MARY

Mary had a little piece of lamb chop

left over from lunch

that she weighed on a white kitchen scale,

when all she really wanted was a tangy plate of barbeque

so greasy that her palm would grow wet from the moisture seeping through

her paper plate.


Her fleece,

an old, white pullover—

purchased second-hand,

at the Goodwill store down the road.


Everywhere that Mary went

her children had to go.

They bickered as she cooked dinner,

cried for another piece of candy,

and begged to eat Mc Donald’s

all the way to the bathroom where she barricaded herself

with a shot of vodka and a 2012 issue of Cosmopolitan

turned to “8 Ways to Dramatically Improve Your Sex Life.”

She cringed at each rhythmic knock on the door.


Mary had a small tear that almost formed

as she sat on her hands and knees for exactly one hour and twelve minutes

on a Friday evening

with a butter knife

scraping dried raisin spice oatmeal off of her kitchen floor

because she could not clean it up that morning

as she had to leave to drop off her children

and be at work on time–


Breathe,

because you are still not as drained as Mary.

I am not Mary,

I will write about Mary

And burn my index finger on a frying pan

thinking about Mary,

but I am not–


Mary had a grilled chicken salad the next afternoon

because she was eating lunch with friends

who also ate green, leafy salads,

and she never told them

that hidden in her Coach purse

was a Double Quarter Pounder.

Because she usually kept a Double Quarter Pounder handy,

just in case she was asked to lunch by friends who only ate salads.

Mary came home and checked Facebook

Where she saw a mother of three,

an airbrushed tan and a six pack

preaching to her,

“There’s no excuse mom,”


Her bedroom mirror accused her,

stretchmarks,

muffin top,

highlighted by black canyons under her eyes.

that night,

she slept,

and dreamed

that she stared into waves of Sharks,

with four attachments

and a retractable cord.

me punching adam

My ex-husband,

and still I wonder how many lady friends lingered

now that his child support and alimony

has reduced him to candlelight and Ramen Noodles.

Asshole.


My ex-husband’s mistresses,

life is not a Harlequin romance and he is not Hugh Hefner.


My ex-mother in law,

I guess I would be a troll too,

if I had nothing better to do

than hang out in my son’s basement

and peek upstairs to yell that the kids are too loud.


The lady who drives the blue minivan in the car rider line,

(keep honkin’, I can’t go any faster than the person in front of me).


People who leave flyers on my car,

if the silver crown appliqué reading, “Tiny Miss” doesn’t clue you in,

the bright yellow, “Baby on Board,” sticker should denote

that my demographic is not interested in attending the

green-laser trance party on Saturday night,

even if you are serving free beer.


The creator of Frozen,

more specifically, the writer of “Let it Go.”


Moms that look at me funny when I climb trees at the park,

let my children keep thinking that we go so that they can play.


The guy who hits on me at my kids’ Tae Kwon Do lessons

“Well, I haven’t seen you around this DoJo before,”

is not an effective pick-up line.


People who steal my chocolate,

my husband,

but only when he tries to steal my chocolate.


“Mom”petitors, I could care less about your 8-yr old’s full scholarship to Yale.

What concerns me?

The glowing green glob of mucus fresh from his nose

that he wiped on my child’s shirt.


The guy who bikes down Deacon road at 8:15 A.M. Monday through Friday

and refuses to stay in the bike rider lane.


That dimple-cheeked momma’s boy

who wears ironed socks and is never wrong,

who will try to make one of my daughters feel as though

she is no better than tiny pieces of dirt stuck on the bottom of his Nike shoes,

I will hunt you down.


and that preppy blonde who will tease one of my sons

and bitch at him because he said her name the wrong way,


as she strolls down a velvet aisle covered in hundred dollar rose petals

and her five-thousand dollar Tadashi dress.

I turn my grimace into a graceful smile,

bite my tounge,

and admire her boquet:

fake,

yellow roses.

canyondiabledragon

He speaks to her in sonnets– now,

written by Browning.

The edges of paper singed by moonlight.

He pulls a round container from his pocket,

dips his last bit of Skoal.


Words pour from his mouth,

flames from a menacing dragon

melting as they settle upon

butter-cream sand


and chafe the bottom of her smooth feet,

her eyes darkened like coal,

her mind dehydrated,

she walks quickly by the pink adobe house,

abandoned.


She reaches her grey Oldsmobile,

and closes its door,

the kind of thundering silence

that often foreshadows initial drops of salty rain,


the first to land softly on the dry sand

and run freely across its rigid surface.

threenager

Wanna see my Duplos?

I gotted them for Christmas,

Santa Claus comes when it snows

because he doesn’t come at ten o’ clock.


Do you want to see my batman cape?

I wore it yestertime,

Mommy washed it.

Batman goes fast

and him fly with his cape.


