Dream Junky

Democrat paradigm

2011-10-23T11:27:00.000-07:00

I'm sure one of the most bothersome complaints that both sides of the political parties (and, yes, there are 2 that dominate - not necessarily Republicans and Democrats - but Left and Right or conservative and liberal (which seem to be the most accurate labels). In my rule book - if you hate the government, you're a Republican or conservative. All others are liberals.) is that one side wonders how the other side could ignore their faults and holes in their logic. Lets go over the mostly legitimate logic of both sides:

Conservative -

People should keep the money that they have.

The wealthy pay quite a bit in taxes due to the percentage aspect - 10% of a dollar is not near as much as 10% of $1,000.

The market corrects itself and intervention from the government just screws everything up.

The liberals want handouts from the government because they do not work hard enough or are not ingenious enough to come up with a product or service that would make them independently wealthy.

People on welfare are drug addicts or alcoholics and should not be supported or single mothers who should have thought about their decisions before acting.

Liberals -

The government should protect its people and environment through regulation, requiring social responsibility for corporations that interact with people and the environment.

As a democrat I get so tired of hearing about how all we want are hand outs and don't want to work. It's time to change our whole perspective on how we do business in Washington.

The fact is, people wouldn't need entitlements if they had high paying jobs available to them. They wouldn't buy their food at Walmart if they had enough money to buy food at Whole Foods. They would lead healthier lifestyles if they had access to and could afford regular healthcare, including psychological care that would help prevent addiction and otherwise destructive behaviors. They would provide all the best for their children - leading to better performance at school. They wouldn't need social security if they were able to save for retirement throughout their careers, working for businesses that contributed toward pensions. 60 and 70 year olds would not need to hold jobs that take away from younger people in order to support themselves - they could volunteer instead for causes that are important to them. They would invest in high quality education to get the jobs that they dreamed of when someone asked them what they wanted to be when they grew up. They would be able to pick themselves off the street when they are ready after a bout of homelessness and start a new life with determination to turn their backs on that kind of life, instead of trying to dig themselves out of a nearly insurmountable hole. They would stay out of jail. They would take creative and progressive risks.

In other words - people would do what wealthy people do. Or a large portion of them. Because there ARE wealthy people who are addicted or don't work or don't take education seriously or engage in criminal activity - but that's OK in the eyes of society because they can afford it. When they ask for help - they turn to mommy and daddy. When they fail at creating a big hit rock band or run a business to the ground they can turn to their monetary reserves and start over again. How much money did Steve Jobs lose over the course of his amazing career? Obviously not as much as he made, but he could afford the risk.

What's my point? My point is that major corporations have the responsibility to invest in their companies and the people that work for them. When my father worked for American Furniture Warehouse he championed the name of that company. If someone asked him where they should buy furniture he would've said American Furniture Warehouse. More often than not people take pride in where they work. More often than not it's more than just a job, it's a product or service they believe in and each one of those employees are micro-marketers for a company that too often views them as disposable worker ants.

The liberals, the Left, need to demand payment for undervalued services. No one should have to work 2 jobs or take on work that should be done by more people. No one should have to work 60 hours a week and only get paid for 40. No should have to wake up on their 75th birthday and trudge to work or chose between staying home with a sick child or getting paid. No one should have to be buried in debt in order to pay for an education, a car, a home, a good doctor.

People should be lazy or addicts or uneducated by choice.

flowers in our hair

2011-10-11T17:02:00.000-07:00

What an exciting time. It seems as though I should be listening to Jefferson Airplane amid the smoke from burning bras.

It was little more than a month ago when my husband and I decided to get cable tv. We've been watching nothing but fuzzy local programming and whatever we could stream from Netflix. He want sports channels, I wanted headline news. And so every midmorning while I fed my infant son or distracted him with some object he'd find interesting, I watched CNN. Sometimes I'd flip it to FOX just to make sure I wasn't missing anything or if I felt like having a one sided argument with a republican. I mainly watched for political news - anticipating the upcoming Presidential race with all its outrageous sound bites, its nit-picking, overblown, vitriolic, out-of-context banter.

And it was from my spit-up stained couch that I watched the infancy of the Occupy revolution, when there was a 30 second blurb about a few people with signs loitering on Wall Street; a smirk on the anchor person's face when they said they weren't sure what to call them, they had no clear message and no leader among them. "What do they want? What kind of change are they looking for? Do they know?" It must have been the media that came up with its name. "Occupy Wall Street". A mere description.

Then day by day the group grew larger. From out of nowhere, with no obvious provocation or plan, people converged and a message roiled up, piercing and clear: 99%. It's a message so simple, encompassing and astonishing in its preciseness. I heard reflected back to me the very thing I've been griping about for so long, but in the voice of thousands of people. This is our tea party. We don't call upon God or the ancient well meaning founders. We don't tout fear but anger. We don't uphold ideology but hold up a number: 99%.

What does it mean? It's the indisputable fact that 1% of the American population holds something like 40% of the wealth. You make up the rest of the message, be it holding them accountable for taxes or jobs or responsibility or white collar crime or greed or just plain unfairness.

And now that we've been noticed the 1% have decided what the ruckus is all about. Go find a job they say, you're just jealous and if you aren't rich, blame yourselves, you want something for nothing and now you're biting the hand that feeds you, the saviors of the American economy.

99%

99% of the vote. That's what America is about.

Your Constituents

2011-08-30T10:16:00.000-07:00

All we ask for is a job that pays enough to support our families, maybe get a nice TV or car. We like having weekends free. Our main goal isn't making the Forbes 500 list. We dream of becoming rich by winning the lottery.

We want to protect our children from drug abuse and violence. We want to be able to fit in the jeans we wore in college.

We want to spoil the grandkids, take a deserved break after a lifetime of work.

We want to learn how to make the world a better place through a solid education.

We flip on the news for weather and sports, maybe gawk at the antics of the latest crazy guy. We go to church on Sunday.

We can't have the floor of Congress so we send someone to represent us. And since Jesus Christ isn't running for office we elect humans who make mistakes and have limited knowledge. We obey the law by not robbing banks or driving through red lights. Campaign contribution policies and chapter 11 bankruptcy don't factor in much in our daily lives.

And by April 15th we take our W-2's to the nearest H&R Block and hope for a refund. Maybe enough to pay off the credit card or buy new patio furniture.

We trust that we will be safe when we leave our homes every day.

My experience with infant hydronephrosis and UPJ obstruction pyeloplasty

2011-07-17T11:46:00.000-07:00

When I was around 20 weeks pregnant the ultrasound technician looked up from her screen and asked, "Did you know his right kidney is dilated?" I did not. "It's pretty common," she said. "Especially with boys." It didn't, therefore, concern me much. The doctor mentioned that it doubled the chance of Down syndrome, which kind of freaked me out even though my chances were in the thousands. I turned to the internet to look for statistics on Down syndrome and its relation to dilated kidneys. I couldn't find much.

Thus began my journey of searching the web for any information I could lay my eyes on; from hearsay to expert opinion. This is why I'm writing this blog, to hopefully reach other concerned parents who are looking for answers to some of their questions and a personal account.

The specialist (who was actually a specialist referred to me by my obstetrician for incompetent cervix) referred me to another specialist, a urologist by the name of Stanley Galansky. It was at this point when I first heard the term hydronephrosis. With a hint of doubt I made an appointment and met with him, handing over the ultrasound picture that, to me, didn't look like anything.

There wasn't much he could do at that point, me being 30 weeks pregnant. He explained how my son's kidneys are in overdrive, creating amniotic fluid. And how the increased amount of progesterone acts as a muscle relaxer, making the ureters less efficient, therefore allowing fluid to backup into the kidney instead of to the bladder where it's supposed to go. The mention of progesterone made me think suspiciously of the progesterone shots (or 17P injections) I got once a week to ward off premature labor. To this day I still wonder about the wisdom of taking those shots. I was very adamant about going through my pregnancy with as little artificial influence as possible. But I'll never know if it helped me with the danger of losing my baby at 25 weeks, as my obstetrician feared, or if it contributed to my son's kidney problems. Obviously I'd rather have a baby with imperfect kidneys than no baby at all. Also, if a link between the 2 did emerge I'm sure there would've been many studies on it. Ultimately, I believe it was the luck of the draw.

As far as treatment the doctor explained that the worst case scenario would be a fairly simple surgery to fix it, the best case would be watching it until he's two when the kidneys become completely mature.

Dr. Galansky gave me his card with instructions to call him after birth and to put him on antibiotics immediately (for prevention of UTI, which can be common for those with this condition). As I was driving home I toyed with the idea of putting his card aside and just not calling, and after he was born that's what I did.

Once again I was back at the computer googling hydronephrosis. I found a group called Moms of children with hydronephrosis, as well as classifications of mild to severe depending on measurements between 5 mm and 15 mm (his was moderate to severe on the right side). I tried finding statistics on what percentage ended up having surgery but couldn't find much.

As my pregnancy progressed toward late third term I started having regular ultrasounds to monitor the amniotic fluid and keep an eye on that right kidney. I had high hopes that after I stopped getting progesterone shots his kidney would shrink. But it was still there, a dark spot that the ultrasound technician could stretch a dotted line across and measure.

After his birth my pediatrician ordered another ultrasound at an age of one week. My hopes climbed again that the kidney would be normal but there it was, that menacing dark spot. When the pediatrician called to tell me that I needed to consult with Dr. Galansky I went to look at my small sleeping infant in his bassinet, sat down and cried. The following appointment did little to ease my anxiety as the doctor talked about several unsavory tests to find out what the underlying problem is. The first would be what's called a voiding cystourethrogram or VCUG where they put a catheter in, fill his bladder and watch while he pees to see if there's bladder reflux (urine flowing back into the ureters and kidney). My only concern was, does a catheter hurt? I looked it up on the web and could only find the sugar coated word "discomfort". I knew in my heart though that it would be very unpleasant. And it was. I held his little hands as they put the catheter in and poured water over him. He had to empty his bladder twice. He cried the whole time and I offered what little comfort I could. When the test came back normal I wasn't elated. I was kind of hoping that would be the problem because I knew it was a problem he would most likely grow out of. I preferred anything to surgery. Like most good news, the doctor gave it to me over the phone. He said, "come back to the office and we'll do an ultrasound and decide on the next step."

The ultrasound revealed that the left kidney, which had moderate dilation, resolved itself, but the right one was a little worse. It was time for the next test - a renal MAG3 scan.

Back on the web, I looked for details on the scan. It involved an IV. My imagination was ablaze with holding his little hands again will they stuck him with a needle. I was relieved, though, when the anesthesiologist said she'd put him to sleep through a mask before "slipping" the IV in. The only challenge would be not feeding him for 4 hours before the test.

I waited in the waiting room for the hour long test in nuclear medicine. As I waited, I met a man who asked if my baby needed surgery. I said, no, it's a test to see what's going on with his kidney. He said, "Oh, are you seeing Dr. Galansky?" I said, yes, we are. "He's a great doctor," he said. "When my twins were born we went to him. He's an artist - draws everything as he explains it. I remember that test." Indeed, I pictured the graphs he drew for me and my husband. "We'll inject a very low dose of radioactive fluid. The normal kidney will clear out immediately," he said as he drew an arch on a graph labeled Kidney Fx (function) and Time. "The obstructed kidney will take longer," drawing another rising line that plateaued.

I wasn't prepared for the way my son would appear waking up from anesthesia. Softly mewling, drooping eye lids. I tried feeding him and he weakly attempted to latch on. After a while though he opened his eyes and managed to smile. Such a trooper.

I asked the nurse if I could talk to anyone about how the test went. My hopes were high again. She said I'd have to wait to speak with my doctor. I wanted to look at the film on the CD they gave me but I have a mac and there's no software I could find to see it. The call I received from the office was a reminder that I had an appointment - no call with good news. The night before the appointment, as my husband and I lay in bed he said, "I bet he needs surgery. Every family has to go through some drama."

And as Dr. Galansky walked into the exam room he patted my son's back and said, "We need to fix this." My heart dropped and I held back tears as he drew a picture of a kidney with dotted lines showing where he would cut and lines indicating where he would reattach the ureter and parallel lines showing where he would insert a drain. Beside it he wrote ureteropelvic junction obstruction pyeloplasty. He said, "If you do a google search you'll find all kinds of descriptions involving robotic surgery and laparoscopic incisions. I'd love to do that but it would be best to just do open surgery. It's a two inch incision. With laparoscopic surgery there would be four incisions and it would take 6 hours."

And so, at a week shy of 4 months old, my son was scheduled for surgery. As I held my hungry, squirming son the following week when we meet the surgeon's assistant and the anesthesiologist. Dr. Galansky came into the pre-op room and drew right on the bed sheet. "During the study we found out that his left kidney cleared out in 7 and half minutes - his right took 62 minutes..." he said as he drew the line on the graph trailing out straight indicating function. "If he wasn't so obstructed I'd say we can wait and watch but in my gut I feel like this is something we should fix now."

"Isn't it true," I asked, "that you can live with just one kidney?"

He said, "Oh, you only need one fourth of one kidney. But I call this his beer drinking kidney. I don't want him to one day be drinking and feel pain and have to take the whole thing out. That's what happened to one of my patients who was a Navy SEAL. He had what your son had and I had to take out his kidney - now he can't be a SEAL. I want your son to be able to do anything he wants in his life."

We kissed and hugged him before handing him over to the nurse and then found a spot in the waiting room. My husband and I talked more in those few hours to each other than, sadly, we had talked in years. Once in a while a nurse would call and tell me the updates, always starting with "he's doing great." In the final call she said, "the surgery went well and we're ready to close him back up. The doctor will be out to speak with you as soon as he's finished."

15 minutes later Dr. Galansky pulled up a chair to our table and said, "I'm glad we did this now. He kidney was so swollen I went to make an incision and fluid squirted over my shoulder." He got out his pen and drew what he observed - a narrow, kinked up ureter. He said he couldn't even get a one millimeter device in there. He drew how he hooked up the healthy tube - 8 mm - to his kidney. As he got up to leave he said, "you guys are great. You trusted me."

I said, "I've heard a lot of good things about you."

In the recovery room I held my son and look him over. He was bloated and pale. The nurse said he woke up gently - most kids are screaming. He had an IV in his ankle and his big toe was lit up red from the oxygen monitor. He nursed weakly and gradually woke up a little more. His little arms were pumping, I think because he was trying to move his legs but they weren't working. Gradually his color came back.

When he fell asleep again we put him in the hospital crib and slept all afternoon. I laid in the hospital bed next to him and waited for him to wake up. The next 12 hours were some of the most difficult in my life. When the drugs from surgery wore off his pain seemed to return in full force. He cried out when I tried to move him for feeding. Then nurses gave him Tylenol which seemed to help a little but wore off right before the allowed next dosage. At one point he cried so hard the nurse quickly gave him Morphine. I felt helpless. I cried and cried every time he cried. I was afraid to move him. I was grateful for every second that passed that took us farther and farther away from that experience, every second of healing. I was ready to sell my soul to any God that humans ever conceived of that would take his pain away.

The next morning the nurse scolded me for not eating. All the nurses thereafter would ask me how I was doing - using my name to make it clear they weren't talking to my son. When my husband came to visit I took a walk around the hospital. I felt a little awe at the world that steadily marched on around my little world.

I thought about the article I read in The New Yorker about a parent who endured treatment of a child with a brain tumor and ultimately their child's death. I did not take it for granted that it was a fairly simple surgery with successful results. I held on to the doctor's assurance after I asked, "He can lead a normal life from now on?"

"Yes," he said.

Because of high blood pressure and a low grade fever we stayed one more night. After his surgical drain was removed we went home where I continued to alternate between Tylenol and Ibuprofen. His pain held on a little longer.

The surgical drain seemed to open back up and wasn't healing over. I called the doctor and he said we may have to go back and put him to sleep again for further treatment. A google search revealed that it was a passive drain called a Penrose drain. I couldn't find much about the healing process. Luckily, after a few days of not only changing the sponge gauze but his clothes and the blankets he slept on, the drain slowed down, a small brown spot on the gauze.

So now, I wait for the medical bills to start coming. We met our deductible and my out of pocket expenses. The last of our maximum out of pocket expenses will be met with this surgery no doubt. Once those are paid off I'll finally be able to put it all behind me, a small scar the only reminder.

The big guy upstairs

2011-06-20T14:49:00.000-07:00

God School Project

It seems like all of Christianity was created to make excuses for You.

I'm sorry but I won't ignore the fact that You are the biggest murderer of all,

Though understandably, for the most part, out of necessity. But would anyone

accuse You of causing abortions? Nooooo. At least not to your face.

I'm sure it has crossed the mind of an almost mother who looks at the blood

on her hands for the 3rd time through the blur of her sobs, she's thought it.

Damn You, for a change.

Have You ever visited the place to which You damn people? I'll bet You've

no idea what the decor is made of. Pretty convenient (and cowardly, I might add)

to not have to hear the wails of the damned. Zap! Outta sight, outta mind.

As a Boss, You've kinda run this company into the ground.

Nature destroyed, over-population, terrorism, the booming

industries of pornography and meth, leaving us all to fight

over who You are,

Sending our Savior before all those problems even existed. I can guess why.

You needed us humans to be naive. Today's scientists would've locked Him

up to study his miracles. Betchya never guessed we'd be so curious, huh?

"Just wait," You say, "We'll be returning to take the best of you with Us.

Any moment now.

Hold your breath.

I'm coming."

We've made Moses look like a dumbass, poor old thing. After a while

I'm sure You just gave up. Maybe just tossed us aside and started a

new planet? Just a God School project. Your teacher gave you an

F for this one.

