Perforation Problems

All I’ve eaten today is cookies Probably 10 of them And one bagel I’m the picture of health You come home and I pretend To be a sensible person Someone who got work done today We make roasted potatoes And burgers with cheese Later I sit on the couch Reading a poem about a man Riding his bike by a graveyard And imagining the dead Coming along for a ride And I think for a moment About where I’d bury you if You died - God forbid. (I mentally make the sign of the cross, though you’re The one who was raised Catholic) I’d have to take your ashes To our beach in Hawaii, I conclude, though that raises a number of issues Can I take ashes on a plane? How long would I have to wait On the beach, How early would I have To wake up, To be alone to spread your ashes? It doesn’t matter. I’d be a mess then, anyway, and I'd probably never sleep again A shell of myself, a walking mass Of dead carbon Broken, so broken. More broken than I feel now Because as ...

I used to love Thanksgiving I’d be in charge of making the table pretty Of organizing the silverware just so And making place cards with glitter My grandma would bring a pile of store ads And magic markers And after the turkey was put in tupperware The china put back in the cabinet We’d sit on the floor making our wishlists Circling toys and clothes and video games Putting our initials in the pages of the Sears toy catalog While the adults planned their Black Friday schedule Now Grandma’s gone And my mom stresses about food and timing and Whether everyone is happy And Grandpa tries to eat by himself in front of the Football game in the living room My sisters-in-law sit and talk about being pregnant And c-sections, and whether the baby’s eating And the kids run around and scream, Knocking over Lego towers and blasting Paw Patrol “Up-and-down, up-and-down,” the boys say, pulling my shirt. I lift them up and play the fun aunt, whirling around the room Making airpl...

There's a song by the Avett Brothers called The Ballad of Love & Hate. I love it, but I think I also hate it. And the more I listen to it, the more I'm certain I should hate it. What I love: It's poetic and full of all those poetry terms I used to teach my English students. In fact, it's one big giant metaphor, where Love and Hate are in a complicated relationship and Love makes everything better. Listen to these lines: "Love sings a a song as she sails through the sky." "Hate sites alone on the hood of his car Without much regard to the moon or the stars Lazily killing the last of a jar Of the strongest stuff you can drink" Alliteration! Personification! Imagery! It's also one of those songs that's a perfect puddle of acoustic mellowness. It makes you want to sing it while looking out a window at rain drops or while waltzing around your kitchen in a flowy dress. No? Is that just me? But here's the thing—this song is ba...

1/20/18 Dear Human That’s Inside Me, I don’t know you well enough yet to give you a nickname. I found out for sure that you exist this morning—or exist as much as a human can when (s)he’s only the size of a poppy seed (that’s what the internet tells me). I’d suspected you might be there for a week or so but wasn’t sure—and even more, I wasn’t sure if I wanted you to be or not. I’d made the decision, decided to see it through—but that doesn’t keep it from being terrifying. You’ll have to forgive me for that. I’m sure it’s not the last time I’ll feel it. This morning I took the test (my friend Brinna told me, “morning pee is the best pee”) and it turned positive almost instantly. I put the cap on the test and left it on the counter for your dad to find—he’s been sick, and I wanted to let him sleep. And I also needed a few minutes to deal with it myself. We’re watching your Aunt Sarah’s dog Sydney this weekend while she’s in Cancun getting over a bad breakup. I took Sydney and Cl...

I've never been on a true road trip, not the kind where you're on the road for days traveling long distances, or where you stop in little towns to see giant balls of yarn or visit whaling museums. Not the kind where you have adventures and drive with the windows down and the radio blaring. Road trips to me are about the trip itself, not wherever you're going—you're taking your time, enjoying the sights, exploring the route. I have gone on long car trips, though. Those are different. They're about the destination, and the trip itself is something annoying you have to get through to get wherever you're going.  Georgia to Indiana, Indiana to Georgia. Indiana to New York, New York to Indiana. These are the routes I've ridden over and over. As a kid I built myself a comfort station in the back seat of our family van, my dog Max on the floor, my pillow against the window, snacks in my bag, my feet up against the pile of luggage surrounding me like a cocoon. My...

