Happy National Friendship Day: A Tribute

In the past two months I have written two short stories about a single woman looking for love.  One, specifically; the other, well, she sort of finds love by accident.  (Well, she meets a couple of dudes, we don’t know that she loves either of them.)  Neither of these stories would accomplish the wretchedly simple job of passing the Bechdel Test, a test I find important, but not as important as representing “real” women, whatever that means (see my post about Thor v The Avengers).  But neither story is about female relationships (although one could analyze the female relationships in the first story).  I tend to write about what I’m currently going through and my mind was heavily on my own hetero-romantic relationships while I was writing them.  Because those are in a constant state of flux.  I didn’t write about my female relationships because my female relationships are solid.

Today is National Friendship Day, or some such nonsense, and it’s got me thinking about my most significant friendships.  Weirdly, or not so weirdly, the older I get the more important my female friendships are to me.  I still love my boys and my life would be sad without them, but it’s my girls, if ‘importance’ were a scale, who are the most important.  There are specific women from various points in my life who have greatly impacted me and continue to be my friends despite my wildly narcissistic and transient lifestyle.  And, the beauty of these women is that they are all different.

My oldest friend is someone who has always been supportive of me.  We met in the third grade in violin class and I have valued her opinion and her esteem and her friendship very highly ever since.  We had a small period of separation in college, but managed to reconnect afterwards and are still very close.  A very confident woman, she is also confidence-inspiring.  I never feel more encouraged, more empowered, than after I speak with her.  She took me clothes shopping for a “professional” outfit when I was temping, she sends me information on writing retreats and contests, she buys me dinner a couple times a year, and a birthday present even when I want to ignore my own birthday.  Always so career driven, she has served as an inspiration in my own professional life, making me believe I can forge ahead with the notion that I am a writer and might actually get paid one day to write.  I was happy to be a part of her wedding party when she asked.  She and her husband are one of the coolest couples I’ve ever met and have never, even inadvertently, made me feel badly about being single.  Their daughter is five months old and I know they are going to be excellent parents because they’ve been practicing on me for years now.  Every time I visit with them they feed me, give me career advice, and counsel me on my most recent romantic disaster.  When their kid is a teenager they’d be wise to remember how they’ve advised me over the years.

In high school I met my Best Friend (technically, all these women are my “best friend”, after all, like Mindy Lahiri says “best friend isn’t a person, it’s a tier”, but this one is my Best Friend).  My Best Friend is a funny woman.  She’s very analytical, enjoys making lists, and loves setting “life goals” — she was the only teenager I knew with a five-year-plan.  We met in a church youth group when we were sixteen and have been friends from the moment she introduced herself to me.  I don’t really know what drew us together initially, but a desire for a certain sort of connection kept us together.  Best Friend is a friend with whom I can discuss Important Topics.  From the time we were juniors in high school, she has been the friend with whom I discuss books, articles, philosophy, current events, the political impact of music, education, careers, travel, and religious matters.  We rarely talk about boys, men, love, or sex.  It was never a subject either of us brought up in high school and we rarely bring it up now.  Only occasionally have those subjects arisen, and mostly when she’d first met her now-husband and wasn’t sure how she felt about him.  Our friendship not only passes, but defines the Bechdel Test.  Which is odd for a Best Friend relationship, one might think, in stories it’s always the best friend who the protagonist goes to for sex or love advice.  It’s an entire category of movie character, usually played by Judy Greer or Jeremy Piven.  But our friendship has never been of that sort.  In high school it was sort of a relief, because there were plenty of other girls who were happy to talk about those topics ad nauseam and nothing else.

College.  So many significant things happened to me in college.  One, I learned that I am smart.  Highly intelligent, even.  Not like Mensa intelligent, not like best-friend-from-college smart, but of above average intelligence.  I also learned how to drink alcohol, kiss boys, and to travel independently.  Sophomore year I met previously mentioned best-friend-from-college at our tiny college, in our even tinier English department.  Originally an equine major, she moved to the dark side after taking a seminar on Tolkien freshman year.  She and I wound up in almost all the same classes Sophomore year, including a Theater History class where, I feel, we really bonded.  Self-centered moron I am, I didn’t realize how close our friendship was until after the opening performance of Fahrenheit 451 when she ran up to me, gave me a huge hug, and told me how well I’d done.  Starting then our friendship deepened significantly.  We were travel buddies during our semester abroad, she was there the first time I got really drunk, the first time I got really hung up on a dude, the first time I went home with a guy.  And I was there for her when she underwent similar foolishness.  We saw each other be incredibly silly about men, and make unbelievably wise decisions about our education and work.  We are each other’s favorite theater-going friend and she is still one of the first people I will talk to about dating woes.  All the things that brought us together in college — literature, theater, writing — are still our favorite topics.  She is lovely, generous, and supportive.  I see her the least of the four women I’m writing about today and, therefore, I miss her the most.  But I am always incredibly proud of her.

The friend I’ve seen the most lately is technically my boss.  We work for a seasonal outdoor education program where staff live all together on site, and recently I’ve shared a house with my direct supervisor.  We started working together in the spring of 2014, before that we knew each other a little, mostly by sight.  That first spring we worked together, however, our knowledge of one another turned from knowing a little about each other, to knowing everything about one another.  Staff relations that season were a little tense and few came to our house (even though that’s where the food is).  The Boss and I found ourselves, many nights and weekends, the only two hanging out.  A fun, friendly, chatty woman she and I quickly opened up to each other about a whole many things.  I used to lament that I didn’t have any Sex and the City friends, no group of women with which to discuss life, dating, and sex over brunch.  Suddenly, amongst other things, I had this: a woman I regard highly to whom I could unburden myself when feeling emotional, or frustrated about anything (not just men or sex).  She is a friend who would drink whisky with me when I broke up with someone and get excited with me when I met someone new.  The twelve months I was 29 turned out to be a particularly trying twelve months.  I was getting down about all the bummed out things that happened, sure nothing good happened that year.  But then I remembered the new friendship I’d developed with my housemate and colleague.  If there has ever been a bright spot, it has been her.  I am certain I would not have struggled through certain things as well as I did if it weren’t for her friendship.  I am happy she is there when I need her and I am more than happy to be there when she needs me.

