Molasses

I found a jar of molasses on sale at the store tonight as I wandered about with my basket half full and my mind half empty of ideas for dinner. I love dark, robust black-strap molasses. Especially on cornbread. Some people use honey, butter, jam, whatever, just not me. My Dad always taught us to save our square of cornbread until we had finished the rest of our meal, usually Mom's fabulous chili and salad. And then he showed us how to lay it out in two perfect half slabs in the middle of the round dinner plate, dab on a smear of soft butter, and drizzle the thick, dark, rich syrup over it until it began to sink into the spongy square and puddle on the plate. I fondly recall the gooey forkfuls of contrasting textures and tastes. The slight crunch and blandness of the bread, the pungent, spicy almost dangerous tang of that mysterious liquid. It was always such a satisfying end to a delicious meal. Memory upon memory raised to greet me and I realized I was still standing in the middle of the baking isle holding this hefty jar of precious nectar. I love the jars, either green or yellow labels depending on variety. Robust or black-strap. I love them both equally, one's just a tad more complex and mysterious than the other. So I tossed it casually into my basket and bought it even though we already had part of a jar at home. Impulsive? Perhaps so. But oddly satisfying nonetheless. The jar at home was larger, mostly empty I reasoned, plastic and with a screw top that never stuck. I hate jars that stick and hurt my hands to open them. When I got home I opened the new jar and poured its contents into the one I already had, the jar that pleased my hands. It's a quirk of mine... an odd one I know. But I have to have things organized and in order. Two partial jars of anything... and that's what would have happened eventually when I could no longer resist the pull and the whisper of the new jar, would drive me insane. So when it was full and the new one empty, I went to screw the lid on the empty and toss it in the trash. The smell... that wonderful, spicy, rich and deep smell that I love assaulted my senses. And that's when it hit me. You remind me of molasses. After all these years... who knew?

Hit Upon

Eastbound on the title street of my city, in rush hour traffic, sitting oddly still at a green light at the corner of 56th Ave, enjoying a catchy tune on the radio and the warmth of the early fall sun, on my cell catching up the days events with my bff, I look to my left and see a small silver car. It's westbound, but the streets in the midst of downtown are narrow and as we are both occupying the inside lane, it's occupant and I are but arms length apart. We could indeed reach out and touch one another, and I do believe that is his intention. The driver, obviously is male, and cute too. I recall a polo shirt, a glimpse of denim, close cropped blond hair, a slim face, bright white smile and blue eyes. He smiles. I smile back, I think. I am wearing dark glasses and an oversize peach t-shirt so I know he can't see me... at least not much of me. He scribbles something on a business card and hold it up. I can't see all of it, but I'm sure it is a phone number. He nods. I raise my eyebrows, mildly amused, and I tell my bff what is happening. We enjoy a chuckle which this man takes as my interest in his antics. He motions for me to roll down the window and holds the card out for me to take. I decline politely with a flash of wedding rings and drive on. A first for me I think... being hit upon in rush hour traffic on a Friday afternoon.

50 Words - Art Of Good Phone

"Perv." Softly, she chuckled into the phone.

"You're as bad as I." He countered, the smile on his face evident despite the miles separating them.

"And you love it." She stretched, yawned, righted herself in the middle of her big brass bed pulling the linens with her.

"Indeed I do."

Tell me no lies.

I read a blog post recently about what won't ever happen between a woman and her lover. She seemed to be almost mourning all those routine and mundane things - waking up together, having breakfast, discussing your day, chores, kid raising, falling asleep intertwined and generally falling in love.

I think she missed the spiel in life that says there's a difference between taking a lover and falling in love - one is about you and the other about someone else entirely. And the distinction is an important one. It's what keeps you sane in the face of sheer and overwhelming madness. It's the hesitation that keeps you from jumping off the cliff with both feet when you haven't considered how much damage the landing will do. It's what keeps you realistic when your heart rushes off on some wild impulse to see how green the grass is in the neighbor's yard. And most days I think the yard next door only looks so damn fabulous because I don't have to tend it. My yard? Hmm... it has some rough spots, some weeds, it constantly needs attention and watering, but the point is... it's mine and I chose it for reasons that don't have to make sens to anyone else. It brings me comfort, it treats me with kindness, affection and care. Most days it is exactly what I need whether or not I wish to admit it.

There's no saying that your lover can't or won't ultimately become the love of your life... it happens, but if you've already found the great love of your life, wouldn't you want to keep your carefully chosen lover in a whole separate place in your heart? And if you've found a great playmate and they occupy a wonderful place in your life and your heart, then why spoil it by taken them down off their pedestal and making them routine?

I think she also missed the notion that life is about possibilities and given time anything is possible too. It's not the point here.. the point was that she's bitching about having been given a rare opportunity to share a part of her that most people have no notions of. Why complain about being fortunate? Why whine because you can have both sides of the isle? But if she really wants a lifetime and not just the here and now I suppose it could ultimately be possible. And people always amaze me when they dismiss something simply because they never took the time to think it through. Would it be difficult and possibly painful all around? Sure. Would it be worth it to her? Perhaps. Not for me to decide. But impossible? Certainly not.

And yes... I'm the girl who asks why not, when being told no. So the simple answer to that is... just don't tell me no. It'll shut me up as sure as sliced bread is supposed to be the best thing since... hmm... I wonder what?