What I Might Be

value

2010-03-26T00:14:00.003-05:00

my spine
an abacus
his fingers walk
calculating
each vertebrae
a bead
weighing out
each plot point
each plotted point
each pointless plot
all the things
I will do
all the things
she won't

do deca

2010-02-14T11:53:00.003-06:00

Same, same, same him
Twelve years
TWELVE.
Years.
And nothing to compare it to
Twelve years ago I was a child
Maybe
Maybe this is it
Better than anything anyone ever had
Better than nothing
Maybe
Maybe not
The thing that comforts me
The thing that torments me
Is that it doesn't matter
It is worth mentioning:
he has not punched me in my smart mouth
and I have not smothered him mid-snore.
Not once
In TWELVE years
So, maybe.

A Perfect Day for a Bell Jar

2010-01-28T22:55:00.002-06:00

open a window
get closer
to the weather
lean in
to yourself
the only reality
find peace
in the fact
that you will never
know anything
for sure
and strength
in the freedom
of not needing to
it's all real
it's all a lie
it's all spin
it's all truth
he loves you
he loves you not
it's all the same
when the cycle
sinks
into a spiral
and breaks
the free-fall
is mostly
about the free

green

2009-10-15T12:05:00.005-05:00

Devastatingly beautiful. That's what she was. Fit together in a disjointed way that never seemed awkward, she was full where men wanted her to be and thin in the places that made women stare with envy. Her beauty was in her bones. It would not be denied. It pushed through and spilled out and got all over everything nearby. Devastating. She was beautiful in a way that made me think about the words one should use to describe her, instead of thinking of myself at all. I must have known, even then, that if I had stacked myself up against her I would lose in an instant. Devastating. She would speak and I would be the only one who heard it. Everyone else was enchanted. Mesmerised. I was devastated. When she spoke she showed everything. Her insecurities, her weakness, her utter ignorance. But it all remained a secret, hidden behind striking red hair and lips that looked like you could curl up on them and take a nap. No one would ever know the truth until she had bagged some rich husband and had a couple of decades invested. Someday she would start to lose her looks and only then would the poor bastard finally hear her and realize she had nothing else to offer. It would be too late then. For all of us. I couldn't be angry or indignant; to be honest, I wanted her too. I melted into the wall behind me; dissolved away, not wanting to distract anyone during their time of worship. Before I had begun to fight I knew that I would lose. So I observed. I saw them as subjects in a sociological experiment. Animals. I was a scientist. And she was beautiful. Head-to-toe, every-time-you-see-her, it-doesn't-even-matter-that-god-made-her-stupid, devastatingly beautiful.

the historian

2009-09-29T22:15:00.001-05:00

a wise woman

adds value

passes her heirlooms

to a child

who as yet cannot

appreciate

these things or this action

in this manner also

she loves

this thing with bravery

2009-09-23T23:59:00.004-05:00

there is a peace of mind,
a satisfaction that only comes
when the person you expected
to break you
finally does
and despite every cliche you've heard on the subject
this feeling is preferable
to the fear known only to those
who wait and wonder each new time
if this one
will be the one
to prove you wrong

#1 Defender

2009-09-23T23:46:00.001-05:00

We join or heroine as
she clinches innocence by the throat
in a final, failing attempt
to convince an audience of one
her motives are noble

confronted with the truth of who she is
confessing to the only one she can
that she has not changed all that much
she is, in fact, our villain
and so begins the battle

Sigma

2009-08-21T01:28:00.002-05:00

I have not earned the privilege
Of telling you I love you
Until I have loved you
Actively
Thoughtfully
Unconditionally
Unselfishly
Quietly
And then I will forget
The selfish wish to say it
And you will not need to be told

man's best friend

2009-08-16T00:53:00.005-05:00

A whisp of a man sits starring into his whiskey.
His best friend sits across the pine picnic table, sipping a beer.
"She wants the house," he says.
"Fuck that, man!" his buddy coaches.
This is how men show support.
"Naw, I don't care; just want it over with," he says.
"She wants her ring back too."
"Dude, NO WAY. SHE cheated on YOU!"
"I told her she could have it if she bought me two tickets to the game next time the Chiefs are in town."
His friend is silent for a moment, but then cannot stand it anymore.
"Pawn the ring and buy your own fucking tickets, man. SCREW HER."
He swallows what's left of his whiskey and his pride.
"She's a good woman. I still love 'er. I'd die for her man, we just can't be together."
"You gotta draw the line somewhere. What's it gonna be next? Your truck? Your boat? Your dog?"
"Hell no, man; I'd have her killed before I gave her my dog."
His buddy nods in agreement and mumbles "fair enough."

It's only a paper moon

2009-08-15T23:17:00.005-05:00

My mother is forever trading money for magic beans. She is the white, female Cliff Huxtable. Did you ever see that episode of The Cosby Show where Cliff buys a juicer? The one where Rudy and that fat little dude from across the street end up cramming a bunch of grapes in it and breaking it and the fat kid runs out of the house covered in purple-stained clothes? My mother bought a juicer from one of those pre-Billy-Mays late-night TV shows that were really 30 minute commercials. Never used it once. To this day, it sits in her pantry, in mint condition, covered in dust.

Not long after that, she got on a real kick for that Dr. Bronner's 200 in 1 soap stuff... it was a face wash, a body wash, a shampoo, a toothpaste, a digestive aid, a hand soap, a dish soap, a mouthwash, a laundry detergent, a window cleaner, a carpet cleaner, a meat tenderizer, a laxative; it killed bugs, restored the finish on your car, cured insomnia, ordered take-out, performed abortions and was one of the first navigation systems. This little bottle of liquid was the I-phone of the 20th century; no matter what you needed, there was an app for that. Mom bought it by the case.

When it failed to perform most of its proclaimed available functions, the rest of the family refused to use it. We all had dirty hands, stained clothes, acne, bad breath, greasy hair and unsettled stomachs and we were constantly getting lost while driving. My mother, in an attempt to prove to us she had not been duped continued to use it for everything and told us it would “just take some getting used to.”

After several months of silent suffering, my mother conceded that perhaps it wasn’t quite all it was cracked up to be. That’s when she switched to whey. As in curds and whey. Yeah, my mom made her own milk. She ordered these packets of powder that you mixed with water and then poured into a special pitcher with a plunger in it and refrigerated. You had to pump the plunger and basically churn your own milk every time you wanted a glass.

The idea was that the fat – curds – would be separated out and the milk – whey – could be skimmed off the top and consumed. I don’t recall how or why this was supposed to be better for us than just buying skim milk at the store except maybe it wasn’t actually from a cow. It was space milk. Luckily this particular experiment didn’t last as long as the others. From day one, none of us would drink the stuff and every 5 days or so my mom was left to dispose of a lump of curds down the kitchen sink.

I can remember being 16, barely driving, sneaking out of the house and taking the car to the all-night grocery store to buy milk. Kids I went to high school with would be sitting in the parking lot drinking, smoking and listening to music. I walked right past them and went to the dairy section. I was jonesing for delicious, creamy, full-fat milk.

By the time I moved out, there were several other such instances including one summer when she kept an aloe plant on every available surface in the house just in case one of us happened to acquire a sunburn. I can't count the number of televangelists she sent money to for tapes or books or to feed hair-lipped children in Africa.

These days, her addictions are milder; her infatuations more short-lived. Currently, she buys only organic food and swallows a cocktail of vitamins and fish oils and charcoal every morning. She uses $200 eye cream, but nothing too terrible has come of that, yet. And I guess we are all partly to blame. None of us wants to be the one to tell her that she looks nothing like the lady on the bottle. My dad just says “you look great, honey,” and quietly hopes she will stick with this one for a while. Her next obsession could actually affect him and he figures he has paid his dues.
I doubt he has considered that with this recession my mom could likely end up on a street corner somewhere turning tricks for eye cream money...

beggars and choosers

2009-08-13T03:23:00.000-05:00

For I guess forever
Women have been telling men
Send flowers
Compliment us
Notice our hair
Stupid shit
Shit you don’t wanna do
Shit we don’t do for you
And these women
Are fucking it up for the rest of us
Cuz I don’t want any of that stuff
What I want
Is for you to put sweat on my brow
And knots in my hair
Splinters in my back
And blood on my lip
Make me walk funny for a day or two
That’ll get my attention
I’m addicted to that shit
And I’m allergic to flowers

and what do we tell your sister?