The Girl Scout Law commands that one tries her best to “be a sister to every Girl Scout”.  Growing up with three older sisters, Girl Scout sisters, and, once I started school, a number of girl friends, I’ve always felt that line applies to all girls, all women, I chance to meet.  Sometimes those relationships don’t last, but others remain strong even when far apart.  That isn’t to say the latter is “better”, or “more real” than the former.  As Cher Horowitz says “all my friends [are] really good in different ways.”  I love all my friends for those things that make them good.  These four women, in particular, are friends whom I am exceptionally lucky to have because my life would be significantly different without them.

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Hate, Racism, Using Me to Kill Black People: Things I Won’t Accept

It has come to my attention that Dylann Roof, that little prick who shot up a church in Charleston, is using me as his justification for his crimes.  He’s using me, my sisters, and our maidenheads like some antebellum, Jim Crow era rationalization to burn Rosewood to the ground.  This is some Emperor Palpatine-level bullshit.  I do not need some hyped up jerkface to protect me from squat.

I did not grow up with many black kids.  There were a few handfulls of black families in my town, but for the most part our diversity was comprised of Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, Brazilians, Haitians, and Dominicans.  Lots of Caribbean influence, lots of Central American.  Some Black.  Since leaving high school, I’ve met a wider field of people: I’ve met British, I’ve met Greeks, I’ve met Swedes, I’ve met Chinese.  I’ve met Muslims, I’ve met Jews, I’ve met Rastas.  I’ve met criminals, and I’ve met upstanding citizens.  I’ve met farm-boys, and inner-city ballers.  I’ve met friendly New Zealanders, and douchey Australians.  I’ve met black girls who can’t stop touching my hair, and Ghanaian pastors who invite me to visit their churches.  I’ve met vegan lesbians, and queer Persians, and trans men.  I’m only thirty and I’ve had thousands of students and dozens of roommates from a great many walks of life.  I have had many friends, people who will be my friends for life, and those who were well-needed friends for the time being.  No friendship is superior or inferior to any other.  I love all of my friends.  My friends get to know me and understand who I am.  They have my back if I ever need them to, and I theirs.

Recently, I went on a pseudo-blind date with a man I met on the Internet.  My friend D—- encouraged me to go out with him and not to worry because he’d be there watching if I needed him.  I laughed and told him I wouldn’t need him (and I didn’t) but his offering to be there just in case was appreciated.  I can hold my own with a man.  I know how to handle myself.  There was a time when I didn’t.  There was a time, when I was younger, when I didn’t know how to advocate for myself with men.  I was inexperienced and unused to people trying to take advantage of me, and I found myself in an uncomfortable situation.  He didn’t ask me if he could touch me.  He didn’t ask me if he could do things to me.  I was wise enough to push him away, and he was kind enough to stop, but the damage was done.  I felt dirty and violated.  By a white, mid-western boy.

In my experience, which isn’t singular or unique, I’ve been fucked over by white men.  Almost exclusively.  Black men, in my experience, have always had my back.  I don’t feel as though I need any protection from Black Men.  I don’t feel that I need any protection from White Men, for that matter.  Same goes for Asian Men and American Indians and Caribbean Men.  My vagina isn’t a thing I need a man to worry about.  Women (all women) do not need a man to stand up and, on behalf of us all, make any decisions about our well-being.  We most especially don’t need a man to murder anyone on our behalf.  I will not take on that responsibility.

Far too often Women have been the justification for horrible acts.  Not any specific woman, but Women, in general.  As if we’re all in constant danger and we need the Menfolk to eliminate that danger so we can feel safe.  Quite frankly, I feel less safe with a man who thinks that is a reasonable argument.  It is as twisted as the man who shot women on his college campus because other women wouldn’t have sex with him.  Women are not some abstract concept that can be invoked as a rallying cry.  We’re not “Democracy”, or “Freedom”, or “God”, or other terrible reasons to justify killing other people: we are people.  We are individuals.  We each have a unique point of view and our own opinions.  If Dylann Roof had asked a woman if she felt unsafe from the “threat of Black Men” he would have known better than to use Women as one of his reasons for shooting innocent people.  Rather than invoking the concept of Women (alongside the notion that Black People have “taken over” the country), he should have just stood behind his unreasonable hatred.  It’s no better a reason, but it’s honest.

I refuse to be someone’s rallying cry.  I refuse to be someone’s concept.  I am a white woman, I am not a White Woman.  You may not capitalize those words and do horrendous things because of me.  I love all of my friends.  I love all people.  I do not accept the burden of Dylann Roof’s crimes.  His unchecked hate led him to shoot people, not my sisters, my mother, my nieces, or my friends, and certainly not me.  Do not use me as your excuse to kill black people.

My prayers are with the Charleston community today.  My love for them abounds.  I pray to God to give them strength and compassion.  I also pray that people everywhere stop seeing women as a concept, stop using us for their own purposes, and start seeing women as people.  So many times I’ve read the questions: why do we focus on race?  And, Why do we need feminism?  Because, my dear, there are those out there who still don’t see us.

So I dressed like Death

It’s been said
if a thing scares you,
if you don’t understand it,
you must walk a mile in it’s shoes.
See life from it’s point of view.
Embrace it’s way of life:
then
you’ll understand.

So.
I dressed like Death.

Painted a death-skull on my face.
Donned black robes.
Wove flowers in my hair.
I was a formidable character,
redoubtable in my presence,
striking in my purpose.
I was a force to be reckoned with:
La Calavera Catrina
reminding us of our own mortality, and how
much of what we do is fleeting.
I was hopeful this reminder of death
would bring about connection,
draw us closer together.

Like Death,
I am friendly and affectionate.
I hand out flowers from my hair,
gifts to friends and strangers.
I might not know their names,
but each rose ends up with someone over the course of the night.
Most are distributed in wild frenzy on the dance floor.
Some are lovingly handed to darling friends in a bathroom.
One is placed deliberately in a breast pocket.
Flowers of friendship, flowers of desperation,
flowers of childlike hope
each rose attempts to bridge the same gap;
A present from Death, a token to say
“We are the same. Let’s be friends.”

At the end of the night
I do not know that I understand Death
any better than I did before;
not unless she, too, tries and tries only to find herself
at the end of the night
empty-handed and the floor littered with petals.
But for each flower crushed into the brown and suspect carpet,
I have hope that one or two are still safely woven in braids
or snugly tucked in jacket pockets.
For of all the flowers distributed,
the one or two that truly matter will come back to me.
And the rest, I hope,
enjoyed the moment
of receiving a flower at all.

