Happy endings

Wow, I just noticed I've been posting in a larger font. So old people can read, I guess.

So for those watching at home, the colonoscopy wasn't so bad...but the splitting headache that resulted from not eating and caffeine withdrawal for 2 days was horrible. I was pretty goddamn hungry by the end of it! But the actual...elimination process was not nearly as bad as I'd read...probably given that it was stretched out over 2 days. In any event, the actual procedure and recovery was a walk in the park and an excuse to lie there and do nothing for a little while.

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I took Jeremy to the Friendly's the other day, kind of a date night thing. He noticed on the back of the menu that Seniors over age 60 could get a free happy ending sundae with their meal.

"Heh heh," he says.

"What?"

"It says here that old people get a happy ending sundae. Get it? Happy ending?"

I DID get it, but I wasn't sure what he was driving at. To Friendly's, it's a 2-scoop sundae. To me and the rest of the world, a happy ending is what happens at the end of a massage, for an extra fee, of course.

"Uh, what do you mean, 'happy ending'? What's so funny about that?"

"A HAPPY ENDING, Mom. Get it????"

Oh, my boy, do you already know what a happy ending is? You're 13! How could you know this?! I didn't know what this was until about a decade ago! Clearly I haven't shielded you from the seedy side of human sexuality!

"What are you talking about, Jeremy?"

"A HAPPY ENDING! Like, they're over 60. They're old. They could die after eating ice cream! So it'd be like their 'happy ending' sundae," he says, and gives me that eye roll that suggests I know absolutely nothing about anything.

So. A happy ending is like when old people die after eating ice cream. Ok then.

hope everything comes out all right

I said earlier, I no longer really give a shit about turning 50, it's old news now. It's still a milestone; I know women who have thrown themselves parties, or have had parties thrown in their honor, or have thrown themselves into pools to celebrate.

I imagine other women might use the event to get their girly on: get a mani/pedi, some botox injections, a makeover, a new man, maybe some fat sucked out of their thighs.

Sadly, I'm a little too pragmatic and stingy to indulge in many of those things. So instead, this week, I did what perhaps most of us should do at this age: ordered new bifocals, and had a colonoscopy consultation.

The word "colonoscopy" can induce fits of helpless giggles in otherwise mature grownups. I mean, the idea of someone snaking a camera and a polyps-snipper through your bowels and who knows where else is truly riotous. You have to have a sense of humor about it. So I'm pretty sure when I spent the half hour or so talking to Lisa, the nurse practitioner, she had already heard a million times before all the nervous lame jokes I made, ending with a cheerful encore of "well, I hope everything comes out all right!"

Groan.

My concern is not the procedure itself, scheduled for the end of the month, but the prep. It helps to do your homework before the consultation so you can ask appropriate questions, such as "exactly how much crap can I expect to expel during the prep?" You are warned that it may be "uncomfortable." As in, for 24 hours before the procedure, don't go anywhere not within 5 feet of a toilet, and prepare for perhaps the first time in your adult life to wear a diaper to bed. And tell the kids to spend the night elsewhere, or sit them down and have a serious talk about how all those times you said you didn't fart or poop because you're a lady and ladies don't do that...you were lying.

(Of course, my boys already know I was lying, but up to now, I've worked hard to keep the illusion alive.)

After this is done, there really won't be too much left to be shy about. With my first birth, the ob/gyn made a joke about a dull knife while he's giving me an episiotomy. My tits have been squeezed, prodded and smashed through 15 years of annual mammograms and ultrasounds. And soon I will have a snake up my ass. There's not many more ways I can be physically humiliated. In a weird way, it's kind of liberating.

more kissing for dummies

Generalization #4: The Pecker. This man—or woman, so I’m told—cannot commit to a real, long, open mouth, soul-stirring kiss. He pecks here and there like a chicken. Maybe he’s not emotionally invested in the other person. Maybe he thinks saliva is icky. Maybe he’s got a plane to catch. Maybe he’s new at this. If he does manage to pry his stingy lips apart and go in for an open-mouther, chances are he will keep his tongue to himself. Which is probably just as well.