The Golden Rule: whoever has the gold makes the rules

2011-02-25T13:42:00.000-08:00

I've always looked forward to this time of year: tax season. The first time I got a tax refund I thought - what the hell does everybody complain about? The government gives you money back. It was years later when I heard someone say that the goal is to not pay but also not get a refund. You're letting Uncle Sam have your money interest free. To which I've always said, "good, let 'em have it. Doesn't bother me."

Over the years; after marriage, a child, a house; the tax refunds have been getting bigger. It'd be around January when we'd ask ourselves - what should we do with our tax money this year? (more often than not - pay off the credit cards). Sometimes we'd buy furniture. Then, I'd file the tax returns away.

It's been recently though that I've taken a harder look at taxes, particularly with all this debate about the national deficit. That seems to be the clearest defining line between political parties. Conservatives insist on cutting spending and taxes, liberals insist on economic stimulation and taxing more.

So, this year I asked (because I didn't really know) what tax bracket are we in? And the nice little old tax lady showed us on the front summary page that we owe 25% in taxes. But, she pointed out proudly, with all the deductions we only ended up paying 8%. Less than what a person near poverty level pays. Made me think about all the deductions out there and what people actually pay in taxes - like the people who complain about taxes being too high. Like people who have tax account experts who can ferret out every loophole and write off that exists.

It doesn't seem right. Unwittingly I've become one of those people who've been looking to pay lower taxes. And I firmly believe that is not part of the solution to the nation's economy struggle.

Republicans can make all the promises they want, cut off government welfare programs they say is needless spending but in reality it's more of an investment. But taking away free breakfast for kids who only eat once a day is a tiny percentage of the trillions of dollars America has racked up. And we can pussyfoot around with Social Security or health care or, god forbid the Defense Department (it irritates me to no end that Republicans screech out with such passion about out of control spending and the devastating legacy left to our future precious (well some of them) children, yet leaves defense spending untouched - billions upon billions spent each year on a war with no ending. If they were really serious about cutting spending that would be the first thing they look at.) It's only so long before we come to the conclusion that the only way to get rid of this debt is to raise taxes... across the board. The way they're trying to do it now is like starving the children while going out every year to buy a new flat screen.

Yes, us pampered, whiny, self centered Americans will bitch and throw a fit over it, complain about how unfair it is because the situation we're in isn't our fault. But in the end we'll look up from our budget sheets and start arguing about how we can spend the surplus. That's the way it should be.

If I were really serious about it I'd file my taxes and not apply any deductions - pay a true 25%. If I had the guts to suggest it to my husband and he agreed to it (which I doubt. He already grumbles over the large donations to charity I make behind his back) I would.

Someday I will. I've already decided to refuse any social security when I retire.

Which makes me wonder: do people who retire as millionaires collect social security?

1 Corinthians 13:4

2011-02-16T13:48:00.000-08:00

If I could will it, my love would whisper,

tread like two fingertips across a table top.

Every once in a while you'd have to stop

and look around for it.

It would taste like peach mist or swirl around you

in the lift and draft that catches loose feathers

and paper bags.

My love would be something you'd want to come back to

in coffeehouse conversation, meander in comfortable

curves and set afloat in the lilt of a joyful voice.

It'd rest in the curve of your smile, light as a

spirit.

I tend to kill the goose to figure out how

it lays the golden egg.

A Delicate Condition

2011-01-02T18:01:00.000-08:00

I've stopped flirting with all

the men at work.

My once naked looks of attraction

are now veiled behind

maternity clothes.

Sex lead to this.

But for all the ceremony

of the planting of the seed,

there sprouts a flower

of a different nature.

My body stretched out and used up.

They watch my feet on the ice

instead of my ass,

swap crude jokes for the

gentler ones.

I just have to remind myself

to not wish away time

nor morn the past.

Motherhood, like everything else,

is largely a phase

like the prime I've past

I'm reminded of each time

I walk by the budding girls

at the mall who are

dimly aware of their

sexuality

and the torment it places

on the men we love.

I'll recognize fear as the

veil that it is;

hiding experience

of growing older

and then growing old.

books with no covers

2010-11-03T10:17:00.000-07:00

Deep-seated beliefs remind me of big, old trees: rooted to the ground, difficult to knock over and they've been there ever since you can remember. They're philosophies that you assume you'll believe for the rest of your life. Beliefs that you'll defend no matter what, even if you have to ignore a few inconvenient truths. Not only are they hard to let go, but you're afraid of letting them go.

I had a rich Uncle who asked me once, "why do you want to associate with people who don't have degrees?" Meaning my high school friends whom I kept in touch with. I thought, how snobby. It annoyed me the way people assumed lower class citizens were just lazy. The bleeding heart in me wanted to say, "You don't even know these people. How could you judge someone by the length of their education?"

And then, through the years, I met a few of them. People who flat out refuse to work even though they are perfectly capable. People who give no regard to their children's welfare. People who don't mind mooching off other people. And the bleeding heart in me doesn't really want to blame them. They have a different set of values that experiences and influences from childhood have instilled in them.

There are philosophies and ideals that you always hold on to - and then you have children.

After kindergarten one day one of my son's classmates came up to me and my son and asked if we could have a play date. Her mom and I arranged for a time to meet at the park. While they played her mom and I got to know each other. I found out she had her daughter when she was 16, the father abusive. She left that relationship and is now engaged to a different man. I thought, that's cool she's moving on. But I also looked at my son with a new protectiveness, wanting to shield him from knowing that people can be abusive or make decisions that make the rest of their lives more difficult. It was hard not to call up the old adage of "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." But, never would I tell him not to associate with that little girl or teach him to judge her because their family follows a different way of life from ours.

So when the request came for another play date I agreed. We met at a park near our house. She said her back was hurting and asked if we had any Vicodin. I told her we didn't but we have extra strength Tylenol. And then, at our house, she told me about how she was in a car accident that messed up her back and she that she doesn't have enough medication. "I take 5 pain pills a day" she said. She admitted to being addicted to them. The more she talked the more red flags came up. She told me about how she stole the Aeropostale shirt she was wearing and stole 4 shirts from the GAP for her daughter. I wasn't sure how to respond. Just nod when she said, "a mother has to do what she has to do for her kid." I started to wonder how I could avoid her in the future. Imagine me, believer of the good in human race and vowing to take care of my fellow Americans, telling her that I don't want to expose my son to her lifestyle or her daughter who is growing up among it.

Now I understood those parents who send their children to private schools. Those with the privilege of stepping away from the heartache and struggle. I felt bad for wanting to remove my son from this reality and I don't know why.

But it's instinct. In the letter I wrote to him after he was born I told him I wanted him to be happy and I'd be able to accept anything else. But is that enough? No. I want him to be a good person. I want him to be responsible and honest and willing to work hard for what he wants.

Is that possible without surrounding ourselves with the very people I've always sworn I'd never become?

Loud vs. Majority

2010-10-18T07:43:00.000-07:00

After reading an article about Obama's decreasing popularity based on poll numbers (TIME magazine - I keep wondering if it's what all the liberals read or if conservatives read it, too, because I tend to agree with the points it brings up a lot), I walked away a little bit disgusted. Have so many former Obama supporters turned against him? I want to say, "Poll numbers don't mean anything, anyway." Of course, I believe the poll numbers when I see the percentage points Democrat Hickenlooper is gaining in the race for Colorado Governor.

Not too long ago I saw a bumper sticker that said "Now do you understand why I didn't vote for Obama?" I've understood all along. We voted for Obama because he wanted to reform health care, which he's done by getting the ball rolling. We wanted him President because Wall Street was out of control and because there has to be more focus on alternative energy. Why would we change our minds after getting what we've asked for? No doubt there have been a few. But I believe for the most part, we quiet, too quiet, Democrats still stand by our choice from 2008 and will vote for him again in 2012. Those on the other side of the aisle believe differently.

I think Obama's presidential campaign started it all. Somehow people came together and said they wanted change and contributed their 20 or 50 bucks, raising record amounts of money, to get Barack elected. Then the tea party was born. Ordinary liberals showed ordinary conservatives that bringing voices together from a big crowd can change the world (little by little). History has shown that it isn't really congress or the supreme court or the folks in Washington who bring about change, it's the people holding the protest signs (women, blacks, gays, laborers) saying "were not taking it anymore." If we relied on old, rich, white guys to hand our rights to us we'd still be back in the Gone With The Wind era.

But, angry conservatives, tea party members in particular, I think, are cheating. The fuel behind this movement is powered by delighted billionaires who come up with benign sounding groups and anonymously fund ads and campaigns.

That's hardly grassroots. The Tea Party is loud but the majority will be heard.

If the mid-term elections this year indicate anything about what it's gonna be like in 2012, I may end up ignoring it all. I don't care if a candidate used to practice witchcraft - what's she gonna do about the increasing poverty rates among Americans? And if someone is going to win an election by throwing away $120 million dollars on mail outs that are going to end up in the trash or 30 second ads that people are going to forget (after their shelf life on YouTube anyway) then I'm gonna give up on following politics altogether. If the Naked Cowboy has any chance at all by promising to uphold culture, borders and language then I've lost hope in the intelligence of the American people.

None of it really effects me much anyway. My husband and I have jobs so why should I care about unemployment benefits? I don't rely on Social Security or Medicare so it doesn't matter to me if it goes away. I can send my son to a school that can afford good teachers, we can afford our monthly mortgage payments and any toll that industry takes on the environment is easily ignored, at least in my life time. So things are fine. Oh, but we do pay taxes. I guess I should worry about that. I guess I should worry about saving a whole 300 and some odd dollars a year - just avoid the roads that are REALLY getting bad.

Sometimes I wish aliens would invade the Earth just to remind ourselves that we're all human.

I work with a guy who likes to rib me about being a baby killer and not loving America, to which I reply by calling him a money worshipping, war monger. But at the end of the day we help each other out, offer part of our lunch to the other if they're hungry and laugh at dirty jokes together.

Like a good friend once told me: it's just silly stuff to get mad over.

TMI

2010-08-18T11:28:00.000-07:00

When I Bled

So now everything becomes

a symbol. Ketchup on my fingers.

A pebble about the shape and size

of the embryo right now.

When it slips from my fingers

to the gravel below I say:

if I find it, I'm going to keep the baby,

if I can't find it, I'll lose it.

I feel no consolation when I find it.

Is it languishing now?

The heartbeat losing pace?

Sprung to life only to find its

deathbed in the same place?

The hunched figure already looks

old to me, curled in on itself

as if sad.

Just hang on one more month,

coast into the haven of the second trimester.

I wait. For the pitter-patter.

Either little feet

or blood on the floor.

within temptation

2010-07-27T14:43:00.000-07:00

It was a blue ceramic dutch oven. "Drastically reduced" at Bed, Bath and Beyond so said my Aunt. "We should make something, like a casserole or potatoes or something." We decided on scalloped potatoes - how they differ from Au Gratin potatoes we weren't sure but the scalloped ones had most (there's foreshadowing here) of the ingredients that were already in the house.

And I took pride in my culinary skills, joy in slicing oh-so-thin those skinned spuds (for nutrition) and my knowledge of the difference between blanching and parboiling. As for measuring three cups of sliced potatoes - that was beyond me. Do you stack 'em up in the measuring cup (or in this case the pyrex glass that she insists on measuring everything with even though it's meant for fluid measuring. Alton Brown woulda been ashamed)? It's not like you can cram them in there for accuracy. After measuring out what may have been 3 cups of thinly sliced potatoes we decided it didn't fill up the pretty dutch oven so we doubled it (maybe tripled - there were quite a few of those suckers).

I took my time arranging the layers of potatoes in that scalloped form from which they take their name. Evenly dolloped butter, carefully dusted flour (well, instant gravy thickener but it's the same thing, right?). Next, I heated the whole milk - precisely doubled. Salt. Check. No paprika, no dry mustard. Rosemary anyone?

And then she asks "Did you use any of the whipping cream?" Er, no. "Let's just add a little bit of that. It makes any potato irresistible." OK. Gently pour said heated milk and cream over potatoes, bake 35 minutes and viola! Creamy, delicate... sure, maybe a little bit bland but at least very, very pretty.

When the tritip is being sliced and the peas about done I bend down to peek in at my potatoes. Not the golden brown I was expecting but surely nearly done. When I slide the rack out the potatoes lazily float among milk marbled with pools of butter.

No enough flour, not enough flour. I barely doubled it, I shoulda done a lot more.

"I think these need more time," I pronounce as I shove them back in. Maybe, at least, the liquid will evaporate or the flour (instant gravy thickener) will, I don't know, plump up more? Maybe everyone will forget it's there.

This kidding-of-thyself lasts about 5 minutes while I cook up (pun intended) plan B. Just add more flour. How exactly you stir it in or the fact that you have to get it up to boiling temperature in order for it to thicken does not concern me. Just get it in.

So I hoist the languishing side dish up on the cook top, push some of the potatoes aside and just dump gravy thickener in (the can of which comes with nifty sprinkling holes on the top). At first I make tiny circular movements with the wooden spoon as I move around the edge and part between potatoes in the middle. But as I hear the plating gearing up behind me I just go ahead stir like mad.

When my Aunt approaches she sees the difference between our vision and the reality and she says "This is what we'll do," as she grabs a tart dish from some cabinet. "We'll put them in here and they'll be just fine. Look at these fine potatoes. I'm going to have you serve them to everyone." And then in her announcement voice, says to the other 7 guests, "Everyone MUST try Bonnie's scalloped potatoes!" After which I mumble "you really don't have to. really they're not all that good..."

And she says, "I'm going to eat a lot! I can't WAIT to taste it" as she ladles spoonful after spoonful of (now, admittedly creamy) scalloped potatoes. This from a woman with not an inch of fat on her start-every-morning-with-a-40-minute-swim-and-2-mile-jog slender frame. She takes a bite. "Mmmm! Delicious!"

I sheepishly watch as every polite guest takes a spoonful. Naturally I take as much as I can so as to deplete the rations for everyone else. They taste like loose, not mixed up enough, mashed potatoes. Not terrible.

My cousin says, politely, "Your potatoes are very good." Everyone chimes in, in agreement. At this point I'm reduced to, "yeah, right" laughter and this close to saying "cut the crap, people. They suck and all of you know it." I can't decide if the second helping my other cousin (a surfer) got herself was more politeness or maybe just carbing up or what.

After the meal, when it comes time for the tupperware, my Aunt says "look, there's just a little bit left. We'll save it. Don't want to waste that. We can have it tomorrow."

I add, dryly, "I guess we'll have to fight over it."

Next day, she ends up taking every last bite.

Toeing The Line To Serious

2010-07-02T17:50:00.000-07:00

The Simple Act of Breathing

Not only do you hear my sighs

you attempt to decipher them.

And, in the most beautiful act

of tandem, you sigh with me.

These days, with each hitching breath,

the kind that follows a bout of crying,

I see your face, the slight tilt

of contemplation, complete the exhale.

You've turned the simple act of breathing

into reminders of languid grass sprawls.

You hold me actively, a gentle sway,

hand cupping my head (my brain),

you ask "was that in contentment?"

Yes.

before long

2010-06-24T17:10:00.000-07:00

Little girls come closest to what I think angels actually look like. Especially the two I saw at the park yesterday, as they were wearing white dresses. One had light, blonde wavy hair that fell every which way in careless perfection. My son, about the same age as them, looked at them with curiosity, as if he wasn't sure how to approach these strange creatures. They asked, "Do you want to see our butterflies?" as they draped and dangled from the swing set. I looked down at the gravel, there a former gum ball contraption. They unscrewed the top and drew out two butter colored, tattered moths. The moths lay docile in their hands, nearly immobile but charmingly still alive. As they flapped slowly I thought of birds with clipped wings.

rock paper scissors

2010-05-24T14:54:00.000-07:00

The More Humble, The More True

If you lived here you be home by now.

It's where the heart is, not the safe,

though it is safe.

People would fight to the death to stay here.

They would clan together as a force

greater than battalions.

It's either home or death.

There are no other options

like rent it out

or level it

or flip it

for equity and investment

for long term property value hikes.

It's where you hang your hat.

Just one hat under which you labor

not the nook in a walk-in

lined up with souvenir caps

of sports teams and panamas

and sun hats

from Acapulco

or golfing

expeditions - barely a trace

of light sweat and sun block.

The weightlessness of foreclosure

makes it easy to fly down and

snatch it up in your talons:

Are they nothing more than those

green plastic game pieces,

Monopoly deed cards?

If families in the top hat or shoe

land on your Baltic Avenue

the money is real to them.

These four walls with a roof

is a place we grow into until

they are positively bursting with love

not hash marks in a 30 year loan

where a few missed payments

are the difference between

a door step and the threshold to

trespassing. Dollar signs don't

make a good foundation.

These four walls with a roof

don't make a good piggy bank.

You can keep

stuffing your

money there

forever and it'll still be the same

yard strewn with weeds.

It'll be nothing more than a project

of burst pipes and efficient upgrades,

of shoving families out with their junk

who have a ridiculous love for this place

which isn't even all that pretty

and may take months to sell.

To you, it's a facade erected

as a symbol of your social standing.

To us, there's no place like it.

From there we track sweet across the world.

Discovering my love is merely an addiction

2010-05-20T09:56:00.000-07:00

Things You Can Ruin By Touching Them

Exhibits in a museum

Moth wings

Robin's eggs

He seems to admire the length of her hair.

A few gray curls hide in there.

I spy his hand over hers

and when she writes "love you, too."

They are encased with a plaque that reads:

Intricate Marriage, 1997

Oh, the journey it took to get here.

And I reach out to touch the silk

of swirls the color of nature

knowing full well I could alter the dust on his wings

which he needs to fly straight.

