Should I practice for December?
Should I purchase some cotton sun dresses from the boutique on Clark and Berwyn?
Should I spray perfume in my eyes?
Should I smear lip gloss on my wand?
Should I make outfits for cute little mice named gusgus and jackjack?
Should I click my heels against me emerald city and dye me eyes to match my mom?
Or, maybe I should just ask you if you'd be willing to pass the salt?
Remember the salt?
I forgive you for the salt?
There was one time when someone else was having one of these self indulgent love celebrations. These sparkly Mark Twains of life.
I wont name any names, but I'm sure you remember, I think it was the last time you wore a dress. I opted out of the dress that time. I just couldn't do it. I was already the maid of honor drop out so I had to lye real low. Low and slow. Like a beauty sleeping soundly in a wet spot.
By the way, all dresses make themselves known to me as the dress. I don't have a collection.
I have an occasion, and then that occasion calls for the dress of that occasion, and then once that occasion has cried itself to death by pregnancy in the handicap stall I then make my way to an open flame and burn the sucker like a witch by the first name of goody.
I'm not mad.
But, at that rehearsal was salmon.
I did not RSVP so I wasn't planning on eating.
But, after a sketchy cab ride through the rural racism of Massachusetts, what's a girl to do?
Salmon, yes, and baked potato, thank you. Oops, I'm wearing jeans. C'mon, it's a rehearsal, I left my corset and character shoes on my other island. Deal with me people, I don't make money. Not on purpose anyway.
Anyway, your high school aged son whispered into your ear that he would like some salt.
So, you, the devoted mother, asked the other end of the table for some salt please.
Your son salted his fish.
he must be very smart.
Now, that looks good said my soaking liver.
My fingers curled around the glass.
And I'm not mad.
But, before the force of the table was even lifted into salty negative nine point eight,
Pointed right between my eyes,
I'm not mad.
But, if you really want me to grow up,
Then, just pretend I'm dressed like the big girls.
Just ask yourself,
Would I say this to a big girl?
I was drunk.
And I ask for things all the time for your records.
And when I don't, I don't, that's between me and my sodium intake.
It's OK, I'm pretty sure you stopped reading this blog,
And furthermore you have no idea it's you.
But, if you do that's OK too because no body's mad.
I just missed mom.
If everything had never changed we would have been sitting shoulder to shoulder in our cotton weaved dresses whispering low bout how everyone looks ugly but us. We would have put lots of cream in our coffee. We would have asked each other for gum and left early.
Out east I still feel king of awkward without her. A colt with flutes for legs, and carrots for eyes. A butterfly in a box in a classroom. Penetrated it's cocoon over Christmas break. Trapped. Dying for an early flight.
You should see me in my element.
I'm just like you.
I speak in full sentences.
And don't get nearly as angry as I used to.
I even have a corduroy blazer with patches on the elbows.
Graduations and Jewish rights of passage love me.
You should see me.
I should invite you.
I love you.
~Skin and Toast and Pardon My Reach