Sex Ed 101

I am always shocked at what I'll write to elicit a good laugh. It's time once again for my monthly "Sex and the Suburbs" column in Creative Loafing. Let the embarrassment commence! Enjoy.

Asking Mom For Help

Sometimes we just don't want to make it a Hallmark moment.

News flash: This time of year ain't always merriment and mistletoe for everybody. For a variety of reasons, the holidays can suck for many of us. For some, it's a battle to create a festive atmosphere or supply presents under the tree when there's precious little money and no gainful employment. For others, it's an empty nest or an empty bed that brings out one's Inner Scrooge. If you are like me, the holidays can be a painful reminder of a loved one's death.

The next few days will undoubtedly be rife with love, laughter, yummy food, and fun presents to give and receive. Yet, there will also be a part of me -- a part of a lot of us -- that will be yearning for that missing someone around the dinner table. For me, it's my mom. For others, it may be a grandmother, a husband, a son, a sister, or a friend. Even though my mother won't be here in physical form, her spirit has recently been making itself known in many ways. Just yesterday, I felt I was channeling Mom as my daughter and I undertook the task of making her famous 7-layer bars. I recalled so many Christmases past where Mom would prance around the house in her red sweater and acrylic high heels, making sure everyone had something to drink and a 7-layer bar to nibble on. She was the quintessential glammed up matriarch, white zinfandel in one hand and a glowing cig in the other. No matter how many presents I receive in my lifetime, few will give me the joy I felt upon witnessing the contagious belly laugh of that little firecracker.

Yesterday, I received a telephone call from a dear friend of mine who is currently going through the same thing I did three years ago. His father is about ready to depart this world, and the transition is understandably difficult for the entire family. On one day, it seems like his dad is ready to leave; on another day, he is up and around, basking in the love of his spouse, children and grandchildren. My friend believes that he is showing one final burst of energy before he says his final goodbyes. Who knows, maybe he's waiting until after Christmas so his loved ones won't be reminded of his death on the 25th of every December. I wish I could tell him that it doesn't really matter what day he decides to die. Even if he waits a few extra days, his family will still feel the crush of his absence every year around the holidays. There will be an air of melancholy when everyone sits down to the feast. Someone will make a reference that will remind everyone of a long-running family joke. His favorite holiday movie will play on television. In so many ways he will be there still, even when he's not.

Because of this phone call I received, I decided to ask my mother for a special gift this year. I am going to ask her to help in a way that only she can do.

"Ma, please go to Jim's bedside and help him find his way to Spirit. He needs help in dropping his body so he can move on, and you are just the gal to escort him. (He's cute too!) As you know, he's probably a little afraid and worried that his family won't be able to handle his death. Reassure him, Ma, that everyone will be all right and that he is going to an amazing place filled with beauty, joy, and Divine love. Once he feels and sees you there, he'll understand that he's not really dying - just changing locales. It will help him and his family so much. Bring all of your peeps too! Thanks, Mom, for this huge gift. I love you so much!"

And I miss you too.

F'ed Up Fairy Tales

Call me an arrogant douchebag, but I have a Google Alert set up on myself. As a self-pubbed writer who has pimped herself out for articles, interviews, quotes, reviews and anything else that will get my name out into the world, I like to keep track of where I am floating in cyberspace. This morning, I got an alert about an interview I did on fairy tales over a year ago for Online Dating Magazine. I must have been wearing my sassy-pants when I did it! Here is the interview. Enjoy...

Dating with Disabilities
by Melissa Blake
Fairytales
An Interview with Theresa Rose

I know I’ve been doing a lot of interviews lately for this column, but I’ve been talking to so many great people with such great insight, and I can’t resist sharing their knowledge and expertise with you. Besides, you must get sick of hearing me prattle on week after week, right?

Did you grow up loving nothing more than a good fairytale? I did. I used to read about Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, and before I knew it, I started waiting for my own Prince Charming to come riding up on his white horse and sweep me away to our own, personal Happily Ever After. Don’t get me wrong: it’s a great story for a young girl to have in her mind, but that’s just what it is – a story. Somewhere along the way, I began thinking that this is how real life – and of course, real love – was: all romantic and pretty and filled with heroes who save the day. But as I got older, I realized that some of those classics can lead young women astray, especially in leading them to think that they need to rely on a man for happiness, or that they are doomed to be damsels in distress forever.

