Me Too

When I hadn’t even hit puberty and you said, “She’s gonna be trouble…” “Better get a shotgun.” “Don’t you wish you had a boy?”

When I had in school suspension because my spaghetti straps distracted you.

When you were the construction worker I avoided on the dog walk at 12.

When I had to hop a stranger’s fence on the walk home from school because you drove your truck by for the fourth time.

When I went to dinner with you and I didn’t want to put out (still interested in a second date) but you dropped, “You’re only 19. You really think I’m gonna take you seriously?” and kicked me out of your car.

When you were my boss and called me a “Bitch” because I walked out from all your sexual harrassment.

When you called me a slut for making my own choices.

When you were the dishwasher and smacked my ass in front of customers.

When you said “I love you” after three weeks of dating and that gave you enititlement to my body.

When I caught you cheating and I ended up in the hospital. When I had to take a two year medical leave from school after what you did because I wasn’t okay. When the court settled with your plea. When you didn’t abide by the restraining order. When they didn’t believe me. When they asked how I got myself into that situation in the first place. When I drank you. When you saw me at the Zoo and locked eyes with my son. When I still learned to somehow forgive you.

When I saw you holding her car keys against her will.

When I had to put my sweater on her because her shoulder skin gave you permission to follow her.

When you said I didn’t look like I had two kids.

When you called me a, “100% bonafide milf” and I didn’t take it as a compliment.

When I had two sons and feared they would somehow learn from you.

When I age and know you’re still around, that I’m not the only one you’re crossing, that self defense classes are needed (not suggested) and that no matter where I go, there you’ll be in different forms… and somehow, I will still overcome you.

Me too.

Please Excuse My Time In Use

Please excuse my lack of calls. I think of you often and I miss you as well.
Please excuse my unanswered text. The response was lost but, not the words left
still ringing in my head as I cash out a guest with a wom-wom, “Thank you” I think left my lips that also left you to feel dismissed. I’m sorry. Please excuse my absence at the party. I wanted to be there but again, priorities. Not saying you’re not a priority. My life in double negatives, I begin to feel sorry. My practice in meditation diminished. Longing for a future that we give a cheeky kiss, sit down over coffee or tea or a beer and hopefully my mind won’t start wandering about things I haven’t held dear or who else is left I’ve shunned to sit down with over coffee. I’m sorry. Please excuse my self absorbed state where I cancelled our week-in-advanced date. I wanted breadsticks while we waited just absorbing. Please excuse the next week that comes. Or the next month, four packs of fresh breath gum I’ve been giving to strangers touring. Please excuse me of the mess. Of my house or of my dress. I turned the iron on but it went again unused just this morning. My hair was giving me a day and two little boys that need me most, well… I am first, their host and for that I’m not sorry.

The problem with me is my list of many things…to do and things dead before I’m dead to get ahead. Please excuse me while my time is taken. I’m sorry.

Saturday MornIng

I passed out at ten O’Clock last night. I woke up well rested in a gloomy living room so quiet I heard the furnace tick. 

I didn’t snooze an alarm. I didn’t run for a shower. I didn’t pack a diaper bag or a lunch.  I didnt rush to find someone’s homework (we still have to do). I didn’t change a landslide diaper that sometimes requires a bath while I’m putting on my eyelids. 

I didn’t forget the check for school pictures, the signed permission slip for field trip,the payment for daycare, the carseat for grandma, or a blanket for child…

I didn’t move.

I waited until I was able and not a second sooner, then made a pot of coffee (ten beautiful cups of it). I openned the curtains, loaded the dishwasher, poured a cup of Brita-Joe and added 5lbs of mocha creamer just because it made me happy. 

I sat down at the table, read some articles and listened for the thuds above me (first a jolt, then a leg out of bed, and then two feet pounding across the ceiling). I hear my three year old slam porcelain against porcelain and I laugh at the next 18 years of my life. I hear a baby cry and a dad get out of bed. 

I just sit here waiting like Santa’s bringing me presents on Christmas. I have a Saturday morning.

Flabby Arms Fly

I’d of loved myself so much sooner to see the artistic works of Medieval, Ancient rulers – an artists replication of curve before MTV. Real Queens, not a photoshopped hack job of Beyonce.

Today, the shit has hit the fan on bodily expectations for women.  Instagram is populated with obvious cropped waist-lines and butt implants and gym junkies and anti aging fruit from the center of the earth…. I’m not amused, and I do not find it admirable.

You can’t truly walk a life in vain, worried about the possibility of veins, can you?

I find it novel, a woman with lines, a life’s story behind each indentation.  A tired mom with a belly blossomed, carrying her weight full term.  A laboring bartender works long into the morning with eyes that sing a sad song – drives her own car home to a grade A daughter – can afford no make up to put on.  A matriarch of ten grows a garden – her hands stiff, scarred and arthritic – makes some heaven out of soup bowls -and keeps a fat family happily fed.

Real women who fight their days without fear – wave their flabby arms like wings – never letting their laugh lines miss the chance to crease – now that’s admirable.