Woohoo

     Sometimes, a girl just has to let loose.

     I usually shop for groceries at a giant wholesale warehouse filled with huge packages of everything. One of the side benefits to shopping at this type of store is that they usually have the best-designed carts.

     The wheel base is wide, so they don’t tip over. The handle is thick enough to get a good grip. The lower rack is a solid platform on which to stand. I’ve tested myriad grocery stores’ carts and most are not safe at high speeds.

     After paying for my groceries, I wait in line for the doorman to check the receipt against the contents of the cart. Once through the door –- and my children expect this now -– I put my purse into the cart, check for traffic, put my right foot on the bottom rack of the cart, and I’m off!

     I push the cart as fast as I can to the car. About five meters before the car I jump off and run to a walk. Then I look back to see my children walking along as if nothing extraordinarily fun and satisfying just took place.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" by Jennifer Ann Gordon, Copyright 2009. All Rights Reserved.

Scooterrific

      My best scoot ever was coming home from the grocery store on a brilliant summer day. The luscious salty sea fragrance filled the air. I was wearing a miniskirt, t-shirt and sneakers. My bag of groceries was on my handlebars and I held a magnificent bouquet of flowers across my handlebars with both hands as I steered. I sang. “I feel like a bride,” I whispered to myself.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" by Jennifer Ann Gordon. Copyright 2009. All Rights Reserved.

Happy Wheels

     When my children were quite young, each one of us had a scooter. These scooters were the kind you pushed with a foot like a skateboard and steered with a handlebar. They had a little brake on the back wheel to step on when you got going too fast. And they folded up, so they were easy to carry.

     We lived near the San Francisco Bay and scooted everywhere. To the grocery store –- each child draped a bag over his handlebars en route home. To the beach. To karate lessons. To school. We rarely drove. I loved it!

     When we moved to the countryside, the distances between everything were so great and there were no sidewalks, so scooting did not work anymore. I really miss scootin'! The first thing I'll do when we move to a metro area again is to buy more scooters.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" by Jennifer Ann Gordon, Copyright 2009. All Rights Reserved.

Loneliness

     My jazz concert husband experience leads me to write about a different kind of loneliness. In my experience there is loneliness born of fear, self-doubt,  overwhelm and society-induced expectations. But then there is a different kind of loneliness that aches and echoes from great beauty and joy, that natural inclination to share the beauty, make love about it, celebrate it. This is a loneliness that derives from the passionate desire to share laughter and life most precious.

     Sometimes, I feel so happy that I start to be this kind of lonely. I feel so rich, that I don’t know what to do with myself.  I’ve learned the hard way that I musn’t seek another during these times or assume a Manguin is perceptive enough or willing to see and celebrate with me (assuming is a great way to get into trouble). Rather, I’ve learned that I must create when I’m in agony from being so full of bliss. A poem. A painting. A cake. Something. Anything.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" by Jennifer Ann Gordon, Copyright 2009. All Rights Reserved.

My Jazz Concert Husband

     Louis Armstrong liquefies me. Brings me to my knees. Melts me into Jnfr-butter. When I hear Louie, I want to make love, to dance slowly, to paint.

     My son Justin is a jazz trumpeter. He loves Louie, too. When Justin solos, I can’t move. Every cell in my body listens. I drink in every note. And this is not just because Justin is my son. Honest! His playing affects people. He has it -- the ability to converse, to transport people to his colorful universe through music.

     Justin has two mouthpieces for his trumpet. One I call “Dark Chocolate.” The tone is rich, conversational, a bit grittier. The other I deem “Milk Chocolate” for its brighter, more sparkly tone.

     Justin’s musical expression is so full of feeling. I like to watch him play almost as much as I like to hear him play. When he is soloing, he is at the height of receptivity, intuition and beauty, at the epicenter of the pulsing heart of creation. He’s one-hundred percent Justin.

     I was helping with Justin’s high school music program’s spring concert. I forewarned my fellow parent-workers that when Justin solos, I quit working and listen and that this was non-negotiable. Parents themselves, they understood completely.

     I stood motionless and listened to Justin’s second solo. The beauty of it was so intense that it was almost painful. A man I had always considered strange and obnoxious walked up, stood by my side and, without a word, put his arm around me. I lay my head on his shoulder. We listened like that for minutes. Perfection. I wrote him an email to thank him for paying attention, for being there.

     And I was humbled. Before the concert, I had judged this man, put him in a nutshell, and even joked about him with my son. But he was the one who paid attention and responded to the moment. (R.S.V.P., n’est-ce pas?) Whereas before I avoided him at all costs, since that concert we have become friends in a howdy-do sort of way.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" -- Copyright 2009 -- by Jennifer Ann Gordon. All Rights Reserved.

Cake

     I like cake. Cakes are celebratory. And pretty. Cakes are romantic. Can you imagine being sent an exquisite, elegant cake from your lover? Or fed cake by candlelight on a summer evening? Evening miniature cakes, petits-fours, are delightful. What about a picnic with petit-fours? What about sitting alone with a slice of cake and an espresso, overlooking the ocean? Cake holds infinite possibilities for elegance, romance and celebration.

    The owner of a local bakery-café heard that I was an artist and asked to see my work. While I had several paintings ready to show, her inquiry inspired me to paint a giant cake. In fact, it’s over one square meter of cake heaven.

    Spreading the pink paint-frosting on the three-tiered cake, I began to feel celebratory. I decided to add some grapes that became lilac blossoms, and then some leaves. (The leaves weren’t quite right, though. Someone asked if they were jalapeño peppers. I didn’t care. I decided not to mess with them.)

     The background evolved, along with the table cloth. I decided to paint the tablecloth gold to signify a rich life and to fill the background with the colors of joy, swirls of yellow and white and blue -- of music and laughter and anticipation. I decided to uh-myooz myself by adding one more thing. I wrote the word gâteau (cake in French) on top of the cake. This pleased me. A sort of private joke. Obviously, this was a cake. To state the obvious completely cracked me up. Gâteau.

     The owner of the bakery came over to choose some paintings. Interestingly, she didn’t choose the cake (probably due to the jalapeños).

     So ... the enormous pink gâteau now hangs in my dining room, an every-day reminder to celebrate life.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" -- Copyright 2009 -- by Jennifer Ann Gordon. All Rights Reserved.

Manguin

     My last conversation with Louis occurred when I bumped into him at the grocery store. I was really excited to tell Louis that Manguin stayed in the trash. He congratulated me.

     Louis is a fabulous married friend of mine who really “gets” women. Every conversation with Louis is nourishing. I always leave Louis feeling heard, honored, fascinating and beautiful.

     I was shopping one day and found a small ceramic mama penguin wearing sunglasses just like mine, with her three penguin children. Honestly, these penguins were an accurate portrait of my family in a penguiny sort of way. They looked just like us!

     At the time, I was entertaining the notion of marriage to my then-boyfriend. It was an on-again-off-again affair. I just couldn’t commit. The whole relationship felt scrambled.

     As I looked at these penguins in the store, I thought they’d be perfect atop my wedding cake. The only glitch was there was no boy-penguin. Then I saw a lone ceramic boy penguin on the shelf. So I scootched him close to my children and me and decided to buy them.

     Eventually, I broke up with my boyfriend. Rather than get rid of Manguin (man+penguin=Manguin), I decided to use him to visualize a mate. I have this glass bottle shaped like the Eiffel Tower. As I am a passionate Francophile, I decided to place my family and the mysterious Manguin in France by Le Tour Eiffel.

     Sometimes, I and my children would gaze at the Tower, and Manguin would notice us from afar, charmed by the scene and longing to find an excuse, any excuse, just to talk with such a stylish, fascinating woman who loved her children so incredibly much.

     Other times, Manguin was actually with us at the Eiffel Tower. Manguin felt so blessed to have such a great family and we were having fun! He was showing my daughter a map of France. He and I were deeply in love. And he read lots of books, spoke French fluently, and was a great kisser!

     I changed the scenarios daily.

     Whenever I returned home after a particularly abysmal date, I put Manguin in the cupboard. Also, when I was feeling financially well-off, Manguin would usually go away for awhile to give the mama time to celebrate her independence and wholeness.

     One day, Louis came over to fix a plumbing problem in my bathroom. He saw the mama penguin and her three fabulous children enjoying their time in Paris. I told him everything. He asked questions throughout to make sure he understood (something I so cherish about Louis -- he’s interested).

     Then I showed him Manguin, who was upside down in the bathroom trash can. Just having been the target of an Internet love scam based in London (I kid you not -- I now call Internet dating “snatch-dot-con”), I decided that I had no clue how to meet the man o’ my dreams and that I had better give up trying. So I threw Manguin away.

     Louis said, “I bet he’s out of the trash in three hours.” I laughed, knowing well my resiliency and pattern of eternal hopefulness, even when it works against me. But I never did pull Manguin out of the bathroom trash. The trash can was emptied into a bigger trashcan outside. The disposal company came on my regular trash day and emptied the big trash can, along with Manguin, into their truck and hauled him away.

     I and my children are now on my kitchen shelf enjoying Paris wholeheartedly. I haven’t given up hope. But I no longer feel that finding my Manguin is a project with a timeline, or a project at all. My hope remains, but it no longer feels like an insatiable hunger. I have learned how to nourish myself daily with friends, art, children, life, ideas and silence. Being starved –- not nourishing myself, but looking for a mystical other to nourish me -- is what has led to every misadventure in love I’ve ever had. Being starved led to my ignoring everything I knew from my molten magma core, those proverbial red flags and other things that did not make sense.

    Now I feed myself daily, take good care of moi-même, and know that I’m able and responsible for living my own big, fabulous life of joy. I enjoy this demandchallengeprivilege, even though, oftentimes, it feels like a battle because neither societal norms nor the media support women’s wholeness.

     Walking my own life only makes me stronger and clearer as I learn to nourish and honor myself. Counter to popular belief,  I am convinced that no one is able to do this for me. Nor do I want anyone to do this for me. And bless those Manguins who love us for our wholeness and independence!

