Monday, October 16, 2017


This is a piece I wrote to submit to our second All the Sex Monologues, a fundraiser for Planned Parenthood, in which I'll be performing two monologues next month. It wasn't chosen, so I'm sharing it here. Imagine multiple male and female voices, crowding each other, slowing toward the end. In case it's not obvious .... me too.

What she said …

I don’t want to!
Get off me!
That hurts!
Please don’t!
I said no!
Get your hands off me!
Leave me alone!
I’ve never done this before. I don’t want to!
You promised you wouldn’t!
Let go!
I don’t want this. I don’t want you!
Don’t touch me there!
I’m afraid. Please stop!
No! I said no!

What she did after …

Got dressed and walked out
Took a shower so hot her skin looked boiled
Douched with vinegar and tears
Called the police and filed a report
Stayed in bed for weeks
Went to the emergency room
Dropped out of college
Threw her clothes in the trash
Cried and cried and cried
Scrubbed her skin until she bled
Slept in the closet for weeks
Walked with her head down
Never ever went outside alone
Got an abortion
Ate and ate and ate and ate and ate
Went to Planned Parenthood for an STD and pregnancy test
Threw out her short skirts
Cut her skin with a razor
Picked up the phone to call the police. Put it down.
Drank until she could sleep every night
Took too many sleeping pills
Kept the baby
Only wore sweats
Told her friends
Lied to her parents
Told herself it was her fault. She shouldn’t have led him on.
Plotted the revenge she was too afraid to take
Bought a gun
Cringed whenever a man’s voice got too loud
Ran away
Swallowed her voice
Wondered if she’d ever feel whole again

What they said …

Boys will be boys.
He was drunk. He’s not like that when he’s sober.
He didn’t mean nothing by it.
What were you wearing?
He loves you. He just doesn’t know how to show it.
He’s sorry.
Why did you go with him?
Are you sure that’s what happened?
Why didn’t you fight harder?
Be more careful next time.
You’ll ruin his life if you tell.
You have quite the imagination.
You shouldn’t have been out alone.
It could have been worse.
I told you this would happen.
You’re just trying to get attention.
It’s not like he actually raped you.
You’re just jealous.
He didn’t know what he was doing.
This is what it’s like to be a woman.
He says you’re lying.
You don’t want this to be on the news.
Your skirt was too short.
Your shirt was too low.
You wear too much makeup.
You looked like you were asking for it.
What did you expect?
Girls like you always find trouble.
It was just locker room talk.
If you’d given it to him when he asked, he wouldn’t have had to take it.
Best not to tell anybody.
You need to loosen up.
He was just having fun.
People deserve a second chance.
He promised he’d never do it again, didn’t he?
He’s served his sentence.
You need to move on.
Cheer up.
You’re not the only one, you know.
He was abused.
You must have teased him.
You need to get over it.
That’s just how men are. They can’t help themselves.
At least he used a condom.
He’s been going through some stuff.
I’m sure he’s sorry now.
Imagine how he feels.
It will be your word against his.
Can we talk about something else now?

What’s changed …

(exit stage in silence)

Saturday, July 1, 2017

The smell of summer nights

That moment when a storm is brewing a few miles away, and the temperature drops a little, so you open up the windows, and you breathe in a breath of clean(ish) city air. You feel grateful for a second night in a row that the acrid smell of burning yard waste or plastic hasn't filled your house .... yet. You take a little credit for that, because two nights before you finally, at the urging of a friend who rides those big red trucks, called the fire department out to find the pyro who was setting those damn fires that filled your house with throat-burning smoke every single night for weeks and put his flame out.

