yellow hibiscus

Dying of Thirst?

I am, as it turns out, a yellow hibiscus.

Allow me to explain:

I thrive on both touch and words in the language of love. I say “I love you.” A LOT. I like to hear it, too. And I blossom under a steady diet of light, sweet, hey-you touch: a squeeze of my hand, a quick hug, a kiss dropped on the top of my head while passing by–heck, even a swat on the ass with a dish towel.

The thing is, I spent far too much of my life feeling deeply ashamed about that.

My ex is, truly, one of the kindest, loveliest, funniest and best-looking guys I know. He remains special and dear to me, and we have a great co-parenting relationship. We shared tons of common interests, we loved to talk to each other, and we laughed our asses off together.

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It’s a Girl!

Little girls are supposed to love baby dolls, and so I did. Well, except for the scary one, Baby First Step, who lurched like Frankenstein’s monster when she “walked” across the room. And then there was one that “ate” if you shoved a plastic spoon into its mouth, and its gears would make a horrible grinding noise while it worked its jaws, managing to convey both the menace and the surreal silliness of a Japanese horror movie monster.

Maggie McReynoldsMy mother actually threw away one of my dolls after she spent a half an hour, desperate for sleep and not wanting me or my baby sister to wake up, crawling around my bedroom in the dark and trying to find its pacifier while it “cried” with all the delicacy of a smoke alarm.

I wasn’t so much into the baby dolls. They were kinda creepy and annoying.

I liked Barbie and her friends, though. I didn’t, however, treat them at all well. I wasn’t really into their clothes, and I kept losing their shoes, so mostly, when I wasn’t making up elaborate plot lines for them which I never bothered to enact since making up the story was all the fun, I would make them fly around naked (a special feat they could only perform with their legs twisted up in an unnatural position behind their heads. Also, I would conduct experiments on their hair.

I totally deserved it when my dog once threw up an intact Skipper head. At my feet.

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Maggie McReynolds

Remember Me? I Finally Did.

You know how it is. You totally intend to write, or call, or at the very least return that balloon whisk you borrowed. But you have a really good reason you can’t do it right just then. Something sad happened. Something bad happened. You are understandably distracted.

Time passes, and you work through your stuff, but while you do, there’s a little nagging voice in the back of your head saying, “I haven’t written. I haven’t called. I don’t even KNOW where that damn balloon whisk is.” The more time that passes without you getting in touch, the harder it seems, because it feels less justifiable in the softening wake of the crisis.

And that is pretty much where I’ve been for the last few weeks (months?).

I write about this not to explain or excuse, because I don’t think either are warranted—except perhaps in my belief that my clients trust me to tell them the truth, and when I’m withholding, I’m not earning that trust.

But the main reason I’m writing about this is because I think we all do this, we humans. We fall down, then we fall out of touch with others. In truth, we fall out of touch with ourselves. And if I can get a teachable moment out of this, I’ll do it, pinky swear.

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