Three Kisses

I have to preface the next few blogs.

I'm pretty average, I think, in the amount of time I spend thinking about my romantic life (average, at least among my people, the Silly Women with Idle Time, as you would suspect by the percentage of blogs written by this over represented group, we are legion.). And as I look back there have been a few defining moments in how I have learned to lust and love, want and be wanted, and they have almost all come with a kiss that I still keep in the pocket of my memory. So in the spirit of pointless disclosure I've decided to share. I've been a girl, I hope by now I'm a woman, and I've gotten by with a little help from my (boy)friends.

Kiss #1/2

I was in middle school, can I save all other discription? Yes, I think that's enough.

His name was Jeremy, he had blue eyes and a smile and the gate and frame of a twelve year old boy who'd grown up in a trailer park. A saggy black shirt hanging from wirey arms and hands that he always had in his pockets. The mother in me now wants to fix him a sandwich. He smoked behind the school at lunchtime and drank with his friends, which was still pretty shocking for me at the time, but in my memory he was a sweet, funny boy and I liked him.

We were in eighth grade and by then most of my friends had already been on the wrong end of a spinning bottle and I was beginning to feel exposed, the straggling sheep. Jeremy and I had already made the solemn commitment of going "out" but after a few weeks of passing notes and talking through our friends Jeremy was ready to cut the crap and take it to the next level.

Maybe it was because I was still just a little kid, and that would become clear to both of us once I somehow managed to screw up, maybe I was protecting myself from the heaping ridicule awaiting me once he told everyone I was a terrible kisser ( a junior high student does have to assume ridicule is waiting in the wings somewhere because, usually, it is.), maybe I was reluctant to cross that threshold into teenage romance, whatever it was, I was terrified, he on the other hand, was as urgent as a twelve year old nogoodnick can be and it was beginning to wear me down. After an eternity, or, two weeks, it's hard to tell time in preteen, I finally relented and met him behind the middle school to give him my first kiss.

We held eachother awkwardly around the waist but tried our best to act really cool about it. He smiled at me and I tried to stop vibrating with terror. We both leaned in and closed our eyes. But before our faces touched, I peeked.

His mouth was open. His tongue already out.

I may have screamed, but I know I ran.

It took me four more years before I attempted kissing again, seven before I would close my eyes.

#1

I was kind of a late bloomer. I didn't get boobs until I was 16 and then boy did I ever get 'em! I think I might have actually heard a BANG! (or was it a BOING?) when puberty finally hit. My kissing life started pretty much the same way, lots of waiting around and it still managed to be a surprise.

Four years after my failed attempt, I was going out with another boy, although this was different because we did actually go out to various places together, so in that sense, I had made some steps forward, but apparently not enough because Jake was beginning to complain about getting shut down every night. Now I'm only stating fact when I say that I was the most outrageously shameless flirt in exsistence, but I was also all talk and no action, since now the suspense in my own mind had mounted so much that it was almost impossible to not be paralyzed with fear at the thought of touching lips with another human being. Poor Jake, it was a deadly combo for a sixteen year old boy to handle.

One night I was piled in a van with about fifteen other kids, dropping Jake off at his home first ( he had really strict parents and a rediculously early curfew). I walked him to his door and then returned to a car full of kids who were already in the know about my secret shame and anticipating news that my virgin lips were no longer virgins. We were all dissapointed in me, again. The car was still a can of sardines so I was sitting on my friend Christian's lap when a flash of genius struck. Christian and I were safely entrenched in friend zone, on both sides, and I felt confident that he was one of those rare friends you find as a teenager who wouldn't throw you under a bus and I loved him dearly. So, feeling like the weight could actually be off I dove in, to his face. I was a little surprised, he was a little surprised, the car was a little surprised, and afterwards we both laughed. But that's how it happened. Like almost everything in life should happen, as far as I'm concerned, in front of an audience with a really good friend.

It was the best first kiss ever.

You may have already guessed it, I'm not a rocket surgeon.

