Dime Stories Live 6.6.08

It's been awhile since I posted anything on here, but here is a video of me reading my story "Goodbye to Gluten" at the Dime Stories Live open mic night in San Diego (text to come soon).

"You're not going to believe what I found in his bathroom" 9.18.07

OK, I know it's not polite to go snooping through people's medicine cabinets, but you're not going to believe what I found in his bathroom.

I found soap.

I know, I know, of course I would find soap in a bathroom, but you don't understand. This soap was in the medicine cabinet, obviously hidden, but still accessible enough for him to grab it and take a whiff whenever he felt the need.

Did I tell you what it smelled like? Roses. It smelled like roses.

I know him and I can tell you for sure that he's a Dial man through and through. And not that mountain-spring fresh blue Dial, either. He uses the standard yellow bar. He is a Dial man.

And yet there's that rose-smelling soap. I imagine it's pink, although I can't tell because of the dainty, yellowing wrapper around it. But I'm sure it's pink. I know it.

Why is it there?

What? You say it doesn't matter? Of course it matters! What would he have to hide? Does it belong to someone else? Did some chick leave it at his house? Or maybe it's his grandmothers? Ew. Either way, it's unhealthy, him having that rose soap hidden away like a treasure. And why would he make it so easy for me to find? What is he not telling me that he wants me to know?

Well I'm sorry you seem to find this discovery so uninteresting. I mean, what did you expect I'd find in there? He's like an open book, he never hides anything. Why, I know everything about him. Everything. You just ask him and he'll tell you the same thing.

But I didn't know about that soap.

Maybe I should ask him. Yes, that's it, I'll admit that I was trying to find an aspirin or something. I don't want him to think I'm nosy or anything. I'll mention the soap. I'll let him know that I happened to notice it had the faintest scent of roses. I'll casually inquire where it came from. Not for my own use, of course, but just out of innocent curiosity. We'll see what he says. I'm afraid of what he'll say. Because why is it there? Why hasn't he told me already?

Oh, you have to go? All right, well thanks for stopping by. I'll be sure to let you know what happens.

* * *

You're not going to believe what I found in his bathroom. A dead body. Nah, just kidding, it was that darn rose soap again. No, no, I haven't asked him about it yet. You know, it doesn't really matter anyway. I mean, it's just a bar of soap. I wonder what that one tastes like. Do you think he'd notice if I took a bite?

"A painter who hates a large potted plant" 8.27.07

I attended a Writers' Salon last night put on by San Diego Writers' Ink. Toward the end of the discussion, we did a writing practice where we wrote down a title and an object and then passed those on to other people. The title I received was "painter" and the object was "a large potted plant." The premise was that the person with the title hated the object. Here's what I came up with:

That god-damned potted plant. It was like an albatross. A green albatross, but still. And she couldn't kill it, that was the sad part. But she tried, oh, she tried. She would "accidentally" forget to water it. But that would only last for a week until the guilt set in. Damn conscience.

Finally one day she decided to paint it. It wasn't like her usual portrait subjects, being that it was potted. But, at least it wouldn't move around a lot, she thought as she set up her easel. That's one thing you can say about houseplants, they aren't fidgety.

As she started mixing her palette of browns and greens, she remembered how she came to acquire the plant. It had belonged to a crazy boyfriend. Truly crazy. She went out with him on a Sunday and by Tuesday he had practically moved in.

He told her about the sad plant that lived in a corner in his kitchen. Feeling pity, and a little bit more than the usual poor boundaries she exhibited in relationships, she agreed to have him bring it over to live on her patio -- lots of sun, lots of space.

When she dumped the guy who owned the plant in her typical two-week relationship window, he asked that -- even though their love wouldn't survive -- she keep the plant to salvage at least one life from this tragic drama.

She agreed, and there it was, ready for its close-up, staring at her now like the sad, pathetic, yet much healthier, thing it was.

She picked up her brush and started painting, a hot and unwanted tear wending its way down her cheek.

"The royal treatment" 7.03.07

It's like they expected the royal treatment. Of course, if you're a conspiracy theorist, that includes persecution and death by drunken driver in a Parisian tunnel. I don't think that's what they meant, though.

Why does "the royal treatment" remind me of jelly and something vaguely obscene?

The royal treatment implies a lot of entitlement. Is it right to expect other people to treat you better than anyone else? What does it say about those people? Is it really the royal treatment if all your treaters are sycophants?

I dated a guy once who said that men want to hear compliments even if they're not true. I didn't comprehend this at the time. Could men really be that shallow that flattery of any kind would please their fragile egos? Yes. A lie is worth a thousand truths when it comes to illusions -- or delusions -- of grandeur.

