I Blossom Again, Tonight!

flow4My father said: “Love-making is an art form.” My curiosity about what goes on between Ken and Barbie has been persistent and riveting. No longer playing with dolls in the eighth grade, I asked Nancy in the locker room how to kiss because she already was, and I wasn’t. She showed me how to kiss my hand. Intimacy really is an internal process before it becomes an external activity/shared joy.

Since I was twelve, I’ve had many peak moments writing privately in my diary. At eighteen I was more corporate than ever after. When alone having removed all facades, I poured out the voice screaming inside, buried under all responsibilities and expectations. If I wrote long enough, without interruption, the endorphins kicked up as they had during my college runs. Once all circuits were realigned, calm advice and encouraging support flowed through me in poetry.

In my early twenties I was completely stuck in my head. Any effort to experience love-making as a smooth reality, cubist expression, or abstract interpretation failed because I was thinking too much. I didn’t begin to get a glimpse of what a woman’s orgasm was until my early thirties. At that time an astrologer told me my chart is all about the deeper mysteries of sex and I should be writing about it as I educate myself.

Once I started having physical orgasms, I became obsessed with them. They re-calibrated my energy, attitude, and emotion. Even if the experience was clumsy or uncomfortable, I walked away feeling more integrated. What I experienced I knew I had to describe for others. In that most desired embrace, I could hear the ticker tape translating touch into words.

Even being so cerebral, I did learn to let my guard down, untie my inhibitions, expose my most tender reaches, and allow myself to scale the mountain with bare hands. Once on top of that peak, I slowly learned to take in every inch of perspective and profound nature the panoramic view provided. I published my first book in 2013 about my quest for The Big O, my growing appreciation for its healing benefits, and awareness of what gets in the way of sensual satisfaction.

I once heard if a couple can keep a woman on the orgasmic plateau for four hours, that at any other time during that week, one sniff of his scent, hearing his voice, looking at his scribble or sketch, any sense of him automatically lifts her back into the orgasmic plateau and she’ll be vibrating again. To me, that seemed like an experiment worth underwriting, and a behavior modification program that could alter world history.

Starting March 18th, I will be blogging about a three-week teleclass called Deliberate Orgasm (DO) put on by Welcomed Consensus. I won’t share the lessons these sexual educators provide, merely how I feel receiving this information and how it is affecting my life.

After working diligently at therapy and healing core wounds that have disturbed me over the years, Spring 2014 has almost sprung. I am about to blossom again. This class is a gift at the right time. Serendipity and synchronicity are assisting the universe in guiding me to life’s greatest gift and most manifested potential. After four years of spending night and day worrying about cancer, I have good years ahead of me to explore emotionally what I’ve previously discovered physically about orgasms.

Let me catch you up, in the past I’ve known exquisite bliss. One man, I knew for ten years, before we became intimate. He knew all the right buttons. He had a god-like talent. Like a laser, he focused in on reading what I needed most and how many orgasms were locked inside needing to come out. He let nothing interrupt him when we were together. With him I had three hours of orgasms. Twelve years later I experienced a younger man with whom I could enjoy five hours at a time. Unfortunately, I couldn’t commit emotionally to either man to enjoy my deepest desire in a more continuous manner, thus I was unable then to prove my earlier stated theory is indeed a realistic possibility.

Those moments when I got very close to that place my imagination had pointed towards, were the ones I lived for the most: tuning out everything but the curiosity and enthusiasm for how big these orgasms could be, for both me and he. In my forties, I believed the final frontier was a woman’s body. Yet still, overwhelmingly the media portrays feminine sexual satisfaction as the loving acceptance for a man needing medicine to continue “acting” like a boy.

Erica Jong wrote in The Devil At Large, women who write about sex either don’t live very long or are banished from all modern acceptable society. It is so worth the risk. During this class I will re-enter a part of my life that has been barren for 76 weeks. Will you join me?

A year ago while discussing sex with my mother, she said after reading my book, if given the chance to do life over, she’d choose mine. She still adores my dad, yet there are inner hungers each woman has that must be addressed in life. I hope in these next three weeks I’ll be able to write about sex in supreme and sublime enough terms that will lift it out of the debauchery and shame so many still feel in 2014.

