Muchness and Light

And I'm so dizzy, don't know what hit me, but I'll be alright.

Last October, I was recovering from thyroid surgery and pining away for a man who couldn't love me like I needed.  Pandy came to stay with me for a couple of days, to help get my head out of my ass and keep me happily entertained.  With yet another recent snipe from Bounder, we talked at length (ad nauseum) about what my heart wanted and needed. 

Watching movies in the midst of some giggly crazy that always seems to rule our world, Pandy named the next Big Cat to impact me: Rango.

Rango would come from the west.  He would rescue the princess when she freaked out and couldn't do it herself.  He would be afraid but refuse to walk out on his own story. 

Rango would also be big; my ideal was 6'4, 240 pounds, blue eyes, dark hair but balding and shaved, western-European descent.  He would be smart and a little geeky, funny and compassionate, respectful and gentle.  He would be intense and look at me like I'm precious.  He would laugh as loudly as I do and totally get my batshit. 

He would not be an alcoholic, and he would not be afraid to love me.  He would not hesitate. 

Every date I had and relationship I started, Pandy and I would debrief and debate whether or not that one might be Rango.

When she and I went to the beach in April, she continued pressing me in her Practical Magic way to name what I wanted, based on what I'd already had. 

I kept dating.

On May 30^th, I received a message on one of the dating sites I'd been trying for ages.  The guy was a decent match, very cute, 6'5, and he was asking me about my writing.  The conversation went back and forth for a couple of messages, and then I dropped it and forgot about it. 

School, kids, work, my grandmother's death.  And, as has happened so often in the last year, there was the inevitable back-and-forth with Bounder.    I had a couple of dates, but nothing that was quite what I was looking for.  I finally (yes, finally!) got Bounder out of my heart.  Queen Frostine and Peanut and their kids came to visit for a few days.  With so much hectic happening, I decided to screw dating and just focus on school and the kids. 

But then last week I received another message from this guy.

"So I've been matched with you in two different places.  Knowing that you're not into developing dialog through chat, how would you feel about meeting me for a drink sometime this week or weekend?"

Oh, hell! I thought.  I totally blew this guy off for no reason.  And I love to write-chat.  Seriously?  How rude of me!

I agreed to meet for a drink that night, but I also knew that if it didn't go well, I would be done with dating for a while again.  He told me he'd be the tall guy in the Superman baseball cap and that he'd be hard to miss.  I replied that I was an Amazon with a Wonder Woman tattoo; there was no way I would miss him.

Of course he was late.  I was a few minutes earl.  I was sitting at a pub table when I messaged the Castration Committee at 8:37.

"My 8:30 drink date is late.  You know how I feel about this."

"He better have one hell of an excuse!" Pandy commented. 

"There is no excuse!  Release the Cuisinart!" added Moonshine.

Queen Frostine is always so direct in her assessments: "Nope.  Next!"

But then came a text from him: "I'll meet you inside, assuming I made it to the right place.  It's warm out here!"

I was trying to respond to let him know I was already at a table, when I heard a server greet a customer.  I stood and turned to meet him at the door when I saw him round the corner. 

I caught my breath and watched him do a double-take. 

He had been sitting in the 90-degree heat, waiting for me because he was right on time.  Three hours later, I'd agreed to go out with him on Saturday night.  And Friday night.  By 5:30 the next afternoon—after all-day messaging with him—I'm texted Pandy:

He's Rango.

And he is.  Undoubtedly. 

He got to me by 10:45 Friday morning.  We didn't separate until very late Sunday night. 

He's from Texas, though he has lived all over.  He is 6'5, 235#, shaved head, gorgeous blue-gray eyes that flicker like a storm approaching over the ocean.  He kissed me in the park under Independence Day fireworks.  He bought two new Doctor Who shirts while he was with me at the mall, including one that is just like Max's favorite shirt.  He totally encouraged my need to Instagram the absurdities in my world.  We laughed until we couldn't breathe, and we talked for three straight days.

And while I don't like comparing men and relationships, how did he stack up against the Pandy-induced wish list?

He helped me cook dinner, and he cooked crepes for me for breakfast on Sunday.  I watched him clean up spilled cat food from the kitchen floor.  I lost my wallet on Saturday, and he drove me on Sunday to pick up the boys in South Carolina and paid for the gas and food and fireworks for the kids, because I couldn't.  He met my sons and my ex-husband at the same time. 

He saw me immediately, clearly.  He has lived amazing adventures and wants more, but nothing is so adventurous to him as the possibility of me. 

