"Freedom's Just Another Word for" ...Hello...Hello?

It took Ceci another six years to get free of D1. The collection of newspapers, boxes and cans simply pushed her out of the apartment, but at least she had forced him to move up the New York City and had started a sort of career in the Theater, writing plays Off Off Off Broadway. There had also been another flirtation with a married man, but hardly a love of her life. He was hitting on every woman in the theater group to see which one would help him get out of the marriage. Ceci wasn't THAT dumb. So, she found an apartment in Montclair and left, even leaving the cat behind. It took a year to get D1 totally out of her life as he'd show up at her door, but at last she did. She said goodbye. Ever since then, it has only been goodbye. And now, the men barely noticed. The pool was dwindling and the ones still left out there had a damned good reason to be left out there. That's the thing, just when the men were feeling extra value due to their rarity, their value was dwindling because they could not commit to a woman. I think that it's not the losing that hurts, it's the goodbye. It is hard for women. It takes thought. It takes courage. And men barely notice. Men cut their losses fast and move on to the next one. And here I am again, heart in my hand, standing alone. No more men. It's time to get truly liberated. Get political. Get real. Alone.

That Old Devil Biology Keeps Rearing It's...Um...Head.

Which half of the sky do we hold up? It has to be the one with the clouds and wind. The part where there are downdrafts and tornadoes. Still, many of us do try to put the burden of everything on a man. Perhaps that's what I'm mourning right now. Not that I'm not sharing the burden with a man but that he never took it all off my shoulders. I was never valuable enough to do nothing but stay home, supervising the household. And if that's so valuable, why do men leave? Men don't leave. Real men don't leave. Any man can leave. I'm just starting to get a handle on the biology of it all. (No jokes on the word "handle".) Right when it's too late. Men don't want infinite numbers of children, but they feel the urge to go at it as if because that's what nature has set them for, if they are not mature enough to control it. I don't think women want infinite numbers of children or men. We want to have pleasure. We want to have love and affection. Most men do, too and it all works out for most of us for all of our lives. Men don't have enough money to buy infinite lingerie models and sadly, that's the only way they can get them. (AWWWWWW). As I've said before, Nature protects us from rape and kidnap by making more women than men, but it also makes for loneliness and frustration. All the machines on earth can't replace love and protection. And that goes both ways.

What Are We Doing About This Mess of a World? Seriously.

The woman who lives above me has panic attacks and worries about people killing her. She has barely left the apartment for a year (since the boyfriend left her there) and spends the entire day walking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, occassionally stopping to drop something. She should worry about ME killing her, but it is a wonderful metaphor for self-obsession destroying women. She doesn't volunteer to help the Poor. She doesn't battle the Tea Party. She doesn't have friends or lovers, she is just surviving with no idea why. Sometimes, I think that I am no different. I belong to various committees at Church. I belong to a few political organizations, but too much of my time I am obsessing about aging and men and Love, like I am doing right here. And nothing ever changes. Notice my delicacy. Notice my needs. Yeah...so? Don't the Poor and the kids and the disabled need a lot more? Delicate? Please! If you don't fall down, you're healthy and keep living. What am I contributing other than the sound of a whine? Why can't we be happy being loved for our leadership and skills? Perhaps that's why I'm not a leader and I'm not educated and I'm not helping anyone...pure, unadulterated self pity mucks up the work. And trust me, the self-pity is a human thing, for both men and women and grows worse in this economy. Damn it, no! If this whole exercise doesn't lead to making me a better human being, then I may as well be like the woman upstairs, walking back and forth like a Gerbil for 16 hours a day.

What is Love? Baby, Don't Hurt Me...Again

So, around 1978, Ceci had acquired another insane boyfriend, D1 M. invited D1 to a party Ceci was giving and while, when he kissed her, D1 never closed his eyes, betraying his insanity, Ceci once more gave in to the thrill of male attention and let him stay the night. Sex was his forte. Life, not so much. He was living with his parents, "working" for his parents (pay for no work) and collecting every piece of paper, tin, etc. he touched as his touch made it valuable. He refused to say "I love you." Ceci was in her secretarial job at the Community organization when the door open and the Man Mountain we shall call D2 entered. Tall, muscular, hair down to his shoulders and a ZZ Topp beard, all dressed in denim, D2's eyes met Ceci's and the room cracked with chemistry. Did we mention the wedding ring? Or the kids? Ceci and D2 began chatting immediately, having lunch together...he would drive her home. D2 forbade her to speak of D1. It was only a matter of time until the kissing began. Then, the secret nighttime phone calls behind wife's back. Nothing more. One day, the office closed early and he drove her home, four hours before he was due home. They looked at each other. Talk about "I would not love thee half so much dear, loved I not honor more." Neither could hurt a woman or children, so he turned away and drove off. Ceci was shattered and numb, vulnerable to D1 as...something...anything. She became lost in daydreams and stayed there for twenty years, not even noticing who or what was happening to her. It was a recipe...for the modern female experience.