2009-08-11T22:51:00.002-05:00

I do not sleep anymore. There are no breaks. No pauses. Just being. One long, straight line of being. I hurt all the time. Sometimes it's just a headache and sometimes every muscle in my body tightens as if around a coil in my chest until it is so full I cannot breathe. I have tremors and spasms. In a moment, the only thing that feels right is to flail some part of my body as violently as I can. My legs are stiff. My arms are numb. My hands don't behave as I would like them to. I am always tired. I spend all my time trying to figure out how I feel and why I feel it and what I want and why I want it and all I know for sure is I don't care anymore. I simultaneously fear dementia and long to turn my mind off. I want to stop. I am addicted to my own poison. I suck it out of my freshest wound and swallow it down again. I'm not right. I'm not OK. And I'm not getting better. I just stare into the darkness, waiting for my eyes to adjust or for my brain to come up with a better idea. Just stare. Until it's time to go through the next set of motions. Haven't had an original thought maybe ever. I have been done. I am so 1999. My heart beats too hard and too fast and it scares me. I care too soon and too much and it scares me. I miss her. It was always times like these when she would sit with me, sensing everything and saying nothing. She understood. She was my best friend. She was my role model. She was the kind of friend I try to be for everyone but myself. Ever since I had to be the one to make the decision to put her to sleep forever, I do not sleep anymore.

Game

2009-05-04T07:11:00.002-05:00

~
watch out, boy
this was no accident
she is an experience
a thoughtfully-crafted
deliberately-choreographed dance
of nuance and suggestion
cleavage and perfume

that look she just gave you
the one you thought no one else saw
the one you thought was just for you
(or, god help you, the one you thought you caused)
I saw it
half the guys in here have seen it
she studied that look
in her vanity mirror
till she got it just right

in a minute
she’s gonna touch you
mind you, just barely
just enough
but you will be sure she did

she won’t acknowledge it
it won’t affect her
but it will get to you
you will want it again
and you will want it bad enough
to buy her another drink
with the money
your wife handed you
and said was for milk or bread or something

you got close, son
but she’s not playing horseshoes
she’s playing you
and she’s winning

clear and present

2009-04-18T13:35:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, I saw

The flame-colored fleck

Perfectly off center

Amid a hundred shades of blue

And you didn’t blink

And you didn’t look away

And that’s how I knew

For sure

That whatever it was

You had just said

Was true

And important

And entrusted just to me

It’s probably best

For both of us

That I was so distracted

By your eyes

That I have no idea

What you said.

will out

2009-04-14T18:13:00.002-05:00

~
You should really shut your mouth
‘Cause all your truth is falling out
And you think that I don’t know
You think it doesn’t show
But I recognize myself in you

Your back’s against the wall
You sway but you don’t fall
You’re ready for a fight
You want to do this right
This didn’t go like you hoped it would

Afraid that you know better
Or maybe that you don’t
Afraid that you’ll try harder
Or maybe that you wont
You hide behind what you think you should

You’ve gotten all you can
Swallowed all that you can stand
Just admit that this is it
It’s over and you quit
After all, you don’t love me, after all; you don’t love me after all
~

a thousand words

2009-02-18T11:38:00.003-06:00

it is an odd look
you have to give someone
the morning after
the night
when you did not
defile each other
on your friend's couch
while he went out
to buy cigarettes
but you both know
you thought about it
and probably will soon

stars and bars

2009-02-15T04:19:00.003-06:00

there is a certain honor
in getting the worst of you
'it was a very good year'
you say to yourself
as you reach into your private reserve
and pour another lukewarm glass

a wool and cashmere blend

2009-01-19T01:25:00.004-06:00

piles of good lingerie
wrapped in tissue paper and filed away
amethysts and diamonds
locked in velvet-lined boxes

charcoal portraits drawn from memory
assumptive lyrics with no melody

cannot lose what is kept in it's place
until one day I treat my heart the same way

like an object
and why it never occurred to me
to object
to these objects or to being one of them

possessed

2009-01-07T22:37:00.002-06:00

Mine
Will be the name
You speak only in confession

Mine
Will be the image
You see in blurry drunken blinks

Mine
Will be the soul
That shatters without making a sound

Mine
Will be the choice
To end it when I have had enough

The church of the hair of the dog

2008-12-02T00:42:00.003-06:00

The congregation assembles
At the same time every week
We put our money in the jar
And give at least ten percent for fellowship
Sister bartender knows my name
She knows my drink as well
Father calls me “darlin’”
Mother makes us food
Families come around together
Some even bring their dogs
We tell each other the truth
And hold each other accountable
Ceremonies are held
Lovers are wed
God is discussed
Confessions are made through amplifiers
We sing and dance and hug and cry
We counsel each other under neon lights
Despite all we don’t believe in
We all believe in this

she knows too much

2008-12-01T23:41:00.001-06:00

consider me the canary
in the mine shaft
of your heart
if I ever see
the light of day again
man, am I ever gonna sing

waiting it out

2008-12-01T23:38:00.003-06:00

She’s bringing in groceries
and letting the cold air in.
He wants to yell at her
"shut the damn door,"
but he knows if he does
he’ll have to get up
and help her,
so he keeps his mouth shut.
It’s the least he could do.

wishful thinking

2008-12-01T23:34:00.002-06:00

someday

I’m gonna be

big

enough

to fill

all the holes

she left in you

someday

you're gonna be

big

enough

to let me

Oblivious

2008-10-14T20:57:00.008-05:00

Her body is ninety-three years old. Her mind is much younger now. I went to see her today, only she doesn't know it. Doesn't know I am her granddaughter, Doesn't even know her own name. I hate going out there; only go when the guilt forces me to. If that makes me a bad person then I will carry that title because it's true. Maybe somewhere I am hoping she will die during one of the long expanses between visits. It would be fitting, wouldn't it? Then I could feel guilt, or anger, something active. This passive waiting is killing us both, just not fast enough.

They said she was awake and had just finished dinner. In the time it took me to walk the length of her hall, she had fallen asleep again. There wasn't a lot of difference these days between her asleep and her awake. She didn't talk. At all. Occasionally, I could catch her eye and make a funny face and she would smile. That's the only way I knew there was any part of her still left in there. And then I'd resent it because it meant I'd have to come back. I had an obligation to that sliver until it was gone.

I crawled up on the bed with her, partly to be near her and partly to say "hey look at me! I'm not afraid of the senile old lady. " Touch was about the only sense she had left so I started rubbing her legs to let her know I was there. Her eyes fluttered open but otherwise she did not move. I could feel her bones, sharp now under her thin skin. All the way up to her crippled knees she was no bigger than my wrist. In this sense, too she was almost gone; quite literally a shell of who she used to be. "You're nothing but bones," I tell her. No response.

The Korean nurse entered then and carried a little plastic pill cup to her bedside. "Miss Gladys, it's time for your dessert," she said. She dipped a white plastic spoon into a white cup with "GLADYS" scrawled across it and drew out a spoonful of yogurt mixed with crushed pills. I watched her touch the end of the spoon to my grandmother's lips, inciting her to part them just enough to let the mixture in. My grandmother seemed rescindedto this; it was her routine now and it never occurred to her to question it. She had been in this place, in this bed for two years now. She had been in the same curled up position for the last 6 months, only moving when someone moved her. The nurse dipped that spoon into it's cup 3, 4, 5 times while I watched in amazement at how much she was getting out of one tiny cup. It was like watching clowns pile out of a Volkswagen Beetle only instead of being entertaining, it was sad. All she could do was lay there and be spoon-fed what they decided was good for her. Her only reward was the nurse's "good girl" after each swallow.