Generalization #5: The St. Bernard. We all know one. It’s like kissing your dog after he’s had a long drink from his bowl. There is way too much wetness going on; a little drip out the side of your mouth, that bridge of spit connecting your tongues together when you part lips… when you’re done, your face looks like it’s been bobbing for apples. This is in contrast to Generalization #6: The Deserter, whose kiss is as arid as the Sahara. You know how your mouth gets dry after you smoke weed? That’s this guy: you feel his every taste bud for lack of lubrication, his tongue flipping around like a finger in your mouth, sweeping away seaweed before you are the unfortunate recipient of his mouth-to-mouth.

Generalization #7: The Hard Rock. If you had to kiss a cardboard cutout of a real person, this guy would be that. Every angle in his face is hard. His mouth is hard. He presses it against you at one speed and pressure: hard. His lips are like pencils. Pencils with teeth behind them, which you can also feel, because they, too, are hard. Hard, hard, hard.

No, I'm not done.

kissing for dummies

In honor of the Saint of Chocolatey Goodness, I could only think about one thing to write about.

Kissing.

I hadn’t really thought much about it, because up until fairly recently, kissing was something I used to do, long ago, with a husband I no longer have, and before that, with a collection of mostly ill-suited boyfriends with wildly divergent techniques. In that pantheon of past boyfriends, one-night stands, two-night stands, and other close encounters, there are a few—just a scant few—that I would honestly rank up there as good kissers.

Great kissers are even harder to find. I have found one, and I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit, and naturally it becomes a big fucking science project for me to analyze and theorize about. He tells me kissing isn’t complicated. He is right, of course. We have an understanding, I think, that we are both doing it very, very well, to a mutual melty, trancelike satisfaction. This is some of the best kissing I have ever experienced. I had forgotten how wonderful it can be.

Here’s the thing: everybody goes about it differently, of course, and great kissing is subjective. Some folks might really enjoy someone else’s bloated, fat tongue in their mouth, grazing the uvula. That’s not for me.

Let’s start with the initial encounter. A little awkwardness can be overlooked. But ya can’t both just be standing there one minute, and then zip! the guy swoops in like some unexpected fighter jet to plant one on you. This works in the movies, but in real life, one of you will invariably be knocked off balance, there will be an uncomfortable repositioning of feet and legs as you regain your footing, your teeth will crash together, and your handbag will fall off your shoulder.

Sitting next to each other, say, at the movies, presents its own perils, as you may have to twist your back in one direction while your head tilts in another, or “kisstwisting,” which can result in serious muscle spasms and cramps later on.

I think that a finger or two along the jaw, gently turning your mouth toward his, accompanied by a deep gaze into the eyes, is a rather nice way to start. Or stroking back even a few imaginary strands of hair first. Some innocuous physical touch that indicates that the kissing is about to begin.

If you really have to passionately eat each other up immediately, you miss out on all the gentle exploration that should rightly occur before, and I will bet that that wild, frenzied kissing will not be nearly as satisfying as a slow journey to get to that point.

I think there are a few generalizations that can be made about men who do bad kissing.

Generalization #1: The Man with the Swollen Tongue. This dashing gentleman somehow is able to inflate his tongue to double its normal size. I’m not talking about length here, so much as breadth. It can fill up your mouth and make breathing difficult. He can’t even really move it around in your mouth so much as he needs a tugboat to guide it. There is no room in your mouth for BOTH your tongues, so you can only attempt to keep yours out of the way while he goes on an exploratory mission. There’s a certain panic that sets in and you feel sure you will, in fact, drown in the night air.

Generalization #2: The Darter. This gentleman consistently leads with his tongue, even before your lips have met. This is totally unacceptable, unless it’s in a porno with lesbians. Imagine: your eyes are closed and your lips are slightly parted, you’re ready for that light brush of the lips (that’s where all the good nerve endings are). Instead, here’s this tongue, flipping and darting around like a garter snake. The worst of these is the man who hasn’t grasped the concept of clockwise or even counter-clockwise, but whose tongue is instead stuck in a pattern of rapid, horizontal, back and forth.

That might work on another area of the body, but the inside of the mouth is not the place.

Generalization #3: Mr. Timid. Where an overzealous man can make you wish you had a handy can of mace, Mr. Timid just…isn’t quite sure what’s going on. His lips are flaccid and unconvincing, neither too taut nor too squishy, just…non-committal. He pokes his tongue out like he’s testing the temperature with a vague, skittish, licking motion. There is no sense of urgency or desire, no heavy breathing, no sense that he is really enjoying the experience.

There’s more, but I’ve got a tomorrow to prepare for tonight. To be continued….