Friday, January 29, 2010

snuggies, a poem

We fell asleep in our snuggies
And when I woke up next to you
I went right back to sleep
And when you woke up next to me
You went right back to sleep
And we proceeded like that
Until well into the afternoon
And we were both so hungry we had to force ourselves off the futon
And into the café
Where we shared a turkey sandwich
With avocado and cheese and sprouts and tomatoes
And you took the tomatoes off your sandwich
And I asked you
Why you didn’t tell me that you didn’t like tomatoes
And you told me that you knew I liked them
And I felt warm like I was still wearing my snuggie
And your feet played with mine under the table
And we went back to the futon
To do it all again
The movie, the wine, the rain, the coziness
The very best weekend

Thursday, January 28, 2010


Last night, we had craft night, which morphed into TV, cheese, and chat night, which was perfectly fine with me.

I really want to take a class in grammar because I am constantly confused about commas. Maybe I just need to watch a bunch of School House Rocks tapes. Conjunction Junction, what's your function? That would certainly be more fun.

Today, at lunch, we had two over-attentive servers. One was really cool, the other was super annoying. It's funny how fine the line is between comedy and obnoxiousness. And the thing is, the most annoying people are the ones that think they are funny. Maybe that's what makes someone annoying- their lack of self-awareness. At least I know when my funny isn't all that funny.

I am not sure what I'm doing with my stories. They're all these little vignettes, and they're not very expansive. But, I like to read pieces that are short, and I like to write that way too. I guess the point is, I'm writing. That is my goal, and I am doing it.

I noticed that my street is spelled incorrectly, the 'a' and the 'i' are switched around, engraved on the ground on the opposite corner of my apt. I also noticed that on Broderick, a '3' was engraved where the 'E' should be. I really can't believe these mistakes! I mean, I live on a main street, with an uncomplicated spelling. And 3, last time I checked, is not even a letter. Are these secret codes, inside jokes, pranks, or just urban bloopers?

the dentist

“Very impressive,” she says, calling me ‘Miss,’ pronouncing my last name right on the first try. “No cavities.” She removes the shiny pointy instrument and returns it to the sea green paper on the small tray.

“Really?” I think to myself, but end up saying out loud. I hadn’t been to the dentist in years, I thrive on sugar cereal, and I love to suck on lemons.
She turns her eyes to me and, with a smile, remarks that I must have good genes.

“I’ll be right back,” she tells me. “And we can proceed with the cleaning.”

It’s funny how your tongue just can’t sit still while your teeth are getting attention. Like the kid in the class who needs to know everything that’s going on with everybody, and makes sure he’s the center of it all. While my teeth are being polished with the little pulsating device and the water is being sucked up by the micro-vacuum, my tongue is doing somersaults, carelessly bumbling into the equipment as if set free in a giant Bounce House. I feel a little embarrassed; I’m not a little kid, I should be able to control my tongue, to make it cooperate for this short amount of time.

“You doing ok?” she asks me. I nod. I’m glad she’s not the type of dentist who tries to carry on a two-sided conversation with me while I have six sharp silver objects protruding from my mouth. I realize that my eyes have been open this whole time staring into the artificially yellow light, and I worry that it might be freaky from the doctor’s perspective to have me watching her work, so I close my eyes lightly the way it is customary when you’re receiving a Swedish massage.

I may not have any cavities, but I certainly have accrued some considerably stubborn plaque, and it hurts a little as she scrapes at the gum line of the backs of my bottom teeth.

“Could you close your mouth please?” she asks sweetly. Then thanks me, when I do. She has me reopen and continues the cleaning. I don’t close my eyes right away this time; I take a moment to sneak glances at this woman mere moments away from my face, with her soft chestnut eyes, pink skin.

“You have beautiful teeth,” she says as my reclined chair returns to its upright position. Does she say that to everyone? She has certainly seen her fair share of teeth. I can’t imagine that is part of the exam, nor can I imagine that she would, as a medical professional, tell me something that she didn’t believe to be true.

