Already Gone

i looked up and you were staring at me,
your eyes were a little too wide,
your lashes long and dark.
i love you like crazy, i said,
and you suddenly smiled, looked down.

you packed at the last minute
throwing things in a duffel
it’s your way, it’s a good way.
i love you like mad, i whispered,
and you squeezed my hand, grabbed your toothbrush.

you wrapped me up in warm
kissed me hard, again, then again
the airport doors shwapped open and ate you whole.
i love you so hard, i said, you’re my favorite
but you were already gone.

I Eat a Lot of Bacon

I eat a lot of bacon. I don’t know if that means we can’t be friends anymore, but I just thought you should know. Gosh, I hope not. If we can’t get over our right to make our own food choices, how can we remain friends during an election year?

I can’t remember if you’re Vegan, Cabbage Soup, Vegetarian, Gluten-Free, Edenic, Subway, All-Organic, Pescetarian, Atkins, Weight Watchers, Paleo or what right now, but just know I think you’re awesome and I support your way of eating. We don’t have to talk about it, even though it’s all some people talk about. Like me, sometimes.

I have one friend that I text with and that is all we seem to talk about. Bacon. Seriously. Because she likes bacon as much as I do, and sometimes when you have something in common as deep as a love of salty pork meat, there really isn’t anything else TO talk about. And now when people come over for dinner, I’m that lady who, like your grandma used to do, keeps a tin can of bacon drippings on the stove and tells people, “Come over here and let me put a dab of this on your baked potato. You’ll like it! It’s delicious!” Just kidding. I don’t eat baked potatoes. I cook my chard and spinach in it.

Before I started eating less grains and more bacon, I had no idea there were people patrolling the world, assuming the title of Bacon Police, and to them I flip the silent bird and say a resounding, “Whatevs.” My inflammation has gone down to virtually 0, I feel energetic and I’m finally starting to lose weight. I will continue to eat this way until/if it doesn’t work any longer. Until then, thank you Bacon Heaven and may we all be so lucky to find our own Heavens, be they Bacon, Chicken Salad, Flying Spaghetti Monster or Veganaise, Amen.

Speaking of elections and politics and women’s bodies and Mormons and conservatives and liberals and families are forever and equal rights and gay marriage and “legitimate rapes” and right to choose and taxes and gun control and *pop* that was my brain and yes, it’s true, I may be skipping a lot of your Facebook posts right now because I’d like to love you through eternity if we’re all lucky and it turns out Mormon heaven exists, but I still LIKElike you, you know. We’re family and friends and we will continue to be family and friends beyond this year regardless of the outcome of this election, just like we have the last 41 years of my life.

Let’s not say things to each other we can’t take back. Let’s avoid drive-by commenting and tossing flaming zingers at each other. Let’s endeavor to say things in ways that are well thought-out and constructive and productive instead of inflammatory for the sake of being incendiary. Getting a rise out of me for a moment might make you feel better righthisinstant, but it’s not worth our friendship, is it? If we, the two of us, can agree to disagree and have an honest debate and come to some kind of meeting of the minds, see each others point’s of view, even when we don’t agree, then there is truly hope for our nation. If we two can do it, we can all do it.

To keep busy while I haven’t been Facebooking, I’ve been making things and organizing. Longtime readers would be right in thinking a manic episode is probably creeping along. I’m not worried. I’m along for the ride, as always. Worrying and stressing and the anxiety-riddled road lead to nowhere good. The illusion of being in control of my mind left me long ago. Every day is a surprise. Hopefully things don’t go too far up and then go too far down.

On the highs as of late – I went swimming in the ocean and in the pool for the first time in a long, long time, overcoming my fear of things under my feet where I cannot see them and things in the pool water where I can see them.