After reawakening from long months of sorrow and fear, if the universe conspires, I will share how raw flesh, when compatibly united, needs no electricity or gas to heat up and become digestible? I can describe slow moments of anticipation when hair-by-hair, each follicle comes to stand at attention, waiting for the hands that play me like a Stradivarius? But if instead, all I learn for myself is how to return to my inner joy, to my understanding that so much of life can be orgasmic, then that is enough deliberation for me. Eight specific blogs will describe what flows through me when I can release desperation and become delight.


Yesterday I read a blog introduced to me from someone who wrote me from OKCupid. He’d written it over five months when I was writing my book. The subject matter was about his divorce and how to handle it. He handles the depth of emotion so beautifully. He’s a writer making money writing, a skill I’d like to step up to the plate. He has adapted it into a half hour pilot and has a producer. I loved to see how organized it was. It inspired me to release all the files of mine that will no longer go anywhere and get the projects that can move me forward, front and center. He’s got three kids. We’re not compatible but what a gift.

One blog in particular resonated with me in a very strong way. I believe it is a secret not just for handling divorce but any difficult emotional problem in a relationship. I should probably ask for his permission, use his name, the title of the book, but I’ve put links in so you can discover this all on your own. What he says works for any emotional entanglement, not just a marriage or love affair or friendship. It is a key to stress reduction.

Gregg Ostrin writes:
“During those first few months, while the two of you are adjusting to a life without each other, you can expect that there will be some harsh words communicated from your Ex to you and vice versa. As much as possible, whenever you can, when that impulse arises to really let them have it – resist. Channel the anger into something else. A diary entry. A ranting phone call to a best friend. A Double-Double with animal fries and a strawberry shake at In n’ Out Burger. And if you get a nasty angry or sarcastic communiqué, remember three simple words:


I’m almost pure fire. Astrologically speaking. I have a temper and as I’ve aged have gotten increasingly sensitive. I’ve learned how not to get myself into situations that are unhealthy for me, but that was a long and slow road with many dangerous detours.

What I’ve learned is distinctly who I am and who I am not. I don’t promise I can be more than I am. I’ve apologized plenty. But finally, life is moving forward. I’ve put all the cancer stuff on the back burner and am back in the living, focusing on giving my gifts, and becoming increasingly more self-sufficient.

February was like one long snooze of doubt and waiting. But March has begun and new opportunities have come my way that will undoubtedly make a difference. Soon I will be blogging about my very favorite subject in the world. Mom and I were just talking about researching sensitivity but I said I’d much rather take all my sensitivity and put it into researching my favorite subject: Orgasm. She said, “Well, get busy because your writing on that subject is both supreme and sublime.”

Gratefully I’m in my 50s and my sexuality has calmed down. Having been graced with a fifteen-year long exploration with a very focused friend, I know my technical orgasms very well. I also had the opportunity to interact with a man with similar abilities and appetites. Love fueled our exploration and I learned even more about that sacred private part of myself.

But with the cancer treatment this past year, my body got really quiet and single-focused on survival. Ever since I published the book in March of 2013 there has been no doubt what I need and where I’m going. Only the question whether spirit would let me. Now the focus that rubbed off on me from the double decade dance man is helping me get the right projects on the front burner.

In the book I discovered that these two men couldn’t have given me these orgasms if I weren’t open for them and to them. Now, this month, I’ll be discovering if I can give them to myself. I believe orgasm is right up there with laughter as a healing tool. Not having to depend on another to get me gushing or guffawing is not only a primal need, but a delicate devotion I’m about to start dancing daily.


Righteous Perfection

Hey Buddy

That’s the way I wanted to address this when I was driving home from dance class.

Today was perfect. I typed 9 pgs worth of therapy. So much really valuable material. She’s a domestic violence specialist. She knows about abuse and abusers. She also knows the law. It’s great to get her perspective after sitting with certain issues all week. She’s challenging me to write the tough subjects. Huh? She says I’m ready. I’m not so sure about that but after seeing Russia’s fourth segment in the closing ceremony regaling so many of the writers they tortured/punished/jailed/and exiled when they were alive, I thought “Why not?” Russia said how proud they were of their literary past and how their writers really were the consciousness of their country, and most other countries don’t see their writers as the country’s conscience. Well, maybe I shouldn’t be afraid to say what I really want to say. What are they going to do? Jail me for being a truth teller?

