Yesterday started like many another: I woke up. Normally I am grateful I’m on the right side of the ground, count up the hours I slept peacefully, pause to recall and explore my dreams, evaluate any disturbances and inquire into my feeling state. Then I ritually discuss mutual inquiry with my husband. At which point my Reubenesque cat, Leila, hurls herself directly into my face purring at full throttle, hoping to fill her daily quota, an insatiably desperate need for love and affection. Except on this morning I skipped the gratitude for having another opportunity and privilege of being alive, climbed over my palpable anxiety, and went straight to how many hours of sleep I had accrued (an interrupted eight; there had been a cat fight inside my house, which sounded more like children being tortured). Deciding I had enough sleep, I detached my cat from my face and half-heartedly asked my husband how he had slept as I popped out of bed and headed for the lieu (French word for bathroom). Looking back, I can see I had fed the wrong wolf—and off I went, spiraling towards the vortex

I raced to beat the clock; we had to be at the airport by 8am, it was 6:20, and I was standing there in my jammies machinating over whether or not the heavy rain would delay our flight. Thundershowers were expected. I asked my husband if planes could fly through thunder. He patted me on the head and said yes, and told me to get in the shower. I was unconvinced.

Carpe dreaming~

I hear fire engines roaring through the valley where I live. I feel the sense of survival rush through my body and privately hope the rescue crew gets to whoever needs them in time. I send my ritual blessing into the ethers and then randomly wonder why sometimes it takes a crisis for us to wake up, to really Carpe Diem. Then I look around at my desk, which today looks more like a kid’s cubby, at all the paraphernalia that collectively say what is most important to me. The contrasting thoughts seem significant. A representation of what I love most, what is of ultimate importance is right in front of me; love letters, notes and cards given to me by family and friends, numerous pictures of the people I cherish, a heart-shaped dish filled with angel cards, a blessing medallion blessed by Mother Theresa, my pocket astrologer, a child’s rosary, a crystal angel, a mini-Buddha and some chocolates. Still, like today, I can easily look right through it all, losing my focus on what’s most dear, and wander off my path. The difference is, today those dramatic wake-up sirens come less frequently due to my vigilant pursuit and strong desire to stay awake. I am so grateful.

It wasn’t always the case, which is probably why it feels so jarring, so personal, when I hear the eerily familiar screech.

Are monkeys more sexually evolved than we are?

Listener Question: I've added you to my tediously exclusive club of mutually consenting mostly adults. Tell me, though, why does dropping one’s drawers have to be the line of demarcation? Is that really the point of no return? If so, then why do you consider it as such? My studies of aboriginal Polynesian societies have led me to delve into customs of touching in other nearly nude societies, including those of primates, with whom we share 98% of our DNA. These societies have no drawers to drop, yet raised peaceful, sexually wise kids. So, perhaps your next title should be: What You Should Know Before You Cover Your Wares. :-)

Maryanne Answer: Good question: what about dropping one’s drawers creates such a hard line—or as you put it, the abysmal point of no return? A question worthy of great consideration, no doubt!

I believe it was Ted Bundy, one of the most notorious Mr. Wrongs of our time, who said, and I will have to paraphrase, “As long as we have pornography men will continue to victimize and harm women,” which might explain why we do not live in a naked, leaf-eating, peaceful, sexually wise culture. IT’S NOT SAFE FOR WOMEN—yet. And while the Aboriginals may be sexually more evolved, they currently

Hot and hormonal seeking trade!

Q~ I’m a fifty-something, single, more Bu-ish than Jewish woman looking to get back out in the dating world. I am not thrilled with the idea of online dating but realize when it comes to the law of attraction, I need to get the ball rolling. The problem is, I am not feeling as marketable as I was in my thirties and forties, never mind my hormones are raging like a teenager—except now, instead of blooming, it seems I am about to lose my blossom. Any suggestions on how to attract a great mate?

A~ I can see the dilemma: how do you compete with your own shadow and attract a great partner when you don’t feel exactly on top of your game, and how can you be honest about who you are without focusing exclusively on the negative? This is indeed a delicate balancing act. You don’t want to do what so many of us have and out-and-out lie, or minimize some major themes in your life.

Let’s start from a bigger picture: while you may be experiencing great discomfort as you pass through (and up and down and all around) menopause, it’s true that this is a phase, a transient time, just as each day is. Besides, we are so much more than any one aspect of what we experience in any given time, day, phase, moment. It’s a matter of where we focus our attention. I have heard from some experts that menopause can be one of the most magical, mystical times in a woman’s life. No more children to raise, no messy periods on the horizon: you are more in touch with the deepest feminine part of yourself, which is a gift to you and all those around you should you care to hold the experience in that context!

The other big-picture thing to realize is that there is nothing to be ashamed of as we traverse each crevice of the human experience, and you can bet your partner is try to fend off his share of the inevitable himself; man boobs, gray hair, no hair, erectile dysfunction, or loss of libido. Essentially we are all in the same boat, and none of us are getting out alive or unscathed!

Single for Valentine’s Day?

A reporter asked me to help him with his column the other day, and his first question was: “Valentine’s Day is coming up. But where can you meet someone if you’re single?”

I replied, “That's like asking me where to go eat when you're hungry. First you need to tell me what you like, what you are hungry for? I certainly wouldn't want to send you to a seafood restaurant if you can’t stand fish! As elementary as it sounds, we need to make this distinction and move away from the one-size-fits-all relationship mentality. If you just want to meet "someone" you can go to a restaurant or bar. I can name a half a dozen singles haunts off the top of my head in Marin; the Buckeye Roadhouse, Picco, Poggio, Sushi Ran's Wine Bar, 2am club, and so on.