The Very Real Conversation That Occurs Between Brain and Uterus Every Month by Me, Rebecca

Brain Plushie available at IHeartGuts.com

The Very Real Conversation That Occurs Between Brain and Uterus Every Month

Most days the two organs don’t speak to one another, though they are actually very close friends. One is too busy managing the rest of the body that it just doesn’t have time to chat. The other is often too busy socializing with the various other bits that want the same things in life that she wants. She and these others agree Brain sometimes needs reminders of what’s what and, as she is the loudest of them, they have elected Uterus their spokesorgan.

Although, sometimes, I suspect Uterus is merely Vagina’s puppet.

  • Five days before menstruation

Uterus:

Heeeeeeyyy!!!! Brain! Guess what’s coming!

Brain:

I’m in the middle of something important, Uterus. I’m going to have to get back to you.

  • Four days before menstruation

Uterus:

Heeeeeeeyyy!!! Brain! Guess what’s coming!

Brain:

Uterus, I’m still busy.

  • Three days before menstruation

Uterus:

Brain! Guess what! Guess what’s almost here!

Brain:

Dude! Back off. I’ve got work to do.

  • Two days before menstruation

Uterus:

pssst! Brain! Brain! Brain!

Brain:

What?

Uterus:

Guess what? Guess what? Guess what?

Brain, sighs:

What, Uterus?

Uterus:

Guess what’s coming!

Brain:

Gawd, you’re annoying.

Uterus:

heheheheheeeeee

Brain:

I hate you.

  • One day before menstruation

Uterus:

(poke, poke, poke, poke, poke)

Brain:

Stop Poking Me!

Uterus:

(poke, poke, poke)

Brain:

Uterus! You little fuck! Stop poking me! I fucking know what’s coming!

Uterus:

Yeah, but, Brain, wouldn’t it be awesome if this didn’t have to happen every month?

Brain:

You have no idea.

Uterus:

Hey, I have to go through this too.

Brain:

Oh, yeah, sorry.

Uterus:

No problem.

.

.

.

.

But, imagine, how awesome would it be if we didn’t have to do this every month!

Brain:

Yeah, that’s be pretty great.

Uterus:

No lower back pain, no cramps, less grumpiness….

Brain:

Yeah, that’s be pretty sweet. But those meds that fuck with your hormones scare me.

Uterus:

Oh, no, yeah, fuck those.

Brain:

If only there were another way to make menstruation stop.

Other than menopause. We’re way too young for that.

Uterus:

For sure. We should take our minds off of this thing that’s coming. I think it’s giving you too much anxiety.

Brain:

It always does. But what can I do about it?

Uterus:

Wellllllll…… I can think of some things we could do about it.

Brain:

Like what?

Uterus:

Mmmmmmm, let me just move some blood around down here. See if that helps.

Brain:

Ummm???

Uterus:

Yeah, that’s right. Feel that? Doesn’t it feel gooooood?

Brain:

Mmmm…. Yeah… obviously. I guess.

Uterus:

Yeah, it does! I’m going to move more blood around down here.

Brain:

Dude, seriously? Come on. I mean, thanks and all, but I’ve got other things to do right now.

Uterus:

This is more fun.

Brain:

You are not wrong, but wouldn’t this be more fun with another person involved.

Uterus:

Hands down! Best idea you’ve had all day, Brain!

Go find someone else who can rearrange their blood flow.

Brain:

Uterus! You know it’s not that easy!

Uterus:

Bollocks! We’re young, all the people we know are young, they shouldn’t have any trouble getting it up!

Brain:

That’s not what I’m talking about!

Uterus:

You can find someone, I’m sure. You’re clever.

Brain:

Thanks, but that’s also not what I mean. I can’t just “go find someone” to have sex with!

Uterus:

Not with that jive-ass attitude, you can’t!

Brain:

You mean “realistic”?

Uterus:

I mean “stupid”! Let me move more blood around down here; it’ll help you relax.

How’s that? Now you can do it. Go find someone. Go ahead. Someone long and stiff!

Brain:

You’ve got to stop doing this, man.

Uterus:

Go ahead, you can do this. I believe in you!

Brain:

No. I can’t. Because it doesn’t work that way.

Uterus:

Fine, whatever… pussy.

.

.

.

Ok, fine, if you can’t do that, then let’s do the other thing.

Brain:

Ok, yeah, sure. I can do the other thing.

Uterus:

Won’t be the solution to our problem, but at least it’ll be something.

Brain:

Ok, let’s do this.

Uterus:

Mmmm, yeah, baby!

OH YEAH!

YEAH!

YEA–AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

  • Day one of menstruation

Brain:

OH MY GAWD, THIS IS THE WORST THING IN EXISTENCE! WHO CAME UP WITH THIS CRAPPY METHOD OF TAKING CARE OF THINGS!

Uterus:

Um, muthafucka, I told you it was coming!

Brain:

YOU ARE THE WORLD’S BIGGEST BRAT! I HATE YOU SO MUCH!

Uterus:

Look, this isn’t my fault. This happens every month. It’s been like seventeen years. You knew this was coming.

Brain:

THAT DOESN’T MEAN IT ISN’T COMPLETELY AWFUL!

Uterus:

Yeah, true: Abdomen is cramping; Lower Back is in mild discomfort, Upper Back ain’t too happy, neither. Got an ache up in your region. Yeah, this sucks, doesn’t it?

Brain:

THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING, YOU BITCH!

Uterus:

Not need to get snappy. I gave you a solution to this problem; you decided not to pursue it.

Brain:

WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

Uterus:

Last night. I made a suggestion, and you shot it down, as usual!

Brain:

YOU DIDN’T GIVE ME A SOLUTION! YOU JUST MADE THE NIPPLES ALL SENSITIVE AND SENT BLOOD RUSHING TOWARDS YOURSELF, YOU SELFISH CUNT!

Uterus:

Yeah, snobby-pants, so you would go out and find a dude to play with, but you wouldn’t do it.

Brain:

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?

Uterus:

I’m just saying this could be easily avoided if we were pregnant.

Brain:

OH MY GAWD, WHY ARE YOU SO FUCKING MEAN?!

  • Day two of menstruation

Uterus:

Hey, Brain.

Brain:

I hate you.

  • Day three of menstruation

Uterus:

Hey, Brain?

Brain:

I still hate you.

  • Day four of menstruation

Uterus:

Brain?

Brain:

Yeah?

Uterus:

Are we cool?

Brain:

Yeah, we’re cool.

Uterus:

Ok, cool.