“Thanks,” I say. It’s weird how we don’t see ourselves, how my biggest insecurity yields a not-at-all-required, yet delicious compliment.

“So, we’ll see you in six months,” the dentist hands me my chart. I meet her eyes as I take it from her precise hands. Her white lab coat hugs her curves, and between the large buttons, I can make out a tiny blue floral print top elevated by her generous breasts.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

mary rose, a story

Mary Rose contemplated the celery green dress, but ultimately pulled on her name-brand-less jeans and a thick ribbed black sweater. She folded her hair into a low bun and pumped her mascara wand to lengthen her lashes in an attempt to combat frumpiness. She avoided the full-length mirror on her way out the door and huffed down the twenty-six stairs only to realize she had forgotten her bus pass.

She considered just paying the two dollar fare both ways, so she wouldn’t have to return to her room with its mountain ranges of clothes, looming redwoods of file folders, and Styrofoam Cup of Noodle pyramids, but she just couldn’t justify breaking her twenty dollar bill on public transportation.

This is a good opportunity for you to get some more exercise, she told herself, feeling guilty that she’d only managed thirteen minutes of the Pilates DVD she’d rented from the library.

On her way back up, she could hear her neighbor, Charles, humming to himself The Beatles' Penny Lane from inside his studio apartment. She wondered if Charles knew any other songs, as it was always the same tune she recognized of his dancing Baritone resonance.

Often, when he would see her coming up the stairs or if they should meet while taking out the trash, he would incorporate her name into his never-ending song. Mary Rose is in my ears and in my eyes. Mary Rose would smile politely, as he would, and further conversation would elude them. She didn’t mind his incessant humming, didn’t even mind the personalization of her name in his song without his asking for permission. It felt familial, in fact. Comforting. Times she would pass his paper-thin door and not hear him would bring a subtle sag to her stomach. Mostly, he was there, though. She imagined he must work from home because that perpetual melody had become something she could count on, on her way to and from, and she liked counting on something.

percentage daily value, a poem

he is easy
like cereal for breakfast
like Lucky Charms
on display
half off
half eaten
before you even get him home
but once you do
you’ve lost your appetite
stick him on a shelf
and wish you’d gotten toaster strudels

Sunday, January 24, 2010

free fun

Who says you can't have fun for free?
No job- no problem!
I have found a plethora of ways to entertain myself without spending a dime.
And, I shall share them with you, dear reader. The following have been tested for quality assurance purposes.

Free Fun Top Five:

-play 'airplane' (person A lays on back and presses feet to stomach of person B, person A then lifts person B off the ground by holding hands and person B maintains balance while making whoosing airplane sounds)
-look up beloved 90's songs on youtube and sing them loudly in the middle of the night on your friend's patio
-revisit your diary from 1994, have a friend read aloud the most embarrassing entries
-get caught in the rain while running errands
-attend a Pajama Jam and tote your snuggie and giant stuffed bear on muni and bart

Saturday, January 23, 2010


? Where does neurosis come from, and how can I send it back

? What kind of information does the dog get when he sniffs me

? Why do passion and misery always pair up like best friends choosing lab partners, the peanut butter to the others’ jelly

? Who tells the sun when it is time to put away her toys for the night
? What’s the sun’s motivation for getting up so early
? Does the sun have OCD
? When is the sun’s birthday
? Where would the sun like to go on vacation

? What kind of damage does it do to feed a chicken chicken

? How much do our former lives affect our current one

? Nature vs. Nurture: an itemized list please

? Is my life like The Truman Show

? How big is the world’s largest dust bunny

? Is there such a thing as a medium-speed chase

? What is it that the “I’s” have

? When sheep have trouble getting to sleep, do they count humans

? Why are white grapes green

? Does your eye always think, “It’s all about me”

? Where is snow stored

? Does the worm, after being cut into multiple pieces, recognize its other bodies as being parts of what once was a whole

? Are you listening

? What am I supposed to do now

Friday, January 22, 2010

midnight meeting, a poem

over and under
rosy cheeks
carried away

Leap into the night
like a fairy
with unmistakable purpose
to matchmake
or spread seeds
or dreams
or something

Over and over again
we roll
like at war
yet graceful
like a dance
somewhere in between
we are

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

taqueria, a story

The corn tortillas taste like purple in my mouth, and I don’t know how to fix us. I don’t know why I had to talk about him or why you had to mention her, but I do know that if we keep rehashing it over and over and over again, the particles of what we were will become sawdust.

