I am female.
It is in my nature to be kind; it’s how I was raised, it’s what I do.
Do not misconstrue this kindness for anything.
I am a mother.
My children have grown, they've found nurturing spouses. My nurturing, now fully developed, needs a new focus; I’ve chosen you.
Do not misconstrue this nurturing need for anything.
I am a woman.
I care and I want to help. My family is fine; they are well cared for,
they no longer need me, but you might.
Do not misconstrue my need to help and care for anything.
I am human and I love.
My children have found love from their husbands and wives.
Please love me: I’m kind, and nurturing, and caring, and helpful.
But don’t misconstrue this love for anything.
My husband won’t like it.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Am I hearing things?
“Did you hear that?” I asked my husband.
“No,” he said.
“Listen carefully," I said. "It’s quick”
He paused, “I hear a train.”
“It’s closer. It’s a very high note. The cardinals are back.”
“I think you’re hearing things,” was his response.
“Maybe,” I answered.
Like when my daughter told me the school field trip buses were taking us to and from the site last week, but they were only taking us there; we had to find our own ride home. Maybe I was hearing things.
Or when the washing machine salesman said the scratch-and-dent I bought was fully warrantied, but then when it broke that first week, said it wasn’t. Maybe I was hearing things.
And when my best friend said we’d never run out of things to talk about, but then stopped talking with me altogether. Maybe I was hearing things.
My husband said, “I love you.”
“What?” I asked. “Did you say something?”
“No,” he said.
“Listen carefully," I said. "It’s quick”
He paused, “I hear a train.”
“It’s closer. It’s a very high note. The cardinals are back.”
“I think you’re hearing things,” was his response.
“Maybe,” I answered.
Like when my daughter told me the school field trip buses were taking us to and from the site last week, but they were only taking us there; we had to find our own ride home. Maybe I was hearing things.
Or when the washing machine salesman said the scratch-and-dent I bought was fully warrantied, but then when it broke that first week, said it wasn’t. Maybe I was hearing things.
And when my best friend said we’d never run out of things to talk about, but then stopped talking with me altogether. Maybe I was hearing things.
My husband said, “I love you.”
“What?” I asked. “Did you say something?”
Saturday, April 17, 2010
A Baby's Cry
This morning I woke to the cries of a newborn. Through the open windows, his wail came mixed with the sounds of the birds chirping. The sound took me back to a morning fourteen years ago, and made me smile.
It was almost twenty four hours after my son was born before I got to hold him. I spent much of that day in a drug induced stupor. I have a few vague memories of my own, but much of what I remember has been pieced together for me by my friends and family.
I have an image of the delivery nurse running down the hall toward the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit with a bundle in her arms, a blue knit cap on his head. I can’t imagine why they didn’t place my son in an incubator and wheel him there, but in my mind he was carried. Someone, maybe my mother, told me that story.
I know, from tales my husband likes to tell, I begged for more morphine from the doctor after the emergency caesarean section. My husband laughs when he weaves his story of how he tricked the attending physician into believing I was a recovering street addict, which explained my need for more drugs. I don’t remember any of it.
I’d left a chicken thawing in the refrigerator the morning my son was born. I was evidently concerned it might spoil, and rightly so! Not one to waste food, I was explaining to someone, between screams of pain, how to get into my house, and what to do with the chicken. I also planned Easter dinner with my mother. I was in no condition to do anything about those plans four weeks later, but for once in our family’s existence, we had a plan in place for an upcoming holiday. I don’t remember this.
But, I do have a few vague memories of that day. I remember Olga, the nurse, coming in to make sure I kept moving. She was short and round and had a thick Dominican accent, not the German tyrant I’d pictured when I'd first heard her name. She’d role me to one side, then role me to the other, making sure my body began its healing process properly.
I remember trying to calculate how much weight I’d have to lose after giving birth to a seven pound baby. Seven pounds of baby, plus seven pounds of fluid, would still leave fifteen pounds of excess body fat I’d need to rid myself of. How many months would it take, I wondered. Would I be ready by summer?
I remember my husband sitting at the desk in the private room, working on his laptop, some big deadline looming ahead. I think he’d secretly hoped I could hold onto the baby until the deadline passed, five days later. I remember his boss, who’d just gotten divorced, calling the cell phone my husband had left with me while he ran home to shower and feed the dog. I remember his boss’s frustration when he realized my husband probably wouldn’t be coming in to work that morning, and understanding clearly why his wife had left him.
I remember the excitement I felt when the nurses wheeled in my baby for me to feed him, and then the extreme sadness I felt when they wheeled him back out, realizing they'd had the wrong mother. I thought I could have been a fine mother for that baby.