You let the dog out so he can guard the backyard from the stoop, turn on your tunes and start cleaning the kitchen. You're singing along to something classic that brings back memories of summers long past when wine was forbidden and kissing for hours in the front seat of your boyfriend's Ford LTD wasn't as long as his hands didn't slip inside your clothes..... When suddenly your nose slaps your brain and yells, "Hey, dumbshit! I've been trying to tell you there's a fucking skunk out there and given how quickly the kitchen filled with the stench, it's really close." Your brain sends a jolt of adrenaline through your entire nervous system, and you run to the door, jerk it open, and start yelling for the dog to come in now. He gets up from where he's laying on the back porch barely 3 feet away from the door and runs all the way across the yard instead. Frantically you yell at him to COME! COME HERE RIGHT NOW! And he looks at you from the back gate, as if he's deciding whether you're serious, even though you've never not been serious when you've used that tone of voice. Finally he turns and comes sauntering back across the yard where a skunk could be hiding in the shadows just waiting to ruin your life, trots up on the porch, and an utter disaster is averted everywhere except in your brain, which is still dumping adrenaline through your poor veins. Fucking skunks.

You pour a glass of cold Chardonnay and wish you had a bag of Lays classics to make you hate yourself in the morning. Oh, well. You'll find something else. Until then, bring on the lightning and the thunder and the rain. It's summer in the city.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Break on through to the other side

I thought I had a blog post in me today, but I realized nobody wants to hear about what an incredibly shitty day I had during an incredibly shitty week. It would have been a book. So I will pull the one funny thing out of this day to share.

It's not news to some of you that my friend and the beloved minister of my church died of a sudden and unexpected heart attack Sunday on a trip to Boston. It's been a terrible shock. I would like to write more about him, but I can't do it yet. He was my age -- OK, about 6 weeks older. It's always hard when a peer dies. Thoughts of your own mortality and all that. And as Miss Serendipity would have it, Greg and I just had a long talk about that a few days ago, about how we intended to live decades longer. But that's not the story.

Today I had to go in to have some face cancer removed. It wasn't as easy as I expected it would be, but that too is another story. As the nurse was preparing for the procedure, she asked me about my sensitivity to epinephrine. We talked about how it makes my heart race for a long time. I told her a friend had just died of a sudden heart attack, and I didn't think I could tolerate that today, the day after most of us got the terrible news. I didn't tell her that my dad had died at age 46 of a sudden heart attack as well, leaving my mom with 2 kids still at home. I was the oldest of 5 at 24. I just have this thing about not wanting to have, or even mimic, a heart attack. She said she understood and went back to tapping on her tablet.

As I sat and waited for the next question, "Free Bird," the anthem of my youth, came over the speakers. The doctor is about my age, and a guitar player and a lover of the classics, so that's what they play. It's a good vibe for me except these lyrics hit me like a gut punch .... "If I leave here tomorrow/would you still remember me?/For I must be travelin' on now/there's too many places I've got to be ...." Greg's last post on his Facebook read, "The adventure begins!!"

My eyes filled with tears that I tried to dam up. I looked up to let them run down my throat. Not the time. I needed to focus on getting the face cancer off my face.

The nurse asked some more questions, and I answered as the long "Free Bird" solo played through. After she left the room and closed the door, the next song came on. "I, I just died in your arms tonight/It must have been something you said/I just died in your arms tonight ...."

You've got to be fucking kidding me! Right?

I sat there on the surgery chair thinking about coincidence and the afterlife. I used to have a friend who believed her late son, who was killed by a drunk driver at age 19, was still around. He'd turn her radio station so his favorite song would play when she turned on her car. Or he'd help her find things she'd lost in her house. Thinking he was still with her, somehow embodied to reach out to her from time to time, gave her comfort. I didn't deny her belief. What do I know?

The fact is, I don't know what happens to us after we die. I don't believe in heaven and hell. Neither did Greg, because we're Unitarian Universalists and we don't believe in those old dichotomies, nor the trichotomies either. In fact, Greg and I had talked early on about how we didn't believe everything happens for a reason, much as people would like to think it's true. Mostly shit just happens. Sometimes good shit happens. Sometimes really shitty shit happens. Trying to make sense of it, or trying to fit it into a religious mold, can either comfort you or it can make you fucking crazy. Greg and I were of the latter category. The shit just happens category.

But we also agreed that shit happens that is just too strange to discount. And then we don't know what to think, but it's the mystery that keeps life interesting.

