that note, I’ll be back soon. Can’t promise anything amazing- not that I ever have- but I will promise that I’ll honor the compliment you’ve given me by investing your time in reading this stuff. I’ll do a better job at becoming a better writer by writing. Even when it’s hard, or uninspired, or overinspired, or boring; I’ll work on making this site more worth your time, each time.

Thanks for hanging in there with me; you’ll get a special acknowledgment in the book

(thinking to self: was that the right “there”? it is. for sure. i think. read it again. no, no, you’re good… was that the right “you’re?”…)