I remember the delivery doctor coming to check on me, telling me of his decision to retire; my delivery had been the final straw for him. He brought me pictures of the umbilical cord with its two knots. He showed me where the blood was, and where it wasn’t. He told me how much longer he thought my baby could have survived if they hadn’t done the surgery; ten minutes was his guess.
Olga wheeled me out to the elevators, pushed the button, and sent me down to the Pediatric ICU wing. My husband met me there and wheeled me to the sinks where I had to stand – groan – and wash my hands for an eternity: three minutes. The pediatrician came out to us to explain what we could expect from a baby born deprived of oxygen. I don’t remember what she said, I just remember her tone was glum.
Inside the ICU, they wheeled me in front of an incubator and lifted out the tiniest, reddest, noisiest creature I’d ever seen. He screamed so loudly, his entire body was taut and he was beet red.
This I remember clearly, when the nurse placed him in my arms, he stopped crying immediately and looked up at me. I know they say a baby’s eyesight doesn’t develop for a few weeks, but I’d like to think he saw me.
We named him Andrew, after generations of Andrews before him, but decided to call him Drew. They say I insisted on this, instead of the nickname Andy we'd planned, but I don’t remember that.
And, the doctor's predictions were wrong; as I write this, he's asleep in the next room. Like a typical teenager, he can sleep through just about anything, crying babies, included.
It was almost twenty four hours after my son was born before I got to hold him. I spent much of that day in a drug induced stupor. I have a few vague memories of my own, but much of what I remember has been pieced together for me by my friends and family.
I have an image of the delivery nurse running down the hall toward the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit with a bundle in her arms, a blue knit cap on his head. I can’t imagine why they didn’t place my son in an incubator and wheel him there, but in my mind he was carried. Someone, maybe my mother, told me that story.
I know, from tales my husband likes to tell, I begged for more morphine from the doctor after the emergency caesarean section. My husband laughs when he weaves his story of how he tricked the attending physician into believing I was a recovering street addict, which explained my need for more drugs. I don’t remember any of it.
I’d left a chicken thawing in the refrigerator the morning my son was born. I was evidently concerned it might spoil, and rightly so! Not one to waste food, I was explaining to someone, between screams of pain, how to get into my house, and what to do with the chicken. I also planned Easter dinner with my mother. I was in no condition to do anything about those plans four weeks later, but for once in our family’s existence, we had a plan in place for an upcoming holiday. I don’t remember this.
But, I do have a few vague memories of that day. I remember Olga, the nurse, coming in to make sure I kept moving. She was short and round and had a thick Dominican accent, not the German tyrant I’d pictured when I'd first heard her name. She’d role me to one side, then role me to the other, making sure my body began its healing process properly.
I remember trying to calculate how much weight I’d have to lose after giving birth to a seven pound baby. Seven pounds of baby, plus seven pounds of fluid, would still leave fifteen pounds of excess body fat I’d need to rid myself of. How many months would it take, I wondered. Would I be ready by summer?
I remember my husband sitting at the desk in the private room, working on his laptop, some big deadline looming ahead. I think he’d secretly hoped I could hold onto the baby until the deadline passed, five days later. I remember his boss, who’d just gotten divorced, calling the cell phone my husband had left with me while he ran home to shower and feed the dog. I remember his boss’s frustration when he realized my husband probably wouldn’t be coming in to work that morning, and understanding clearly why his wife had left him.
I remember the excitement I felt when the nurses wheeled in my baby for me to feed him, and then the extreme sadness I felt when they wheeled him back out, realizing they'd had the wrong mother. I thought I could have been a fine mother for that baby.
I remember the delivery doctor coming to check on me, telling me of his decision to retire; my delivery had been the final straw for him. He brought me pictures of the umbilical cord with its two knots. He showed me where the blood was, and where it wasn’t. He told me how much longer he thought my baby could have survived if they hadn’t done the surgery; ten minutes was his guess.
Olga wheeled me out to the elevators, pushed the button, and sent me down to the Pediatric ICU wing. My husband met me there and wheeled me to the sinks where I had to stand – groan – and wash my hands for an eternity: three minutes. The pediatrician came out to us to explain what we could expect from a baby born deprived of oxygen. I don’t remember what she said, I just remember her tone was glum.
Inside the ICU, they wheeled me in front of an incubator and lifted out the tiniest, reddest, noisiest creature I’d ever seen. He screamed so loudly, his entire body was taut and he was beet red.
This I remember clearly, when the nurse placed him in my arms, he stopped crying immediately and looked up at me. I know they say a baby’s eyesight doesn’t develop for a few weeks, but I’d like to think he saw me.
We named him Andrew, after generations of Andrews before him, but decided to call him Drew. They say I insisted on this, instead of the nickname Andy we'd planned, but I don’t remember that.