     When I do wander off course, I quickly remember how disinterested I am in looking at a man as a “solution.” How boring and terrifying must it be to be considered the solution to a life found wanting? I certainly don’t want to be anybody’s “solution.” 

     I don't want to be a noun at all. I want to be a verb, an action word! I want a Manguin who is a verb, too. I want to see my life and everyone around me with new eyes every bon jour and celebrate it. And to establish the habit of celebrating myself everyday.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" -- Copyright 2009 -- by Jennifer Ann Gordon. All Rights Reserved.

How to Speed Things Up

     Recently, I had a fresh thought that excited me. Patience increases our velocity. Impatience slows everything way down. This understanding helps me considerably.

     I reason that if I want things -- relationships, projects, learning -- to flow smoothly and full steam ahead, then I must be patient. When I am feeling anxious, impatient or pushy, I slow or obstruct good things from happening.   

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" -- Copyright 2009  -- by Jennifer Ann Gordon. All Rights Reserved.

Tragedy

     There is absolutely nothing on earth so important that we need to honk, push, hurry, pressure, swerve, force, and, possibly, kill to get there.

     The tragedy of impatience was illustrated in the Oakland Tribune’s lead story one day. A car had its right-turn indicator on at an intersection. Even though the traffic light had turned green, the car was not moving. The  impatient driver in the car directly behind this car –-who also wanted to turn right -- honked at the stationary car, then swerved around it and made his right turn.

     The stopped car had not proceeded because a child was crossing the street. The child was not visible to any but the stopped driver. The impatient driver who raced around the stopped car and made his righthand turn hit and killed the child.

     I carry this example of the fatal nature of impatience with me every single time I get in my car.

[Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" -- Copyright 2009 -- by Jennifer Ann Gordon. All Rights Reserved.]

Iris

     I had never gardened before. Twenty-one years old and newly married, I lived in a condominium with a tiny backyard.

     A friend gave me some iris bulbs from her flower beds to plant. Very carefully, I planted each bulb, just the way she had instructed. The leaves appeared. They were so strong and beautiful. But nothing else happened. I waited. And waited.

     And then I saw irises in full bloom at the florist. As I didn’t know anything about hothouses, I immediately assumed that my irises were defective because they hadn’t yet bloomed. I pulled all the bulbs up. There they lay, some with their leaves ripped off, on the patio.

     The friend who had given me the bulbs stopped by. When she saw the destruction, sh exclaimed, "What the hell have you done?" I told her why I had pulled them up, that they were defective because they hadn't bloomed yet. "Jennifer," she said, "They are not supposed to bloom for another two months!"

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" by Jennifer Ann Gordon -- Copyright 2009. All rights reserved.

Jnfr-Time

     Impatience has been the bane of my existence for too long. Finally, I’ve learned to recognize the first signs that I am feeling impatient and refuse to go there.   

     I’m rarely impatient with people. And never on the road. The type of impatience in which I specialize is impatience with the gestation time after the conception of an idea, that very important period of development and refinement before the idea is born and bears fruit.

     I believe that my impatience is due, in part, to my skewed sense of time. I’m a lot like a dog where one human year equals seven dog years. From my perspective, the ratio is about the same for jnfr-time, except one human month equals seven Jennifer-months.

     So, I usually feel that things do not happen fast enough or that nothing is happening because I don’t see immediate results. Many times, clients have thanked me for my quick results. I stare at them blankly because it feels to me like the work has taken an eternity to complete.

     Jnfr-time has also led to a few glitches in my time management regarding setting impossible expectations for myself and my clients regarding delivery. To help with this, I have a little formula I use: y=2.5x, where “x” is the amount of time I estimate the project will require and “y” is the time it will really take for things to wrap.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" by Jennifer Ann Gordon -- Copyright 2009. All rights reserved.

My Crowning Achievement

    I was backpacking in torrential rain at Point Reyes National Seashore in Northern California. A few other backpackers dotted the beach. Several of these dots were trying, unsuccessfully, to start a fire.

     Several years prior, a friend had described to me how he had made a fire in a downpour while camping in Canada. On the beach in the rain was a good opportunity to try to do this myself, I thought.

     I hunted for driftwood. I organized the pieces of wood into piles -- tiny, slightly bigger than tiny, and on up to prettydarnbig.

     The key is to build a Barbie-doll-sized fire first. Take the tiny, teeny pieces and arrange them in a little campfire shape. Then shield it from the wind and the rain while you light it and it takes. Once you have this miniature fire going well, carefully add the next size wood pieces one at a time until that slightly larger fire is ablaze, and so forth.

     It worked! In the pouring rain, my driftwood bonfire was unquenchable. Soon, the scattered dots on the beach formed a circle around my fire. My fellow travelers asked me, “Howonearth did you do this? We tried, but couldn’t get it to light.” I just smiled. I did not mention that this was my first fire in the rain.

     The key to good fire building is to refuse to be in a hurry. It takes patience to build a fire, just as it does to build anything else warm and wonderful.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" -- Copyright 2009 -- by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Bonfires

     Bonfires are fun. Bonfires are hard to resist. They invite even extreme perpetualmotionmachinebrains to sit and rest. Bonfires are the perfect excuse to do nothing. Around a bonfire, people can talk or not. Around a bonfire, silence is comfortable. People are often content just to stare at the flames.

     I want to live a bonfire life. To be so lit up that I am a warm, comfortable place for people. Welcoming. A reason to slow down and relax. A do-nothing portal of warmth and simplicity. And, I want to be hot enough to be dangerous!   

     Bonfires beckon. A crackling bonfire is an irresistible beacon. Ah, a beckoning beacon bonfire. Lovely alliteration.

From "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Fire for Sooty

     I do not recall ever being called “Jennifer” by my dad. How he came up with “Sooty,” I will never know.

     My dad celebrated winter by building roaring fires in the fireplace. In fact, he made his fires so hot that the fireplace bricks began to crumble. When it rained on the tin roof over the patio, I loved to read in the living room and listen to the drumming.

     On occasion, my dad emerged from his darkroom in the garage and said, “Sooty, you need a fire!” And then he built me a fire. I’d lie on the floor in front of the flames with the rainbeat and read to my heart’s content.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Flame

     Every home needs flame. A fire. Even if it’s a little one, like the flame on a candle. Flame is vital. Flame is heat, radiance, movement, passion, romance, enlightenment, color and quiet.  

     I try to incorporate flame in my everydays. A bath by candlelight. A fire in the fireplace. The inimitably warm and soothing light that can only come from fire.

     Sunrise always feels like a sacred ritual to me, one in which a giant candle is lit as a benediction of light and hope for the day. Ah, oui. Le soleil. The ultimate flame on my life’s candle.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Penguins

    My three children and I were in Kristi’s salon, waiting to be coiffed. Justin went first. While Kristi was creating the perfect cool-boy haircut, she sighed.

     “I wish I was a penguin,” she said. “Then I wouldn’t even need a snowboard.”

     And then she began to imitate a penguin on the slopes snowboarding with abandon and untold joy -- on its belly. This is the funniest comedy routine I’ve ever had the pleasure to enjoy. The kids and I still talk about it.

     Kristi is a phenomenal athlete. She was a professional snowboarder. Now she races motocross at high levels of competition. Lately, she has added skating for a local roller derby team to her repertoire.

     What I love about Kristi is her untainted imagination, her vivid soul, and her ability to play.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," - Copyright 2009 - by Jennifer Ann Gordon.

Planet Starbuckia: Wild Hair Artist

     Admittedly, I’ve met some people at the Starbuckian watering hole who have become cherished characters in my life.

     My wild hair artist, Kristi, is one of them. I heard Kristi before I saw her. Engrossed in my book, I heard life and glorious rebellion amongst the Starbuckians. A woman’s voice -- bountiful cursing, shrewd humor and vulnerable honesty -- all in one power-packed little person with wild hair and tattoos galore.

     Kristi, a local, became a regular for awhile. I listened intently whenever she spoke because, well, she was hilarious and fascinating. She acted out her encounters with people, imitated her dog Sam, and was very, very smart but had no idea just how brilliant she was.

     After several sessions of eavesdropping, I asked her if she was a writer. She was shocked. She told me, “No,” and that she had read only one short book her entire life. I told her that she thought like a writer, was brilliant, observant and interesting, and that I hoped she would start writing because she had a lot to say. She was flummoxed.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009 by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Planet Starbuckia: The Chihuahua

     One of the more interesting conversations I had on Planet Starbuckia happened because I burnt my tongue on some hotlava tea. “Ow!” I yelped. “The Chihuahua” heard me and asked if I was all right. He suggested I take the sippy lid off the cup to allow the tea to cool. We started to converse.

     I called this man “The Chihuahua” because he was nervous and nippy most of the time. His eyes were restless and it was impossible to hold the conversation to a theme for very long. But, once he got rolling, he was a great storyteller. I especially enjoyed his Tom Sawyer-like stories of growing up in Missouri.

     When he found out I was a writer, he told me that he was writing a novel. (Everyone’s a writer, it seems.) Then he asked me if I would ghostwrite a chapter for him that he was having difficulty with. So I did. It was about three men, colorful characters, rafting the South Fork of the American River just a few miles from where I live. I had a great time doing the research and writing. Later on, I found out he scrapped the project.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009 by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Planet Starbuckia: The Art of Conversation

     Then there were the two Starbuckians, professional athletes, who would look at people’s body shapes and guess what drink they were going to order.

     Or, the man to whom I referred as “Mr. Repulsive” for years because he told me that he liked woman who showed their respect for him by not looking him in the eye. This same guy ogled thirteen-year old girls from their feet to their neck, always lingering around the chest.

     Some of these Starbuckians were pleasant enough when they talked about themselves. Entering the conversation as an equal, however, was a lot like playing double-dutch jump rope. I held my hands out mirroring the rhythm of the two turning ropes, waiting for the right time to jump in. Then I would run in to jump, but the rope turners would stop turning. Once the conversation was back on track, i.e., focused on themselves, the jump rope game began again.

     These treks to Starbucks usually left me depressed about the dearth of desirable and eligible men, but I kept going back for more because I was lonely.  In fact, I could tell that I was feeling happier and more whole when I no longer was willing to waste my precious life on such conversations.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Planet Starbuckia: Ewwww!

