This is My Body, This is My Blood

Grand (mother) Illusions

I had already accepted the disappointment . When I couldn't find anyone to stay with J while I visit my grandbabies and watch my daughter graduate from massage school next month, I figured I'd just reschedule the trip for September when he's in school. Then last night as I was booking a client for her next appointment, she mentioned that her house sitter might be able to stay with J. Suddenly there's hope that Grandma Moon will be on her way to kiss those precious cheeks come July.

When I was growing up, I only had one living grandmother. She wore pointy glasses, apron draped dresses, and a size 11 shoe on those long Dutch feet. My grandmother always had a hankie tucked into her brazziere and she smelled like Ponds Moisturizing Cream. Her infectious laugh often filled our kitchen as she and my mother sprinkled starch water on the laundy or twisted pin curls into each others' hair.

I have six grandchildren, but I am not my grandmother. I don't bake, go to church on Sunday, play hymns on the organ, or do jigsaw puzzles at the dining room table. I don't wear nylons, let alone shoes, and I don't know what it's like to fall asleep next to the same man for 65 years. I've never made it past twelve. But I do like music and of all the things I would have asked to inherit from my grandmother I got: her laugh.

My oldest grandchild is lucky enough to have two grandmothers: an apron- wearing, cookie-baking, church-going lady who lives within a mile and a toenail-painting, pink-loving, barfeoot-going woman in California whom she calls Grandma Moon. When she and her mother visited last summer, E and I took a bath in my outdoor bathtub under the stars, pretended we were night fairies. We painted each others toes, had a squirtgun fight, traded knock-knock jokes in the car. At night we cuddled in my bed, looked out the window at the moon we share.

Because we live 2500 miles apart, I have to settle for talking with E on the phone in order to stay connected. Sometimes when she laughs I hear my grandmother's hearty bellow tucked inside the corners of her tiny voice, waiting to unfold. Sometimes I recognize it as my own. I hope she hears it, too. I hope that someday my grandmother, E, and I become a joyful chorus in the songs of her unborn children.

First Wives Club

Last night I met my wusband (as in ex-husband) in the downtown plaza to enjoy the first of our community's free summer concert series. Actually, I met B and his girlfriend. Oh, and his second wife (I was the third) is staying with him for the week while visiting from out of state, so she was there, too. As the four of us leaned against the mission wall, laughing and swaying to the music, I wondered how B was lucky enough not only to have found three fabulous women who love him, but who are able to be loving toward one another. I'm pretty sure the world would be a lot better place if the first (and second and third) ladies ran things instead of the men.

After the concert we walked to a nearby Mexican restaurant for dinner.  When the waiter came by, I said, "Um, I'll have the chicken fajitas, blue cheese on my salad, and by the way all three of us have seen this guy's penis up close." Actually I only thought the last part of that statement, although I did have the chicken fajitas. I doubt I was the only one thinking about each others' various entwined anatomies, especially B, who was crammed into a booth with three present and former lovers. If I were a guy, I'd probably have stood on the table, pounded my chest, and made grunting noises or something.

As it turns out, all three of us (though we range in age from 45-62) are in varying stages of menopause and found common ground as more than just present or former first ladies of my ex. We traded hot flash and crying jag stories while B sat quietly, smiling, nodding, seemingly happy just to be included in our giddy girlishness. Probably wishing we'd shut up about menopause and spontaneously suggest we have a 4-way with him.

One our way back to the car, L and I walked behind B & P like a pair of wizened flower girls following the happy couple. Although I've seen them together on several occasions in the year they've been dating, last night was the first time I really felt their love for each other, saw the stars in P's eyes as she looked at B adoringly, recognized the shape of each one as clearly as my own. If it's possible to love someone deeply enough to want their happiness more than wanting you to be part of it, well, then, I guess those lucky stars felt at home. In the midst of this realization, I whispered to L that I'm glad B found P because she's been really good for him.

L sighed in agreement.  "Yes, she is." Then she squeezed my hand and grinned. "But then we all have."

Wankers Away

An open letter to all the hornbags who think I spent 500 hours (plus labs) learning anatomy/physiology/applied modalities, studied my ass off to pass the National Certification exam, invested thousands of dollars in equipment, supplies, and continuing education, and dedicated over a decade to teaching/practicing massage therapy, just so I could perfect my handjob technique.