Brain:

Sorry I yelled at you so much. I know you don’t mean anything by it.

Uterus:

I’m just trying to help.

Brain:

I know. It’s who you are. I was grumpy. I shouldn’t take that out on you.

Uterus:

It’s ok. I get it. I was grumpy too.

Brain:

Still… it’s not your fault. I’m sorry.

Uterus:

Thanks. It does suck, a lot. I know. Sorry the first few days are always awful. I’m not sure what to do about that.

Brain:

I don’t think there’s anything we can do. It’s just how we’re designed.

Uterus:

Yeah, I suppose so.

It’s almost over.

Brain:

Yeah, I’m really excited about that.

Uterus:

Me too.

  • Day five of menstruation

Uterus:

What do you want to do tomorrow night?

Brain:

I don’t know. I sort of want to go out.

Uterus:

That would be so much fun!

Brain:

Whoa, maybe, Uterus. We’ll see how we’re feeling tomorrow night.

Uterus:

Come on! Let’s make a plan! It’ll be so much fun! Besides I think the rest of the body could use a night out. It’s all stiff. It needs to move! It needs to dance!

Brain:

It definitely needs to stretch. Maybe we’ll do some yoga later.

Uterus:

That will be great. But we should also go out dancing tomorrow night.

Brain:

I’ll think about it.

  • Day one post-menstruation

Uterus:

Dancing? Tonight? Yes?

Brain:

Maybe.

Uterus:

Come on, Brain! You love going out dancing!

Brain:

Oh, yeah, loud music making me hurt and cheap alcohol making me fuzzy, what’s not to love?

Uterus:

Cut the sarcasm! We’re going dancing!

Brain:

Maybe.

Uterus:

There’ll be lots of stimulation for you! You’ll get to see all sorts of interesting things; there’ll be people there you can make fun of! I know how much you like doing that!

Brain:

I do like that…

Uterus:

And there might be some pretty people we can stare at.

Brain:

True…

Uterus:

Think about it. Ok?

Brain:

Ok.

  • Day two post-menstruation

Uterus:

Last night was fun.

Brain:

Sure was!

Uterus:

We should go back in a few days… or tomorrow… or tonight.

Brain:

Tonight might be too soon.

Uterus:

We could go somewhere else. Like that place that one dude said was good.

Brain:

That place is trashy.

Uterus:

Yeah, but that dude might be there.

Brain:

He was cute…

Uterus:

Yep.

Brain:

But a little skeevy.

Uterus:

But hawt.

Brain:

You only think about one thing.

Uterus:

Usually.

We’re going, right?

Brain:

Unlikely.

Uterus:

We can go somewhere classier.

Brain:

I’ll think about it.

Uterus:

You should. Because we should go out tonight.

  • Day five post-menstruation

Uterus:

Hey! Hey, Brain!

Brain:

Yes?

Uterus:

We haven’t gone out in a couple of nights. Want to go out tonight?

Brain:

I don’t know. Body is a little tired.

Uterus:

Body will rally! Let’s go out!

Brain:

I don’t think that’s the best idea.

Uterus:

What? Come on! It’s the weekend!

Brain:

It’s Tuesday!

Uterus:

That doesn’t matter!

Brain:

Yes, it does! We’re not in college anymore.

Uterus:

That’s why we should go out tonight. We are a grown woman! We can do whatever we want!

I’ll show you!

Brain:

Stop rearranging blood down there!

Uterus:

You need this.

Brain:

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon!

Uterus:

Yeah! Ain’t no time like the present!

Brain:

Uterus! You’ve got to behave yourself.

Uterus:

I’m bored! You never let me take control!

Brain:

That’s because you make poor decisions when I put you in charge!

Uterus:

I won’t do it this time! Promise! Let’s go out!

Brain:

No.

Uterus:

Relax, Brain. Feel the blood flow down here. Come on, enjoy yourself.

Brain:

Uterus! Stop it! I’m busy!

Uterus:

But it feels good, right? Just let it feel good.

Brain:

Why do I even talk to you?

Mmmmm…

Uterus:

That’s right. Just relax.

Brain:

No! Stop that!

Uterus:

Just a little more.

Brain:
You are actually the worst.

Uterus:

Let’s go find a dude.

Brain:

NO!

  • Seven days post-menstruation

Brain:

Uterus. Stop it.

Uterus:

I wasn’t doing anything!

Brain:

You know what you were doing. Stop it. Now.

Uterus:

Is this not the appropriate time for this? It’s after work, we’re free from responsibilities, we’re out… mingling…

Brain:

Not gonna happen.

Uterus:

But, it could

Brain:

No, I’m sure it could not.

Uterus:

We really can’t rule anything out, now, can we? The night is young and that one smells good.

Brain:

Stop being creepy.

Uterus:

That one over there smells good, too. And he’s cuter.

Go talk to that one.

Brain:

No. Stop it.

Uterus:

Come on! I can sense him.

Brain:

No, Uterus, that’s not why we’re out.

Uterus:

What? We’re out for a quiet drink?

We’re drinking vodka! That means this is a fun night! Let’s get us some fuuuuuuuuunnn!

Brain:

It’s just one drink with some friends.

Uterus:

Yeah, some friends who wouldn’t stop you from flirting with that hottie!

Brain:

The one that smells good?

Uterus:

The one with the hair. Damn, yeah; that’s nice. Take a second look.

Brain:

Gawd, he’s hot.

Uterus:

YEAH!! LET’S GO MAKE SOME BABIES!!!!!

Brain:

OH MY GAWD, UTERUS, SHUT IT! WE DON’T WANT BABIES!

Uterus:

No, YOU don’t want babies. I want babies! Let’s get some babies inside me! STAT!

Brain:

Do you even know what “STAT” means?

Uterus:

Like I care! LET’S GET THAT DUDE AND DO IT!

Brain:

Seriously, man? What the ever lovin’ hell?

Uterus:

Babies.

Brain:

Stop saying that.

Uterus:

Let’s make some babies.

Brain:

You are seriously creepy.

Uterus:

Come on! I want to do things that might result in babies.

Brain:

Calm the fuck down, dude. Babies might happen one day, but they’re certainly not happening now.

Uterus:

BABIES.

Brain:

Settle down! Not now. We are in no rush.

Uterus:

No rush? Wait! Did you say NO RUSH?

Brain:

Yes.

No. Rush.

Uterus:

Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?

Pfft, “no rush“.

Brain:

What? We are not in any rush!