With each caress I wear down his defenses.

I know how to hold a wild bird's egg

with out cracking the delicate shell -

I'd cradle the warm beating heart I know is inside.

It's the mother that would smell me

and let it tumble from her nest.

Mostly, though, I look at myself through her eyes.

"How dare you, for your own amusement,

trample on all that we've built."

Promise yourself,

promise you'll be careful with him

and learn to respect what you admire.

diplomacy is less expensive than war

2010-04-24T12:13:00.000-07:00

The main complaint from Republicans and those who opposed the newly passed health care reform bill is that we can't afford it. This rankles me since no one seems to mind sending fuel over to Afghanistan at something like $40 a gallon (the cost of getting it to the desert bound vehicles) and who knows what all other costs to keep the war going for, how long now? 9 years? No, those self proclaimed lovers of America never worried about money when it came to funding blowing up terrorists (and, oops, a couple of civilians) but when it comes to funding the health, well being and future of fellow Americans... well, that's too much to ask for. (Don't like the bills that go through congress? Just threaten them and vandalize their homes and businesses) The whole enterprise is complicated and boggle-your-mind expensive. No arguing that.

To be sure, the health care bill is vast (another favorite buzzword for the Republicans - "2,000 page document" (much like we Democrats are constantly citing the war as a part of our argument)) and it's hard to get all the information to make a solid argument. I'm sure the Republicans had some good ideas and yes, maybe Obama could've compromised more and gotten points for passing a bi-partisan bill. It's another viable argument.

But the complaint that gets me is the "Big Brother" rant. There are 308 million people living in the United States of America. Unless you're making bombs or evading taxes, the government is not going to waste its time tracking you. Really, you're not that important.

And, let's say, even if the government did apply its beasts mark on you, does it even matter? Do you have something to hide? Ah, but, I supposed that's not the point. It's a matter of privacy, isn't it? Ironic that a public so paranoid of having their freedoms and rights taken away indulge in YouTube - a virtual arena for crucifying people who make on-camera mistakes - or gobble up gossip that has been acquired from the bushes of someone's house by paparazzi. And isn't it a bit unnerving that your iPhone can pinpoint your exact location at any given moment? It's advertisers we should be afraid of when it comes to Big Brother.

And these lovers of America strive to keep government small for fear of socialism. Anything to keep America from ending up like France.

But if we keep turning our backs on people who need help we're gonna end up looking like Africa - where mothers carry their dying babies several miles to doctors with meager supplies for a slim chance that they'll survive. Close your eyes and imagine your child dying in front of you after a week of watching them suffer from diarrhea - it hurts no less for these people whose government doesn't give wit about.

We got that whiff of Haiti after hurricane Katrina. It's too expensive to pay for other people's infrastructure.

We need to change our philosophies. There is so much truth in that old adage "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." - spoken by the very individual who helped form the beloved Constitution that Republicans keep citing. Even if that troublesome healthcare bill didn't pass we would eventually still have to address the rising healthcare costs. How bad will it have to get before we do something? How many more millions will have to go without health insurance (even though having health insurance could still lead to bankruptcy because policies are worthless when it comes to help you really need) before it's too many?

Are we going to have to pay for medical bills by simply filing for bankruptcy? Does anybody understand that those debts don't magically disappear? How do we pay for healthcare? We already do.

Maybe we need to start checking people's bank accounts and if they have proof of U.S. residency (that first step taken in Arizona) before we admit them to hospitals. Let's have everyone meet certain requirements before they're allowed in the E.R. - it would certainly be more cost effective to send them away. It's good population control too.

BFN and AF,

2010-04-17T07:16:00.000-07:00

TTC

I lift my hips
and create a cradle.

I am my own artist rendering
- I see the tiny ball
of tiny cells actively dividing
in its fallopian descent.

They used to imagine
miniature babies folded up
in the head of sperm.
I've used my knowledge as empowerment:
the consistency of mucus
and surges of hormone.

I read my nipples like tea leaves.
Ancient civilizations read the moon
in the way I interpret my luteal phases.

Is it burning a uterine crater,
this shooting star?
Is it burrowing its roots?
It's a long, long wait
for this bright red let down.

I shed
tears in anger, sadness, frustration and jealousy.
This loss of a future best friend,
a real live cherub,
potential world changer -
the physical manifestation of love.

In joy of our societal roles

2010-04-12T19:05:00.000-07:00

Platonic

You let a woman just stretch her wings,

perform a natural chivalry - unpatronizing,

extend your hand when I really need it.

You stood there this morning and took me in -

with maleness, assessed and recognized

a moment when she's grappling with her emotions

and may grapple right up your shirt to hide in

a place you can't reach.

And you asked, "What is your mood?"

And you let me be rude and plant my feet and banshee,

hold fast to the bridge to keep it from swaying

so she stays safe.

You know her lust, guess at her weaknesses,

acknowledge the days she menstruates without batting an eye.

You're steady when she pounds her fists in frustration against your chest

and pause, when I dip my temple to your shoulder.

You held me in your eyes.

the sound of erupting flame

2010-03-11T17:06:00.000-08:00

You feel like a cat

caught by the scruff

when Life dips you in

that humble batter.

When it's too early for

"everything happens for a reason."

When it's more than just a long day.

You'd been whirling that hula hoop

for so long

the sound of that clatter

on the ground

is startling

and you grope with your hips

for that habit

of your livelihood,

the carpet turned magic

and it left you...

I hope it comes fast -

turning around from that

slammed shut window.

I hope it opens easily -

that supposed door.

Gradually that space

turns -

waiting to be filled with

something better and

laughter returns like a hurricane.

don't think twice, it's alright

2010-01-19T14:11:00.000-08:00

We used each other

to forget the ones who where

in line before.

I was not a dancer -

my breasts too big to heave

in lumbering pirouettes.

And you were not

of passion - your caution too

heavy to catch the wind.

We, converse of each other,

eventually became used up.

We wondered how it

would end; besides mutual and gentle.

but we ended up

giving up pretending

it was more than functional

and when you

jimmied the lock

with increasing ease

you paced

like a captive tiger

that just lapped up its hunk of meat

that was thrown on the floor.

My only regret

is that I wasn't the first

to become bored.

heater streak

2010-01-16T14:40:00.000-08:00

My Cheyenne

I came here

to unravel;

a sharp point

to snag

what was woven -

fucked up needlepoint.

A landscape of

deception in blue,

destruction in prairie gold,

depression in brown.

Big Sky Love

the place where

fear grows horns

and I lash myself

to it,

where 8 seconds

seems like forever.

I am naked

in this wind.

****

Celebrity Zoo

We cage them as humanely as possible

taken from their natural habitat

the mysterious recorded jungle.

The silver screen (or disc) is their natural armor.

But we black market their tusken secrets

with paparazzi poachers.

Is it an aphrodisiac in the check out isle?

Shame to see the remains of bodies

(they're such beauties)

lying around.

But we can see them preserved in the pages.

Trained celebologists are careful with the

young raised in captivity, as they lack

essential survival skills.

What a marvel! How exotic!

All the females weigh an average of 98 pounds.

Please stay back behind the ropes,

endangered red carpeted paws.

It's impolite to look but we can't help but stare.

Dream of being the Dian Fossey among them.

****

The Source is a Siren (Too Late)

I found the source of my voice

too late.

It was music to your ears

and I sang -

I sang for all to hear.

I crooned in perfect falsetto,

notes that stroked your ego

and massaged your erection

in soothing tones.

I found the source of my voice

in Hell (too late).

I plastered my nipples

with toxic honey -

now it gives you a bellyache

and withdrawal symptoms at the same time.

I watch you mangle yourself

trying to get to me

a slut, an angel, shapeshifter

whatever you want me to be.

And I can't shut up

(it's too late)

or maybe it's the echo

from the source of evil

beckoning to you

to come close.

And the only way to close

the gates of Hell

is to shut off the channel

completely (forever)

the chords

so close

to the jugular.

If I'd have known

I would've told you

to tie yourself to the mast

and sail on by.

****

[Winged damned things!]

Winged damned things!

They don't merely number in

12 or 60.

You and I age like the universe,

not like Earthlings.

The damned winged things

fly past our faces

when our faces together are present.

I try to watch

each one in the cloud

to make it seem like

there are more than

there are.

Sometimes I try to pinch one

out of the air like Mr. Miyagi

or maybe trap one in a glass.

But time is invisible.

It goes through walls,

whittles whole weekends

down to nothing.

when you hear hoofbeats, you don't think zebras

2010-01-13T14:47:00.000-08:00

Depression is a man.

My suitor wears black and gray.

He appeals to me, extends a hand

and this time I take it.

It is effortless the way he leads me

simple-minded defeated mule

the gentlest tug of my bridle.

The last of my breath

bubbles to the surface

as I slip under.

"Yessss," slithers outta his mouth

when he feels me relax against him.

"I'll hold you forever if you want."

He doesn't restrain me 'cause I don't wanna move.

His caressing keeps me awake at night.

Anything helps, God bless

2009-12-14T17:33:00.000-08:00

I have won

The Nicest Person of the Year Award

for 26 years and running.

The trophies, they crowd my mantel,

my windowsills, my counters and dressers

big eared things spray painted golden.

And I held them up in triumph

in recognition of the hinges I installed

on every aspect of my being,

doors that said

Always Open, make yourself comfortable

Take what you will -

Take of my mind

Take of my body

Take of my purse.

In recognition of the endurance

for compassion, of the speed

for forgiveness, of the monumental strength

for shit-taking.

My alphabet is

ABCDEFGHIJKLMPQRSTUVXYZ

Each one cups the substance

of my self worth

laurel laced chalice of my name

and nobody else.

This year I hope I don't win.

I'll take the bronze,

besiege this empty temple.

Status Update when the senate rejects healthcare reform

2009-11-15T07:19:00.000-08:00

Maybe the conservatives have the right idea: between the NRA and healthcare we can wipeout a good percentage of the poor, the elderly and the criminals - people who use up tax dollars. Now if only they realized abortion can prevent many future little tax gobblers.

I Love The World

2009-11-13T17:32:00.000-08:00

You start off as pencil sketches

paper people

more often than not nameless

because I'm really bad with those.

You barely fill out 2 dimensions

until the color of your eyes sink in

atop stacked phrases

inside the rhythm of your voice

And it strikes a chord.

And there's heat behind that flesh.

I can see you smile in profile

which feathers across my face

when you turn it towards me.

When I learn that you had a short first marriage,

that you suffer from dyslexia, that your mother

survived breast cancer twice,

that your baby girl died from SIDS.

You hand me tiny wrapped packets

of trust which I cherish,

cherish.

I rub the texture of your emotions,

I find pockets in your aura where

I can stuff and hide loneliness.

And the sound of your name affects me.

I feel time and space bend when you

walk past me where I teeter on the brink of

event horizon, where your eyes

open up and funnel inward and I twirl.

I want to stand on the axis of X, Y, Z

and touch all dimensions as you

revive my faith in love over and over again.

I wrap my heart around you as children,

douse you in hope, adore you in secret,

gather your more-than-mere bodies

into Bonnieland where you are all

princes and princesses.

Money as cosmetics

2009-11-07T06:27:00.000-08:00

The beautiful rich

on their diets of salmon and almonds

visit the grocery store after

yoga with lithe bodies -

they might look cute with

glossy ponytails.

The cluttered poor.

They surround themselves with junk

to make themselves feel like they

have more.

The complexion of poverty

breathes heavy beneath its weight

and through disheveled teeth

and expansive gums

leans on their Walmart shopping carts.

The sparse wealthy where

luster flecks float

in expansive countertops

or creamy marbled swirls.

One heavy chair displayed in the corner.

Art encased in glass.

I sit on the carpet

because all the chairs are taken

and crammed in the room

that has a shotgun in the corner

cigarette butts hide themselves

like roaches beneath light

furniture - heavy with boxes

full of miscellanea.

And I smile at the pale baby

in her walker who looks

around clutching cookie.

This is customer service:

their open smiles

with nothing to do but serve

greet well-to-do as lords and ladies.

And if they don't answer the phone

someone will with a list of

offerings and suggestions.

And when you visit their office

you get coffee.

And with/in vain I search for coffee at

social services

social security

This is customer service

maybe just a coffee pot like they have

at those oil change places

because I'm exhausted

but I return to the chairs lined up in rows -

look at the ticket I took a

half an hour ago and then up

at the electronic sign: 27,

and we have 34

because we have nothing to do

but wait for them.

Material of the highest quality

that lasts forever

even though they don't need it to.

Interest of the lowest rates

can easily afford

even though they don't need it to.

Do I smile at the security guard

in the grocery store

even though I don't need to?

Even though we don't need them to.

chafe at the sensitive spot

2009-09-08T17:34:00.000-07:00

Father, Legally

As if conventionally breaking your hearts weren't enough

we take your children away from you, too.

We'd have to be drug addicts or whores in order

for the courts to take them away.

And maybe because you didn't bear them

you are able to love from a perspective,

while we love through forest for the trees.

And though you don't hold back your tears

after you hold them before you leave

you go anyway,

You'll take too much of the affection over the phone.

Maybe you love them more than we do

because

you don't have the luxury of taking for granted.

Maybe the time that passes evaporates the luxury

and becomes love concentrated,

when this-hurts-me-more-than-it-hurts-you

becomes all the more true.

But you assume the bad guy role for awhile anyway.

Forced to go anyway.

Forced to forge the strength

that is asked of from men.

My thoughts on healthcare reform

2009-08-19T17:38:00.000-07:00

The last movie I saw was a charming little film called Julie & Julia. Half of it was based in 2001 around a girl who decides to blog about cooking every recipe in Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking." My first thoughts were - who would read that? And when she got one comment and got all excited and felt the bubble burst when she found out it was from her mother, I thought, that's how normal blogs go. But then she got increasingly popular, eventually ending up in the newspaper. I squirmed with jealously at the scene when literary agents were leaving messages on her answering machine and she exclaimed, "I'm gonna be a writer!" (to which her husband replies, "You already are a writer.") I thought, "How in the world...?" It comes down to one simple fact - popularity breeds popularity. Everybody reads what everybody else is reading. When you get featured on blogger's "Blogs of Note" that's when people notice you. I wonder how the blog faeries decide on who to wave their popularity wand upon. I've noticed that most of them are visually appealing for the most part - lots of pictures and other images. Which is cool - it's all part of the creativity. Anywho (never understood that expression) I'm just here to write to whomever is reading; just like Julie Powell says, "someone's out there reading. Anyone?"

So I decided on a cut and dry title - with the words "healthcare reform" right there to pander to any search engines. Here is one general run-of-the-mill ordinary public citizen's opinion. Okay, I am specifically democrat, which means I do have one way of thinking that tends to differ from republican.

First, I think we, as Americans, have already taken a major step toward addressing the problem and that is simply, we are talking about it. I credit that step to President Obama, who is brave enough to step in and do something. We've ignored it ever since Clinton took that brave first step - yes, he fell flat on his face over it but he laid the groundwork for discovering what didn't work.

I think we've almost accomplished the second important step in this very important issue, which is agreeing that something, anything has to be done. It seems the republicans have acknowledged this reluctantly as they would rather have ignored it - allowing people to gradually go bankrupt over their medical bills, starting with the impoverished on up to the much more profitable middle class until nobody can afford anything and the rich start feeling it in their pocket books.

Let's face it, most people, which some pollster in the sky insists they are happy with their current healthcare plan, are starting to face the option of either getting medical treatment and going broke or refusing medical treatment at all. I recently cut my finger pretty badly - which under normal circumstances would have prompted me to go to the emergency room but after paying for knee surgery instead prompted me to say, "I'll be damned if I pay emergency room fees. I'll make an appointment with my doctor instead if it doesn't get better." I KNOW that's how many people approach medical issues these days. And I would rather bleed all over my car than ride in an ambulance, which I've heard even the fire department charges you for.

Healthcare is such an intricate system it seems nearly impossible to come up with solutions to make anything better. Democrats want some kind of national option for insurance which causes republicans (I'm using sweeping generalizations here for simplicity but I think most people feel strongly one way or the other) to scream apocalypse! To some, the word "government" is and always will be a four letter word. But really, those at the top of the healthcare industry wouldn't care if nazis ran the system as long as it doesn't affect their portfolios. It's a good tactic though - "socialism!" oh, I feel shivers running down my back.

But, hey, isn't there another type of insurance that everyone is required to have? Auto insurance? I accidently rear-ended someone once and submitted my claim. I paid $250 for my deductible as outlined in my contract - got my car repaired, got the other car repaired and that was it. Yes, my premium went up. That's the consequence. But there were no other costs and I was like, "why can't my health insurance be like this?" Isn't the whole idea of insurance supposed to be that you pay a premium so that if something happens, you don't go broke trying to pay for it? And 60% of bankruptcy filings are due to medical costs? Hello? Medical insurance is becoming a scam. I think if we saved what we pay in premiums and used that money toward costs that come up you'd be in the same boat as what medical insurance companies offer.

Following the concept of the multifaceted system, there are many good points people bring up. The impact of the uninsured, medical costs, prescription medication, malpractice insurance and lawsuits, people who smoke and drink and become obese and run up the bill for everyone else, doctors and private insurance companies, taxes, Medicare, Medicaid and who knows what all else.

And it all comes down to money. Those opposed to healthcare reform are concerned about private insurance companies going out of business. Well yeah! If your business sucks, it tanks when people find something better. That's the way businesses work - ask any mom and pop store owner who went under because Wal-Mart opened down the street.

Other scare tactics include that we might lose our family doctor, you know the one; kindly, handsome, wise white haired, the one who delivered your babies. Really, though. How well do we know our doctors anymore? The bottom line is, wouldn't you rather have a doctor who cared about your health rather than his paycheck? Let's let the doctors who want to make money care for people who want plastic surgery and botox.