I knew she wanted to die. She had told me so. I wanted her to, too. I wanted that for her; for every poor sucker in this joint. I was sad for her, but more so I was sad for me, because I am just that selfish. I have no reason to assume watching her die would be any more painful than watching her live like this. If I were there in the very moment she passed, then I would know my God. Then I would see that compassion and love and mercy are a real, live thing. I wish it made sense. I can't see the reasons why. Why exist when you don't even want to? Why continue to stay physically alive when you have done everything you are able to do in this body? And what if she had made entirely different choices over the last ninety-three years? Would it make any difference now? And again, I am thinking of myself. Maybe she has purpose yet to serve; if only to give me someone else to feel sorry for occasionally.

poetry to the power of poetry

2008-10-13T21:18:00.013-05:00

Hey, fucker,
at the other end of the couch
remember me?

I'm still here.
Even if I don't talk so much
I've damn well stayed

on my end
where I've been since we started this
in our first home

where we were
living in sin; guess we still are
just alone now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey, fucker,
I'm still here
on my end
where we were

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

at the other end of the couch
even if I don't talk so much
where I've been since we started this
living in sin; guess we still are

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

remember me?
I've damn well stayed
in our first home
just alone now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Condemned

2008-09-25T10:50:00.006-05:00

“Lover, you haven’t touched your meal”
she said quietly
you’re gonna need your strength
if you’re gonna fight for me

she laid it all out on the table
even served it on his favorite plate
it wasn’t something he could digest
it wasn’t something he’d appreciate

say something interesting
she begged silently
say something worth your breath
anything to convince me

but of course he didn’t
because of course he can’t
she used to think it was a good thing
that she could win every argument

this is not a fair fight
and it won't ever be
he didn’t do anything wrong
he just didn’t do anything

so she turns her back
on him and all of it
adds the final touches to dessert
and whispers to herself: “I quit.”

weather/ patterns

2008-09-02T22:10:00.003-05:00

you are silent letters
in all my words; without which
they mean something
entirely different

you are kind of beautiful
in soft cotton
and flannel in layers
hugging me good-bye

we pretend this air is cool
and warrants such a thing
though we are only days
outside the intensity of summer

we force this new season
as if the current conditions
somehow justify
our response

thinking of you

2008-08-12T23:09:00.003-05:00

in your T-shirt
in this skin you've touched a thousand times
the back of my hand still smells
like your brand
all my memories are of you
you break me down
you've still got pieces of me
in your teeth
I stick my finger in this freshest wound
and my blood tastes like you
you're all over me
you're over me

none of these is the reason why
I am thinking of you

putty

2008-08-11T20:05:00.003-05:00

You kissed her and a little sliver of me fell away
I felt myself flinch, my body twist
you were so content in that moment
everything you needed in your grasp

I want you to be happy
I want you to be whole
until you are
and I am unnecessary

then I need you to be broken
so I can get my fix
I need you to have holes
so I can feel big enough to fill them

I’m sorry that matters to me
maybe I am the one who needs fixing

the forest and the trees

2008-08-01T22:40:00.006-05:00

.
It's getting so the only feeling I know

is the feeling of not feeling

all the things I know

and the feeling of wishing I could

because I owe you at least that much

Isn't it romantic?

2008-07-30T00:07:00.003-05:00

I don't believe in romance. As a genre of literature, yes. As an umbrella category of languages, certainly. But for today's exercise: as an all-encompassing description of thoughtful gestures made between two people who love each other, not even close. The way most people misuse the word today, romance is what passes for love before we are sure enough of ourselves or the other person to be vulnerable enough to actually, actively love.

The people at Miriam-Webster agree with me. I looked up romance in my dictionary, (copyright 1951) and found ten definitions. None of them mentions candle light, jewelry, horse-drawn carriages or expensive dinners. Options include "1. A long narrative verse… 2. A fictitious or fantastic tale… 3. A novel emphasizing adventure… 4. The type of writing comprising such stories… 5. Happenings so fantastic or unusual they are as those of such writings… 6. The quality or excitement of adventure or love… 7. The tendency to derive pleasure from such happenings… 8.(my personal favorite) an exaggeration or falsehood 9. A love affair (refers to the adventure or excitement of the affair, not the collective of actions making up such an affair and if you also look up 'affair', it is usually connotated as short-lived exchange) and 10. In music, a short, lyrical, sentimental piece." No flowers; no Godiva; no Hallmark.

I was having this discussion with two friends of mine over lunch today; one male, one female. Ultimately, they agreed with me that the whole romantic gesture thing is just that- a gesture. However they both insisted on both the validity of the word 'romance' as well as the value of 'romantic' gestures in their own relationships.

My female friend cited a recent trip her husband had made to the corner store. He was sent on a mission for toothpaste or paper towels or some such mundane grocery item but noticed a bag of M&Ms at the checkout. Remembering they were his wife's favorite candy, he added them to his other items and brought them home to her. She described this thoughtfulness as 'romantic.'
"But what if I do the same thing for you?" I asked. "What if I go to lunch at that place that makes the great sweet tea and I bring you back a Styrofoam cup full of it just because I know how much you like it; surely you wouldn't call that romantic, but what's the difference?"

"The difference," my male friend offered, "is you two aren't in a romantic relationship."

Fail. That argument does not work literarily or mathematically.

You cannot define a word using that word. A gesture is not romantic because you did it with romantic intent, or within the confines of a romantic relationship. In my Latin (original Romance language) dictionary, the English word 'romance' is translated to 'fabula', the fabulous tales of adventure and fantasy, and 'amator', literally, "friend or lover. " Anyone you love. There is a reason we have 4 trillion words for love across world languages. We should all be doing small, quiet, thoughtful things for all the people we love.

A kind deed is a kind deed, no matter for whom it is done or within what relationship. A three is a three no matter how it functions or what plane it is on. Under no set of assumed givens does a three become a seven. Granted, intent matters. Multiplying by a three will yield very different results than subtracting three. However, the value of three remains three and intent is seldom parallel to perception, definition or law.

If a man who does not usually open car doors for women suddenly does so on a first date, he is trying to impress her. Could be because he likes her; could be because he wants to get laid and thinks this will help. Either way, the motives are selfish and the actions short-lived. However, if her were reared to open car doors for women he would do so for all women; dates, friends, sisters, mom… No female is exempt and the actions are neither selfishly-motivated nor short-lived. They are a part of his character and manners. The action of opening the car door is not a romantic action when he does it on a date and a platonic action when he picks up his mom from the airport.

Furthermore, what defines a relationship – or a perception of a relationship – as platonic or romantic? It is not limited to physical encounters. I have hugged and kissed most of my friends. That did not alter our platonic relationship and magically put us in a romantic relationship. These classifications cannot even be delineated by the presence or absence of a sexual element.

So what, then, decidedly segregates a romantic relationship from a platonic one? As of yet I cannot answer that question. You either love someone or you don't. You're either paying attention or you're not. I don't believe there is a set of qualifying factors that make a relationship romantic or that any such set of scenarios quantify romance. It cannot be defined. It does not exist. Therefore, I don't believe in romance.

