Awaiting Clarity
appeared in 63 Channels Magazine

       I start cleaning the guestroom as soon as my boyfriend tells me his daughter Brooke is coming for the weekend. Months-old dried cat vomit on the rug comes out after a scrubbing so vigorous it compromises the integrity of the design. Cobwebs span window corners, and scattered along the sill are discarded brittle, body fluid sucked out them bugs, which I sweep with a paper towel into the wastebasket. I scoop up and dispose of all the magazines selling overpriced home decor products. I want nothing out that proffers evidence that I am boring and ordinary. The truth is, Brooke terrifies me. She's Daddy's little Popsicle, but she treats me like I'm dumber than sod.
       But this weekend will be different.
       On the morning of Brooke's arrival I pick wild flowers from our backyard and put them in a vase on the night stand in her room. Bake brownies and cookies. Buy three flavors of ice cream. My boyfriend has told me not to cook - Brooke is fussy - so we'll go out to dinner tonight, and then to the market to buy food she likes. I picture myself making something exotic that she's never had, and she loves it, and when she goes home she tells her mother that she had an absolute blast.
       But Brooke is deposited in the driveway two hours before she's expected. Her mother, a stylish, unfriendly person who opts not to come inside, backs her black Lexus out of the driveway and drives off. Brooke watches her leave, then turns and looks at my little house with obvious scorn. From my post at the window, I panic and call my boyfriend. "She's here!"
       "She can't be. Karen said she'd drop her off at five."
       "She's here!"
       "She's two hours early!"
       "No kidding! Come home right away!"
       "Honey, I can't - our meeting ran late and then I have a bunch of phone calls to make."
       "But she's here!" The bell rings. "She's on the porch!"
       He says urgently, "You're going to have to do this alone. Let her in. Stay calm. Don't say anything weird. You made brownies?"
       "And cookies." The bell rings again. Can I just hide in here? No, my car is in the driveway. Plus the door is probably unlocked. Just a matter of time before she opens it and comes in...
       "Turn on the TV. Or let her use the computer. She can IM with her friends until I get home."
       As soon as he says it, I realize it's what the old me would have done. But the new me is not going to do either of those things. That is not how this weekend is going to go. "I'll figure something out," I say, and hang up. Going over to the door, I open it and smile warmly. "Hi, Brooke!"
       She looks at me, then past me. "Where's Daddy?"
       "He's tied up at work but he'll be home soon."
       "That sucks." She enters, and with a shrug and a twist, releases her backpack and it hits the floor: thud
.      "Whatcha got in there, bricks?"
       "Books. I just got outa school."
        "Oh. Right. You have homework?"
        "On a Friday?" Her tone contemptuous, as if I've just said I'm not convinced the world is round.
        "I didn't expect you this early, but I'm glad you're here," I say, brave and gracious. "Let me show you where you'll sleep."
        "Okay."
        I take her to the guestroom and wait for her to admire its welcome fresh-smelling spotlessness.
       "Can I use the computer?" she asks.
       "Maybe later. Want something to eat?"
       Shrug.
       "How about a brownie with ice cream? I'll have one too."
       "Whatever."
       Back in the kitchen, I'm deflated and resentful. When I was her age I would have loved for a grown up offer me a brownie with ice cream in the middle of the day! I mean, only the coolest grown up in the world wouldn't say You'll spoil your appetite!
       "I'll be right back," she says, "I have to make a call."
       She disappears into the livingroom, and a second later I hear her voice; animated and excited for the person on the other end. I cut the brownies into neat squares and listen in:
       "... Mom got a new Lexus...Oh my God! It's so awesome! It has a TV in it!"
       I open the freezer and take out all three flavors of ice cream. I don't even dare interrupt her call to ask what kind she likes, I'm that big of a coward.
       "... stuck here all weekend... doesn't that totally suck?"
       I realize there's only one way to get through this. Reaching into the mouth of a ceramic frog in the cabinet next to the sink, my fingers locate the bag of pot. I listen to make sure she's still on the phone, and then take some out and sprinkle it onto my brownie. I've never had it straight like this, but how much stronger can it be? And I really need it. Normally I'd meditate or smoke a joint, but those options aren't available to me, are they? None of this is my fault - I never asked to be thrust into this role of responsibility! I sprinkle a tiny bit more on. Cover it with a plop of ice cream and take a bite, my tongue seeking salvation.
       "... so boring... and my dad's like, not even here..."
       It doesn't take me long to decide to put some on her brownie, too. Sprinkle, top with ice cream, and call, "Broo-ooke!"
       "Just a sec!"
       Was there ever such a hideous little girl? I take another bite and await clarity. As soon as I have clarity, I can come up with a way to entertain her.
       She comes into the kitchen, snapping her phone shut like a bratty midget executive. "I had to call my friend Ashley."
       "That's fine," I say. I push the plate with her brownie on it toward her. "Here you go."
       "Thanks." As she takes her first bite, I watch for signs that she's detected the pot. But she chews, swallows, and takes another bite.
       "Taste okay?"
       She nods.
       Even before I finish mine, a pleasant sensation spreads through me; soothes me like the first real hot day of summer. I shut my eyes and I'm on the beach. The sun is kissing my face, and here and there a gull scraw scraws. I open my eyes to make sure Brooke is eating her brownie. She is. In fact, she's smiling. Smiling!
       "That was the best brownie I ever had! Can I have another one? Or will it spoil my appetite?"
       I smile back. "It might, but who cares?"