Dear Whispering Wireless Caller(s):

Please note the heading under which my professional advertisement is printed (Massage Therapy) which includes the subheading, "non-sexual therapeutic massage by licensed practitioners only" and for which I paid a pretty penny per precious word in order to solicit new clients. Before you dial my number and ask if I "accept tips," give a "complete" full body massage, or godhelpme be so bold as the nutjar requesting prostate massage**, consider this: How would you like it if some asshat called your wife/mother/sister/daughter at her place of employment as, say, a physical therapist/hair stylist/nurse and asked if he could pay her a little extra to jerk him off? After all, her job involves touching people so that must automatically mean she's more than willing to grease his crank for a few extra bucks, right?

I didn't think so.

Just so you know, I happen to love sex, love men, and have a healthy relationship with my body and my sexuality. However, I'd like to do my job without having the two overlap, is that too much to ask? So here's a tip from me: Next time you're looking for someone to rub your viagra-enhanced lamp, take your hands out of your pants and let your fingers wander over to the "Adult" section where you’re more likely to find people who’ll gladly accept your filthy lucre* in exchange for playing with your peepee, sucking your toes, whatever. 

Better yet. Get a fucking girlfriend.

Signed,

I Don't Knead You

PS: To those of you offering "bodyrubs" disguised as therapeutic massage, I can sympathize with how hard it is to make a living these days, but you're hurting those of us who have worked really hard to raise the bar on professionalism and ethics in the therapeutic massage and clinical bodywork arena. Do us both a favor and move your ad over to the other section. If you're going to offer these services, fine, but call it what it is. If you don't pretend to be a massage therapist I won't pretend to know how it feels to put a price on your soul.

 

*I've wanted to use 'filthy lucre"  ever since I heard my dad say it in a sermon about the "bad people in Hollywood" when I was a little girl. I'm still not sure what it means and it's a lot better coming from a Baptist preacher spewing hellfire and damnation, but I love the sound of it.

**Due to the amount of email I've received from angry men chastising me for my ignorance of prostate massage, I want to add that was married to a man with chronic prostatitis and I'm aware that some doctors believe PM can be an effective method for treating this condition. Massage Therapists, however, are not licensed (or trained) to perform clinical prostate massage. Your urologist can counsel you and/or your partner on how to perform prostate massage should you want to experiment with this alternative treatment.  Massaging the prostate gland can also enhance sexual pleasure--the reason my "gentleman caller" requested it, as he answered no when asked if he had a prostate condition. I would have been happy to refer him to a local urologist.

Please note: Prostate massage is contraindicated in cases of acute bacterial prostatitis or prostate cancer as it can spread infection and abnormal cells!

Gentle Cycle

As I walk past the Wash-N-Dry on my way to Rite-Aid, the scent of Tide and fabric softener fills my head and I'm instantly transported to my childhood home. In the center of the laundry room, a steam iron sighs impatiently from atop its rickety-legged board, waiting for my older sister to reach into the overflowing basket of Dad's Sunday shirts and white hankies. Along the far wall, a busy new washing machine and matching clothes dryer flash bright white against faded paisley linoleum. In front of them sits a six-year-old me, hypnotized by the tumbling clothing on the other side of the dryer window and the rhythmic chum-chumming of its matching newfangled neighbor.

I think I was more excited than my mother when our shiny new laundry set arrived, replacing the sturdy wringer washer we'd inherited from my grandmother. I used to worry about my mother's fingers when she fed the sopping clothes into the wringers, her eyes focused on some dreamplace far beyond housework and children. I pictured her flattened hands, like rolled-out piecrust, passing passed through the rollers along with the waterlogged laundry. Thankfully, she always managed to save herself, catching the expelled clothing in her outstretched hand and dropping it into the waiting basket. If it was winter, we'd drape everything around the laundry room to dry. Otherwise, I'd follow her out to the back yard, hand her clothespins that looked like tiny wooden soldiers all lined up on the rope by the time we were done. On windy days the wild sheets would catch me in the face and for a brief moment I’d lose my breath before basking in the scent of breeze-dried bedclothes. The best thing about laundry days is that they were followed by sunshine-drenched nights.

Although my mother continued to hang the sheets outside, the new washer and dryer were a welcome addition to our house in more ways than one. When no one was watching, my younger sister and I would climb atop our vibrating "airplanes," piloting them through war zones and harrowing storms. We'd check our “instruments,” pushing and pulling important knobs, and steer our steely white aircraft safely across the skyscape of our imaginations. As if our new toys weren't enough to satisfy hours of creative play, we also got the cardboard boxes they arrived in,which we immediately cut windows into and colored with broken crayons. The boxes became a bank and a store, where we paid for cans of Campbell's Soup with play dollars withdrawn from savings accounts limited only by the pink, blue, and yellow bills stolen from the Monopoly game.

