In Which a Confession and a Wish Occur.

I can’t be a Bitch.

There, I said it. My ex-husband may not agree, though, I have a suspicion that he might. Our divorce could have been way worse.

I have always wanted to be a bitch. To call the douchebag out in the bar. To shove the pretty girl telling me to “move back” at a concert. Get all up in someone’s face. To tell off the woman in the business suit that she is a horrible person for parking in the handicapped spot at PetSmart “just to grab Fluffykins some food.” But, I just can’t.

Seriously. The worse thing I have done is put an open barbeque sauce packet on a guy’s windshield because he thought it was funny to pretend he was going to run over my son in his stroller.

In my mind though, I do horrible things. Pour gasoline in the ex-boyfriend’s basement and then light a match. Pour vinegar into the pots of his most precious plants. Set the shed at the house I spent most of my marriage in on fire as a symbolic gesture. I put ex-lax in the mean girls brownies and spit in the new girlfriend’s shampoo. I imagine I scream at “that cute guy” everything he did wrong to hurt me, then point out how small his penis is and he doesn’t date for years. I have the potential to be a monster.

But instead, I admire from afar those who just say what they feel, risk it all and don’t care if anyone likes them for it. They trust in who they are.

My sister has always been known for not taking shit from anybody. She threw boys up against lockers for being uncouth in high school. When a couple of boys spit ALL over our bikes in grade school she made sure the boys who did it were not well liked and for one in particular, she kept his feminine hygiene product sounding last name memorable until high school graduation. This was before we called people douchebags. My sister is a revenge trendsetter. I’m in awe to this day.

My sister and I also work together. One day, our new boss was trying to be funny and throw paper at her while she was talking to someone. I told him, “You don’t mess with her. Trust me. She has been the one NOT to mess with in my family, forever.” I don’t think he took me seriously, but trust me, I think he is learning.

My brother is a quiet badass. Just hangs out and chills out but if someone messes with his sisters, all bets are off. He and my younger sister were at a hardcore show when some guy, probably messed up on meth or something, kept slamming into my sister. My brother pushed the guy away as one does at a hardcore show but the dude kept coming back. So my brother punched the guy IN THE FOREHEAD.

Two days later, he found out he had broken his hand.

Hardcore, indeed.

So, see, I am not a bad ass. I’m more like a wimp. My anger comes through in the metaphors of my poems and even then, it is more like pain and melancholy. And I guess I fear that bringing all of that potential bitch energy to the page would just turn the language into a rant or some other non-eloquent movement of words. Perhaps, I am meant to deal with everything life throws at me in my own way but sometimes I feel it would benefit me more if I could embrace my inner bitch. Maybe she just isn’t there and instead I am made up inside of lost souls and battered saints.

Ugh…that does sound like something I would say.

art: "Set on Fire: (2009) by Kristoffer Zetterstrand

What a louse-y day that was

Last Wednesday morning I sat up in my office, transcribing as usual. I like to get an early start since I've been working extra hours, so I usually get up at 5:30 or 6 to start working. My kids come up to say good morning to me and then they are up and down until it's time to head for the bus, for my older 2 at least. That day, my 7 year-old daughter, let's call her Zoe, because she saw in her baby book that that was a choice we thought about and she now wishes it was her name,came up to have me fix her hair in pig tails. Zoe's hair is coffee brown, rich and thick and a little longer than chin-length. Ever since she got it cut so short, it's shiny and absolutely gorgeous.

So she turned around and I began to part her hair to do her pigtails, and that's when I saw them. Eggs. They had to be eggs. Tiny white pouches attached to her hair, not at the root but along the shaft. There weren't a ton, but enough for me to know it wasn't right and wasn't just flaky scalp. i have an itchy head for whatever reason, especially if I don't wash my hair every day, so when she'd said the week before that her head itched, I dutifully checked it and yep, her scalp right on top was a little flaky, but nothing unusual. But this time I just knew. I told her to go downstairs and have her daddy check it out. My partner didn't think it was lice--he'd had it when he was younger, and he remembers, distinctly, sitting on the floor in his living room with his head on his mom's lap on top of a paper towel, while she used a nit comb to pick the lice and eggs out. It hurt like hell. his mom would show him the lice and then crush them with her fingernail, and it made a popping sound. So he tried to get the eggs out and pop them, and when they didn't pop, he assumed it wasn't lice.



