Euphemism.

Today.

In which I take part in an online chat with a 47-year-old I've not met. He opens with a story of how he's been invited to have sex with a woman and her husband.

An excerpt:

ME: I don't judge people who swing. But sex with near-strangers is NOT my thing.

HIM: I've not experienced that....but would imbibe

ME: "imbibe" means "to drink"

HIM: I know......:)

ME: uh huh

HIM: drink from the secret, forbidden elixir in this case

ME: are you always so prosaic?

ME: because it's not secret, forbidden elixir.

ME: it's just fucking some guy's wife.

HIM: haven't thought of that.....perhaps....

I blocked him; he no longer has the ability to write or chat with me.

A brief First Amendment lesson.

It has come to my attention that folks out there may be confused about our rights under the First Amendement, as well as what the definition of "defamation" is.

Since I am an attorney (and have studied First Amendment jurisprudence at length), I shall give you all this Brief Lesson in Three Paragraphs:

1. The Black Letter law is clear. Defamation is defined as "an intentional false communication that harms a person's reputation."

2. A statement of opinion is not defamatory. See Gertz v. Robert Welch, Inc., 418 U.S. 232 (1974). ("Under the First Amendment there is no such thing as a false idea. However pernicious an opinion may seem, we depend for its correction not on the conscience of judges and juries by on the competition of other ideas.")

3. Though private citizens (rather than public figures or limited public figures) need not prove "actual malice" in order to succeed on a claim of defamation, the truth (i.e., that which was published if factually true) is an absolute defense against defamation. Because defamation, by definition, is limited to false statements, true statements (written or oral) are protected by the First Amendment.

Untitled.

September 24, 2005--1.40 p.m.

I realized something last night. It never stops. Love. Once you love someone, you don't fall out of love. It's always there and it's a part of you. So instead of trying to desperately fall out of love and stop caring, it's far simpler just to let that love go. Release it rather than fight against it. And remember how good it felt when it was a part of you and not just something that existed in a buried cavern inside yourself. Those people that I have loved... That love isn't gone. It's just faded, and I remember it as I'd remember a trip to the circus when I was five years old. A memory, dull, washed out, yet still alive.

I wrote that over six years ago in my journal. In retrospect, I am not sure who I was writing about. I suppose the most likely explanation would be that I was writing about Mike. Best Friend Mike, who has appeared in my ramblings since 2005. In fact, he appeared in my very first blog entry, Writing Without a Purpose. I wrote about him after our breakup-of-sorts. Apparently, I even wrote about this very journal passage back in 2006.

Mike has been my only love. I don't mean this in a love-is-unicorns-shitting-rainbows sort of way. There are no fairy tale endings. In real life, the prince rarely saves the damsel in distress and teen love grows into 40-something resentment. Life is strange and unpredictable and love follows life's path. Mark Twain put it best when he said, "Why shouldn't truth be stranger than fiction? Fiction, after all, has to make sense."

Nothing about my relationship with Mike ever made sense. Since our breakup six-plus years ago, I've gotten married, been diagnosed with depression and anxiety, been medicated, underwent therapy, realized the truth about addiction, kicked out my husband and filed for divorce. For the first time in my life, I am happy. I am content with my life and take solace in the day-to-day monotony as well as the little adventures that happen to everyone.

Mike and I spent this past Saturday together. It was the first time we've seen each other (or even really talked) in three years. It's the first time we've connected since I got married. The talk, the humor, the level of connection was not the same as it used to be.

It was stronger.

He is happy, too, no longer emotionally sapped from a brutal 14-year-marriage and terrible, wicked divorce from the first girl with whom he ever had sex. Like me, he is content with his life. He spends his evenings making art or pondering science and has his own little adventures. In 2005, we spent about a year together, unhappy as individuals and afraid to let ourselves be vulnerable, preferring to be numb, feeling better about it because each of us, in our misery, had company.

We are both happy now and therefore more at ease with ourselves and each other. The took a leap back into the friendship we'd had, but without the negative energy and the need to fight and the need to over analyze ever word we said to each other. We let ourselves be ourselves and enjoyed our time together.

He has tough work hours, though we have promised to see more of each other. We spoke on the phone last night for hours, like we used to, not realizing we'd talked for so long until both realizing it was past time to go to bed.

For the first time ever in our relationship (and perhaps in my life), I have let go of my fatalism. I am not concerned that things won't end well. I'm not looking to define our relationship with any specific labels or agenda. I am simply looking forward to seeing where this ride will take us.

My wish for everyone is a wonderful ride, wherever it leads.

The story of my life.

