#42

i dont drink but tonight
i wore a missile toe and mimosa t-shirt
with the arms cut off
to qualify for the ugly sweater party.
all of my friends are beautiful.
they donned their santa-riding-a-unicorn sweaters
and acrylic reindeer shells
and tried to neutralize their exquisiteness with Tacky - 
but it is just impossible.
one friend showed me an app 
where she could wipe her screen with her index finger
and she swore it was erasing our wrinkles.
i could not stop laughing.
not because i couldn't tell the difference
but because i thought it was so damn funny
that she would try to erase the wrinkles
on a photo
of something so imperfectly perfect already.
plus it was the way her finger rubbed back and forth
naive almost, the finger,
i could barely take it.
friendship cannot be measured in cocktails poured
or hors d'oeuvres served
or even sweaters worn.
but little fingers on screens
and white elephant re-gifts
and the magic of reading the bill
held out three feet in front of you...
one eye closed for squinting
the other shot full of love.
girlfriends are just the best.
there is no other way to say it.

#40

Forty is a magic number
like 7 and 11 and 13.
Forty is when you are closer to fifty
that you are to twenty
and you just cannot believe it.
It is also when mean people start to not matter
and your real friends show themselves
and your occupation is only part of who you are.
It matters who you love when you are forty -
because you realize you may be half way home
or on the back nine
or however you say
to old to screw around anymore.
It matters who loves you back now also -
more than it did before -
because who has time anymore
for half-assed love affairs
and broken promises
and the greatest insult of indifference?
Forty is great because you really start to care
about things that matter -
differently than you could
when you were thirty -
and you've lived enough life to simply reply
"because i said so"
when someone asks you why.

At 46, I'm thinking 'hells to the yeah'
just watch me put in some crest strips 
and hit Facebook -
i'll write a poem all about the life.

#31

the rain is back
this time like a no nonsense bag lady
collecting hours 
and their passing.
i wanted to say something important today
but there was turkey and cranberry mold
funeral potatoes and green beans
crispy onion, corn  and cream -
plus cookies and cake and pie.
that shut me up
like a million lazy minutes
and all i could say was
thank you.
when we decide to age together
and i mean really age -
without all the trying - 
i hope you will remember that i am cute.

#11

please don't tell anyone
but i have a Chiweenie. 
his name is Felix. 
Felix is a small appetizer
of a dog - 
a little Fifi -
a tiny Foo.
He tries very hard to speak to me
with leaps and racing,
a cocked head, a shiver,
a whine.
When I returned home from work today
he tore circles around me in delight
and said, unabashedly,
"I left you a tootsie roll 
near the door." 

 

#5

almost like a thief
the night crept out 
in an afro on platform heels.
los dias de la muerte happens early
with lip-stitch scars, bustiere,sexy kitten cop
and you.

the convict and the donald 
are the quiet ones.

what i love 
is that you kept carrying the purse 
even after you took the dress off,
your painted Flinstone toes
their own little shop of horror.

his bones were fancy
that's for sure -
while little red balls 
dangle from her montera.

a ghostbuster, a hippy and a dancing queen
polish grapes
while i stretch across rock and stone
to count the stars.

all the matadors here are wrestling
Taurus from the sky.

Boys Fight

Brothers fight. They just do. Maybe not all of them, but I suspect a large majority do. I remember the pediatrician telling me, when they were only about 2 and 4 years old, “Don’t ever assume that the older one started it, even if it always appears that way. I assure you the younger one did something to provoke it, even if it was just being born.” Well that sure put a fresh and unusual twist on things. Most of the time, this insight makes me rethink the desire to dog-pile the older one and hold him down until he cries “Uncle”. To squash the tyranny out of his little self. Of course, the younger one isn’t always at fault either, unless you believe the idea that he chose to come into this family, rather than being the involuntary result of me sleeping really close to the man who’d been toting his yet-morphed form around in his pants. Being inappropriate is  a little scary. The monster that fighting boys are capable of turning me into is a little scary also. Scary things are scary.