       She goes nuts over my painting of a sleek silver dolphin: "I love dolphins! They're my favorite fish that are mammals! Where did you get it? I should get one. I could hang it in my room."
       "I painted it."
       She turns and stares at me, eyes open so wide that she looks like an over-zealous stage performer. "You painted it?"
       "Yes."
       "Oh my God!" Growing solemn, she stoops by the fireplace and explains that cavemen were the first people to control fire and that's how they became us, humans. Then she leaps up and presses her face against the television screen. "I'm on TV!" Hysterical laughter, then "Hey!" and she sprints over to the window. "Rabbits!"
       "What?" I step behind her and look out, but all I see is my rock garden. "Where?"
       "There! See them? Oh my God!"
       "Oh," I say. "How about that."
       "Can we play with them?"
       "Well, I mean, they might run away if we go out there."
       "We'll sneak out! Can we?"
       "Okay."
       She creeps toward the back door, hunched over and stepping high, her arms retracted like tyrannosaurus rex; turning back to me, she puts one finger to her mouth. "Shhh." I nod and follow her out.
       Stealthily, but with increasing recklessness when nothing flees, she at last delivers a shriek of delight and swoops upon the biggest one. "Oh my God!" She cradles it, smothering it with kisses. "I can't believe he's letting me hold him!" With awe-filled eyes she looks around and all she can see are rabbits waiting to be held and kissed by her.

       She pukes half an hour later. We go back inside. I help her into jammies and tuck her into bed.
       "I guess I shouldn't have had that second brownie."
       "You'll feel better soon."
       "Hope so." Her sick unhappy sigh is a gentle puff of chocolate and throw up. "Hey," she says, "don't tell Daddy I ate too much. Just tell him I have a bug or something. Okay?"
       "Okay."
       "Thanks." She manages to smile. "I can see why he loves you. You're nice."
       "Thanks, Brooke, you're nice too." And in that precious moment I realize that the path to understanding is littered with, um... littered with stuff that gets in the way of understanding. I lean over and tenderly kiss her forehead. Clarity.