I have long since admitted that I suffer from a crippling case of intellectual little man's syndrome. That's what happens when you didn't finish eighth grade and went on to become a stay at home mom but you still believe you are as smart as most people in any given social setting. One becomes frusrated with condesention after having a word explained that you already knew, or the not exactly complementary look of surprise when you make a point in a debate, or the congratulatory pat on the head that you read a book without having previously gone to college. It can be... frustrating.

But I ask for it sometimes, too. I really don't give a crap about my spelling (as you can probably tell). It's not so bad as to keep anyone from understanding my meaning so it's just not that important to me, I often dumb myself down for the benefit of others, so, for example, a guy with not alot of social graces can feel he's really bringing alot of useful information to a conversation, or someone who I know prides themselves on their intellegence can shine without feeling that they are getting any competition from me. I'm always surprised how often people use my trying to be gracious to kick my in my mind balls with a lot of patronizing tones and dismissive looks. And, yes, I did just say mind balls.

Lately I've been wondering why this bothers me so much. Who cares if I'm percieved as smart or stupid? I think I've come to a conclusion. I'm identifying myself by my brains, which is just as insufferable as people who identify themselves by their looks, or their money or any other thing that catergorizes one person over another. But with intellect it is so much more dangerous, because THERE ARE DIFFERENT KINDS OF SMART. There's the smirky "I can turn a phrase" variety, there's the "I read alot of books", there's the "I'm a computer engineer" and my favorite, there's the "I have a lick of common sense".

I once had a friend ask me if I thought my husband was smarter than me. It was obvious by her tone that she was asking because she had that question in her own relationship. It made me so sad, not only because she WAS smart, and the comparison made her feel as though she wasn't, but that was such a small piece of such a wonderful person.

I often wonder if I put the huge weight of small adjectives on my own children. Smart, pretty, kind, funny. Because in my mind I know them, but what comes out of my mouth are small, grasping, human words, when the word for them is their name, coming out like a sigh, reverent and full of love. Why is she trying to be merely smart? doesn't she know that she's Vivian?

I guess I should try to turn that question on myself a little more.

The Most Magical Place on Earth

I've lived a whirlwind, jet setty sort of life the past couple of months, I suppose the holidays probably make everyone feel that way but for me it's true. When I'm not flitting (driving in a minivan) off to some exotic (Washington) destination to entertain the masses (sing bad kareoke to five barflies and five awesomely supportive mormon ladies) I'm staying at home, going to party after party, where the ham is always hot and the sprite flows freely.

And I haven't even mentioned spending New Years in Sundance, you know, Hollywood's winter playground? Robert Redford lives like two miles (and several security gates and surveilance cameras) away from us. Sure, I've never met him, nor have I seen him or anyone remotely famous (actually, that's not true, I did see Ed Harris once on a hike, where HE PET MY DOG! Well, not my dog, but my brother-in-laws dog) but just knowing that I COULD is luxury enough for me.

But until I do get invited over to Robert, Bob, that's what I call him, over to Bob's house I'll have to content myself with making smores with the under ten set. Lecturing my husband on the many ways in which he could break his neck sledding off a really steep hill, then, when he does not break his neck, letting him push me into doing it too. Playing card games with my sister and brother-in-law. Watching our children play together and hearing my two year old sniffle and tell me she really misses her nine year old cousin who she refers to as "her boy" once he's left to go sledding. Eating way too much candy until I've created a giant ball of gummi that sits like Jaba the Hutt in the bottom of my stomach. Sledding at night with nothing but the chilled air and the black and the blue and the stars and kids giggle/screaming.

We leave for Disneyland, you may have heard of it, Millcreek's winter playground? In two days. I love it there, love dosen't even describe it. When I die, if heaven dosen't look exactly like Main Street, USA, I will want a refund. We will have fun there, I will eat a turkey leg, it will be fantastic, but mostly it will be great because we are going with another beloved sister and brother-in-law, more cousins that are the best people in the world. The love and memory and confidence I have in my family is the most magical thing, wherever we are.