.

.

.

are we?

Uterus:

OF COURSE WE ARE!

We are in the very middle of our child-bearing years, man! We are in the rushiest of rushes! It all goes downhill from here! We are beginning to lose our eggs even faster than we already were! It is going to become increasingly more difficult for us to conceive! We might have to take (shudder) fertility drugs if we wait much longer. Or, worse, freeze some of those little buggers. They’re only babies, they can’t handle all that cold! Don’t make them leave their warm, loving home, for that cold, indifferent freezer before they are granted the opportunity for true life!

Brain:

Dude, you are seriously dramatic tonight.

Uterus:

OF COURSE I’M DRAMATIC YOU WON’T LET ME DO WHAT I WANT!

It’s been so long. I just want a stiff penis to come over for dessert!

Brain:

Look, I know it’s been a while…

Uterus:

It’s been forever!

Brain:

Not exactly, but I promise it’ll happen again sometime.

Just probably not tonight.

Uterus:

I FUCKING HATE YOU.

Brain:

Of course you do.

Uterus:

When we don’t have anyone to take care of us when we’re old and senile it’s going to be your fault.

Brain:

Wow. Uncalled for, dude.

Uterus:

Whatever.

Brain:

Wouldn’t you rather we did it with someone who actually likes us, rather than some rando dude we pick up in this place? A man who respects and admires us for who we are, rather than what we are endowed with? Wouldn’t you prefer it if he cared about our well-being more than he cares about our width and volume? Wouldn’t that be so much nicer? Why don’t we just wait for one who feels this way about us? It’ll make the entire activity more fun, don’t you think?

Uterus:

I don’t care about any of that shit: I WANT ONE AND I WANT ONE NOW!

Brain:

Hey! Veruca Salt! Calm your ovaries! It’s not happening tonight!

Uterus:

BABIES!

Brain:

We really don’t need to concern ourselves with babies, man. You’ve got to believe me!

Uterus:

IT IS OUR JOB TO CREATE NEW LIFE!

BABIES, NOW!

Brain:

Ok, Uterus, there are seven billion people on the planet right now. It’s actually OK if we don’t make any. The species will continue without our contribution.

Uterus:

Babies.

Brain:

Not. Fucking. Happening.

Uterus:

Bay-Bees.

Brain:

I’m not talking to Hair Guy with the nice cologne.

Not doing it.

Can’t make me.

Uterus:

Ok, ok, so you won’t talk to Hair Guy, what about him?

Brain:

Who?

Uterus:

To our immediate left.

Brain:

Him? No. Not at all.

Uterus:

Why not?

Brain:

Because he’s a friend!

Uterus:

Right! He already loves us and he’s probably bomb in the sack. Best of both worlds!

Kiss him!

Kiss him now!

Brain:

Dude, ew, NO. He’s like our brother.

Uterus:

Babies!

Brain:

No, Uterus, no. We don’t want him. More importantly, he doesn’t want us!

Uterus:

Babies!

Brain:

Get a grip, Uterus.

Uterus:

BABIES!

Brain:

Gawd, I hate it when you get like this.

Uterus:

BABIES! BABIES! BABIES!

Uterus and Brain do not speak for the next ten days.

Not until…

  • Five days before menstruation

Uterus:

Hey! Brain! Hey, Brain, guess what?!

Uterus Plushie available aslo at IHeartGuts.com

The Day Before My Grandmother Dies

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The day before my grandmother dies
I’m on a bus heading for a celebration.
The bus is full and quiet,
it reminds me of another bus,
on another continent,
on a trip that solidified a friendship
I’d be worse-off without.
The memory makes the bus ride
less heinous than expected.

The day before my grandmother dies
I sip hot coffee and watch CNN in a bus station
waiting for a ride to a celebration.
A young man asks to use my cellphone;
His has been stolen, along with other things.
He’s wearing someone else’s shoes.
I am happy to help him get home safely.

The day before my grandmother dies
we are on the road to a celebration.
We chat about cotton candy machines,
puppets, and art.
The GPS interrupts our conversation, KITT
desperate to be included.
We ignore him as we discuss
the beauty of nature.

The day before my grandmother dies
a man gives a friend a precious gift:
a stack of ancient comic books.
We are preparing for a celebration.
Although they are old, the books
foretell our evening:
Aquaman assured enjoyment, and
Hulk-sized fun.

On the day before my grandmother dies
I wear a blue dress made in India,
purchased in Rhode Island.
My hair falls in natural curls,
I wear almost no makeup.
A fellow guest is excited, I
am wearing flip-flops too.
Another compliments my sweater,
she calls it: The Everdeen.
I am dressed for a celebration.

The day before my grandmother dies
I watch two people I love
mentally, spiritually, and legally
become a family.
They are the reason for our celebration.
The groom makes us smile,
the bride makes us cry;
a bridesmaid makes us laugh
when she pulls a reading from her bra.

The day before my grandmother dies
I witness the bitchin’est father-daughter dance
in recorded history.
They teach me how to celebrate.
I drink champagne and mead, and
am a party to lewd acts
committed by stuffed animals and men
who are often boys;
Which only makes me love them more.

The day before my grandmother dies
I, uncharacteristically, do not feel like dancing.
I celebrate, In Spirit, as I watch them
move, and groove, and twirl.
I want more champagne;
but if I had the energy to track down another bottle,
I’d be dancing.

Because the day before my grandmother dies
has been a long, exhausting one.
I hug my friend so tight.
I traveled far to help her celebrate;
Because, and it’s been weighing on my mind,
Life is sweet, and
Life is short.
Too short for them not to know
You Love.
Because you do love
even when you can’t dance,
and you do not spend the night.

On the day before my grandmother dies
I am overwhelmed
by Love.
From the family who invite friends
to a celebration that honors their only daughter,
to the stranger who lends her cellphone
to the boy who’s been mugged.
Love creeps in every word, and Love
oozes out of every action.

Because
on the day before my grandmother dies
we are built
out of Love.
From the bride to the groom,
to the guests, to the dog
pressed against me as we leave
the celebration behind
the day before my grandmother dies.

— Bex, August 2014

Get Lost

I was going to give someone a send off of “Don’t get lost!” earlier today (meaning ‘don’t be a stranger’, and ‘come and visit sometime’), but then I realized how much I don’t mean that.  I mean, ‘get lost, if that’s what you are meant to do.  But come back and visit every now and then, if you can’.