And, the doctor's predictions were wrong; as I write this, he's asleep in the next room. Like a typical teenager, he can sleep through just about anything, crying babies, included.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Quickie
He said, “How about a quickie?”
And she agreed; concerned, of course, about the state of his prostate.
As he lay on top of her pushing and grunting, her mind wandered.
She thought of elephants.
She wondered if female elephants complain if their partners are heavy.
Do they say things like: “You should cut back on the grains, dear.”
Or “You’re squishing me; I can’t breathe!”
Does it hurt when he climbs on her back?
Or are elephants designed to withstand ten thousand pounds,
All for the sake of the species.
He said, “How about a quickie?”
And she agreed; concerned, of course, about the state of his prostate.
As he lay on top of her pushing and grunting, her mind wandered.
She thought of orangutans.
She wondered if female orangutans ever get jealous
When their partners go from one to the next
Saying: “Look at me! Look at me!” while zoo visitors stand and watch.
Do the females fight and throw tantrums and hurl insults at each other?
Or do they stand by their men, watching them hurl their feces,
All for the sake of the species.
What other species on this earth has God called to be faithful?
And why does he insist? Is it for our sake or His?
Is it to ensure the male has a hot meal, clean sheets, and ironed shirts?
Or the female has a roof over her head and someone to squish bugs?
Or do we stay together for the sake of the species?
That can’t be it, she thinks.
She’s long past the point of reproduction.
The doctor told her that nine years ago.
He said “Ma’am, you’re too old.”
She thought “Sir, you’re too ugly
To reproduce. For the sake of the species."
He must have a reason,
He’s an organized God;
That guy’s got a plan for everything.
I just hope one day He’ll tell me, she thinks,
Why orangutans have to share their men and watch them hurl their feces.
Why elephants say “There are no quickies you great, gray galumph.
Hold on let me brace myself!”
He said, “How about a quickie?”
And she agreed; concerned, of course, about the state of his prostate.
As he lay on top of her pushing and grunting, her mind wandered.
She looked at the clock and said “Time's up.”
And she agreed; concerned, of course, about the state of his prostate.
As he lay on top of her pushing and grunting, her mind wandered.
She thought of elephants.
She wondered if female elephants complain if their partners are heavy.
Do they say things like: “You should cut back on the grains, dear.”
Or “You’re squishing me; I can’t breathe!”
Does it hurt when he climbs on her back?
Or are elephants designed to withstand ten thousand pounds,
All for the sake of the species.
He said, “How about a quickie?”
And she agreed; concerned, of course, about the state of his prostate.
As he lay on top of her pushing and grunting, her mind wandered.
She thought of orangutans.
She wondered if female orangutans ever get jealous
When their partners go from one to the next
Saying: “Look at me! Look at me!” while zoo visitors stand and watch.
Do the females fight and throw tantrums and hurl insults at each other?
Or do they stand by their men, watching them hurl their feces,
All for the sake of the species.
What other species on this earth has God called to be faithful?
And why does he insist? Is it for our sake or His?
Is it to ensure the male has a hot meal, clean sheets, and ironed shirts?
Or the female has a roof over her head and someone to squish bugs?
Or do we stay together for the sake of the species?
That can’t be it, she thinks.
She’s long past the point of reproduction.
The doctor told her that nine years ago.
He said “Ma’am, you’re too old.”
She thought “Sir, you’re too ugly
To reproduce. For the sake of the species."
He must have a reason,
He’s an organized God;
That guy’s got a plan for everything.
I just hope one day He’ll tell me, she thinks,
Why orangutans have to share their men and watch them hurl their feces.
Why elephants say “There are no quickies you great, gray galumph.
Hold on let me brace myself!”
He said, “How about a quickie?”
And she agreed; concerned, of course, about the state of his prostate.
As he lay on top of her pushing and grunting, her mind wandered.
She looked at the clock and said “Time's up.”
Why?
My sister wants to know why she can't get pregnant.
My neighbor wants to know why her husband had to die.
My friend wants to know why his wife won't forgive him.
My mayor wants to know why there are so many people.
My governor wants to know why we're out of money.
My president wants to know why we all can't get along.
My God wants to know why people won't believe in Him.
But me? I just want to know
Why?
My neighbor wants to know why her husband had to die.
My friend wants to know why his wife won't forgive him.
My mayor wants to know why there are so many people.
My governor wants to know why we're out of money.
My president wants to know why we all can't get along.
My God wants to know why people won't believe in Him.
But me? I just want to know
Why?
Sunday, April 11, 2010
she and he and you and me
She said don’t talk.
Then she said “I do”
And they married in secret.
She said don’t talk.
Then she said “you’re wrong”
And they hit in secret.
She said don’t talk.
Then she said “good-bye”
And she left in secret.
Why do you miss her so?
She said don’t talk.