What happened to Girl Power? I wondered if I was alone in my thinking (which, as you know, happens to be the case sometimes), so I got the inside story (no pun intended) from Theresa Rose, the award-winning author of the book “Opening the Kimono: A Woman’s Intimate Journey Through Life’s Biggest Challenges” (Serious Mojo, 2009). Read on for her thoughts on the lessons we internalize from fairytales.

What do fairytales really teach us about love and life?
As a mother of a seven-year old girl who adores "All Things Princess," I can say from first-hand experience what these fairytales teach about life: they show us to value looks and superficiality above all else, that girls are totally clueless to their surroundings and how victim hood ultimately serves us. What a bunch of malarkey! Each female in these stories is a passive victim who is waiting for some man to rescue her from the terrible situation she herself got into. Of course, it goes without saying that the love found in the stories is totally based on physical attraction alone. How on earth could those perfect dudes fall in love with their princesses after only a few minutes? And they lived happily ever after? Please.

Why have these fairytales transcended time and remained relevant even in 2009?
Despite how totally unrealistic and even harmful these stories are, little girls (and big girls) everywhere are drawn to them like moths to a flame. There is something so appealing about imagining oneself as the prettiest, most sought-after girl in the room. We get to wear fancy clothes, have men fight dragons for us and essentially have no responsibility whatsoever for our own happiness. When shown through that prism, becoming Snow White sounds pretty good to me too. It's the same base desire that had women flocking to the theaters to see "Sex and the City."

How can women use these stories to benefit their own lives?
I believe the biggest benefit from these stories is to show women where they learned patterns of victim hood and unreasonable fixations on appearance. Women should look at challenges in their lives and ask, "What Wouldn't Snow White Do?" We can be our own heroes instead of waiting for a man to save us. Although, I must admit that Cinderella reminds us of the power of wearing a killer pair of heels.

Is there anything else you think I should know?
The best fairytale heroines are Belle from Beauty and the Beast and Fiona from the Shrek series. Belle taught us that reading is cool, and what is on the inside of someone is more important than what's on the outside. Fiona taught us that you can get the love of your dreams and still have terrible skin, a barrel for a belly, a bulbous nose, and freaky ears. She is responsible for her happiness, sticks up to her man when called for and chooses her own destiny over what other people think. Fiona ROCKS!

We Knew We Were Gonna See This

I am currently sitting at the Minneapolis International Airport, praying that the airplane on which I am about to board can outrun a raging blizzard. Yippy F#$king Skippy.

As a recent transplant from Florida to Minnesota, I am often asked why I would voluntarily choose to leave Paradise for life in the Frozen Tundra. (The word 'insane' is often used in the question.) When we packed up our worldly belongings in August and headed north, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Fast forward four months later, and I'm shivering my ass off. News Flash: This time of year, Minnesota gets cold. It gets BUTT-cold. It gets oh-shit-my-nipples-feel-like-they-are-going-to-friggin-fall-off cold. And it's not even Christmas. Jesus, what the hell was I thinking? I'm not swearing to the Lord; I'm literally asking Him.

Oh yeah, I remember. On the professional front, we moved for the career opportunities it afforded me. In only a short period of time, I have been able to generate significant new speaking gigs, and I believe it is directly attributable to being in a major metropolitan area like Minneapolis/St.Paul. I have also made some amazing connections, established growing friendships and had occasion to speak in front of large groups. These are all good things!

However, the more important reason for our reverse-migration has been the reconnection with my family and my roots. I was born in this Frozen Tundra forty years ago, and I have several family members that have been silly enough to remain living here (just kiddin', peeps!). What a joy is has been to have Thanksgiving with one of my brothers and his family, spend evenings playing cutthroat games of Rummikub with my niece who has suddenly grown into a woman when I wasn't looking, and chilling with my soul sis Susan while enjoying a glass of zin. Emma is on Cloud Nine-and-a-Half being so close the clan, and she proudly announces that her new BFF is her cousin Libby. To top it off, we get the pleasure of hosting Christmas Eve dinner at our home. Norman Rockwell we ain't, but it will be a great time nonetheless.

So, here I sit, fretting about the friggin' weather. I recall my husband quoting the James Cameron movie, The Abyss, whenever I start bitching about the cold or snow. He says, "We knew we were gonna see this". Yep, we knew that the weather was one of the drawbacks to our decision to move up north. But, you know what? No place is ideal. If you don't deal with blizzards every once in a while, you deal with hurricanes. If you don't deal with hurricanes, you deal with smog, fires, earthquakes, persistent traffic jams, outrageous real estate prices, or bad hairdos. Every place has a shitty part, no matter how you slice it. We made our decision to move to Minnesota based on intuition and heart, not number of inches of snow per year. We knew we were gonna see airport delays, snowplows, runny noses, and icy roads. But we also knew we were gonna see smiling faces on our children, friendly competitions of Apples to Apples around the fire, and houses full of laughter and love. My life is richer in every way for having come back home. When all is said and done, a blizzard every once in a while is a tiny price to pay.