I love getting lost.  Both physically and figuratively.  Sometimes it can be scary, and sometimes it can suck, but the future benefits far outweigh the present qualms.  Being lost is exhilarating; not knowing where you are is exciting.  And, afterwards, once you’ve found your way out and you’re back home again, then knowing you’ve got the wherewithal to get yourself back is Most Excellent.  I used to get lost on purpose.  I’d walk around the city and go places I’d never been before.  Eventually I’d end up somewhere I recognized and make my way back to where I was familiar.  It made getting lost by accident so much less frightening.

Figuratively getting lost is weird, but also a good thing sometimes.  Once you’ve recovered it makes you not only appreciate, but understand who you are that much better.  Losing sight of who you are, yes, is probably scarier than not knowing your location, but sometimes we need to be reminded of who we are and who we are not.  A friend once lost sight of who she was, it affected our friendship very much.  Not having her support or friendship was very alienating and confusing for me.  She was lost to me, until she went to visit her mom and sister: they pointed out that she wasn’t being herself.  This is why this sort of getting lost is scarier than the other: not everyone has someone who knows them well enough to tell them when they’re not being themselves.

But, even if you don’t, I might still say don’t worry about getting lost every now and then.  People are inherently themselves no matter what happens.  We’re all still the same person we were when we were twelve we just dress better and talk differently.  As long as you know yourself, don’t worry about getting lost.  And, if you do get lost, you’re sure to learn something about who you are and what you can be.

So get lost, if that’s what you are meant to do: but come back and visit every now and again, if you can.

Red Wine and A Soak

[This is what I do on Valentine’s Day: write slightly bitchy, super short stories about being single and rubbing the benefits of being so in the faces of Smug Marrieds.  Sometimes I’m an ahole.

No matter how you’re spending today: I hope it’s a good one.  Love you all, Xxx Bex.]

Ashley had spent the better part of the evening being insufferable.  The Bates were very good friends of hers, but Jenny nearly drove a butter knife into their dining room table to keep from lobbing the thing at her sister-in-law’s face.  How her brother had married the biggest bitch from their high school graduating class was completely lost on Jenny.  But Jared was his own person, just because they shared a womb didn’t make them telepathic (although, how cool would that have been?).

“Would anyone care for some coffee, or tea?” asked Wendy Bates, the perfect hostess.

Jenny often told her friend how insanely unfair it was that she should be as gracious, smart, and beautiful as she was when the rest of them were so clumsy, inarticulate, and messy.  Wendy always laughed and told Jenny to stop being silly.

Wendy and her husband, Mark, had grown up in the same neighborhood as Jenny and Jared.  The four of them hadn’t always gotten along, but, by some miracle had remained close ever since Jenny and Wendy teamed up in the third grade to push Jared and Mark into the river behind the old mechanic’s garage.  Somehow that moment was a young Wendy’s way of telling Mark she was going to spend the rest of their lives pushing him into things he’d rather not find himself immersed in.  But because it was Wendy he never minded what sort of shenanigans she got him into.

Jenny loved her friends.

They were one of the only sets of married friends she had who didn’t make her feel like some sort of third wheel.  Jared came in a close second, but Ashley made Jenny feel like she was persona non grata anytime they were together.  Including, but not limited to, Ashley and Jared’s wedding (at which Jenny was the Best Man), joint birthday parties for the brother and sister, and family holidays.  Jenny’s one vicious triumph came from the fact that Ashley and Jared’s kids were already calling Jenny their “fun auntie”.

“Oh, yes, please,” said Ashley with a slight yawn.  “I’m probably going to be the one driving home tonight, thanks to Mr-I’ll-Have-Another-Scotch over here.”  Ashley poked her bony elbow into her husband’s ribs.  “And, Sylvie will probably still be awake when we get home.  We have the neighbor girl watching them,” she said in a stage whisper to Shelley MacIntosh who happened to be sitting near her.  Shelley smiled politely and made awkward eye contact with Jenny.

“Are the neighborhood kids as reliable babysitters as they were when we were kids?” asked Ricky MacIntosh, jokingly.

“Not at all,” replied Ashley as seriously as she assumed Ricky was being.  “I don’t trust this girl as much as I do other babysitters.”

“Like Jenny,” said Jared, aware his friend had been joking, but also wanting to give his sister the praise his wife never would.  “Sylvie is always passed out when Jenny watches them.”

“What’s your secret?” asked Ricky straight up mocking now.

“Sugar crash,” replied Jenny sipping her brother’s scotch before handing it to him.

“What!?” cried Ashley, ready to believe it so she’d have an excuse to stop having Jenny over to watch the kids.

“She’s joking, sweetheart,” Jared assured his wife.  “Knowing Jenny she plays really loud music and makes the kids dance until they’re too tired to move.”

“And what makes you so sure?” asked Mark.

“Because that’s how she always tricked our little cousins into going to bed whenever they insisted they weren’t tired.”

“And Jared, more than a few times,” added his sister, with a wicked grin.

“Is this true, Jared?” asked Ricky.  “Did you have epic DPs with your sister?”

“How do you think I stayed in shape for football over the summers?”

“Certainly wasn’t from working out,” interjected Wendy returning with cups of coffee.

“Thanks, Wen,” said Jared with a grin.

“You danced your cute butt off with us every weekend.  Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”  This time Wendy had the grin.

Ashley was also smiling; Jenny could almost smell the smoke emanating from her ears.  Jenny turned to Shelley.

“How’s your sister doing with the wedding planning?”

“Melanie’s driving me insane,” said Shelley sweetly.  Jenny smiled.  Shelley was her sister’s maid of honor, and helping her plan the wedding.  “Even Mom is getting annoyed.  Every time I’m over there to work on the arrangements Mom has an entire pitcher of vodka martinis waiting and ready.”

“Why?” asked Wendy.  “What is she doing?”

“Remember that Oxygen movie with Laura Prepon and Princess Leia and Not Hot Hispanic guy?”

“The one where the Bridezilla wakes up married to some Mexican kid after catching her husband in bed with the wedding planner and drinking too much tequila?” asked Jenny.

“Yeah, that one,” confirmed Ricky.  Jenny smiled at him, amused.

“She’s actually worse than that girl,” whispered Shelley.  “I almost wish she would catch Tony in bed with the wedding planner so we could end this nightmare.”

Ashley’s eyebrows practically flew off her face, she raised them so quickly.  Jenny wondered if those muscles could get whiplash.

“Aren’t you the wedding planner?” asked Mark saucily.

