My girls’ weekend in Oregon, which was slated to start today, was necessarily canceled due to a darling friend’s family crisis.  I am worried about her, I am worried for her.

I am also pouting a little bit.  I was so looking forward to exploring Portland.  Wandering and discovering is one of my favorite things.  I had an art museum, and a giant bookstore on my must do list, along with a coffee date, but other than that, I was determined to soak up all the unplanned people and places I could find.  So I’m just a touch melancholy as I start my weekend.

I suppose I could go explore my very own city, but it’s entirely too easy to look around my house, and see all the things that need to be done. I may be able to spend some unplanned time with my guy, but even that is up in the air, due to his work and other obligations.  Maybe I’ll be productive today, and give myself Saturday for some solo girl-time.





“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death. Some never awaken.”

~ Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1: 1931-1934


Ten years ago today, a small boy was born, and I was his mother.

When he was twelve days old, I packed him into a baby sling, and took him with me to my orientation for nursing school. I had gotten into a very competitive program, and I wasn’t going to lose my spot. I don’t know exactly why or how exactly, at that moment in my life, I had gotten a vision of a life outside of being a stay at home mom; whose desire to work outside of the home truly was at odds with everything I had been taught. In my world, being a mother and raising spirits up in the true gospel was the best, most sacred and holy calling a woman could have. And suddenly it wasn’t enough for me any more.

I hadn’t left my faith at that point, and I hadn’t left my bad marriage. I simply knew I needed something more. Something more for me, and more for my children.

This morning I was standing in the laundry room, folding clothes. As I picked up each boys t-shirt, and each pair of shorts, I thought, “This is mine”, and “I gave this to my child.” Me. I’m the provider. I made my own way, and while it’s not ever easy to be a single parent, I have worked hard to give myself and my kidlets something different than I had growing up. I want them to see that I wasn’t a victim, and that I stood up and made a choice. I want them to know that they have the power to decide what their lives will look like, and that they don’t have to settle for what is presented to them. They can find their own way, and their own happiness.

I’m a huge fan of education, and of financial autonomy. Money is the tipping point, and education is the stepping stone. Yes there are many ways to make a living without higher education. But the security of my nursing license, gave me the courage to be alone in the world, and to know that I could take care of myself and my family. That choice, ten years ago, to start school, even with a twelve day old baby, was an absolute fork in the proverbial road. My life looks completely different than it did then, and all I can do is be grateful that I had that chance, at that point in time.

So Happy Birthday to my son, who is a bright spot in my day, every day. He is smart and energetic, and beautiful. He sees things that I do not, and his eyes sparkle when he tells me about them. I am happy, and I am blessed.


I want to write every day, but sometimes all I am thinking of is the laundry that needs to be done, and the children who need to be fed. I am wiped out from a busy weekend of much visiting and socializing, and that takes a lot out of a mostly introverted girl, who loves a taste of the extrovert, but finds it absolutely draining. I’m laying in bed, with the fan on in the background, and the clean laundry in the corner, unfolded; waiting. I suppose I could get up, work for an hour and then give myself permission to crawl back to bed with a snack and watch Netflix.

That sounds like a good plan.

This weekend was Meta’s birthday party. And it was enjoyable and pleasant. Watching Special Man fret and stress about the party and her gifts, and wanting so badly to see her happy and loved, was good for me. It is easy sometimes to exist in place where my relationship with him is as far as I see. I think that this is good and healthy, in that I understand that the relationship between myself and him, is different than the relationship that the two of them have together. But 90 percent of the time, I am one on one with SMF. I may go many weeks without seeing Meta, or I may see her on three consecutive days, like I did this week. The longer we go between interactions, the more unsettled I might feel, and the more uncomfortable I think SMF feels. His discomfort comes from not being quite sure how to be in the same space with his two significant relationships, and not worry that one of us is feeling like he’s ignoring us because he’s paying attention to the other one. I know that he loves Meta and they’ve been together a long time. I watch him orient himself around her, and sometimes as a result, I am all at once, in their space, but alone. Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes we do it all wrong.

But this weekend was different. It was better. I have to think that the dynamic was easier because there were some old friends of theirs here for the weekend, and everything felt relaxed and easy. Those extra people broke up some of that “triangular tension” (I just made that term up by the way). It was such an eye opener for me. I saw a bigger picture, the one that I only fantasize about. I caught a glimpse of perfect poly.

Just a glimpse, mind you.

