Childless, Coupleless...

As a childless, coupleless woman, I often ponder love and its many derivatives. My inner self is a fierce warrior chick who obviously suffers from past life trauma when I was either burnt at the stake, beheaded, or killed by a cruel master while chipping away at hieroglyphics in some pharoah's tomb. And, I'm pretty sure I was a Neanderthal because I have an uncontrollable urge to club people.


So, aside from this mystical conundrum that I medicate with prozac, I now wonder what my aversion to marriage and children were, but frankly, it had nothing to do with a past life. I just didn't wanna be the domestic slave that so many women end up as. I have enough trouble cleaning up after myself. And, I can't cook.

And, I do love children and have seven, count-em, seven nieces and nephews, so I was never at loss for the company of kids. But, I encountered something I call


THE BABY PASSOFF when 'runaway parents" stalk out the door as soon as you show up saying, "Heh,Nora! Watch the kids while I go out for a sec - sfx, doorslam"


So, Love in its many infinite manifestations, is a learned behavior as I love to tell others, but I'm not sure what I learned. My high school sociology teacher, James MacDonald, liked to instruct the evil teenagers in the room that


"What Was" was infatuation, and "What Is," is Love.


So, I conducted my many experiments as a social scientist, but I guess I'm left with bouts of lust, passion, and infatuation, though I have neverending love for many family members and fondness for friends, and alot of trauma left over from what I refer to as the Marriage Sweepstakes. This contest is that rush of youth toward true love and marrying one's soul mate, which we all know has fifty-fifty chance of success. And, of course, I spent years looking for my soul mate and then it hit me...I must not have a soul.

So, for me love is not just blind, but deaf, dumb, crippled with arthritus, and confined to a wheelchair.

But, I have plenty of stories and fodder for my novels which is my passion. I just love to write. And, of course, that career choice is traumatic as well, as I can't seem to publish anything but a F*&&^^%king blog that nobody reads.


I recalled fondly one episode of love:


My niece then two or three years old was recently potty trained and went up to the bathroom all by herself. And, when a parent yelled up the stair, "Do you want me to come up and wipe you?"

her response was


NO! I want Aunt Nora to wipe me!"






Ah, nothing like the love of a child.