Where You Go'in With My Heart in Your Hand?

I got really into Jimi Hendrix in 7th grade, but only because the boy I was madly in love with got really into Jimi Hendrix in 8th grade and he was a year older than me. His sister was my best friend and whenever I was at their house and he wasn't home I'd go into his room, smell his bed sheets and peek inside his underwear drawer like a good teen-stalker-lover

One day he had a new poster on his wall. It was the poster every teenage boy who played guitar had on his wall that year-- the one of Jimi Hendrix setting fire to his guitar like some kind of devil man, his long fingers delicately raised. His face snarling.


The Jimi Hendrix Experience CD lay open. I memorized the cover and the next day after school went and bought myself a copy. Days later, I knocked on my best friend's door, after school. Her brother answered.

"She's not home," he said before pausing. "But you can come in if you'd like..."

I stepped inside, nervously.

"I was practicing something on my guitar," he said.

"Know any Jimi Hendrix?" I asked, hopeful.

"Of course! What do you want to hear?"

"What can you play?"

"I can play Hey Joe."

"Yeah, okay. That's my favorite one!"

And so he played it for me. And I watched with my heart in my throat. He was so cool. So old. And so-so totally cute ohmigawd. I swayed to the music as he repeatedly botched his chords.

"Hold on. I know this. I know this..." he said.

I didn't want the song to end. I was happy to watch him figure it out as he went. I would have sat there forever even. He probably figured as much. I hadn't blinked in minutes.

He finished the song and offered me a coke. But when he came back to the couch where I sat waiting, his hands were empty.

Instead, he kind of half-smiled before jumping on top of me and sticking is tongue down my throat. I accepted and reciprocated, no clue what I was doing. And all through my head I kept thinking, Oh my God. This is my first kiss. This is my first kiss. This is it... This is weird. Kissing is slimy... I'm being kissed!

What's crazy is that I still remember how he tasted. The slimy feel of his tongue and how after a few minutes I got the hang of it. Of kissing, which was so much messier than I thought it would be. And even perhaps more clearly, I remember how I apologized for having no boobs when he tried to feel me up and how he said "it's okay, Becca. I don't care" and how I though that was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to me.

I also remember the date: November 9th, 1993. I was twelve years old.

That week we made out every day after school, but he refused to let me call him my boyfriend. He wanted nothing to do with my at school either, once going so far as to push me in front of his friends.

I was crushed. Even more crushed when I realized I had to call off our make out sessions. It wasn't fair the way he was treating me the way he was at school and I knew it. But I sooooo didn't want it to end. I wanted to be next to him so bad it hurt! Even if it meant him ignoring me in front of his friends.

I cried myself to sleep for days, weeks... maybe even years. I played Hey Joe on repeat, occasionally, camping out in the bushes outside his garage, listening as he mastered a song that felt like ours.

"Where you goi'in with my heart in your hand..?" I wrote in a poem I slaved over for weeks after our make-out gone bad. I put it on his pillow and prayed he would come to his senses. Or at the very least, write me back. He never did. Instead he passed around the poem and everyone made fun of me.

It took me a good decade before I finally learned the hazards of giving the boys who broke me love-letters. And even now, hearing Hey Joe, I get this pang in my stomach. The same pang I felt at twelve-years-old, the first time I'd ever felt that kind of love. The first time I ever had a song to remind me of how pathetic I thought I was. And even now, listening to the song, there's a teenage girl inside me, still, who wonders if maybe she was right.




GGC

This post has been brought to you by Catherine and Tracey's Flashback Friday. For other flashbacks click these lovely links:

Oh the Joys
Her Bad Mother
Mom-101
Sweetney
Mamalogues
Mrs. Flinger
Whoorl

Izzymom

Big Trouble In Little Vagina

Okay, so you guys were totally right about me needing to dump doc and find someone more kosher. Yesterday I spent approximately eight hours on the phone. After interviewing everyone I could and bestfriending one of the Health Net phone representatives I got everything figured out. At least for now.

In the words of Kristin Cavallari, me and the dicktor are "so totally dunzo."

