Is that a pig with a spider web lurking in the background? Why yes, young Jedi apprentice, it is.

Found this mug while out with Paula today. Styled, shot and edited the photo while the kids did school work. It was pleasant for all of us to be at the large worktables that now occupy the space formerly known as the dining room. Thomas was figuring out a math problem, Abbey was finding word-wall words, and the dogs were alternating between chewing on bones and hiding bones and barking about bones they just had but now couldn’t quite locate. As Mary Oliver writes: To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.

I’ve never been at all good at the letting go bit. Even when (especially when?) something’s not working. I think, in part, it is stubbornness (I can MAKE this work! I will NOT fail. Even if I have to completely re-invent who I am and how I operate, I will NOT just quit). It could be the midwestern/Catholic upbringing. It could have been a survival tactic learned early which has far outlasted its usefulness. It could be, it might be, I’m sure it is: something like (oh, god) a spiderweb of reasons.

Tonight, recounting of all the dead horses I have kicked for so long: relationships (all varieties: romantic, friends, family), jobs, careers, living situations…stubbornly hanging on to the detriment of health and sanity emerges as a theme, and a rather major one at that. It needs my attention.

As a theme–or more accurately, as a cluster of themes (self-knowledge, self-respect, boundaries, awareness of limitations, knowing when–and that it is okay, even great–to quit) there are metaphors ready for me to harvest and pick apart and to attempt to fit into theories, to mull over on long runs, to scrawl about in journals so that I somehow don’t somehow raise my beautiful and wide open children without a firm idea of who they are or what they will tolerate–or more importantly, what (and how much good) they deserve: from me as a mother, from their father, from their friends, educators, cohorts, and most importantly in this time and this culture: from themselves. That is a metric f-ton of a run-on sentence and doesn’t address romantic love. I realize this.

Maybe spun in those many words is some hope for me, too: as I teach, so might I learn.

Too many months into a pseudo-relationship that was more destructive than the sex was good (and the sex was really, really, REALLY good), a line was crossed. Which prompted a text from me: all done. And for the final time, I deleted a phone number, emails. Meanwhile: New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day, my birthday, his birthday, my son’s birthday, my ex-mother-in-law’s birthday, Michelle Obama’s birthday. Good Capricorns, all of us.

Summer to winter and the only explanations I could offer my perplexed and thoroughly concerned friends were the heart wants what the heart wants–credit to Woody Allen–and I don’t KNOW why, I just really really like him. My best friend outright questioned if I was having a self-esteem issue: did I not think I deserved to be treated BETTER than this? Not a great question to field from a best friend. Defending him and his actions became so taxing that I stopped mentioning him altogether.

I think I felt something like love and something like happiness for maybe 12 hours during this time. I know. But I’m telling you, this man was, is…different. And interesting. Fantastic in bed. And totally not in to me. I mean: I would’ve kept me around for booty call too, given the situation. I might’ve used better manners, and I might have said goodbye when I was done instead of standing me up. For the third time (see b/f’s question, above). Just sayin’: I’ve not met anyone quite like him before.

I still don’t know what his handwriting looks like. And though I brought my cameras along a lot, I could never take a picture of him. These facts are scary and fascinating and make me wonder about a number of things, but most of all, they make me think about about me, and ask a lot of questions that start with “wtf….” But I digress: my desktop picture remains the one good picture that was taken of us. The few times a week when all the windows are closed–restart or whathaveyou–I’m still and suddenly awestruck by this man’s beauty, and I still let my fingertips lightly graze the screen.

Truth: I still want, I still miss.

Maybe this speaks volumes about my emotional fragility right now. Maybe any number of things: fate, timing, fear, timing, fate, fear, timing, my temper, his stubbornness, fear, fate, timing. Maybe my inability to recognize major personality disorders (well-documented). Who(tf) knows, really.

I wish I had a poetic or snarky ending to this post. I’m not dating right now–on purpose–and I could replace the desktop image with one of my kids, or the dogs, or whatever. I’m sure I will in time. For now I’ll leave the beautiful conundrum where it is: a reminder of both worse and better days, and a reminder of what I look like–for whatever(tf) reason–happy.

Tonight I read from Mary Oliver’s collected works for the kids. Abbey wanted more after I stopped; Thomas wanted me to read his book. I was encouraged by at least one kid wanting to hear the language and the imagery. The book is my bible in times of fear, or uncertainty, or when things don’t make sense (or all three). Last week I walked around the house with two copies in my hands. Two copies of the same book. Enough is enough, but the way out has never been so slow to surface. And it’s frustrating. And I’m angry, really angry for all the basic reasons I thought we had avoided by initiating, all those months ago, an “amicable divorce.” I’ll not list those reasons here, but they are centered on the kids, and the effects on them I’ve seen in the short weeks since “amicable” went to “normal.”

Tonight on Facebook, one of my favorite friends posted that her husband went out with Christina Hendricks once upon a time. As if Christina Hendricks is a nearly-obscure actress…okay, I LOVE Christina Hendricks! Me, completely hetero woman…she is to be ADMIRED, that hippy chick. Good work on Mad Men.

Went to Border’s yesterday in search of a book of patterns for handbags (have the BEST fabric!) and came home with Elizabeth Gilbert’s new book–on all topics–marriage and commitment. I’d heard the outline of this book when I saw her speak last year in Denver, but I’d of course forgotten and I’m trying to read it slowly, like savoring something really tasty, to hopefully absorb her words. Not holding her to be an expert on the topic, but she had a horrendous divorce (no kids involved, which makes it a horse of a different color from mine), and swore she’d never ever never marry again, but then Homeland Security forced her into it blah blah…she is unconventional and I like her writing. My judgment, however, is to be doubted. Always. I tend toward the delusional. My opinions are…well. Questionable. I have absolutely no bullshit meter. And unless someone hands me a card saying “watch your metaphors, because I suffer from a major personality disorder. My DSMIV code is:…,” I will miss the major personality disorder. Every. Damn. Time.

Anyhow, as I rock out to Little Boots’ “Meddle” and eat a scone w/coffee, I need to answer this question in a real way. I wonder why I haven’t asked it more often.

Ida Maria, whose passionate performance at the Perez Hilton party at SXSW was a sight to behold, has a song on her album called “I Like You So Much Better When You’re Naked.”

Well, yes, of course. How straightforward of a concept is that? It made me laugh. Really hard.

Is is art? I think so. Truth can be art. And sometimes it’s that simple: I like you so much better when you’re naked. If anyone knows of a song that tackles the concept of  “I like you so much better when you don’t talk,” I think we’d have the beginning of a killer iMix.