My chip, like a shard of glass, pierces my gum with its jagged corner. The pain is so jarring, my whole body convulses. My eyes tear in response to the sensation, with the taste of blood exploding in my mouth. I sit quietly as my nerve endings shriek, and my body begins to repair itself.

You sit there and say nothing.

I stand up and take our trays to the counter. As I unload the grotesque remains of our half eaten burritos, beans and cheese like confetti on the grease-laden paper, I glance over at you, and I can see the end. You don’t care that I’m hurting, and I don’t care that you don’t care.

A preposterous pile of napkins remains on our table as we get up to go. You always take too many napkins. You help me into my coat, out of habit, the way your father had taught you.

The taqueria smells like meat and makes me want to vomit. My mouth is still pulsing, and you have still not broken the whirling quiet around us. I don’t know what’s worse: your repetition or your silence.

We walk together down Valencia, but we are getting nowhere.

Tuesday, January 19, 2010


I am reaching. Sticking my hand out into the unknown, hoping it returns to me with a fist full of gold, but eager to avoid the potential of an aggressive piranha or a re-emergent meat-eating dinosaur.

Right now, I’m reaching into the warm water of the ‘Touch Tank,’ a petting zoo, of sorts, for my underwater friends. Allowing my pointer and middle fingers to tickle the underbelly of the orange starfish with six legs. Its rugged, sandpaper back is scrunched in the corner, playing hard to get.

I’m reaching out to connect with the inhabitants of the exhibit, while Michael and Brian are reaching out to connect with the inhabitants of the aquarium itself. I’ve heard our codeword “Slurpie” used no less than sixty times thus far in the evening in order to point out yet another hot guy. Michael is talking to an Antonio Banderas type we both know is there with his girlfriend, while Brian is making eyes at a blondie in a blue tie standing near the giant carp.

I, of course, am drawn to the starfish. The likelihood of being rejected by something completely encased in Plexiglas yields far better results for me.

“Why does this one have six legs?” I ask the overseeing volunteer in her navy blue polo. It says ‘Madge’ on the pin attached to her lapel, and I wonder if anyone has made a joke about her ‘Madge Badge’ to her face.

“If something happens where one of the legs becomes detached, the sea star may grow another and a spare,” Madge informs me. I consider this as I stroke the six-pointed starfish. I could think of some parts I’d like to have a spare of.

incomplete sentences

Fun day with a fun friend! New session begins tomorrow for my writing class- so excited about that!!! A job interview beforehand. Laundry- sometime.

Becoming couch potato-y and not liking it. Need to move my body. Need to go back to writing about the woman I saw on the bart train yesterday. Motivation, are you out there? Wishing I had chocolate.

Thinking about friends and colors and evolutionary adaptations and fabric and Haiti and life before cell phones and baby animals and things that are warm and empty spaces and grammatical errors and goat cheese and tomorrow.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

do you remember, a poem

Do you remember that time
In whole foods
We picked out
Pasta and sauce
And cookie dough
And there was that baby in line ahead of us
With strawberry hair
In that gray and green stroller
And she smiled at you
And you smiled back and waved
With one finger
And your eyes got really big
And your mouth made an “o”
And the baby laughed
From her gut
And kicked her legs up
And her eyes, like saucers, danced
And I remembered that our parking meter had run out of time
And I told you I’d meet you at the car
And you met me there
With a bouquet of yellow and orange and purple and white
And I smiled
And you smiled
And we held hands on the way home
And talked about living on a farm

Friday, January 15, 2010

missing things

Today, on the bus, a girl got on wearing a scarf very similar to one I used to have, and it got me thinking- where do our missing things go?