But I won't be complaining when my plane lands in Sarasota.

Swing Dance Sexiness

Here is my latest "Sex and the Suburbs" column for Creative Loafing newspaper. While it isn't as steamy as some of my others, it still brings a smile to my face. I hope it does to yours too!

Blessings, and make it a great day.

Theresa

Too Busy to Blog, but Not too Busy to Be Grateful

I have been woefully delinquent in my blogging duties -- again.

Luckily, it isn't because of some existential funk I've found myself in; rather, the reason for my absence has been the fact that I am busier than a one-armed paper hanger with my professional speaking biz! Something shifted when I went to Florida a few weeks ago, and now everything is totally jamming. Michael and I are happily working together, the phone is ringing, the emails are arriving, proposals are being signed, bank deposits are being made, and I am finding myself in my most desirable of situations: being in front of lots of peeps, sharing the Mojo.

Life is very, very good.

I have wanted to take the time to write or record a blog, but my deadlines have not allowed for them. I suppose I could have worked through the night, but my daughter and hubby would have probably frowned on it. Instead, I opted to release (most of) my guilt and happily move forward on the path that Spirit is paving for me, with balance and grace.

However, I felt it necessary to post my annual Gratitude Rant, in the spirit of Thanksgiving.

Dear Spirit, thank you so very much for all of the gifts you provide to me today and every day. I know I don't take time every day to express my appreciation, and oftentimes it takes a holiday like Thanksgiving to remind me of how friggin' kick-booty my life really is. In that light, I offer my rant for All Things Righteous in the life of Theresa Ann Rose:

* Michael and his never-ending support and love; I could write a book on how much I dig that man. Hey! Maybe I will!
* Emma and her morning cuddles, perches, and belly touches; she is, quite simply, the shiz.
* My extended family in Minnesota who I am so happy to be reconnected to
* The new friends I have made in my new/old hometown
* My old friends who haven't forgotten about me just because I am gone
* The opportunities that are presenting themselves to me, allowing me to share my stories with lots of people
* The changing seasons, reminding me of the beauty of transformation
* Newly discovered Indian, Greek, and Ethiopian restaurants that bring food to a whole new level
* Freedom
* The many dreams I have that will someday become a reality
* Jason Mraz!! (I adore you, Jason.)
* My hoop, even if I don't use it as much as I would like
* Finding the perfect pair of shoes at Opitz and spending $10 on 'em
* Walking around Lake Calhoun on a glorious Autumn day
* Finding $20 stashed in a coat pocket
* My new, fire-engine red RAV4, lovingly named "Firecracker"
* Creative, beautiful, sassy, amazing, talented women on Team Mojo
* Sleeping in on Saturdays
* When plans come together effortlessly and easily
* Shedding the fear
* Fitting into the skinny jeans once again, even if I look like a stuffed sausage
* Swing dancing with hubby
* Facebook statuses that make me smile
* Everything, absolutely everything, that makes this journey so rich and juicy

Finally, I would like to show appreciation for you, dear reader, and the support you give. It is my fervent wish that you enjoy your Thanksgiving weekend with family and friends. Remember how loved you are!

Healing Taylor Lautner

Taylor Lautner needs to receive some serious healing work, and I'm just the woman to give it to him.

For those of you who may not know who Taylor Lautner is, you are obviously not fourteen years-old, nor are you a Twilight fan. Taylor is the hunkalicious man-boy that plays sensitive werewolf Jacob Black in the wildly popular vampire movie series. For those of you who are familiar with Taylor, you undoubtedly know that he had to bulk up his physique, gaining almost thirty pounds of pure muscle, for the upcoming film, New Moon. The result is one smokin' hot werewolf.

Apparently, Mr. Lautner is getting overwhelmed by the throngs of females lavishing attention on his outstanding form. It seems that whenever this stud puppet is out in public, teenage girls everywhere hopped up on a cocktail of extra virgin estrogen oil, Diet Mountain Dew and Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers will scream, "Take your shirt off, Taylor!!!" I can only imagine that it would get pretty darn annoying to be the constant object of obsession for the Pubescent Girls Gone Wild crowd.

