E is for Erotic Earlobes

I was touching my earlobes last night, as we are all wont to do, and quite suddenly I fell in lust with them. Incredibly soft, supple, smooth – all the sexy s words. Even now, as I write this, I can't stop feeling them up.

Like all good feeling up, this is perhaps done better without aid of a mirror, especially when one is old, like me, and gravity has pulled the lobes in the general vicinity of the boobs, which are hovering somewhere between my hips and the south pole. Not the one I'm dancing with, the one with the penguins.

So plump, my ear lobes are. Plump. Soft. Inviting. Excuse me while I stroke them ...

Sorry. I'm back now. Wow that was good. I was thinking that ear lobes could be the New Breasts. Porn stars will start having them augmented and wind up with lobes the size of coffee cups, and just as hard, with the skin all stretched and the piercings gaping. A whole new genre in porn will hit the market. Can you imagine the titles?

LUSCIOUS LOBES.

THE HAPPY HEARER.

EAROTICA.

ERICA EATS EAR WAX.

And do we even need to talk about ear canals???? My mother always said, "don't stick anything bigger in your ear than your elbow," but I wasn't thinking about elbows ...

D is for Dave

I'm taking part in the A to Z Blogging Challenge for the month of April. For more information, click here.

C is for Corporations

Corporations surely do like their duct tape. They only pay you for the hours you spend at your desk but the duct tape slapped across your mouth stays on 24/7.

All hell broke loose yesterday when someone I greatly admire, Andrew Wagner-Chazalon, was told his services were no longer required. This man really was the face of Muskoka. He brought intelligence and artful sensitivity to his job as editor of a successful magazine, making friends everywhere he went. 

Andrew started a blog yesterday to talk about his experience of being let go. If you'd like to drop him a line of encouragement, click here.

I would like to rant and rave about the unfairness of it all but I can't because of that damned duct tape. Suffice it to say my heart is overburdened with sorrow.

Some day soon I want to stop writing about depressing things, but today is not that day.

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I'm taking part in the A to Z Blogging Challenge for the month of April. For more information, click here.

B is for Bear

Bear said, "The Dancing Queen is advancing towards venerability. She is not fat; she is substantial." And I pause, as I am reading yesterday's comments, to read this again. It sinks in, this comment from a wise and loving Bear, past the muck of depression that has been settling on my shoulders and carving cement slippers for my charmless feet.

Depression silences me. I feel I have nothing to offer, nothing that is not angry or sad or pathetic. I miss my husband, who has crossed the country to improve our lot in life, and yes, it's a good thing, and yes, I'll be joining him in a couple of months, but I still hunger for his arms wrapped around me on a day when I am friendless and wounded and bloody hopeless. We're always kicked when we're down, have you noticed? It's when you're already fragile and broken that your teeth are smashed by a passing steel-toed boot.

But then I read Bear's comment and I imagined a venerable Dancing Queen in a stately ball gown, not shimmying or sweating, but floating majestically across the hallowed hardwood floors of a substantial life and I realized, that's who I am. The girl is gone, and who cares, but this substantial woman, this venerable woman, will carry on with the grace, knowledge and dignity earned from a lifetime spun on a thousand dance floors.              

See that girl, watch that scene, diggin' the Dancing Queen.

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I'm taking part in the A to Z Blogging Challenge for the month of April. For more information, click here.

A is for Abandoned

Abandoned gas station waiting for a match, or a winning lottery ticket, or forgiveness. Or something. What a waste. The bowling alley is still there, and the dance hall, the place where I sashayed across the hardwood floor to Dancing Queen because back then I was young and sweet, only 13, and I remember my Dad giving me a dirty look, embarrassed that his daughter was making an ass of herself.  I shimmered under the rented showbiz lights, my secondhand blouse showing cleavage that didn't exist as I twirled with the enthusiasm only a self-obsessed adolescent can muster.  I didn't care what Dad thought. I shouldn't care now but I'm uncomfortable, remembering, seeing myself through his eyes. He's dead. I'm old. My knees are too creaky for dancing and besides, I'm too fat. One turn around the dance floor and I'd probably fall to the ground clutching my exploding heart. I am sure a heart attack will find me soon. It's waiting for me around the curve of every doughnut. Is it my time? Is it carrying the wood that's gonna do it? Or this snow shovel? Or this dance?

I wait for the light to turn green at the intersection where I was young.


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I'm taking part in the A to Z Blogging Challenge for the month of April. For more information, click here.