What if someone demands the royal treatment and I refuse? Will I get thrown in jail, but in the stocks, subjected to the rack, tarred and feathered?

"Anarchy isn't always a good thing." That's what my dad told me yesterday when I related to him how I freaked out at a camping party in the desert. Everyone was trying to break the rules, and I was clamoring to have them imposed upon me again.

Royals aren't so special. I'm finally coming to that realization after years of being indoctrinated by Diana's charm and Williams', well, hotness. Why do they have so much freaking money? Is the government paying them off in hopes that they might stave off a possible coup? That's the only explanation I can think of.

"Stealing dinner" 6.19.07

A steely dinner wouldn't be very tasty, but it would be bracing. I imagine those folks who go swimming in the ocean on New Year's could use a steely dinner the night before.

My mom's dogs would steal dinner right off the counter in one swift, stealthy move. Paws up, mouth open, and snatch, mission accomplished.

"An invitation" 6.19.07

I received an invitation but I haven't RSVP'd yet. I'm not sure I'm ready to make the decision to accept or decline. I actually feel surprised that I would be invited to such an event. Was I invited because of who I am, or because the host needed an extra body?

The invitation was feather-light, with the subtlest shade of off-white to reflect the delicacy of the contents. Only a select few were invited. She opened the envelope and spread out the paper as if she were opening a butterfly's gossamer wings. She read the contents, paused, then crumpled the damn thing up and tossed it in the trash. RSVP declined.

An invitation to dance is about the scariest thing I can imagine. Something so intimate in such a public space shouldn't be entered into lightly. In junior high I had a boyfriend, but it was one of those early relationships where I didn't actually talk to him, even though we were "going out." At jr. high dances I used to sit on the bleachers and watch everyone else dance. I actually preferred it that way, to be at the event but not really in it. Besides, who wants to dance to Bon Jovi? Barf.

One time my friends tried to get me to dance with my boyfriend. They grabbed my arm and tugged me while some Aerosmith song thudded around us. I refused. I didn't even talk to the guy, why in the world would I dance with him.

RSVP: rejected.

Evite has changed my life. Almost everything I do involves Evite. I hate it -- hate. it. -- when people don't respond "definitely!" or "no way!" and instead moulder in the ambiguous "washing my hair" list. There's nothing worse than no response at all.

Williams Carlos Williams' poems were short because he wrote them on prescription pads. I hate to think that a different notebook has affected my writing. The clothes that my words wear are long and flowing today. No mini-skirts or cropped tops. No plums waiting in the icebox, no chickens pecking in the rain.

I often wonder why people want to invite me to anything. I forget that everyone has a presence, something we have no control over. And sometimes that presence is desired.

"I had not expected" 6.12.07

I had not expected to be here today. I thought the condescending insurance lady would keep me on the phone all morning with her explanation of the semantics of dealing with claims. One time in a techniques of poetry class I expressed my desire to communicate by mumbling. Wouldn't it be so much easier? (scribble scribble) like that. Why can't I express myself like that? Why do I have to deal with literal-minded people who try to tell me there's a difference between submitting a claim and filing a claim. It's like talking to a peanut butter sandwich. One that has fallen on the floor. Face down.

I had not expected that living with someone would be so maddening and so rewarding.

Last night online I saw a headline for a Vanity Fair link to a book excerpt by Tina Brown about Princess Di. The headline was "Public saint, private sinner." What the hell does that mean? Does that not describe, oh, I don't know, the human race?

I had not expected that the air would be filled with such energy. All of the people milling about, yet all of them centered, with a sense of purpose. Not a goal, but a purpose. To live and then to not live.

I had not expected that my hand would be so sore after several weeks away from writing practice. I never expected that my handwriting would be such a rare phenomenon.

(I hadn't expected it would take me that long to remember how to spell and write phenomenon.)

I had not expected to live in a time of war. It almost makes me laugh to think about it because the only war I had ever known was cold. That was how I understood war -- it had evolved into a standstill. Threats occasionally but no action.

This isn't a war, this is killing.

I had not expected to go on a political rant.

I hadn't expected that I would seriously consider applying for a position at the New York Times. I also had not expected my boyfriend to tell me that he didn't want me to apply, not because he thought I wouldn't get it, but because he thinks I'm good enough that I would get it.

I never expected to feel disappointed that I might aspire to greatness. I always had an idea that there was always something greater. I have taken comfort in that, that no matter what I do, I'll never be good enough.

I had not expected that life would be so dull. I didn't understand when I was younger that sanity requires living in reality. What a sad predicament.