Waiting for the Skeleton Man

I don’t know what squirrleymojo is.
Sometimes I think I see her in the mirror,
but then she flashes that horrid grin
and evaporates.
When the rain is coming down outside the french doors
and the leaves are all yellow outside,
I think I sense her presence in the air,
but then it’s just rotted deer meat
from in the woods out back.
I hear they are talking about
closing down that old school with the teal windows
and aluminum screens,
but I like the brick and the way it crumbles.
Besides,
I have a secret path I follow
to the old playground
where Jill swung on the monkey bars
and twisted her ankle into pennies, nickles, and dimes.
I can’t look back.
The colors are all muted by the grey
that rolls in, scratchy branches reach for the sky
and I simply don’t know.
I don’t know.
There’s isn’t a bushy tail or a tell tale “Caw!”
That lets me know when squirrleymojo-jo
will arrive and tap out key letters and phrases

If It Weren't for the Occasional Crushes

since i had to log on to post
on MC's site, not that i had to for swampy
or blue, but only MC,
i thought i'd drop a line, a thought, something.

the coolest student in my class asked me to
a poetry reading tonight.
yeah, he's hot.
i've had a crush on him all quarter--
a weird crush, like a crush from someone else's
distant perspective. A highschool me, if you will.
i would have been in absolute love with him. sigh.
he's a great kid and i wish him all the best.
anyway, i've never been smooth enough for afterhours
at a coffee shop. so, neat-o.

meanwhile, an idea percolates:
a fairy grove around a small tree trunk
and gutter rats caught in a storm.

Got Me a Pencil

You know, it's the whole signing in thing.
Typing out "Squirrleymojo" + the 12 digit password.
Then waiting for the dashboard to load.
And now the actual posting.

All of this takes 3-4 minutes.
3-4 minutes I just don't have to spare.

Worse, you waste your time reading it.

The Comment That Made Me Stop Everything

Rummaging through gobbs of back email,
printing off calls for conference papers,
grading rounds and rounds of papers,
laundrying mounds of clothes,

Swampy comments:

"I seriously believe you are channeling my deceased sister -- not to weird you out or anything. Sometimes when I read your posts it's almost like I have her back for the briefest instant."

and I stop everything.

Oh how I wish we were. xo

Fainting Couch

Mitzelplix
Last week in the copier room:

I turn the corner, wondering how to avoid him--
and he is standing there,
between the two copiers.
Using both.

"Uhhh . . ." he stutters, grabbing his sheets
off from one copier to make room for me.

I stride purposefully into the small closet space,
use my best Marla Singer voice:
"Trying to take up both, 'eh?"

My question isn't addressed to him and he knows this.

Our backs are to each other,
six inches apart.

Tension's thick. My copy job's going to take a while.
After a few minutes, I relax;
I realize we aren't going to speak to each other.

In walks Bond-girl-wannabe.
She smoozes up to him. He barely responds.
Suddenly, I recognize those eyes,
that tone of voice.
He's incredibly sad. Sad.
Just incredibly, well, sad, of all things.

The image of Mitzelpix's sadness
haunts me for a few days.
I replay those last few hours of our relationship
together:
his voice coming over the phone, the word "contempt"
flying like a dagger, the constant revisions to my thesis-
becoming-his.
The winning award, the certificate, champagne
and wine at the Shakespearean house, shaking hands,
and exchanging emails full of empty apologies.
Then his nerve in asking a letter
of recommendation from me to the Dean, to the Provost.
I refuse. Take a stand.
Not even realizing until a least a year later
what I had done wrong. Then the red flame of shame.

Last night in the vending area:

Sitting alone on a bench, I scarf down a delicious
BLT on wheat from the Oasis (did you know they were closing?).
I pretend to study the paper. But I'm really savoring
that sandwich.

In walks Mitzelplix.

The same dapper look since 1998. My peripheral
vision could spot him 10 yards away.
He stares at the Pepsi machine.
I ignore him.
He ignores me.

This goes on for a few moments.

My sandwich begins to taste sour.
Above all, I'm pissed that now he's even ruining my sandwich
of all things (not to mention my entire professional career).

"Uh, SQ?"

Is he actually approaching me?

Walking toward me?

I look up. Remain incredibly cool. "Mmm-um?" I ask,
mouth full, eyebrows raised.