Lawmakers need to stop arguing and come up with a compromise. I'm sure there's a way to cover costs without taxing the rich and no one else. Even I find that a little unfair, though if I made a million or more I'd have no problem with being taxed - maybe I could pass on the five star resort every once in a while during one of my 5 vacations a year.

Or here's an idea, it's a problem everyone deals with - tax everybody. How much could we raise if everyone had a 1% tax increase? I don't even know how to begin to know how a 1% tax increase would affect me or how to do the math on how much it would be.

I still think we need to focus on insurance companies and the rip-off costs of just sitting in a hospital. Offering people a mere $5,000 toward a policy isn't going to solve anything. Insurance companies will still find loopholes and excuses to not pay for things. Closing the pre-existing condition loophole is a start at least. I bet even that makes them shake their heads.

I don't envy the people who are trying to solve this problem. Even if lawmakers came up with a perfect solution it's going to take a shift in paradigm to make it work. Which leads me to believe that nothing will change until the next generation is at the election polls. That's the beauty of the young, they aren't afraid of change - they ARE change.

the railings of your balcony

2009-07-29T18:30:00.000-07:00

Waiting for the Pain to Stop

2 to 10 seconds perhaps?

That's how long it takes

for the heart

to wake up after you do

just this side of dreams.

My amnesic organ

my carrier of pain.

Those few moments are the cruelest.

When life is normal

Then BANG!

something is wrong

oh yes...

my stomach of gravel pit

it crunches as the gut twists.

The way my mind works in intervals

phases out to nothingness

and pretend to listen to what someone is saying.

The pain so great it works in shifts

overtime.

Requires immobility at times

or seizes breath

or sucks at wells of desperation.

Laboriously tells the heart

over again "yes its true"and

swells up and down

and "I'll be waiting".

The pain disguises itself

as a permanent visitor.

Keep secrets from my

gullible sack of nerve

"It may last forever"

Indeed, the footprints are indelible.

Make it a double

2009-07-24T06:24:00.000-07:00

I've always claimed myself as a victim
of time. There's always too much or
never enough. (How I loath the words "always"
and "never") I was caged by it.
That summer at grandma's when I waited for
the mailman to fill the mailbox with the right letters.
How many hours have I spent watching out the
window, waiting for the right person to stop by?
Or waiting for rain?
And I was never alone, always accompanied by
loneliness.
And how many hours have I spent watching dark
ceilings as I waited for sleep? Shadows and light
streaks and shapes in the dark.
How many hours have I spent waiting for the
silent treatment to be broken by someone else?
Oh days and days have gone by against this
competition with no stakes on their side
And I know it could go on forever.

How many minutes have I spent wishing for more minutes
when time flies when you're having fun? full force
of frustration with the futility of begging God to not
let it end. One blink lasts for 23 minutes.
Remember? Back in school when you used to sit at
your desk in front of an ancient teacher with sagging
stockings and you watched the clock, just watched it?
Just watch it.
Maybe you won't miss much of what you want so
much. Maybe you can measure time by the beats
of his heart.

How many minutes have I left unobserved, not realizing
one day I'll look back with longing?

plastic dashboard Jesus

2009-07-09T09:45:00.000-07:00

I was holding the crayon the whole time

Hmmmm...

paint a picture of yourself for me

Hey...

I know you want to make it pretty

Wait...

let me revel in my own blind faith

in you.

What was it, pale pink for virtuosity?

pastel blue for your humility?

a sunshine yellow for the way

you cared for me

And white...

large swaths of white.

Yeah...

I can't really say it isn't true

just incomplete

You know I would've loved

any color you choose.

But the paper wrinkled

beneath my tears and all

the colors ran together 'til

I didn't know what it was

I was looking at.

I did a pretty good job

of seeing it in 3 dimensions

but there were only 2

Ah...

you let me revel in my own blind faith

in you.

Never Eat Sour Weeds

2009-06-25T13:55:00.000-07:00

I thought they were Jehovah's Witness's at first when I was out for one of my long walks. I saw them down the street and they waved and I waved back and walked on thinking they'll think "clearly she's not interested." But they sprinted after me, actually hiked it up to a gallop to catch up to me - Elder Jensen and Elder Kenney, I think their little name badges called them.

But, no, they were from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. So I stopped to talk so as not to hurt their feelings, such gentle creatures, so full of hope and purity. They read some scriptures and asked if I'd be willing to pray and accept Jesus and I said, "probably not." And the one, the cute one - geez, is he even 20? I don't know, I can't really tell how old they are, visibly slumped in disappointment. But the other one, the leader of the two it seems, just went into Plan B, the one to use on tough nuts to crack, asked if they could schedule a time to visit to talk to me more. Sigh... how do I say no? I can't say no to such earnest and honest faces with hearts swollen to overflowing with faith. I don't say no. Next Thursday? Sure, next Thursday. 2:00.

I sat outside to watch the storm blow in - big dark clouds. I watched them ride up on their bikes, little helmets and disappear somewhere across the street while it started raining. I guess I'll have to invite them in - I would've anyway. A minute later they walked up donning their suit coats and carrying backpacks. They said, "How are you?" And I said, "Fine, how are you?" and I glanced at the sky and said, "I guess we'll have to get out of the rain." They followed me in and asked, "Are you the only one here?" and I said "yeah" thinking they might be disappointed that no one else was around to convert but they said "we can't be in the house if you're the only female here." That kind of surprised me. I mean, who would accuse a couple of Mormons that they raped them? I briefly wondered what kind of reaction I would get if I came on to one of them. They'd probably shrink back and squeal. So I suggested the backyard. Would that be okay? Yeah, that's fine. Here, let me lead you past our liquor cabinet and empty cans of diet Coke.

We started with a prayer. I've always liked prayers. Everyone bowing heads and listening to positive things. He said, "Thank you for the blessing of letting us share with Bonnie." which made me feel good. And, "Please bless Bonnie and her family," which also made me feel good - I always like it when people give a damn about me.

And they asked "did you read what we suggested last time?" And I sheepishly screwed up my face and said no and spoke the prepared line I was going to say to get me out of this: "I think you guys are wasting your time on me." And the one, the cute one, groaned in disappointment and they looked at me with longing and asked, why? I said (also semi-prepared) "I just don't really care."

"Well, how about you just sit back and listen and see how you feel?" I knew it wouldn't be that easy. It's not like they're gonna jump up and say "Welp, she's a goner. Let's move on to the next one." It made me wonder if they get some sort of commission for every convert they get?

They asked what I knew about the Mormon Church - inviting such responses as "you guys can have more than one wife" or "you have funny underwear" but I knew better. I said, "It's kind of based on when Jesus came to America." And they explained it, all about Joseph Smith and Moroni and the golden tablets. They told me (something I'd never heard) that Jesus was trying to build his church when he picked the 12 apostles, which were really prophets to act as priests just like the Mormons have today. And they read scripture and gave testimony and asked me again, "would you be willing to pray and follow the truths revealed to you."

And I said, "ehhheee, I don't know. You say I have to have 'true intent' when I pray and I don't know if I do." And the cute one asked, "Well, if you knew the truth would that be important to you?" And I said (in my usual wish-washyiness) "I guess."

"Well, you have intent."

And the other one, leader of the two, said, "It says in the Bible that you know it's true as you read it if you feel love or peace or joy. I've felt the spirit as we've sat here talking to you (which made me feel good) did you feel it?"

With a little more confidence I said, "yes." But did not add that it was because of them that I felt it, the way they care so much and spoke with such kindness and exuded such innocence that I couldn't help but feel all warm and fuzzy. I felt grateful that they broke up the monotony of my afternoon and waived off my chronic loneliness.

And so I promised I'd look at the Book of Mormon and we ended in prayer and we scheduled another appointment - is Monday too soon? You looked a little concerned. Yeah, Thursday's work. Oh yeah, is there anything you need help with? Yard work? I wondered how they do yard work while wearing suits. "No," I said, "but I bet there's a bunch of elderly people who would love to put you to work."

And we shook hands and I wondered how I would get out of next week. Sorry fellas, you guys are real swell but I just can't get into God.

When I walked in the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror I noticed my nipples pointed beneath my tank top and wondered if they noticed. I hate it when that happens.

bandanna wearin dog

2009-06-19T18:33:00.000-07:00

And I would back away to the ledge

spread my arms out in swan dive and fall away

from you.

That's the great thing about gravity

there's no going back.

Seduction can't touch the space

between decision and execution.

And if I were to put my heart in a guillotine

I wouldn't know whether to cut off the

cusp or the vertex.

I wish it were like that

just leap

but free will resides in a vacuum

And I float and waver and go back

to you.

Ah, but force falling out of love

is like tickling.

You can't do it to yourself.

Someone else has to pull the lever.

Awarded for best Pity Party Host

2009-06-15T09:49:00.000-07:00

This Gentle World

This gentle world,

we giants stomp

and swing our clumsy elbows.

We cry cumbersome tears

and talk our awkward language.

Our massive love

stains and breaks,

which we so carelessly

fling around -

the heavy odor lingers

in this tender place.

We giants hug too hard

our mistakes too big,

you'd think our grins

were too bright.

Crying In A Public Bathroom

2009-05-31T11:19:00.000-07:00

Because tiles tend to reverberate

in a checkered pattern beneath my shoes

I sob softly

with nothing to hold onto

but my own wrung hands

and balanced on the edge

of a toilet bowl ring.

I avoided the mirrors

as I let go of the girders

that held my brows

and trembling mouth

so that I would not see

my crumpled face.

I sob softly

and watch the tears

bead up or collect in

the grout of right angled

squares and imagine the

soft circles traced on me

or perhaps the shapes of

hearts with your hands.

And I can cut it off abrupt-

ly, with the creak of an

opening public bathroom door.

And then I can look at my face.

If you lived here, you'd already be home

2009-05-26T17:11:00.000-07:00

Park Bench

How many sad asses

have you cradled in

your hard seat back

with eyes that fill to

the brim with tears

perhaps splashed upon

your wooden slats?

You've held up under

those who contemplate

whole lifetimes or death

love and money.

How many pink sunrises

on ragged horizons have

you witnessed with those

who can't sleep and lean

into your rigid embrace?

A bench upon a hill

with a view one can get lost in

I would risk you for the sake of art

2009-05-14T08:23:00.000-07:00

For Women Who Love Too Much

How many calls to a man must be ignored
before he is shown to the door?
How many heartbreaks must a woman endure
before she realizes he'll never be sure?

The answer, my girl,
lies in your soul
The answer lies in your soul.

How many times must a girl heed his beck and call
before she starts to feel like a blow up doll?
Yes, and how many tears from her eyes must fall
before she knows that he doesn't care at all?

The answer, my girl,
it lies in your soul
The answer lies in your soul.

How much of her heart is she willing to give
before she starts to expect something back?
And in how much hell is she willing to live
before her very being is left unintact?

The answer, dear girl,
lies in your soul
The answer lies in your soul.

To Chandler Grafner

2009-05-08T08:50:00.000-07:00

In a world of arms there was no one to hold you.

At what point did the screaming become
just a device to break the silence?
When did kicking at the door
become an outlet for your rage?
When did an empty tummy
turn merely into weakness?

Dear Chandler, they took the time
to slowly build a monster
who would've killed for water.
It's chilling to think what you would've become
but the monster died in its infancy
along with the demons weaved in darkness.

I hope you saw the face of an angel
in your hour of mercy.

Dear Chandler, I smell you from
the other side of the door and
I place my hand there touching the woodgrain.
Draw me a picture of your pain
and pass it beneath the door,
and I'll draw you a picture of love
and pass it back.

You housed a soul condemned to hell.
I hope you saw the face of God
in your hour of mercy.

clandestine soul searchin

2009-04-22T16:49:00.000-07:00

It was last night when I finally gave up the struggle to hold my head above water. It's exhausting, holding up the facade, blowing laughter out of proportion, witty remarks bordering on sarcasm and malice. I was really just being obnoxious.

But then trouble with sleep crawled in. And drinking. There was one small glass of wine left. I sneered at it with disappointment as I watched the last drops plunk in my meager glass, patiently allowing it to slowly drain. And then I uncapped one of our homemade beers to let it leak out it's volcanic tendencies for spewing foam.

I was slipping beneath the undertow and depression welcomed me into its arms. I think I started feeling it near when I popped in a Sarah McLachlan CD while driving home one day. So beautiful and melancholy and tear inducing. I imagined myself slowly undressing to Burn in Heaven...

So after finishing my meager wine I poured the beer right in the same wine glass and started making dinner while my son played in the next room. I let my face hang the way it wanted to. When around others I put on the normal expression, the interested and engaged and I'm-not-silently-hurting-inside face. But the moment I'm alone I let it go. I let my shoulders droop. And then out of no where, like telepathy called him, my son ran in and threw his arms around my legs. I asked, "what's wrong buddy?" and he said, "I want to hug you." and I picked him up and he wrapped his arms around me hard and I swayed with him in my arms. It puzzled me. This was out of the ordinary - a hug that seemed selfless. Maybe he saw my expression when I didn't notice.

Somehow music kept finding it's way in. I wanted to look up the words to "Making love outta nothing at all". Then I wanted to listen to it. So I went to pandora.com and typed in Air Supply. To my delight I heard all kinds of songs from Chicago and The Bee Gees and The Eagles. And then "The One That You Love" by Air Supply came on and I realized that Air Supply was the soundtrack to memories of my mother. I thought of her face. I was transported back to being a little girl watching her put her make up on. I thought of all the stuff I had of hers in the basement, the way she collected those little trolls with hair that sticks up, dozens of matchboxes, and wide toothed combs. I thought of how I went through a purse that she had and I found one of my early poems that didn't make much sense but sounded pretty. I had no idea she had it. I remember finding a xeroxed copy of a Dear Abby letter from a woman who said she felt very little maternal instincts toward her child and how she felt bad. I thought of the coin with the serenity prayer on it and pictures of a man wearing nothing but a cook's apron.

I thought of how she missed the best part of me, how she never met her grandson - man she woulda been proud. All she knew of me was as a depressed kid with a scuzzy boyfriend. And then I cried, half drunk, still cooking. I cried softly, always keeping watch of the entrance to the kitchen so I could quickly swipe tears away in case anybody walked in.

And again, Cade ran in and threw his arms around me. There was no way he could've seen me and the TV was on so he couldn't have heard me. It was paranormal.

I enjoy being a girl

2009-04-18T13:22:00.001-07:00

"Come on. Let's go." I muttered this perhaps 50 times in the last half hour. I had to pee. Traffic inched forward in the dumping snow and the road went on and on.

I said to Janessa as we hugged at the restaurant "I should probably pee before I go." what, with 3 martini's and a glass of water meant to help me sober up.

When I shifted in my seat I could feel all the areas of pressure. Took my foot off the gas, that was maybe a foot closer to home. Only a thousand more to go.

At least driving semi-drunk isn't all that dangerous when I'm only going 5 miles an hour. And I was sobering up nicely after 45 minutes on the road - halfway home - maybe 3 miles to go. I analyzed the road beneath the wheels of the car in front of me. Maybe a little bit of slush but nothing like that last blizzard. "Come on. Let's go.... Fuck," I added.

6 more inches forward.

Cars stacked up in the opposing lane.

A few more feet, sliding a little sideways.

Maybe I'll take off my belt, ease the pressure. OK, I won't be able to make it home but I can stop at that one gas station thats across from King Soopers. Yeah, I can do that. I imagined myself trying walk in while clenching my thighs. God it was starting to burn.

3 martinis and you didn't go to the bathroom once. You don't even know what the bathroom looks like in that place. I smiled a little remembering how we went outside for a cigarette and I said, "do you think it'll be here when we get back?" looking at my half eaten key lime cheesecake. "Let's tell the waitress." And Janessa laughed as she often does at my sometimes clueless remarks. I caught on. "Or we could leave a note." We both laughed at that. She picked up a piece of paper she was using to diagram a certain friend's apartment, "Be right back!" I added, "Oh, yeah, we'll take another order of edamame - thanks!"

But the long and tall waitress came by and we said, "We're going out for a smoke and she said, "yeah, that's fine." and we all chattered and giggled in that female way and at that moment I felt proud to be a girl.

But man, right now, an hour later I was wishing I had a penis. Guys have it easy like that, with equipment seemingly designed for peeing in odd places. I glanced to the side of the road and tried to imagine myself squatting there with nothing to hide behind. That oasis gas station wasn't at the next intersection, I realized that. It was a hospital and I might still be able to limp in a find a restroom but that was blocks away. It was starting to HURT.

I took a deep breath. OK, I can't just pee right here on the seat. That's out of the question. It'd smell like piss for the rest of its days no matter how much Febreeze I dumped on it.

And then my mind zeroed in on the coffee cup I brought with me to work that morning. The purple one my mother-in-law gave me one Christmas, the one I can't put in the microwave because it burns my fingers off while leaving the liquid inside lukewarm. I actually started looking around for it. I found it by the passenger door.

It was perplexing though. Is it even possible to pee in a cup? While driving?

I glanced at the clock - 5 after 4. 15 minutes ago I was only a few yards back. I glanced at the car beside me. Everyone seemed focused on their driving.

Foot off the gas, inch forward, step on the brake.

Fuck it. I unbuckled my jeans and pulled them down to my knees, lifted my hips and sat on the cup. Foot off the gas, inch forward, brake. OK, it works just like a bedpan. A tiny, tiny bedpan. Seconds go by... nothing.