It’s so funny when I get accused of lying because I out myself all the time to the people who matter, the ones who are wise and from whom I learn. I share my undergotchkees right up front. I know that’s not a word and I’m not sure what I should use instead. But in life most of us don’t want to share our vulnerabilities. We’ll do anything but that. But we’re all vulnerable and often with similar issues as the majority of others and we’re all hiding pretty much the same shi*.

So why was tonight perfect? I felt good getting all 9 pages typed. This was thick tough stuff and it was lots of verbatim, so going back and forth tedium was necessary on the recorder. It took discipline and focus. I’ve been thinking all week that I wanted to try to get myself back into the NIA dance class (a sensory-based movement practice) I started last February and loved so much for a few months. Every single week, during that key period of time, I got in there and worked out my stress/fear and the deeper emotions that were haunting me. But by April or May or maybe it was in June I was just too stressed with the cancer treatment and the rebel in me didn’t want to show up; move, stretch, and get the rage out. I just sat with it because everything was getting too scary for me at that time.

So at 5:55 I pull up behind E555MLY and park my car on Argonne. In my rear view mirror I see a little blonde girl skipping and dancing with her father in tow. It reminded me of that letter to my younger self I wrote for the MedQuery paid interview last month… about my happiest memory being when Dad took a movie of me walking (skipping) in front of his grandparent’s house. Where did I put that paragraph?

“I’m picturing you as I see you in the IT’S A GUEST FAMILY AFFAIR movie. You have on a white dress with puffy sleeves, white tights and black patent leather mary janes. You are skipping near the mailbox in front of Great Grandma Helen and Grandpa Bill’s house before they went into a rest home and died. You are probably between three and six years old. You come to my mind not because I think you’ll understand what I’m going to say but because when I see you walking with a little dance in your step, you were so happy then and seemingly in love with life and living.”

I immediately felt the happiness and the memory of the happiness. So of course I stopped to talk to the little girl, and her father. She wanted to show me how she could walk on top of a narrow brick wall. He was busy with a neighbor and a glass of wine. I told her I loved to see her dancing and skipping. I told him to take a movie of her dancing and skipping.

As I got to the main street the NIA teacher, Courtney, whom I haven’t seen since I stopped going last year was walking across the intersection. We come to each other with ease and grace. She remembered me and asked how I was doing. I told her I was finally ready to get back to class.

It was really tribal tonight. The music was perfect too. I wasn’t self critical nor was I in the emotional pain I’d been in last winter. I could see my grandmother, who never danced, in me in the mirror. I could also see the me who has always loved to dance. I stomped, I emoted, I got funky. One song, man, I just let it all out. I felt every inch of that song. I knew who I was dancing for and I was completely free. We all were. No one was watching anyone else. We were lost in our own ecstasy. I wasn’t inhibited or one bit self conscious. I was flow and movement and joy.

After class I got in the Eucalyptus steam room and sat in the sauna. A great peaceful piano piece I recognized but couldn’t name was quietly playing overhead. I showered and finished up with a cold flush. Then walking to the car I noticed Olive’s had a full house. Olive’s is a gourmet little market deli sandwich kind of place. I walked in to see what they were giving away for free.

This cool dude was right at the desk and he let me taste four sample spoonfuls of his Choctal Single-Origin Ice Creams. He was the CEO.

It was one of those nights being in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.

The Blank Page

Power cuffs my besties gave me for my birthday!

Power cuffs my besties gave me for my birthday!

Hello Friend.
It’s been a long time since I’ve talked with you. My diary for many years was my best friend, and not an imaginary one. She also wasn’t demanding, critical, or judgmental. If I opened up enough, she shared back a deeper wisdom I couldn’t feel when distraught with emotions that caused me conflict or discomfort. Always, if I wrote long enough, her soothing comfort came through.

When I see people writing in private journals in coffee houses, waiting at the bus stop, when supposedly studying in the stacks, I get a jolt of renewed energy. There is a way of communicating with one’s self that illuminates all other relationships.

I don’t really sit by myself with a blank book these days, because in the past 14 years I’ve learned to pour it out on the computer. I haven’t been pouring out much lately. First there was someone who felt threatened when I had to sit at the computer. He needed all my love and devotion. I’d long before married the part of me that writes, with no guarantee that it would ever be published or support me in my real world. I just knew that I had to be solid with self before I could ever commit to another.

Add to that the threat and terror of the C word… and four years have whooshed by in a frenzy. I’ve hardly been myself.