"Deceiving others. That is what the world calls romance."
~ Oscar Wilde

Adopted

2008-07-15T02:25:00.003-05:00

~
It’s a foreign concept for me to be liked, to be loved
Not in the way your family has to
Or in the way a congregation pretends to
But just for me
It’s entirely different
As much as I like other people
Even love them
For nothing
Except being, saying, feeling, and just generally getting it
I find it hard to believe
I’ve been programmed
In fact, I was warned by three different people
From their self-imposed outsider’s point of view
~
I was warned that you would use me up
If you noticed me at all
But as I was leaving this bar tonight
Four of you told me you loved me
And I have suspicions on a fifth, who doesn’t like to say the words
It was casual
It came easily
It was sincere
And I choose to believe you, because
For the moment
We have them outnumbered

Sammie

2008-07-15T02:01:00.007-05:00

I cannot remember the first time we spoke
For a while, I felt bad about that,
like I had forgotten our anniversary
It wasn’t even that long ago, really

But we’ve both done some changing
Hell, we’ve both become new people since we met
Partly coincidence; partly fate
Partly because of and partly in spite of each other
Truth is we have grown up together
Which is why it feels like we did

So I’ve stopped trying to recall
The first words between us
Or who was speaking
Or where we were or what day it was
I hope it never comes to me
It is fitting that this thing
We hope will have no end
Should have no beginning as well

earned journey

2008-07-13T11:02:00.007-05:00

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~
8:48
Sunday morning
80 degrees already
but they say it’s gonna rain
I’m walking on hot concrete
past dog-walkers and lawn-mowers and church-goers
and signs that say ‘one way’ with their arrows drawn against me
~
my bag contains a corset, a camera, and the receipt from a bar tab I don’t remember paying
I am wearing a T-shirt and sweat pants
and four-inch tall, jet-black stilettos
because I packed inappropriately for this mis-adventure
and everybody knows
or thinks they know
I wish I were that sure about something
~
and then, because God has a sense of humor
just in time to step over it instead of on it
I see a stick of hot pink rock candy
dropped, discarded, shattered in some places, pristine in others
and melting into this road with me
~
ten minutes later I am half-way back to where I abandoned my car and so much else
my joints hurt
at every place I come together I am aware of myself
these bags are heavy
heavier than I remember them being when I set out
and that guilt I had been praying for
is finally settling in
~
the sun is out from behind that cloud
we are both exposed
I want to stop
to rest
to not be seen for a little while
but there is no turning back now
I said I was going home
I left a note
I locked the door behind me
I’ve come this far
I’m committed

none the wiser

2008-06-07T15:06:00.004-05:00

Walking into the art supply store about an hour ago, I overheard a conversation between a mother and her young son.

The son was bragging. "Did you know I have a Harry Potter game? I can listen to all the spells they say and I can learn them and then I can cast spells too."

"You know that doesn't work right? We don't believe in that. Anyway, just because you say something out loud doesn't make it so," she told him.

Before he could counter, he sneezed.

"God bless you," said the mother, "now hurry up."

lukewarm

2008-06-03T23:21:00.003-05:00

sex is not
life support
for a relationship
too weak to breathe on its own

you don’t want this from me
you’re getting the best of me

love is not
politics
a weapon only used
to progress your agenda

everything you said you wanted
you’re getting the best of me

life is not
existing
and making the ends meet
ends get closer every day

you don’t want this for me
you’re getting the best of me

I am not
potential
flesh and blood and passion
I’m nothing like your daddy

you’re getting the best of me
and you’re fucking welcome

being handled

2008-05-28T19:54:00.006-05:00

~
there will be no
grand gestures
there will be no
planned impressions
~
I won’t be looking
through sidelong glances
you won’t be running
your lines in your head
~
but sometimes
there will be boldness
and sometimes
there will be something real
~
in a moment
something done with purpose
for the moment
is enough

self important

2008-05-17T03:14:00.001-05:00

I’ve made myself a given
and given all I’ve got
you know I’ll be there
with my hands in your hair
and my heart on my sleeve
carrying the conversation

there is a line somewhere
between loyal and desperate,
noble and sad
where I rest
settle
wait for you to notice
but I’ve noticed you not noticing
at all