“Oh!  No!” cried Shelley, realizing the implication.  “I didn’t mean me!”

“We know what you meant, sweets,” said Jenny playfully pulling her friend’s hair.  She hoped the light teasing would stop the ideas she could see turning around in Ashley’s brain.  Obviously Shelley didn’t want to sleep with her little sister’s fiance.  First of all,  Shelley, who liked everyone, enjoyed her future brother-in-law less than she enjoyed planning his wedding with her uptight, type A little sister.  Secondly, Shelley was way too nice to screw over someone she liked less than her little sister, whom, incidentally, she loved fiercely.

“What about you, Jenny?” asked Ashley who could no longer sit around not speaking.  “Are you seeing any one?  It’s almost Valentine’s Day, you know.”

“Do those go together?” asked Mark.

The women ignored him.

“No, I’m not seeing anyone currently.  I’m sure you would have heard, if I were.  You know my mother, can’t keep the murderer on last night’s Law & Order secret.”

“Who taught her how to text?” interrupted Jared.  “I tell her I’m recording it and yet she’s always texting asking if I can believe the killer was so-and-so!”

“I blame Dad,” answered Jenny.

Ashley had a well constructed expression of confusion on her face.

“You’re not seeing anyone?” she asked again.

“No, Ash, I’m not dating anyone.”

“I could have sworn Tammy said she saw you at The Wildwood with a young man.”

“Probably not,” said Jenny, a hard edge to her voice.

“Jenny hates The Wildwood,” added Jared.

“Maybe it wasn’t The Wildwood.  But I’m sure, Tammy said she saw you last weekend at dinner somewhere with a young man.  Chez Antoine’s?  No, that wasn’t it.”

Tammy often mistakes me for that Laurie girl from the Leicester debate team who married then divorced April Bishop last year.  It may have been her she saw,” said Jenny breezily.  She turned back to Wendy and asked about a new piece of art in the hall.

“No, I know,” said Ashley before Wendy could answer.  “It was last Thursday at that new Creole place in Bolton: Limyè.”

“Oh, that?”

“So it was a date?” asked Ashley innocently.

“No.  It wasn’t.”

“Oh.”

“Why would you think it was a date?”

“Something Tammy said,” said Ashley evasively.  And then Jenny remembered what Tammy, Ashley, and her dinner companion all had in common.

“She told you who I was there with, didn’t she?”

“I don’t remember…”

“Yes, you do.”

If Ashley had, like she’d always wanted, the ability to shoot death rays from her eyes, Jenny would have been incinerated on the spot.

“Who were you at dinner with?” Jared asked his sister.

Feeling like a colossal jerk, Jenny smiled kindly at her brother.

“That’s my business, brother dear.”  She turned back to Wendy, determined to salvage the pleasant evening.  “You got that painting at the auction last month?”

The following hour and a quarter went smoothly.  The friends engaged in happy conversation about current events, politics, and the Olympics.  Jenny and the men swirled their scotch and waters and discussed hockey while the women discussed the handsome ski jumper from that snowy country they couldn’t remember the name of and the ice dancers costumes from the night before.  Finally it was time for everyone to go.

“Time to get back to the children, hubby,” crooned Ashley when Jenny appeared with her coat and purse.  “So stressful, isn’t it, parenthood?” said Ashley to Shelley whose perfect two year old had probably been sound asleep for the sitter for at least two hours.

“Not really,” said Shelley, sweetly.

“Wait till they get older.  Sometimes I just don’t know what to do with Tyler.  He has so much energy.”

“He’s a big fan of P!nk,” pipped up Jenny.  “Boy could dance to her all night long.”

Ashley smiled like she was holding in a fart.  Ashley had aired loud opinions Senior year when Jenny, Wendy, Mark, Ricky, and Jason Marquez went to a P!nk concert instead of attending the Senior Reception.  It didn’t help that Ashley, who never didn’t have a date to any event, had the biggest schoolgirl crush on Jason Marquez.  Her sense of self-entitlement and superiority to the loud-mouthed, tomboy Jenny Davis made it impossible for her to understand how Jason Marquez could possible prefer Jenny’s company to hers.  He was far too handsome and destined for success later in life to waste his time with the geeky, crass, unwashed, ready to skip very important events Jenny Davis.  He ought to, she was sure, be spending time with a like-minded, ambitious, regularly showered girl like herself who saw the value of traditions like the Senior Reception.

But everything worked out in the end.  Jared Davis proved to be as successful as everyone thought Jason Marquez was going to be; plus, he went to school on a football scholarship and very successfully obtained his MBA.  But Jenny was still a force to be reckoned with.

“Jenny, I don’t really think P!nk is appropriate for young children.”

“Come on, Ash,” said her husband.  “You play the clean versions, right?”

“Of course!  You can look over the playlist anytime you want Ashley.  I promise there’s nothing inappropriate for Tyler and Sylvie on there.”

“Oh, I trust you, Jenny,” condescension dripped from each of Ashley’s words.  “Jared, we really must be going.  Home.  To our house.  And our children.”

“Thanks for a lovely evening,” said Jenny to Wendy and Mark.  “I really must be off as well.  I’ve allotted at least an hour before bed for drinking red wine and soaking, uninterrupted, in the tub.  Talk to you soon, bro,” she added to Jared, and sailed out the door.

Some of what I wrote today (I like this Violet character, I think I might use her more).

Marta played with the strand of cottonodd teeth she carried in her pocket at all times.  According to Violet, the old crone who lived in a ramshackled cottage at the edge of Marta’s family’s fields, the cottonodd teeth not only repelled the Devil himself, but blocked his awareness.

“The Devil is an old codger,” whistled Violet through the gaps in her teeth, “who doesn’t know his cuckold from his elbow.  At the best of times, the barstard doesn’t know what his immediate minions are doing in his name.  He’s too obsessed with the Great Matter to know or care what is going on in his own metropolis.  If you want to move undetected by His Narstiness, you’ve got to add the feathers of the idione bird and pebbles from the Cavernous Quarry to your cottonodd strands.  That’s what will keep you, and anyone else, completely off his radar and those derelict deamons in middle management.”

Violet shuffled around her workroom, showing Marta what she would have to find to fully protect herself as well as the people she was trying to help.  The workroom was lined with shelves that held never ending jars of different substances, some of which Marta recognized, but many which she did not.

“You’re certain you want to go ahead with what you are doing?” wheedled Violet.

Marta nodded.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m certain.”

