I can’t think on command

A couple of weeks ago, I read about a study that concluded that Washington state is not neurotic, at least not as neurotic as the East Coast. Since then, I’ve experienced a few incidences which would completely skew those results to the point where the researchers would amend the title to read: “We Thought Washington Was Not Neurotic But Then We Met Mona And Holy Harry Potter, We Were Wrong!” I’m sure the New England Journal of Medicine would abbreviate it to, “Don’t Talk To Mona. Trust Us.”

Some anecdotes, neuroses wherein:

-Monday night’s poetry reading went very well. You can watch Mike read one of his poems here, thanks to Patrick and Torin from West Seattle Blog. I really big pink puffy heart the West Seattle Blog but unfortunately none of that came out while they were there. I was scanning my brain for funny stock phrases but my searches came up empty. And once they left, I thought of all these cool things I could have said, bits of intellectual gruffle that would have left a more palatable impression other than some girl repeating “Yeah!” and “Cool!” like a less articulate Rain Man.

-A couple of months ago, I saw this bright red van parked in front of our house. I could see an infant carseat base and a toddler carseat belted in the middle row. What struck me was that it had a Saipan license plate. Whoever drove this van had a family! And was from my home island! I wanted to stick a scribbled note under the windshield wiper saying, “HEY THERE I AM ALSO FROM SAIPAN!” But I didn’t because I was afraid they would try to talk to me in Chamorro and I would have nothing to say because my zygote language skills are so pathetic, my mother sends me Chamorro kids books about monsters who are under the bed and still, I have to ask for translation. So there you go, a girl who hails from Saipan who can’t even muster up the courage to talk to other people from Saipan because she’s afraid they’ll make fun of her and she gleans all this FROM LOOKING AT A CAR.

-This weekend, Mike and I attended a small dinner party with Mike’s co-worker and some of her friends. This was a table seated with very smart, professional people who were kind enough not to ask me which mail order bride catalog Mike plucked me from and instead they had a great discussion on politics. And somehow the conversation moved to difficult people and Mike brought up my story of this woman I knew a long time ago who was constantly upset and grumpy. And then I said this gem of brilliance:

“I think that’s because she had a dry vagina.”

Then I realized what I had just said, how inappropriate it was to say this in front of smart people whom I HAD JUST MET, and people who weren’t included in my whole theory that some women of a certain age could be nicer but they aren’t because they have a whole arid-in-the-pants-affliction. Chafing does not a friendly person make!

But instead of being able to explain my idea, Mike cut me off and said, “Okaaaay! I think we should be going now!” So that was it. The ugly words hung in the air as if I had pooped in my hand and smeared the phrase above my head. It was like I had an out-of-body experience in which I drifted up to the ceiling and looked down at my body, my mouth blabbed on and on about menopausal afflictions while I yelled, “SHUT IT, BACON MONSTER!”

And it would help the visual if you knew I was wearing a French Maid costume and Mike was wearing a white lab coat with a badge that read, “PSYCHO WARD.” That’s the kind of life we have, diarrhea-mouthed-maid and mental ward doc.

October 29, 2008 | Filed Under Uncategorized | 18 Comments 

Hey US Americans!

I’ve mentioned before that my dear husband is in the running for Seattle’s Poet Populist, which is the coolest contest for poets in Seattle. He’s in the lead, but the election is ending soon and the competition is fierce. We have haters like my ex-boss who stocked up on haterade and is by all accounts, a lying liar who lies.

But if you’re not a hater or a lying liar who lies, you are invited to hear Mike and some of the other candidates read tonight at 7 PM at the Youngstown Cultural Arts Center (4408 Delridge Way SW) in West Seattle. Doors open at 6:30 and I’ll be there, too!

But if you can’t make it, you can read this poem and check in as I post more of his wonderful writing this week. A taste below:

Part Of The Jar Is Still Empty

I drink late in the afternoon
at a downtown tavern in Tucson.
Every thirsty patron who opens the door
unleashes a flashflood of desert sunlight
which blinds the crowd like a deity.

The bartender makes change
for an old-timer perched next to me
who drinks whiskey, sings off-key
and delicately turns over each quarter

(only quarters, not nickels or dimes).
He studies both sides of the coin
meticulously as an archeologist picking through fossils.
Why?

“I’m seventy-eight years old, son.
Outlived the wife, Mavis, by twelve years.
She got to saving things:
buttons, pine cones, and the like.
Took to collecting Bicentennial quarters
in a pickle jar on the nightstand.
I wish she would’ve told me those were fancy quarters.

One day I used them clean up for beer money.
She cried that night, died the next day.
I think I broke her heart to death.
So I keep searching for fancy quarters
to fill up that jar. Part of the jar is still empty -

that’s where I live.”

I give the old-timer all my quarters
and as he checks each side, I escape
to face the liquid desert sun.

October 27, 2008 | Filed Under Uncategorized | 7 Comments 

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