secret ovaries.

There are plenty of things I should be doing right now.
I should be dutifully examining the memoirs of Benjamin Franklin
And composing a thoughtful and eloquent essay, no less than six pages,
Addressing the overarching theme of self-reliance,
And using anecdotes and episodes from the biography as evidence
To illustrate Franklin’s attempts at self-representation and self-promotion,
And possibly taking mental notes
So that I may use his tips
To one day become a better human being.
I should be studying the human atlas.
So my self-portraits stop looking like
Post-pregnancy, post-menopausal women.
I should be watching my wallet, and saving my pennies.
I should be tuning into the news instead of blatantly
Ignoring the madness that is what turns the world.
I should be drinking water instead of lemonade & vodka and pretending its summer.
Alas, I blog.

Oh, the things we do to not do what we’re supposed to be doing.

We went to a play that one of my friends was directing,
And I was on the verge of tears the entire time.
It wasn’t so much the plot
As it was the actual acting that got to me.
The actors and actresses were just so incredibly convincing,
Which, I suppose, is the point,
To pretend to be someone you’re not
And make the performance believable.
Regardless, they tugged at my heartstrings,
Ripped the organ out of my chest,
Still beating,
Threw it in a blender,
Pureed it,
And gave it back to me in a Styrofoam cup when I left.
I could barely stomach it walking back to my car.
But I laughed with them in their joy
And ached with them in their grief.
And I wondered, if they were capable
Of so easily emotionally manipulating me,
If, conversely, their roles ever got to them as well,
And the pain they were expressing
Was real,
Or, if it was
Just acting.
But then again, I’m a sap.
I almost cried four dozen times this evening whilst watching “Up”.

I think I have secret ovaries,
And I’m forever PMSing.
Without the pain.
Or the bleeding.

(I too want to bawl whenever I see those “save the polar bear” commercials)

I’ll know I’ve met the right man
When he discovers my metaphorical ovaries
And doesn’t flee the state.


But isn’t that what we’re all looking for?
Someone who GETS us.
Someone who doesn’t think you’re crazy
When they come home to find you taping paper birds to the ceiling,
Or taking dead pictures of yourself,
Or drinking wine out of coffee cups,
While wearing a paper bag hat,
And having a field day with a hot-glue gun and old wallpaper.
Someone who doesn’t think you’re completely insane
For owning more garage sale trinkets than decent clothes,
Or eating cake for breakfast
And secretly wanting to possess the ability to bear children.

(even though I don’t want children, not never).




I’m I sharing too much?
Fuck it.
This is why we write, isn’t it?
This is why we make art.
Because, when it boils down to it,
We’re all just sitting there screaming
At the top of our lungs
And no one seems to hear us
And we just want someone to notice
For someone to acknowledge our existence
Just for a brief second,
To reassure us that our convictions stand firm.
And that we’re not total basket cases.



I bought a cinnamon broom
And nailed it above the door.
Supposedly they’re supposed to bring luck to the household.
We’ll see.
I almost bought some mistletoe,

(I want nothing more than to kiss someone under the mistletoe.)

But decided against it.

(Who here am I going to kiss?)











At least we have a tacky Christmas tree,
Trimmed with tacky dollar store ornaments
And if I stand next to it, I don't feel so tacky.