But I’m returning now to this blank page. This past week SPIRIT set up a conundrum of past or future with which I must decide now which direction I’m going. I’ve never wanted to relive the past. Seriously. Usually it is easy for me to let sleeping dogs lie. I learned what there was to learn and the next experience showed up as if on cue.

Yet, a vindictive voice tried to quell my authenticity. I’ve been accused of doing things I didn’t do, and when I admitted what I did do, it was thrown all out of proportion. This last week I thought I needed new brake pads. Put them on and two days later the grinding noise is back. Apparently, the inconsistent noise probably has to do with my back brakes.

So spirit pointed out that I was in danger. For doing what I thought was a good deed, one that certainly came from a heart of forgiveness and peace, yet I received a legal threat from one whom is cherished. A day later, another one whom is cherished gave me an opportunity to move forward in a field that is my preference. Two days after that Pearl called to remind me of what trouble I’ll be in if I ever go near a certain street in my own town. The next day I drove to Pearl street in a different town and listened to a lecture that calmed my physical threat.

This makes no sense to anyone but myself, but since this is my private blank page, all I’m really saying is I’m done with the past and moving straight into my future. I don’t need anyone or anything that is not mine. I never did. That’s why I let it go when it was mine.

Yes, I’m human. But I deeply respect boundaries others place in their lives and I’ve meant no harm after formal boundaries were in tact. I sent a gift. End of story. It won’t happen again. For those I’ve loved before, I’m truly happy they are healthy and receiving everything they pressured me to give them, but I couldn’t and therefore refused them, thus hurting them irreparably as I keep being none-too-quietly reminded. Let us all be in our happy place without any disrespect or hard feelings.

A whole new chapter is opening up for these blank pages here. I’m starting a program that will reconnect me to my main story line. The previous blogs on here are all in alignment with where I’ll be going.

What is most amazing to me is this. Even though in the moment, there is fear and trepidation, when I breathe beyond those emotions and just let what is flowing through me out, there is nothing I’m later embarrassed by. I’ve meant no one harm. I’ve not meant to expose anyone else. I was merely trying to understand a dynamic that is never taught in school, on the job, or in real life. Yet, it very much is real life. The dynamics of the brain Dr. Helen Fischer writes about when affected deeply by romantic love, sexual drive, and affectionate companionship. All three parts of relationships affect different hormones within us. I was just grappling with the intensity of it all, what I felt and what it meant. Having written the book put my own personal lessons into place. They might not help others who know everything about themselves and have no room for anything but the rigid lessons they were taught when young. It was only after the book was published that the lessons really locked into place.

I knew in between treatments I needed to write this for myself. I needed to understand my relationships with men that caused me pain and why I kept repeating unhealthy patterns. Now that I can see so clearly what wasn’t made clear to me when swallowed up in the fear of my own cancer and what that would mean to my life, I can see the gift and the curse of that which before just completely befuddled me. It will be fun to cut down to size that which I couldn’t see clearly previously. Plus, the book will be much easier to read because it won’t be so heavy.

GOODREADS made my day get better


Yesterday was amazing. I have a friend who raised three kids by herself while earning a PhD in Psychology. I’ve known her since Hoover junior high school. Four years ago she called me and said, “I want to drive up and visit you. It will be the First Annual Lisa Guest Day.” Needless to say I asked why I deserved a day and I won’t bore you with her descriptive answer, but yesterday was the Fourth Annual.

While we were eating sushi for lunch the subject turned to insecurity. She said, “It’s a petty habit. These horrid little thoughts usually aren’t grounded in reality. It’s a self-centered behavior that only tells the world (man) that the thinker of such thoughts is high-maintenance.”

Today was kicking my ass again. Yes, two of my girlfriends had tears in their eyes when embracing my book COURTING ME(N): Juggling Love, Lust, and Listening Within in their arms for the first time. I feel great joy having come so far out of my shell. However, fear is stomping all over my heart that my CLL will need treatment before our 35th High School Reunion this summer.

I know how, like the best of us, that staying busy is a great distraction in order to not dwell with difficult feelings. Yet, I’ve learned in order to articulate emotional eruptions (thus freeing myself) I need to sit with the pain long enough in order to know it, see it, describe it. That’s not fun.