You've got to relax. How the fuck do I relax? Just relax! A few more seconds and then sweet release. The blue car with the "NO on 47: save Colorado's economy" bumper sticker rolled forward. My mind flashed to Dumb and Dumber where he says "I need another bottle" - "Can't you just stop?" - "No, I can't stop. It stings. Hurry, hurry, hurry!". Foot off the gas, careful, careful, and brake. Oh, sweet release.

And now, focus on the next challenge, when to stop. I listened to the sound of a cup filling up, I guess the pitch getting higher? and tried to gauge when it was full. It was less than 30 seconds when I stopped, good thing I did because I nearly topped it off. I felt a warmth splashing against my left thigh and a little slopped on my sweater as I transfered it to the cup holder.

God this is gross. What do I do with it now? I considered leaving it until I got home but decided it was too disgusting so I opened the door and dumped it on the ice, leaving it freezing in the middle of the road.

So... much... better. If someone had witnessed the whole thing I wouldn't have even apologized. 20 minutes later I passed the hospital and knew there was no way, NO WAY I would've made it.

phone card wallpaper

2009-04-14T14:54:00.001-07:00

I've learned not to set

my happiness

on any of your

wobbly ledges.

And for all the

love I harbor

there's no where

to put it

just all slides

off.

I long gave up trying

to grow my ego

in your bramble patch.

I take pride in being the last in line.

I eat humility with the scraps left behind.

I try to be OK that you'll only go dick deep.

I'll cherish my 3 hours a week.

We carry our own baggage around here.

You are all icing and no cake.

Love is only for the long term.

Flights of my fancy

2009-04-05T11:10:00.000-07:00

I got the movie knowing full well I may never watch it. With children you have to be choosy about which pleasures you indulge in. But I did watch it... in 2 shifts.

Vicky Christina Barcelona. I didn't know it was a romantic comedy. I thought it was just romantic. It made me laugh. Javier was convincingly attractive. I, of course, identified with Christina - reckless, thrill seeking, a chronic unsatisfied.

I was taken with the accuracy of how passionate people are displayed. We are moody and dangerous and have a talent for pulling non-passionate people in, lulling and buttercreamed, until, of course, we accidently shoot someone in the hand - when those logical people wake out of the trance and look around at the crazy art, the crying people, the irrationality of it all and think "What the fuck am I doing here? This isn't me. I can't live like this." And the truth is, neither can we. Which is why we are so prone to suicide.

Passion is so consuming. It's so destructive. And we are so sorry when we hurt you.

Still Waters

2009-03-24T10:02:00.000-07:00

Only when you get in

do you realize why

it's so heavily guarded.

Did I slither in through the cracks?

I'm content to just

stand in the cool

doorway and gaze

Not needing to know the contents of every fruit.

The gardens are quiet.

The surface ripple subtle.

The vulnerability surprising.

The awe of deep still waters.

With my hand on my heart

I back away, touched.

Hoping I left everything untouched.

The Dynamics of My Boundaries

2009-02-20T16:41:00.000-08:00

I emerge from a bubble wand,

a floating spectacle

with a thin soapy film

my boundaries of

looping twirling rainbows

you can poke your finger through,

you of sturdy latticework

recoil when I peel back my skull

"There's a reason God gave you

a head," you say. "Mouth as filter.

We're not 'sposed to see that stuff.

A reason for hair and scalp

and skull and membrane.

A reason for that breastbone,

a sturdy cage."

But I let you stick your

finger in my soft insides and stir,

invite you to press against

the flimsy sphere -

the boundary is still there! -

dry hump my lust unenrobed

test to see how far it

stretches before it pops.

When I peek through your

diamond-holed fence,

you of "no solicitors"

I see a landscape of shapes

beneath cloth,

double cloaked urges.

You of discretion.

You of mysterious heartbeats

watch each rebirth of me

and each soft burst.

Maybe this time

I'll try building my own

with the sticks I find.

The Big Inferiority Complex

2009-02-17T19:54:00.000-08:00

Early poetry, circa 1996

Too Young (Dedicated to all of those lucky people at VICORP)

Too young to have any fun.

Too immature, I'll never be sure

of my sexuality or my immortality.

Too young to know the importance

of money.

Those dirty jokes will never be

funny.

My kind of love is puppy lust.

My kind of words you cannot trust.

Mall monkey and I.D. reject.

Keep me from danger - duty to

protect.

My boredom is trivial,

my tears even less.

Everybody laughs "Hey YOU'VE

got stress?

Too young to have any fun.

I've had my fill of clearasil,

red rubber balls and Barbie dolls.

I'm in a rage - I'm acting my age.

I'm living in hell

That's why I rebel.

Perfectly fine, I'm someone to

shun

'cause I'm too young to

have any fun.

Contracts with demons!

2009-02-13T14:37:00.000-08:00

This song

make me wanna

twitch my hips

n' that the beauty

of music?

Touches us both

at the same time?

Make our bodies

move, that cupid

music

snap my fingers

against my thighs.

Purposeful, the

eye contact

that infinity mirror

effect

wormholing its

way into spearhead-

ed orifice.

This song

wanna make me

make you

watch me

you watch

and I watch

outta the corner of

my eye.

n' that the beauty

of laughter?

Soundwaves its way

across where

his fingers can't reach?

Leave the buttons

undone, an

invitation to secrets

The ones that matter

the ones with the

pin spring to tears.

Come, hon, look

down so I can

watch you put

your cigarette out

on the bottom of

your shoe.

Purposeful, the avert

but I know your

eyes are there

in the place

where your hands

can't reach.

See the way

I turn movement

into symphony.

Mmmm, wink at me.

I'll toss my head

at your

come hither.

Stretch it wide

a n t i c i p a t i o n

The only time

I'll hook you

before I watch

you struggle

against the line

feel the jerk,

the wriggle,

of freedom of fear.

Make you watch me

tug at myself -

exhibit self control

before you

peddle with me

down the road

to nowhere.

Permission Granted

2009-01-30T18:03:00.000-08:00

Your lawyer said, "My client, ehhm,"

he fumbled with his tie, "He is unable

to attend, due to prior obligations."

His fingers fluttered toward a

glass of water

but instead sheafed through papers.

"Now it says here your slice of pie

is 1/500th. My client is well within

the boundaries

the edges

of the contract."

I glanced at my own

attorney. She was making wide

sweeping doodles on her notepad.

I nudged her.

"Euh"

Awkward silence for one beat

two

three.

"Yes," she said. "Yes but we've

run into conflict with the Maturity

Clause... 7 point... uh, 7 point-"

She flipped pages, "5, sixty, 7."

Your lawyer smiled. "He is clearly covered

under the Novelty Clause and the Guarantee -"

he picked up the notepad and adjusted his glasses,

"And I quote: date - December 18 "I don't

expect you to treat me in anyway except as a

friend. Unquote.

I'm afraid to say it was your client that took

the risk.

Permission Granted.

You're client is the one toeing the lines

in the contract:

421.1 - Harboring Jealousy.

607 - Flagrant Disregard of Time Policy.

Need I go on?"

I leaped up - my thighs lifting

the edge of the table, the

glass of water tipping over.

"I demand restitution for

Softly Seething Inside."

My lawyer wadded soaked

tissues in one hand, placing the other

on my arm.

Your lawyer looked at me with pity.

"Ms. Huggins. I've dealt with you before.

The judge released your rights of

Saying Things You Regret 3 cases ago.

Please, stop there."

I slowly lowered back into my chair

noticing peripherally cool water

seeping into the ass of my jeans.

"Ms. Huggins...

kill this while it's young.

Don't wait for it to get old and ugly.

Think of Marilyn Monroe.

Think of River Phoenix,

Kurt Cobain,

Heath Ledger.

They will always be beautiful."

I nodded.

I thought

"You're lawyer is a freakin geek."

That'll do

2009-01-28T17:24:00.000-08:00

When I reached to the top shelf for the empty (or so I thought) Elfin cookies fell to the floor (for I am pleasantly drunk and my fingers are like the Simpson's where that operator tone comes on '(da Da DA!) we're sorry. The fingers you are using are too fat. Please mash the pad with your palm for an operator' and I'm pushing all kindsa keyboard keys sept mostly the one's I want) and one lone fudge stripped cookie fell to the floor and broke in half and I just went ahead and picked it up and ate it - even with my sugar addicted I-could-live-off-nothing-but-sugar-for-the-rest-of-my-life son sitting in the living room who would've gladly arm wrestled me for it (and let's face it I woulda let him win) and enjoyed it, I did.

K, so it still astounds me, still appalls me really, that Republican's still insist on their tired old "tax cuts" - part of which, I must insist, got us into this stupid fuckin recession in the first place! I mean really - didn't we PROVE without a doubt that putting America's financial control into the self-absorbent, excessive, selfish rich is a bad freakin idea? Haven't we LEARNED from this experience? Haven't the rich already sold off most of their portfolio's to cover their yacht payments and mansion payments and reduced personal chef and personal trainer payments and cloning for their dogs and pearls and Maker's Mark and Country Club fees? Yes, let's give tax breaks to the rich while 93 year old men die in their homes in winter because they can't afford the, what, $200 energy bill they own?

Give me a fucking break. Okay, so you can classify Obama's economic stimulus plan as pork and government spending - but when people are killing themselves and their children because they see no future after losing their jobs you've got to admit that there's a problem here, you dense Republicans. The world does not evolve around you. I know, you're successful and you've "worked hard" and you shouldn't have to share your hard earned money but guess what folks, America is made up of all of us. Ever hear of "a chain is only as strong as its weakest link?" We are WEAK. France makes up look like a bunch of buffoons.

So get over yourself. Sacrifice those precious trips to Aspen and your $800 ski jackets and your $500 a night hotel rooms - oh, however will you live???!!!?? Flying coach? Are you kidding?

No, we're not. Wake up!!!!

by the power of grayskull

2009-01-22T17:37:00.000-08:00

let your hands take over.

I keep constant tabs on your

hands.

I watch them curl instinctively

around my fingers when

I drag them toward

your palm.

I want to look at your hands.

I want to watch your eyes

follow your hands as

you sweep my hair

across my forehead behind

my ear.

I feel those 3 words

push against my lips

"I love you"

but I clamp them closed

and hold them back -

what, with the way that

word in the middle

has been abused.

When I say them anyway

I feel you smile

beneath my fingertips.

The Candy Man Can

2009-01-14T18:13:00.000-08:00

I've been looking for that SpongeBob SquarePants bubble lesson clip to post on my facebook page. You know the one - where he says, OK Patrick here's the technique. First you do this and STOP! double take 3 times, do this and this and then bring it around town! Bring it aroooouuuunnnd towwwnn! Bring it arrrroouuuunnnnddd tooooowwwwnnn!!

I've also been looking for the quote where he's talking to that villian aembeba thing that's in disguise and he says he saw a speaker once who said if you have just a little bit of luck and a tiny pinch of magic all your dreams will come true.

Let me be honest about dreams. I have this dream about working at FOX as one of those awesome photographers and I talked to this guy named Kevin who's doing all the hiring and he was really nice and all but no where in his conversation did he give any hint that I could be hired. And I just know, I know, I know, I know I'm not getting that job. There's all these frickin hot shit 10 years experience photojournalists out there who are sending in these awesome - I mean blazen - tapes that makes my shit look like a 5 year old shot it. They seem to be taking their time with this rejection stuff.

And after that. I think my ship has sailed. As Vanessa Shirley said - I feel like I'm giving up on a childhood dream. But to be absolutely honest it wasn't really a childhood dream - my childhood dream was to be on a movie set, behind the camera or as a gaffer or a voice for cartoons but that's like WAY out there dreams you know, the kind where everyone dreams they have a perfect body and filthy rich. But, it's still a dream. Why do I want to be a photojournalist? If Kevin were to ask me I'd say I have a passion for story telling, and I love being on a team and meeting new people and learning new things every day - which are all true but really, to be perfectly honest (like 4 glasses of wine honest) I mostly want to be a news photographer because it makes me feel fuckin cool. Back in Cheyenne I LOVED telling people what I did for a living. Yeah, I'm a photojournalist (a big sexy word for a video camera operator). And you know what the most common question I got was? Are you on call over night? Like if something big happened? Which in Cheyenne not really. It kind of just waited 'til the next morning.

To further the whole honesty thing I remember thinking back in Cheyenne sometimes I wished I had a job at a bank or something because you work with this really fuckin expensive equipment - I mean, no pressure right? This on a person who takes Murphy's Law literally. If there's a mistake to be made - I make it.

Struggle With Your Freedom

2009-01-07T17:28:00.000-08:00

I listen for your echo

across canyon walls.

I watch you breathless.

Your tall grass sweeps

across my knees and

I stomp the solid ground

wish to be lifted up.

I raise my arms and

emulate your wingspan.

I love you boundless

My voice bounces, chases

after your

boomeranging laughter.

I wave you away,

shade my eyes,

wait while my heart flares.

I hold you loosely,

enjoy the dizzy

and listen for your echo.

Don't Let's Be Silly

2008-12-26T08:36:00.000-08:00

for Robyn

You and I let the fate of our day

swing

from the slightest of his gestures:

that magician, his slight of hand

in a trick of our happiness

makes it disappear and reappear.

He hands out and withholds

important details on a whim.

How is this system supposed to work?

The same things barter differently.

sex for love,

time with his video games for

being held all night.

His palm is on the leverage

and we,

we dear girl,

lay it all on the line.

Ah, sister,

we goddesses take the glimmer

in his eyes

and turn it into lightning bolts

streaking across our

bellies and breasts.

"Oh, babe," we'd say,

"Your happiness isn't merely abstract.

I've touched it.

I watch out for it."

Keep It Closed So You're Safe

2008-12-15T16:32:00.000-08:00

Emotional Silhouettes

Against the background

I am stark flailing,

all wiry feathers, spidery tangle

in contrast of your arms,

I am

non organized vortex

everything flung wide

bows and ribbons misplaced

in whip-like motions.

I wonder do you wish

I were still?

You of solid color background.

I search frantically in your

subtle expressions.

Stable but not stagnant.

I grope for meaning behind

your steady hold:

I hope in my flickering that

you do it for the same reason I do.

I wonder, do you feel sticky

in my sloppy adoration?

In comparison I feel like a child.

I pull in

in humble attempt

my scattered tendrils -

make a neater picture

in negative.

All these tentacles

to keep track of

in their attempt to

tether the knobs of your

control room and fling the doors open.

Keep it closed so you're safe.

Is Papyrus a stupid font?

2008-12-14T14:17:00.000-08:00

I look at our reflection in the TV screen

turned off. And I listen politely to your music

even though you know I hate music.

And the cat in the hallway sits with her eyes closed,

the only thing that moves is her ears.

I regard my shoulders and compare them to yours as a gauge

on whether or not I'm fat.

And I glance at my magazine, the one that reminds me

of how different this world is compared to those

around us -

where they murder each other in their sleep,

they profit from their opium.

We forget that it hurts them too when they find

their children dead.

We lead that horse to water,

we do. But they will die from dehydration.

I lapse into that hilarity in tears again.

Cursing in the middle of Kinko's,

embarrassed at what's on my resume and laughing out loud

at the expression on his face as I imagine it.

"You're work sucks" I want to say to myself,

"You haven't a chance." But Justin says "You're super talented"

and Robyn says "You've got that thing"

and Travis says "It looks alright - except maybe you should

have the most recent stuff at the top" and

I should've said "fallen" instead of "fell" on the cover letter

but I said "fuck it!" disgusted with

the rigid word processing.

No, no. What would Devin do?

Whatever It Takes.

That's what you have to give it

Whatever.

I picture him driving that hour commute and

him in his logoed jacket rocking his son every night

every night

Whatever It Takes is what success requires.

I built this poem around the image of a cat.

It sucks but at least I got it out there.

Manifest Destiny

2008-12-06T12:27:00.000-08:00

The Process of a Blow Job

That potent elixir you carry around with you

not only contains the life of future young.

It's a concentrated burden

thrumming through inner tunnels,

a hot pressure piled up against the gates

of years of rage, perhaps?

A flavor of loneliness, unspent desire,

frustration,

stress sprung,

with the soft landing upon my tongue.

My mouth is strong to be able to take

the force of a volcano,

the burst of a sigh,

tastes like the blood of a dragon.

I suck it out like poison

and my magical saliva renders it neutral.

Take a load off,

put the weight right on me.

My Thanksgiving Vacation

2008-11-29T19:18:00.000-08:00

I've come to associate California as two things: the surf and the rich (no, not the serf and the rich for they are from two different time eras). You do not go to California without going to the beach - where people sitting on surfboards on swelling waves is commonplace, where birds flying over the ocean or pecking at its edge is the same as snow covered mountains (it's nothing much beautiful when you've been looking at it for years on end).

California for me is feeling massive next to my waif of an Aunt who wakes up without an alarm at daybreak and swims and jogs and finishes her day with a two mile walk - I went with her twice and the narrow winding streets are pitch black and I just trusted that the ground beneath my feet was smooth and level and I walked fast to keep up with her as she talked the whole time and my hands trailed over my stomach, felt the way it rolled against the unyielding fabric of my jeans. I would compare our thighs in the car.

Thanksgiving was constant dirty looks from my husband who can't stand these people, who can't understand why I can't say no to visiting. I don't know if I use my elderly grandmother as an excuse to not say no. And I shouldn't say it but I hope she dies soon because I know, I know, she wishes it too: stuck in an old folks home at $5,000 a month with her cupboards half bare like she doesn't plan on staying very long and pictures hung that I know, I know, my Aunt hung where the walls would otherwise be bare. She declines a cup of coffee because she says she can't hold on to it, everything just slips out of her arthritic hands that are bent in ways unnatural, her fingers sway and she handles them like they are artificial. And I hope she dies so I can break ties with these people - boys who make sandwiches with proscuitto and balsamic vinegar and Aunt's who read at the table about the real meaning of Thanksgiving; how pilgrims failed their first year in this great nation because they practiced socialism.