He Might Be Right
appeared in Chic Flicks Magazine

       Pretty soon I realize I want to have sex with him. Which is not something I usually do. I mean, obviously I've had sex. But only after intense prognostication where I analyze the shit out of the situation: What do I want? What does he want? Is there a future in this? Does either of us harbor a hidden agenda? Usually by the time I reach a decision, the guy is long gone. Which is fine, because I am not a girl who's easily impressed. But this guy might be the one.
       So far all he's talked about is literature, film, and politics. My three favorite subjects. His voice is so sexy and he's so educated and insightful. I have a glass of wine and he has a beer. A girl drink and a boy drink, it's perfect, the sex is going to be hot and fantastic. Now he's talking about his ex, but it's okay, it's cute the way he's proud of her, a social worker who was instrumental in passing state legislation that required schools to purchase new textbooks. What happened to the marriage was, they reached a point of just being friends. Translation: no sex. They're still in touch. Since the divorce he's only been in one long-term relationship that ended five months ago when the woman turned out to be needy and jealous. I am his first date since they broke up. He and I met at an astronomy lecture. He runs a lab at Harvard University studying brain tissue of people who died of Alzheimer's Disease.
       Unless he's lying. Or insane. Oh God, please don't let him be lying or insane.
       He asks about my history, and I shuffle through stories, deciding which to tell and which to keep to myself. Unlike him, I've been in lots of relationships. I attract men with ease, but I don't think it's my looks, I think it's because I'm so good at playing the game of Listen - to their jokes, job woes, and anecdotes that feature them in heroic roles. Sometimes I think that's all any of them want, to be heard, to be validated. I'm so good at it that six men have asked me to marry them. Three bought rings.
       "I guess I haven't found Mr. Right yet," is what I wind up telling him.
       I have a very good feeling about the sex tonight. Maybe he won't ask me to turn on the TV right afterwards, maybe we'll just lie quietly and talk. Or not talk. Maybe he'll spend the night, I hope he spends the night. I bet he's phenomenal in bed. I bet he's a great kisser, and we'll get it right the first time, even though technically that has never happened for me.
       We agree that art today is useless and no longer inspires or empowers anyone, it's just about making money. What happened to integrity? What kind of society is this? And don't even get him started on what we're doing to the planet!
       He's quiet during the drive back to my apartment, and so am I. When we pull up to the curb I assume he's going to ask to come in, but he doesn't even shut off the engine, just puts the car into park, then leans back in his seat, half facing me, hands in lap.
       "Thanks for dinner," I say.
       "You're welcome."
       "I had fun."
       "Good." His smile is mild; hard to read.
       "Want to come in?" I have never actually had to say this.
       To my surprise, he shakes his head. "I don't think so."
       I sit there for a second, waiting for it to make sense, then say, "How come?"
       "Well," he says, "I could tell you because it's late and I have to get up early. But I don't want to bullshit you. The truth is, I don't really think we hit it off tonight."
       "What? Why?"
       Because you hardly said a word. I really like someone with opinions; I love conversation. Tonight was just me talking."
       "But I... I can talk!"
       "Don't take this the wrong way," he says, which is something I hate when people say, because it's always followed by something insulting, "but I got the feeling... I mean I'm flattered, but... I got the feeling that all you could think about was having sex with me."
       I can't even speak. How dare he... how dare he know what I'm thinking? I'm so pissed! Is this a joke? If this is a joke, it's not funny. I'm not going to sleep with someone who can joke about this.
       "I didn't mean to hurt you," he says. "I like you, you seem like a really nice person..."
        ...but I'm not attracted to you. How many times have I used that line? I open my door, slide out, numb and humiliated, and watch him drive away. He might be right. But if he's right, that makes me wrong. And I'm not, I'm not. Six men have asked me to marry them. Three bought rings!

How She Did It
appeared in Flash Me Magazine

       "I'm going to get my tongue pierced, I don't care what you say," announces the stranger who has been occupying a room in my house since she turned thirteen. "Ashley got hers done and her mom is so cool about it, she even drove her in."
       I know better than to argue with teenage defiance; I remember too well how logical it sounded to me when I used it to convince my mom to let me have a perm because everyone else was getting one. Your hair is too thick for a perm, trust me, you'll regret it, she said. She endured my sulking for almost a week before giving in. I had it permed, and it looked horrible. I was so angry with her afterwards: Why did you let me do it if you knew it would look like this?
       "Ashley's mom has a pierced nipple," says my daughter.
       "Nice."
       "They shop together, they're like, friends. And they're the same size. They can wear the same clothes." Her snotty eyes decimate dowdy me in faded lavender sweat pants and a white t-shirt that shows the lines of my sloppy too-small bra.
       "Good for them."
       "I wish you were like Ashley's mom. You don't even try! Ever since Daddy left, all you do is-"
       "That's enough," I say.
       "He'd probably still be here if you took better care of yourself."
       "Who are you mad at, me or him?"
       "You!"
       "Okay."
       "Because you won't let me get my tongue pierced. That's like, so unfair."
       "It feels unfair to you now, and I'm sorry about that. But the answer is still no."
       She scowls, ugly; too young to realize that she has to learn boundaries, and the only way for us to define them is by her acting out. I won't personalize this. We are on an exquisite journey through a coming of age process that will enrich us both. Blah blah blah. Were the stack of books on my night stand written during the teenage years, or in retrospect, after the kids had grown up? What I want to say to my bratty progeny is, Go! Get your tongue pierced, I hope it gets infected and you have to have it removed.
       "You suck," she says.
       "I'm sorry," I say again. She stomps up the stairs. Should I follow her and try to resolve this before her resentment builds? Or let her have some space in order to explore her feelings?
       I bring our dishes to the sink and run hot water. Doing the dishes is one of her chores. Keeping her room neat, feeding the fish, and putting her dirty clothes in the laundry basket, those are the others. Kids have to work for their allowance, or else they won't learn responsibility and the value of money.
       When I finish doing the dishes I call up the stairs that I am going to visit my mother. I don't get a response so I say in a louder voice, "Do you hear me?"
       "Yes! Quit shouting all the time!"
       "Why don't you answer?"
       "I said o-kaaaaaay! God! It's like you're deaf now, too!"