There’s no such thing as perfect poly. Just imperfect people doing the best they can. I saw people doing their best this weekend. And it made me feel satisfied and validated that I am on the right track, for me.

Hope your weekend was good as well, friends.


I have a story I need to tell. A story about My Big Fat Mormon Family. It’s a story so complex, so convoluted, so fucked up, that I don’t even know what the first sentence should be.

I come from a family, well rooted in the Mormon faith. ( I use the term faith very loosely here.)   As I grew up, I learned not to ask too many questions, because if you did, and the answers didn’t make sense, were unknown, or were just ridiculous, I was told that what I needed was prayer.  And more faith.  (Basically, what I needed was a blind belief in a nonsensical fairy tale.)

I am not going to write about church “doctrine” or the details of why I do not hold with the beliefs of the LDS church any more.  There are a myriad of blogs and websites to that end, if you are interested.  I wasn’t given the chance to know anything different than the fairy tale.  I grew up the good girl, and I did what was expected.  It was all I knew.  I was obedient.  I was compliant.  I was faithful.

Everything that was expected of me, I did.  I went to BYU.  I married young, to a man who was wrong for me, because I was afraid of being an old maid.  I went to church, and I reproduced.  I tried to be a good homemaker, a good wife to a violent and angry man, and a good mother to children I probably shouldn’t have had.

I was rarely happy.  I was never me.

If my faithful mother were to read this, she would weep and wonder how she had lost me to the sinful and wicked world.  Every so often, she hugs me and whispers in my ear that Heavenly Father misses me.  I keep quiet, out of respect for her belief,  and out of some misguided desire to avoid conflict.

In my mid-thirties, I went back to college, and I stopped being afraid.  Money is power (especially if you do not have it), and once I had my own, I took my children and left my marriage. It took me some time to be brave enough to turn away from the church, not because of belief, but because of fear.  The guilt I felt as a mother was deep-rooted, and toxic.  Taking on the eternal salvation of myself was easy, but being responsible for my children losing the blessings of the Celestial Kingdom, was another.

(Don’t ask.)

After thirty-odd years, I held on so tightly to what I knew, simply because I didn’t know anything else.  As I slowly loosened my grip on this idea that the world would end if I said the words out loud, “I don’t believe any of it,” I began to discover who I was.  I could make my own decisions.  I wasn’t restricted by anyone’s rules or expectations for my life, except my own.

I started to drink coffee.  Now don’t laugh, but buying my first coffee maker at the age of 39 was a big fucking deal.  It was a symbol to myself, and a sign to my children, that Things Were Different.

That same year, I read my first Mormon history book. One that was not written by a Mormon.  I bought cute panties, and bras. I went to the store and to the movies on  Sunday!  I dated, and eventually, I had sex.  With a man who wasn’t my husband.  And then I had more sex. With another man who wasn’t my husband.  It was scary, and it was new, and it was glorious.

In the middle of all of this self-discovery, I took a good look at the vision of  the Big Fat Mormon Family that my mother had worked so hard to maintain.  What I saw, were nine brothers and sisters, only three of whom still went to church.  I saw my parents, divorced after years of adultery and dishonesty.  I saw substance abuse among my siblings, and failed marriage, after failed marriage.  The happiest of my siblings were those who had stood up and said, “I don’t believe any of it.”

So I stood up.  And I was happy.


Mister SMF has a new friend. A new friend who is a girl. They met through OkCupid. She drinks coffee and she is recently split from a husband. That’s all I know.

I kind of want to know more about her, this Coffee Girl, but at the same time I’m hesitant to give myself fodder for comparison and insecurity. (What if he thinks she’s prettier than I am? What if he likes her ass better than mine? What if she giggles and fawns when he talks and he thinks that’s the coolest thing ever?)

So what?

I wish I could put jealousy to bed, once and for all. How is it that I can know in my brain, how much he loves me and wants to be with me, and at the same time, wonder in my heart if he might wake up one morning and say, “What the hell was I thinking?” (And then proceed to dump me.)

Human beings are such contradictory creatures. We get logic and rational thought, and we also get emotion and feelings. Sometimes at the exact same moment, my brain will be saying “He loves and adores you, and isn’t going anywhere,” while my heart is beating out, “This hurts. He likes her more. He is going to leave you, because she is prettier, and smarter, and funnier, and he likes her vagina better than yours.”

I wish I was making this up. Those thoughts have actually gone through my head.