I met my uncle's twin brother and found out he was the creator of Seven jeans, lives in Beverly Hills.

I took notes mentally - how my uncle didn't know where to buy cinnamon, how he doesn't eat leftovers, look up how much a Mercedes Benz S550 costs ($90,000), the way my young cousin(13) watches Knocked Up when her mother isn't looking and Hannah Montana when she is and the way my Aunt disapproves of Top Chef as soon as a gay man talks about his partner.

** part 2**

The land of Proposition 8. I love the way people suddenly sanctify marriage as a special bond between a man and a woman. Do people not shit (god I hate that word but it's the only one that works here) upon marriage when they use it to get their green cards? Why don't these nay-sayers squawk at the Vegas chapels who allow drunks to tie the knot? Lets make a Proposition 8.5 here people.

Or if you're really into splitting hairs about your precious wedlock isn't the American wedding ceremony Christian? Not only does God outline the details of "between a man and a woman" but I'll bet (I'm too damn lazy to go look it up) God appreciates it if said two people were also Christian.

There were times past when we let interpretations of the bible dictate laws (all men are created equal - some are just more equaler than others). Let's look at the Anti-miscegenation laws, shall we. The argument for holding this law in place was found in the bible:

"Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, malay and red and he placed them on separate continents. And but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix." And so, after listening to Leon Bazile's well thought out argument (among others I'm sure) the Supreme Court decided the law did not violate the 14th amendment.

That's right, marriage between races was illegal until the mid-60's - in Virginia at least.

Thankfully America evolves with each generation. We progress by forgetting the bad habits of our older generation. None of the people I hang out with ever experienced Jim Crow laws. We don't think it strange that we eat at the same counters, black and white, in a restaurant.

Homosexuality however is a strange, emerging phenomenon. Parents still feel guilt and shame and wonder what they've done wrong when one of their own comes up gay. Guys get grossed out when they see other guys making out.

Perhaps, however, by the time my son has his children if he so chooses, the newest generation will think nothing of a gay couple getting married. What has this world come to? People have been asking that for centuries.

**part 3**

On the other hand, in the words most recently spoken by Tom Green, perspective changes everything. We as a nation are blessed to be able to squabble over such issues as gay marriage or even a failing financial industry. We the people don't see having children as a risk to our life or watch a huge percentage of our children die of disease because of lack of medical care or live in fear of the very real possibility of a suicide bomber passing us in the street.

Details Omitted

2008-11-13T18:21:00.000-08:00

It was a tricky situation.
I walked into it.
Into his realm.
I set it all up.
I was gonna say:
rules - no touching
beyond hugging or
comforting caresses
but that never happened.

You can't box in that kind of hunger.
I could feel his voraciousness in the way
he captured my clothes between his fingers
as if they were made of mere gossam
that would simply fall away,
I could hear the fever when he said:
you're standing too close.

I could feel his heart thumping
throughout his body,
the thirst barely contained
and unapologetic,
confident gliding lips as if
he'd been handling
my body for years, nothing
wishy-washy here
except for me.
Wondering if maybe I'm setting out
promise containers
that I won't be able to fill.

Until I said, "I wish I could help you."

To which he replied, "What about you?"

The question plunged my mind

into a dry-iced halt -

this slut thing doesn't work

if I am your equal.

And he backed away.
Still thristy.

Some Good Reasons Why Not To Do Dishes While Drunk

2008-11-12T17:18:00.001-08:00

I was actually kind of excited while I flipped through the owners manual to our dishwasher. This outta be easy enough to diagnose; simply go to the "troubleshooting" section in the back of the manual (before the spanish section) under "green flashing light" and it'll tell me what's wrong and how to fix it. I wasn't surprised however when it said "The dishwasher is malfunctioning. Call such and such." Great. We had a full load of dirty dishes and a sink full of dishes waiting for the next shift. You mean we're gonna have to do them like in the olden days? Fill up the sink with soapy water that by the end is so dirty you don't even feel like you're cleaning them just rinsing them extra good. I don't think so. I pictured the counter full of weeks of dirty dishes - the cupboards bare.

So I rolled up my sleeves, determined to wash what was in the sink AND what was in the dishwasher knowing full well that within 24 hours the kitchen would be in the same condition. My son was engrossed in the very, VERY cheesy Power Rangers Movie downstairs so I was free to get to work without demands of playing in his room - you know, stuff that's actually good for his little developing brain.

This calls for a glass of wine. Drink it up because we've got boxed wine - like four bottles worth.

So I laid out the ultra cute dish towels I bought at Williams-Sonoma (sunny yellow, plush, I LOVE it) and got about half way through - refilling my glass of wine once. I'm SUCH a good house wife. I'm even gonna clean the coffee pot so I don't have to do it in the morning (happiness is a clean coffee pot in the morning).

And then a salad plate slipped out of my hands. It flew like it had some place to go. This thing had some trajectory - like a good 4 feet. My mind did the slow-mo thing. I watched it in mid-air, tracing the arch, the slight spin. Even drunk my mind cycled through some thoughts - "You shouldn't have been handing slippery plates while drinking, you idiot." and "Maybe it won't break" and "Oh, it's SO gonna break" and picturing the mess I'm going to have to clean up in ADDITION to washing dishes the old fashioned way. A mess where you find shards weeks later. And as it crashed and shattered into a million pieces my final thought was how I bought those plates for the last Christmas feast and at least I have 9 others.

Then I heard my son stomping up the stairs and I yelled "I'm OK, honey!" because I know what it sounds like when you're downstairs and someone drops something up stairs. Of course he won't stay down there and of course he wants to help. He had his shoes on so I said, "Ok just be careful." He found a big irregular shaped chunk and announced "This my gun" as he started to slip it into the kangaroo pouch of his little hoodie. "No," I said, "no that's sharp you'll cut yourself. Put it in the trash now." Of course he objected - I mean it was shaped almost just like a gun. I tried to think of other things around the kitchen he likes to play with to divert his attention and said, "how 'bout a knife. You wanna knife?" and as the words slipped out of my mouth and he exclaimed "yeah!" I thought "Damn. Great parenting Bonnie. Great parenting. Natalie Tysdal would be appalled." He was trying to launch himself up on the counter and I was trying to find a way to take it back. But I reasoned a knife was the lesser of 2 evils. He picked out a nice long serrated number and I enthusiastically tried to push a butter knife.

Being the good kid that he is he finally relented and said "OK" with a measure of disappointment in his voice, saving me from the label of being a bad parent. I love that kid. He's such a sweetie.

The good news though - I still had half a glass of wine.

I'm no Maya Angelou...

2008-11-11T13:34:00.000-08:00

Obama

Foundation of a man

built like pyramids of Africa to withstand

the looting of character.

The wisdom of a soul who understands

the ribbon of history -

how pillars hold up a Parthenon.

And when he strides on stage

he raises his hand

as if reaching for those high in the stands.

The mountain that moves,

his sunny optimism floods the valleys -

not of courage but strength.

The foundation of a man

who carries his aura out there

and they try to tear through

but come up with an easy smile.

Contact High

2008-11-07T12:41:00.000-08:00

One or the other of your arms orbit me

because of circumstance but never land.

There's a rich sweetness, skidding

fingertips, sweeping palms.

three feet of air beneath my feet.

You make me wish I were 10 times prettier.

My god! If the second hand is this good

imagine what a strung out junky I'd be

If it were the real thing.

full saturation

2008-11-03T14:02:00.000-08:00

When you think of Hollywood's greatest love scenes images of secluded beach or Diane Lane and/or Richard Gere come to mind. The one's that are uncomfortable to watch with your parents. During these scenes my mind tends to wander; she's got a great body, man I wish I had a great body like that or what I would give to kiss Zach Braff while he's got me pinned up against a wall, what a lucky girl. These scenes are supposed to be the climax, they're supposed to evoke a flood of emotion but more often than not they turn out to be predictable. And then there's the one's where you wish it would happen but never does like in Lost In Translation. But that kind of suspension is tantalizing; like that guy at work whose glances and smiles and oh so casual touches are almost like attraction but you'll never know or at least you're not supposed to.

Last night though, I found that rapturous love scene in the most unlikely of places. It was Kevin Smith who caught me by surprise. A love scene in the middle of a porno, in front of 6 other people, on a bag of coffee beans, starting with "We kiss on 3, one, two, three" and tears filled my eyes and then spilled over. Could Seth Rogen be anymore beautiful?

Yes, it's strange. Probably mostly due to my exponentially progressive crush on said leading man who plays the "I care about you" role so fricken well (and those irresistible curls).

Though I also think it was the surprise emitted by both leading parts (more so Elizabeth Banks) that got me; like "My god! This feels fucking GOOD!". It wasn't the romantic night of frolicking through night lit city streets that made it brimming with sensuality, it was the fact that they fit so well together, that connection.

Ah, Kevin Smith, Anthony Minghella ain't got nothing on you. Well done, man, well done.

Wet Newspaper

2008-10-26T14:33:00.000-07:00

This election seems to have caused everyone to stop and think - what is America and who are Americans? We all seem to abhor taxes - at least that's what we're taught. John McCain uses the words "government spending" as virtual cuss words. Barack Obama has been criticized for using the words "spreading the wealth". OK, so we Americans obviously don't like to share. I find it strange that people who talk about how much they love their country (hhcrepublicans*cough*) are the same people who want to shove government way and I mean way back in the corner.... most of the time. When it comes to telling people how to run their businesses in order to protect the environment the government has NO place in that. But, we should definitely force women and children to have unwanted children and make sure gays can't marry each other. Oh yeah, and as far as our rights to carry guns - the government can shove it where the sun don't shine.

On the other hand, spreading the wealth is fine if we tax the middle class and spread it to big banks. My point is, and I do have one, government IS America. Government shapes America. Where taxes are supposed to fit in is what confuses me.

I'll never forget watching video of Obama greeting people somewhere in America and off camera you hear a woman shouting "Socialist! Socialist!". Obama's face fell. I can imagine him having a brief flashback of being a kid at school and getting picked on for his big ears. Anyway, does anyone even know what Socialism is anymore? Yeah, we know it's supposed to be bad. Yeah, it's one step away from Communism, supposedly. I think Socialism falls under the same category as (gasp!) taxes - mysterious myths widely accepted as bad. The thing is - the way I understand it anyway - SOMEONE has to pay taxes. But if staunch Republicans had it their way they'd get rid of taxes altogether and ban all religions accept Christianity.

Back to Americanism. Let's look at one of the most unAmerican Americans in America (according to most Americans anyway) Michael Moore. He has the nerve to question our great American role models, the extremely rich, and actually admit that maybe another country's system could be better than ours. He actually tries to make people think about things by confronting K-Mart about selling bullets right next to sporting equipment (and it's quite amazing that in this day and age 8 year olds can shoot themselves with uzis - thank god for our right to wield deadly weapons) or do something about a huge problem that's ignored by Washington by boating sick people to get treatment that's granted to our prisoners on an island. Oh, and lets not forget - he's fat. Michael Moore definitely doesn't love America right?

Or, maybe, is it possible to love something yet still be able to question and criticize it? You could probably ask any married couple and they'd give you a definite yes.

When I look at all the political ads these days I find it striking the way an issue can be presented in 2 completely different ways. Everybody has an idea of what would happen if a certain law gets passed.

And then I had a strange idea hit me the other day. Why not try it out a while, see what happens? Let's ban abortion for a year, see what happens. Let's get rid of taxes for a few months or tax the hell out of everyone and see which is better, then vote.

I know that'd probably be a policy nightmare.

I don't have much sympathy for the extremely wealthy. Yes, they worked hard for what they have - to a certain point. But they don't work as hard as they want you to believe. They get to a point where they can stick all their millions of dollars in a bank and just let the interest roll in. Hence the saying the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. And really, this economic disaster is probably no big deal for them. Just sell their stock market shares and they have enough cash to be set for life and pass it on to their children. Meanwhile, people with retirement in stock market portfolios have their hands tied - take the money out, get charged for early withdrawal; leave it in, lose a big fraction of it through a hemorrhaging market.

It's unfortunate that people with the money have the power. I'm hoping Barack Obama gives the power back to the majority - you know, democracy. That top 5% that holds 50% (or something like it) of the wealth in this nation? I think they can fend for themselves. You think they care about health care?

By golly

2008-10-17T11:52:00.000-07:00

10/14/08

I finally broke down in tears. But, I've been off kilter all day. I could tell when I backed down the driveway and heard the dry snapping of half frozen rose bushes. And then when I stopped at the gas station after dropping my son off (I had 3 choices after driving around with the gas tank light on for at least 10 miles: go before I drop my son off and pay with debit; go before I drop him off and go in to ask if they take check (since they take a few days to clear and we had exactly $39.00 left in checking before getting paid the next day) but having to deal with my son whining about candy and possibly throwing a fit; or go after I drop him off - I opted for the latter.) I went in to ask if they take check and the guy said "no" and when I turned around I ran right into a rack of cookies and nuts, hard enough to make 'em all shimmy. I was too off kilter to even feel much embarrassment. When I got to my car I realized I parked on the wrong side of the pump. All I could do was stand there and sigh.

Maybe once I get my coffee I'll be alright, I thought. And I was until I saw his (and her) picture listed under "People You May Know" section of facebook. My body responded before my mind. Instant nausea. I could feel my face fall like a bassett hound's. I wasn't sure what to do: close the page? click on a link? just try not to look? I ended up just walking away from the computer without even disabling the notification to your email mechanism I originally planned to do. Christ, I said to myself, You have myspace, let me have facebook. I considered deleting my profile but figured that was too drastic.

So my next task was to get my mind off it - go to the gym, fight with my health insurance company some more. Yeah, I'm fine. I'm good. But I kept circling back to what I would say to him. Below the belt kind of stuff. I started to wonder when I would cry.

I wasn't until after I picked up my son. I walked to his classroom chanting, "please be wearing the same pants, please be wearing the same pants". But, alas, he was wearing neon teal pants with "La Petite" permanent markered across the waist (I had forgotten to provide a change of clothes). All I could do was stand there and sigh. His teacher said, "he had an accident" as she handed over the plastic bag of soiled pants.

I could feel myself getting gloomier and gloomier on the way back home. I pictured my lanky and high strung psychiatrist telling me to call if I got bad when I assured him I was fine without medication - just needed to get through a rough patch, there were echos of the knowledge that simple things could shove me back down into darkness.

It was when I was preparing myself for the weekly hose down of beshitted superman underpants in the back yard, only to find that his teacher took the liberty of just throwing them away, that I started laughing - hard, the kind of laughing that brings tears to your eyes. And then I looked at my son standing there in the driveway with his neon teal pants and laughed some more and then, seamlessly, started crying.

Here it comes. I didn't continue on with that business for fear of worrying Cade. I'm still off kilter - but better now. Though I did allow, in an effort to comfort myself, my mind to drift into images of being held by various men I know. I even allowed myself to wonder, curiously, about a long haired kid I see often in the neighborhood - perhaps 14 or 15. I pictured us in the mess of the kind you'd find in What's Eating Gilbert Grape or Notes on a Scandal. I guess it's the way he's looked at me before - or perhaps the way I perceived he's looked at me. I can almost see how a certain kind of woman - not desperate really, not passionate, but lonely maybe? could respond to it. Someone like Mary Kay Letourneau. Those among the breed who wonder why society puts these kinds of rules in place.

Viewer Discretion Advised

2008-10-14T08:43:00.000-07:00

I miss the way we fucked.

The way we made it work in the car,

the in cahoots sex

we waited all night for.

We fucked like we had nothing to lose.

Like a body

had no other purpose;

a walking stiff prick,

the slippery hot hole

of a whore.

But

Under the blankets of dark

parking lots there were no shadows.

Nothing between us after

gleefully wriggling out of our clothes.

I never wondered who you were.

Let's Bash On John McCain

2008-10-07T11:57:00.000-07:00

I can admit that most of his issues are viable. Yes, there's a vast reserve of oil and natural gas in Alaska that can allow us U.S.ians to break ties with toxic nations if you don't mind raping the landscape (I mean, come on, it's just a bunch of dirt and grass, right?) and interfering with the ecological system (we should've come up with an energy solution 10 years ago but I'm pretty sure not much will change until we've used up every last drop and are forced to live differently). And we can try fooling ourselves that gas prices would go down but instead would probably go from one deep pocket to the next.

Yes, our fore fathers gave us the right to bare arms and people get worked up when you take away something that's theirs. "Mine! Mine! Mine!" should be America's new slogan.

And we certainly couldn't keep up our bully-on-the-playground image if we just gave up on the war (if they don't fear us they'll certainly attack us, right?) and lord knows we can definitely afford it - ALOT cheaper than health care, that's for sure.

Health care. John McCain's plan for health care is reason enough to not allow him anywhere near the White House. Are you kidding McCain? You really do think we're stupid.

"Elect me and I'll give you five thooouuusand dollars to spend on aaaaaaannnny health insurance company you want. 5,000 smackers. Tax refundable."

Mmmmkay.... let me tell you a story.

Three and a half years ago I decided to get pregnant. My husband was surprised, perplexed but took it like a champ. We got a two bedroom apartment, one of those cute rocker ottoman chairs and family health insurance through his company. Sure, the insurance took a good chunk of his paycheck - $200 and some out of every one, that's over $400 a month. But hey, we'd be covered in case anything happens right? And with his company contributing another $10,000 a year there'd be nothing we can't handle.