Archer and I were able to separate our groups so although I do have to change my primary physician, Archer can stay with his pediatrician. (That rhymed!) I'm hoping the OB I chose will be the anti-dickdock. All signs are pointing to a much better situation. (He looked nice on google images. His office is within walking distance from my house and he's done a lot of really cool shit. Plus he has a reputation for having good beside manner.) Of course, I wanted a woman but was unable to find any local female docs who delivered at Cedars, which is where Archer was born and where I feel most comfortable. (I gave birth in what looked and felt like a hotel room. There's a reason Cedars is the premiere choice for celebrity childbirth.) Of course, if this new doc isn't superman, I'll ditch him, too and keep right on looking until I find "the one." Because a lady shouldn't spread her legs for anyone less than a gentleman (or gentlewoman.) Plain and simple, vagina doctors shouldn't be dicks.

And for those interested in seeing a 7 week, 3 day upside-down Red Ant looking creature. Drum roll please....

Is it not the spitting image of Hal? Totally, right?

Anyway, thanks to all of you for being my doulas dot com. So awesome that I get to spend this pregnancy with strong, supportive mothers (and fathers) and not alone.

GGC

Dickter Doctor Appointment

Today was my first prenatal doctor appointment with my old OBGYN who, I'm not particularly fond of but thanks to insurance shenanigans, kind of have to deal with.

I'm pretty laid-back when it comes to doctors. I've never switched, changed or complained. I'm the opposite of a hypochondriac. I'm anti prescription meds for the most part and believe I can cure myself from home with far better results when/if I'm sick or damaged. I haven't seen my OB since Archer was born, mainly because I hated the way he handled the birth and everything else. Some examples of why:

1. During the pushing stage of childbirth Doc told me that I was making too much noise.

"You're too loud. You don't need to be making that much noise when you push," he said to me, one of the few things I remember during Archer's birth because I wanted to kick his face off.

So, yeah, here's a man who shushed me during childbirth.

2. I said I didn't want an episiotomy. I got one anyway. And that shit took a year to heal.

3. Archer's circumcision was improperly performed after Doc boasted of his "circumcisions being the greatest in all the land." This turned into a huge dramatic horror-fest that I won't go into but you can read about here.

Plain and simple I hated this man for a good year before thinking that maybe I was just overreacting. Maybe dude was perfectly kosher and I was just being dramatic.

Regardless, after doing my research as to whether or not I was able to change OBs, I found, much to my frustration (and confusion) that changing OBs would mean changing medical groups entirely which would mean changing Archer's pediatrician who I love and want to marry. So I thought, "fuck it, I'll just deal with Dr. Dickfarm. See what happens...."

So I made an appointment with my old doc and today, showed up for my first prenatal exam.

The first thing my doctor said upon greeting me in my paper vest and socks? "You're a lot thinner this time, aren't you?"

"Actually, I'm the exact same weight I started at my last pregnancy."

"Hm. I remember you being bigger."

"Maybe because I gained 70 pounds with my last pregnancy?"

"No. I mean before."

"Oh... Kay?"

"Hmmm... Let's see. Only seven weeks pregnant? Ha, ha, ha, well aren't you eager..."

"Eager?"

"You're only seven weeks pregnant."

"Yeah."

"Why don't you come back in your second trimester...."

So that was it. No getting to hear the heartbeat. (My doctor LITERALLY rolled his eyes when I asked.) No nothing. Just a few condescending words about how fat he remembered me being and how premature I was to book an appointment with my doctor at only seven weeks along. Fuck, dude. My bad!

Doc referred me for blood work and an ultrasound.* The first of two he will allow me to have. (With Archer I had to go to one of those strip-mall ultrasound places because I wanted to know the sex before the birth and my doctor wouldn't refer me to a technician more than twice. That was his rule.)

Honestly, I have no idea what to do at this point. I feel sick about it, really. I want to have a good childbearing experience this time with a doctor who doesn't make me feel like an idiot at every turn. I also don't want to lose our pediatrician who I adore. So I'm caught between a Dick and a hard place.

Has anyone had any experience with this kind of situation? Am I just being hyper-sensitive? Any and all advice would be much appreciated.

GGC

*Thursday morning. Stay tuned.