Rango listens to me intently, like my voice and words keep him alive.  He is holding nothing back.  Every emotion, deep and true, is mine to see and touch.  It was he, in fact, who looked me in the eye—not a text or a phone call—to tell me for the first time that he loves me.  To my face, with no hesitation. 

And from the very first, he bested the kiss that I thought would likely never be topped.

He brought me flowers and a CD when he came for me.  He held my hand and breath-sang to me—a country song that, for so many reasons, would have otherwise made me want to stick my fingers in my ears. 

Rango is enormous.  He has worked to overcome his own weight and health issues and understands mine intimately.  His hands and feet are bigger than mine, and I touched his feet with mine the first day, which the Castration Committee knows is a big damn deal for me.  He is loud and gregarious, patient and indulging.  He picked me up and spun me around and kissed me like no one ever has before.

More importantly, he is present and available and willing.  He holds my hand and rubs my cheek constantly.  He texts me in the pre-dawn hours while I am still sleeping to tell me he loves me.  He sends me links and pictures for things he thinks I will find interesting, and he sends similar tidbits for the boys, who both said he is awesome.  He plays my favorite game of sharing poignant songs, back and forth, trying to explain our heads and hearts through music.  He is taking me to meet his friends this weekend.  He talked to Pandy on the phone and is planning to go with me to see her in a couple of weeks. 

He looks at me like no one ever has, and he tells me I am precious to him.  I can see and feel my worth to him in every single interaction, in every touch and kiss and look and word. 

I had all but lost hope that I would ever find what I staunchly believed had to be out there.  I knew in my head that the law of averages said it was likely to happen, but my heart just couldn't connect and was losing faith.  I questioned over and over what I had done so wrong in my life that I didn't deserve to have the good I knew was looking for me just as hard as I was looking for it.  It felt like my heart was dying. 

And in walked Superman.

I am overwhelmed, and I am relieved, and I am grateful.  Yes, to know that I was right and to get something really good when I needed it, but also because it's him.  It's this man, who is so wonderful. 

I see his specialness.  I see those unique qualities that set him apart from other men, hiding behind the dork glasses and the badge on his chest.  His strength is amazing, but his heart is just as strong. 

While it might have been too much for other women, I'm an Amazon princess.  I have my own enormous strength, my own muchness that has been too much.  I have my own, invisible transportation and don't need him to fly me around, unless I've misplaced my driver's license. 

More importantly, we see the humanity in each other, the imperfections and the frailty and the damage that led us to one another.  We know we only have so much time, and we have each wasted enough having to rebuild from one destruction or another. 

Had I gone out with him in early June, before letting go of Bounder, it never would've worked.  I would've thought he was too nice.  I wouldn't have thought I deserved something this good.  I wasn't ready to accept a blessing.

But I asked for him.  I dared the universe to send me something very specific, and just when I thought it couldn't possibly happen, I got what I needed when I needed it most. 

THAT is the magic I was looking for.

 

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Blind faith, heartache, mind games, mistakes, my sweet fireball, my sweet rigmarole, I want it all.

You may think at first I'm mad as a hatter....

It started a year or two ago, the Nicknaming of the Inner Circle. 

I received a message from a friend, Amanda, who relayed the tale of a dream she'd had the night before, in which I was some kind of superheroine, fighting some crazy criminal villain while wearing a witchy purple dress and kickass black boots.  She was my sidekick. 

"We need names," I said.

As I thought about it all day, I kept going back to something she'd been calling me for days: sassy. 

"Sassafras," I decided. 

But Sass needed a last name.  Something Irish.  Something poignant. 

One of the songs I constantly go back to—even though one friend (Pickle) will ridicule me ad infinitum for this—is "Escape (The Pina Colada Song)" by Rupert Holmes.  It's tied to my childhood and my later youth and even my adulthood.  I have a Bucket List goal to get different, incredibly varied musicians to record an album that's nothing but covers of that song.  Adam Taylor and Wesley Cook have both agreed, in principle.  I'd love to get Les Claypool, Greg Dulli, and maybe In This Moment to record it, too.  I'd even happily donate all the proceeds to charity, though I have no idea what charity would want money from a song about two people trying to cheat on their spouses.  (Again, I argue, it's not about adultery; it's about serendipity!)

The bar where the two meet to plan their escape is O'Malley's.  Perfect.

So now Sassafras O'Malley needed a sidekick. 

I wracked my brain but could think of nothing.  She became Mandypants for lack of a better option.  And it stuck for a long while.  Recently after posting about a surgical procedure in which she was effectively microwaving her lady parts, I deemed her Hot Pocket.  And it suits her beautifully.