It didn't take long to discover that there was just enough room between the washer and dryer for a small child to crawl between, which I often did. On dreary winterworn days when I longed for a dark, comforting space to hold my warmth-starved body, I’d squeeze myself and a blanket into the tiny space between the two machines. There, I reveled in the warm hum on one side of me and the cool swish-swishing on the other. By the time the washing machine reached the spin cycle, I’d be fast asleep with my back against the wall and my cheek pressed against warm metal, dreaming of a long ride in a warm car with the moon following faithfully behind us.

These scented memories arrived like a secret gift, riding on the flowery breath that escaped from the local laundromat as I passed this morning. On days like today, when life seems a little too complicated, I wish I were a child again, navigating my way through imaginary clouds instead of the fog of bills and responsibilities. I'd make a perfect landing, then grab a cotton blanket fresh from the drum, nudge the washer and dryer just a teensy bit further apart, and crawl between them for a warm, rumbly nap.

The Bathroom Diaries: Part III

I was just about to start my "when life gives you lemons make lemonade" story this morning when  I realized my last two posts are bathroom-related. There's probably some deep symbolism here but I'm just going with the flow and right now that creative well happens to spring from a 3x5 room at the end of the hall.

So yesterday I'm standing in the shower with shampoo in my hair and my eyes squinched shut when there's this glass-breaking crash and something bounces off my feet. I grope around for the towel hanging over the shower curtain and wipe my eyes to find streaks of red all over my left foot and pooling in a puddle around it. I'm thinking, okay that's a lot of blood, when the tiny broken bottle registers in my soggy brain and I realize that's nail polish, not blood. To escape cutting myself on the mess of glass shards, I carefully step onto the bath mat and use the hand-held shower head to spray everything toward the drain. This is when I discover that nail polish stains porcelain and streaks of pinkish red have left a trail all over the bottom of the tub.

I have always hated this bathtub. It's too small and the surface is scratched so no matter how hard I scrub it never looks clean. I've thought about having it reglazed but the process costs more than replacing the tub and besides, the sagging subfloor needs repair, too, so I might as well do it right (when I do it).  This is the reason I have a big old clawfoot sitting under an arbor of jasmine in my back yard, next to my pond. It's where I go when I want a "real" bath, under the stars, an oil lantern hanging from the tree, the sound of water trickling over the rock waterfall in the pond, all storybook-romance like. The indoor tub is merely functional.

As I stood next to the tub with shampoo drying in my hair and water running down my half-shaved legs I stared at the big pink splotch in the tub, cursing myself for lining the colorful bottles of nail polish on the windowsill in the first place. As consolation, I reminded myself that the bathtub will be replaced as soon as my book sells and not to get too upset. However, the longer I stood there, the more I was struck by the beauty in my clumsiness. I happen to like pink. A lot.

Everyone knows that being a grown-up can be a pain in the ass a good deal of the time but it does have benefits. For instance, I can do whatever I want as long as I'm not hurting anybody because a) it's my house and b) nobody's the boss of me. That may partly explain why, in a moment of spontaneous lemonade-making, I opened several bottles of pink, purple, and pinkish purple polish, and one by one, flung the contents all Jackson Pollack like around the inside of the tub. Maybe the nail polish fumes affected my decision-making process but I had a swell time "decorating" and the experience turned out to be a great lesson in the alchemy of accidents. 

Maybe I should go spill something on that manuscript sitting next to the bed.

Slugging it Out

If there's one thing I learned from my dad it's that the bathroom is a breeding ground for inspiration. A place where great ideas fall unexpectedly into your lap while you're contemplating hidden faces in the texture of floor tile or reading the shampoo bottle for the hundredth time because you forgot to bring the newest issue of The Sun in with you. Yesterday I decided to take Dad's advice because I've been coming up empty when trying to think of something interesting to write about. Not that my life is boring, mind you (at least not to me) but I just haven't been inspired to write much this week. And I figured if my dad could write a sermon in the bathroom every week, I certainly should be able to manage a few paragraphs for my blog.