It’s insecurity, fear, vulnerability. It’s also a testament to how vested I am in this relationship. He is a vital part of my life. I think he’ll always be part of my life, though the roles may change as we each change. Our degree of entanglement may be different as we explore other relationships and as circumstances shift. I know this is true. But it still scares me sometimes.

I’m not even sure it’s really jealousy. It’s discomfort and fear, for sure. But jealousy is defined as 1. intolerant of rivalry or unfaitfhulness. 2.disposed to suspect rivalry or unfaithfulness, and 3. vigilant in guarding a possession. (http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/jealous)

SMF isn’t unfaithful, and he isn’t my possession.

(Alright, maybe I am just a little possessive. Sue me.)


This week is Meta’s birthday. I want to get her a unique and interesting gift.

Because she is unique and interesting.

She’s amazingly intelligent and she has an ass that I would kill for. (It’s a little bit intimidating, that ass; that’s how perfect it is.) She has great taste in shoes, she’s athletic and strong, she reads and reads and reads. (I’m fairly certain I couldn’t ever give her a book she hasn’t already read.)

Mostly, I just want to give her the perfect gift because I want her to know how important she is to me, and the effect that she has on my relationship with Special Man Friend. I think that for a long time, she and I were waiting for things to be easy, to be perfect. She and I didn’t choose to have each other in our lives. But SMF chose each of us, and that means we are linked. I wrote “Five Things”, for her, and because of her. She is a huge part of my experience with poly, and I’ve learned so much about myself, in processing what it means to share a partner with another person. With her.

So the gift has to be unique. I want it to mean something, even if it means more to me than it does to her. She’s my people. She’s my constellation.


I do love flirting.

I’ve got a new little online friend who says the sweetest things to me, with just a subtle undertone of more to come.  It’s the perfect balance of expectation and a light-hearted back and forth with another person, who is still a mystery to me.  I enjoy the tease, and the anticipation, wondering what might happen.  He lives hours (and hours) away, and we have a coffee date planned for an upcoming weekend when I am in Portland for a girl’s weekend.

Polyamory simply lends itself so easily to different types of relationships.  Significant to casual, time-intensive to intermittent, there’s freedom to allow things, people, relationships, to grow organically;  to be what they are going to be.  My new friend is smart and funny and open, and he lives far away.  So what.  Maybe we will be great friends and occasional lovers.  Perhaps there won’t be an iota of chemistry, and coffee will be the end of it.   Then again…

That’s pretty hot, right?

(I really hope that Portland doesn’t read this before we have coffee next week.  But he probably will.  Because that’s how awkward girls like me roll.)

~The Girl~

[Note: Originally written as I began to explore kink. Not necessarily NSFW, but I have held back talk of kink here as I settled into a rhythm and focus for Poly Nirvana. This needs to be here now. This needs to be owned.]

I am a girl.

I love being a girl. I love the curls and the giggles and the flirty looks. I absolutely adore the pink lips and the sweet perfume. Curled eyelashes? Yes, please. I get a little thrill when I’m click-clicking along in a great pair of heels and a man does a double-take and hesitates so he can hold a door open for me. I like my hips and my fleshy curves, and the way my body reacts to the right touch, by the right man, at the right time.

But what I enjoy most about being a girl is the illusion. The illusion that I am delicate and fragile and in need of a big strong man to scoop me up in his manly arms and protect me. In reality, I am fierce. Independent. Ferociously capable. I am in control.

I like control. It’s what I know. But I am completely, and utterly exhausted.

Exhausted trying to control things that are not mine to worry about. Tired of trying to say and not say, or do and not do, all the right things so that X, Y, or Z outcome will or will not happen. I am a strong, stubborn, self-sufficient woman, who is barely keeping her head above water, but doesn’t know how to let go.

Except for those moments, when I put on my prettiest pink lipgloss, and I smile happily at the man who has brought me a drink, or held open a door, or laid rope against my body in such a way that for a short time, my illusion of control is gone from me, and I can just be a girl, who is watched over and safe. I allow myself the surrender that will give me a few minutes of internal peace. I make a choice. A choice to be the broken girl who needs to be put back together, who needs to be shown that it can be good and safe to allow someone else to decide what’s next. I don’t choose where the flogger falls, or the crop lands. In that small space, all illusion dissipates, and I simply exist in my space, with no thought to what comes next.

Because being this girl is exhausting.

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