A Biopsy and a Sonogram in One Week is Enough

Despite this nasty little bout of Multiple Sclerosis, I've stayed fairly healthy, lost the weight enough to bring down the blood pressure, but not enough to be the mistaken for my former self. I'm wondering if they'll let me hold off on the thyroid pills till that twenty is gone? And something appeared on my gum that had to be excised and sent to the lab. Enough! How the Hell long am I supposed to live anyway? Do I want to be one of those retired people with nothing to do but drive from dentist to doctor, trying to eke out another week? Yes, if it is your Beloved, go for it, fight for it...I'm talking about me, who's looking at a wheelchair. I'm only 61, but already on a cane, which ages me ten years. I have to wear a jaunty hat and stride like a man to keep from looking like I need a Boy Scout. Managed to have two days of play readings. Discovered that a battery powered device can't replace everything about a man. Not the touch of his hand or the feel of his shoulder and all in all, that was a nice thing to remember. Nothing happened. We are friends and I thanked God for a moment of grace and gallantly stepped aside again for the Army of younger gals whom he prays are awaiting him. Started my first novel and found it goes well. Here comes winter in both senses of the term and am I ready? Can I shout loud enough and make enough pretty colors in the sky so I'm not shoved aside. We shall See.

Ceci Returns to Philadelphia in a Novel

As I've been threatening for years, I am writing a novel about the theater world that I know. It is about hanging on to the label of actor, playwright, director, whatever, even when you have never earned a cent in it. It is especially meaningful in the vast jungle reaches of that wilderness called The Upper West Side. You can have your friends work for free, rent or get the loan of a space and voila! You are still OF the Theater, if not IN the theater. Your friends and family buy tickets. You might even join a union or two but no health plan without income. But you are OF the theater. Cobble together the paying jobs, wear that jaunty little hat and carry your H&H bagel down the street with your New York Times. The gang gets together around the piano on a Saturday night and you are OF the Theater. And for those who live this lifestyle, on the Upper West Side...they are content. They are living in Nirvana. In Paradise. It is the dream found one way or another and God bless them. How different or how happy would I be if I had at least achieved that instead of being stranded on the wrong side of the River? How did Ceci get from Philadelphia to the Gates of Paradise and get left in limbo? It's called Flounder On A Roll, named for a sign in a deli in Manhattan Plaza and it is on it's way. Hello Beebee...do I recognize that leaf?

Ceci Meets Men In Philadelphia

So, Ms. Ceci has just put the down payment on a new apartment for her soon-to-be-ex husband. There was no other way to get him out. He immediately bought that stereo he had been dreaming of and she left him to sit on the couch in the new place, conducting Brahms and perfecting the perfect nose blow. M. was not your classically handsome young man, but he was whippet-thin and had long hair. His face, however did resemble the nose-mustache-and-glasses novelty mask. He looked Ceci over and declared "a plump housewife...let's see what we can do." Three months later, he had created the slender sex bomb he had desired and surprisingly enough, they declared their interest in other lovers, shook hands, said adieu, and remain friends to this day. This is how it should be. B., however, was as it should not be. He had worked at Columbia Pictures and had grown used to the slightly twisted sex life of Hollywood. His only work now was "directing" plays in Philadelphia and making the lives of women Hell. He was a great lover, he would have to be, but Ceci didn't want to play the games of Threesome or Pain. The day that B. tried the "psychological experiment" of punching her, she returned with a solid right cross to his jaw. She never saw him again and she had no psychological damage as she had connected and worked it out. Thus was Ceci introduced to the modern man of the 1970's.

Who is Ceci and Why Is She Here?

Starting on November 22, 2010, my new blog called Ceci After Sixty will begin. In my mind, I had created an Avatar called Ceci. She was me at twenty-eight years old....skinny, sexual and not too bright about men. It was 1977 and there were still places to dance the night away. Ceci was living in Philadelphia and had just left a bad marriage. I don't know how far I will be willing to go with it, but let's find out. We talk about Feminism. We talk about the enormous respect we have for women, but the differences between men and women as they age are huge. Do we cut and paste and dye and tumble everything to actually look younger or do we look like an old lady who cut, pasted and dyed? It's not men's fault that nearly every man of any age has a value. We do that. Women do that to men. I want to get beyond that and the only way to do that is to accept being utterly, completely alone. Once done, where do we go from there? How do we grow? How do we experience? Is the ability to buy infinite young wives good or bad for men? And ladies, men really don't care if they are buying, because, as one told me: "That's why you earn the money." This one, Ladies, will need participation from all of you and don't give me New Age, Bright eyed Smoke and Mirrors. I want every lonely moment and singular triumph. We in this together. Alone together. Make it work.