I rode public transportation, which is notable for three reasons: 1. I did it by myself, which is panic-inducing as I have a very real fear (based on past experience) of getting turned around, lost and assaulted/raped (not to be confused with “*eyeroll* non-legitimate raped */eyeroll*”). 2. I did it without any hand sanitizer or wet wipes for the GERMS and subsequently did not look like a crazy person wiping down my seat and handrails before touching/sitting down. (I did some thorough washing when I got home, however. Ahem.) 3. I did it after showing up in person for jury duty, which yes, caused me a three day panic attack and much, MUCH weeping and breathing exercises beforehand, to the point where Joe was automatically patting me on the head and saying, “there, there,” every time he walked in and out of a room, but I showed up. (I did weigh the pros and cons of not showing up more than once and may have looked up the ramifications of being a no-show, (the penalty for contempt of court is $1,500, jail time or both.) not because I didn’t want to do my civic duty, to the contrary, I’m fascinated by our government and very much wanted to know how it works and be a part of it, but because unknown experiences with people in authority paralyze me and make me vomit. Literally.)

So, I didn’t sleep the night before. The morning of, I ate a few bites of eggs and drank some coffee. Joe drove me to the Hall of Justice. I checked in. I threw up some eggs and coffee. I watched a video where real people pretended to be fake jurors, tried to read a book for hours and wiped my sweaty palms on my pants and did my best impression of a normal person until they called my name and assigned me a courtroom. And then I died but miraculously walked over to courtroom 17. I wondered how I would do this every day if this case went on and on. Then they excused us for lunch and I paid $15 for a ground beef patty I ate three bites of before admitting defeat. I went back to courtroom 17 about 45 minutes early and sat nervously outside the door on a hard wooden bench, waiting for them to call us inside. But instead, they told us our case was dismissed and thanked us, told us we could go home. Then I walked outside in the sunshine, sparkled like a Cullen, got lost for only 10 minutes while I pretended I meant to walk back and forth in front of the same strip of buildings three times BECAUSE THAT’S HOW I DO, OK GUY WITH A DOG WHO ISN’T EVEN LOOKING AT ME?! before finding the trolley, then made it home like a normal person would. Then I threw up again, cried for about four hours, ordered a gluten-free pizza, ate it all and went to bed at 7:30pm before Joe even got home from work.

So, small victories this past month. Yay, me.

One last thing before I go. The bright, shiny, electric elephant in the room. I’ve sent you an email. One that requires a response in a timely manner for an occasion coming up or I asked you a question about something that maybe you don’t want to answer but you don’t want to say so or you’re busy and you haven’t had time to answer so I’ve become a “Have-to.” And here’s what I’ve noticed – suddenly we can’t communicate about anything else. It’s like all communication has to be shut down because of that one email. That one stupid email that’s just sitting like a hot turd in your inbox, like a radioactive bomb. You avoid me everywhere else because if you look at me or acknowledge my presence, you think I’m going to jump on you and yell WHAT ABOUT THAT EMAIL, but I swear I’m not, and also? I miss you.

And now I wish I could take that email back if it means we could just go back to things being easy between us again. I miss the old us. Forget I sent it. Forget I asked. Let’s just move on. Never talk about it again or even for the first time.

Let’s go back to cracking sarcastic jokes on Twitter. Let’s run into each other at the grocery store and make eye contact and go for coffee while the frozen veggies defrost in the car and not care. Let’s talk on the phone for an hour about nothing while I scrub the tub with one hand and complain about the grout that won’t come clean and declare I won’t put on pants all day.

I don’t even like email. I miss your face.

Golden Tree at Dusk or Let in the Light

When the sun gracefully bends down in the sky to about here

the most beautiful thing happens off my balcony. Before I show you that, let me back up in time just a bit.

When we first moved into this little condo about a year ago, we were in the middle of some very stressful family things. We were distracted and heavy with Life and it was such a stroke of Universe (can I use “Universe” that way? Yes? Good.) that Joe’s aunts owned a place that was becoming available right when we needed it. It made the entire process of trying to find a place so much easier. We just slipped in quietly.

I remember when we walked through, checking out the closet space and shower, looking off the balcony and thinking, yes, this will work. The balcony faced the busy street, but was insulated by large and leafy mature trees. The sound was muffled. You could hardly see the cars whiz by. There were flower scents heavy in the air and hummingbirds flitting around. I thought, as long as there are these trees here, I can stay here. I enjoyed the shade and comfort of those trees every morning and every evening. They created a little nest for me. Quiet, solitary.