     One summer morning, I sat outside on the patio at Starbucks sipping my adjective-laden, custom-concocted cup of java. One of the flawlessly regular Starbuckians joined me. “I like women with little boobies,” he said. My slack jaw went unnoticed. He had no idea the umbrage I, a woman (and a voluptuous one at that), took. I asked myself whatonearth is it about me that invites men to tell me such bizarre things?

     His subsequent narcissistic monologues filled me in on many more details about his life than I had ever wanted to know. And after frequenting that Starbucks store for three years, I knew all his self-perceived accomplishments, about his children, his mother, his dad’s little gems of wisdom and his ex-wife.  

     After three years of lopsided conversation, he didn't even know that I had children.   

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

The Starbuckians

     We had just moved from the San Francisco Bay Area to a small town in the Sierra Nevada foothills.

     While the kids were in school, I often wrote at Starbucks just to be around other adults. At the time, this was it, the only Starbucks around, the hot spot for the town’s singles and teens and seniors and most everybody else.   

     Jokingly, I called this Starbucks “‘Bucks” because, although Starbucks strives for the utmost consistency in its customer experience, this particular store felt quite different. It was filled with plaid and snow boots of skiers en route to the ski resorts up the mountain, kayakers, local lawyers, and a group of men I called The Starbuckians.

     The Starbuckians were the welcoming committee to all new female “regulars.” They were men between thirty and one hundred ten years old who welcomed any woman willing to put up with their stories about how fabulous and fascinating they were. I liked the Starbuckians for their reliability. Generally, they were in the same seats at the same times everyday.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Brave Hair

     It boggles me that women could consider wearing a certain hairstyle “bravery.” Actually, it makes me sad. When being yourself becomes an act of bravery, something is off.

     The beauty of hair is that it grows back, so changing hair is a temporary and risk-free micro-adventure, a good place to begin to take chances.

     When trying new things becomes unnatural, I know that that my free, spontaneous nature is eroding. When fitting into the norm starts to dictate personal choices, then my heart numbs and life consists of going through the motions.

     For me, this usually happens when I forget who I am and doubt my intuition, when I think others are smarter, more successful, more fillintheblankhere. It happens when a spirally not-peg tries to fit into a square hole.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Big Hair

     Several months after moving to the sticks, I was depressed about the lack of amenities one finds in the city. I couldn’t find a genuine hair artist anywhere up in the boonies. Wings from the seventies and big hair, shags, frizz-perms and bad color jobs were still en vogue in the foothills. I needed someone with San Francisco sensibilities.

     Then I bumped into zesty Kristi from ‘Bucks. She told me she was a stylist and had just opened her own salon. I was overjoyed. I made an appointment and discovered a fabulously avante garde, entertaining and giant-hearted artist.

     Almost daily, men and women stop me on the street to compliment my hair. Women call me “brave” and tell me they wish they had the courage to wear their hair the way I wear mine. I keep some of Kristi’s cards in my purse. Often I hand them a card and tell them to call my “wild hair artist.”

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Snowshoes

     What are my life’s snowshoes? What allows me to engage fully, but not sink into my environment and get stuck?

     My life’s snowshoes are my good habit of stimulating my creativity everyday. I’m an expert at incorporating those things I need to feed my creativity into my daily routine.

     For example, I rise really early to partake of the quiet “dark morning” (as my daughter used to call it) to center myself, to remember my dreams and to know that I can achieve them. To remember my connection to all else.

     I’ve carved out a reading time, too. Ah, books! I must read everyday. I hang out with people of like hearts and unlike minds. World news and people provide me with diverse perspectives, new insights, and lots and lots of ideas.

     When I forget to do this, I am quite fortunate to find myself upside down in the snow almost immediately. Then, I right myself, brush the cold from my being, and carry on.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Crunch

     Life needs crunch. 

     Life without crunch is like crème brulée without the crunchy thin layer of burnt sugar on top. While the crème is good, it needs that delicious crunch of the brulée to be a fabulous dessert.

     Crunch is simple. Crunch is definitive. No one can undo a crunch. Crunch is the result of some action. Maximum crunch needs ordinary moments to be fully appreciated.

     My life is crunchy. Just the way I like it. I fill my everyday with crunches of all sorts.

      My favorite crunch is the rhythmic crunch of snowshoes, mingled with breathing at high altitude. It’s the perfect percussion. Crunch-inhale-crunch-inhale-crunch. Warm breath hitting cold air. Little clouds that hang in front of my face for just a moment.

     Snowshoes are magical crunch. They transform a Ferch Arbennig (F.A.) into a forest creature. Snowshoes are freedom. They keep an F.A. from sinking into the stream beneath the snow or falling into the hole around the tree while she unveils her wild heart in wild places.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Scrutiny Mutiny

     It’s easy to get tangled up inside a painting while creating it. To lose perspective and overdo until the power of the expression is dulled or killed. When I was in my teens, I discovered a way to tell if a painting or drawing worked or not, if it was or was not finished.

     I hold my drawings and paintings up in the mirror. If the reflection feels complete and balanced, no matter which way I hold the work to the mirror, then I joyfully abandon the painting.

     Looking at a reflection in the mirror provides the necessary separation between creator and creation. I’m sure that somebody has written a thesis about this, but I don’t really care. I know that it works for me.

     Yes. When I hold my artwork up to a mirror, the painting is looking back at me! I become the artwork under scrutiny! Is this, ahem, scrutiny-mutiny? (Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.) I so enjoy my twisty adventure of art and reflection.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Hideout

     For nearly four years, I had an art studio on the second floor of a barn. Hay doors opened out to the countryside with a view of the snow-covered Crystal mountain range in South Lake Tahoe, California. Sweet little bats decided to hibernate in the sleeves of my paint-splattered green silk jacket. There was a lot of room to paint really big paintings. No heat or cooling system.

     I lose all track of time when I am painting. In the winter, I tended to paint with warm, tropical colors to keep warm, painting for hours without a break, feeling no cold. But when that painting was complete, when it was time to clean brushes and leave the studio, I realized I was frozen.

     In the summer, my acrylics would turn to dry rubber on my palette. It was so hot that rivers of sweat would run off the tip of my nose, elbows and from under my breasts. I didn’t mind one bit. I wore only a sarong around my waist. Turned on some opera or whatever music I was feeling at the moment. And, often, I chose to create in sacred silence.

     Sometimes, I invited friends to have coffee with me in the studio. It was a special kind of secret fort. I brought my percolator out there, along with some cream and cookies, and we’d have a great time.    

     I really loved that studio! It was separated from the house by fifty yards or so. I liked listening to the children ask each other where I was. They checked all the rooms in the house. Eventually, their voices would get closer to my studio. Finally, one of them would look up through the hay doors and say, “There you are! We’ve been looking all over for you!”

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Mingled Heartbeats

No longing for anything now or hereafter, as we go home into the mountain’s heart. - John Muir

I.
the bones of my heart
have been scattered
piece by piece
i am picking them up
off mt. whitney
and reassembling them
around your absence
where are you?

II.
alpine winds
have become your breath
and celebrate
your freedom to venture
like john muir
into the wild places
alone and without fear.
are you climbing still?

III.
your exit has ripped
everything extraneous
superficial
self-conscious
and hesitating
from my desires
i feel cleaner
is this your last gift?

IV.
footprints everywhere
your passion
and sweetness
comfort me
i reach for your hand
but touch my sorrow instead
i kiss you goodbye
as my very core cries out
“don’t go”

V.
oh man of light
love’s magnificent
journey continues
not even death
can separate
mingled heartbeats
may the mountain peaks
you love so much
continue to bring you
sweet release

climb on
climb on.

jnfr

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Bones

“Never more, however weary, should one faint by the way who gains the blessings of one mountain day; whatever his fate, long life, short life, stormy or calm, he is rich forever.” - John Muir

     My lover died on his birthday. Glenn was descending Mt. Whitney when he slipped and fell one thousand feet. I was devastated.       

     Two kinds of grief engulfed me: (1) the grief of losing Glenn (2) the grief of believing that everything I really desire, really love, gets yanked away from me. That if I desire it, then it turns to dust. This second type of grief was the most painful. At the time, I didn’t feel deserving of anything good. It seemed that Glenn’s death was just one more piece of evidence that this was true. But now I know differently.

      Adding this burden of grief to the demands of single parenthood, I simply felt unable to function. Then my friend LeeAnne called.

   I appreciated that she did not try to tell me that I was going to be all right or that it just must have been Glenn’s time to die or that God had other plans for him or how wonderful it was that he died doing something he loved.

    Rather, she told me this short version of the story of La Llorona*:

    There was a woman who lost her lover in a tragic accident. She was so sad over losing her lover, that while she was looking for his bones, her tears formed a lake. She did not hear her children calling to her. She did not see them drowning in the salty lake. Finally, a strange silence caught her attention and she realized that her children had drowned in her lake of tears.

     Then LeeAnne said, "Jennifer, do not drown your children."

     This story was vivid enough to cut through to my heart and give me the glimmer of courage and resiliency I needed. La Llorona inspired the beginning of my poem, "Mingled Heartbeats." Amazing things happened after that. Comforting things. Within two weeks, I was playing with my children on the beach on Christmas morn in full joy.

Dymaxion

     Buckminster Fuller used the word dymaxion (1) as a brand name for many of his inventions. “Dynamic” plus “maximum” plus “ion.” Dymaxion means maximum advantage with minimum expenditure of energy and material. Dymaxion. True conservation. The perfect business goal. A way of living. The opposite of stinginess or fear. So exciting!

     I wanted to name my company “Dymaxion something,” but it was already taken. So I asked my Web designer – an amazing inventor, musician and artist in his own right -- what he thought about “Dynamic Maximum, Inc.”

     “Ugh, Jennifer! Buckminster Fuller devoted his life to finding dymaxion solutions to global problems. Dynamic Maximum is going in reverse. You’ve just re-complicated something Bucky devoted his life to -- eliminating waste.

