Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Say Hello to Poet Melissa Broder a.k.a The Gefilte Fisherwoman




Well that’s not really her but that is her book and this poem is really by her:

Summer Soldiers

by Melissa Broder

This was the game: we would gaze down the barrel
of our lipsticks, waiting for you to finish
band practice. Stalk you in the 7-11 lot.
Where the boys were. Boys. Sparrow spirits on skateboards,
bottles of Tahitian Treat, Rose's Cola,
and blue raspberry Slurpees laced with liquor.
I had the blues 'cause I wanted to be you:
all shit-beers and stars, pentagrams instead of Temple.
Old-school kick flips—no purses—under the low-hung moon,
and you could skin your knees and you could give me
carpet burn all evening in somebody's basement,
trying to lick my nothing-tit, a baby lion
cleaning a china plate. Calluses and nipples,
bass guitars. Cinnamon gum will turn him on,
said the wise women of Seventeen magazine.
What kind of kisser are you? Timid? Sexy? Strong?
Once I opened my eyes and he only had one eye.
He kept his mouth sealed shut. Is there something wrong?

Then you'd heel-flip your Simples, ollie higher
over gutters, down suburb sidewalks, to your mothers
and we'd go tongue the mirror in your honor,
apply silver eyeliner, make scars out of pimples.



Monday, May 24, 2010

I may just have to dance on potato chips


I'm s'mad I can't sleep. At present I'm sitting here in my living room looking over the wreckage. Today my husband took the kids to play laser tag and to hit some baseballs, and to just goof off in general supposedly to give mom some "time alone." Translation…"Mom plans on cleaning house today we better get the heck out of dodge."


Okay, fine. Often it is easier for me to just roll up my sleeves and get things done than to direct the traffic of who should do what, where and why.

"BUT Mom, I cleaned the bathroom LAST time."

Yeah, last MONTH. If you call running a rag over the sink "cleaning the bathroom."

BUT MOM, why should I pick up the living room, I didn't make the mess in here. That's not fair."

I never thought I'd be the kind of mom that would ever say: "Because I said so."

But now I say it. BECAUSE. I. SAID. SO.

My favorite excuse from my nine year old son.

"I can't. I think my legs are broken."

So, my family comes home from their day of lollygagging and within ten minutes…probably not even that…what I'd worked ALL day to clean was destroyed.

They decided to watch movies. Good end to a nice day.

Well bully for y'all. I thought to myself and I decided to just sit back and wait and see if anyone would bother to pick up a thing, one thing, before they went to bed.

The mess statistic as of 1:00 a.m. Sunday night:

8 pairs of shoes in my living room. That is sixteen individual shoes. Not even piled in front of the door, no, like easter eggs they're scattered all willy nilly about the place.

2 cups under the couch, 1 cup beside the couch.

1 granola bar wrapper shoved under the couch and some other stuff, but I'm not going to see what it is.

1 batting glove.

Some sort of tool which says Dewalt on it.

Two bowls and one spoon.

A box of art supplies.

Socks. (single of course, not matching.)

X-box games (two) gaming control (one)

A blanket (looks like someone spilled something and used the blanket to cover it up.)

And that's just the living room.

In the kitchen---Oh god. I don't even want to talk about the Kitchen!!

Half eaten bags of chips left open. Left OPEN. Are they trying to drive me mad? I think they are.

I am having this really strong desire to dump ALL the chips on the floor in the kitchen and just dance on them. Two step, boot scootin boogie, stomp…whatever. Dance, dance, dance on potato chips and just leave them there and when the kids wake up in the morning and ask what happened I'll pull out some of their own lines on them:

"What? What mess? Where? I don't see anything. Oh…that….I didn't do that. Don't worry about it, it's not a big deal, why don't you just CHILAX sheesh, you'd think you'd never seen potato chips on the floor before."