Then she said “you can’t”
And we lived in secret.
She said don’t talk.
Then she said “you’re mine”
And we loved in secret.
She said don’t talk.
Then she said “you’re through”
And I died in secret.
I get it now.
Then she said “I do”
And they married in secret.
She said don’t talk.
Then she said “you’re wrong”
And they hit in secret.
She said don’t talk.
Then she said “good-bye”
And she left in secret.
Why do you miss her so?
She said don’t talk.
Then she said “you can’t”
And we lived in secret.
She said don’t talk.
Then she said “you’re mine”
And we loved in secret.
She said don’t talk.
Then she said “you’re through”
And I died in secret.
I get it now.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Ski Lessons
There are many firsts in your life. The first time you learn to walk. The first time you learn to ride a bike. We forget most of these firsts. It's even hard to remember on the first cold day of January, just how blisteringly hot it was last August. And vacations all blur into the other when you try to look back at them. At least, it's that way for me: a year is a long time. But there's one first I remember, clear as anything; the first time I tried to ski.
I must say I’m a native Floridian. Seeing snow was a huge deal for us. We would run outside at the first hint of sleet falling from the sky, our tongues in the air hoping to catch something. I can remember my father driving and driving, looking for snow while we were on vacation. We finally found a small un-melted patch in a ditch on the side of the road. My father pulled the car over so my brothers and I could climb out and make a snowball. Like I said, snow was a huge deal.
When I had the opportunity to take a skiing class for college credit, I naturally jumped at the chance. The six-week course, offered every Tuesday night at a resort ninety minutes from campus, sounded like paradise. The Winter Olympics were only two years away; I had plenty of time to master this. I couldn’t wait to begin.
The first night, I boarded the bus with sixty other classmates and took a seat next to Catalina Menedes from Ecuador. Catalina was typically Ecuadorian, by that I mean beautiful. She had thick black hair, stunning black eyes, and exquisite olive skin. She also spoke perfect English, but with a glorious accent.
We arrived at the resort; those of us without the proper equipment were ushered in to the rental facility to be fitted. We were each given a pair of skis, a set of poles, and a pair of the heavy plastic torture devices they called ski boots. I slid my foot inside the soft lining, as I saw my classmates do, and promptly fell flat on my face. I tried, again, but fared no better. Catalina wasn’t any help. By the time the ski instructor, Tony, came to look for his two missing students, we were laughing hysterically. He took one look at us, pulled us up, and - click, click, click – buckled us in. The pain was immediate.
“I’ve got the wrong size!” I insisted, but Tony shook his head and said,
“You'll get used to it.”
He picked up our skis and poles and walked out to the bunny hill. We followed looking like two female Frankensteins staggering in our boots.
Did I mention that Catalina was beautiful? Tony noticed that, too, and was quite attentive to her needs, making sure her skis were attached properly, showing her how to stand, and where to place her poles. I followed his instructions, but still ended up on the ground three times before my skis were on correctly. It turns out snow is cold and wet. I was learning.
Our first assignment was to learn how to stop. This was accomplished by positioning the tips of the skis together forming a wedge. Tony called this a “plow”. His partner plowed part way down the bunny hill and Tony asked us to follow the example. One by one, the eight other beginning skiers formed their wedges and skied down to the proper spot. When it was Catalina’s turn, Tony skied beside her, guiding her through each move. I was the last one to go. I carefully slid my left ski over so the very tip touched the right, bent my knees as instructed, and plowed … right into the rest of the students.
From there, things didn’t get much better. At every opportunity, I took full advantage of the chance I had to learn about the white stuff Northerners call “snow”. I touched it. I tasted it. I even smelled it. By the time we got to the bottom of the bunny mountain, Catalina and I had declared this the steepest “hill” we’d ever seen, Tony was almost at his wits end, but he loaded us on the chair lift and promised to meet us at the top and try again.
When we reached the top of the lift, we were instructed to raise the bar, stand up, and slide down the small slope. Catalina and I raised the bar. I watched her slide down the slope and land face first in the snow. I remained seated on the chair lift as it circled around to head back down, again.
Suddenly, I heard a loud eardrum-shattering siren. The lift came to an abrupt halt and two giant men huffed their way toward me. I’m not normally afraid of new adventures, but when they directed me to jump off of the chair, I was understandably dubious. Instead, they removed my skis, took away my poles, grabbed hold of my boots, and yanked me off of the chair, depositing me in … more snow.
This ski resort had a lovely lounge. Patrons could sit comfortably, enjoy a hot cocoa or a cold beer, and look out over the entire ski area. The lounge was directly in front of the bunny lift. As I climbed back up to stand next to Catalina, I saw noses pressed against the large plate glass window of the lounge. Some were cheering. Some were clapping. Most were pointing and laughing.