girl, you better learn the difference
between your man
and your daddy
soon

Hollow

2008-05-11T21:10:00.003-05:00

~~~~~~~~~~~~
You’re searchin’ hard
for something that’s not here
for so much more
than I can give you
you need to hear words
I can’t let myself say
much as I want to
much as I'm searchin' too

and I barely know myself
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~if I’m not reading

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~reflecting

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~acting

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~gauging

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~reacting

If I'm not the girl busy being what you need, who am I...what do I do?

I know what you want from me
and it kills me not to give it
just that you’re the first to be able
to take so much
I’ve left pieces of me
all over town
like long-forgotten Easter eggs
no one is looking for

and every passing glance

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~feels like a failure
every happenstance

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~lacks all its flavor

though I can smell potential on the air

it’s just a shell
this thing between us
a wall built entirely of

what might have been

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~

Perennials

2008-05-01T21:57:00.002-05:00

She walked me out to the garden at the end of her vast yard. Before we even arrived, her arm was outstretched in an accusatory point at a single lily blossom.

“It came in all crazy this year.” I could tell she was disappointed.

“Every year, for as long as I can recall, theses lilies have been orange; just solid orange. But this year…” she trailed off and shook her finger at the flower.

I squatted down to get a better look. I didn’t mind it. I didn’t know what lilies ought to look like or that there was a right or a wrong way for one to grow.

“This year, this…thing showed up all red and orange and gold-streaked, t'ain't what I expected.”

“Some years,” I told her, “are different than others.”

“Huh, could be anything. Sometimes the weather can do it, or the kind of light they get, or what you feed them.”

“Or, maybe,” I asked hopefully, “this was just her year?”

Antimatter (a heavily-seasoned, mash-up swing with a heartbeat kick drum and a zydeco accordion)

2008-05-01T21:00:00.004-05:00

No matter how much cheese you put on a pizza
It would always taste better with more
No matter how many times you say you’re sorry
You are still goin’ out that door

Oh
Don’t somebody know what they got?
At home and
Don’t somebody know what they got?

You think your real life ain’t started yet
But what if this is as good as it gets?
Don’t somebody know what they got?
Oh – Don’t somebody know what they got?

No matter where you run to you’ll run out of time
And meet yourself at the door
No matter how you figure it doesn’t work out
You’ll feel guilty for wanting more

Oh
Don’t somebody know what they got?
At home and
Don’t somebody know what they got?

Searchin' for somethin' you've already found
Seems to be a lot of that goin' around
Don’t somebody know what they got?
Oh – Don’t somebody know what they got?

Oh
Don’t somebody know what they got?
At home and
Don’t somebody know what they got?

Yeah
Don’t nobody know what they got?

Still Life

2008-05-01T18:29:00.001-05:00

Just because you need a lighthouse don't mean I'm ready to shine...

Landmarks

2008-04-28T14:58:00.001-05:00

I erased your message
But the stupid little envelope icon
Won’t go away
A reminder of what is of what was

Like the smell of passion fruit
And red currant orange pekoe
Still heavy in my car
And on the back of my hand

Oh you shoulda been there
Dancing with me in the sky
A hundred years ago
When I was free

Oblivion

2008-04-28T14:44:00.004-05:00

“Cheers,” she said,

“Here’s to
The weekend Oblivion
Crashed sideways into my life
Like the Kool-Aid Man
Through my living room wall
And poured himself out
All red and sugary
On my pristine wall-to-wall carpet
Then folded his hands, bowed his head
And simply walked away.”

“Chin-chin, yeah”
She tipped her glass to the sky then drank it all down

Crackers From Heaven

2008-04-22T00:08:00.006-05:00

God is love.
She had heard it a million times and seen it in a million different places. It had become cliché; meaningless. One of those phrases like “hang in there” or “it will be ok” that people spout off when they don’t know what else to say. No one ever tells you how to hang in there and the truth is sometimes, it’s not going to be ok. So it was with this phrase, “God is love.”

She had gone to church all her life, with mostly disappointing results. People were horrible everywhere, but the worst of any could be found in the front pew every Sunday morning. Still, she went because she knew truth could be found there, even if she had to cut away all the double talk and spin to get to it. She also went to look for loopholes. She knew a lot of the party line just couldn’t be what a loving Father would want for his children. She went to be convinced. She went to be persuaded. But it was getting redundant. She had felt God, felt love, once in her life and it wasn’t in a church.

So she spent a lot of time talking to people outside the church; people who didn’t mind telling her they had no use for religion. She secretly had no use for it either and hated that so many used it as an exclusive club within which they could exercise their most unholy and selfish intentions. She was looking for spirituality and she saw it in people who were slow to anger. She was looking for faith and she saw it in parents who expected their children’s lives to be better than their own. She was looking for peace and she saw it in those who floated gently through life, paying little attention to trivial things like “right and “wrong.”Still she knew she couldn’t be like them. She had to be obedient. Discerning. Faithful. She was supposed to be setting an example. Funny, she now considered herself among the lost and searching.

As was so often the case these days, she found herself in a room with a self-proclaimed non-believer. She was holding his son on her lap and talking at breakneck speed, trying to convince him or convince herself, she wasn’t sure. She did not yet have children and found herself at an age where she was relentlessly aware of her approaching deadline. He was her age and one of the souls she had been trained to feel sorry for. But she was envying him.

He was in the middle of proving evolution when he abruptly stopped talking. She followed his gaze. He was mesmerized by the face of his son. She looked down at him and watched him silently eating a cracker. It was too big for his perfect little mouth and inevitably some partially-chewed cracker fell from a corner and onto her knee. Neither father nor son apologized. Eventually, he looked back at her and said, “Sometimes it’s so awesome just to watch him eat a cracker, ya know?”
And suddenly she did.
She knew what years of carefully-worded sermons and slow piano refrains couldn’t teach her; what countless relationships would never show her. This was what love looked like. This was the face of her long-lost friend. This was the truth she had been searching for.
And just like that, God was in the room.

I O U

2008-04-20T00:17:00.002-05:00

You were not the one
But you were the one
Who made it okay
To be me when
You were not the one

Grande, Non-fat, Caramel/French Vanilla, Decaf Madness

2008-04-18T10:42:00.001-05:00

When I order a cup of coffee, you know what I want? A cup of coffee. I want beans, water and hot. I do not want to try your new blend that is lightly sweetened with the milk from an Amazon monkey's teat. I do not want a liquefied cinnamon bun or a melted candy bar, or any other such dessert in a paper cup. I do not want to have to learn Italian to order. And I most especially do not want you adding cream and sugar to my coffee FOR me without my knowledge or consent. Whomever the asshat at McDonald's this morning was who took the lid off of my coffee and dumped in five creams and twelve sugars instead of just tossing them in the bag owes me a cup of coffee. Beans. Water. Hot.
Since I drank hot sugared milk instead of coffee this morning, I do not have the energy to rant anymore. If you find me passed out somewhere today. Please either let me sleep or give me coffee. And by coffee, I mean coffee. Just so we're clear.

End of a Millennium

2008-04-14T15:21:00.007-05:00

If you've ever been a writer and taken it seriously, had a passion for it and felt like every work was, in it's purest essence, you; then you know how it feels to be edited. It can feel like a personal attack. If your work is changed drastically, or on a point you feel strongly about, you feel almost molested in a bizarre, compulsive sort of way. And if you are a writer, you know how it feels to care so deeply, but not believe in love at all; and I do care so deeply. I never knew how deeply until he edited me.

He had written for the paper for years before I got there. He had fans; he was good. I was trying. I realized how much work I still had to do, but I was proud of this latest piece. I asked him to read over it under the pretense of checking for grammar and spelling, but really because I wanted him to read me. I wanted to know, right away what he thought.

He read for several moments in silence and then, without looking up, pulled the pen from behind his ear. He had found a comma that should have been a semicolon, so he reached in and made one small dot atop my comma in the center of everything that was, in it's purest essence, me.

He left one tiny drop of black ink in my writing and he made it better. A single point that would have gone unnoticed by most, it was one thing he saw, one thing he thought, one thing he did that made me better. A bit of him buried deeply and blended perfectly within me.

The column ran the next day with our semicolon in it and no one who read it could have ever distinguished the part that was him from the part that was me. I thought it just as well.

If I had a hammer...

2008-04-14T10:48:00.000-05:00

There's a girl in my department who thinks she just won a million dollars. She knows that somewhere in her car is the Boardwalk piece in from the McDonald's Monopoly game and her sister swears she has Park Place. So they are each going to find their piece and then go together to their local Mickey D's to claim their prize.

Mind you, this is the same girl who believed she had won a different sweepstakes two months ago. All she had to do was give the person running it her checking account info so they could send her a direct deposit. But of course, she had to wait 90 days before she could withdraw it or there was a penalty. And then there was the little matter of the processing fee. And taxes. And eventually, she was forced to close that account and switch banks. But she remains unfazed. She holds onto hope.

So all day long today she is on the phone.
"Did you find Park Place?..... I am gonna go home and get Boardwalk after work..... but my husband may have taken it......it might be in my purse..... or my son might have brought it to show and tell..... OF COURSE I promise I will find it..... I'm not an idiot.... It's a MILLION DOLLARS!!!!"
