Tuesday, November 30, 2010

These are a few of my favorite things...



I NEED AN INTERVENTION!! They, meaning the savvy, conniving, retailers of America, lured me in to the stores with lights, shiny stars, cheap tricks and promises of holiday bliss. Oh...blessed black friday. I vowed to never go back to sterile arms again, but alas, I failed.  I am terribly human. 

"Hello, my name is $%$*&$ and I am binge shopper."  There, I said it. I am the American consumer.  The ultimate economy stimulator.  In my closet I have two unworn bras from Victorias Secret, one pair of fresh, shiny boots from Nine West,  and drawer of sweaters with H&M tags still hanging on them.

Please, someone, intervention me! Email the lovable Suze Orman so she can deny me the new Macbook I am typing on, with a racially tinged "Girlfriend." Call Sandy or the bald guy from A&E;  trick me in to coming to a personal interview;  have all my estranged family and friends gather around and read notes on napkins about how my binge shopping has affected them. I'll tantrum wildly and say "No, I won't go." Then grandma will come rolling in with her oxygen tank to deliver the final blow. And I'll say "Yes" and we will all cry and hug as they push me in to the van. I'll be off on the plane to some no-name facility, which I'll probably break out of in a week. But hey,  I deserve the experience. 

Damn Oprah and her favorite things!

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

small pox and pilgrims

I started my first and only gratitude journal three years ago. A week after I began listing my gratitudes, my mother died. I haven't allowed myself to be grateful for anything since then.

There is no overwhelming joy. I was the saddest to see it go. I take no comfort in stability. No solace in consistency. Everything must change. This I know.

Perhaps my response is not logical, but I. Am. So. Afraid.

Three years later, there are glimpses of healing. This Thanksgiving I am grateful for teeth, a nose, ears and feet. God wouldn't take those away from me. I think.

My mind randomly drifts the indigenous peoples--so grateful for the little trinkets and stones the pilgrims provided. Little did they know that the pilgrims also carried small pox in their sleeping bags.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

one request

Don't feed me no tepid love
like stale bath water and food warmed over again

I don't want my love auto-tuned
looped and pulled for primitive ears
Leave me be my sour notes
sloppy highs
and sobering lows

Don't put my love on cruise control
smooth middle of the road
rock me through the bends and curves
press down hard on me

I want my love unwashed
Feed it to me unruly and matted
Like red fire, let smoke rise up to choke me