Tony was next to Catalina, too. He pulled out his wallet and handed her a ten dollar bill.
“You ladies look as if you could use a nice cup of hot chocolate,” he said, and directed us to the lounge entrance.
The next five weeks flew by. It turns out, to get credit for taking the class, we only needed to show up and board the bus each week. Whether we learned to ski or not was irrelevant. Catalina and I drank a lot of hot chocolate on those Tuesday nights, thanks to Tony, and we played a lot of cards. On occasion, when the opportunity arose, we’d join the others and press our noses against the large plate glass window, and we’d point and laugh.
I must say I’m a native Floridian. Seeing snow was a huge deal for us. We would run outside at the first hint of sleet falling from the sky, our tongues in the air hoping to catch something. I can remember my father driving and driving, looking for snow while we were on vacation. We finally found a small un-melted patch in a ditch on the side of the road. My father pulled the car over so my brothers and I could climb out and make a snowball. Like I said, snow was a huge deal.
When I had the opportunity to take a skiing class for college credit, I naturally jumped at the chance. The six-week course, offered every Tuesday night at a resort ninety minutes from campus, sounded like paradise. The Winter Olympics were only two years away; I had plenty of time to master this. I couldn’t wait to begin.
The first night, I boarded the bus with sixty other classmates and took a seat next to Catalina Menedes from Ecuador. Catalina was typically Ecuadorian, by that I mean beautiful. She had thick black hair, stunning black eyes, and exquisite olive skin. She also spoke perfect English, but with a glorious accent.
We arrived at the resort; those of us without the proper equipment were ushered in to the rental facility to be fitted. We were each given a pair of skis, a set of poles, and a pair of the heavy plastic torture devices they called ski boots. I slid my foot inside the soft lining, as I saw my classmates do, and promptly fell flat on my face. I tried, again, but fared no better. Catalina wasn’t any help. By the time the ski instructor, Tony, came to look for his two missing students, we were laughing hysterically. He took one look at us, pulled us up, and - click, click, click – buckled us in. The pain was immediate.
“I’ve got the wrong size!” I insisted, but Tony shook his head and said,
“You'll get used to it.”
He picked up our skis and poles and walked out to the bunny hill. We followed looking like two female Frankensteins staggering in our boots.
Did I mention that Catalina was beautiful? Tony noticed that, too, and was quite attentive to her needs, making sure her skis were attached properly, showing her how to stand, and where to place her poles. I followed his instructions, but still ended up on the ground three times before my skis were on correctly. It turns out snow is cold and wet. I was learning.
Our first assignment was to learn how to stop. This was accomplished by positioning the tips of the skis together forming a wedge. Tony called this a “plow”. His partner plowed part way down the bunny hill and Tony asked us to follow the example. One by one, the eight other beginning skiers formed their wedges and skied down to the proper spot. When it was Catalina’s turn, Tony skied beside her, guiding her through each move. I was the last one to go. I carefully slid my left ski over so the very tip touched the right, bent my knees as instructed, and plowed … right into the rest of the students.
From there, things didn’t get much better. At every opportunity, I took full advantage of the chance I had to learn about the white stuff Northerners call “snow”. I touched it. I tasted it. I even smelled it. By the time we got to the bottom of the bunny mountain, Catalina and I had declared this the steepest “hill” we’d ever seen, Tony was almost at his wits end, but he loaded us on the chair lift and promised to meet us at the top and try again.
When we reached the top of the lift, we were instructed to raise the bar, stand up, and slide down the small slope. Catalina and I raised the bar. I watched her slide down the slope and land face first in the snow. I remained seated on the chair lift as it circled around to head back down, again.
Suddenly, I heard a loud eardrum-shattering siren. The lift came to an abrupt halt and two giant men huffed their way toward me. I’m not normally afraid of new adventures, but when they directed me to jump off of the chair, I was understandably dubious. Instead, they removed my skis, took away my poles, grabbed hold of my boots, and yanked me off of the chair, depositing me in … more snow.
This ski resort had a lovely lounge. Patrons could sit comfortably, enjoy a hot cocoa or a cold beer, and look out over the entire ski area. The lounge was directly in front of the bunny lift. As I climbed back up to stand next to Catalina, I saw noses pressed against the large plate glass window of the lounge. Some were cheering. Some were clapping. Most were pointing and laughing.
Tony was next to Catalina, too. He pulled out his wallet and handed her a ten dollar bill.
“You ladies look as if you could use a nice cup of hot chocolate,” he said, and directed us to the lounge entrance.
The next five weeks flew by. It turns out, to get credit for taking the class, we only needed to show up and board the bus each week. Whether we learned to ski or not was irrelevant. Catalina and I drank a lot of hot chocolate on those Tuesday nights, thanks to Tony, and we played a lot of cards. On occasion, when the opportunity arose, we’d join the others and press our noses against the large plate glass window, and we’d point and laugh.