Growing up, my brothers and I lived in constant trepidation over whether or not our mom was going to flip out about the house being messy. You'd think that would cause us to take some preventative measures, like maybe picking up our shit. Nah. We just kept our eyes open and ears tuned to signs that Mom was about to erupt, and then we'd disappear. I know now that a lot of my mom's anxiety over the house being clean came from her own mother. Grandma Pam cared about appearances, about presentation. Every time my mother left the house as a kid, Grandma told her to "act like a lady." She had the perfect shoes to go with every outfit, with a handbag to match and the appropriate length coat. And the Grandma I knew was always on the move, bustling around the house straightening and organizing and wrapping presents with perfect corners. While we played cards or read on the lounge chairs at the lake she'd be weeding or doing dishes or straightening the placemats we...

Neither Michael nor I are sports people. My mom loves any and every sport and doesn't understand how anyone can not want to spend an afternoon at the ballpark. I was a constant disappointment to her as a kid, whether I was bringing my book with me to read in the stands at Wrigley Field or expressing zero interest in driving 3 hours to go to an IU basketball game. Actually, forget the "as a kid" part. It's still a disappointment to her. When my dad asked me a few weeks ago if I was going to watch the Super Bowl—even "just for the commercials"—I laughed at him. At least I've stopped pretending. For awhile in college and my early work years I thought sports were one of the things I had to feign interest in to appear normal and healthy, like enjoying happy hours, and parties, and social interaction in general. I wish I could go back to my younger self and tell her there's an entire population of introverts out there, and you don't have to beat the ...

I walk into Calvin Fletcher's on a Friday afternoon, pulling off my gloves and blinking as my eyes adjust to the dim light. It's sunny outside today but still cold—a winter fakeout. This winter will never end. I walk inside a few steps and turn in a circle, scoping out the seating. All our preferred spots are taken—in fact, there aren't any empty tables at all. I stand there dumbly for a moment, uncertain where to go and aware that people are looking at me. I head for the sitting area at the back of the room. There's a man sitting in one of the chairs, but the couch is free—and maybe by the time Sarah gets here something will open up, anyway. As I walk over, the man is staring at me in a way that sets off warning bells—as if he's been waiting for me, as if he knows I'm coming that direction and is excited about it. It's too late to change my path—I've already committed. I sit down, take off my coat, and pull out my computer, hoping to inspire a sense...

When we were kids, my mom worked for a small business owned by a couple that went to our church. American Leak Detection—they found leaks in swimming pools. In high school the couple gave me my first job, helping them with random grunt work a day or two a week for $5.15 an hour. Lois, the squat, curly-haired wife (the epitome of a grandma) would have m&ms and goldfish for me to snack on when I got there. I decimated them on the reg, but man, I did an excellent job of sorting the brochures in their supply closet. I'm sure I was a huge asset to them.  But back before I was old enough to work, American Leak Detection gave my mom her first job after having kids. And in the summers, when she was off being their accountant three days a week, the three of us were left gloriously alone. Ah, summer days of sleeping in and mindlessly watching episode after episode of Bobby's World and Animaniacs, of laying on the couch reading the romance novels I swiped from my mom's library ...

I don't think I used to get depressed in the winter, but maybe I just wasn't very cognizant of it. I don't remember thinking, "wow, winter is really fucking depressing" until I was in my late twenties, working in a cubicle in an office. Maybe that was part of it, too. Life looks different from within mauve cubicle walls. One year, one of my friends gave me an extra sun lamp he had, and I put it in the corner on my desk so the white glow would hit me as I stared at the computer. I don't remember it working. When I was a teacher, I don't remember thinking of winter as particularly bad—but in those days January meant second semester, which meant it was that much closer to summer vacation. And it was romanticism and modernism time in American Lit—Thoreau and Whitman and Hemingway and Faulkner. My favorites. Also, when I was teaching, that "I can't wait until summer when I don't have to work" feeling was with me all year round, so what dif...