So Sassafras O'Malley and Mandypants (now Hot Pocket) were the first two of the nicknamed.  That list has grown and grown and grown since this began.  It seems silly, yes, but these nicknames are like our true names.  These are the second names, the names that are particular, peculiar, and more dignified, to help us keep our tails perpendicular.

Growler – who is sweet like a little kitten but will turn beastly in a moment if you cross her

Hammer – the Hammer of Honesty who can tell the truth like no one else

Moonshine – blue and bright and glowing, can always make you a little drunk with her beauty

Queen Frostine – the coolest chick you'll ever meet

Cookie – never a Tagalong and never a Thin Mint, but sweet and crunchy nonetheless

Lady Hammer – a strange female reflection of the truths of Hammer, totally unexpected

Glee – gregarious and ebullient, she knows the words to any and every song

Roadkill – who will step out in front of a moving car, admonishing you that they'll stop

Cupid37 – who dressed up as Cupid (and sometimes worse) in public and appears in chapter 37

Pickle – because he's always drunk, but also because he's both sweet and sour but not a baby gherkin

Irish Coffee/Not Boy – the Irish-descended guy I like to drink coffee with, who's not my boyfriend

Absolem – the questioning caterpillar to my Alice, who can unhinge me by asking me who I am

DH – Dear Husband, as assigned in the infertility forums 14 years ago, soon possibly DX or DXH or DB

Minizon - daughter of Hot Pocket, my Glamazon-in-training

There are a couple of others, but I don't know if they know the origins of their internal nicknames, so I'm opting to keep them in the vault.  For now.

Sometimes we have learned of our super powers.  Some are still a secret. 

Sassafras O'Malley, who can utterly mesmerize you with her potty mouth, has a special disco ball ring that dazzles stupid people into submission, specifically to keep them from copulating when her muchness leaks into the water supply.  It's a tool to lower the chances of stupid people breeding.  (She also has sparkly boots.) 

Growler has the ability to create snow angels anywhere, out of thin air.  She can mesmerize animals instantly and cause them to do her bidding. 

Hot Pocket has the Broccoli Bomb.  When she unleashes it, it makes everyone around her snort broccoli up the back of their noses.  Painfully funny. 

The list is likely to go on and on as time progresses.  I haven't named all of these people.  In fact, maybe only half of them.  Hammer has had a hand in the naming, as has Hot Pocket.  But these names are so appropriate for each and every one of these friends.  It's like they just whispered themselves to us in an inexplicable moment of truth.  Mostly when we were sober. 

They're my incomparable cast and crew. 

And these are the names that will never belong to another (fragile) cat.  They are ours and ours alone. 

But somewhere, deep down, each of also has a third name, the one that no other human can ever discover.  Our deep inscrutable singular names that only we know and only we call ourselves, respectively.  I know mine, but I'm not sharing.  Only one other person knows it, and that's only because he knew it before I did.  That's Absolem.  And I know he's not telling. 

 

Of all people, you know who I am… who the world needs me to be. I’m Wonder Woman.

I was talking to my mom yesterday about some stuff that's been going on.

"I will survive this," I said, "and I will thrive."

"Yep, because you're Wonder Woman."

"The problem is that I forgot I'm Wonder Woman.  For a very long time."

"Yep."

Physically, yes, I'm an Amazon.  It's never been more obvious than it is now, after abandoning all of this weight.  I'm strong and smart and resourceful and resilient.

I also like boots and bracelets. 

When William Moulton Marston (a psychologist who was instrumental in the development of the polygraph machine) created Wonder Woman in 1941, he intended to create a new comic book hero who forged victory through love, rather than fisticuffs. 

Marston's wife Elizabeth said, "Fine, but make her a woman."

Based on findings during his years of psychological research, Marston believed women to be more honest and reliable than men, as well being able to work more efficiently.  While Wonder Woman is iconically feminist, some have suggested that Marston's model of ideal femininity—a 6-foot-tall beauty with the ability to lasso men into obedience—is actually the representation of his belief that women weren't really equal to men: they were better.

"Wonder Woman is psychological propaganda for the new type of woman who should, I believe, rule the world," Marston said.

Interestingly, Wonder Woman was modeled after two women—Marston's unconventional, liberated wife, Elizabeth, and Olive Byrne, the Marstons' live-in polyamorous partner.

I'm a tad shorter than Wonder Woman, a little weaker, totally not brunette.  I do not look good in spandex—though honestly, who the hell does?!?  I wasn't formed from clay and blessed by a goddess (at least not that I know of, though I am pretty damn lucky, in general).  I can't fly, and I'm neither especially fast nor freakishly strong.  I wouldn't know what do with a lasso, and I'd probably just lose the Crown of Antiope if anyone let me borrow it for the day.