Chess
One played the knight, she most brave among women.
Two up, one over, boldly behind enemy lines,
She staked a position in the median.
One played the rook in her tower ivory.
She made her paths straight, then left at the each corner,
And collected her punishment silently.
One played bishop: the favored, the protected.
Her path in angles; her mission oft divided.
She was the first, then the last one departed.
Three on their own, all three worked, each in tune.
Their movements policed, unbeknownst to the other,
They protected your King from impending doom.
Pawns played before: insignificant, small,
Whose names and egos three were not meant to know.
The damage they did set the stage for the fall.
You played the queen, the most powerful one,
And sacrificed each in this pastime that you call
A marriage.
Two up, one over, boldly behind enemy lines,
She staked a position in the median.
One played the rook in her tower ivory.
She made her paths straight, then left at the each corner,
And collected her punishment silently.
One played bishop: the favored, the protected.
Her path in angles; her mission oft divided.
She was the first, then the last one departed.
Three on their own, all three worked, each in tune.
Their movements policed, unbeknownst to the other,
They protected your King from impending doom.
Pawns played before: insignificant, small,
Whose names and egos three were not meant to know.
The damage they did set the stage for the fall.
You played the queen, the most powerful one,
And sacrificed each in this pastime that you call
A marriage.
Friday, April 9, 2010
The Earrings
Delilah pushed the cart inside the doorway, blocking my exit.
“Here,” she said. “Pick a few.”
I looked up from where I sat on the floor cleaning out the bathroom cabinets. She pushed a large old fashioned media cart, the kind the AV club used at school to deliver projectors to lazy teachers who showed movie after movie, instead of teaching.
“I’ve got plenty. You may have as many as you like.” She gestured toward the racks on the cart displaying her collection of earrings. Big ones, little ones, studs and loops, dangles and bobs, in every color in the rainbow assaulted my eyes.
“Thanks,” I said, not moving. “I’ll look through them as soon as I finish here.” I wondered why she was so insistent I take her earrings. Were my earrings so boring I needed to supplement them from her collection? Was she making a commentary on my sense of style? On the idea that I’d married a man who couldn’t afford to buy me expensive jewels? That she – the world traveler – had collected a large supply of earrings and I – the homebody – should be grateful? Or was she just being nice?
“Look at these,” she held up a pair of the ugliest earrings I’d ever seen. "They're perfect for you!"
They were purple and green and pink and blue with baubles and sparkles swirling in a pattern somewhat reminiscent of a nautilus shell. They made me nauseous just looking at them.
"I got them on my last trip,” she exclaimed with glee.
“I tend to wear a lot of black,” I offered, trying not to stare. I focused my gaze on the collection of small shampoo bottles I’d lifted from hotels when I used to travel, back when I had a job.
“You should add a little color to your life, girl.”
Color, I thought. How does one add color to a life?
“And that was it. I woke up after that.”
“What do you think it means?” she asked me.
“That’s why I’m paying you the big bucks,” I answered. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
My therapist smiled. “Are you concerned with your present situation? You made reference to your husband not being able to afford things. Are you not satisfied? Are you envious of her?”
“No,” I countered. I leaned back into the soft cushions of the very dated couch. The floral pattern, long faded, gave the room a lived in look. There’d been a lot of lives discussed in one-hour sessions on this spot. “She travels for a living. I did that. I’m over it,” I said in my most convincing voice.
“She seems to want you to do something. You were reluctant to do what she wanted. Do you see that as a pattern?”
“I don’t like being told what to do, that’s for sure,” I offered, but who does, continued the thought in my head. I looked out the window and watched the pollen fall from the trees. Yellow and red, the colors of spring in the south: oak pollen and red noses abound. Who likes to be told what to do, I wondered. I resist it at every turn.
“In your dream, she was encouraging you to change. To change your earrings, your style, add some color to your life. Does that appeal to you?”
I shook my head quickly, like a horse twitching off a fly.
“No. It kind of scares me. I’m perfectly happy with my style. I like the predictability of wearing black every day. It’s easy. I don’t have to think.”
“Then how do you explain your earrings, today?” she asked me.
I reached my hand up to touch what was hanging from my earlobes. They were purple and green and pink and blue with baubles and sparkles which swirled in a pattern somewhat reminiscent of a nautilus shell. I felt nauseous.
“They were a gift,” was all I could offer.
“Here,” she said. “Pick a few.”
I looked up from where I sat on the floor cleaning out the bathroom cabinets. She pushed a large old fashioned media cart, the kind the AV club used at school to deliver projectors to lazy teachers who showed movie after movie, instead of teaching.