Usually in order to write I must seduce myself with an understanding of the issue at hand, or at least genuine excitement about it’s resolution. I’d seen a Nightline story about Colleen Hoover, who wrote SLAMMED and how “key GOODREADS bloggers” got the word out about her self-published book. As a result, SLAMMED hit the New York Times bestseller list as established publishers were sending polite rejection letters to the unknown first time author.

Today I read an instructive NYT article about comedian Louie CK. He told musicians and comedians to be patient if they’ve been working on their craft and still haven’t hit pay dirt fifteen years down the road.

I don’t want fame or wealth. I’ve been writing this book for 27 years. It is only because I had my first cancer treatment in 2011 that I had enough fire under my butt to stop hiding and come forth in words. My book doesn’t tell you I won the romance game, and how you can too. It does tell you things I discovered about orgasm and moving through power struggles in relationships I’ve never read anywhere else. The book talks about sexuality in a way that makes it a safe subject to talk about, between all levels of education and ages of maturity.

My kindle version will be ready in a week or so. I mistakenly formatted only a 7th of the book to be a tasty treat that would create a desire in readers to hold my baby in their hands. I’m not a salesperson. It’s not that I want to shirk the work necessary to get it out into the world. I just want to preserve my energy to fight my cancer so I can live long enough to master this thing I know about love.

I’m not a new adult. I’m a 53 year old adult who has been obsessed with her love life since she can remember. I’ve had my S & M Chapter (Shades of Turning 27 or as I labeled it EROTIC OR NEUROTIC).

The book, born in early March, I’ve held back from pushing forward because I liked listening slowly and intimately as key people read it and gave me their feedback.

But I’ve now washed the baby. I won’t say publicly I’ve given her shots, because I don’t believe in most shots, but this baby is ready to be introduced. Ten mistakes and one repetitious paragraph are now being formatted out.

What lifted me today out of the ancient depression of doubt and “insecurity” gripping at my throat? Discovering my personal blog can be seen simultaneously on GOODREADS.

I’m praying I can find the bloggers on here that Hoover found in her genre.

To the first ten who contact me I will send you a print copy this week. Thank you in advance for your help.


I found this “MOMENT THAT MATTERS” when researching old emails tracing back to 2004.

My life has fulfilled itself. I resolved the pain and tears.

I now live a much different life, having faced my fear and finding it just fade away.

MARCH 8, 2004

2 04

Just humped myself into sobbing tears after reading the first ten pages of Dr. Phil’s Self Matters. I finally picked up his book, which I’ve been meaning to read for three years. I started at the beginning, something I only do when truly serious about a subject matter, which isn’t very often. I had difficulty fixating on his third person description of the guy on Graduation Day. The blistering asphalt he stood on while calling person to person from Dr. Son to Dr. Dad didn’t put me on that page much less in that parking lot where the payphone was in 1969. I fought through the seven pages describing how he succumbed to the life he promised he wouldn’t live, the one bought out by easy money and others expectations. His words became real when he wrote:

“In order to understand what I mean by your authentic self, you need only to think back to the times in your life when you have been your best. I’m talking about the absolute happiest time in your life: the most fulfilled and especially the most real you have ever been. Think back to the you at the heart of those moments. In those moments, your life flowed with an energy and an excitement. At the same time, you may have felt a quiet calm within.”

It made me think back to those times in my life. Was it when I was President of my class, school or sorority? No. Was it when I heard I had won those elections? No. Was it when studying massage or even writing? No. Was it when massaging others and feeling them relax as perhaps they hadn’t ever relaxed before? Yes. Was it when typing on the keyboard with my eyes gazed far from the screen and the invisible thread from the one dictating to the one taking dictation was fluid and even? Yes. But most of all it was when the nurturing Goddess got beyond the cynical critic and created love whether in healing, relationship, or a word tapestry to describe one or the other or all three tied neatly together.

I found my Hitachi under the bed and wound its head in my baby blanket. In the dark I searched for my release. At first I couldn’t find my rhythm. Then a flicker of intensity appeared. I prayed as I rubbed my bell up against the vibrating shape, wanting to hear her ring. A few times I got close to taking off, but just when I thought perhaps my kite had caught the wind, I sputtered back down and dug into the dirt like so many wooden frames stapled with too heavy a cloth.

I lie quietly. All was dark except the red light in the slowly flashing fire alarm and the yellow dot on the boom box. I could hear my breath, which by now was a bit deeper. I could feel the moisture gathering around my legs, still hidden under not only the high quality raspberry sheet but the white woven cotton bedspread as well.