“But if you’re talking about meeting the right someone for you, then you need to invest some more time and effort. Otherwise you'll have to kiss a lot of toads, or just cross your fingers and hope you get lucky. An alternative is, get real clear on what you want. Real clear. And then go where you think those kinds of people hang out. The funny thing is, that when we set that strong an intention you almost don't have to do anything! Life responds to strong desires that are maintained over time. Or you can do both, get out there in the flow of like-minded folks and let a little elbow grease & serendipity lend a hand! As you like it.”

Then he wanted tips for singles to cope with Valentine's Day. “Valentine’s Day can go down two ways, as a day to be coped with or to be celebrated, just like anything in life. You can take it half empty or half full. If you're the woe-is-me type, you can have a pity party and make sure you feel more alone and desperate than ever, and remind yourself that everyone has a relationship but you. OR you can do what I did when I was single and give yourself exactly what you would want from your partner—maybe even invite another single friend! Seriously, why wait for chocolates and flowers?

Pro Life? How about Pro Dad?

First, this is a rant, not a blog. I hope you will indulge me anyway. There are few things I feel more passionate about, and I know I am not alone. Having been a single mom for over ten years, I know so many of you can, do and will relate. And I must warn you, it’s rated R, so I apologize in advance for any offense that may occur. Here we go…

According to Maria Sudekum Fisher, with the ASSOCIATED PRESS: Scott Roeder had confessed publicly before the trial and admitted again on the witness stand that he shot Tiller in the head in the foyer of the Wichita church where the doctor was serving as an usher. He testified he felt the lives of unborn children were in “immediate danger” because of Tiller. WICHITA, Kan. — A man who said he killed one of the most prominent abortion providers in the U.S. in order to save the lives of unborn children was convicted Friday of murder.

The jury deliberated for just 37 minutes before finding Scott Roeder, 51, of Kansas City, Missouri, guilty of premeditated, first-degree murder in the May 31 shooting death of Dr. George Tiller. Roeder faces a mandatory sentence of life in prison with the possibility of parole after 25 years when he is sentenced March 9.

No words can suffice for the tragic loss to the Tiller family. I can barely imagine how difficult and painful it must be to lose someone in this way. And as I sit and contemplate, I notice my own prejudice arise. Curious in the midst of this horror, I wonder why we curse the symptom and not the problem, or at least the propaganda.

Instead of spending our hard-earned money to fight what has now become a political issue rather than a moral one, why don’t we suck it up and deal with the real issues? One of which is staring us ALL in the face. Instead of killing the messenger, let’s look at the truth. We scream “Pro Life” instead of “Pro Dad.” Maybe women would stop getting so many abortions if certain men (millions and millions of them) stepped up to the plate and actually took responsibility for dipping their wicks every time the urge came along—and if women stopped using their bodies to lure men into relationships because of their own insecurity and low self-esteem. Perhaps that would be a start. Then, maybe, as a culture we would all be able to see the catastrophic effect our ignorance and/or narcissism is causing us all. Perhaps then we would recalibrate with our inner wisdom, which clearly points towards sex as a sacred act and parenting as a privilege, one which lasts FOR BOTH PARENTS for up to eighteen years. Translated: you PLAY, YOU STAY, and YOU PAY.

The Parmahansa ballerina

“Ya know, I am feeling more like some really clean food,” I declared, and instead of turning left drove straight, heading for another of our favorite haunts.  My husband didn’t care; he eats anything, like Mikey, that kid in the cereal commercial. I love that about him! Moments later we pulled into the parking lot, cracked the window for Bella (our white/golden retriever) and scampered inside the trendy organic restaurant. Okay, actually, I scampered. It was raining, so I scampered! My husband, who I think it would be safe to say does not scamper, strolled in. He might scamper, it’s just that I’ve never seen him do that in real life. It’s probably because that would be like Cary Grant scampering, which would just be wrong. Anyway, we arrived, moist but not sodden and, needless to say, hungry.  

“Maryanne!” exclaimed the manager, barely a second after we walked in. Have you ever seen that show “Cheers”? This place was sorta like that; when you walk in everybody knows your name—only instead of heaving with proletariat, beer-guzzling Republicans this establishment catered to the far, far, so very far Left.

Our friend took our order practically before we sat down. I didn’t have to look at the menu; I almost always got the same thing. “Uhhmm, I’ll have an ‘I am Cozy’ and an ‘I am Fabulous’ …oh, wait, and an ‘I am Incredible.’ Hon, what do you want?” As my husband began to order, for some reason I drifted off and imagined my brother being here: “Yes, I’ll have the ‘I am Uncomfortable’ with a side of ‘You are Evil,’

Ohhhhhh..yes….don’t…stop. Uh huh, uhuh, mmhhhmmm, mmmhmmm…YYYEEESSSS! Your soggy bodies collapse beside each other, too depleted to even wipe away the beads of sweat swelling above your brow and trickling down into your ears. Your lover rolls off to one side of the bed feeling for a light: you turn and watch the embers at the end of the cigarette ignite, then gaze as he takes a long drag and exhales a vapor trail of smoke into the silence. “Ahhhhhh,” he speaks. “That was great!” You dreamily reply, “Yeah…Wow…that was…amazing!” He reaches over and rests his weary hand on your thigh, takes one last drag; you both lie quietly as the smoke disappears into the night. You gaze at his strong silhouette. He falls off to sleep as you drift off into visions of Happily Ever After…until…

Until you suddenly realize you’re not alone! That right now, this very moment, there are between 40 to 600 million sperm fighting for their lives, swimming frantically upstream in your fallopian tubes, heading directly for your ovum. Each one determined they will be the one that succeeds in making you a little chubby bubby baby of your very own, that looks exactly like both of you!