(1) From http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dymaxion

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

How to Uh-myooz a Man

     My friend James and I were discussing relationships, and he was curious about my list, “How to Amuse a Woman.” So, I sent it to him. He replied with his own list, “How to Amuse a Man,” as follows:

1. Show up naked.
2. Bring food.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

How to Amuse a Woman

     Tu mera dilha, tu meri Jhan Jhanee jah.

-- from a Nuserat Fateh Ali Khan song

     According to my friend Alexei, the meaning of this is akin to “my heart, my eternity ... has been well deployed to delight and amuse many Indian lasses around the world,” to the which Alexei added, “In fact, almost every single one I bump into.”

     This got me to thinking about being “well-deployed to delight and amuse,” which pleases me. So I pulled out Old Faithful, my dictionary: amuse [uh-myooz] (1) engage the attention of  (2) make laugh or smile. (1)

     It’s a marvelous criteria –- at least, partial criteria –- for a mate. Is he well-deployed to delight and amuse me? I decided to write a list of instructions to this end. I’ve printed several copies, so that I have them ready to hand to any gentleman who indicates interest. I must be high-maintenance. My shortlist is thirty-two. Oops. Thirty-four. Yikes. Thirty-seven?  Here they are:

HOW TO uh-myooz A WOMAN

(At least, me.)

1. Listen to her.
2. Grow everyday. Be a student of life, always learning, hungry, eager to learn.
3. Read a lot.
4. Grow and exercise a robust vocabulary. There is nothing sexier than a perfect word used at the right time. For example, “You really are a dreamboat.” It is a rare man who can express himself as such.
5. Flood life with music, art and literature.
6. Sing with abandon, regardless of skill.
7. Be curious about her everyday. Fascinated, even. Never assume you completely know her. Most certainly, do not put her in a ‘nutshell.’ No one is that simple or boring.
8. Smell good (or at least not bad).
9. Play. Relax into her, with her.
10. Laugh a lot.
11. Give her room.
12. Seek every opportunity to bless her.
13. Take time to get to know her. Knowing is an ongoing process. Refuse to give this up. I don’t care how busy you are.
14. Champion her. Believe in her.
15. Don’t try to solve her problems. It will only make her angry. She wants you to understand her pain, not make it go away.
16. Write well.
17. Be affectionate (as opposed to “horny”).
18. Pay attention to the details.
19. Love others. Compassion and humanity are très sexy.
20. Live your passion boldly.
21. Turn TV off. In fact, get rid of it.
22. Respond to her.
23. Do what you say you’re going to do.
24. Speak respectfully to her.
25. Be honorable.
26. Speak to her from your soul-depths.
27. Be honest with your pain. Be honest about your feelings. Take chances.
28. Trust her.
29. Touch her with the fingers of a blind man.
30. Dance with her, even if you or she are not good at it.
31. Light candles often.
32. Establish sacred rituals together.
33. Help clean up.
34. Love children, including hers.
35. Treat your relationship as a spiritual practice. Do not reduce it to societal standards.
36. Accept her as is. There is nothing more fatal than a fantasy.
37. And, of course, put the toilet seat down.

Cyclops

     My son Jacob bought a book on ventriloquism.  This book was filled mostly with suggestions of all the mischievous pranks one can pull once ventriloquism is mastered. With this book came a prop - a little pair of plastic eyeballs connected with a bent piece of plastic like the nose-bridge of a pair of glasses.     

     Evidently, it’s a must-have for any budding ventriloquist who begins by creating a character-puppet with his hand. Of course, this character needs eyes! Before school one morning, I saw Jacob slip the eyeballs-prop into his pocket. I asked, “You’re going to get in some trouble today, aren’t you?” Calmly he replied, “Yes.”

     He took the eyeballs to school, put them in place on his hand (which served as his puppet) and entertained his classmates while the teacher was trying to instruct.  The teacher got angry, broke the eyeballs prop in half and threw them away.

     When she wasn’t looking, he went through her trash, but could find only one of the eyes. He put this eye in his pocket and now, his puppet-hand is a Cyclops named Frederic. He thinks the entire episode is hilarious.

     The challenging thing is that I think it's funny, too, even though I shouldn't.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Big Yellow Pyramids

     A new version of swimming came into my life when I committed to training for a triathlon with an all-women team. (1)

     Before training for this triathlon (at age forty-nine), I had never swum in a straight line. I played in the water. Pulled a chain of children all holding hands and feet around in circles. Stood on my hands. Practiced holding my breath. Took turns singing songs underwater and trying to identify the song, an aqua version of “Name That Tune.”  I still play, but I’ve fallen in lust with swimming in a straight line ... mostly.        

     By the time the event arrived, I was mentally prepared, thanks to my coaches and fellow teammates. My mantra was, “Complete, don’t compete,” which was designed to calm me down and help me keep my eye on the goal. Growing up, the Gordon culture was extremely competitive and had nothing whatsoever to do with skill.

     While I doubted my readiness physically -- I needed ten more weeks of training, at least -- I knew I had to buck up, take the plunge and finish. 

     My station was set up.  Bike facing outward in the bicycle rack. A pan full of water to step into to rinse the sand off my feet, with a little towel to dry them, before putting on my socks and cycling shoes. Sunglasses. Cycling gloves. Sports drinks. Socks. Running shoes. Cycling shoes.  All my tri-accoutrements were laid out for maximum efficiency.

     The swim was the first stage. I gazed out at the lake. The course was marked with giant yellow pyramid-shaped buoys. The swimmers entered the water. I lagged a bit to avoid the flailing arms and feet.

     Then I took the plunge.  My inner-gyroscope was on alert. Any doubts I had previously about whether or not I’d be able to complete the swim vanished. My North Star was the big yellow pyramid buoy. I kept it in sight, never deviating from my course. Another swimmer accidently clunked me on the head with his arm.

     “Sorry,” he said.

     “No worries,” I said.

     I regained my composure and my bearings and continued on. Rounding the first yellow pyramid, I focused on the second yellow pyramid in the middle of the lake. This was easier because the sun was out of my eyes. I became more determined as I rounded the second pyramid. Straight as an arrow, I swam for the neon-orange markers on the beach. My hands hit the sand. I stood up and ran.

     The big, yellow pyramids taught me something about which I had read, but hadn’t fully realized until the tri. When the goal is measurable and in sight, it’s one thousand percent easier to reach it and have a great time doing so!

     After the triathlon, I realized that I had filled my life with endless and invisible goals, that I never knew where I was regarding anything. These nebulous goals were a lot like laundry. Just as one load is completed, another load of dirty clothes has been mysteriously generated. With laundry, I never feel as if I really accomplish anything.

     Now, I try to make sure that I have Big Yellow Pyramids for everything I undertake so I stay on course, complete the work and have something to celebrate.

Captain Krang

     The problem was that Captain Krang loved only Claire. When Claire first introduced us, the good captain was subdued and, while not accepting, tolerant.

     The first nervous night we spent together, we both sat at opposite ends of the couch. I held my dinner plate in my lap. Every few minutes, I threw a piece of chicken over to the good Captain. We bonded.

     The next day, he actually let me pet him and, soon, we were cronies. I always made sure that I was very communicative, quiet and gentle with the dear Captain.

     Two months later, Claire and her family returned home. She asked me whatonearth I had done to Captain Krang! “I’ve never seen him so calm and content,” she said.

     Also after she returned home, she shared that, before me, she hadn’t been able to find a dog-sitter who was willing to stay with the Captain because he was so unpredictable. Frankly, I’m glad she hadn’t shared this with me beforehand. I smiled.

     Sometimes, the best relationships, even with Schnauzers, are the ones that require great care and move like a deep, slow river, rather than a torrent.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Giotto and Mom

     The 13^th Century Italian artist and architect, Giotto di Bondone, my mom and I had a fabulous time together a few years ago. In fact, it was from this tea party with Mom and Giotto that I learned the potential my mom and I had to enjoy one another.   

     Both Mom and I are artists. Ever since I can remember, art has been our one safe meeting place or common ground.

     Mom had injured her foot and was relegated to the couch. We sat snuggled up with her enormous book of Giotto’s work in our laps for hours, talking about each story-drawing and feature. And we were asking questions. Equality, curiosity and listening with love were rare in our relationship. I soaked it in.

     Giotto became my friend that day. Not only do I love his bold style and his ability for details and vibrant storytelling, he’s now a happy connection to my mom.  I still turn to him for insight and inspiration, too. His style grounds and emboldens me. But mostly, Giotto reminds me how harmony with Mom feels.

     What a dreamy afternoon!

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Kristiana's Response

The aforementioned Kristiana's response to "A Woman's Mind Half Naked."

"You life people up

with your words."

-- KRISTIANA

Kristiana

     I met Kristiana while we were both in line at the food court, waiting to place our orders. The cashier asked the woman in front of the line, “What’s on your mind?” I mumbled underneath my breath, “That’s a loaded question.”   

     Kristiana, who was in line in front of me, turned around and asked me, “What is on your mind?” I replied, “Men.” She responded, “Me, too!” And that’s all it took. Fast friends for life. Even better, I found out she lived just a few miles from me.

     Several years later, I sent Kristiana a copy of this manuscript to be a test-reader. She had just read the chapter, “Comforting Java Joy,” and emailed me to tell me that her husband “G” brings her coffee in bed every morning. I’m still smiling.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Comforting Java Joy

     Times were rough. I felt pretty much like road-kill, a flattened carcass with my tail blowing in the breeze.

     Hope shows up, though, when we’re ready to receive it. This time, hope arrived in a cup of coffee. I was barely awake when I heard a light knock on my bedroom door. My precious friend Molly entered with a steaming cup of French roast with cream.

     Someone was serving me coffee in bed? Wow! Her gentle gesture made me feel like royalty, a cherished guest, bathed in honor and care. Even now, whenever I need to feel more confident and expectant of good, the moment of being served that beautiful cup of coffee in bed returns and comforts me.

     Over the years, I've learned that this is Molly's way of being. She is full of grace and the very best kind of surprises.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Ligamota

     Ligamota means “right back at you!” in Norwegian. As AuntJo, who lived in Norway for a few years, had never seen this written, she didn’t know how to spell it.  Ligamota became our special word.