Fast forward through time, because we can, to late summer, early fall. Perhaps September? One morning I woke to the sound of a chainsaw. Looking out the window, I saw men in orange vests suspended above ground, deep into my trees, chopping off bits here and there and large branches right in the center of the best, fullest tree, the one I’d come to count on as a buffer to the world. I was devastated.

The next day, as I drank my coffee and glared at the empty spot where the branches used to be and where now nothing but a barren trunk stood, I wished we could move. Immediately. I hated the cars driving by. I hated the increased dust that flew up to the balcony and into the house. I felt betrayed. I spent a lot of time not looking out the balcony doors.

Fast forwarding through time again, somewhere in late November, I noticed some green bits had sprung from the trunk. They were tiny bits of things, nothing like their majestic predecessors, but there they were, all the same. Green and alive and making themselves known. I was begrudgingly impressed with their will to live, but very slow to warm up to them. And then dusk happened.

I sat with my cup of tea and couldn’t tear my eyes away. The honey dripping light blazed the bark to a glow that almost made me cry, but to be fair, I’ve always been a sucker for yellows and browns. The color turned dark amber, and then within seconds, was gone. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath.

The days were short and the Dusk Tree glow lasted for approximately 47 seconds every evening around 4:30. I couldn’t wait and found myself finding reasons to be hanging around the balcony, waiting to see the light show. I busied myself at dusting the cd cases or talking to the houseplants. My Prayer plant (Maranta leuconeura erythroneura) Gracie, (who has always refused to do what she’s supposed to do: pray), and I have historically found ourselves at odds when it comes to air temperature. She’s a picky little thing, wanting no breeze whatsoever, while I prefer a nice flow through the house. We had a lot to talk about.

One particular evening, as the sun dipped low to right above the ocean, Gracie shushed me quiet and began to fold her leaves, doing exactly the thing that her genera is meant to do. The tree outside glowed amber and Gracie, one by one, brought each leaf up and tucked it away. I was quiet, of course, and meditated in my own way.

Early the next morning, I crept out to watch Gracie unfold and welcome the sun. The tree outside was not just a Golden Dusk Tree, it was also a beautiful Back-lit Green Glowing Tree in the morning. I sat on the couch with my coffee and pointed out to Joe how beautiful the light was just then. Yes, he said. No more words were required. Although, at this point, he might argue that me pointing out how beautiful the light is every morning and every night might be more words than are necessary.

Here is a composite of “our” tree:

Hiding

I look out the window. The sun is shining, the leaves are dancing a slow waltz and I hear traffic close by.

There is a tiny spot of grime under my left thumbnail. I meticulously remove it with the long prong on the pen lid.

The AC kicks on and my feet turn to ice. My arms get pimples and I think about getting my sweater.

The AC turns off and slowly the small of my lower back gets warm and clammy. I feel a tiny bead of sweat fill behind my ear, under the arm of my glasses. It doesn’t fall.

I look at the screen and wish the words would come. Where are my words, I think, when my inside feels so full and empty.

Once there were so many words I couldn’t stop them from spilling out through closed lips and gloved fingertips. The words built up behind my teeth, vibrating for release and my hands moved quickly and surely, without stopping for pleasantries or lunch.

I grab my ice tea from the side table. The condensation has pooled around the base and quick drops fall to my neck, breast, creating a deep purple and jagged dash on my cotton shirt.

Maybe I’m in there, I think. Maybe that’s where my words are hiding.

20110828-023842.jpg

True Mom Confessions

I have an essay, a confessay, if you will, in the book True Mom Confessions coming in early April. It started as a website created by my friend Romi and grew from there. It’s nice to sometimes have an anonymous place to put your innermost secrets that you can’t tell anyone in real life.

I’m pretty proud of my contribution to this book. I think this essay is one of the best things I’ve ever written.

Eavesdropper #2

“Let’s do the whole cocktail thing, shall we? Hello! I’m Drake. I’m 36. I’m a scientist and I build things that don’t exist and won’t exist for years. I actually work in the future.” Drake thrust his hand forward in an attempt to look confident. It was at the precise moment his hand accidentally jabbed her breast and he looked more perverse than confident, or worse, clumsy, that he wished he could rewind about seven seconds and have a do-over.

She was taken aback for a tick or two, but recovered nicely. “I’m Cynthia. Cindy. Whichever.”