And so I thought for just a second, What if Greg hasn't passed on from this world just yet? I mean, it was not his time to go. He had a lot more good work to do. What if he's hanging around for a while before he crosses over to whatever is or isn't on the other side of this life? What if Greg is fucking with me?!?

I kinda laughed at that idea. I didn't feel like laughing today, but I kinda laughed then (because I didn't know the hell that was coming, but that's another story). I had the urge to send Greg an email when I got home and tell him maybe things really do happen for a reason. Just to give him a laugh. Of course, I couldn't do that ..... And the song played on to the end.

And the next song came on. I wasn't really listening until these lyrics jumped out: "Whether you're a mother or whether you're a brother you're stayin' alive, stayin' alive ...."

"You have got to fucking be kidding me!" I said aloud. "Seriously, Greg, this is hilarious!" And then I thought, because of course the dead can read our minds, I wish I could believe you're really in this room distracting me with the golden oldies of our generation. And I really wish I could tell you about this, my friend, because this is some good serendipity. Thanks for the laugh.

I couldn't wait to see what was next, but the nurse came back in with the doctor, and I had to pay attention to getting rid of the face cancer. By the time I was listening again, the moment was over. Maybe Greg moved on and played tricks on other people. I dunno. I just know it was one of the best things that happened today, and a lot of the rest of it was spilled milk compared to losing Greg but ..... well, you've got your own shit to deal with, don't you? Stayin' alive. Stayin' alive.

Well now, I get low and I get high
And if I can't get either, I really try
Got the wings of heaven on my shoes
I'm a dancin' man and I just can't lose
You know it's all right, it's ok
I'll live to see another day
We can try to understand
The new york times' effect on man

Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive
Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin'
And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Homemade cottage cheese ..... or not

A friend posted right on my Facebook wall the other day that she wanted me to do more blogging, and I thought, IKR. So do I! I wish I'd slam a post up here every day of 2017 just to show that bitch I'm not giving up. (I meant 2017, not my friend.) And then I promptly scrolled on down through my feed looking for something incriminating to share about The Donald instead of writing a blog post.

But back in the far, unaddicted recesses of my mind, I remembered. I remembered my poor, moldy, neglected blog. And today, as I was about to post some random shit on Facebook yet again, the thought elbowed its way past all the other thoughts about what to fix for supper and how I need to mop the kitchen floor and I promised Coraline we'd read our book and I need to make a list of stuff to take on the bus to the march on the 21st and ..... bam. I could post this shit on my blog, because it might be the single most interesting thing that will happen to me this entire day!

Short story short, I was trying to make homemade cottage cheese, and I made something else instead. Not sure what. I followed the directions on a website for making cottage cheese with raw milk. I put about a quart of raw milk into a bowl and left it covered with a cotton towel on the counter. The next day, I skimmed off the sour cream, which was kinda weird and stretchy. More like a skin than a cream.

The milk was supposed to curdle into cottage cheese within a couple of days, but that shit just sat there. For days. Three days at least. (I can't really remember when I set it there.) And it didn't curdle.

I might have forgotten to check it for a couple of days. I get busy doing things I can't remember the next day.

Today I remembered to lift the towel. And at first I thought it still hadn't done anything. Just like a fucking last-minute science fair experiment, like a potato battery or the life cycle of bean seeds. Out of curiosity and a desire to avoid scrubbing the kitchen floor, I pulled out a spoon and stirred it around. Damn. It had changed after all, but not into curds and whey. It has changed into some kind of yeasty-smelling stuff the consistency of yogurt. Very little whey. No wonder Little Miss Muffet ran away. She wasn't afraid of spiders. She was afraid of what was growing in her bowl.

I'm still debating whether to taste it. I don't want to die before my first ever march on Washington DC. That would be cruel. And unnecessary, given the readily available cottage cheese just sitting there in the Kroger dairy case. Also, I've been doing so well eating low carb since the first of the year, and I have no idea how many carbs might be lurking in that fermented bowl of what used to be raw milk.

I put the towel back on and left it there. It might not have finished transforming. Also, I need to mop the floor before I taste it. I'd hate to kill myself with a failed science experiment and leave a dirty kitchen floor behind. How embarrassing would that be?