An online stranger told me that I should write an autobiography. He knows nothing more of me than what I've put on some online profile and words we've exchanged via instant messenger.

"No one would read it," I told him.

"I would," he replied.

To which I said, "I was born to a middle class family on Long Island. I had three birthday parties at Hot Skates in Great Neck. Not much of a hook there."

"I have your hook," came his retort. "Are you ready for it?"

"Go on," I sighed, not expecting much.

And then he copied and pasted my own words--words I'd typed to him minutes before--and sent them back to me.

I tell dirty jokes, I don't leave the room to fart, I don't care about designer clothing or being a trophy wife. I clean up really well, but I'm definitely not high society. I'm too scrappy. Oh, and I used to be a slut and I've had sex with women. So there's that.

Perhaps my life is more interested than I'd originally thought.

A note to my hair stylist...

...who has forgotten how much I love the '80s.

So I just made an appointment for October 18th to get my hair cut. I am writing to remind you not to forget your fucking crimper this time. If I am not crimped, I will be very, very angry. Do you really wanna see this broad angry?

Not to worry, though: I'll be sure to remind you as the 18th approaches.

Saucy Vixen

How difficult is it to get one's hair crimped these days?

After my appointment is over, I plan to play with My Little Ponies and Rainbow Bright for the rest of the day.

On addiction and divorce.

Yes, dear readers, it has been a while. A long while. Far, far too long.

My life has changed quite a bit and I suppose those few of you left out there may be vaguely interested to know what's been going on. So I shall cut to the chase: I am getting divorced. I will be legally unmarried in early December. It's been a rather long time coming (almost half the time we've been married), and we've been a part for a while now. I took some time to file only because I was trying to work through some legal loopholes insofar as medical insurance (for him) was concerned.

Do not pity me or tell me you are sorry to hear of it. Be advised that I am quite content and happier than I was. See, marrying an addict can take a lot out of a person. In entries that are years old, you may remember my having stated that I would never date an addict. For reasons still oddly unknown, I overlooked that criterion when I chose to marry The Former Mister Vixen only a month after he proposed; nine months after we met.

When the relapse started in August 2010. There are details. Many, many, sordid and dirty little details that are of no consequence at this juncture. Suffice to say, enough became enough, and I found myself living alone once again.

I am the happiest I've been in a few years. I no longer have anyone financially or emotionally dependent on me. I no longer need to worry about the husband I didn't really love winding up dead in a gutter somewhere. I now have money to spend on myself (for instance, three years after losing 50 lbs, I finally bought myself a new wardrobe this past Saturday). My dogs (expensive as they are) keep me company. I meet new people and make new friends. The shyness of my youth has died and I find myself talking to strangers on an extremely regular basis. I meet people. I have fun. I contemplate my next move.

And as it once was, and is again, I cannot wait to see what happens next. My spirit of adventure has risen again and I intend to put it to good use. If anyone out there cares to join me, you are all welcome.

My soldier.

A few years into the new millennium, a website came out called "Hot or Not." The purpose was to have people post pictures where the entire population of the Internet could rate you on a scale of 1 to 10. You could find out if you were hot. Or not.

Though I don't recall the site having a mailbox feature, I somehow started corresponding with Caleb. Caleb was a first of second lieutenant in the US Army, having graduated from West Point. He had entered on a whim, not ever expecting that there would be a war when he got out of school. He was 24 in the summer of 2004, when we met. I was 25 and had just finished my first year of law school. I was interning at a public defender's office, assisting with an attempted murder trial. I had just broken up with a boyfriend with whom I'd had the worst relationship of my life (before or after).

Caleb did something that kept him up when most of his men were sleeping, and so when he wasn't fighting, he spent his time e-mailing me.

I told Caleb everything. About my promiscuity, my past drug use, my boyfriend, my life. We flirted with each other -- nerdy flirting about such topics as Immanuel Kant (the old "I can't" joke). We talked about meeting up with each other in 2007, when he got out. He told me he was writing a book about life in Iraq, and continued to promise that he'd send me a chapter or two sometime to read over. He never did.

The last I heard from Caleb was in November of 2006. I still write him periodically to check in, see what he's up to. The Internet tells me that he's working in politics and living in Nevada, his home state. He wrote his book. I ordered it, but found it far too boring to read. I recently discovered that he is on Facebook. But with 2,000 friends, I don't particularly feel like reaching out to him in that venue. He's married, too.

I wrote him an e-mail today, though it's been over a year since my last one. I don't expect a response. But I adored him once and appreciate him still, both for his military service and for being my friend.