See my blue crayon?

I have red too.

Look at the wall,

see what I drawed?

I drawed my name:

Maverick.


Want to see my house?

I can showed you it.

This is the potty,

I pee in it and I get M&Ms.

Yestertime I stepped on the white floor monster.

I did not bitted me,

It bitted Mommy because her cries after her steps on it.


These are hats,

there’s two of them.

I wored them on my head outside

and Mommy gotted mad.

You can’t wored them outside

Mommy wored them under her shirt,

She hided them.


This is Gabby,

her’s my sister and hers a baby.

her likes to cry at night

and eat my toys,

her tooked my toys all day,

but it’s okay

her’s just a baby,

her doesn’t understand.

Fence post

Hello friends,

I hope you enjoy the new post.

I know, it has been quite some time now since I have graced my blog with horrible drafts of poetry, articles about domestic violence, or mocking the news. For that, I apologize. I won’t bore you with the details of a horrible semester that involved the death of Taco, our elderly Chihuahua, or the protesting and unrest on campus. I won’t even tell you the gory details of fishing coins out of the bathroom toilet to get it unclogged or ripping up our bathroom tile (still under construction). I’m not even going to share the relief of not only surviving the spring 2015 semester, but actually managing to get two A’s and one B.

My husband is the one who keeps pushing me to write on my blog; so here I am. In reality, I have had plenty of time to write a few lines; you know, locked in my bathroom while my children beat the door down because God forbid I have five minutes of rest. The crux of the issue is that many times I doubt my writing. I feel self-conscious about my writing and perhaps that is the result of too many papers being turned in at college and torn up by professors with red pens. Not that I do not like most of my professors, I do, I just wish that I could read a few lines of a major paper between the red marks. Maybe I feel timid about writing because for the first thirty years of my life I was taught to second guess myself. I read a lot and I think that so many wonderfully talented writers exist that I question what new element I can bring to the table.

Now, before this post sounds like one GIANT pity party (Don’t let me fool you, it may very well be), I also want say that I was thinking of deleting this blog until I checked my email one day and an old post of mine had a new ‘like’. Ha! Flattering after all of this time. It was kind of inspiring. So here I am, writing about absolutely nothing, reveling in my ramblings.

pillow protector All I can say folks is that my spring break did not go as planned. As the weekend neared and mid-terms were handed in, all I could envision was folded laundry, a clean pantry, and clutter free countertops. In reality, I was met with a horrendous migraine, which felt as though somebody had shoved an ice pick into my temple while my head was simultaneously being ran over by a freight train, six children home on three separate snow days, a leaky sink, a dishwasher that refuses to work, and a man at the mall who refused to sell me the pillow of my dreams. Don’t clean your glasses, you read that correctly: a man who worked as a salesman at a kiosk refused to sell me a pillow. I’m going to pause while you sit and reread that last sentence while thinking, “what the hell,” (I sure did). … … Enough, As my pain medication wore off, my husband and I found ourselves at the local mall. We happened upon a kiosk that sold pillows made of memory foam that claimed to help with migraines, allergies, and… you get the picture. Anyhoo, I put my head down on the first model and it was too soft; on a whim, I tried the next model and found it to be firm and exactly what I needed. Like the time I laid eyes on cake made of triple chocolate with chocolate icing and sprinkles (worry not, this cake did not last long), it was love at first sight; that pillow needed me. The salesman came rushing over to the kiosk (as though my husband and I were motivated enough to actually run off with one of these pillows, we’re both way too lazy to run) and asked if he could help us. I gladly told him that I would like to buy the pillow that I had just tried out, to which he replied that he would not sell me. Quite vexed, I asked, “why?” His reply, “Oh no– no, no no. This pillow is too hard for a lady. You’ll wake up with a migraine, you’ll be sore in the morning. I cannot sell this to you. Now this pillow (going to the first model I had tried), this pillow is better for you.” What the–? How do I get into these situations? How does this guy sell anything? Resisting the urge to scream at this fool about the fact that I am a paying customer who is willing to spend my money on a product that he is trying to sell and that any repercussions I faced, in terms of the pillow being too hard, would be a result of my personal choice, I asked him again to sell me this pillow. After triple-checking and asking him again to sell me the pillow and after his continued refusal, I finally gave up. I am resigned to accept that I will never find a comfortable pillow and when I do the salesperson will not allow me to buy it.  I am questioning many things now; I mean, should it be difficult to purchase a pillow? What other menial tasks will be met with such hardship? The next time I try to purchase my weekly Quarter Pounder with cheese, no onions, at the local McDonald’s, will they refuse to sell it to me because they are concerned for my cholesterol? What about buying that navy tank top that I have been eye-balling at the Belk? Perhaps a concerned sales associate would prevent me from making said purchase because it emphasizes my muffin top.  Just sayin’–