It was common for people to accidentally leave things behind at the restaurant I used to work at.

One time, a woman in her sixties came up to me and told me she had left her hat and asked if anything had been turned in. Nothing had, so I went to the table she had been sitting at, checked around it, asked the servers and bussers and managers, and no one had seen the hat. I told the lady I was sorry, and I asked for her name and number in case it should turn up. After giving me her contact information, she looked up at me and smiled, told me the hat was very dear to her and would I please call her if it was found. I assured her I would, and she thanked me and headed out the door.

I started thinking about why a white baseball cap with an image of a ship on it would be dear to this woman. Had it been a gift? From the Bahamas? On her 40th wedding anniversary? From her husband? Who was now very sick?

My heart ached for this woman. I wanted like anything to reunite her with her hat. With this thing that would be meaningless to anyone else, but for her, it represented something special and sentimental, it allowed her to access an important memory.

About a week later, I was at work, stocking the closet, when I came upon what was undeniably the hat that this woman had described to me. I was so excited, I rushed up to the front desk to locate the woman's phone number. I eagerly anticipated the phone call where I delivered the good news. As I searched the drawer where I had placed the paper, I discovered it had been completely cleaned out, and I came to realize this woman's contact information was gone forever.

So, here I was with a lost and found turned into a found and lost, and it seemed so unfair. I never saw that woman again, but I kept the hat that I know belongs to her in the corner of the closet, just in case.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

unemployment and the city

It's so funny going on these job interviews, trying to figure out what another person wants to hear from me. I've been told it's important to use the word "passion" during an interview, but equally important to put it in the right place. "I am passionate about maintaining the appearance of the menus" does not seem quite right.

Well, life without a job has been pretty rough for me thus far. Let's see, activities I have participated in while unemployed: numerous sleepovers and "girls' nights," happy hours, movie marathons, yummy food and drinks, the spa, game nights, visiting Petaluma, hiking, bowling, catching up on TV, sleeping in, writing, reading, picnicking in the park, watching the boats by the Ferry Terminal...

I'm not even counting my amazing trip to Mexico and spending Christmas with my family in Maryland for the first time in three years.

Like I said, it's really been rough.

So, yeah, I'm pretty lucky. I have incredible friends and family, and I live in the most wonderful city imaginable! I'm ready, though, to rejoin the laborers and make some money! I am passionate about being me and doing my thing.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

kaleidoscope, a poem

Meeting her was like
Looking into a kaleidoscope
So many colors and shapes
All in one
Ever transforming
It’s hard to keep up
Sometimes you think you recognize a pattern
But things shift again
And you realize that swirling
And whirling and tumbling
Of pink to blue and green to gold and white
Is going too fast
And you have to put it down
And walk away

gum, a story

I only like Spearmint gum. I hate that nasty Waltzing Watermelon Bubblicious shit. I may as well be chewing on pure sugar cane. I want my gum to taste fresh, to refresh, as if I just brushed my teeth, the way the commercials promise. To give me the confidence to smile, to speak, to get close. But I only like Spearmint gum because Cinnamon is too spicy and Peppermint is too intense. The way the red beads attack my tongue, like I’m being stabbed by a relentlessly sucked on candy cane. It’s too much, so in your face, so present.

I only like Spearmint gum, but you don’t know this yet. It’s only our third date, and gum preference is not one of the topics we’ve covered. We are at the rose garden in Golden Gate Park, and we now know each other’s favorite rose colors. Yours is yellow, which scares me a little because if I recall correctly, a yellow rose symbolizes friendship. And friendship is not really what I’m after. My favorite rose is the one that looks like a flame. The outside a light peach with neon orange bursting forth from the inside, almost out of the lines. I don’t know what liking this type of rose says about me. Maybe it means I want to reach for your hand and hold it and hold it and hold it.