Suddenly I heard the multi-orgasmic me of 624 hours ago tell FOG, “I don’t take myself to this place when alone.” At the time I had been rolling along on yet another plateau of blissful engagement with the body that knows my body the best. I felt his kiss upon my lips and suddenly, back in the present moment, I was connected to the core, to my self that matters, to the soul and the voice and the heart of this woman who hungers for real life.

The kite caught wind and sped quickly up into the heavens. I was not concerned with the roll of string. I wasn’t feeling the calves which usually get so tight with tension, when alone, I can’t soar high above. I was soaring.

Then I was sobbing. It wasn’t sad tears about the man. It wasn’t happy tears because I’d finally released what was keeping me from concentrating on reading or writing or even listening to loved ones. Maybe they were tears of confusion.

Tears because what is most authentic to me triggers others. Tears because my honesty is frightening. Tears because my hunger is overwhelming. Tears because so much of my life is still hidden and I fear
I’ll never really connect and live out what I came here to experience.

Tears, because I hide myself away for fear I will make other people uncomfortable. Tears, because so much of life is uncomfortable when not living vibrantly, one’s authentic self.

And then I came to the keyboard and within an hour had created this short little synopsis of one of my moments that mattered.


How To Get Unstuck

Ask for help. We like to believe that we are invincible. We are not. We like to believe we are doing the right thing, then an unconscious part of us slides front and center and slays the scene before we wake up.

LMG 01-31
I am so grateful I’ve had the time to finish my book. All year while writing it, I found reasons I could live longer than expected, new avenues of interest that reunited me with my core which I’d been denying for decades.

It’s easy to get into a rut, to accept the inevitable, to give in and forget our own priorities when someone else’s story is so much louder than ours. And the years rush by. I’m amazed how fast each Wednesday at 6PM comes around. It literally feels like two days later but each time I slip my dance paws on my feet when the music starts I know I’ve lived another 168 hours. I really try to release my tension in that class. Dance it out, scream it out, release all pain. I have always loved to dance. My first NIA class began for me the first week of February. I loved it. Then the next three weeks during each class (each class has a purpose; joy, listening, release) I had moments when I was quietly sobbing. I’ve had much sadness, regret and fear to release so I can open up to new bliss and expression. Finally, the load is lifting.

I’ve been so afraid to share this book I’ve finally published. Everyone tells me time is of the essence. I must market it and make it stand out from all the other books non-writers are tossing out to make money with. This was no superficial journey. The pages are written with blood and guts, not ink. I tried to respect all those who contributed to my education and helped me do what I came here to do.


Yesterday, a package from Amazon was on my doorstep. It was too soon for the baby massage books I’d ordered. My own proof copy of the print book wasn’t supposed to arrive till the 11th. I couldn’t believe my delight when I opened the flap and there was the rich black velvet background Karen designed for that white enticing goddess sculpture I love.

It is hard to describe what it’s been like to carry the book around today. I slept with it last night. When my folks heard it had arrived they wanted to come over right away. My mom said, “I can’t wait to hold her.” After brainstorming with Karen on how to optimize the design now that we know exactly what kind of process CreateSpace’s digital publishing provides, I went to my folk’s house. First my mom read the sky story, the graduation poems, about Professor Riptide and then started on The Artist: Painter of the Dancing Circles. I realized that’s a perfect story to send to the New Yorker. I hope I follow through on my hunch and send it in soon.

So, the ebook is up but needs another version uploaded as the original one doesn’t have a title page or TOC (how did that happen?). I threw the ebook together in a day. It’s just an appetizer. It’s about a 7th of the size of the full course. A taster, not a tease per se. Is this voice trustworthy? Are the situations and relationships she finds herself involved in of interest? Are the characters she meets along the way worth getting to know more?

The print copy will be approved by the time most folks get out of church on Sunday. Not that those people would be my readers.

My folks have custody of the baby till noon tomorrow when they’ll bring her back to me. They are so dang excited she’s alive. As terrified as I was, I have to say this is exciting. To have dreamed it, then lived it, then pondered it, then written it up, edited it, proofed it, worried about it and then suddenly she squeezed out despite my resistance and she’s adorable! I’m tired of reading it, but when my mom read to us, and then when my dad continued I was amazed with their excitement. It’s horrible to find words missing, whether they be pronouns or verbs or adjectives. But at least I really haven’t come across a really embarrassing mistake. Fortunately RM discovered that I’d spelled Gloria Steinem’s name wrong a month ago.