“I’ve got plenty. You may have as many as you like.” She gestured toward the racks on the cart displaying her collection of earrings. Big ones, little ones, studs and loops, dangles and bobs, in every color in the rainbow assaulted my eyes.
“Thanks,” I said, not moving. “I’ll look through them as soon as I finish here.” I wondered why she was so insistent I take her earrings. Were my earrings so boring I needed to supplement them from her collection? Was she making a commentary on my sense of style? On the idea that I’d married a man who couldn’t afford to buy me expensive jewels? That she – the world traveler – had collected a large supply of earrings and I – the homebody – should be grateful? Or was she just being nice?
“Look at these,” she held up a pair of the ugliest earrings I’d ever seen. "They're perfect for you!"
They were purple and green and pink and blue with baubles and sparkles swirling in a pattern somewhat reminiscent of a nautilus shell. They made me nauseous just looking at them.
"I got them on my last trip,” she exclaimed with glee.
“I tend to wear a lot of black,” I offered, trying not to stare. I focused my gaze on the collection of small shampoo bottles I’d lifted from hotels when I used to travel, back when I had a job.
“You should add a little color to your life, girl.”
Color, I thought. How does one add color to a life?
“And that was it. I woke up after that.”
“What do you think it means?” she asked me.
“That’s why I’m paying you the big bucks,” I answered. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
My therapist smiled. “Are you concerned with your present situation? You made reference to your husband not being able to afford things. Are you not satisfied? Are you envious of her?”
“No,” I countered. I leaned back into the soft cushions of the very dated couch. The floral pattern, long faded, gave the room a lived in look. There’d been a lot of lives discussed in one-hour sessions on this spot. “She travels for a living. I did that. I’m over it,” I said in my most convincing voice.
“She seems to want you to do something. You were reluctant to do what she wanted. Do you see that as a pattern?”
“I don’t like being told what to do, that’s for sure,” I offered, but who does, continued the thought in my head. I looked out the window and watched the pollen fall from the trees. Yellow and red, the colors of spring in the south: oak pollen and red noses abound. Who likes to be told what to do, I wondered. I resist it at every turn.
“In your dream, she was encouraging you to change. To change your earrings, your style, add some color to your life. Does that appeal to you?”
I shook my head quickly, like a horse twitching off a fly.
“No. It kind of scares me. I’m perfectly happy with my style. I like the predictability of wearing black every day. It’s easy. I don’t have to think.”
“Then how do you explain your earrings, today?” she asked me.
I reached my hand up to touch what was hanging from my earlobes. They were purple and green and pink and blue with baubles and sparkles which swirled in a pattern somewhat reminiscent of a nautilus shell. I felt nauseous.
“They were a gift,” was all I could offer.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Flashing Lights
You said you married your
mother I said we all
do We marry our opposite
sex parent But I’d never
met your mother I didn’t
understand Until you wrote of
your first memory The flashing
red and blue lights on
the walls of your bedroom
Police summoned to restore peace
Of the mirror you took
with you when she locked
you in her closet so
you could practice your look
of indifference Of the hot
oil from the frying pan
she threw on your legs
which left scars I saw
as we ran You said
you married your mother But
I didn’t understand I had
not met your wife Until
she wrote to me using
words like hot oil to
scar my soul Until she
locked you in her closet
You seem indifferent Did you
take a mirror with you
this time too I’ve called
the cops Their lights are
flashing red
and
blue
mother I said we all
do We marry our opposite
sex parent But I’d never
met your mother I didn’t
understand Until you wrote of
your first memory The flashing
red and blue lights on
the walls of your bedroom
Police summoned to restore peace
Of the mirror you took
with you when she locked
you in her closet so
you could practice your look
of indifference Of the hot
oil from the frying pan
she threw on your legs
which left scars I saw
as we ran You said
you married your mother But
I didn’t understand I had
not met your wife Until
she wrote to me using
words like hot oil to
scar my soul Until she
locked you in her closet
You seem indifferent Did you
take a mirror with you
this time too I’ve called
the cops Their lights are
flashing red
and
blue
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The Prom Queen
Jeremy Vintner knocked on my door yesterday. I recognized him immediately - he married the Prom Queen.
Windy King won every beauty contest she entered at my small high school of one hundred students. With perfect chesnut curls tumbling down her back, bangs feathered to the side in the style of the day, and superbly straight teeth fresh out of braces, we knew better than to nominate anyone else from our class. Every vote went her way: Christmas Queen, Homecoming Queen, Prom Queen, Corn Festival Queen - not that there was a Corn Festival Queen, but rest assured, if there had been, she'd have won that crown, too.