Like Diana of Themyscira, I will continue to fight for what I believe to be right, no matter what.  There are those who will attest to my telepathic powers, and I'm pretty damn flexible.  I've been known to give up all my power for the sake of a man I loved.  And I will open the proverbial can of Diet Whoopass on anyone who threatens those I hold close to my heart. 

So thanks, Mom, for noticing what I've only recently remembered to notice in myself.  I would tell you to poke me if it slips my mind again, but I'd probably just try to kick you.  But I would have damn good hair while I did it.

Is this lump out of my head? I think so.

I went to see my endocrinologist today.  I have Hashimoto's Thyroiditis, which led to the removal of the right lobe of my thyroid in 2006.  I've taken a daily replacement hormone for the last couple of years, and I'll be on it for the rest of my life.  I have to check in with my doctor regularly to monitor those levels.  I also get regular ultrasounds of my thyroid to check nodule growth and the like.

Today my amazing doctor (who might be the smartest person I know—he worked on the Human Genome Project) was running the transducer over my neck, checking every square millimeter of my remaining thyroid. 

"I'm almost done," he said.  Then, "What the hell is that?!?" 

 Not really what you want to hear from the guy doing your ultrasound. 

"Let me go check something in my office," he said quickly.  He rushed from the room and came back a few moments later, clearly baffled. 

Turns out, my thyroid lobe grew back.  But it didn't come back where the right one was removed.  It grew at the end of the left one.  It's kind of like if I'd lost my right leg and a new left leg grew out of my left shin. 

The doctor said it looks like thyroid tissue, with blood flow.  It's not a nodule, and it's not a cyst.  It's not common, but it does happen, though he's never seen it like this.  (He said he has one patient whose entire thyroid regrew in about thirty days!)

He doesn't think it's anything to worry about, though he's not sure yet what he wants to do.  I have to have more blood drawn and go in a few days for a needle biopsy.  (I've had a thyroid biopsy before; it's no darn fun.)  It may be that it comes out, or it could just stay for a while.  I'll be interested to see if it's producing hormone.  I'll keep you updated.

But this may finally answer the question of what my superhero power really is.  Apparently I can regenerate glands.  My elder son's tonsils may be growing back, so maybe there's some weird genetic component to it all.  Maybe somewhere in my ancestry, one of the Amazons mated with a Merman whose dad was really a starfish. 

DH says he fully expects some black ops unit to come in the dead of night and take some samples, to see if I hold the key to having soldiers regenerate limbs and organs on the battlefield.  I say they don't need to sneak in—I'm more than happy to offer my services in exchange for an all-expense paid, month-long "vacation" at a research facility, where there's no dishes or laundry or homework. 

Either way, I think it's freakishly awesome.  I was going to say it has nothing to do with my muchness, but maybe all of my reclaimed muchness is being stored in this new thyroid lobe.  Oh jeez... now I gotta really think about what to do with it.  If it has to come out, should I get it in a little jar for posterity?  Is that beyond creepy?  (Am I suddenly channeling The Bloggess??)

So please chime in with your stories of weird organ regeneration and extra limbs and stuff.  Chances are one of you has a second set of tonsils or an extra toe or a third nipple or something.  Really.  I can't be alone in this, can I?

Now the world is ready for you, and the wonders you can do.

I'm kind of a geek girl, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.  I'm not nearly so geeky as some, but I'm smart and I have a weird sense of humor.  I wore glasses for a long time, though now only when I'm on the computer.  (Thank you, LASIK!)  I was in the gifted program from the third grade, right through my four years at a small, all-gifted, freak show of a high school.  (I still dream about it sometimes.  I know of no other school that had an annual drag show every Christmas, the Ms. Poinsettia contest.)

One thing I never really got into was comics.  Maybe it's because neither of my parents really cared about them, so they never introduced them to me.  I can admire their artwork (when it's good) and storylines (when they're cohesive), but I'm just not that into them. 

But I love superheroes.  As a kid, I loved to watch Isis on both the television (The Secrets of Isis) and in my coveted View-Master reels.  I don't remember much about the specifics of the show, except that she was really pretty, had a great costume when she went from school teacher to ancient goddess, and there was a giant crow.  Sometimes Shazam showed up.  (I bought the entire series on DVD a couple of years ago and have yet to watch it.  I guess I know what I'm doing this weekend!)