So I showed my partner and told him I had looked up pictures, which I had, and those were definitely eggs. We called her in sick to school and my partner went and got some special shampoo. Yes, I put pesticides in my daughter's hair. And I thought about not doing that. My partner's parents didn't have money for the shampoo, so there was a lot of nit-picking and sore scalps.

Now, my partner goes to work at 12:30 nearly every day. I'd asked him to shampoo her and then when he left I could comb it out. Mysteriously, he ran out of time to shampoo her, so when he left I put her in the bath and put the shampoo on. it has to go on dry hair and sit for 10 minutes but no longer. As soon as I got it all in there, she said her head itched, so I found a toy and began to scratch her head with it so as not to touch the shampoo I'd just put on her poor little head. So, we shampooed and then I had her sit on the bathroom floor while I combed with the nit comb. And at first, I wasn't going to use the gel that came with it, because you had to wash that out too. But then, I saw a louse. I wiped the contents of the comb on my towel, and I said to Zoe, "Oh. there's one right there. Weird, huh?" I was not freaked out, as I thought I would be. I HATE bugs. Spiders are the worst, but all insects make me jump. A fly landed on my desk once in high school and I screamed. But I certainly didn't want Zoe to feel badly about the stupid lice, or to freak her out. So I kept combing and wiping. I couldn't really tell what I was getting, on account of the gel was all foamy. And then...


"Mom, that one's moving," Zoe said. I whipped my head, and yep, that little fucker was moving. I pressed on the louse with the comb thingie, and it didn't die. I kept crushing it. Soon, more were joining it, moving slowly in the goopy gel mess on my lap. And I even saw a couple on her FACE and her NECK. GAHHHHH! And you guys, her hair is so effing thick that it took about an hour and a half just to comb it out. And then we rinsed it again, and that was it. I had to get back to work--I'd already been delayed for several hours, and I knew I'd be working until bedtime. But first, I had to wash all of the kids' bedding and seal up their stuffed animals in plastic garbage bags. My three kids all sleep in 1 bed, for some reason, even though they have a bunk bed, and I was very nervous the other kids would get it. My youngest girl, at three, has hair down to her butt when it's wet. She has this fine hair, thick but fine and very tangly, and curly. Ringlets.

I think I got lucky. Next time we checked Zoe, she was clear. She still is, and the other kids haven't gotten it. I mentioned my itchy head earlier, right? Well, now every time I scratch I'm paranoid. But my partner says I'm clear. This appears to have been a comparatively mild case of head lice, and I'm soooo grateful for that. Because I simply do not have time for lice right now. I'm spoken for every minute of the day, and those damn lice have taken enough of my time. Good riddance, you little assholes.

Rhea (finally) Says Hi

Choosing the name “Rhea” was not intentionally big-headed. I was looking for a motherly goddess who was earthly and smart and whose name started with the letter “R.” I found places where Rhea, the goddess, was referred to as the “inescapable mother,” and seeing as I often sit home stalking the Facebook profiles of my older children, I thought perhaps this was a godly chic I could relate to. The truth is (as I’ve come to see it), Rhea was one mighty awesome mythical mother goddess. She’s old, established, loud, and smart. She rides lions. She fools Time. She sets shit in motion. Her place in the history of all being is quite purposeful. I like that idea – of being purposeful, of making an impact, of stirring shit up.

Rhea was a Greek earth goddess, the daughter of Gaia and Uranus, a.k.a. Earth and Sky, gods of Mt. Olympus. Rhea was the mother to Demeter and Hades and Poseidon and even Zeus for crying out loud. Her brother and husband (!), Cronos, castrated the father Uranus (a plan set in motion by his mother Gaia who had provided the sickle with which to do it). Without his penis, Uranus was massively weakened, downright ungodly, and surely highly distracted, so Cronos was able to defeat him. Cronos and Rhea became king and queen of the gods during the Golden Age. Cronos came to fear his own children might indeed strive to cut off his penis so he decided he would eat all of his offspring. Naturally.

The most glorious story is of how Rhea saved her boy, Zeus, from being eaten up by his father, Cronos also Kronus, the Father Time, also Saturn (in Roman circles). Rhea was smart and instead of handing over her son to be popped like a pill, she handed over a stone the size of an infant swaddled in cloth. Cronos swallowed the pseudo baby (then burped?). Rhea hid little Zeus in Crete where little Zeus suckled the tit of a goat or a cousin or a cousin who was in fact a goat. When Zeus was grown, he did indeed dethrone Cronos (see: Clash of the Titans) and forced him to vomit up all of his children. However, it is good to note that before Zeus came to power, humans were said to have lived throughout the Golden Age rather blissfully. There was no pain, death, disease, hunger, or any other evil (aside from gods eating their babies and whatnot). When Zeus came to power, he put an end to humankind's happiness – all thanks to Rhea, really, who was just trying to keep her son from being ingested. Luckily, the bad ass Athena came along and ripped herself out of her father’s skull. This is my best understanding of a complex story, a beautifully complex story.