Her detachment to what someone might call her spoke volumes to Drake. After all, Drake was a name he had given himself after pouring through books and online forums and author’s names. He had carefully considered Chance and Chase and Shane before deciding on Drake. And for someone named William but forever called Willy, the name Drake made him feel instantly strong and in control. Like a man should feel.

Cindy continued, “I’m 28. I have two kids under six. I love being a mother and during…” But, Drake had stopped listening. A mother? Of two kids? Under six? Um, sorry to be so judgmental, but no. Just, no. She probably took two years off to drive around the country like a hippie and then went to only half a year of community college before getting knocked up and stuck at home with babies. Her dreams and aspirations probably include someday knitting an entire outfit from blue yarn and decorating the older kid’s room in a jungle theme. Plus the guy, (or guys!), had obviously left her. What’s up with that? What else was wrong with her?

No, not a good match at all, he was positive. And as Cindy continued to talk, his eyes wandered to the two chairs on the right to see the lady coming to his station next. She looked cute. Pretty, even. And she seemed nice. Just look at the way she gazed at the guy across from her. Like she was really interested and really getting whatever he was saying. And she wore glasses. He couldn’t wait to meet her and hoped, prayed, crossed his fingers, that she would be interested in science or at least be really smart. He needed someone almost as smart as him to be with for the rest of his life.

Drake checked the timer on the table between them. Thirty seconds left. He looked Cindy in the face and realized she had asked him a question. “Oh. Sorry. What was that?” It was a shame she wasn’t smarter. She was one of the prettiest women here. “I just wondered what you were doing at work at the moment. In the future, I mean.” Cindy smiled. “I’m currently working on significantly raising the temperature by forcing deuterium gas under pressure into an evacuated cell containing a sample of palladium dispersed in zirconium oxide, which causes the deuterium to be absorbed by the palladium sample, resulting in a denser deuterium, with deuterium nuclei that are close enough together to fuse! My last test resulted in a temperature increase for almost 50 hours.”

Ding! The timers went off, resounding and echoing around the room, chattering in his ears. He stared at Cindy, unable to speak. He had been so wrong!

Cindy, taking his silence for disinterest, grabbed her purse from her lap and stood up. “Well, nice meeting you, Drake. Good luck with….whatever you’re doing.” And as Drake watched her, mute, she walked to the next station on his left and started talking to a man in an Armani suit. A man named Peirce. A man with manicured hands and shined shoes and undoubtedly a large stock portfolio. A man that was everything Drake wished he himself was. (Peirce? PEIRCE? Why hadn’t he thought of Peirce?)

His attention was suddenly pulled to the woman in front of him. She giggled and brushed her long bangs out of her eyes with her cherry-colored acrylic nails. From this close distance he could see that her glasses were for show. A part of her outfit. “I’m Bitsy.” she giggled. “I’m starting an internet business. I make these really, really adorable doggy sweaters. Everyone loves them and my Aunt Cherise says I’m gunna make a ton of money.”

It was at the precise moment when she asked if he liked karaoke night at the bowling alley and told him she had a glow-in-the-dark bowling ball with the phrase ‘Here’s a bit-O-Bitsy‘ on it that he wished he could rewind about two minutes and have a do-over.

Editor’s note – This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to anyone you know is purely coincidental and kind of cool.

Eavesdropper #1

I gave up on climbing the corporate ladder with hard work. I just want to get laid now. I’m ready to sleep my way to the top.” he said, leaning back in the red velvet covered, 18th century replica Wing Back and crossing his legs, slowly, foot dangling and wagging ever so slightly.

She looked across the table at him, amazed at his obvious swagger, and thinking she would never say such a thing. Especially so loud and in public. It seemed like a statement best whispered. In the dark. Maybe in a closet and to no one.

“I’ve stumped you, have I?” He chuckled and made a movement to grab his Pal Malls from his jacket pocket, realizing a little too late that they weren’t there. He had quit, again, two days ago after promising his girlfriend to ‘participate in saving his own life.’ He then clicked open his briefcase and found the emergency pack he had tucked in the bottom. Only three left. Lighting up, he coolly looked her up and down. Exhaling a smooth white ribbon he said, “Listen. I’m not going to climb across the table and jump you right here. I just want you to know the option is there. You have something I want and I’m willing to pay you for it.”