Windy wasn't the friendliest girl. If you'd asked me thirty years ago, I'd have told you she was stuck-up, or a snob. I didn't use words like "bitch" until I was in college, but I probably thought that about her, too. She seemed more interested in what she thought of other people, than in what other people thought of her. With more experience, I recognize she was probably just shy. She was probably as insecure about her social skills as I was about my looks. God gives us all unique gifts; Windy's was the ability to capture a crown.
After high school, we both attended colleges in the same small town twelve hours away from home. I attended a college recognized for its academic and social life, she chose a conservative Christian college on the other side of town - where they separated the boys and the girls for everything, including classes. We used to make fun of that college. She went there with her new boyfriend, Jeremy.
I saw her out on the town once my freshman year. I had just started dating my first real college boyfriend, someone who really liked me. Someone who was willing to do more than say 'meet me at the keg party, there's free beer!', but to actually invite me out to dinner - and pay. I didn't know it at the time, but George attended the same college as Windy and Jeremy - where they separated the boys and the girls for everything, including classes.
My new boyfriend, thinking I wouldn't give him the time of day, had lied to me and told me he went to the more liberal men's college in the center of town. I'd believed him. I guess he figured we had enough differences between us - he being black, me being white - we didn't need to discuss religion, too.
I was still adjusting to my own feelings, of being a southern white girl dating a wonderful boy who happened to be black, when we walked into the restaurant and saw Jeremy and Windy. Jeremy greeted George as if he'd known him forever, while I tried to cover my embarrassment at being discovered. We chatted briefly, then went our separate ways.
I never saw Windy, again. She left school that year, went home, got married and lived out the Prom Queen's life. I hadn't really thought of her in years until yesterday when her husband - now ex-husband - came to my house to inspect for termites. He told me they'd divorced after twenty-one years of marriage. He looked kind of sad when he said it, as if being married to a Prom Queen wasn't quite as perfect a life I'd assumed it would be.
George and I didn't date for long. He transferred to a college out of state the next year and, although he'd come see me whenever he was in town, our dating relationship didn't survive the distance. I still hear from him now and again. He's married to a wonderful woman and they have two children: a son and a daughter. He called recently and said his daughter had been elected Prom Queen. I wish her well.
Windy King won every beauty contest she entered at my small high school of one hundred students. With perfect chesnut curls tumbling down her back, bangs feathered to the side in the style of the day, and superbly straight teeth fresh out of braces, we knew better than to nominate anyone else from our class. Every vote went her way: Christmas Queen, Homecoming Queen, Prom Queen, Corn Festival Queen - not that there was a Corn Festival Queen, but rest assured, if there had been, she'd have won that crown, too.
Windy wasn't the friendliest girl. If you'd asked me thirty years ago, I'd have told you she was stuck-up, or a snob. I didn't use words like "bitch" until I was in college, but I probably thought that about her, too. She seemed more interested in what she thought of other people, than in what other people thought of her. With more experience, I recognize she was probably just shy. She was probably as insecure about her social skills as I was about my looks. God gives us all unique gifts; Windy's was the ability to capture a crown.
After high school, we both attended colleges in the same small town twelve hours away from home. I attended a college recognized for its academic and social life, she chose a conservative Christian college on the other side of town - where they separated the boys and the girls for everything, including classes. We used to make fun of that college. She went there with her new boyfriend, Jeremy.
I saw her out on the town once my freshman year. I had just started dating my first real college boyfriend, someone who really liked me. Someone who was willing to do more than say 'meet me at the keg party, there's free beer!', but to actually invite me out to dinner - and pay. I didn't know it at the time, but George attended the same college as Windy and Jeremy - where they separated the boys and the girls for everything, including classes.
My new boyfriend, thinking I wouldn't give him the time of day, had lied to me and told me he went to the more liberal men's college in the center of town. I'd believed him. I guess he figured we had enough differences between us - he being black, me being white - we didn't need to discuss religion, too.
I was still adjusting to my own feelings, of being a southern white girl dating a wonderful boy who happened to be black, when we walked into the restaurant and saw Jeremy and Windy. Jeremy greeted George as if he'd known him forever, while I tried to cover my embarrassment at being discovered. We chatted briefly, then went our separate ways.
I never saw Windy, again. She left school that year, went home, got married and lived out the Prom Queen's life. I hadn't really thought of her in years until yesterday when her husband - now ex-husband - came to my house to inspect for termites. He told me they'd divorced after twenty-one years of marriage. He looked kind of sad when he said it, as if being married to a Prom Queen wasn't quite as perfect a life I'd assumed it would be.
George and I didn't date for long. He transferred to a college out of state the next year and, although he'd come see me whenever he was in town, our dating relationship didn't survive the distance. I still hear from him now and again. He's married to a wonderful woman and they have two children: a son and a daughter. He called recently and said his daughter had been elected Prom Queen. I wish her well.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)