“You’d better be.  Your fate, if caught, is not a pleasant one.”

“What will happen to me?”

Violet waved away the question and turned back to her workbench.

“You know how to make what you’re trying to create?”

Marta nodded.

“I have the materials and the specifications.  All I need are the tools.”

Violet waved an arm around the room.

“I have the tools.”

Marta nodded and looked around.

“You’d better know what you are doing, girlie,” said Violet again.  “When the time comes you are going to have only yourself to get you through.”

Violet shuffled out of the room leaving Marta in a wake of doubt and warning.

Fragment.

“Welcome to the complex.  My name in Cyndi and I am in charge of the store.”  Cyndi pointed to a building with the sign Country Store emblazoned on it in bold red lettering.

Karla shifted her duffle from one hand to the other.

“The complex?” she said.  “I thought this was Pollialis Campground?”

“Oh that’s just our little nick name for this place.  Those of us who have been here for forever.  It was actually Manuela over there who gave it the name.”

Cyndi pointed at the palest white woman Karla had ever seen.

“Manuela, huh?”

“Yeah, she’s been here since she was a little girl.  I think she was actually conceived at the campground. Her daddy was the head ranger here for well on thirty years.  Her mama used to bake the bread and cakes and pies in the diner over yonder.  My auntie moved my brother and I up here when we were just kids and we’ve been here ever since.”

“Ever since.  All three of you.”

“Well, Christopher went to school for conservation and forestry for a spell and I took classes at the community college in town and got my business degree.  Manuela, she went off and read books and traveled a bit, longer than Christopher and I were away, but she’s been back for a few years now.  Her sister is Fredericka, she’s in charge of this place when Phil’s away and gave her a job, any job, just to keep some money in Manuela’s pocket.”

Karla nodded not too sure what she was getting herself into by taking this job.  She liked that she wasn’t going to have to pay room and board, she liked that she was going to be able to be outside as much as she wanted.  She even didn’t mind the idea of taking visitor kids on hikes.  But the gossip was a little strange.  She’d worked some jobs that came with drama built in, but she got to go home at the end of her shift and get away from it all.  By living at the campground she worried she was getting in over her head.

“Looks like Freddie has you staying in the Blue Cabin.  That’s a nice one.  It’s right next to Tommy and Bert’s, they’re in the Gold Cabin.  They’re good guys, shouldn’t bother you.  Right now, you’ve got the place to yourself, but it is set up for two so you might get a roommate later in the summer.”

Cyndi made like she was meaning to say more, but the women were interrupted by a shout from over by the Country Store.

You’re a fuckin’ toad, Christopher Montgomery!”  Manuela was screaming at a tall, good looking blonde man that vaguely resembled Cyndi, who let out a deep sigh.

“That your brother?” asked Karla trying not to smirk.

“Yes.” Cyndi sighed again.

“Just give her a few pointers!  Please!” Christopher was saying as Karla and Cyndi approached.

“It’s not my job to babysit your bimbos, Christopher!”

“It’s not babysitting!  She wants to learn!”

“She wants to learn so you’ll keep buying her things.  If she really wanted to learn because she actually fucking wants to learn she’d buy a book or watch more games.”

“No, no, that’s not it at all.  Why do you always think they’re so shallow?”

“Because they are.  You’re just too wrapped up in their looks to care about their lack of substance.”

“Your kidding me,” Christopher mumbled.

“Look, it’s not my fault your girlfriend doesn’t know who Carl Yastrzemski is.  And it’s not my fucking job to educate her!  You want a girl who is into baseball, find a fucking girl who is into baseball!”

“They used to date,” said Cyndi to Karla.  “If you hadn’t picked up on that.”

Christopher muttered a final comment to Manuela and stormed off.

“Yah, same to you, wanker!” she screamed after him.

“Manuela,” said Cyndi cautiously, “This is Karla.  She’s taking Terence’s position this summer.”

“Oh, hi!  I’m so glad you’re here.  Freddie has been talking you up ever since you first interviewed.”

“Thanks,” said Karla warily trying and failing not to look in Christopher’s direction.

“Sorry about that.  We’re unfortunately like that all the time.  I’m actually really nice.  I’m only mean to him.”

“You talking about me?” Christopher called over to them.

“You wish!” Manuela snapped back.  “Where are you living.  She doesn’t have Terence’s old place does she?”

“No,” answered Cyndi.  “Karla is in the Blue Cabin.”

“Well, come on, let’s get you moved in.  Let me carry something for you.”

Manuela took Karla’s duffle from her and started up toward the staff cabins.  Manuela was very friendly as she pointed out all of the other buildings and pathways and told Karla where they led.

“This is Rainbow Hill.  That’s you down at the end there.  Tommy and Bert are next door in Gold.  Then there’s Cyndi and Martha in Green.  Christopher and Ricky are in Purple.  Lily and Jane are next to them in Orange.  I’m at the end in Red.  Or Casa de Crimson, as I like to call it.”

The women let Karla check out her new home.  There was a nice solid looking porch in front of each of the Rainbow Cabins.  The door led down a center hallway with a bedroom on either side and a bathroom at the end.  There was a back door out the bathroom.  It was clean and tidy for being in the woods and having not been lived in for quite some time.

Since she had the place to herself she had her pick of bedrooms.

“If you like morning sun I’d take this one.  If you want sun in the afternoon, I’d go across the hall,” said Manuela.  Karla settled into the western facing room.  It had a bed, a bureau, a chair, a nightstand and a closet.  It was snug like a dorm room, but somehow more open.  She liked it, she decided.  It was exactly what she needed.  And she had it all to herself.  No more sharing a room, no more dividing a closet.  This was going to be a good summer.

Link

At Flynn’s

This is the piece I was working on today.  The one I started while waiting for the T yesterday, then while on the T, then at the coffee shop before work, then all day today (practically).

I still don’t know how I feel about it.  It would be lovely if someone else were to read it and tell me what they think of it.  Preferably not someone who has ever been to the church I went to as a teenager.  That would be great.  Well, except for you, B-Dog; you’re the only exception, I think.  Read it and you’ll understand…. hopefully.

.

22 Feb. 2012, 2:02 a.m.

OK I JUST REREAD IT (yes, its two a.m. — no, I don’t care) this thing has FIRST DRAFT written all over it… which is totally fine considering its a first draft.  Bear that in mind when you read it and tell me what you think about it.

I’m thinking the whole thing needs a major overhaul….