And I have no choice but to listen because she is 6 feet away on a cell phone.

Being the wonderful person that I am, I am trying my best not to stab her in the soft palette, but my patience is wearing thin. I want to jump over this little cubicle half-wall and beat her with her stapler until she becomes as cynical and jaded as I am.

Alas, I think that falls under the heading of "unprofessional behavior" and is thereby grounds for termination. But if she can hang on to her dreams, I can hang on to mine.

Traveling Companions

2008-04-12T13:55:00.006-05:00

If she wants to stay up all night or out all night, once in a while, you've got to let her. If she wants to take a while to make up her mind and then change it right away, you've got to let her. If she wants to have a drink or twelve and smoke a pack or two; if she wants to dance barefoot and brokenhearted with strangers or sit in the corner and write, right now, you've got to let her.

This is a trip she has to take alone but she will be back. If she didn't want to return to just this place it wouldn't be so hard for her to leave. But she is going. Whether you let her go or make her slowly rip her self away from you, she's going. This place right now would kill her. It's not fair; it may not even be right, but she owes it to herself and if you love her, you owe it to her too.

The Promises We Make

2008-04-11T23:55:00.000-05:00

How did mine become an entire generation without coping mechanisms? We all hate confrontation, commitment, and hard work; most notably, the hard work necessary to have a human connection. We settle for substitutes and pale perversions of the real thing. Love is hard; so we choose lust. Honesty is painful; so we create our characters and say our lines. Sometimes, we are so convincing we don't know our persons from our personas at all.
Do we all hate ourselves so much that we have taken up the cause of burying ourselves beneath the rubble that is our lives? So many of us are so busy doing nothing at all but creating a diversion, a distraction from the fear that we, in our natural state, don't have all that much to offer. We paint the front door of a house that's on fire and hope no one notices.
You think no one appreciates you, but we do. Sometimes silently, often afraid we are showing too much of ourselves by saying it out loud, but we do. We are all scared of the same things. We are each a fragile masterpiece. Despite this, people treat each other horribly. There are people in each of our pasts who have ruined us for reality. We have all been hurt and no one wants to be the fool again. The games are exhausting and the prizes, only consolation. You collect your lovely parting gift as you make your exit and I don't want to go. I want to be here tomorrow, with you.
So lay it down; leave it behind; come and sit by me and talk the day away. Tell me the truth. Show me all your warts and I will show you mine. I want to know you and I want to be known. In fact, I am dying for it, as I think many of us are.

I'M A WHORE, apparently

2008-04-11T23:50:00.000-05:00

So, it's been a while since I caused a scandal in the workplace. I was getting bored. Restless. I felt I was in a rut. I decided something had to be done. I thought about it for a good long while, weeks actually. I decided to do it. Caution be damned. I am a known risk-taker.
Today, I wore a strapless dress to work!

I KNOW!

I caused a damn scandal. My entire department spent a good 1/2 hour searching the internet for the precise definition of "business casual."
So it seems I'm a whore. It's amazing, really, I wasn't arrested on my way in this morning for indecent exposure.

Anyway, I just wanted to let everyone who has now seen me in thes dress of great offense know that I have embraced my whore-like status and will not be offended if you offer me money for sex acts.

Full House Meets the Mouse

2008-04-11T23:49:00.000-05:00

A while back I was lucky enough to catch the reruns of Full House where they go to Disney World. I know Full House is so lame it needs a wheelchair, but I really like those two episodes because I am obsessed with all things Disney. However, I fell it is my responsibility as somewhat of an expert on WDW vacationing to clear up some continuity errors and technical mistakes.

First off, the entire family of ten (including toddler twins Nikki and Alex) manage to get on a plane in San Francisco, fly to Orlando, get to the hotel from the airport (in pre-Magical Express Disney Transportation 1993) check in, get rid of their luggage, have a meeting in front of their hotel, and make it to the parks and it’s still morning. In fact, Uncle Jesses goes to rehearsal for an hour, meets Becky in Fantasyland, goes to do his radio show and then is supposed to change and meet Becky again at the hotel for LUNCH. That’s not possible.
We live in Dallas and we have to get up at 4 am to take a 6 am flight to make it into a park in time for a late lunch. And we are usually traveling as just 2 able-bodied adults. Apparently the Tanners have access to some portal in the time-space continuum, but then why not use it for the whole trip and save the plane fare? Just thinking out loud here.

Secondly, while they are having the aforementioned meeting at the hotel, Donald and Goofy are just walking by and stop to take pictures and let the kids climb on them and such. No characters – especially ones who have to wear those giant puppet heads and size 26 plastic shoes would be expected or even allowed to walk around the property without a handler. And you can’t let your kids climb Goofy; appealing as it may be, it is assault.

Thirdly – I know it was 1993 and all but what the hell is everyone wearing? Danny is in jeans and a sport coat like he’s on his first job interview after parole; Jesse is in a very Charlie Sheen bowling shirt and leather pants (and later in a leather jacket and no shirt on stage with his mullet-wearing band.) Joey is in a sport coat too but rocks the Bermuda shorts with it because, apparently, that’s how he lets people know he’s zany. All the girls (Michelle, Stephanie, DJ and Kimmy freaking Gibler) are wearing shorts but also jackets or long sleeved shirts. What the hell time of year is it supposed to be? In fact what the hell time of year is it ever comfortable to walk around Disney World all day (especially since we have already established time is pretty much standing still for this trip) in long, heavy shorts, 2 or 3 shirts and Mary Janes or loafers? Further confusing the time-of-year issue: there is absolutely no one but the Tanners in the parks so one would assume that it’s January or some other traditionally slow season. Except when they lose Michelle and they pull back to show the other 3 girls searching for her; suddenly the park is shoulder-to-shoulder packed. I guess everyone else’s plane finally landed.

And finally – how the hell do Joey and Jesse get into and out of their magic, under-water-radio-broadcasting ball? Before the show they are scuba diving in the Coral Reef tank where they interrupt Danny’s attempt to propose to Raggedy Ann. Here the ball is already under water and they swim off to allegedly start the show. Then later when it is time to leave Joey decides he is afraid of sharks so he can’t leave the ball. Wouldn’t this ball be raised to the surface and then they get out? Especially considering it is full of electronic equipment? If they open the door to swim out it would fill with water, no? But apparently that’s what they do because moments later Joey is suddenly not afraid of sharks any more and he and Jesse are holding hands and swimming to the surface. Very gay.

Anyway, this is way too long already so I wont even bore you with discussions as to how the girls rode Cinderella’s carousel “10 times in a row” or why Chip and Dale were sitting at the dock of the Grand Floridian when Becky was being stood up for her lunch date – or how they ate the lunch she gave them with their puppet heads on. I won’t even ask for theories as to how the entire crew gets front row seating 15 minutes into the Raiders of the Lost Ark show or why when Michelle was princess for the day in the Magic Kingdom they would have left and gone to MGM. Or how a cast of 8 characters was gathered in 4 minutes to give Michelle a tea party – or why when she decided she didn’t want a tea party anymore Snow White didn’t beat her down.
I will digress. I will leave these questions for you all to ponder. In any event it couldn’t have happened that way… unless it was some of that Disney magic.

Free Gift With Purpose

2008-04-11T22:51:00.001-05:00

By the time you are marrying your third "soul mate" the delusion that people are happy for you and want to demonstrate this feeling by purchasing a Cuisinart should be thoroughly shattered. However it has come to my attention that an alarming and ill-mannered how-can-I-get-a-gift-out-of-this trend is developing in our society. People now expect gifts for every conceivable occasion from the traditional (weddings, graduations) to the mundane (dogs birthday, babys first poop.) Events that have never before been recognized as gift-giving occasions now demand parody and no one is standing up to this trend for fear of being labeled cheap, selfish, or worst of all, politically incorrect. Well, I, dear readers, have no such fear. I will be the lone voice of reason yet again and set so many of you straight on this subject.

What it boils down to, like everything else in life, is that people are generally greedy and lazy. Thus, the advent of the gift registry. Anything you want but dont have? Anything at all? Register for it! A first marriage and a first baby require a slew of accoutrements, most of which the young people involved would have no reason to acquire beforehand. These are the only two occasions for which it is acceptable to register. Registering for your second, third...twelfth baby is simply, rude. The very same stroller, playpen and diaper bag that were good enough for your first baby should be good enough for all the rest. If they are not, or if you simply cannot afford all the new things you think Jr. needs, here's an idea: stop having kids.

The wedding registry is even worse. For some reason, weddings, even second and third weddings have become a gift-giving free-for-all. People have no shame when it comes to what they will ask people to buy them. Originally, the wedding registry was intended to provide the couple with matching sets of dishes and linens. Now, I see registries that are dozens of pages long listing everything from margarita machines to nose-hair trimmers. I imagine these couples running through the stores, scanning guns in hand, picking out everything they think they may ever want, like sugar-filled children cashing in Skee-ball tickets. That same opportunistic mindset has snowballed into this greedy gifting frenzy.

Perhaps the greatest offense is when people register way out of their league. It is such an obvious affront to guests to be asked to buy uber-expensive gifts, especially for the couple known to frequent Wal*Mart and Sears when shopping for themselves.