     “I love you, AuntJo,” I’d say.

     “Ligamota,” she’d reply.

     In my unfathomable void of understanding of Norwegian or Japanese, I thought ligamota sounded like Japanese.

     Then I almost-dated a Norwegian. He said that he was looking forward to having lunch with me. I replied, “Ligamota.” He was thrilled. He knew exactly what it meant.

     I seized the opportunity to ask him how to spell one of my favorite words. Leigh Mode. That’s what I said, “Ligamota.”

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

"WoW" is "MoM" Upside Down

     I am Fercharbenig, human mage, in World of WarCraft. As you probably already know, “World of WarCraft” is abbreviated thus: WoW (which I was quick to tell Alexei was “MoM” upside down and that is, at least, part of who I am.)
     Alexei got me playing WoW for business purposes. I kid you not. I chose my name, Fercharbenig, because it's the only WoWish sounding phrase I know. And, it is a misspelling of the aforementioned "special girl" in Welsh. I should have been "Ferch Arbennig," but I ran out of space.

     I guess I could have chosen “Padigor,” which is the title of a small piece of an opera I'm attempting to write -- without the music -- just the lyrics, because I don’t know how to write music. And, I really like the epic pageantry of opera, with its pure and astounding human instruments.
     Back to WoW, though. I am in the United Kingdom Realm of Sporagger, which means that everybody is asleep while I am playing in California. Probably a good thing, considering that this is the first gaming I’ve ever done. I still run into walls a lot, get lost, and die on a regular basis. Because of the time difference, I am asleep while everyone else in Realm Sporagger is either defending or attacking one another. This is good, as well. It gives me a little more time to learn before I enter the fray.

     I was given my first mission, to slay ten Kobold Vermin, by a gentleman in an abbey. (What is the plural of “vermin?” Vermins? It doesn’t sound right.) My son Justin showed me how to aim and fire, which was extraordinarily helpful. Mission accomplished. “A piece of cake,” said Fercharbenig with mock confidence.
     And, I got annihilated twice because I was too trusting of a stranger. I approached this strapping man to say, “Hello!,” and maybe ask him out for a glass of wine. He was extremely rude and killed me.

     So then I wandered around for what seemed like hours as a spirit. Then, I got pissed and went back once I had a body again, to flatten that mean man, but didn’t know how to do it, so I was struck down a second time. I got lost. And attacked by a wolf, too. I was without my body a lot that night.
     My son Jacob says I suck at steering with the arrows. At one point, when the wolf was attacking, I got confused and ran around in circles and actually screamed at the top of my lungs. All three children ran downstairs to see if I was all right. I wasn’t, I said. “I’m being attacked by a bloody wolf! Help! Help me now!” Justin calmed me down and helped me learn how to fight.
     By this time, I needed to go home and collapse on my bed, but when I arrived back home (at the inn), nobody was there because everyone had been killed while I was gone.

     I told Jacob that Fercharbenig was very, very sad and felt she should have been there to help defend the Inn. Jacob said, “You would have been useless, Mom. You cannot even walk in a straight line.” And then he said, “Mom, your character doesn’t have feelings.” I said, “Yes she does! And she is SAD!” I am getting better, though, at navigating.
     The first day I began to play WoW, I asked Justin if Fercharbenig could swim, because she really, really wanted to swim! He said, “No, Mom. Fercharbenig is not a triathlete.”

     The very same night I slay ten Kobold Vermin(s), I accidentally ran into a lake and, guess what? I swam! It was glorious. Fercharbenig does the breast stroke really well. That’s my best stroke, too. Now, I look for lakes so I can swim some more. I am sure that, in the very near future, I will accidentallyonpurpose head straight for open seas.
     I’m still in the virtual Let’sPlayBarbies mode, but this, too, shall pass. What is the past tense of ”slay?” Is it “slayed?” Slewed? Slay? Slaughtered?

     And this is just from playing it thrice. I'm eager to learn more. I am as curious as Rudyard Kipling's “Elephant Child” with his "insatiable curtiosity."

     Also, based on my WoW experience thus far, you’ll be glad to know that chivalry is not dead, at least virtually. I was about to get mauled by a Blackroot Grunt, when this really big guy jumped out from behind a rock and slew-slay-slayed-slewed-slaughtered two grunts who were after me.  

    Blushing, I tell you that I really enjoyed the feeling of being protected by a gentleman, even a virtual one. This worries me.

     I liked that WoW character who saved me, oops, I mean, who saved Fercharbenig. He was alert and brave. I like the idea of men and women being warriors of the heart, warriors of the soul. All this from a game!

     Alexei is very encouraging. He promised that he'll hook me up with cash, get me to the auction house and ensure that I become a WoW warrior queen. Have I got connections, or what! WARRIOR QUEEN. Fercharbenig, Warrior Queen. I like, I like! I think I'll adopt that title for my company, rather than “Contessa” or “CEO” which I normally use.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Ferch Arbennig

     I collect words like some people collect stamps or teacups or coins. My dear friend James is from Wales. One day, his e-salutation to me was “Ferch Arbennig,” the approximate pronunciation of which is “Vechhhh Ar-BAY-neg.” (It sounds so much better when James says it.)

     Ferch Arbennig means “Special Girl” in Welsh. I liked this phrase so much that I graffitied it on my jeans in fat letters down the front of the right leg. I want to create a worldwide Ferch Arbennig club! Truly yours, F.A.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Aha

     Everyday holds so much aha potential. The last ten minutes of a meaningful conversation usually contain the aha. So stay with it.

     If I were to write aha instructions, they’d read: don’t be afraid to amble or to be tangential. Ahas rarely, if ever, come in a linear fashion. Ahas love to surprise us. Ahas are the harmonious, exciting and sudden convergence of seemingly disjointed concepts or information.  Spiral inward. Spiral outward. Sashay. Wiggle your hips. Listen intently. Ask, “What if?” Enjoy the journey.

     In business circles, an aha-approach is often referred to as "thinking outside the box." However, I like the idea of obliterating the box entirely. There is no box. "Box" and "thinking" don't belong in the same sentence.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Women Pirates

     I could really be a pirate if I just weren’t so sweet. Yep, my sweetness is a big problem to my piratey badself. Aargh! Admittedly, I do have pirate thoughts some times. These times are usually in business when I witness the good ol’ boy network, when I see women being cruel to women, or when children are treated unkindly. But, I digress. Back to women pirates.

     Women pirates. Fascinating. Leaders. Lovers. Daring do. Undaunted in the face of danger. Women of action. They were fierce and fabulous in their own right. Historically, they plundered and/or defended what society didn’t allow women to possess.  My take is that they were fed up being put in their places and decided to take action.

     There needs to be an epic movie about women pirates. Perhaps I'll write one.

P.S. Some of these femme pirates are fairly contemporary. Huang P'ei-mei led fifty-thousand pirates in China from 1937 to the mid-50s. Pirate Linda operated in the Philippines as late as the 1980s.

     Detailed information on women pirates is scarce. My interest in these women was piqued by a book AuntJo sent me, “They Went Whistling: Women Wayfarers, Warriors, Runaways, and Renegades” by Barbara Holland. I’m eager to learn more.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Sex & Sausages

     Ever see women mobilize? Women seem to know, intuitively, how to work together to create an environment of warmth for maximum cavorting and chortling.

     Sex & Sausages, an all-girl version of Oktoberfest. Fire in the fireplace, four women in the kitchen cooking bratwurst, and drinking cosmo cocktails and stout ale (and juice, for those who were abstaining for whatever reason).

     Where does the “sex” come in? We all watched the movie, “Sex & the City.” Leslie kept us grounded. “Those women are so spoiled,” she said. “Yes,” we all agreed. I defended the movie for the fun fashion and because the character Carrie was a writer. We all pontificated about the traditional male stereotypes transposed to their female equivalents in the movie. We got smarter and smarter as our glasses emptied and our bellies filled.

     I cherish these women. Somehow, we have created a deeply safe environment where we can be ourselves, listen to one another without judgment, pull together when someone is suffering, and laugh a lot.

     Our next all-femme bash will have a pirate theme, replete with eye-patches, telescopes, compasses, parrots, and skull-and-crossbones flags.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Only Half the Story

    My friend John was in the Marine Reserves. Recently, he was called to active duty to fight in Iraq.

     I asked John if he had ever heard of Gen. Smedley Butler’s book, “War is a Racket.” His jaw dropped. “How do you know about Gen. Butler?” he asked. I told him that I had read his book about the real motivations behind most wars and how he regretted participating in the racket of war to protect corporate interests at the expense of lives.

     John looked perplexed. Then he told me that the Marines talk about Gen. Butler quite frequently. They use him as an example of the ideal Marine and cite all his victorious campaigns over the world. But John had never heard anything about the conclusion the most decorated Marine General of all time reached -- that “War is a Racket.” They don’t mention that at all.

     Yep. The United States Marines are telling John and our other warriors only half of the story, which is dishonorable behavior, in my view. So, I sent John a copy of Gen. Butler’s book. I hope he passes it around.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

What if?

     Recently, my children and I attended a jazz concert by the touring U.S. Army Jazz Ambassadors at a local high school. Excellent musicians, all! The squirmy part for me was the “selling” of the Army to the youth which accompanied the music. The conductor invited the children to talk with the recruiter after the show. The phrase “Salesman of Death” came to mind.

     With each return to the glorious, alive, harmonious, diverse, soul food of music, I felt that I was lifted out again of my anguish regarding the Iraq War...  my disgust at the U.S. Military preying upon the innocence of youth, the children who trust us to tell them the truth, and the false advertising which purports to sell manhood, nobility, power, patriotism, bravery, adventure, respect and, well, coolness. Nationalistic talk filled the cracks in between songs and, along with it, my dismay. 

     What a paradox. Men and women in military uniform playing jazz! I wanted to show everyone the photographs taken by a United States Marine, a woman, who served in Iraq twice and who said, “Look at the hopelessness on their faces. No one knows why he’s fighting.”

