For years I chose the man to suit the instant,
from good guy to goat boy.
Not one could bridal me. In place of lace veil,
I peered from bandage gauze.
And if, in rage, some suitor tore that off, the red sun
was a scald, and I felt scalped
and rocket-shot onto the nearest flight. So everyone
I kissed left hurt. One man
broke the table I served him bread on.
Another claimed my heart
was arsenic at its core. When my last love came,
he slid a palm across
mine eyes, lent me his mouth (a bitten
plum), lay his head
in the middle of me, bent me
to that. Nights now,
my face rests on the meadow of his chest—
so I’m a loose-petalled poppy
blown open, a girl again, for the last time
hearing the earth’s heartbeat.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
My Husband's Back by Susan Minot
Sunday evening.
Breakdown hour. Weeping into
a pot of burnt rice. Sun dimmed
like a light bulb gone out
behind a gray lawn of snow.
The baby flushed with the flu
asleep on a pillow.
The fire won’t catch.
The wet wood’s caked
with ice. Sitting
on the couch my spine
collides with all its bones
and I watch my husband
peer past the glass grate
and blow.
His back in a snug plaid shirt
gray and white
leaning into the woodstove
is firm and compact
like a young man’s back.
And the giant world which swirls
in my head
stopping most thought
suddenly ceases
to spin. It sits
right there, the back I love,
animal and gamine, leaning
on one arm.
I could crawl on it forever
the one point in the world
turns out
I have traveled everywhere
to get to.
Breakdown hour. Weeping into
a pot of burnt rice. Sun dimmed
like a light bulb gone out
behind a gray lawn of snow.
The baby flushed with the flu
asleep on a pillow.
The fire won’t catch.
The wet wood’s caked
with ice. Sitting
on the couch my spine
collides with all its bones
and I watch my husband
peer past the glass grate
and blow.
His back in a snug plaid shirt
gray and white
leaning into the woodstove
is firm and compact
like a young man’s back.
And the giant world which swirls
in my head
stopping most thought
suddenly ceases
to spin. It sits
right there, the back I love,
animal and gamine, leaning
on one arm.
I could crawl on it forever
the one point in the world
turns out
I have traveled everywhere
to get to.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Adventure, part 2: Love, Or, What Happens in Vegas, Does Not Stay in Vegas
The possibility had been lurking in the back of my mind, but never really in a conscious way. It was there in the way that you casually wonder about all your heterosexual opposite-sex friends, trying once or twice to picture them naked and then getting weirded out and banishing those thoughts to some dusty and unused part of your head. Somehow the road trip was pushing the idea back into my conscious brain, but still, I hadn’t seriously entertained the idea of John and I together.
And here you think, “Then you laid eyes on him and everything fell into place.” Which is not quite what happened--it took a day.
T and I had spent the week traversing the dusty highways and byways of Utah and the Grand Canyon. We arrived in Vegas about mid-day on Friday. Because John was there for a convention, he was sharing a hotel room with a co-worker, and we spent the afternoon negotiating with the hotel for a new room, with two beds. Romance was far from my mind. I was hot and dusty from the week in Utah, tired of driving, and hungering for a civilized experience. T and I showered, changed into pretty dresses, and dragged John to Bouchon for dinner.
One of the things I love most about fine dining is the theatre of it. The ebb and flow of service, the multiple waiters, the various intricate pieces that, if done correctly, add up to more than the sum of their parts. The wine, the water, the courses, the crumbing of the table, the discussion of after-dinner drinks, the subtle exchange of silverware. After all, isn’t that why we go out? To have someone else prepare the food, bring it to us, and then clean up after us? I’ve dined alone many times and had a ball, but dining with close friends is always better. Especially in the pre-ordering negotiations, when we all got drawn into a long discussion of who was going to have what, in what order, and what wine would go best with all our various selections. Choices were eventually made, and we feasted. It was one of the finer meals in my life. I had veal cheeks, and sturgeon, and white burgundy. It was a far cry from our week of road food, beef jerky and instant oatmeal and barbecue potato chips.
Nothing happened that first night. How could it? T was there, in the next bed. And quite honestly, even if she hadn’t been, I would have fallen promptly asleep anyway. I was too tired and too happily drunk from the wine at dinner. John spent most of the night and the next day at the convention. So I drove T to the airport in the morning, and spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on my blogging and plotting the next part of the trip.
Then John returned.
He walked into the room, and we looked at each other.
And the universe shifted three inches to the left.
Like I said, not quite love at first sight, but close enough.
