Innergiggler's Blog

Archive for the ‘Relationships’ Category

Dedicated to my friend, Kristine Van Raden

The earth rotates – no matter what.  We can surrender to that notion and grow with the movement or we can fight against the tides.  I’ve done both.  This is a story of acceptance.

On April 13, 2011 – at 5:04 PST, the Universe offered up perfection as a possibility for everything and anything.  Therefore, a pre-arranged phone call between two distinct energies hinged on the divine – offering up an opportunity to blend and release two open hearts and minds.  However, disillusion from years of broken trusts loomed – shading the freedom.

 One heart/mind was baking brownies and sipping red wine – the other was sucking up tap water marinating with tangerine rinds.  One pressed phone digits – two rings – the other – answered the phone.    

Within a few moments of re-connection, there was a double unconscious surrender, allowing their trust issues built over a lifetime of small and larger disappointments to unknowingly melt.   Fences and boundaries relaxed as they took turns unzipping her/her deepest and darkest fears, shame, guilt – unleashing the residue of nightmares and secrets harnessed by fear of judgment.  

 Each offering was instantly received by the other – as if it were a slice of skin shaved from the heart – then transferred to that organ of the other.  Each sensed the gift would be cherished.

As the dialer, I was expecting to have another pleasant chat with a loving, bright, creative woman I met on Facebook.  Yes.  There was that.  But I never expected this event to result in the re-wiring and re-labeling of my gut – now reading, “Trust Here.”  Profound and perfect.  I don’t know if I’ve ever allowed myself to let go on that level. 

 All this and more in one hour, forty-six minutes and fifty-seven seconds.

Although consequences pervaded the lives of many in 2010, there remains an air of optimism for 2011.  Here are my top five affirmative experiences for 2010: 

  1. Said “yes” to an offer to plant myself in a Goddess Garden where I’m growing emotionally and creatively along side the most beautiful human flowers
  2.  Created & launched the “Inner Giggler” Blog which delights many including me.  The fear that no one would read it isappeared with the acknowledgement that I can’t predict responses – but I can keep sowing… 
  3. Allowing new and untested friends to love me – then taking the love in and letting it flow freely from me to them and others 
  4. Leaping off the financial “safety” plateau of the “too small” apartment and landing in a lovely house accepting the financial challenges
  5. Accepting and embracing that I am a worthy, vital, sexy, funny and loving woman – with lots more to contribute in this world…even at 66 – yeah!

But he’s still my best friend…

Not to say Rob and I don’t have our personal episodes of Macy’s July 4th Fireworks…

“Stop criticizing my driving…you’re gonna make me have an accident…”

“If you have an accident it’s because you’re a terrible driver…pull over…”

“Rob…we’re three miles from home…”

“Pull over…I’m getting outta this fucking car before we crash…”

“Great…get out!  I’m changing the locks on our front door…”

And to make his point…he walks home….and gets there before I call a locksmith.

The good news…the above hasn’t happened in quite a while…and…I’m not a terrible driver…Rob’s a stickler for Rules…Rules…and more Rules…and I’m…I’m a bender…

But one facet of Rob I really love…he knows how to be a friend…like when my Mom died…he was my friend…holding me up when I just wanted to lay down and die…he kept me afloat…On a lighter note…when I blow an audition…he’s right there with some comforting words…But the MOST IMPORTANT…AND NECESSARY…when I can’t fit into a pair of pants…”Honey…you always look beautiful to me…”

So when a friend who he hadn’t spoken to in a while called…said his  mom was dying…and asked…”Would you come spend a few days with me…?  Good friend Rob turned his schedule around and is in the process of making it happen.

I’m so proud of my best friend for being a friend…Wait!…You don’t think he’s gay…do you?

I, Woman…him Rob, the hubby, with the brain of a scientist…He’s obsessed with global warming…electricity…quantum theories…atoms…relativity…energy…My mission here on earth is not to learn about science…ask any of my former science teachers…specifically Earth Science where I practically had to cry the professor an ocean to convince him to change my F to a D so I wouldn’t have to repeat the course…

I’m sensitive to life-altering events like the Gulf Coast pissing oil…caring toward anyone whose livelihood or living hood is disturbed by any force of nature or force of greed as in BP…but I’d rather walk on the lighter side…it’s where I feel buoyed enough so my head can skateboard through the humor universe…then share It with others…