You offer me a piece of gum. It is peppermint. I accept it. We chew quietly. My tongue squirms under the weight of the bite-y mint. I turn to you to see you. You turn to me and kiss me. Your warm hands melt into my red cheeks. We are both still holding on to the wads of chewing gum in the corners of our mouths because there wasn’t time to negotiate their disposal. Your mouth, full of lingering peppermint meets mine again and again. Your wet warmth transforms the flavor into something that is like nothing I’ve ever tasted.

The roses around us are opening and overlapping. And so are we.

Sunday, January 10, 2010

alliteration anyone?

Today, evidently, is the 9th Annual 'No Pants' Subway Ride. Lots of pantsless people riding public transporation. Somebody told me they were protesting something. Pants perhaps?

Pantsless protesters primarily party in public places

Penetrating pistols of plump purple parade perspectives

Devastatingly difficult dungeon doors demand definite dissection during daylight

Lastly litters lacking lines linger, loving luscious lollipops left loitering

Imaginary igloos encase irises including intriguing initials

Slippery spokes saunter speechless shadows symmetrically stacked somewhere

Life-like lemonade laughs loudly, leaking luminous lacerations lovingly

Crimson cartilage cascades coolly, climbing curvatious corners correctly

Primal pottery pieces peruse pink pacifiers politely

Tropical tuna torpedoes toward tenuous tanners

Pasta-preparing parents portion perfectly produced penne pesto

Autumn air accelerates actively allowing awesome adventures

Restful raccoons ring rivers, relentlessly responding to reacting roamers

California clouds count crows, consume concerns, consider currency, catch capsulated cries, create consciousness

Saturday, January 9, 2010

gray day

It is a gray day today. I love gray days. Gray days are snuggly. Perfect for sleeping in (which I did,) eating a delicious brunch with great friends (which I did,) watching episode after episode of The Office with my awesome roommates (which I'm doing,) and generally taking it easy.

Since I've gotten back to the city from my month of many travels, I have been enjoying time with my amazing friends, drinking wine, and renting movies from the library. I need to look for a job, but I have been too busy having fun.

Gray days are also excellent days to write. Gray days make me desire. Desire future gray days. Desire warm, comfortable food. Desire cards and board games and laughter and tea and reading.

Happy Gray Day!

Friday, January 8, 2010

clay pots, a poem

Clay pots
Filled with nothing
To the brim
Encompassing the fullness
The circumference
Molecules tumbling over
Making room
The worn dining room table
From another generation
Pricked like a finger
It would be the last
Soon to be replaced
And forgotten
Now is the time before the
Time has passed
Courage bolstered
Language sharp
And waiting on tongue
Moments melting away
Slippery, slidey
Gulp blink sigh
Look back
Move forward
Forward now
And begin

Thursday, January 7, 2010

popping my cherry

My first blog!!! Woohoo! It feels weird, but I'm sure I'll get used to it- that's how 'firsts' are, right?!

I usually do all of my writing on paper and then transfer it onto the computer. I considered doing 'rough drafts' of my blogs on paper and then typing them onto here, but I know myself, and if there were that many steps involved it would never get done- certainly not as frequently as I would like. So, this is me, and it's going to be raw, and there are going to be run-on sentences and poor punctuation and words that I overuse, misuse, misspell, and I'm going to like it- or atleast accept it.

I am a little conflicted about this blog. I wanted to showcase my work; I am, afterall, a writer. But, perhaps, this space may be better used as my own personal forum for accountablility. My friend just started a blog, and she is using it to make herself write everyday, to encourage the habit, and honestly I could really benefit from that too. So, maybe I can do both- post some 'pieces' I have written and also just post some reflective or not-so reflective stream-of-conscienceness stuff too. I like the idea of making this blog for me. If I end up with some readers, cool, if not, equally cool.

I'm not so good with organization- my room and anyone who's seen it can certainly attest to that. Having multiple blogs for different purposes does not seem like something I can see myself maintaining, atleast not right now. I'm going to have to ease into this whole blog thing anyhow. So, for now, this is it. This is me. This is my writing.