*
We met in undergrad, in either my junior or senior year. I confess I have no memory of our meeting, or our early friendship. Too many years have passed, and too many brain cells have been killed off in various ways, for me to have retained a completely clear memory of college. He claims it was in Tom Allen’s Shakespeare class, which sounds about right. I was dating, and then living with, and then engaged to, someone else, so I never thought of John as any sort of a romantic possibility. I do remember that when John and I started hanging out on a regular basis, we had a great time together. He had (and still has) a wonderfully wry and quirky sense of humor, and we bonded over “Mystery Science Theater 3000” and “Kids in the Hall.” When I got engaged, I wanted to include him in the wedding--doing his spot-on impression of the minister in The Princess Bride, doing the infamous “Mawwiage” speech.
Life intervened, of course. I graduated and moved two states away for an internship. He met someone and moved to Seattle to start a new life with her. My engagement fell apart and I started a new life elsewhere. We stayed in contact over the years, not necessarily close friends, but retaining the warm camaraderie of college days.
Fourteen years passed in this way. I moved to New York and went through a series of boyfriends, some serious, some not, while John got married, had a child, divorced, moved back to the East Coast, then moved back to the West Coast. We saw each other a few times in the intervening years, all on the East Coast; he even flew to New York for one of my parties. In all those years, we were never both single at the same time.
Until Vegas, that is.
And here you think, “Then you laid eyes on him and everything fell into place.” Which is not quite what happened--it took a day.
T and I had spent the week traversing the dusty highways and byways of Utah and the Grand Canyon. We arrived in Vegas about mid-day on Friday. Because John was there for a convention, he was sharing a hotel room with a co-worker, and we spent the afternoon negotiating with the hotel for a new room, with two beds. Romance was far from my mind. I was hot and dusty from the week in Utah, tired of driving, and hungering for a civilized experience. T and I showered, changed into pretty dresses, and dragged John to Bouchon for dinner.
One of the things I love most about fine dining is the theatre of it. The ebb and flow of service, the multiple waiters, the various intricate pieces that, if done correctly, add up to more than the sum of their parts. The wine, the water, the courses, the crumbing of the table, the discussion of after-dinner drinks, the subtle exchange of silverware. After all, isn’t that why we go out? To have someone else prepare the food, bring it to us, and then clean up after us? I’ve dined alone many times and had a ball, but dining with close friends is always better. Especially in the pre-ordering negotiations, when we all got drawn into a long discussion of who was going to have what, in what order, and what wine would go best with all our various selections. Choices were eventually made, and we feasted. It was one of the finer meals in my life. I had veal cheeks, and sturgeon, and white burgundy. It was a far cry from our week of road food, beef jerky and instant oatmeal and barbecue potato chips.
Nothing happened that first night. How could it? T was there, in the next bed. And quite honestly, even if she hadn’t been, I would have fallen promptly asleep anyway. I was too tired and too happily drunk from the wine at dinner. John spent most of the night and the next day at the convention. So I drove T to the airport in the morning, and spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on my blogging and plotting the next part of the trip.
Then John returned.
He walked into the room, and we looked at each other.
And the universe shifted three inches to the left.
Like I said, not quite love at first sight, but close enough.
*
We met in undergrad, in either my junior or senior year. I confess I have no memory of our meeting, or our early friendship. Too many years have passed, and too many brain cells have been killed off in various ways, for me to have retained a completely clear memory of college. He claims it was in Tom Allen’s Shakespeare class, which sounds about right. I was dating, and then living with, and then engaged to, someone else, so I never thought of John as any sort of a romantic possibility. I do remember that when John and I started hanging out on a regular basis, we had a great time together. He had (and still has) a wonderfully wry and quirky sense of humor, and we bonded over “Mystery Science Theater 3000” and “Kids in the Hall.” When I got engaged, I wanted to include him in the wedding--doing his spot-on impression of the minister in The Princess Bride, doing the infamous “Mawwiage” speech.
Life intervened, of course. I graduated and moved two states away for an internship. He met someone and moved to Seattle to start a new life with her. My engagement fell apart and I started a new life elsewhere. We stayed in contact over the years, not necessarily close friends, but retaining the warm camaraderie of college days.
Fourteen years passed in this way. I moved to New York and went through a series of boyfriends, some serious, some not, while John got married, had a child, divorced, moved back to the East Coast, then moved back to the West Coast. We saw each other a few times in the intervening years, all on the East Coast; he even flew to New York for one of my parties. In all those years, we were never both single at the same time.
Until Vegas, that is.
Habitation by Margaret Atwood
Marriage is not
a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
the edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn
the edge of the receding glacier
where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far
we are learning to make fire
a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
the edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn
the edge of the receding glacier
where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far
we are learning to make fire
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Ache of Marriage, by Denise Levertov
The ache of marriage:
thigh and tongue, beloved,
are heavy with it,
it throbs in the teeth
We look for communion
and are turned away, beloved,
each and each
It is leviathan and we
in its belly
looking for joy, some joy
not to be known outside it
two by two in the ark of
the ache of it.
thigh and tongue, beloved,
are heavy with it,
it throbs in the teeth
We look for communion
and are turned away, beloved,
each and each
It is leviathan and we
in its belly
looking for joy, some joy
not to be known outside it
two by two in the ark of
the ache of it.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
We interrupt this thread to bring you some shameless self-promotion
Broke Foodie now has a Facebook page! And is on Twitter! If you'll be my fan, I'll be yours.