The name “Rhea” comes from words meaning “flow” and “ease.” I like this because I consider myself easy-going and open-minded (all considered). (The name is also – somehow – connected to the word “pomegranate,” and I like pomegranates just fine too.) It takes a lot to stress me out, to keep me from walking right through a storm. I have learned that storms are livable, and of course storms are tough and scary – and beautiful. They teach you to grow your roots deeper. The deeper meaning behind “ease” and “flow” lies in the fact that Rhea represented the eternal flow of time and generations as the great Mother; the "flow" was menstrual blood, birth waters, and milk. Although the act is not 100% pretty, the livid physicality of the act of reproduction is undeniably gorgeous. I’m quite familiar with it; I’ve birthed four children, the first of which was in 1990 when I was 16.

In art, Rhea is often depicted on a throne flanked by lions or in a chariot pulled by lions or actually riding a lion. The lion was sacred to this mother of the gods because it was declared the most important of all animals on earth (see: Lion King). I love lions – particularly lionesses. I love the idea of the pride more so than the muscle and the mane. I love how the pride is self-sustaining and safe, a group of female lions coming together to raise future generations, to make sure all have food, to protect one another while they sleep.

I like the stories of Rhea as a goddess who sat among the people announcing her ever-presence by beating on a bronze drum, warning the world to take heed of her oracle, her oracle that could announce greatness or doom (most often doom, given the whole rise of Zeus alongside misery). I like to think of writing as an oracle of sorts. I am still in the process of fine-tuning my declarations, of shaping and tightening my drum. Thus far, I have learned that children do in fact strive to chop off their father’s penises (if only metaphorically). Young people often fail to choose their lovers well. Parents make incredible sacrifices, and, sometimes, their children still grow up to make terrible mistakes or to be pompous assholes. I’m not sure what there is to do about any of this. One day, I might have all the answers. I’ll give you my words.

Post-Divorce Dating is a Writing Exercise

Being single for the first time since I was in high school has been weird for me.

When I had been married for 5 years, I started seeing stories in the news about all the inappropriate things kids were doing on the school bus and learned what a “rainbow party” was. And it freaked me out. When I was in high school, there were still grungy riot grrrls who wore black eyeliner, knew who Mia Zapata was, didn’t take any shit or do anything they were told and guys still thought they were hot.

So when I found myself back in the world of dating, I think there was a huge learning curve. The first guy I spent more than one date with, let’s call him “Section V” because sadly, the last section of my thesis revolves around the fumblings of feeling something for him, this someone besides my ex-husband. Turns out, a year later, he is a manipulative, lying douche bag.

Oddly, I can talk about my dating life with my ex-husband (Yeah, yeah. It’s weird. We’re FREAKS. Whatever. Judge all you want…it’s just how it is) and he made the observation that perhaps my abilities to find a decent non-douche bag were not very good as I first stumbled out of nine-and-a-half years of marriage. And I think (I can hear the ex-husband patting himself on the back now…sigh) he is right. I just needed a guy who would say the right things and let me cook him dinner so I could feel domestic again. I was douche blind.

But on the upside, these events of crashing and burning with “Section V” and other men have made for great metaphorical weirdness in my poems. Men say some pretty crazy shit. Men also do some pretty crazy shit and women (I am talking particularly about me here) don’t do much better. But I am lucky because I find interactions between humans, especially those trying to care about each other (or giving the illusion they care) horrifyingly fascinating. Weaving together human contact is imbedded in the core of humanity and man, that isn’t easy. To give you a metaphor: you have to wander through the corn maze and sniff a lot of pumpkins before you learn to tell which one TRULY isn’t rotten. Apparently, I like finding a foul smelling gourd and then writing about it.

It is in these times, post-relationship and trying not to hurl eggs at his house, I can sit down and write a poem to focus. And the restraint in trying to use language to pinpoint my missteps, figuring out how exactly to juxtapose my perceptions against his actions in the relationship, and organizing it all brings about a reflective place inside me where poems can grow. Even if they are just about apple pies, hotel room doors closing or what his note said when it was over.

So, to those men who have mingled with me this past year: take heart…at least I wrote some poems about you.