Recently, Taylor lamented to reporters that he is incredibly embarrassed by all of the attention his body is getting, and wishes he could never have to take his shirt off again for another movie. As a red-blooded woman who would be devastated if this wish came true, I am hereby offering to do whatever it takes to heal Mr. Lautner of his shirtless trauma.

As a Reiki Master, Intuitive Healer, and former Licensed Massage Therapist, I believe I am uniquely qualified to rid Mr. Lautner of his pathological discomfort with being disrobed. The first step in the process is to understand the problem. Clearly, the fanatical attention his luscious bod has garnered has made him feel unsafe, ungrounded, and uncomfortable in his own skin. My recommendation is for him to have an intensive, one-on-one session with me to move through his fear of being nearly naked and utterly enticing. The session would go something like this:

"Take your shirt off, Taylor." (Notice I didn't scream it, but rather ever-so-professionally instructed him to do so.)

When he begins to peel off his skin-tight white t-shirt, showing me his ripply abdomen, I encourage him to move as slowly as possible as to remain fully conscious and present with his feelings. As I walk around him, I ponder the possibility that we should also address some of his latent discomfort associated with women ogling his perfectly-round ass. After briefly considering instructing him to take off his pants as well, I decide that we could save his gluteal issue for another day.

"Slower, Taylor...that's it, nice and easy..."

I then inform him that one of the ways we need to break through his discomfort is to desensitize him to women admiring his physical beauty. I rattle off some of my classic meditation verbiage about loving himself unconditionally regardless of what others think of him, and invite him to embrace the Divine within. He sheepishly agrees to my advice and stands fully erect, allowing me to eyeball every last inch of him for as long as I feel it prudent.

Two-and-a-half hours later, I inform him that the visual portion of the treatment is nearly complete. Over the last 150 minutes, I observed in minute detail his washboard abs, strapping pecs, massive deltoids, sinewy neck, and mighty latissimus dorsi, nary skipping a single inch of his impressive personage. After mentally recording my observations, it becomes crystal clear that this young gentleman is truly a gift from the gods.

Taylor is now feeling a little woozy from all of the intense energy he has received from my piercing brown eyes, and he needs to lay down for a bit. This is perfect timing, as the next stage of the treatment is about to begin. I guide him to lay on my bed -- unfortunately, my treatment table is broken at the time -- and invite him to fully relax.

After a few deep breathing exercises ("Deeper, Taylor...bring more air into your chest..."), I gently bring up the subject of therapeutic touch and ask if he is ready to delve into it. As a former massage therapist, I have witnessed first-hand the tremendous positive effect that nurturing touch can have on someone who has experienced trauma, and I believe that Mr. Lautner is an ideal candidate to receive it from a highly-trained person such as myself.

After I put on some relaxing -- some would call it "sexy" -- music, I begin to stroke, er, caress, um, palpate Mr. Lautner. I start at the top of his head, rubbing my hands all over his scalp and ever-so-slightly pulling on his black spiky hair. I brush my fingertips against his masculine eyebrows, deliciously long eyelashes, and rosebud lips. For good measure, I even tug on his ears and plunge my pinky fingers into each ear canal.

Over the next several hours, I explore Mr. Lautner from head to toe, leaving only his sacred patch of manhood untouched. When slowly kneading his brawny upper thighs, I wonder if the air conditioning is broken because it is getting so damned hot in the room. By the time I pluck at each one of his adorable chestnut toes, I decide that I must be coming down with something, because I feel like I am ready to pass out from the heat that is curiously radiating from my pelvic area.

By the end of the session, Mr. Lautner has completely released his objectification fears and is comfortable once again in his Herculean frame. He is so very grateful to have received my outstanding healing services that he gives me a huge, teary-eyed bear hug for ten minutes. At the end of our hug, he innocently asks if he could give me a peck on my cheek as a thank-you. I say, "Of course! My pleasure, young man." Using all of the willpower contained within my being, I refuse to turn my lips towards him at the precise moment his lips touch my face. As we say goodbye, my final piece of advice to him is to receive weekly treatments from me, just to ensure that he sufficiently progresses. After all, his entire career is at stake.

After an exhaustive yet exhilarating day of healing, Mr. Lautner confidently leaves my office, fully satisfied with the treatment outcome.

And I go change my underwear.

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For more inspiration and sass, visit me at http://www.TheresaRose.net!

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