       "She hates me," I tell my mother. "She never smiles. When will this get easier? Today she wants her tongue pierced. Tomorrow it'll be birth control pills. And a car. And even if I give her everything she wants, she'll still hate me."
       I start to cry. I always do when I'm at the cemetery. Crouching, I brush some grass cuttings off my mother's plaque and think about the time she wouldn't let me go to the beach with my friends until I cleaned my room. I said I'd do it as soon as I got home, and she reminded me that I had said that last weekend and the weekend before and the weekend before. I hate you! I screamed. She took in a quick surprised breath; then her lips went tight and she turned away to hide her hurt. I figured she'd call my dad at work and tell him, but when he got home that evening all he did was kiss my head and ask what was for dinner. How did she do it? Where did she find the grace to forgive me over and over? Maybe I should read my parenting books again. But as I stand, a sudden sweet spring afternoon breeze rustles the trees and I see the answer is written on her plaque: Loving Mother.

John Updike's Pitch appeared in Word Riot I have waited my whole life to be compared to John Updike, but when the leader of my intense five-day writing workshop demands if I've written another Rabbit, he makes it sound like a bad thing. Updike, whose paragraph-long sentences abound out of necessity with semicolons; whose startling and unique firsthand insights reveal why men are so unapologetically annoying to women; who creates quietly brilliant images like a refrigerator door opening with "a chunky suck," might not survive if he'd had to pitch Rabbit's story in this new uncompromising world of commercial fiction where action not angst rules, his pair of Pulitzer Prizes notwithstanding. I picture him perched on an uncomfortable reproduction Victorian sofa in some agent's fancy ass office; nervous and tormented by his tendency since childhood to stutter: Rabbit is an ex-highschool basketball star who has to get married because his girlfriend Janice is pregnant, and one day he leaves her and moves in with a hooker. But then he goes back to Janice. The agent would be elegant and wealthy and intimidating; in charge of his fate. I need quirky, she'd say. Can he put in a murder? Murder is good. Clearing his throat, Updike would offer timidly that Rabbit's sloppy drunken wife accidentally drowns their infant in a heart-breaking scene of despair, shame, and disbelief, but he's not sure he'd call that murder. The agent would nod. Well now we're getting somewhere. Bigger Pictures Dog sitting for a week at my brother's house, I do aerobics on the first morning. My brother's dog, attracted by the sound of the floor squeaking beneath my feet in addition to an overall fascination for everything I do, hurries over. Watches with eyes alert and head tipped. No way to explain to her that this is what human women do: tone our muscles so that we can entice a nice man to validate our sexuality, enhance our finances, and contribute their DNA to ours in order to produce offspring. And when I dispense dog food and water and a rabies pill wrapped in bologna, I am her God. She has no idea that in a few minutes I will leave the house in order to exchange my services for a signed slice of paper torn from a little pad. A concept far past her puny canine brain abilities. For a moment, I ponder who orchestrates my fate. What does the Universe know that I don't? I search for my sunglasses and realize they are on my head. Back to Top