The air made its way slowly through a small O her lips had made. A tiny, quiet whistle escaped and mingled with his smoke. Embarrassed, her cheeks and neck warmed and she looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap. She smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt across her knees and wiped off some of the sweat accumulating in her palms under his scrutiny.

She remembered the time she had driven in the silver convertible with the love of her life to the top of the lookout. Trees covering them overhead, leaves making their dancing way to the damp earth and a breeze blowing, at one point so hard she lost her scarf. The one with the tiny blue flowers and made from fancy silk. The one her love had given her. She had cried out and grabbed for it, just a little too late, but he had laughed and kissed her and told her not to worry, he would get her a new one. It had been almost 8 years now since he’d left her. She hated cancer.

Clearing his throat, he said, “I just notice you’re always alone. I’ve never seen you with anyone the entire time I’ve been with the firm.” Leaning forward and looking at her, just inches from her, he reached out one hand, slowly, carefully, and set it next to hers on the table, just grazing a finger.

She left her hand where it was and contemplated the tingle she felt shoot up her arm. Then she thought about her scarf with the tiny blue flowers. She smiled at him, meeting his eyes and putting on her piercing look. The look she’d practiced for years in the mirror. The look she used with problem clients in her office and with colleagues intent on taking more than they gave. The look she would never, ever use on her daughter. “I thank you for your kind proposition.” she offered, “And I’d love to pick up the tab for our drinks.” She said nothing else and made no move forward or back.

He felt confused after a few minutes had passed, uncomfortable, and leaned back a bit, removing his hand and straightening up in his chair. “Thanks.” He raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly, but she saw it. She noted the unsure look in his eyes and smiled a bit bigger, showing a few more teeth.

Editor’s note – This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to anyone you know is purely coincidental and kind of cool.

On Writing

I don’t have it all figured out. Far from it. I’ve been on the sending end of about a zillion queries that were carefully thought out and written. Of the handful of responses I’ve received back, only a fraction of those turn into real money so I’m no expert on how to make a living with your writing. I’m only making it because I’ve got a partner that has a steady income from a real job. My handful of articles, interviews and book essays don’t exactly pay the rent. But once you do start making money, how do you be smart about your business?

I occasionally get asked how a person can get published and really my only advice is quantity. i.e. the more queries you send out, the more chances there are that someone will pick up your idea and want you to run with it. And following directions. That is a big one. If they ask for three writing samples, send three, not two. If they want a resume in Word, send it in Word, not something else they can’t open and read.

Joe sent me this article which you may have already read, but just in case, I’m linking it here. Unasked-For Advice to New Writers About Money covers everything I could think of to tell someone starting out. Scalzi is decidedly on the high end of what a writer makes at over $160K last year but having paid his dues for many years before raking in the dough makes him someone with advice you should be listening to. Section 4, Your income is half of what you think it is, covers what might be the best information in the post along with sections 5 and 6 relating to credit cards and debt.

Just remember that credit cards are not your friends; their entire purpose, from the point of view of the bank that gives them to you, is to make you a consistent and eternal source of income, forever and ever, amen. If you want to be in economic thrall to a bank until the very moment you die, that’s your business, but it’s a pretty dumb way to go about things. Especially if you’re a writer, who doesn’t necessarily have a solid month-to-month income anyway.

I recommend that all writers read this post at least once. Then print out the good parts and write them on cards around the house. Like “You are likely to be surprised at how many things it turns out you don’t really need if you have to wait to get them, and can actually see the mass o’ cash you’re laying out for ‘em. And that’s all to the good for you.” and “Be willing and ready to write anything — but make sure that you’re making the attempt to make more than three cents a word off it. Because I will tell you this: If you only value your work to that amount, that’s the amount you’re going to find yourself getting paid. Over and over again.

Slice Of Americana

The summer I was fifteen was the summer I wasn’t sure if I had a steady boyfriend or not. Teen communication being what it was, his ‘Well, have a good weekend. And summer. I’ll see you around.’ had left me problem solving our togetherness. Sure, I wanted to still be going out with him. He was two years older than me. What was not to like? But if I wasn’t, the summer might be more fun. I decided to just play it by ear.

