Foreign Language

Several weekends ago, my cousin and I attended a free writers workshop at a public library.  I didn’t entirely know what I was getting myself into, Reader, but she had me at “free” and also spending time with her, which is a coveted prize. Because while we don’t live exceptionally far from each other, Bizzy Lives keep us apart more than together, so it was a good reason to see each other. I was even willing to get up EARLY on a Saturday morning for this pleasure. The event was at the god-awful early hour of 10 a.m. IN THE MORNING, and it was a good 45 minutes of travel, plus the whole getting-up-and-ready part.  I was only about ten minutes late, which counts as twenty minutes early in Trixie Bang Bang’s Saturday Morning World.

The speaker was a writer who has successfully written historical romance novels, and she was quite a character, complete with peacock feathers as bookmarks and a crazy-old-lady hat on her head after her presentation.  But she was super-entertaining, and I even learned some stuff that I’ve sort of since forgotten, but there was something about writing with a big “W” in mind – you introduce the character, there’s some drama, some other stuff, then some more stuff, then a resolution, The End. Luckily I have notes.

Sidebar:  I went home feeling all hopped up about mah learnin’s and was going to go and outline my ideas that float ’round in my brain and all that jazz, and here we sit a month later and I haven’t even given you good Blog. Or even bad Blog, as a matter of fact, because see above reference of Bizzy Lives. I’m not even sure what I’m bizzy with, Reader. I mean, I’ve done a bit of travelling lately, which granted has taken some time, but I’m not that busy. Let’s be truthful here, I find plenty of time to squeak in a nap when needed. So hrumph. I just don’t really know where the time goes. Certainly not keeping a spotless house, although I do beg for some consideration that I spend a considerable amount of time trying to keep the presence of 8 cats – both visual and olfactory – under some sort of control. Not always successfully, but efforts are made, and that’s what we’re rewarding here, Reader, so stop trying to point Judgement Fingers at me! Sheesh.

Back to the historical romance writer symposium. After we listened to the lecture, and picked up tips such as a plot is important, as well as an added dose of controversy or else what’s the point of the damn story, and after I had gone up to the author and gushed all over her about “wow, what a talent, to write all those books!” and then walking around the rest of the library and talking to all the other authors there, and buying books from them whether we wanted them or not because they put forth the effort, Reader, and therefore should earn at least ten of my hard-earned dollars – after all that, my cousin and I went to lunch.

It was at lunch that I learned a very telling piece of information about myself.

Reader. I learned that my Love Language has changed. Well, not a full switcharoo – I’m still apparently an “Acts of Service” girl, I just took the test again to make sure – but Words of Affirmation and Physical Touch have moved right up on the list.

My cousin is partially responsible for my shift. I was talking about my love language, and how I really would just love it if my beloved would fill up my car with gas for me every week, and get my to-go coffee ready for me in the morning, and then I mentioned, “And I really want someone who will brush my hair!”

My cousin looked up from her sushi and said, “There! That’s my love language right there! I want someone to brush my hair! I can make my own damn coffee!”

So she got me to thinking, I think I’ve been wanting the wrong dumb stuff.  I can, and do every damn morning, make my own cuppa coffee. And fill up my tank. And do the yardwork. And the majority of the house cleaning.

I wanna be babied. Just a little bit. Every now and then. I want my lover to brush my fucking hair. And tell me love things. And call me a love word. And stroke my back, without any quid-pro-quo.

Two husbands and a bunch of relationships under my belt, Reader, and I have been expecting the entirely wrong love language all along. I can make my own damn coffee.

Don’t get me wrong, I would still welcome the “doing some shit around the house” Acts of Service. I just want as good as I give, Reader. I give. I really, really do.

I guess two ex-husbands may have a different viewpoint, but maybe I didn’t know their love language at the time. I just assumed it always revolved around their wieners, and if you kept that happy, they were happy. Maybe they needed something else, like a lot of hugs, which frankly if that’s your jam, you’re with the wrong girl. I am not a hugger. But I’m a sweet talker. And a dirty talker. And can make a good piece of fried chicken. And pay for said chicken. So yeah, I thought I was doing all the right things, but apparently not or I wouldn’t be a hot-to-trot twice-over divorcee.

So now I don’t know what to expect, other than if someone comes towards me with a hairbrush and they don’t appear to be in the mood to spank me with it, I just may marry them.  And then I’d probably let them spank me with it, too, because comeon. That sounds like a little bit of fun.

What we’ve learned here is this:

1/ Early morning library writing classes don’t always net more blogging words from Trixie Bang Bang. Because she left this page with quite a dry spell, and then this is the best she’s delivering, which is almost a tich on the whiney side, but don’t judge me too hard, Reader – I just got back from Orlando Tuesday night, and have to pack for Vegas tomorrow night. It’s a tough life. Really. It IS, Reader!

2/ Every now and then it’s good to reevaluate your wants. Because a cuppa coffee doesn’t hold the same weight as a blowjob. Unless that is one good motherfucking cuppa coffee.

3/ Women are confusing. Because what we want one day may not be what we want the next. Be adaptable. And if all else fails, just brush her fucking hair and call her puddin’ pop. Or some other love thing that makes her feel special. I met someone on my travels who calls his wife “Cheeky” because he loves her butt. Now that’s a good love name, Reader. Original. Just don’t call me “Boobs” or something like that, it wouldn’t hold the same charm.