     I wanted to give everyone a copy of “War is a Racket,” written by Maj. General Smedley D. Butler, one of the most decorated Marine generals of all time.

     Then a whatif vision appeared. What if every soldier from all the fighting factions carried musical instruments instead of guns? This was so easy to picture as, in a sense, they stood before me, a bold reality.  And instead of shooting one another with their weapons, what if they played their instruments at them? And then with them? What if? This fabulously intricate musical battle played out – the most amazing jazz every heard – with a mixture of all ethnicities’ music entwining to create harmony and color. What if?

     Let’s have a war of rhythm and melody, of flow! I couldn’t picture that the war would rage for very long. I pictured musician-soldiers from both sides uniting to create instead of to kill because music appeals to the highest in all of us. Music is irresistible. Music unites. Music heals.

     I pictured global political leaders singing at the summits and conferences, and responding to one another in song. Rather like an epic opera.

The concert wrapped up with a medley of each branch of the U.S. Military’s song. I smiled, thinking how I’d produce a music video with armies of musicians and their instruments.

     Sometimes I think about that old war story, “Christmas Truce,” the name given to several incidents in which fighting ceased and both sides came together to celebrate Christmas. Completely unpredictable and, yet, it happened. There are so many reasons to hope in this world. I have hope.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Great Sex After ...

... reading "A Woman's Mind Half Naked?" Really? The following response made me dance on my tiptoes, laugh out loud, and sit down to write more! (The names have been changed to protect the innocent.) Here is what a friend wrote:

“Jennifer, so great speaking with YOU!!!  I have a secret to share (though I'm sure you felt it...)  Yesterday was a hard one for me... [Harry] and I were having a really bad fight (which we like to call, growth opportunities, though it didn't feel like it yesterday...).  We didn't resolve it last night, which is rare for us, and this morning we were still steaming in our corners.  Over a cup of coffee, I opened your book, and realized through your incredible words of wisdom, your spirit, your grace, your beauty, that I was being AN IDIOT.  Life is indeed too short... I ran back to the couch [Harry] slept on, jumped on him and after a heart to heart chat (and some TREMENDOUS SEX!!!!) I returned red-faced to read the last 5 pages of your excerpt. 

THANK YOU, JENNIFER.

There are so many incredible insights in your message & heart... I LOVE 'no regrets' and the virgin concept... wow!  Your thoughts on arrogance, the mac & cheese, intuition... the YMCA, GRAAAATITUDE!, and my favorite: "it’s just a noisy 1%. I am not impressed."  These are so important and precious; your honesty and vulnerability are gorgeous.  MANY people will benefit from your words about your journey.

Thank you for the wonderful giftS of you, your book, a morning of great sex, the healing of a disagreement, and the smile of my face. I'm lying in the lavender and eating honeycomb dripping all over me! I admire you so very, very much.  And yes, you MUST write a book called "My Husbands"... what a great idea, such a truth...”

Honey

     I sat in Karen and Yiannis’ kitchen talking with Karen while she prepared her amazing gourmet fare. Karen is an artist. She creates fabulous, fresh, beautiful meals. Karen is my Patron Saint of Artful Food. She inspires me to live beautifully and bountifully.

     As Karen and I cavorted and chortled, Yiannis walked in. He held a tray with honeycomb dripping with lavender honey. Pulling his everpresent broad-bladed knife from its sheath on his belt, he cut a chunk of honeycomb and gestured for me to take it. “Eat. Take it in your fingers. Eat the comb, too.”

     I received this sweet, drippy gift and ate it. Then I licked my fingers. That honey tasted like life. Another sexy life moment with these two dear friends.  Life really is feeding others honey straight from our heart-hives. And receiving comb from the broad-bladed knife of a friend. Licking our fingers. Laughing.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Live Sexy

     I have friends who own an organic lavender farm. They distill their own essential oils and create natural beauty and aromatherapy products from their harvests. Yiannis and Karen are bounty, boldness, harvest and celebration ... and fragrant, gorgeous living. Some of my sexiest life experiences to date have been with these two on their estate.

     Yiannis chose the property because it was so much like his homeland in Sparta, Greece. He and Karen created their dream. Old olive trees line the winding way up to their house. An organic heirloom tomato garden. An organic vineyard with antique roses growing at the end of each row. A huge vegetable garden. Greek wine. Lavender crème brulée. Lavender barbecued salmon. Laughter. Fountains. Over 9,000 lavender plants. Grapes plucked from the vine, juice running down chins and arms. Tomatoes warmed by the sun, eaten right there in the garden. Sigh.

     One summer afternoon, Yiannis and I walked along the rows of lavender. I was wearing minimal summer clothing and could feel the sun bathing my shoulders, and caressing the back of my neck and legs. I told Yiannis that I would like to lie down in between the rows of lavender and be still, to just listen. He understood completely and left.

     There were thousands, if not millions, of bees of all shapes, sizes and frequencies buzzing around the lavender blossoms. I lay down. Looking up through the lavender plants, I listened to this Symphony of Bees. I didn’t think at all. The fragrance, music, sunshine, bees and me! Something clicked. Live life sexy! Enjoy! Pay attention!

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Surprise in my Emailbox

     Here is the story of the friend who kindled the flame in me to write "A Woman's Mind Half Naked." She was reading a best seller heartily recommended by Oprah. Every so often, she thought to herself, "This book is so boring. Jennifer should write a book!" Then she called me to tell me that I should write my book now and that Oprah really should know about it.

     I was ripe for the picking. This bit of encouragement was all I needed to begin. Isn't it amazing what happens when somebody believes in us? (I'd had the title picked out for years.)

     When I completed a portion of the book, I sent it to her for an honest review. Also at this time, I was feeling a little wobbly on my author-legs. I didn't hear anything from her for some time and dragged my feet carrying on with my book.

     Divine encouragement always shows up in unexpected places, though, when we least expect it. One morning, I opened up my emailbox and found this from that same friend:

“I just spent a week in Mexico and had a chance to read ‘A Woman's Mind Half Naked.’ You are so brilliant and this book is such a gift to anyone who reads it... when do I get the next chapters?! I'm chomping at the bit for more!! I loved it so much I did my own little study/survey. I had three women read what you sent, one was under 30, one was 75, and one was middle aged (i.e., me at 47, soon to be 48) and we chatted about our impressions and reactions. Well, most wonderful one, we ALL loved it. Your humor and wit made us all laugh out loud, your introspection and lessons learned made us nod our heads (remember the age differences!), your overwhelming sense of gratefulness for the large, and trivial, made us appreciative, your choice of language and delivery kept us on our toes, and finally, your words seemed to lift off the page and become part of us. No small feat Ms. Gordon!!!! You absolutely MUST send more. If I had the resources, I'd give you an advance to finish this terrific piece of literature and then offer to publish it. Don't take that lightly, I used to work in publishing! Unfortunately, my discretionary income goes to kibble for the pooch, gesso, and paint at the moment. But.......... if I win the powerball tomorrow I'd give you half to get this finished and published... and of course to treat yourself to some small indulgences that have been sorely missing from both our lives like cabana boys and $800 bottles of very yummy vino. I'll keep you posted.

I think about you often but life and work is very busy so I can't communicate as often as I'd like. I'm so glad I had a chance to read your book, it made me think about why I do what I do, what is important and to stop occasionally and take the time to breathe and be thankful. You are such a talent and a great human being... oh gosh, I'm going to get all mushy so I'll just end with, FINISH THE F***ING BOOK SOON!!! And, of course come East so we can visit and play!”

Packed Dirt Floor

     When I first entered the Pueblo Reservation in Taos, New Mexico, I felt extremely uncomfortable. Standing there, I quickly identified my discomfort as coming from a sense of separateness and observation, rather than feeling one beating heart. There I was uninspired. It felt unholy –- almost to the point of unbearable -- to look upon the Pueblo people and culture as curiosities, or as separate from myself.  I couldn’t make myself enter the shops.

     I stood by the brook, listening. All of a sudden, I had to be barefoot. I must stand barefoot on that dirt where people had walked their lives for thousands of years!

     I found a quiet, shady spot between homes and kicked off my shoes and socks, unaware that I was being observed. The dirt felt cool and comfortable. “Feel better now?” said an artist from his shop. “Much,” I replied.

I spent the entire afternoon in joy, wandering barefoot in the pueblo.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

R.S.V.P.

     Recently, a friend asked me what the acronym ‘R.S.V.P.’ stood for. Respondez-Vous, S’il Vous Plait. Or, simply, “Please respond.” This lit a flame in me. R.S.V.P. Let’s respond to one another and see our bounty grow! People forget their connections to all others and fail to respond, but what else is there really?

     For example, I was waiting for an outside table at a local restaurant. A woman with a strikingly graphic black and white print sarong swooshed around her shoulders made her way painfully down the steps. Her frustration with her physical challenges and embarrassment were evident in her expression as she reached the last step. R.S.V.P. I smiled and told her, sincerely, how beautiful and dramatic she looked in her sarong... that she had fabulous style. She forgot to be embarrassed or frustrated. Her spirit lifted. R.S.V.P.

     Another time, I was struggling with feeling overwhelmed by parenting responsibilities and money problems. I pushed my Costco-packed shopping cart to the car. A gentleman watched me approach the car and then asked me if I would let him load everything into my car for me. He took the greatest of care. He asked me to sit inside and do ... nothing! By the time he had finished, I felt refreshed. He waved and left. R.S.V.P.

     What is the opposite of truly responding? I participated in a think tank for a start-up recently. One of the participants spent most of this precious laboratory time reacting to her own entrenched views rather than responding to the people in the room or the ideas presented. Because of her strong opinions, she wasn’t curious, playful or responsive. She really didn’t hear what was being said. 

     Even this was very useful, though, by inverse, because she mirrored the industry with which we were trying to partner.  By the end of the session, it was evident that we should take another route. Point: We responded to her reaction instead of reacting to her reaction. Just one more angle on R.S.V.P.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Traveling Inside Out

     I have always refused to adopt the mind-set of a tourist. When I first visited France, I decided that I was not going to go as if I were visiting an aquarium, gazing at little French fish. I wanted to feel my connection with those around me. I wanted to experience France from the inside out. To make new friends.