 WHY VERSUS?  Since we met twelve years ago Rob has been attempting to initiate deep meaningful conversations about anything science-related…My usual response is to glaze over and tell him in a “not that loving way” to stick a sock in it because I’m bored…the same response he has to my baseball fanaticism…I can record baseball…but I can’t get him off the Science/Discovery/History Channels …and this interferes with our love life…

Finally…I found the answer….oh goddess thank you…it’s so  simple…I didn’t see it…Now…I invite him into the bedroom to talk about  anything scientific… ”Honey…I have some important questions about physics…”  I do this during a NY Yankees game…I can mute the game or keep the sound very low as he’s babbling on and on… …encourage him to talk…talk…talk…about any of his facocta*  topics and instead of glazing over…I smile…touch his leg…give him a kiss…let him know I love him…keep rotating my hand in now over-excited areas…because of his fascination with science… and when he’s tuckered out mentally…which sometimes happens…and assuming the game is not at a crucial point… although I can pause or record…I now re-route his verve to the science of biology and…make us both happy….I don’t care if he wants to take a snooze afterwards because I can now actually watch my game in peace and harmony……

Life is good when we find answers…

*Yiddish for “myriad of mind-numbing concerns”

            I remember the year I was in the third grade.  At eight years old I was all puffed up with pride because my mom had her own store and still made dinner.  It was a knitting store right down the street from our apartment building on Brighton 6th Street in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn.  The store wasn’t much bigger than our living room, but instead of a couch and chairs, there were two long display cases filled with beautiful sweaters and gloves and hats and shawls which were mostly made by my mom.  Wooden cubby holes lined the walls, each one stuffed with wool of colors pulled from a rainbow.  Mom co-owned this magical place with a beautiful, dark-haired, mysterious lady named Libby Stein, who also lived in the apartment right above us. 

            Libby always wore lots of lipstick.  Her large, full lips were creamed with either orange or bright red shine.  Her long, black hair which curved under rested on her slim shoulders with one sweeping wave crossing her face, then falling right into place on the side of her head.

            She was tall and slender and straight, not short and curvy like mom.  Also unlike Mom, she was very serious.  I don’t remember her ever cracking a smile.  Once in a while I’d make funny faces or silly sounds, but those large creamy lips never parted.  I often wondered if they were pasted together. 

            Everyone who saw Libby said she was a real “knock-out.”  Sometimes customers walked into the store and just stared when they saw her.  I didn’t like that part; no one was supposed to be more beautiful than my mom, who dad said was a real “looker.”  Even if her overall appearance didn’t leave you breathless, you couldn’t help but notice those lips.

            And that posture.  She always stood upright like a soldier; as if she were waiting to be lifted onto a pedestal and moved to another dimension.  Mom never had to tell Libby to keep her shoulders back and stomach in.  Aside from standing tall, Libby’s chest was like a stop sign so I never got too close.  Reciting a polite hello when I entered the store, I’d secretly hope she’d notice me but rarely received a response.

            The store had a real fifties bohemian rhythm. On the left side of the store Libby’s lip-matching painted fingernails were pop, pop, popping on the cash register as she rang up sales.  On the right side Mom’s tongue had a bongo beat used in describing techniques of knitting, pearling, crocheting, designing, and pattern-making.  Her joy created laughter and lots of customer giggles.    

            There was a blue and brown curtain at the back of the store separating the bathroom and kitchen area.  When there weren’t any customers, Libby retreated behind the screen and stayed there until she heard customers.  I’d wonder what she was doing besides using the toilet.  Maybe she was putting on more lipstick.  She might have been getting a snack or lunch, although as I said, I never saw those lips move, so I was convinced she never ate.

            Libby was totally different at night.  I couldn’t see her, but I would hear her – walking back and forth in the bedroom right above mine.  Sometimes she’d actually wake me up in the middle of the night clickety-clacking with her high heels.  I knew she had a husband and wondered if they were dancing.  But I could never match the timing of the steps with any music I’d ever heard.  As the nights wore on, Libby’s footsteps became louder and lasted longer, interrupting my sleep and making it very difficult for me to wake up in the morning.  Tossing and turning one night, I decided to tell mom about the racket.   Right after school the next day I went straight to the store ready to call mom aside.  I turned the glass doorknob but it was locked.  I peered inside and didn’t see any customers.  Looking through the display window, I saw mom with her arms around Libby whose lips were actually open because she was sobbing.  Her shoulders were bobbing up and down all loose and free.  She was grabbing onto the back curtain and holding it up to her face like tissue paper.  I slipped away without saying anything about the night noise.     