Recently, a woman in my office asked us all to give her gift cards to places like florists and bakeries so she could use them to pay for her wedding day expenses. A few of the bleeding hearts in this department decided we should also include gift cards to the local movie theatre and restraunts since the couple could not afford a honeymoon either. You know what I do when I want to do something I cant afford? I save up for it or I get over it. I dont ask other people to host my whims. By the way, this was her 3rd wedding. I bought her exactly zero dollars worth of gift cards and hoped that someone would question my motives. No one did, so I wrote this.

Death by Schwetty Balls

2008-04-11T22:44:00.000-05:00

So I'm standing outside with my two favorite guys and as usual we're all trying to one-up each other's wittiness. Somehow the conversation wanders off and gets lost in a sick, perverted forest where phrases like "used panties" roam free.

More specifically, one of them tells me that somewhere in Japan there is a vending machine selling sodas, candy bars and used panties. I wonder aloud if there is a way to synthetically produce a substance that these undergarments could be dipped in so that some poor young girl does not have to "use" them. I am told this is not a source of shame in Japan – unlike business fraud where you have to jump off a building.

Of course, I immediately start screaming "NO! Hari Kari, Hari Kari, They commit Hari Kari!" Once I have everyone's attention, I continue "If I was a hot dog, I would cover myself in relish and I would eat myself and I would be delicious!"

"What the Fuck kind of tangent was that?" Witty-guy #1 asks me.
I remind him of the SNL sketch about Harry Carey, then witty-guy #2 tells me that sketch is not as good as the one where one of the Baldwin brothers makes "Schwetty Balls."

True, but Schwetty Balls is not another name for suicide so I had no segway. So we decided as a brain trust that we needed to figure out a way for someone to kill themselves in American culture that would hereafter be known as Death by Schwetty Balls.
Any Ideas?

Oh, Inverted World

2008-04-11T22:30:00.000-05:00

To borrow from two clichés: it's all an illusion, but the truth is out there. Usually right on the flip side of the illusion.

The guy who flirts with anything that walks and openly taunts any sign of sensitivity in his friends is the guy who is afraid he might be gay. The girl who barges into every conversation and starts all of her sentences with "did you know…" is the most ignorant girl in the room.

You can always know what the right thing to do is with this simple test: what is the hardest, most unnatural, and least popular way to approach the situation? There's your answer. If everyone around you advises against your decision, that's how you know you're on the right track. Especially if you're surrounded by overcompensating idiots; and who's not? Let's face it, if you're reading this it's a pretty safe bet you are the smartest person in the room.

What's right is not popular.

What's needed is not fun.

Life's not fair.

Good guys do finish last and

The guy with the least votes is usually the best man for the job.

It’s not your fault you suck: the pussification of a nation

2008-04-11T22:28:00.000-05:00

Everywhere you look someone is telling you it's not your fault. You shouldn't feel bad; just be yourself, whatever that is. Self-improvement is selling out. You are just a victim of a racist, sexist, elitist, judgmental, profiling, insensitive society full of over-pampered, over-privileged people who are trying to get theirs and keep you down.

It's not your fault you're fat – your body is toxic.
It's not your fault you're ignorant – you didn't get to go to college.
It's not your fault you're rude – you're just having a bad day.
It's not even your fault that you gathered a couple dozen of your closest friends in the middle of the night, piled into the back of a van and willingly broke federal laws and entered this country illegally. We don't strictly enforce immigration laws in the U.S. so it's our fault illegal immigrants are here. We made it easy for you. It would hardly be fair of us to start enforcing out laws now.

We have become so afraid that someone will accuse us of racism or sexism any other "ism," real or perceived, that we are continually editing ourselves and making excuses for why alleged good people make bad choices.
Sometimes, bad things happen to bad people. Sometimes your stranded in post-Katrina New Orleans because when the weather man, the mayor, the governor and yo' momma told you in advance there was a hurricane coming and to get out, you stayed. Sometimes you don't graduate high school because you had unprotected sex and got knocked up. Sometimes you die of an overdose because you jammed a needle in your arm. Sometimes he hits you because you forgave him when he hit you last time. Harsh, I know, but people continually overlook the fact that we are a free people and we have choices. And those choices have consequences.

I thought this epidemic was out of control years ago when a woman was driving down the street and pulled the lid off her McDonald's coffee and spilled it burning her thighs. She sued McDonald's for a squillion dollars – and won! Then a few years later everyone jumped on this bandwagon. Almost every well-known chain restaurant has been sued for having too much fat/ salt/ cholesterol in their food. What did you THINK was in a Big Mac? Then came tobacco company lawsuits. Yes they knowingly make a deadly product, but you don't have to buy them, light them and inhale. It has become politically incorrect to expect anyone to take care of or responsibility for himself.

If you are a member of a minority, nothing you do is ever your fault. It's because you're a woman, or black, or gay, or a one-legged mute. This week, Disney World kicked about 50 teens off their Downtown Disney property because they were loitering, being loud and rude and refused to go to into a movie/ restaurant/ store or leave when they were asked to do so. According to the Orlando Sentinel: "Parents of the youths wonder whether there's another reason: They're black." Who wants to bet that Al Sharpton and Jessie Jackson are on their way down to Orlando as we speak? If a group of white kids got ejected, there wouldn't be a quote in the paper from parents wondering if it was "because they were white." To my knowledge, no one has even asked if there were any white kids loitering in groups without parents? If not should we have arrested an equal number of white kids who were in the clubs/ restaurants/ shops to be "fair?" Wouldn't THAT be racist?

And if I hear one more member of the Latino community remind us that we don't really want immigration reform because illegals do the jobs that no one else will do I am going to stab him with a churro. I will tell you exactly how to solve that problem: stop paying lazy ass slackers who are lucky enough to be U.S. citizens to stay at home and have crack babies. Unemployment reform would all but eliminate the need for immigration reform in this country. If you could only be on welfare for a set amount of time people would HAVE to get a job – any job – before that deadline. All those people who come in and want you to sign their little form to prove that they asked you if you were hiring; all those people who no-showed to their jobs and then somehow got unemployment; all the Eddie's of the world who are "holding out for a management position;" they would be the ones cleaning toilets and digging ditches and we wouldn't need any more people to meet that need. We have more people in this country than we do jobs as it is and more coming every day. I say what Captain John Smith said: "If you don't work, you don't eat."

Furthermore, I say it IS your fault if you make bad choices. It IS your fault if you have a kid you can't afford. It IS your fault you ate or drank or smoked yourself into an early grave.

Pity never helped anyone.It is time we stopped camouflaging blame shifting as political correctness or sympathy. It is time we stopped censoring ourselves. People died for our freedom of speech and every time we fail to use it, we are slapping those people in the face. Say what you believe and be willing to endure whatever comes as a result. These days speaking your mind can ruin your life - just ask Bill Mahr. But if more of us started doing it then it would become less dangerous.
By the way, before you start calling me a right wing extremist, let me balance my point of view by saying this: Bill Mahr was right – being willing to die for a cause you believe in is courageous. If more Americans were willing to die for what they believed in this would not only be a better place to live but fewer other countries would want to blow us up.

Today’s Assignment: Kick Some Ass!

2008-04-11T22:27:00.000-05:00

The worst driving in America is going on in school zones and unfortunately, I live smack in the middle of one. Despite miles-long, snail's-paced school zones, police presence, crossing guards, crosswalks, stop signs, flashing lights, radar guns, and the basic traffic laws we live with every day, a school zone is perhaps the most likely place on the road that you will be killed. Either by some ½ awake, self-important parent trying to force their way to the front of the line, or by me, if you are such a parent.

Build a school and suddenly the roads around it are no longer governed by traffic law; they are a chaotic free-for-all in which parents, day cares, nannies, and bus drivers wrestle for position. The rules of the road are completely ignored. Want to make a U-turn in your not-at-all-mini mini van? Go for it. Want to stop where there is no stop sign? Why not? Want to pull up along side of people creating a 4-lane road where once there was a 2-lane road? Only if your late for a really important meeting.

This morning a woman actually pushed her child in front of my car. She looked, saw me, and decided to walk out in front of me anyway. I guess she pushed the kid out ahead of her as some sort of shield assuming I wouldn't hit a kid. In any other scenario, pushing a kid out in front of a moving car is abuse and the state is coming to get that kid. But today, in this lawless expanse of school zone, it is not given a second thought. As mom passed in front of my car she stuck her hand out, palm to my face as if she had the authority to tell me to stop. I really, REALLY wanted to drive straight up her ass, but no matter how much your mom sucks you still probably don't want to watch her get mowed down on a public street when you're six.

Which leads me to another point. In this educational environment, what is all this teaching the kids who inevitably witness this on a daily basis? When the parking lot is full of pushy, rude, self-centered adults all fighting to be the first one to get their kid to the front door, why should these kids believe their teachers when they get inside and are told that to be "good" we must stand in line, wait our turn, share with others and be polite? That's a bit of a mixed message if you ask me.