So for 3 years we stayed healthy and Blue Cross Blue Shield happily took their cut. But when I tore my ACL and my son needed work on his teeth (requiring sedation in a surgical environment) I was foolish enough to go ahead and do what the doctors said was prudent. (I know, boring details - stick with me here). $3,000 later (deductibles, co-insurance, parts not covered) I'm still getting bills for $9,000 that the insurance company denies. I'm still getting a $1,000 bill for the MRI that my insurance just flat out ignores.

500 calls later, 25 transfers between departments later (I have my insurance member number memorized I'm not even kidding) "pre-certification letters" that "don't guarantee benefits", appeals, requests for medical notes, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit - I'm about ready to be one of those annoying complainers that customer service people dread. I'm about ready, seriously, to sue. What the fuck are we paying premiums for? If I could afford a $9,000 bill I wouldn't need health insurance, would I!!!!

So, $5,000? You could give these blood sucking, good-for-nothing, greedy health insurance sonofabitch companies $500,000 and they'd STILL look for every excuse and loophole not to pay for things so they can pay for their summer house in the Hamptons and still have enough left over to bribe the politicians with. I'd rather wait six months for surgery and risk death instead of this. It's not just the insurance companies either. Hospitals charge astronomical amounts of money just to walk across an OR.

Honest to God I truly believe the health system was created by the elite in hopes that the poor will just die off.

You're doing a pretty good job of it guys.

McCain can take his $5,000 and shove it up his tightwad ass.

Middle Class Heros

2008-09-28T07:52:00.000-07:00

It's tempting to be spiteful and throw a little term at Wall Street - a term they've been trumpeting for ages at us democrats; laissez-faire. I'm not hearing much squealing now at government intervention. It's tempting to say let the stock market crash, let those big time investors watch their funds disappear as a lesson in trying to make a buck off borrowed money. For once, those who largely lived within their means, who still have a tiny amount of safe money don't have much to worry about. We're used to this. Cutting back, sacrificing and finding a different way to make ends meet when push comes to shove.

But the Wall Street fat cats were cut from their leashes and allowed to do pretty much whatever they wanted. Now they're back on the door step yowling to be let back in. "We screwed up - give us $700 billion." It chafes a little. Nobody bails out the middle class when we're in trouble. Instead they say "It's your own fault. Go live on the street, you might be able to feed your children through charitable organizations."

Yes, I feel a little smug. Laissez-faire. But after a little gloating I am ready to pull up my sleeves and extend my hand and get to work on solving this problem. $700 billion? Sure, we middle class can handle that. Now's the time to hunker down and wait for the storm to pass. Maybe we'll go to the movies once every other week instead of every weekend. Maybe we'll hold off on the new exotic workout machine we've been saving that corner of the basement for. Maybe we'll put that credit card in the filing cabinet for a little while. In middle class style we will give as much as we can when our fellow humans look to us for help. How strange that these humans happen to be wearing tailored italian suits.

This is a good learning experience for all of us. Finally that mysterious economy that no one seems to know how to run might be handled differently. Maybe those fantastically rich folks won't complain as much when the government objects to letting them put as much on their plates as they desire.

No such thing as a free lunch.

3 Year Old

2008-09-01T09:48:00.000-07:00

My reverse Midas

You'd break an anvil with a feather.

You little hurricane

with the tiniest eye that doesn't tire until it is exhausted.

The upholstery lays victim to crumb streaks and

fur matted hand shapes. You won't turn up your nose

to the hairy cookie behind the couch like you would

chopped tomatoes on eggs. The plate has no borders.

Little politician

filibuster your wants. I'll be the first to deny you

in a long list of wants and then needs. This is

what I signed up for.

Limited vessel.

Trying to stuff understanding into that brain of yours.

Juice sticky fingers

fumble when they imitate everything my fingers do.

If you can ignore your enemies like you ignore

the load in your pants you'll be set my dear.

The way you hurt yourself

as many times

as you ask "why?"

it stumps me,

as well as how you live off what you eat.

The biggest mess does not overwhelm you

whirling devil of Tasmania knows no meaning

of hesitation when it comes to asking of me.

You repetition junky you pull-my-string-doll

run rampant or malfunctioning.

Sugar sticky mind less fumbly when

it imitates everything my mind does.

Why I'm voting for Barack Obama

2008-08-31T09:47:00.000-07:00

It's true, I'm a devout Democrat. I knew I was a Democrat even before I knew there was a label for my philosophy. And I think that's what it comes down to; philosophy. It's not really about what's right or wrong, what works or doesn't work, results or consequences.

I knew a guy once named Steven with close ties to Greece who was just about the opposite from me. He admired Donald Trump and revered Warren Buffet. He believed it was your church's responsibility to take care of you if you fell into hard times. He believed Environmentalists were menaces and once told me that letting big businesses do what they want would eventually be good for the environment because they would take care of where they work and live and make them beautiful. I asked him, "yeah, but what about the people in the ghettos." He didn't have a strong answer for that one - something like if they had pride in where they lived then it wouldn't be so dilapidated. He didn't even believe in financial aid for education, taking that old republican stance that if you want something bad enough you work for it.

We had some good discussions on the way to press conferences and stories. You'd think we would've hated each other but we were actually very good friends. After one such discussion he said to me, "You think too much with your heart." And that statement, i think, sums it up beautifully. Republicans think with their minds, Democrats think with their hearts.

McCain and Obama fit these molds quite accurately. I'm surprised there's any undecided voters out there because it's easy to love one and hate the other.

If I were to step outside of objective-tinted statements (and I will right now) I'd say, sure, if you only care about yourself and what's in your own best interests you should totally vote for McCain. I can understand McCain's and the Republican stance - reward responsible, hardworking people and let justice take care of the deviants. Uphold the traditions that this country was built on. But this isn't good enough for me.

True, I'd probably vote for any Democrat that was nominated including Hillary Clinton. But Obama is one nominee that I'm actually excited about. He has impressed me every step of the way. It's tough for me to separate out the fact that he's African American and that I could have a part in making history in electing the first black President of the United States, however it's definitely more that. He's not some novelty. There's a way about him, something in his smile that tells me he's on the same wavelength as me. I knew he was the one I wanted for President even before Hillary and all the other contenders bowed out and he has confirmed that time and again ever since.

Yes, he promises a lot. I wouldn't be surprised if half of what he hopes for doesn't happen immediately. But like he said in his outstanding convention speech, change doesn't come from Washington, it comes to Washington. I don't entirely blame Bush for the turmoil this nation has found itself in. It took the work of many self serving people who Bush and his staff allowed power to fall in the hands of.

In that same regard I think Obama will put power into the hands of people who care about what happens to everybody and future generations of everybody. I think Obama will take power away from the Almighty dollar that everyone seems to hold in such high regard.

Throughout the campaign I've tended to turn away from the negative publicity that John McCain has thrown out there. I don't even listen to it. All those ads did was make McCain look bad, a bully trying to pick a fight, taking cheap shots. But recently I've caught myself turning away from the Republican campaign altogether just as the GOP's haven't even given Obama a chance. Are we afraid the other side might change our minds?

So, this election season I'm going to listen to both sides. I've recently subscribed to Time magazine that features McCain and I've read about half way through so far. I'm not impressed.

I'm not impressed with McCain's VP pick. She seems to be another pawn that he has put out there in his fight to do anything to win. Again, I'm letting my judgement get in the way so I can't really say anything until I know more about her which I'm going to try to do.

I went to McCain's website and didn't agree with much of what he stands for including protecting the 2nd amendment. I'm sick and tired of hearing about kids getting a hold of guns and killing their classmates.

Obama's campaign seems to reflect the quality of how he handles presidency. The way he includes everyone and how everyone has come together to help fund amazing amounts of money for his campaign. I, myself, have contributed $30 to the fund.

I like how he isn't wasting money on negative ads even when he's directly attacked. I like how he thinks outside the box and isn't afraid to do something different like accepting his nomination at a football stadium in front of a crowd the size of a small city. The way he encouraged volunteerism was noble.

Even Obama's VP pick was impressive. He could've easily guaranteed himself a slew of votes by picking Hillary Clinton but he didn't. He went with someone who complements him and someone who will make the White House stronger.

Sure, if Obama wins we all may be paying higher taxes. But why do we have to view taxes as a bad thing? I think paying taxes is as much an American duty as serving in the military. I'm proud to pay taxes, proud to do my part in making this country strong, both in infrastructure and policies. I have a beautiful 3 bedroom home in a nice, safe neighborhood with a healthy family and a small savings account. There is nothing more I need. But I see people everyday who need the most basic things. I also see people everyday who have much more than they need and keep a stranglehold on everything they own. I once heard about someone who spent $10,000 on a Bat Mitzvah for his dog. Isn't there any better use for that kind of money?

Yes, too many people accept handouts and are just plain lazy or abuse the system. Yes, criminals take up tax payer money and can be more trouble than their worth. But these are people that we as a nation have neglected. Turning our backs on them will do no good.

It's time to change our views on the American Dream. I believe Obama is the correct leader, the person who can open the doors to the change that the majority of America wants.

My favorite quote from Obama is this: I am my brother's and sister's keeper.

Barack Obama, you have my vote.

A Blessed Class

2008-08-29T08:53:00.000-07:00

We are a people of landscaping,

graffiti free parks. We fill them

with beautiful children, well dressed

mothers well trimmed who don't say

things like "I'm tired of your shit!"

or "get your ass back here!"

Some may be appalled that it happens;

us mothers didn't smoke a pack a day

while we were pregnant. No, we sow

in discipline and manners, emphasize

a blossoming world full of pleasant.

We fertilize our spring beds with education.

Their daddies are home right now.

We dare not look across the fence line.

This project was carefully planned in small scale

not a single corner cut.

weed free,

the roses vibrant.

Holding out for a hero

2008-08-05T19:42:00.000-07:00

Nights like these make me realize how Main Street America I am. They make me feel June Cleaverish. It was the annual Neighborhood Night Out. We walked across the street to the park where tents were set up, smoke from the grill of, yes you guessed it, hot dogs and hamburgers.

I loved it. It felt like family, all these people, the little kids, the elderly ladies in fold out chairs under sun hats and everyone in between. I felt blessed actually to live in a community where they perform a magic show, the local law enforcement taking the mic and reminding us to keep our lights on at night. And of course, the Fire Department brought their big red engine and their hottie selves.

When someone asks me what qualities I find attractive in a man I always have a hard time answering. Really, the only quality I prefer is that he's nice. Over all, I have no type. I've been attracted to the jockey (admittedly only once), guys with long hair, guys with a belly or nice body, outgoing or pensive. But there is one breed of man that piques my prurient interest, that gets me hot blooded, and that is a man in uniform.

It's generally accepted that women are attracted to "real men" which unfortunately seems to lead to bar fights, excessive muscles and cologne, flaunting the dollar and downright patronizing romantic behavior. I think a man in uniform comes closest to encompassing the male spirit, one that the feminine in me readily responds to.

I've imagined myself as Marilyn Monroe or Jane Fonda wearing nothing but a military shirt standing in front of a sea of army men. Oh those boys, the concentrated testosterone. It's typical, yes. What girl doesn't love a fire fighter? Why else would they make those saucy calendars? There's something about them, no matter how young or old, they are instantly attractive to me. Those dark uniforms, short sleeve shirts tantalizingly revealing strong arms. Please, rescue me. But perhaps my favorite, the sexiest are paramedics.

I watched the EMT guy at the neighborhood party as he demonstrated to the kids how they take the stretcher in and out of the ambulance. I wondered what kind of knowledge was in that cute head of his - intimate knowledge of the human body and how to save it. I wondered what those evocative eyes had seen as I mentally caressed him. I let my eyes trail over him and spied the blue ink of a spiky tattoo peek out from beneath his sleeve. And though normally I find tattoos to be nothing special, this one seemed to prod at sensitive spots and I wanted to peel back the government issued fabric and trace it with my fingertips.

Yes, those paramedics. I love that they listen to heartbeats, touch the rush of blood beneath skin, force breath into languishing lungs with their very own mouths (or they used to, now I see those cold, utilitarian masks attached to bulbs of air). I love that they help anyone who calls - no matter how stupid, fat, ugly or criminal - they lay their healing hands upon them. I love that they must approach the goriest situations without fear or disgust. The courage that flows through them. They are there at a person's darkest hour, overcome with pain, overwhelmed with fear, crying, unconscious, the men of the EMT kind radiate calm. Like magic they create wizardly comfort. Profound to think how they witness death and birth. I wonder what they think when they pull people from the brink of suicide.

I know I must be romanticizing the whole profession big time. The reality is probably stark and harsh. Obviously I've never been in the back of an ambulance other than with Hottie McHotterson at a children's demonstration. Also, quite obviously, I've imagined that if I ever did end up getting a ride in one, a ride more expensive than a limousine no doubt, I'd say, "take those damn rubber gloves off and touch me!"

It'll be a sad day when machines take over all of medical procedures. There's no telling what kind of benefit comes from the care of one human to another.

The time worth taking

2008-08-01T00:34:00.000-07:00

Well, I'da lost a lot of money had I bet, with the start of my period, not pregnant. I was sure that I was, fatigue, fat boobs, even nausea. Thank god we don't take those bets for real, those I'll-eat-my-hat ones.

I even attributed crazy and frequent dreams to spiking hormones. Of the most pleasant, Karl again. I didn't see his face actually but he wore black jeans and a button down white shirt and I knew it was him. He laid down somewhere and invited me into his arms to which I accepted immediately. The sensation was so vivid I'm sure I must have sighed in my sleep. It was so real it was almost enough, so fulfilling, so satisfying, so comforting and soul quenching.

It made me almost regret sending him that email which rendered platonic relations impossible. He said to me over the phone (oh that trap I innocently set out and he beautifully tripped) "Come by and see us some time".

Dammit Bonnie, you could've at least been able to nonchalantly stopped by and say hi. Even so, no matter what I told myself on the drive to his office, the friendly I-was-in-the-neighborhood would've been yet another attempt to seduce him into a trap.

I imagine Karl as a speckle-butted fawn, bowed boney hind legs, front hooves splayed wide as he touched his wet nose to the tender berries laid out and then SNAP!, a hug trap.

Yes, enough traps for this little hunter. All forest creatures beware, alert to her scent.

Fuck I'm tired

by the seat of our pants

2008-07-29T18:29:00.000-07:00

When I looked at my cell phone (who wears a wrist watch anymore?) it was 6:34. I estimated it took us maybe 20, 30 minutes to get to the park. It was kinda cute actually, my son pedaling his bike with training wheels and me running behind him often stooped to save him from spills.

It was when he started grabbing at the ass of his swimming shorts that I realized how far away we actually were.

Ah, yes, potty training. Luckily at this park there was a big blue port-a-potty. I tried to say as nonchalantly as possible "come'ere buddy" and walked slowly toward him as if he were a snarly dog and I was the dog catcher. But he caught on before I could do any catching and he ran toward the play ground all the while denying his bodily functions.

So I did the trick where I'd go there myself and he would simply follow me - the kid follows me everywhere else when he's not sleeping.

But I opened the door to find a chunky puddle of puke smack dab at the base of the toilet. Nevermind. Maybe he really doesn't have to go. (yeah right).

Within minutes of sitting down on the bench, suppressing the last retch, I see a trickle of piss coming from one of the upper levels of the porous playground. Maybe it's just pee, please just let it be pee.

But no such luck.

This situation is impossible.

Okay, a plan to barely contain chaos. I'll clean him up as much as possible then take him home to first the hose and then the bathtub. Within this equation we must stay as far away from the puke while still being able to get at the toilet paper and the toilet receptacle itself.

So I leaned on the open door and scooped out crap with wads of toilet paper and were it basketball I would've been making 3 pointers... most of the time. Yet, instead of rim shots with a simple swish it stuck to the seat. I felt obligated to do my part in making a gross situation less gross.

sleek jelly

2008-07-02T21:40:00.000-07:00

And so, with 3 glasses of wine, I try to conceive. Calculatingly I time my ovulation to the live microscopic entities the thrive in the mixture of ardor. I shall subject my body, (so eloquently whipped into semi-shape with blasters and giggles of scooting around on a chair) my body already stretched out and used up -

I look at the ripened girls at the park, their sleek midsections, their slender thighs, ahh no wonder the men love those magazines that claim "barely 18". Even the one who'd be considered fat in this day and age was innocently alluring with youth. Youth - a thing no modern science could ever replace. I could see a thin sliver of pink panty as she sat on a whirly-round. I wondered if she knew how seductive she was as she licked a chocolate ice cream cone, as she spun around on a Dr. Suessy playground device, her plump, white thighs gripping the metal, her hair flung out.

Yes, I remember the tightness of my body - no clue that men may be watching.

This body - approaching the 30's, seducing men in their 40's. The youth on my side subsiding.

But, I'll go with it, bear children who will embrace the vitality of youth, who will laugh and cry with such force. I will enjoy the privilege of being a woman and experiencing the awesome feeling of a life fluttering inside me.

I shape my future with this child.

He called me trouble

2008-05-29T07:49:00.000-07:00

Eye contact is an incredibly intimate thing for me. I always found it awkward to make eye contact with people I wasn't attracted to. It's down right unpleasant to look people I don't like in the eye.

For most people eye contact is polite behavior. I think my aversion to casual eye contact stems from the fact that as a kid my face was an explosion of zits and I tried to keep my head down and hide behind my hair.

So now, a lingering gaze is almost sexual and I look as deep as I can possibly go. Robert called this look the "fuck me" eyes. I flirted wildly with a guy named Adam, the majority of it through eye contact. I looked into his soft blue eyes and most of the time he looked right back. We stood in the newsroom talking about a satellite feed once (I'll never forget) we stood close and looked unwavering into each others eyes.