            I never saw or heard Libby again after that day.  I did hear my parents mentioning her name from time to time saying:  “It’s too bad.” Or: “What a shame; such a young, beautiful woman.”  That was the first time I ever heard the term nervous breakdown.  I remember thinking Libby’s nerves must have been tightly controlled by her lips and eventually were destined to explode.  I’d close my eyes and imagine a doctor prying those brightly-colored lips open with a screwdriver, releasing millions of words making up for all her silence. 

            Within a couple of weeks, the store was emptied and closed.  Mom continued knitting and crocheting beautiful clothing at home…but I missed the store and all the action.  I couldn’t stop thinking about those shiny lips that never smiled.  After months of careful thought I decided it’s better to be friends with people who could laugh because the others were too busy listening to sad songs in their minds. 

*Excerpt from “How I Buried My Mom…While Still Attached To Her Umbilical Cord”  ©2009


June 25th:  while the world is wiping tears, mourning last year’s deaths of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett, I am celebrating my 10th wedding anniversary.  I say I/my because my husband is sick and sleeping deeply under his cocoon of goose down feathers stuffed into a powder blue king-sized comforter cover.

So let’s evaluate this ten year marriage thing…


  • Rob is constantly leaving errant dirty dishes in the sink, on the stove…and misplaces items already having homes…like the cutting board
  • Replaces items so I can’t reach them…my whole wheat English Muffins are within his reach at 6’3” but I can’t even see them at 5’1.1”
  • Wasteful – he uses two (2) enormous Costco paper towels to wipe his nose
  • Trims his mustache/beard hairs in the hallway’s double mirror onto the carpet instead of in his bathroom three feet away
  • Noisy…this man needs the noise of fans on all the time; this wastes electricity, drives me crazy and forces me to wear ear plugs
  • Doesn’t like baseball…hates basketball
  • Will not watch any episodic TV, entertainment shows, Days of Our Lives…and although willing to watch Wolf, makes jokes about his Situation Room…doesn’t watch Rachel, will no longer watch Keith or Chris…and sometimes I see him sneaking over to Shepherd Smith
  • Constantly criticizes my driving…while I’m driving
  • Still smoking


  • Has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever looked into and the softest, sweetest lips that have ever touched mine
  • Doesn’t need a wife; willing to cook
  • Supports my artistic endeavors; loves my writing and performing
  • Takes good care of me when I’m sick or feeling navy blue
  • Listens sometimes when I suggest…”We need to talk!”
  • Loves sitting and watching the ocean with his arms around me;
  • Loves being loved
  • Is an exquisite artist and appreciates nature so much more than I do
  • Has my back in this world and let’s me know it on a daily basis

 At this rate…we might make it to eleven.

Last night at 7:14pm, I left my house carrying two bags of equal weight…one filled with anxiety…the other with excitement.    I was headed toward a dinner date with four Facebook  women I’ve known only through blogs and emails…direct and indirect over the last several months.  Virtually, there was an instant connection between us held together by the glue of creativity, an ability to love, take in and share.  We were coming together in physicality for the first time ever which could be wonderful…or not.  The destination was a popular restaurant.

Prepared for disaster…I brought a water bottle for security…figuring a blanket was too conspicuous.  I seated myself in wait for the four to arrive.  There was lots of action…a busy restaurant with people constantly coming and going which I found annoying and distracting… only magnifying my increasing anxiety level.  I noticed at one point my right hand was tremoring and had to decide between deep breathing or the local ER.  And then…and then I looked up…and saw a familiar and beautiful face, recognizable from her FB photo.  Female one, Amy Ferris who looked at me, smiled and kissed me on the lips.  Female two, Amy Friedman, who truthfully I had met at an event a few weeks before and was familiar with her heavenly face.  Another scrumptious looking, non-FB babe named Debbie, a friend of Amy One then joined us.  We all walked out onto the patio…and sighted two already seated and gorgeous Goddesses…female three MaxeeArtist and female four, Hollye Holmes Dexter, the youngest but not least experienced in Goddessness .  The evening began.

If I were a painter, this canvas would be splattered with colors of powder blue, green, yellow and pink.  There was laughter, shared intimacy, support, care, love, funniness, delight, personal essays, a solo show, more laughter, drinking, even more love…and eventually dinner.

I was wondering if anyone at The Cheesecake Factory found a brown bag of anxiety…apparently, I left it behind.