"Do you have a quarter?"

What?

"Yeah. This machine says it's a buck twenty-five. I'm
short a quarter."

A crooked grin escapes from me. "uh, sure."
I hop up and start searching through my bag.
I never have quarters,
but noticed one this morning.

"Thanks." He mutters nonchalantly. "Let me know when
you need money off from me--"

"Right. I'll ask for more than a quarter." I go back to ignoring him
and he complains that the machine was once 75 cents (like when?).

I'm dazed. The gall.
His pride and my pride only amounting to 25 cents.
He needed that Pepsi, and his need for a Pepsi
out weighed the thought of looking me in the face.

What am I worth?

Where's the Struggle??

What Do I Have to Complain About This Morning?
Nothing.
So why am I the way I am?

sometimes I wish I could just escape my brain, you know?

Today:
At the computer lab right now waiting on coffee w/Beth.
Hard for me to have vivid conversations
without some sort of background context--
work, for instance. What will we say to each other?
Will she discover how weird I am?

Peer Critiques in my commuter class.
They're putting together a paper on roles.

Begin Rhetorical Analysis paper in my linked
History class (hey, what happened to that $1500?
why must I ask about it?).

Will read for the Linked 151 in my Commute 151
while they PC.

Then, a late evening conferrencing.
Probably a burger on the way home,
since I can't eat Subway. Not with the virus
the FDA sprays on lunch meat now.

When I get home, the hot tub should be up & running.
I feel soooo guilty. Fat and spoiled.
At least the tub has a leak
and could be potentially costly to fix.
So we won't have it for long.

I'm not growing.
I'm not helping others.
Something's wrong.
Something's missing.

Autumn Freebie

Only 2 people showed up for class today!

You know, the WS100 from 12:30-4:00.
I know I should have some other emotion,
but "wwweeeeeeeeee"
was all I could think of . . .

So I packed up my glazed donuts
and fresh apple cider,
and ran home to play
in all of the oranges and reds,
watched the afternoon sun rays slant
across my partners face.

Mama-drama

Since _TIME_'s latest article on _Lost_,
I've been intriqued
with the interplay of net & tele.
But not enough to research it.
Yet.

And you?

But I am working my way through Season I.

Riiiing riiiing.

OK--NO! THIS IS NOT A POST ON LOST;
THIS IS A RANT ON MY MIL:

Did you know I can't answer my phone during the day?
Rather, I don't.
She calls and leaves 5-7 messages a day on the answering machine
when she knows I am here working.

I don't answer the phone b/c I know it's her.
And I know that by the time I am off the phone w/her,
I will be either cranky, mean, upset, worried, or all
of the above.

It's Saturday morning now; I don't want to grade papers
due in 3 hours.
I'm blogging.
The phone rings.
And like an absent-minded freak,
I pick up the phone.

Mama-drama, baby.

I want to shout into the phone:
and THAT'S why I never pick up!!!

Every October-November.
Talk about seasonal disorder.

Zap!

Who stole my energy?
Who stole my zest? My pep?

Take back your sleepy apathy.

Me So Cranky, So Very Very Cranky

Back off my blog!

I'll eat that pie if I want to, d*mnit!

You _will_ deliver that washer, _today_.

F.

Double F.

Pass the doritos.

It's called a transition--use one.

Screw it--I'm watching a movie.

There's nothing to watch.

This Jazz Diet Pepsi taste like sh*t--stawberries and cream my ass!

What the h*ll font is this? F. Double F _again_.

They're all Fs.

No, I do not want to help you with Geometry homework.

What the f is a transendental angle??

Pick up your own d*mn syrup.

I'm not cleaning today.

Not napping.

I'm going out into the sun,
into the sun,
under a tree falling with color,
waiting for my true mother
to beam me up.

An Invitation

This invitation greeted me this morning;
I thought it only appropriate to share
it with you, since it was also addressed to you:


Dear Everyone in the World,

This Friday the 13th will be a very lucky day, especially if you come
to a Fall Potluck for the University English Department hosted
this year by G H and V M.

In the interest of ensuring a variety of selections, those of us whose
last names begin with A-H are encouraged to bring main dishes, I-P side
dishes, and Q-Z desserts. In keeping with the D.I.Y. spirit of the
festivities, if you can bring a bottle of wine, a six-pack, or (if you
prefer) a non-alcoholic beverage as well as any plastic cups, paper
plates, or disposable utensils lying around, you'll help further the
reach of our collective Fall cheer. A few coolers would be great as
well.