Tiger Mom

because I am such a die-hard “Tiger Mom”, I tossed out the 20 minute a day reading rule this week and spent the last few days with my son watching about 20 hours of complete brain cell-killing television shows. We even watched  WWE – or whatever you call those bizarre nearly embarrassing “wrestling” performances with the big guys in small shorts who talk like they are

hold   ing         pallets       of               steel    dung

in    their     arms   and      are      trying    to    gather      the

strength    to       form

big     words      like     “the”     and    “belt”.

Then I offered lots of pancakes and pizza and other fortifying food so he would have the energy to go pick out a 7 pound Chihuahua from the local rescue, because he hadn’t done anything to deserve it. After that we had salmon because it is good and not because it makes you smart and I served him non-organic cherries in a bowl with a lil’ pitt dish I re-purposed from a broken measuring cup. I let him sleep through the little chihuahua’s night-time crate training while I took on the job, even though I had said in no uncertain terms that he’d be the one waking up in the middle of the night. When my son finally did wake up, I made him more pancakes and put a band-aid on the hole in his face he got from a box of ridiculous firecrackers I bought him for the fourth of July. It’s tough being such a strict, bad-ass Tiger mom.

Spirulina Licorice and The Dementia

My friend Nat told me the other night “the thing about your writing is that you say things that I think everyone wants to say but doesn’t”. Aside from this being a huge compliment as I have worried that my blogging is merely self-indulgent, I felt compelled to say “Then…F- you!” Not to Nat, of course, but to every other person I ever wanted to say “F- you” to, but didn’t. And now, since I sort of feel like she gave me permission to say a few things that maybe other people wanted to say, I think F- you is very apropos. So there, I said it. Now, I take it back. I am even sorry.
That she also mentioned, in passing, a person whom had actually used the phrase “he has the dementia” simply made me happy. Not because someone has dementia – that is sad – but because someone called it “the dementia”. In doing so, he gave a secret squirrel insight more into himself perhaps than the person of subject. I imagine he has an old closet full of neatly folded doilies and handkerchiefs from 1939, and a trunk full of someone else’s old photos. I imagine he opens the closet only on the first Sunday of the month, at precisely 7:12 PM. He wears vintage white gloves that have never been washed but still appear pressed. He is lonely.

Hearts are broken all the time. Some breaks are more like surface cracks that hurt in the instant but seem to regenerate and even close after a modest kindness from time. Others occur more like tremendous re-enactments of the Grand Canyon – an act so ineffable and deep cutting that neither time nor any forthcoming kindness could propose to offer solace. These are the ones that stop time. The swollen heart syndrome that destroys a day a month a year a life…in an instant…that seems to last forever. They are the great global tragedies, the abuses done to the innocent, the day someone tells you they no longer love you. “F- you” doesn’t do it here, words fall apart in your throat, muteness only speaks to the surface. If I had a color for every bottomless moan and wounded yelp that cannot be uttered, I’d paint a crimson umber blood orange sky that wrapped the entire universe in forgiveness. I’d sing so sweetly, so quietly, so right.

People want to be acknowledged where it hurts but not dragged into the mire. I am supposed to say something funny that wipes all the badness away. “The dementia” helps with this. My own, and yours too. If I told you that my seven year old flipped me off the other day, you’d think I have some good fer nuthin’ punk ass kid with a bad attitude and a whole helluva lot of trouble headed his way. These are not the facts. My son is funny and sweet and kind. He makes me laugh everyday, from the bottom of the barrel of my gut. He is precious and he cares about the hearts of others. And, he gave me the middle finger. The funny thing was, he didn’t mean to . But it happened, at just the perfect time while he was saying just the perfect thing. Quite by chance, it was the middle finger that pointed at me, while he made some playful delivery and we both laughed until we cried. So inappropriate, so awesome. If, in the same breath, I mention that he also called a “mean kid at school” a “ball sack” you might think differently of him again. But I tell you, he is an angel. An angel who has a way with words way beyond his age.

Being married is a whole lot like a carnival. Caramel apples, merry-go-rounds, and the House of Horror. A crazy tooth-less Carni super-imposed by a lovely plump lady in a polka-dotted dress. Sun shining “this is the best day of my life” while a midget is stealing your wallet.