This nonphysical contact is quite powerful for me. It sends bolts of electricity into my stomach. I felt it with Karl once when we were sitting on one of those low tables and he was talking about learning to deliver babies in his EMT days. He's always the one to look away.

And it's tough to stop this pattern of scaling boundary walls, of trying to lead him to intimacy, of actually hoping to touch that next level, if only briefly. It actually hurts when he doesn't talk to me. It shouldn't. But the process, the patented pattern has already begun. My adoration transforms people. Karl radiates to me, he glows with kindness and that's only because I have my obsession glasses on.

And my logic tells me to just stop. He walks in the room and I say don't look, make your eye contact perfunctory. Observe those damn boundaries. He's a PT, you're a patient and this outlines proper etiquette. Don't ask him personal questions. Observe the way he politely asks what your plans are for the rest of the day, not "What's your favorite song to sing along to?"

But I somehow get stuck in the deep puddles of maple syrup in his eyes, stuck like a fly. This feels good; not "Robert is in love with someone else" not "When are you going to have sex with your husband" but imagining Karl pulling you close into a good bye hug on your last day of physical therapy.

I always end up hoping that he'll hold up his end of the boundary deal. He has so far. He must know what I'd allow him to get away with.

Hold me back at arms length.

Love won't pay the rent

2008-05-27T07:50:00.000-07:00

I Could Have Been Named

Void Plug

until I was unstuck

plucked from you

like a stinger

while the rest of me

fell away with a

rustley whisper.

Yes, you're allergic

to these things.

I would have killed you

were it not for nurse.

The cavity nearly

collapsing in itself

until she filled you

from a needle

full of antivenom.

Hey, perfect fit.

land of submarines

2008-05-22T21:49:00.000-07:00

Our Love Could've Been Acted Out

by Tyson and De La Hoya.

Passionate thrashes in bouts.

I almost saw a slut in the

corner of my eye flashing

Round 1:

growing families

Round 2:

moving away

Round 3 (and this was your TKO):

falling out of love.

We fought for it

while tears streamed down our faces.

We danced

in violence in love even as

the other's moves became predictable.

And each time I said to myself

I'd be crazy to get back in the ring with him.

Yet we slugged it out

in soft spots.

This unpredictable match

we beat the shit out of each other.

I see your bloody fist raised high

calling for your woman.

Triad

2008-05-11T02:47:00.000-07:00

If I had to pass on something I've learned in my life to the next generation I'd say; don't rely on other people for happiness. People are human. They make mistakes and will more than likely let you down at one time or another.

This advice surprises me because I've always regarded myself as having the Anne Frank view of the human race, that people are inherently good. But the matters of love is a different realm entirely.

I suppose with my advice I might as well tell everyone to never fall in love. For how do you fall in love without drinking of the nectar of happiness that only love with another human can provide. How do you forget the taste of that nectar when love dissolves as it sometimes does? How do you become happy again? Ah, but the person who figures that out will essentially have the meaning of life.

I think that's why so many people put so much of their hearts, minds and souls into God; a perfect being who provides love (a shabby imitation of physical human love in my opinion) and never lets them down.

I said, "that's the way you are." And you asked, "How am I?"

You and I are very similar. The simple adjective would be passionate. We're like hummingbirds who need a special diet that includes the nectar of love otherwise we die. When you and I found each other somehow that nectar did not run dry. But the relationship was bound to be doomed if I was unable to leave my husband. The life of our relationship depended on that.

It's not so much just her. You've had other women tell you they love you in the time we've been painfully apart. I'm not saying you purposely brought that on but most people don't fall in love out of the blue. It takes quite a bit of communication for someone to fall in love with you. It takes finding a connection and building on it. It takes subtle coaxing. It takes flinting a spark. Which leads me to believe that you have a quirk with the opposite sex that you are driven to pursue. I'm not calling you a Casanova but you do seem to have some kind of anticoagulant that lets love slip in easily.

And you gave a valiant effort with trying to curb your passionate tendencies with me in the beginning. You fought it and I recognize that now. But there was a level beneath our perceptions that recognized the wellspring of passion, the pocket of nectar we carry around. And I pursued it like a dowser.

If it's sloppy, eat it over the sink

2008-05-08T18:23:00.000-07:00

Mush-a-roni and Cheese

1 box Kraft Macaroni and Cheese

2 hunks of butter, cut up into smaller hunks

a jigger of milk in an attempt to hide everything

Bring water to boil, stir in macaroni. Turn off the burner and let the macaroni sit for about an hour while you buy your son shoes and enough groceries to get into the 15 items or less check out line but more than warrants for self check out.

Make sure the macaroni is the bloated color and consistency of something that drowned. Place noodles back into the pot and turn the burner back up so the hunks of butter semi-melt instead of swim. Add the rest of the ingredients including the powdered cheese and stir as gently as possible so the already-water-logged-falling-apart noodles aren't completely liquified.

Almost Burnt Variation: Forget that you left the burner on while you choke down a bowl and then your son's bowl of mush after he resolutely proclaims that he'll stick with his Sweetarts as if that's an option. When you hear bubbling as you get close to the stove you know it's ready.

As there are no wild animals in the area that would possibly eat it, put it in tupperware with the relief that this may be one of the rare occasions you actually throw the tupperware away along with the mush-a-roni and cheese in about 3 weeks.

8 Ways To Forget About Him

1. Read, read like a fool

2. Watch TV (except game shows and college football)

3. Redo your address book

4. Do not listen to 80's music (or Evanescence)

5. Go to the laundromat and strike up a conversation with a little kid.

6. Sleep

7. Do crossword puzzles (try not to think about when his daughter was born and you utilized the same method)

8. Develop a crush on your physical therapist and imagine thousands of scenarios where you are forced to lean up against him or where he rescues you.

Love fermented

2008-05-05T03:09:00.000-07:00

It didn't really start from when Christy told me about Michelle. Actually it was before that. Out of the blue I had a dream about him (do I address "you"? Probably not. That denotes affection and endearment - I'm just unsure at this point. ) It was a dream about Christmas trains and he opened the door, decked out in one of those suits and starched shirts I used to watch him iron, it was snowing and he said, "I'm late for work" and I said, "I can drive you." It was a totally platonic dream - not even that really. I just looked up the word platonic and even that has a level of connection between people.

Anyway, I think that dream ripped open some pusing wound in my mind that I had thought long since healed. Thoughts of him trickled into me. It made me a little nervous to visit Christy because she's kind of become a liaison between us. I'm always afraid she knows something that could hurt. I confessed to her about the night between me and Rochelle's boyfriend after taking the innocent facade that he hits on me like it's unprovoked. Of course I came to my own defense by pointing out I drank most of a bottle of wine and was angry at Robert. And she said, "So you know about her." And everything inside me shrunk and sank.

I've been fucked up over him ever since. I woke up the next morning and he was the very first thought. I woke up and cried before I barely turned over.

I was angry and sick to my stomach and my mind started hemorrhaging him. It took work to set up the front that everything's OK and laugh at the appropriate moments. Still, it continued. I continued crying and often. I am so beyond hurt.

I woke up this morning at 3 a.m. and knew I was in for a long time of tossing and turning. I wanted to call him or text him or contact him somehow and just scream at him. It boggles my mind how he just shut off his feelings for me. He's done with me. He keeps that picture up of him at the beach, the one she probably took, the one he seems to view belovedly.

I said to myself, it was all a pack of lies. Everything.

It's funny how we thought we were so special. That we felt things very few other people feel. But it turned out to be just another relationship. One come and gone. And I decided I don't love him. I never did. I've decided love is nothing more than an illusion, a set of electrical impulses no more special than eyesight. Love is merely a sex drive. Even maternal love is nature's way of keeping people from abandoning their offspring - the same exact way hunger keeps us from starving. I'm sure I'm not the first to come up with this.

And I feel so much better. It was nothing. It was all nothing and it does not matter and it never did matter. The body convinces us so effectively of the concept of soulmates.

Well, Robert, you can share that with Michelle now. You can continue dreaming. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous addiction to love. There I go referring to him as you.

I've been able to keep my eyes open to reality a little more these days. Karl became all shifty eyed on me. His demeanor changed ever so slightly and I'm quite certain it's in response to my loud body language. I've been told I wear my heart on my sleeve and I forget that often. He became a little more distant though still polite. It's kind of like he pulled back to get a broader look at the picture in order to make a decision on how he felt about it.

This distance also gave me a chance to decide that I'm going to cool it. It's got to happen inside in order for it to reflect on the outside.

I want to say, "You're a smart man, Karl. Stay away from me. Stay far away. I have a habit of squashing things I adore like Lenny..."

Even as I looked at Christy's yearbooks that long morning I was neither surprised or moved when I looked at my autograph I inscribed back in 1994 that said "You will always be the person closest to me. That's the way it is" and she underlined it at some point and noted "liar".

Yes, I am.

Viewers like you

2008-05-03T08:56:00.000-07:00

Our Union Could Have Been
Created By Christo
have you bleached out the
meaning of spirals?
Have you forgotten the language of our love
or is it translated unto
the artist now who paints
your smiles
since my paint has faded?
Do I fit in a box now?
My body of papers and pictures
an address affixed to my
cardboardy skin,
I'm gone, just say the word?
Have you wiped the name of
our park off your memory map?
Or do you still go there
like childhood
the place smaller than how you remembered?
Is it still toxic
the same way it makes me sick
I swear I'll bleed to death from
this rotting

Jesus just didn't know how to swim

2008-04-24T15:46:00.000-07:00

I'm doing the whole rescue fantasy thing I used to do ages ago - back when I was desperate for someone to just comfort and hold me. They'd be along the lines of getting raped and then my hero would find me and enfold me in his arms where'd I'd let go. But my latest one was getting shot in the shoulder outside of my physical therapy office. I'd be lying there and I'd hear, "Bonnie?! Are you OK?" And I'd look up and I'd say "Karl, is that you?" with tears running down my face. And then he'd rip open my shirt to apply pressure to my shoulder until the ambulance got there, all the while talking to me like he did earlier today.

Why Karl? I don't know, he's this big guy who shaves his head and is the master of small talk. He isn't an actual physical therapist that I can gather but seems to help out all the other therapists. I liked him (just regular old like with no intention of going deeper) the moment I saw him. He isn't good looking in the conventional way, then again the guys I become attracted to rarely ever are. I guess he was and is just nice to me which is sometimes all it takes. He'd stand beside me while I use the nustep and just talk to me - ask me if I'm doing OK. He patted me on the back once. That was probably the switch flipper to thoughts of lingering touches. Out of the blue I dreamt of doing therapy exercises in a pool and he's laughing with me and touching me in almost inappropriate ways beneath the water.

Today I have it bad. Right now my big goal is simply bending my knee which involves not a small amount of pain and I was sitting in what they call the "pink chair" also known as the ejector seat where the therapist bends your leg for you. Not fun. Especially when the number was 110 degrees. So Mark says he's gonna measure me with Karl's help and my heart yawlped at the prospect of Karl's attention on me. He came over and sat on one of those exercise balls with my left foot between his knees and placed one hand behind my calf and the other around my ankle. His touch was perfect, gentle yet assuredly. And he said, "OK I'm gonna push until you say when and then I'll stay right there and won't go any further." which felt to my heart like, "You're a princess and I care about you immensely ." And he pushed and I let it go a little further, just a little, than I'm comfortable with and grunted "when" and he said, "good job" in that same celestial tone that made my heart hurt. And I closed my eyes at the discomfort while Mark muttered something and Karl said, "there's still a lot left" and I blurted out "how do you know?" And one of them said something like "it's still soft" or "It's something I can feel" and even that was beautiful and heart melting because he can feel what my body can do like he knows it and me so well. And then he (Karl) said, "Keep breathing for me, Bonnie." and the breath I didn't know I was holding whooshed out as I thought "God, Karl, talk to me like that all day..." and he pushed the bend to the 110 and said "Good job" and I might have actually smiled while inside I couldn't wait for him to let my leg go straight again struggling with wanting him to hold it there because it meant his hands were on me.

And all too soon it was over and Mark looked proudly at me while he explained in more depth why that little maneuver has no chance of ripping my knee apart.

Over and over again my mind clung to the comforting and sensual words Karl spoke to me. I dreamed of his hands all over me. And I thought of them again today after I took my son to the dentist and learned of just how much neglect his teeth underwent at my accord and how much money and discomfort my child will have to endure because of it and just feeling like a failure in general as a parent.

"Oh, Karl, can I just lay in your arms for an hour?"

And my fantasy ends with blood all over his shirt while the medics take my stretcher away and I say to him, "Please don't leave me." and he holds my hand and looks into my eyes and kisses my forehead (and yes, in some editions of this fantasy he kisses me flush on the lips).

This of course after wanting to call you and talk to you the way I used to. I thought of texting you and saying "I need a hug. But even my supposed best friend won't even acknowledge my existence." And I felt a little less guilty about these torrid fantasies that occur much too often of something I try to tell myself will never ever happen. In less than a month I'll probably never see Karl again. Which makes me sad. I love the way he makes me feel.

Glenda's Guide To Slimmer Thighs

2008-03-16T14:37:00.000-07:00

And we walked

Her long angry strides

My keeping-up-with-momma ones.

Pounding the dirt

to the beat of her hitching

breath round about grandma's house.

It never occurred

to me to ask "Mommy,

why're you cryin?" shouts

from the kitchen like barks in my mind

already forgotten.

We just walked. That's

what we did, just walked - with her

head held high

paying no mind to short

legs. I didn't recognize the distributary

flow of tears

came from the vast

void of love with plenty of room

to walk around.

You're a Strange Magic

2008-03-15T15:07:00.000-07:00

I made the mistake of looking at your goddamn myspace page - set to private of course, if not I might actually go through with killing myself. Blissful, huh? The sun is shining on your soul. Why does it hurt? Why does it hurt? I prayed for your peace and you've got it. That's good. But I cried and I cried. I went to Sarah's page to see some of the comments you may have left. Yes, you're actually doing good. I leaned my head against the wall and cried.

And on my way, with the bottle of wine rolling around on the front seat, to see my friend and her boyfriend I cried some more. I actually thought of jerking the wheel toward those cement walls on the highway. Those walls at the intersection of exits are even better. I bet it would only hurt for a second. I wonder how long it would take for you to find out. Maybe Christy would be reading the paper and see my car and she'd tell you. Then you'd hurt. There it is again. Desiring the opposite of what I prayed for. But I wanted to call you and just scream at you. You just flat out ignore me.

Ok, I thought. Suicide is stupid. I just want to get to her place and get fucking drunk. Let that boyfriend of hers take a gander at me. That's fine. I know he's attracted to me.

And half the bottle was gone quickly. Thoughts of you became less prickly. I took my bra off - my customary MO. It was justified though because I was spending the night.

We watched The Virgin Suicides. The soundtrack threw a curve-ball at me. I texted you and immediately regretted it. Oh well. I knew you wouldn't respond anyway.

After all the virgins were dead the boyfriend laid on the bed with us to watch an Adam Sandler movie. With her asleep his hands wandered and I let them. Sure why not. A nice distraction. With nearly a full bottle of wine destroying my liver a little grab and feel didn't seem like a big deal. He dove down for a kiss and I felt dead inside.

His hands found their way between my legs and I thought, you're probably doing the same thing right this moment. Fuck it. I'm gonna leave my mind. I'm gonna become pure body (does it) where there are no emotions (hurt now?) attached. It's been so long (I hope so) and it'll be even longer after. I let him finger fuck me. I almost came but never quite got there. I imagined your hands there like they used to be. I thought of just fucking him full out. I mean who are we kidding. This isn't innocence here. And I pulled down my panties and he said, "not here."

That was all I needed to put the brakes on. All momentum was lost. I got up to piss and he followed and dove for more kisses and I turned away and said "I don't want to do this to her." My best friend. The one I had managed not to screw over in the past 20 years - now officially screwed over. I said, "I'm gonna regret this. You're gonna regret this."

He said, "No, I have no regrets. I just wanted to see what it would be like to kiss you." And then he did and I let my lips hang loose. Ok, I guess I can do you that favor. And I said, "well now you know." And he said, "She and I have talked about this. We said, 'if I were to cheat on her we both know it would be with you and she would want me to cheat on her with someone she trusts.'"

I had a doctor I saw once who told me there's 2 rules about boys. #1 boys lie. #2 If you don't think they lie refer to #1. I didn't put it past him to say anything to get to me. He guided my hands to his penis. I kept it there to be polite (what a scream!). I recoiled at the organic feel of it. I went back to bed.

Then fuzzily I fell asleep. Until I woke up cold with no blanket and those damn fans running. It was an alarm bell for his hands and they went back to work. I rolled my eyes. Great, I open my legs and they open the flood gate. How do I say "no" now after all that has already happened.

So I revert to my simple tactic - just don't react and eventually he'll give up. Just a few more minutes and I can go back to sleep. And he kept circling his fingers and I waited. I can almost ignore it. But no, the clock ticks on and I try moving to my side but his hands become homing pigeons. So, I have to stop him myself. And I pull his hand away. He says, "I thought I could get you going again." I say, "sorry, I don't think so."

Finally I turn my mind back to sleep and there you are again. I remembered how I never felt this way with you. I never felt unsafe. I curl up for thorough moping but is soon cut off by his hands again. This time, this time he'll see I'm not reacting. But no. Girls, don't even try it. Guys are eternal optimists when it comes to sex. He asks, "Are you cold? I know what will warm you up."

"Hmmm?"

"Sex," approaching an exclamation point. I snort. It's almost rude but I don't care.

It disgusts me to think of it now. Thank god I didn't let him fuck me. I don't even find him remotely attractive.

I'm sorry. But I'm still so angry at you...