So last night I went into the bathroom, ready to open myself to divine inspiration from my muse when I noticed the toilet was looking downright nasty. I was just about to give J holy hell for not cleaning the john after using it when the presumed, uh, "mess" moved. Uh-huh. There was a glob on the inside of the bowl and it fucking moved, I tell you. Thank Jesus I didn't sit down before seeing it because I think I would have had a heart attack when the snail, yes you read it right, snail started crawling toward my unsuspecting behind.

Without thinking I did the first thing that came to mind...flushed. Granted a snail, or slug as the case may be, even when trying to escape an unexpected waterfall doesn't move very fast but I do believe it went into high gear at that point. As it made its way over the lip of the toilet, I did the second thing that came to mind, what any self-respecting blogger would have done in the same situation: I ran for my camera.

Honestly I have no idea how that slug got into my toilet and frankly I don't care. He's since been returned to his natural environment where he's probably blogging about his porcelein adventure. My point is that Dad was right. All I have to do is step into the bathroom and the damn blog practically writes itself.

Native Tongue

My first real kiss was from an aho. No, really. His last name was Aho, and he gave me that kiss behind church after prayer meeting while we waited for my Dad to finish gabbing with his parishioners so he could drive the 'bus kids" home. Aho was one of the Bus Kids.

It was a rickety old school bus painted white, with "New Era Bible Church" in black letters on one side and a Bible verse--I think it was John 3:16--on the other. Every week one of the deacons or my dad would drive to the outskirts of town and round up the Bus Kids from the trailer park and tract houses surrounding a tiny man-made lake they actually named Lake Tahoe (which claimed the life of one of the other bus kids the following summer) and drove them into town to "save" their souls. Didn't save the kid that drowned, though my father would likely disagree, insist that kid was in heaven because he took Jesus as his personal savior before he was found floating on top of the muddy water after everyone else got out of the lake. I couldn't help but wonder why Jesus didn't prevent him from hitting his head on the bottom when he dove in but back then I didn't ask those kinds of questions. At least not out loud.

So anyway, like most of the trailer park and Lake Tahoe kids, Aho was a "fast" boy in terms of life experience. He had a big nose and claimed he was part Indian, wore his greasy brown hair long with bangs that hung over his eyes, making him have to flip his head every few seconds in order to see anything. Growing up in a rural Midwestern town with a population of 416, I'd had very little exposure to the outside world or the dens of iniquity my father warned me about, but I had a suspicion Aho had probably seen those dens. Maybe even lived in one. And I was drawn to him like a racoon to a full trash can.

It was summer, muggy-n-buggy as we used to say, when Aho and I sat in church that evening, pretending to listen to my Dad preach. At some point our fingers touched and he laid his hand over mine. Every nerve on the surface of my skin danced as he lightly ran his thumb back and forth over the back of my hand. A few other nerves I hadn't been tuned into put on their dancin' shoes as well. Eventually our youth pastor caught sight of what was going on and separated us but I could still feel his hand on mine, that tingle shooting from my fingers to places hidden beneath an ugly dress and a sweat-soaked cotton slip.

After Prayer Meeting let out, Aho smiled at me, flipped his hair and mouthed something I couldn't hear. When I didn't move he flipped it again, then walked away Ooooh, I get it. You're flipping your hair but what you're really doing is pointing me in the direction of the flipping. I followed him out the back door of the church where he immediately grabbed me and gave me a long, soft kiss. I kept my mouth closed. He didn't. I wanted to wipe his spit off my face but was afraid I'd offend him so I just stood there, hoping it would evaporate quickly.

"I like you," he half-whispered, in a fourteen year-old croaky voice.

Well, that was enough for me. "Me, too," I said. "I mean, I like you, too."

"Why don't you ride with us on the bus tonight?"

My legs were shaking. "I have to ask my dad."

He let go of my waist. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

I ran back inside and tugged on my Dad's suit coat as he stood in the back of the church auditorium shaking hands with Mr. G, who owned an insurance company and a house with three bathrooms.

"Daddy can I ride with you on the bus tonight?"

"Go ask your mother." It was his standard answer.

I found Mom in the basement kitchen washing coffee cups with Mrs. F., whose son dated my older sister.

"Mom can I ride on the bus with Daddy tonight?"

"If it's okay with him, it's okay with me." Her standard answer.

Several minutes later I climbed up the steps behind Mr. F, who'd offered to drive the Bus Kids home so Pastor E could go home to his family. Aho sat in the very back, grinning. He patted the seat next to him, on the window side, as I approached. I squeezed past him and sat down, feeling shy and watched by all the stinky Bus Kids turned around facing us, bouncng in their seats. Aho made a motion with his hands and said, "Get the hell out of here." The back half of the bus cleared out immediately. I don't know if I was more impressed by his command over the other kids or that he'd just said hell.