The Adventure, part 1
In one year, I lost a job, a home, my unemployment benefits, my savings, a best friend, and all vestiges of my previous life. I gained a husband, a stepson, a whole new family, another (completely different) home, and my freedom. All of this because of that crazy-ass road trip.
“But you’re getting married,” you say. “No more hitting the open road on a whim, no more vacationing by yourself in Jamaica. How are you gaining your freedom?”
Getting married is going to be my new adventure, my new declaration of personal independence. I don’t really mourn the loss of my single life. All those years in New York, all those thousands of dates I went on, didn’t yield one worthwhile boyfriend. Not one. (Although there were plenty of worthless ones.) It was hard justifying a slow, sensual life, in which spontaneous travel, long drawn-out meals cooked over many hours, and gardening figured prominently, in a city which prized ruthless speed and ambition over all else. I was tired of being stared down across the table from a date, being judged unfavorably because I wasn’t on the fast track to becoming CEO by 35, because I didn’t work 100 hours a week and make six figures, because I didn’t want to work 100 hours a week.
I was also getting tired of my married/attached girlfriends turning to me for entertainment value. They were living vicariously through my dating adventures, and while I was glad someone was getting some enjoyment out of it, there were some truly terrifying moments. There was the time I woke up to the current man du jour having unprotected sex with me; I never heard from him again, prompting several emergency gynecological visits. There was the lawyer who announced to me, on our second date, that he wanted to fist me. There was the actor who refused to leave my apartment until I gave him a hand job. There were all the now-nameless garden-variety perverts, men who wanted to wear my lingerie or pimp me out, the men who broke my heart in a million different ways, by treating me like shit or breaking up with me via text message or who called me names and laughed at me when they learned I was from the South or who simply disappeared, never to be heard from again.
I won’t miss any of it.
While I know now that the road trip was my elegy to my single life, I didn’t know that at the time. It was an act born of desperation and an irrational fear of stasis. It made no sense at the time to anyone but me. It especially made no financial sense--it cost me over $14,000, during a time when I had no income, no health insurance, and six figures of student loans and credit card debt.
But it brought me everything. America, the love of my life, and me.
(“Oh, there I am! Hello me! I missed you. Where were you all this time?” “Who, me? I was hiding in the open places. All you had to do was look.”)
“But you’re getting married,” you say. “No more hitting the open road on a whim, no more vacationing by yourself in Jamaica. How are you gaining your freedom?”
Getting married is going to be my new adventure, my new declaration of personal independence. I don’t really mourn the loss of my single life. All those years in New York, all those thousands of dates I went on, didn’t yield one worthwhile boyfriend. Not one. (Although there were plenty of worthless ones.) It was hard justifying a slow, sensual life, in which spontaneous travel, long drawn-out meals cooked over many hours, and gardening figured prominently, in a city which prized ruthless speed and ambition over all else. I was tired of being stared down across the table from a date, being judged unfavorably because I wasn’t on the fast track to becoming CEO by 35, because I didn’t work 100 hours a week and make six figures, because I didn’t want to work 100 hours a week.
I was also getting tired of my married/attached girlfriends turning to me for entertainment value. They were living vicariously through my dating adventures, and while I was glad someone was getting some enjoyment out of it, there were some truly terrifying moments. There was the time I woke up to the current man du jour having unprotected sex with me; I never heard from him again, prompting several emergency gynecological visits. There was the lawyer who announced to me, on our second date, that he wanted to fist me. There was the actor who refused to leave my apartment until I gave him a hand job. There were all the now-nameless garden-variety perverts, men who wanted to wear my lingerie or pimp me out, the men who broke my heart in a million different ways, by treating me like shit or breaking up with me via text message or who called me names and laughed at me when they learned I was from the South or who simply disappeared, never to be heard from again.
I won’t miss any of it.
While I know now that the road trip was my elegy to my single life, I didn’t know that at the time. It was an act born of desperation and an irrational fear of stasis. It made no sense at the time to anyone but me. It especially made no financial sense--it cost me over $14,000, during a time when I had no income, no health insurance, and six figures of student loans and credit card debt.
But it brought me everything. America, the love of my life, and me.
(“Oh, there I am! Hello me! I missed you. Where were you all this time?” “Who, me? I was hiding in the open places. All you had to do was look.”)
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