I’ve been slacking in the promo department. I need to write a press release, but I have lists of feminist, indy and remaining bookstores, as well as a huge long list of women’s (issues or studies) programs in universities and colleges around the world. My therapist believes this book is more important and insightful than the required reading demanded of her when she was in school. She was forced to read Carlos Castaneda eating mushrooms. She is certain that what I explore, what I learn and share is much more helpful in people living authentic, healing, and ecstatic lives. From her mouth to God’s ears. lisa

Slipping In Between My Covers

It’s Valentine’s Day. The back cover is now done.
jpeg of back cover

final cover 6x9

The book is done and will be available for purchase by the end of February.

It was such a relief when I finished it on January 2nd. I was still editing it till the 31st because I wanted to be sure there were no glaring mistakes.

It’s a long book. Books that completely enveloped me in my past, were never long enough. If I liked the world I had entered, I sure as heaven wanted to stay there forever. Each time I read it brought new revelations to my soul.

Last night at a Nia dance class, I truly felt this birth that is happening in my world, emerging in my body. I feel I can move again.

I feel differently about marketing it. I want this book to sneak out there by word-of-mouth. There is a way to get it into the hands of those who have the capacity to move it to other hands that will relish what lies between these covers. Time will tell.

This book has legs. Soon she’ll be on her way.

Gaping Hole Heals

Two men with CLL healed their CLL (which is incurable at this time) by getting metal amalgams out of their mouth. I went to see two dentists to discern how much this would cost me. When I was a kid I ate tons of candy and had lots of fillings. I thought the fee would be absurd.

My second dentist, actually a childhood friend from the neighborhood, noticed I had an amalgam tattoo. Apparently, a sliver of metal (mercury, nickel and all the other toxic components) slipped under the surface of my skin under my tongue, and was lodged on the floor of my mouth. He said he couldn’t cut it out and I needed an oral surgeon for this procedure. The Internet says there is nothing dangerous with amalgam tattoos, but if metal in teeth is dangerous, I have a sneaking suspicion having that stuff stuck in my skin is worse.

It took me months to get in to see the man who had removed not only my wisdom teeth, but also seven of my baby teeth because my jaw was too small. Some of my earliest memories in life are lying in a bed at the side of the hall in this man’s office. After every single extraction (three separate occasions) I woke up out of anesthesia throwing up blood all over myself. Back then I guess they didn’t have that vacuum suction tool that retrieved blood before it trickled down the throat and into the stomach.

This sliver of metal was small. How tough and tedious a procedure could this be? I figured a bit of Orajel (topical solution), a shot of Novacaine to numb the area, then a quick snip and I’d be done. The doctor told me they’d have to do this in their surgery suite, I’d have to be briefly out with an IV, it might possibly effect my saliva output from now on, and I had to sign on the dotted line for a biopsy.

I told the nurse I wouldn’t sign for the biopsy. The dentist said it’s mercury, nickel and other toxins. Biopsies like this, of which I’ve had a few, are a CYA of medical procedure that costs the patient a couple of Ben Franklins. The doctor came in again, this time with a very stern look on his face. He told me to shut up and sign.

“If you don’t like the terms, you can leave.”

I fumed for ten minutes. Then asked for a refund of the $600 (which had been a 50% discount because we are friends).

When I ripped my frenulum (linguae) with FOG before the turn of the century, I freaked out. I ran to my dentist and he laughed at me. “We can’t stitch that. It will heal by itself.”

Two hours later when I got home, I sterilized my fingernail scissors and hemostat, got my Orajel out of the drawer, hiked up a big flashlight and mirror so I could see what I was doing, and did the procedure myself. I thought it was going to be just one snip, but I had to snip twice. The hole was the size of the end of my little finger and it barely bled. Adrenaline is a pretty good numbing agent.

At the urgent care last night where I went for my monthly port flush a male nurse said he fixed his own abscess with a drink for courage and the tools of his trade. He said I did an excellent job and to gargle with Listerine or Hydrogen Peroxide.

This morning, much to my surprise, the hole I’d cut is practically non-existent and the sliver of metal on my desk is still a sliver of metal on my desk.