Mr. F pulled out of the parking lot and pointed the bus toward Lake Tahoe. As we bounced along U.S. 31, Aho put his arm around me. I stared straight ahead. Determined, he turned my head with his hand and kissed me again. This time he forced his tongue through my lips and swirled it around in my mouth. I was totally disgusted and completely fascinated at the same time. My older sister had told me what French kissing was but I never imagined I'd be doing it (though my younger sister and I used to stick out our tongues and touch each other's, then squeal with delightful ickiness).

Again with the party in the nether-regions of my body, heretofore known by many names. But at the same time, I felt uncomfortable. Uneasy. Something in the way he kissed me told me he'd done this a lot, probably with a lot of girls. Probably a lot more than just kissing. Maybe he'd want me to do other stuff. I wanted him to stop. I wanted to move to another seat. I wanted him to get off the bus.

Thankfully, the bus rolled to a stop. Mr. F turned the lights up then cranked open the front door. Aho jumped out of the seat and propelled his skinny body up the aisle by hoisting himself on the back of the seats and swinging his legs forward every few rows. When he got to the front of the bus he turned, flipped his hair and winked before chasing the younger kids up the dirt road toward their houses. As soon as he was gone I wanted him back.

I rode in silence as the bus emptied itself of the rest of the kids, my lips still numb from that boy pressing his face against mine. Mr. F pulled into the gravel parking lot behind the church and got out, forgetting I was still on the bus. He was whistling "Surely Goodness and Mercy Shall Follow Me," a song I used to think was about two angels named Shirley Goodness and Marcy. I sat alone in the dark, watched Mr. F disappear up the road with his Bible under his arm, still whistling.

Across the street, the second-story windows of our parsonage threw light from behind wide horizontal blinds. Bats dove for mosquitoes under the street lamp in front of our house and somewhere in the distance a coon dog howled at the end of his chain. When I finally stood my skin unstuck itself from the vinyl bus seat leaving an orange-peel pattern on the back of my stinging thighs. I kicked off my black shoes and walked barefoot on the still-warm blacktop, daring the bats to tangle themselves in my hair as I crossed over the crumbling road of my childhood.

Long (Un) Winding Road

I don't get why every time I pick up my hairdryer the cord is all bunched up and I have to hang it upside down and wait for it to untwirl. It's not like I run around in circles when I blow dry my hair (which is practically dry by the time I get out of the tub anyway). My bathroom is hardly big enough to fart in, let alone take a step or two from the sink to the tub, for crying out loud.  Yet every time I grab the hairdryer it's like watching the Himalaya ride at the carnival--minus the loud rock music--because it always goes too far and then has to de-unwind, which takes too damn long when your fine hair is about to dry flat to your head.

As I stood waiting for the stupid hair dryer to unwind this morning, I realized I was looking at a metaphor of my life. (Yeah, I know, everything's a damn metaphor with me.) But think about it. Even when you feel like you're getting nowhere, on a plateau, chilling out, stuck, whatever, you're not. Every little subtle movement you make affects the cord that plugs you into the Universe. Okay, stop laughing, I'm serious. I'll give you an example. You knew I would.

For the last nine months M and I have been steadily seeing each other exclusively, mostly on weekends because he lives 2 1/2 hours away. Being mature adults, we quickly realized that although we liked each other's company, enjoyed working on home projects together, and made great snuggling companions, we were not "couple" material. In fact, we are so different from each other in terms of our belief systems and life outlooks, it's amazing we got together in the first place. I'm an artsy-fartsy, wise-cracking, optimistic-to-a-fault, outgoing, happy-go-lucky, laid back, urban hippie who dies her hair pink and glues flowers to her shoes (when she wears them). M, on the other hand, is a self-described nerdy, humorless, skeptical, pessimistic, loner who can't dance and counts beans for a living. Don't get me wrong--he's a sweet, loyal, intelligent, generous, nurturing guy--just not a barrel of laughs.

Although we didn't have "chemistry" in the romantic sense (M doesn't even believe in romantic love) we had something. I don't know what to call it other than that old Opposites Attract kind of thing. M brought a sense of stability and order to my chaotic life and I stirred up his rather boring existence with my playful quirkyness. Granted, not all my quirks are good ones. M graciously tolerated my forgetfulness, forgave my perpetual tardiness, and was infinitely patient with my impulsiveness, which says a lot about someone who likes order in his life. But for whatever reason, we continued to share our lives, creating satisfying rituals that included glorious footrubs,  morning coffee, and doing the Sunday crossword together.