 

For years I would ask people randomly if they remembered a show that used to air on WTBS, long before it was the national TBS channel, based out of Atlanta.  It was in black and white and featured a Japanese boy whose best friend (also a boy) could turn into a rocket.  He had parents who could also turn into rockets.  The human boy called the rocket people with a special whistle.  Sometimes Godzilla showed up.  Most people tried to tell me it was probably Ultraman.  One look at pictures told me that was wrong.  A couple of years ago, I Googled for it again.  Finally!  It was Space Giants, which was a terrible Japanese show that TBS used to fill its afternoon schedule.  I loved it, but even by 1970's rerun standards, it was lacking in production quality.

 

My very, very favorite, though, was Wonder Woman.  Oh, Diana Prince!  How I wanted to be her!  Any time anything went remotely wrong in my world--parents arguing, friends being mean to one another, cat scratching the carpet--I would run into the midst of the melee sing-screeching, "Wonder Woman!" while I spun around.

 

I spent the summer of 1978 trying to turn into Wonder Woman, but all I got was dizzy.

I didn't have a real Wonder Woman costume that I remember, but any vaguely superhero garb would do.  Pillowcase cape: check.  Old plastic Halloween mask: check.  Rubberbands intricately woven around my toes like gladiator sandals: check.

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Years later, while working on a totally unrelated geek project,   I learned there actually was some literary and mythological veracity to Wonder Woman.  Three of her greatest artifacts--her belt, her crown, and her bracelets--were based on actual Greek myths of the Amazons.  The girdle of Hippolyta, the crown of Antiope, and the bracers of Penthesilea were all items belonging to Amazon queens.  They were looted by men.  (Imagine that.)

The lasso of truth, though, and the invisible plane--those were all DC Comics.  And what woman wouldn't love to have a golden lasso she could catch a man with and make him tell the truth?  Or a really fast vehicle that let you be ultra stealthy while you traveled?  I know there are logistical issues with the plane, but it still kicks ass.

So I often ask people what their superhero power would be, if they could choose one.  After years of this, I often find the answers are incredibly telling about the person's psyche.  A former boss of mine wanted to be able to sneak around undetected to see what others were doing.  A woman I knew, who had two pre-teen daughters, wanted to be able to see through walls.  And yet another female co-worker, who was obsessed with physical looks of both herself and others, wanted to be able to take on the form of anyone around her, to suit her needs in the moment.

I recently asked a couple of people this question again.  Adam Taylor said his quick answer would be invisibility, but that he recognized he would likely get himself into trouble, a là the curious cat.  Then he said he would probably choose to be able to run really fast, defying gravity and friction, because he often dreams of doing just that, and he relishes the sensation. 

Interestingly, my mom said she has similar dreams, but for her it's more about the quick movement.  She would like to be able to blink and just be somewhere without having to actually take the time to travel.  There's no flying sensation that she's after.  She hates the wasted time of the journey and would rather be able to enjoy the destination a little longer. 

My elder son who adores going to the comic shop with his dad, and who loves all things superhero, says he would want to be able to absorb the powers of heroes around him.  He concedes that it would only be one at a time, or that would just make him too powerful and spoil all the fun.  He's a child with a highly-developed, black-and-white sense of social justice, who likes to examine everything in great detail.  DH/Dad is totally a morally-unambiguous DC kind of guy.  (The eldest golden apple doesn't fall far from the Magic Tree.)

Then there's me.  Would I like to be able to force people to tell the truth?  Nope.  How about fly, or walk through walls?  Uh-uh.  In mixed company, I will say that it's mind reading.  It gives you something of a psychic, know-things-before-others-do kind of advantage.  But there's also the double-edged sword of knowing what others really think of you.  And then there's the potential problem of not being able to turn it off when you wanted, which makes people crazy in Superhero Land.

But the real answer (sorry, Mom!) is that I would like to be able to give people orgasms on command.  Yep.  You read that right.  I came to this conclusion (no pun intended) around 1994, during a late-night, non-sober conversation with DH. 

I think about what this ability would do for world peace, on the largest scale and the smallest.  Would Tiananmen Square have gone differently if all of the repressed Chinese military had a unanimous, personal quickie?  Would the LA Riots have been avoided if we could've given those four cops just ten seconds of unexpected release?  Would that bitch at the grocery store just adjust the price of the mislabeled cookies if she had some sweetness of her own?

But what I really want to do with it involves the craziest, most heinous day of the year: Black Friday.  I want to go into malls across America on that hateful, fateful day, high noon in the food court, and make tens of thousands of people come at one time, if only to see the fountains of Diet Coke spewing forth from the lips of repressed capitalists, all at the same time.

That would be teaching the world to sing. 

I think fixing the world is kind of like rescuing your friend from the Borg.  You gotta think low and slow.  It won't be a grandiose fix to human nature, or some great moral lesson from without.  It's all about making the little things better, and there just ain't anything better than that.