One afternoon, I took my jean-squared blanket backed with flannel out onto the front lawn. Normally, if I was actually tanning, I would have laid out in the backyard on top of the flat, tarred carport cover. But, not today. I wasn’t actually trying to tan. I was trying to be seen.

I heard that my (still?)(ex?)boyfriend was driving around town, dragging main with some friends. I figured being on the front lawn drinking a 42 ounce Dr. Pepper with lemon and tons of ice, with tanning lotion all over every exposed part of my body, casually painting my toenails or reading a book would look completely normal and it gave me a great vantage point with which to watch for his car coming and going on my block.

I had the orange extension cord coming from under the ivy, which was long, full and very green early in the summer, before the hot end of July hit and made it turn slightly brown. On my boombox was the Top 40 countdown and Boys of Summer came on. I kid you not. It was the part of the show where they play what was hot last year or the year before that. And Don Henley’s voice, with the guitar echoing came out of my speakers right as my boyfriend’s car came around the corner and stopped in front of my house.

He was with a couple of his friends. All so very, very cool. He yelled a hello. I yelled a hello back. His friend punched him in the arm and then he yelled, ‘See you around!’ and they took off. I was underwhelmed. Seriously, after all the effort of getting everything outside and after trying on every item in my closet, picking the plaid shirt with the tiny red lines that I could tie at the waist to show just enough belly and finding the jean skirt that was just short enough to almost give my parents a heart attack but they would allow me to own and popping every zit on my forehead and then covering it up with foundation and applying 5 coats of mascara and heavy eyeliner on my inner lids and searching everywhere in the bathroom drawers for the banana clip that matched my shirt and two hours getting my bangs just right, it wasn’t much of a payback.

I sat there, legs stretched out, fresh pale pink polish named ‘Cotton Candy’ on my toes, musing how unfortunate my life was at the moment when a car stopped in front of the house. A boy from Australia got out, came over and asked me for directions to Denny’s Wigwam. He was cute. Very cute. But more than that, he had an accent. Holy crap, an accent from AUSTRALIA. Only the very best place in the entire world that I wanted to visit more than anything.

I told him how to get there and he thanked me. He started to pull away and then unrolled the window, leaned his head out and said, ‘You’re just about the cutest visual a guy could ask for on a summer afternoon. You’d make a great postcard.’ And then he smiled and drove away. Something about the way he said the word ‘visual’ kind of cracked my heart a little and it made all the effort worthwhile.

But that wasn’t even the best part of the day. No, the best part of the day was later, when I walked downtown with my friend and we strolled past Denny’s Wigwam about 8 times, asking each other important questions like I wonder if that cute boy is still in town? Why was he here in the first place? Who’s car had he been driving? What was his name? Was he really lost or did he just want to stop and talk to me because I was so cute? I relished every second of that evening, the possibilities that could have happened.

I didn’t run into him again. I’ll never know if he really stopped just to talk to me or if he was so blind that he couldn’t find the biggest landmark on the only main street right in the center of town. But I imagine he’ll always think that every small town American girl sat outside on a summer afternoon, painting her toenails on a blanket on the front lawn listening to Casey Kasem and America’s Top 40.

Unfinished

I’ve started and never finished a ton of posts. They sit here in my drafts, lonely. Some of them look so familiar, I swear I’ve completed them already. I used to see them every time I started a new one, but at some point, not sure when, I stopped seeing them. They don’t exist to my every-day-eye. They are destined to live a sad, lonely and unwritten life. And there are some good ones, too!

I’ll list a few of them, including the contents of the unwritten post, which I suppose are hints as to what I was going to say about the subject. Although, some are just too cryptic for me to figure out.

Mad Lib
remove the words

top 10 my space
oh, sorry. i thought you were just doing myspace
i dont even have a myspace.
well, if you didm youd be in my top 10!

Mother’s Day
Last Mother’s Day (notice that date is 2005. 2 years ago, people.)

Drivers License
https://leahblooms.com/blog/images/drl.jpg

Post # 742
bees out around the car.
we had a pool.

And my favorite:

??
sticks