     So, through no effort of my own, I ended up staying with French friends of friends who spoke little or no English. I spent a lot of time with children, bought baguettes, picked mushrooms in the forest with Père Robert, listened to Ton-ton Léon and his wife, Mireille, sing old French vaudeville, rode on the back of a scooter through Paris and so much more. Everyone rolled out their red carpets. I ate the best food, prepared fresh from the garden. The little pastry truck made its rounds and I was sent out to choose the day’s bread and the morning’s pastries. Heaven on Earth. Bowls of steaming café au lait with sugar cubes. Flaky croissants. Strawberry jam.

     Every moment in France was precious and generous. Warm and sweet. Colorful and curious.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

R.S.V.P.

     Recently, a friend asked me what the acronym ‘R.S.V.P.’ stood for. Respondez-Vous, S’il Vous Plait. Or, simply, “Please respond.” This lit a flame in me. R.S.V.P. Let’s respond to one another and see our bounty grow! People forget their connections to all others and fail to respond, but what else is there really?

     For example, I was waiting for an outside table at a local restaurant. A woman with a strikingly graphic black and white print sarong swooshed around her shoulders made her way painfully down the steps. Her frustration with her physical challenges and embarrassment were evident in her expression as she reached the last step. R.S.V.P. I smiled and told her, sincerely, how beautiful and dramatic she looked in her sarong... that she had fabulous style. She forgot to be embarrassed or frustrated. Her spirit lifted. R.S.V.P.

     Another time, I was struggling with feeling overwhelmed by parenting responsibilities and money problems. I pushed my Costco-packed shopping cart to the car. A gentleman watched me approach the car and then asked me if I would let him load everything into my car for me. He took the greatest of care. He asked me to sit inside and do ... nothing! By the time he had finished, I felt refreshed. He waved and left. R.S.V.P.

     What is the opposite of truly responding? I participated in a think tank for a start-up recently. One of the participants spent most of this precious laboratory time reacting to her own entrenched views rather than responding to the people in the room or the ideas presented. Because of her strong opinions, she wasn’t curious, playful or responsive. She really didn’t hear what was being said. 

     Even this was verey useful, though, by inverse, because she mirrored the industry with which we were trying to partner. By the industry with which we were trying to partner. By the end of the session, it was evident that we should take anothere route. Point: We responded to her reaction instead of reacting to her reaction. Just one more angle on R.S.V.P.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Baking Bread

     Life is a lot like baking bread. This hit me recently when I was feeling restless and unprofitably wedged. My business. My own lust for life and love. It seemed that I was at a crossroads of sorts ... again. Possibly on the verge of failure or great success, depending. The one thing I knew is that I was a very discouraged entrepreneur. 

     I sat at my favorite hangout in Sacramento, CA, The Naked Lounge. Stuck, I pulled out my notebook and began to write questions, to which there were no answers. Blah, blah, blah. I quit writing.

     Suddenly, my pen went crazy. “Let it rise,” emblazoned itself across my legal pad. Then my pen sketched a delicious, crusty loaf of French bread. Okay, sister. I get it. Life is a lot like making bread.

     I’ve really put in the highest quality ingredients into my business and my life (except for the teaspoon of self-doubt now and then): my pure and vibrant desires to contribute to the world, my passion, talents, hard work, compassion, humanity and affection. I’ve kneaded the bread until its consistency is smooth and elastic.

     Here is what I learned: when I don’t know what to do, just LET it all rise. TRUST alchemy. Then BAKE (turn up the heat). EAT. SHARE. SMILE. Make more bread.

Audacious Laughter, Dirty Talk and Gratitude

    The following two responses to "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" make me wiggle my hips and walk on tiptoe.

     From California: "I LOVED reading from your book. Honestly, I was laughing out loud reading the sex talk part. OMG -- shaking my head in agreement from personal experience (and some recnt --- oh my, we have to TALK!!!)"

     From Connecticut:  “I reread your book on the flight home and just absorbed all of it and you.  Your candor and wisdom are truly enlightening.  I was laughing out loud about the sex talk chapter and noticed the fellow sitting next to me was straining to see what I was reading!  I would have shared with him but I couldn't let the precious pages leave my possession, yep, I am selfish and proud of it! 

     The day after I was home a dear friend called in a snit.  She had been laid off, wanted to break up with her long time boyfriend, was angry with her family, did not want to follow through on something her therapist suggested... the list goes on.  I walked up the street and handed her your book.  She left a message last night about getting together for a glass of wine and to talk about “A Woman's Mind Half Naked.”  I just figured she needed to get herself some gratitude even though things seemed so dismal, your book I thought, was a perfect solution.  Can't wait to hear what she has to say!  I also can't wait to get the damn thing back!!!!!”

Dirty Talk

     A few years back, I was introduced to the notion of dirty-talk. My problem is that dirty-talk does not excite me. It makes me laugh.

     I might like it, if I could just get some decent dirty-talk vocabulary. As a woman whose favorite books are her dictionary and thesaurus, I’m at a loss. My lack of dirty-talk vocabulary is restricting me.

     The few words I see over and over again lack imagination. Cock. Pussy. Ass. Come/Go down. Dick. For example, how do I keep from laughing when my lover says, “I want your pussy to hold my cock”? Afterall, a kitty holding a rooster is not likely to happen. The rooster would peck the eyeballs right out of the kitty. Roosters are scary and they’re noisy. Penises are not scary, mostly, and they are quiet. Can you picture a penis crowing at the break of dawn? As a mother of three children,  cock and pussy are barnyard animals to me. And come down means to lambast someone as in, “She came down hard on him. I didn’t think it was fair.”

     “Hey, brute, put your rooster in my hen house.” Hmm. That didn’t work. “Oh, baby, I want to give your ass a licking.” Does that mean, “I am gonna beat your ass?” “Stick your cock in my pussy?” Sounds as if I need to call the Humane Society. And I am sorry, but I just cannot refer to my breasts as “tits.” “Tits” unravels all the hard-won emancipation women have gained over the last one hundred years. I am not verbally frigid in bed. I am not! I can recite Shakespeare and be very enticing and exciting. I just need vocabulary and to get a grasp of the dirty-talk rhythm.

     Yep. Cock. Pussy. Ass. Dick. It sounds like a grade-school primer. “Dick mounted Jane’s ass and rode across the field to the barn. The cock crowed and all the animals began to wake up. ‘Hee-haw, hee-haw,’ said Ass. ‘Meowww, meoww,’ said Pussy. ‘Cockadoodledoo,’ crowed Cock. Dick quit riding Jane’s ass. ‘Good Morning, Pussy,’ Dick said. ‘Good Morning, Ass. Good Morning, Cock.’ Pussy jumped into Dick’s lap. Dick petted Pussy. Pussy licked Dick and purred.”

     Does your pussy purr or does your cock crow? I’m tellin’ ya!

I want a more creative dirty-talk vocabulary, while retaining the alluring, Neanderthalesque primitivism which underlies the entire concept. So here goes, à la stream of consciousness. (Bear in mind that I have been a mom for eighteen years now and, therefore, I have existed in an entirely different vocabularic world.)

     Penis: Big Boy. Yo Mister. Grunt. Soldier. Race Car. Missile.

     Vagina: Home. Nest. Cave. Mercedes. Garage. Silo.

     Rear End: Glutes. Loaves of Bread. Caboose. (Okay, “ass” works.)  

     “Stick your big boy in my nest.” Put your baby bird in my nest? ? It certainly does not work to call a penis a “baby bird.” Maybe if we called the penis a mighty eagle. “Stick your mighty eagle in my nest?” The problem is that an eagle’s nest is not a nest, but an eyrie. “Shove yo mister into my race car, baby! Put your big missile into my silo.”

     Hey, “Stick  your grunt in my Mercedes?” I know, ooh, I’ve got it! Punctuation! “Put your exclamation mark on my sentence, baby.” (Now, I’m cookin’.)

     “Come on over here and conjugate my verb! You beast, grab my caboose and shake it while I suck your dangling participle.” But any man would take umbrage at the use “dangling” in reference to his cock. Sigh.

     As you can see, I lack vocabulary. Dirty-talk probably takes practice like any other talk. It’s time to do more research. Once I get the hang of it, watch out! I’ll add a new word or three every day until my lover will beg me to say, “Insert your penis into my vagina, if you  please.” But I will refuse to revert to my narrow vocabularic confines. Dirty-talk is too much fun! So, baby, lick my ass and I will let my pussy pet your cock. “Purr,” said Kitty, oops, Pussy. “Heehaw, heehaw,” bellowed Ass. “Cock-a-doodle-doo,” crowed Rooster.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Aftermath of a Bath for a Laugh

     Last night, I decided to take a long, hot bath. I put lavender oil and a luxurious ball of somethingelse guaranteed to give a glow to my skin into the inviting, steamy water. Lovely. 

     Then, I decided I would give my digits a French manicure while I soaked. Painting my fingernails under ideal conditions is probably my worst subject beauty-wise (even worse than putting on red lipstick). It’s difficult enough all dry and wearing my glasses. But I forgot about that. “The trouble with you, Jennifer,” Grandma used to say, “is that you are an idealist. You usually think in best-case scenarios.”

     With four fingernails done sloppily, I reached to dip my teeny fingernail-painting brush in the jar of polish. The open jar fell into the bath water. I retrieved it. There wasn’t too much water in the jar, so I continued. Soon, I noticed that there was a weird fingernail polish slick in my bathtub. When I emerged from my soak, I was marbled! Faux painted! Trompe l’oeil. Michelangelo’s Jennifer. 

     Then I looked at my fingernails and they were all gooey and marbled, too. So I cleaned up, slopped some clear polish on the once gooey windshields of my doigts (fingers, in French) and called it a manicure.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Ass on a Hot Grill

     “What burns my ass on a hot grill is that we think all this is tied to our worth,”  said AuntJo.

    My friend AuntJo lives in Texas. I was stressed, so I called her to spill my angst and get a bit of perspective. I talked. I cried. Jo listened. Most of my anxiety was about money, or so I thought.