Another commercial audition this afternoon. American Express was asking this short, chubby Jewish girl to be a rancher and to dress in “casual rancher” garb.  My agent suggested I could duplicate the outfit I’d worn in the submitted photo.  Truth is my present life doesn’t require much of a wardrobe so I still had the shirt.

I also re-created the pic’s hairdo by shaping my locks into two eggrolls, one on each side of my head.  Upon arrival I noticed there were no other women at the call but there were seven or eight middle-aged Asian men, none of whom had much hair.  After questioning, I was told not to worry, so I leaned back and enjoyed being the only female.

It was an interview audition where they ask a question and film your responses.  Those are my favorite because there’s no wrong answer.  I can come up with something funny and then leave. 

Afterward, I got into my car and tallied my audition vs. booking ratio and  winced when reminded of my low stats.  As I comforted myself, I randomly poked my radio and caught Whitney Houston singing “I Will Always Love You” which gave me a ping of sadness…that voice…that melodious ‘any note goes’ voice appears to be gone.  Her crappy choices over the last ten or twenty years have taken its toll.

Suddenly it was all about me.  I became Whitney with a faltering career and began questioning some of my choices.  Maybe I should have stayed in New York; maybe I should have stayed single and devoted more time to my career; maybe I should have remained on the radio; maybe I should just…turn off the radio. 

That’s when I remembered I was a writing drama queen who could go home and spin words on my laptop.  I can continue writing my memoir, post random blogs and generate laughter and thought although never perfectly.  That’s also when I remembered my sweetheart Rob who I met in LA, would be waiting for me when I got home.  And after we quibbled over whose turn it was to either make or pick up dinner,  we could have a glorious evening  Wonderful friends, both virtual and in the flesh.  And of course, my NY Yankees who would be waiting for me on my DVR after we made up…what a glorious life!!!  Especially because I always believed…that “crack is whack!”


The size of her ass around the thong?  Her cup size?  How much cellulite is packed on her thighs?  Who gives a crap about these things?  Not a fabulous woman.  And there’s nothing like a magnificnet woman to make another one feel worthwhile, creative, invigorated and loved!

Yes, I’m an emotional lesbian and proud of it.  Men!  Goddess love ‘em; they’re my first and last choice in the sack.  But women…well, we’re something very special.  You see women can go really deep…much deeper inside themselves and each other than most men.  And I’m not talking battery-operated zucchini.  Go ahead…ask Eve.  Why’d she bite into the apple? “Hmmm… If it tastes better than those damn fig leaves I’ll find a way to create more.  Maybe there’s a seed in here somewhere.”  Yeah, we go way deep.

You want to see a man fold?  No gun needed, Jack Bauer.  Pitch the four words, you know them; he knows them, “We need to talk.”  Men drop down to their knees, their ankles…their toes, praying for forgiveness…anything to avoid a conversation. 

Now the very same to almost any woman, “We need to talk!”  It’s better than Christmas.  Her eyes light up, she drops her chocolate bar and her three month old infant.  Talk?  Did you say talk?  We are talkers…we are so freakin’ happy when we are jawing and feeling and emoting and tapping into memories and sharing and getting to know each other…no holes barred…Nada! 

We are so spectacular!  And the more women I meet, the more love I feel…as they push me to a higher self while our mouths keep moving.


                                            Talk Baseball To Me

“So tell me…where’s it gonna happen?  First base?  Second?  Not home plate – I have boundaries, I don’t like bat splinters.  Definitely not the outfield, there’s nothing to sit on,  too many bugs out there noshing on leftover pretzels and hotdogs…I was kind of thinking…hoping, maybe… the box seats?  Especially if the arms lift up like in movie theatres cause I like some wiggle room.  I’m sorry, I just assumed you work here you must have done it everywhere.  I apologize.  Wait, I have a call coming through…oh never mind…it’ll go to v/m.

So, uh, will you be wearing your uniform?  Just the top?  Oh god…wait!  I can’t breathe.  Give me a minute…please…another…okay…I’m good!   When you’re up at bat on my 60” Plasma… which I bought so when they do close-ups… you’re totally life-sized. ..I can almost read your mind which of course is my main attraction.  Okay, one more thing…when you swing the bat I can sense your muscles rippling and I get…happy…very happy…and I also like to watch you run.  I can tell you’re posing for me as you move toward first base.  But when you hit a double, I know you’re posing for yourself .  I’m good with that.

All right, good luck in Detroit!  Tell Johnny we miss him.  If he hadn’t left I’d be watching him on the 60″…Kidding…I love dimples… Kidding!  Call me…”

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