Significant and insignificant others of all ages and kinds are welcome.
Festivities will begin at 5:30 P.M. G and V's address is 101
G Street. 123-555-3898 (G and V) if you have questions.

RSVPs to L M (m5@.edu) appreciated.

L, J, G, and V

Can the "Be Calm Bunny" Compete?

Kudos for schools taking this inititive:

"The program is taught in alignment with Second Step Violence Prevention Curriculum which is designed to 'promote social competence and reduce social and emotional problems by teaching children skills in the core areas of empathy, emotion management (impulse control, emotion regulation, anger management), and social problem solving,' according to the guide."

What guide? My local rag doesn't include such trival information,
but you get the idea.

So area schools developed the "Be Calm Bunny"
that allows children the authority to speak up
in class and determine if the violence
surrounding them is an "accident" or on "purpose"--
and then what course of action to take.

Bunnies might be a first step.
It's _something_ right?

What would the world be like if we celebrated bunnies more?

Not Enough Coffee in the World

I'm on two committees:
one for the Women's Studies Department,
which meets today from Noon-1pm,
and another for the English Composition Committee,
which meets today from Noon-1pm.

Catch the problem?

Only the WS meeting is serving lunch . . .

I'm so glad to be a valued member of both departments.
I realize that they are getting free labor,
but I'm also getting intellectual perks.
So it's all good.

If I just don't say anything too stupid.

Which really shouldn't be a problem,
now that I'm on Paxil.
I'm pretty calm about everything now.
Maybe too calm.

I don't write much anymore. Or think too creatively.

Can't Find Me

Yes, I'm having trouble with aging.
As if I wanted to see them,
a friend emailed me pics of my, gulp, 15th HS reunion.

Nearly everyone looked so middle-aged and, well, round.
Rounder than what I remembered.
Ok, bloated. That's the word. I'm so sorry.
But it's true. I'm not talking BMI either. More than just
beer guts--a kindof stuck-on-the-self type of bloatedness
that makes the skin tight and shiney . . .

Even MT.

MT and I met in the 4th grade.
[Please forgive me if I've told you this before.]
He was a fairly hot 4th grader. Although not all the girls thought so.
I thought his bowl cut made him look extremely intelligent.

We competed in everything. Test scores, hand writing, art projects.
During recess, we'd get books on the planets and make dioramas.
We started a rock collection--well, I think I started it.
We were fascinated with science.
To my memory, I was Connect Four champ.

It all changed when he confessed to me that
he could see down Julie's blouse
when she leaned over and that she had boobs.
He adored her.

I, on the other hand, didn't really get breasts until the 6th grade.
My mother bought me an over-sized padded bra
that became quite lumpy in the wash.

MT, and his henchmen by that point, insisted
that I was stuffing.

"I don't! Want me to take you in the restroom
and prove that I don't?!"

"Yes!" was the immediate answer. Of course I wanted to;
by 6th grade, I understood that he was my soul mate.

7th and 8th grade was spent in torment and longing.
MT didn't really speak to me for a couple years,
not until he wanted my help in drawing up
plans for Cindy Z's dream house on graph paper.
The tramp.

8th grade also saw the ultimate moment of embarrassment,
that even now I cannot face in writing,
especially public writing. Let's just say,
it involved a misplaced hair.
And that was the end of MT.

We were strangers in HS.

Now, he comes looking for me at our 15th reunion.
From London.
A PhD geologist working for BP.
I know he wants me.

But I didn't show.

Sweet Nothings

If you are hugging a man
and you tell him in his ear that:

"Mmmm--you smell good!"

Could it be interpretted, well, funny?

What if it was in a church setting?

See, I have almost no sexuality outside of my partner,
so I forget these things somethimes . . .

Starmie

My tail bone still hurts.
Did I crack something?

My partner's in prison.
A prison.
Visiting a prison today.
Who wants to visit a prison?
He's taking the "tour" for some work-related reason
and they won't let him take in his cell phone.
Hope he gets out.

Meanwhile, my tail bone hurts.

And I must drive today
and teach a class I'm not prepared for
because I graded and graded and graded.

Can you use the word oscillation in a knock-knock joke?