     “AuntJnfr [Jennifer],” AuntJo said, “This isn’t about money. This is about worth.”

     I knew she was right the minute she said it. Job, money in the bank, others’ opinions of me, and all external labels and facts we so often think give us our identity …

     I had been anxious about proving my worth to a colleague. AuntJo’s words of wisdom struck a home run and I felt calm once again.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Juicy and Delicious

    I am impelled to share some of the responses to "A Woman's Mind Half Naked" thus far because ... each response is so juicy and delicious. The women who have written me are wonderful writers themselves. The following response is from Germany.

     "I laughed and commiserated with you as I read over ‘A Woman's Mind Half Naked’. You have so many rich stories to tell and your descriptive language slides over the page like butter melting in a warm frying pan. You tell your own story and simultaneously you tell the story of today's "everywoman" who struggles to live her own truth even as she is stretched to translucent and barely holding in order to meet the needs of her children and the demands of the economic realities that she faces every day. 

     Despite the pressures and pains of single motherhood, you never fail to be perennially optimistic and to point out how much we all truly have to be thankful for. Your writing illustrates that bravely going forth each day seeking and expecting to find joy and beauty in the world will yield some surprising blessings. 

     On a day when the blues had once again gripped my heart with icy tentacles, your words coaxed my inner sunshine to radiate warmth. Your triumph is in surviving and truly thriving. You keep reaching for that next level of joy in your life and you inspire me to do the same. I aspire to be as courageous as you are.

     Thank you for sharing your wonderful work with me. I can't wait for our next chance to sit and enjoy a glass of wine and share our latest adventures and misadventures.”

Ode to LA

     I really like LA. To me, Hollywood, Venice, Santa Monica are all Los Angeles. My apologies. After all, I am a Northern Californian. We don’t even acknowledge SoCal’s right to be part of our state.

     The combined fragrance of smog and salty ocean air delights me. The big swing sets on the beach, well, there is nothing better than to swing way up high to kiss the sky and the sea-horizon.

     What really thrills me about LA is the creative energy there, the daring-do, the people who are risking all to live their passions. In LA, the artist in me blooms. The rebel in me surges. And the lover of humanity smiles at the diversity and blows kisses to everyone I meet. The playfulness of LA, the music, the craziness -- things are hoppin’ there.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Magic Car

     There I was, minding my own business, driving along and thinking about all sorts of things: what a great time I had with my mom that morning, how excited I was about my new job, that I was glad I was going to have dinner with a friend. Sex was not on my mind. Both of my hands were firmly planted on the steering wheel at ten and two o’clock. The road was not extra-bumpy.

     All of a sudden, I felt funny. “Funny” as in close to orgasm. I looked at the cars and trucks all around me, worried that somehow their drivers could tell what was going on in my southern parts. No one seemed to notice anything unusual.

     The proverbial fireworks exploded, the music crescendoed,  flower petals floated dreamily down -- for the next half hour! With no premeditation or conscious personal overlay (pun intended), I began to scream. I kept checking traffic to make sure everything was groovy and my glorious adventure was undetected.

     An O to top all O’s, and no one else was with me. Furthermore, the only reason the Big O subsided when I arrived at the restaurant was that I had to get out of the car and walk into the restaurant to meet my friend. I used all the control I could muster to calm down.

     Dinner was pleasant. Afterward, I got back into my car and then it started again. Three days later, it subsided somewhat, even though it still lurked in the shadows just waiting to spring into action. Business as usual was quite challenging, like going through the day’s duties on a pogo stick.

     So I conducted an informal survey with my closest girlfriends. Has this ever happened to you? “No, but I’m jealous. If you figure it out, let me know how I can get some, okay?”

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Tahoe 2-Hours = Vacation Squared

     One of my most restful vacations was an October two-hours in South Lake Tahoe, California (an hour’s drive from my home). A friend and I rented banana-shaped kayaks and floated naked on the lake. We were both exhausted from long days with very little rest. We took naked naps to the water lapping its lullaby.

     When I awoke, I felt completely rested and ready to roll. Two weeks at a resort would not have been more rejuvenating. You get the idea. I’m still learning, refining and designing. I don’t plan on halting my time-bending experiment, ever!

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Time Bender

     I am a time bender. As the sole parent of three children, I haven’t taken many vacations. But, I am an expert at gleaning two weeks worth of rejuvenation in a few hours or a two-day respite in one hour. I can deeply imbibe inspiration in one minute or less. I have a system.

    I used to think that, if I wanted to paint or read a book or anything else that stimulates and rejuvenates me, I needed fat chunks of time. The problem was that I never had chunks. I had only moments. So I didn’t feed myself spiritually, artistically, intellectually or physically because, ahem, I didn’t have time. I plumped up. I was dissatisfied. Hooked up with the wrong guys. Then, I subjected my approach to intense scrutiny.

     Aha! That I needed large swaths of time was the leading misconception. I decided to conduct an ongoing experiment to use my unproductive minutes creatively. I began to carry a book with me at all times. In line at the grocery store? I read. Waiting for kids at the dentist? Out came my book. I left my art and photography books open all over the house. I changed the page a couple of times each day. Ten seconds with Van Gogh’s ”Starry Night” put a tiger in my tank. Soon, I was infusing my life with inspiration, knowledge and joy throughout my days. And I’m still going strong.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Easier Said Than Done

     Right. Take the sunglasses off. Remove preconceptions, assumptions and opinions from our view. How? Curiosity. Curiosity never killed this cat! Curiosity puts us in a state of receptiveness to a new viewpoint, a deeper understanding, and fuller compassion.

     Curiosity is listening without judgment. Curiosity is giving others the encouragement and room they need to tell their story. Curiosity asks questions rather than categorizes and labels. Curiosity replaces fear. Curiosity makes life fun! I always loved Rudyard Kipling’s ”Elephant Child” with his “insatiable curtiosity.”

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Suglasses

     I was disgruntled. I paid a lot of money for my family to watch the movie and the screen was so dark. The projectionist should have checked the bulbs before the movie!  I sat through it agitated. The movie ended. I fully intended to talk to the manager to get a refund. Then I realized that I had, ahem, forgotten to remove my sunglasses.

     The dark picture had nothing to do with the theater, the actors, the producer, the projector or the projectionist. In fact, the dim lighting had nothing to do with anybody else but me. I could have easily fixed the problem by taking my sunglasses off. This leads me to an obvious metaphor. When one of our life-movies is lackluster, dark or dim, the first thing we should check is to see whether or not we have removed our own preconceptions, opinions and assumptions in order to see the colorful rendering called Life. What filter are we gazing through?

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

My Grocery Store Husband

     Several years ago, I was at a very difficult time in my life. We had just been evicted in retaliation for my insistence our landlord keep his promises of repair. To top this off, we had a dog that went berserk whenever she was away from me. I had no choice but to turn the dog into the animal shelter. She had been my hiking buddy and my constant companion. My heart turned to dust. I watched her watch me leave her. I cried uncontrollably.

     I needed to go to the grocery store, but dreaded what I call “The gauntlet of kindness.” I prayed that no one ask me if I needed help finding something or how I was, as I was in danger of losing my tenuous composure and crying again.

Much to my dismay, the manager approached and asked, “How are you today?” With my lips pursed, I replied, “Can’t talk, will cry.” The manager responded, “Oh, what’s wrong?,” at which point I lost it completely. Tears streamed down my face. My nose ran. I had the dry heaves. I told him my story.

     Then he did something extraordinary. He held open his arms. I went to him. He wrapped his arms around me tightly and didn’t let go for what seemed to be a very long time. I held on for dear life. I got snot and tears and drool all over his shoulder.

     When I calmed down, he said, “Look at me. You did the right thing. Everything is going to be all right. You are a remarkable woman. You did the right thing.” This man’s compassion greatly comforted me. It gave me hope.           

      As I continued with my shopping, he chased me with handfuls of soft pink tissue. “I thought you might need these,” he said. Although I never saw him again, his act of kindness stayed with me and helped long after that day.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Beautiful Husbands Everywhere

     Jerry and his wife, Moni, are among my favorite neighbors. We have a happy, waving-hello relationship, sprinkled with the occasional chat on the road. I treasure my moments with them.

     Recently and for the first time ever, Jerry knocked on my door. He was on a mission. Through our high-speed country neighborhood grapevine (which puts the fastest Internet connectivity to shame) Jerry heard that one of our other neighbors was, ahem, less than polite to me. This Angel-by-Inverse is notorious in our small neighborhood community for his violent outbursts and irrational behavior. My son’s trumpet playing had annoyed this man and he tromped to my front door to launch a full verbal assault on my character, as well as on my parenting.

     Angel-Jerry’s mission:  “Jennifer, I came over to tell you that you are a wonderful mom! Your children have restored my faith in children. What he did was illegal. If anyone approached and talked to my wife the way he talked to you, I would have shot him. If he ever sets one foot on your property again, call the sheriff.”

     At this precise moment, it hit me. My husband is many men. I have beautiful husbands everywhere. For far too long, I entertained the sorrowful misconceptions that I needed a husband and, also, that I had no husband. Not true on either account.

     Every day holds many gallant, thoughtful, protective and tender expressions by many of the men in my biz life, my personal circles and complete strangers. I’ll have to write a book entitled “My Husbands” someday.

Excerpt from "A Woman's Mind Half Naked," Copyright 2009, by Jennifer Ann Gordon

Get Sassy

     Gratitude is the bold attitude of looking for the good present and then magnifying it. The definitive decision to claim your joy regardless of the situation. A garden where creative and solution-oriented thoughts can bloom. A healthy perspective of reality. The on-switch to a life lived with joy and freedom.

     How do I know this? I’ve proven it a million times! I’ve discovered a few ways to break through the doldrums when things feel so bleak that it seems impossible to be grateful for anything.

     What is the opposite of gratitude? Complaint. Human tendency is utterly bovine in that it regurgitates complaint, It chews the same cud (or “crud”) over and over.

     Ingratitude is the state of mind where we see only the negative and magnify it in our thinking, conversations, the way we drive and every other thing we do. So, when I am terrified or hurt, when I am angry or depressed, when