So just a message for anyone who may be reading this and is also in charge of getting the little ones off to school… You may be close to the situation to notice; it may be impossible for you to see the forest when you are one of the trees, so I will tell you what I see from the outside. You are teaching your kids more on that drive than they will learn all day in the classroom. What you teach them is up to you.

Powdered Sugar

2008-04-11T22:22:00.000-05:00

Last night my husband brought home what he declared to be "a special surprise dessert for us that only had 150 calories." Given my experience with low calorie diets, I assumed it was a teeny tiny cookie or two bites of an apple crumble in a microwaveable cup.

After dinner my husband ran into the kitchen and declared, "I am going to make you dessert!" He was suddenly giddy and very proud of his discovery. I hung on one word… MAKE. "You have to make it?" I asked. He grinned slyly and said, "yeah… where are the measuring cups?"

I knew it would not end well if I left him alone in the kitchen so I paused my Fraiser re-run and followed him. Thea, from a plastic Walgreens bag, he produced two boxes of Warm Delights. I will refrain from making a dirty pun here but I will tell you it is never a good thing to eat dessert from a drugstore.

The back of the box calls for one tablespoon plus one teaspoon of warm water. "Where is a tablespoon and a teaspoon?" he asked. I explained you can't do it that way and got out my heart-shaped measuring spoons for him. As he emptied brown powder into a tiny plastic cup, I had to ask "Are we supposed to eat this in space?"
Offended (as if he had invented the tiny freeze-dried cake idea) he said, "No, we microwave them!"

Now, I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself, but 30 seconds later we had… cake? We had a little round brownie? Well anyway, we had dessert.

I have to admit it was pretty good. Nothing like the cakes I make, mind you, but for something that was dust mere seconds earlier, it was acceptable. I still object to the manufacturer calling it "cake" and to my husband claiming to have "made a cake," but if you are ever craving chocolate and have 30 seconds to spare (and a tablespoon plus a teaspoon of water) I say give these little confections a try.

I Should Be Able to Stab You

2008-04-11T22:20:00.000-05:00

If you fail to merge into traffic without coming to a dead stop, I should be able to stab you.

If you think talking really loudly helps when talking to people from another country, I should be able to stab you.

If you insist on saying "as in Paul" after your Ps and "as in cat" after your Cs every time you spell out words, I should be able to stab you.

If you refuse to listen to what I am saying until I am almost done talking and then say, "wait… WHAT?" and make me start all over, I should be able to stab you.

If you are in customer service, but cannot provide service of any kind to your customers, I should be able to stab you.

If you stop in the middle of a grocery store aisle and let your 14 barefoot kids climb all over the basket while you pick out your favorite flavor of Slim Jims, thereby preventing me from passing and forcing me to say a quiet prayer thanking God for my birth control pills, I should be able to stab you.

If you scream in public and you are not being attacked, I should be able to stab you.

If you ever say to me: "must be nice…" I should be able to stab you.

If you approach me in a mall and say "excuse me, ma'am, would you like to try…" I should be able to stab you.

If you drive a mini-van. Ever. I should be able to stab you.

If you ask rude personal questions like "how much did that cost?" or "is there a lot of fat in your diet?" I should be able to stab you.

If you are still wearing scrunchies, stirrup pants, or anything Be-Dazzled, I should be able to stab you.

And Finally,

If I ask you a question and you respond with a blank stare and a "huh?" For the good of the species, I should be able to stab you

A Good Sport

2008-04-11T22:18:00.000-05:00

Can anyone explain to me the phenomenon that is professional sports? When I was in school I went to the football games that my cousin played in and I wanted him to win because I knew it would make him happy. But when a group of total strangers who don't even know you exist get together to put a ball or a puck into a net or across a line more times than the other group of total strangers… why do you care?

Bobby got free tickets to a Stars pre-season game so last Saturday night, that's where we were. Being me, I brought a book (Devil in the Junior League) and I fully intended to snuggle under my blanket and read. However, I quickly noticed that the volume in the arena was not going to permit much reading.

I also decided it was rude to read while those guys – whoever they were- were down there sweating. I mean, if I had gone to the ballet or a play or something and saw someone reading in the audience I would think them tres uncivilized. So I put the book away and did a little anthropological research. I noticed a couple of things:

At a play or a concert or whatever if someone does a good job you applaud. Presumably you are applauding their discipline, talent and hours of practice or rehearsal. But in team sports it's not the same. In team sports, someone has to be the loser. If someone from the opposing team makes a beautiful play and scores a million points, we boo them. We yell at our defense. We throw popcorn (and possibly hot dogs.) Why don't we appreciate the hard work of ALL the players? Why are we loyal to these guys?

People are much more apt to admit their fanaticism to sports than to anything else in the world, even their family or their faith. Say you went to church with someone as a visitor and at the end of the service people went down front to be saved. If each time someone said "amen" they set off a crazy-loud buzzer and someone in the choir shouted SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUL!" You would at the very least cringe and decide everyone in attendance was insane. But it is perfectly reasonable for people to get way more excited when a point is scored… and what difference does it really make to anyone who is not on the team? Again, why do we care?

Now I am not saying we shouldn't care or that sports fans are wrong or bad or anything, I just don't understand it. If someone can explain it, I am willing to listen. Hit me with a comment; we'll discuss.

Kill the Wabbit... KILL THE WAAAH-BIT!

2008-04-11T22:15:00.000-05:00

I have recently become what you may call a "fan" of classical music. I have always liked it – except for a brief stint in my early teens when I decided music without lyrics A.) was for old people and B.) could never be as expressive as music and lyrics. Mind you, I was a teenager during lyrics like:
"The blonde waitresses take their trays
Spin around and they cross the floor.
They've got the moves (Oh-Way-Oh)
You drop your drink then they bring you more"
And
"Karma karma karma karma karma chameleon,
You come and go, you come and go.
Loving would be easy if your colors were like my dream,
Red gold and green, red gold and green."
And that's when The Fat Boys, Tiffany, or the latest cog in the pop machine wasn't remaking a 30-year-old-song from Motown.

I have been exposed to classical music all my life. My grandmother played and taught the piano and organ. I have heard it regularly in my many years of ballet classes, humanities classes and Bugs Bunny cartoons. I had just never gone out and bought a classical CD before this weekend. Let me tell you, it's not as easy as it sounds.

While I have heard a lot of classical music, I am much less familiar with the names of the compositions. So I end up in the middle of Best Buy trying to get myself some of that ever-elusive customer service from a 17 year old who is listening to death metal on his i-pod so loudly I can hear it from 3 feet away.

"I am looking for that one that goes 'da da da dum, da dum, da dum,'" I attempt.
"Da, dada doo, dee doo, dee doo?" he asks.
"No, da da da dum, da dum, da dum!" I tell him.
We go on like this for a while until the whole thing becomes an Abbot and Costello routine and I am reduced to buying "50 Classical Masterpieces" from the $4.99 section and playing a weird version of classical music roulette on the drive home; making frequent use of my SEEK button and hoping to recognize something.

By some small miracle I do actually recognize most of what I ended up with and it is a welcome change to the mess they play on the radio during my long commute each day. So, I guess, muffin is happy. That is rarely the result when I am forced to leave my own home. I guess music really does sooth the savage beast.

Of he to whom much has been given, much is expected

2008-04-11T22:14:00.000-05:00

Yes, everybody makes mistakes and yes, everyone deserves a second chance; but what about those of us who did it right the first time? What about those of us who went to college, stayed with an established company, put in our time, paid our dues, bought a home at a fixed rate, tithed religiously, saved diligently, and spent judiciously?

When the Feds cut interest rates, to try to rally a fledgling economy, investments – including those of people who were planning to retire this week - are worth less, if not worthless. When the government bails out people who chose to gamble on an ARM, those of us who made safer, smarter decisions pay for it in taxes. Just as we pay for welfare. Just as we pay for life in prison.

Where is our second chance? Where is our government assistance? What is the payoff for doing it right the first time? Everyone wants fewer people "in the system" but the system keeps making it so damn easy. The assumption is that people who have a little bit of money don't need the help. They are lucky; living a charmed life. No chance they worked hard or are good with money. No way did they do a little research and make some hard decisions.

We make fun of schools where dodge ball and red pens are outlawed because it makes kids feel bad, but then we predicate that same mentality in our adult world. Are you down because you had a kid you can't afford? Here's some cash. Feeling blue because you bought more house than you could afford? Let us pick up the tab for you.

There must be penalties in life; there must be consequences. The function of government is not to eliminate those consequences but to create an environment where there is incentive to make responsible decisions. This is very different from comfort in the knowledge that even if you make a series of bad decisions someone will come and change your diaper.

The Road Less Traveled

2008-04-11T22:04:00.000-05:00

You can spend your whole life living for other people. You can try and try to figure out what they want you to do and what they want to hear you say. You can try to remain neutral, never voice an opinion, and never speak your mind.

Or, you can think for yourself, hold true to your beliefs; stand up for what you believe in and do what you think is right even if no one else does.

Either way at the end of the day; at the end of your life, someone still will have hated you. You just have to decide which course is less likely to leave you hating yourself.