I just realized that the way I eat a pickle is less then wholesome sounding. Has it always been so and I’ve just been blatantly unaware? Unaware until sitting in the darkened kitchen of my inlaws’ home, when suddenly I become so very aware of every slurp and suck of tiny droplets, salty goodness? Unaware until after each gluttonous suckle I begin to hear the clearing of old people throats?


You ever get the feeling that you’re ill equipped to deal with life? Sometimes I do. Funny thing is, that was pretty much my excuse for not dealing with some heavy shit that was laid right across my already aching shoulders.



The Tampon Run, much like its predecessor The Maxi Pad Run, and nothing like The Salmon Run.  When, all of a sudden, you are caught off-guard and practically unaware. When a period starts unexpectedly or heavier than usual. Left stranded on a bare or forrested island, you’re suddenly surrounded by the incoming tide.  So you run for your life– toilet paper shoved in place, between two jiggly thighs and a thin strip of cotton panties (much too small). You run until you find another woman of childbearing age and you start your request a little like this, “I’m so sorry to bug you, but you see, I came unprepared… ”  She answers back, “Regular? Heavy?” And the digging begins through pockets and purses. Glove compartments. Center consoles. And wouldn’t you know it, the emergency stash is found and one produced– held high and proud like a newly won trophy or secretly cupped in hand and silently passed. Your life vest,  your rescue vessel. The request has been granted. You bow, hands clasped around a much needed treasure, and give many thanks to the Godess and Mother Mary, and spit on the grave of Eve.

I Don’t Consider Myself a Feminist, Bur Today…


Never have, more than likely never will. Tonight at work, after a long discussion with one of my regulars about the history of Louisiana and the history of Sicily I stepped outside, and what I saw wasn’t exactly pleasant. On the sidewalk in front of the shop was a rather small but big enough scribble. It was a drawing of two hairy legs spread eagle and in the middle, what I can only assume, female genitalia. Really quite. Pleasant sight, I can only imagine how many women and children walked over that image. I may have even walked over it on my way into work. May have stepped on it while I emptied ash trays and picked up mugs, but eventually I saw it, don’t know how I could have missed it actually. I don’t know what part of me is offended? I don’t think that it’s the female part of me that’s pissed because when I first looked at it, coming to realize what it was I wasn’t upset. It was a rather decent scribble. Perhaps it is the mother in me? Wanting to protect the eyes of all the children that could spy it. The more I think of it I think it’s probably because I can’t remember if it happened on my closing shift or the opening one before mine. So I wrote a letter. When I should have been closing up I wrote a polite, maybe a but sarcastic and definitely daring letter that went a bit like this:

To the talented artist who so graciously and most humbly bestowed us with your gift, thank you. Thank you so much, I really enjoyed your choice location…it was absolutely genius! Although a somewhat abstract depiction of anatomy I wS in awe of your use of cement and what I assume was chalk. Though I do ask that next time instead of one or two tags that you sign it with your given name. I wish to give credit where credit is due.

When I left I had second thoughts about taping it outside, I asked the two men sitting outside if I should leave it or throw it away. They told me leave it and add a “p.s. Smile for the camera”. I move it from the table to the bumper sticker covered planter.
Right now I feel like a total ass. Just praying the little fuckers don’t throw a veil through the window and use spray paint next time. Or that if they do, that I’m not out of a job. Man, do I need to think through decisions…

Ziplock Bag: “oh the places you will go”


My gramma’s ashes are still sitting on my sister and her boyfriend’s refrigerator. It’s not like it’s her whole body, just an arm or a leg, I think. Once, I swear, we found a tooth in there. Just maybe. She began in Virginia. Born in Richmond then to D.C. . Chicago to Pheonix. California. Pheonix to Mandeville. Dieing in a little rest home in Lacombe. Her  final resting place, what wasn’t spread in the Pacific, is in a ziplock bag,first in a low ceiling abode in Gertville, but now she’s in Montgomery. Alabama of all places. She hated Huey P. Long, she loved FDR. I dont know why that’s relavent, but it was to her. All the dementia would allow her to remember. Every once in a while Chris will take it down, it’s part of his house tour… “here’s our kitchen. it’s a nice size and this, well this is gramma”.  And much to the horror of their guests he hands them the bag. And us, we laugh our asses off as he explains all the places he wants to put gramma.  she loved him, she hated my husband, but he she loved and because of this we know gramma’s content in a ziplock bag on top of a refridgerator in Montgomery, Alabama.

coffee shop blues


creepy old men with their electronic cigarettes, staring me down as i walk away. and everyday you look younger and younger. are you trying not to age? one of the youngsters asked me if you were going through a weird, early midlife crisis. it’s hard, i tell him. it’s hard to be so much older than when you first started. it’s hard when the new hiree is 16, maybe 17 and working on her ged. it’s hard to know you haven’t done anything “worthwhile” when you’re hitting on 30, halfway through them. it’s weird when these kids walk in and you have no idea who they are or the people they’re “sure you know”.  it’s hard when the only things you are straight up, fucking positive you can do are make coffee, mix drinks and make art. coffee dosen’t make money, but neither does art.  it’s not easy finding a new comfort zone, especially when you’re content being older in a young person’s job. that’s difficult enough, explaining what you still do. it’s not easy being a 30 something millineal– god how i hate that word so much i probably can’t fucking spell it. but hell, maybe that’s what 30 something was about–deciding if your 30s can be as badass as your 20s?

“Unless the Sun Inside You is Burning Your Gut, Don’t Do it”


it took me so long to reblog this from wired writings. while i love the bukowski poem in the beginning i can also relate to most everything stefani wrote in this beautiful blog entry

Wired Writings

This is what Charles Bukowski says about being a writer. I remember coming across the poem that this line is from, “So You Want to be a Writer?” back in the days when I spent more time on Tumblr. The entire poem is pretty riveting, I’d recommend reading it. I find that the last part always draws me the most, after the rhythm of the poem has already built up:

when it is truly time
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die, or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

laptop and tea

I think what I find so compelling about the poem are the questions that it creates for me about my own writing life, some of them positive, and some not so positive. First of all, it make me want

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