Last weekend my son, J, returned from boarding school for the summer. Before heading for home on Sunday, M left a sweet and loving note under my pillow letting me know that the season of our curious relationship was about to change. He wrote that he doesn't plan to be in my life to the degree he has been other than as a "fan and supporter" as he put it. Surprisingly (to me, as I am not usually one to pass on any opportunity for drama in my life) I didn't have much of a reaction to the letter other than feeling quietly sad while at some level knowing he was a lot braver than I in confronting the inevitable. Oh well, I thought. I don't regret the time we spent together and although I'll miss him a lot, this is probably for the best. I let the letter sit on my bedside table, didn't respond with my usual lengthy post-relationship "processing," settled into having J home again.

What the hell does this have to do with the blow dryer, you may ask (if you've even read this far)? Well, last night I dreamed of a woman who fell off her bicycle and punctured her left breast. There was blood on her shirt but she was acting all "It doesn't hurt that much" and laughing it off like you do when you don't want anybody to point out that you've just wiped out in soft gravel and you've got sand in your teeth. I woke up with the dream on my pillow, knowing despite my insistence that I was simply "sitting" with M's departure from my life, what I was really doing was walking in circles around it rather than feeling the emotions of that loss, my bleeding heart, so to speak.

So s'cuse me while I unwind a bit. Sorry if you dry out before I'm finished. Put on some loud music if you want because it may be a long ride.

Cliff Hanger

A few years ago J and I embarked on a road trip across the Southwestern United States in what would remain the most visually stunning vacation memory of my life. This photograph was taken at Mesa Verde in SW Colorado. We took a tour of the ruins and in order to do so, had to climb tiny stone ladders, squeeze between narrow openings, and crawl though rocky tunnels to reach the secret places of the tribes who once lived among these cliffs. Theirs was a difficult life to be sure, but something tells me they were content in how they lived it. One look at the view would make the struggle worthwhile.

As a woman living in the twenty-first century I have it pretty easy, despite the various challenges I'm faced with from day to day. However, as a writer, I can relate to the mysterious cliff dwellers. Every day I squeeze words from my fingers then carry them into literary tunnels only to find another tunnel, and another after that. The journey has often seemed endless. I've seen those elusive windows of opportunity, but they've always been just out of my reach. My ladders have either been too short or I wasn't able to wriggle through the opening once I made it to the top (though I've seen a few other lucky writers do it, which has only made it more frustrating).

After several years of failing to climb to the next level, I was ready to give up and settle for living life perched on my personal plateau. After all, the view's pretty damn great from here, whether I make it to the apex or not. Then, just as I began to take down my ladder last week, I heard a voice call from above me. "Come on up," she said.  "You're almost there."

I'd heard that one before. I'll climb up and she'll be gone by the time I get there, I thought. I'm staying put.

"I like what I've seen so far," she continued. "I think you can do this."

I wanted to believe her but time and experience had made me skeptical. I'd slid down that ladder enough times to know I'd probably land on my ass again and my ass (and my ego) were tired of getting bruised. Yet something in her voice and something in my Self shook me loose from my spot and nudged me up the first step despite my reservations. Slowly I moved to the next rung, and the next until eventually I was almost to the top. For the first time, I could actually see her!

The woman smiled at me. "You can do it," she urged.

Up another step. I was within inches and yet she remained out of reach, exactly how it always happens. I hesitated, ready to climb back down before I lost my grip and fell. Even if I got close enough to climb through she'd likely get tired of waiting and walk away from the window by the time I got there, anyway, right?

Wrong. This time the woman bent forward, stuck her head out of the opening and reached for my hand. As she pulled me through the window I felt as if it were all a dream. She brushed the red dirt from my shoulders and kissed my sunburned cheek. "Welcome," she whispered.

"Why are you doing this for me?" I asked.

Her laughter bounced off the canyon walls. "Because I believe in you, silly girl. I always have. You're the one who didn't believe."

With that she handed me a contract which I of course signed in blood because everyone knows I'm melodramatic to the nth degree as illustrated by this long-winded metaphorical post meant to tell you that I finally got a real, live, ass-kicking New York agent and I think I just peed my pants.

I feel like I'm standing here all over again: