Background Music

I try not hear the conversation in the next room.
I am fitted with my daughters pink Fischer Price earphones. My i-pod repeating itself. My brothers are saints. Their socks loaded with urine. "So that's why you wore shoes?" My brother said, when he stepped in a puddle. I shrugged. I am the last person standing for this job. I feel useless. My sex being the only thing that gets me at the other side of the door.
"dad said..."
"ma should..."
cancelled, redirected, unused trips. Coming back home too soon.
History repeating itself. Or staying still this year.
My brothers, I swear, are saints.
Only kids really.
I wear my adulthood like something I only just thought to put on.
I hear snippets of conversations.
Torn completely to shreds with my i-pod.
"what will the hospital do?"
And I don't answer.
For fear of being made to lead this conversation.

Love, its such a painful thing to grasp
and feel
slip away-
and out of your hands.

Gifted

You taught me to hug hard.
To feel for things softly.
That to let go does not have to mean to leave.

I showed you how to text, but you taught me the art of it.
I smile because you have made me laugh.
In every tradition we now have-
you have taught me to accept that somethings do get repeated.

I learnt that there are drive by windows and drive by hugs.
I have steered us clear of road medians,
and I now know that an ice cap is the start of long night.

I can see our iced coffee's half empty in my cup holder
and tell exactly how our last nights conversation went.
Who spoke and who just chewed at the straw.

You have taught me that it's OK to want to run.
As long as it's in circles.
And maybe to watch you get your hairs pulled.

You have taught me things I thought I knew.
And now I know better.

You have showed me how to cook all night,
keep three jobs,
toast marshmallows on a stove top,
fly a kite,
and fall so fast asleep- you pass out.

The greatest gift you have given me is the way you run to me.
Like, as if, I could possible be worth something.
...to someone.

As Long As She Gets It

Get this girl a calender.
Maybe some tact.
A cup of cold water thrown in her face.
A towel, she should know when to fold-
and how to throw it all in.

Her little lies, her big bows,
her manicured hands,
her hate.
She should learn to bow down,
to back away,
to start to unclench her fistfuls of words-
before they hit my face.

Get her a backbone,
not just a spine.
Get her a taste of revenge,
on her.
Not for her.

Get her the second last laugh,
and the best seat in the house,
for the last one-
before it hits her face.

Get her a semblance of pride.
A backyard door.
A bucket of colored chalk.
A voice that doesn't rise with self inflicted pain.
"I feel sooooooooooooo bad for you" She says.
You do?
How bad?

Get her a way to gauge her feelings,
before she parades them in my face.
Get her a list of all my thoughts
and how I can't stay angry at her.

Give her clues of how little I care.
Better yet,
don't tell her anything and let her act surprised.

A Decade Since

Your re-dating her?
Is that a new trend?
Will she be different now, ten years later?

Will you think so, even if she stayed the same?

I remember her perfectly.
Without the hint of any truths.
I remember thinking she was better then me,
even in my shadows.

She spent ten years somewhere,
but now she is right there-
where we left her.

She sat beside me once in a theater,
and I remember thinking she should not be using my arm rest.
Her gigantic cup of soda dwarfed my water.
And I thought,
she is sitting in my space.

Now I am off and running,
and she has stayed so still.
Not for you, but for you to think it was for you.

I smile.
Because life is anything but circular.
Yes, it all comes back.
beginnings revisited.

But this time,
you wont see my shadows.

I won't cast anything but luck in your face.

I'll Give You This

I look at you.
Not with judgement but with a searching look,
that leaves my eyes vacant.
I am judging myself.
How are we friends?
How did my youth prepare me for your adulthood?
How is sistership like this supposed to sail in uncharted waters.
I sink.

I see you smile and I don't want it explained.
I can be over things.
Feelings, emotions - even weight.
I cant justify my looks,
but I can tell you this:

I would back away from any confrontation and let you shine.
I would look down if you needed me to.
I would walk slowly backwards, stumbling even,
to not meet your eyes.

If you would have looked you would have seen,
the flicker of disappointment set in.
Then light a fire.

If I were your true friend I would forgive you this.
Is that a blanket statement?
Because I'll wear it like a scout at a campfire.

I'll do what I need to do to keep being friends with you.

I'll tell you the things you shouldn't hear.
I'll listen to the things you shouldn't say.

I'll fiercely protect you from anyone who might be misguided.
I will.

I'll be the friend I never imagine being,
and you can keep being the girl I did not think you were.

And we can laugh.
Heartily

Someone's

He is someone's
You know him and then I don't know you.
The way his hair feels,
and then I don't feel for you.
I know you.
I know you like I have known myself.

I have dug my heels back and held still-
felt hairs moving under my nails.
I was that good.

I would tilt my head back and somewhere,
someone would feel it.

I see your eyes and the way they lock.
I know your looks because I have given them.

I want to take your hands and undo them.
From someone else's pain.

I want to show you how my hands have stains.
How I can not just come clean.

How your smile frightens me.
Then reminds me.

Of someone else.

Of Other Things

My punishment comes in the form of my undisciplined heart. It aches and your memory is too easily remembered. I was once thankless and now I'm left in debt. My smile forms then disappears and it's all because I'm not the girl I never appreciated being. And I wonder, I always have. Time passes, pauses, leaves me wishing yesterday was lived in with less risk. I watch other peoples beauty no longer marvelling at my own. I never did, but I had the capacity too. My waste is felt inside my lined stomach. It twists with my ill mixes of fat and starchy crabs and I keep thinking my life was sweeter in Miami eating jello for supper.
My family cares too much and I am thinking of them too little.
This is 1am and I can't believe I'm still lonely and almost thirty. Sitting in my house writing two bit thoughts to myself. I need to get rid of your smile and the way you look at me.
I like watching you love me. Your love is tangible to me. I feel it surround me and it's comfort level is terrifying. So is 1am and this writing ringing in my head.
Your voice is so easy to hate. It's softness stills me, but once calmed I forever hate the place you have taken me to.
Our scenery is not familiar to me.
So here we are, you and me and all our words.
I want to spin you in circles and when you are dizzy, I want to leave you.
I will feel like myself.
And you can give all your energy to a better project.
Tonight.
I left gasping for air.
My mouth a perfect oval, gasping for a breath of someone Else's fresh air.
Not yours.
You would give me yours,
But I would say, "no thank you"
Because in every offer, lies the ability for me to turn around.
and around.
In circles of "no" till I back, so the HELL far back-
no one knows,
I ever came so close.
Waving flags of friendships and back bent with promises of forever.

Make A List. Check It Twice

It's the repetition of a beautiful lie told over and over again.
It's the way your truth leaves me feeling lied to.
It's the way your voices pitches before it breaks and cries.
It's the one thing I never imagined I would give to you.
It's the last thing that's always on my mind.
Its the moment before sleep hits me.
It's the way you move me to places I have never been before.
It's the touch I think you left on me.
It's the look I see in your eyes.
It's you unloving me quickly.
It's you and me and all the things I wish we did.
It's time pulling it's fancy tricks right through me.
It's you with sleep draining across your face.
It's your scent and the way it follows me.
It's the way love touches us both.
It's the explanations you never give.
It's your face not finding mine.
It's the way I watch you watch me.
It's my pain and your compassion.
It's the way I told you and tell you- you are goodness.
It's the in explainable silence.
It's you not asking whats on my mind.
It's our hearts breaking.
It's my hand holding yours still.
It's the looks you never give me.
It's the ones I take from you.
It's the voice I use to tell you the things I need to hear.
It's the love you keep.
It's the parts you give.
It's in all the times I tell you- who you are to me.
It's for you.
It's never for anyone else.
It's my past catching up on me.
It's for the way you see me run.
It's for all the words I haven't strung together.
It's for the silence we are headed for.
It's for the only way I know out.
It's for you.
It's always only and always will be for you.
It's my love wrapped in words.
It's your kindness undisturbed.
It's the pride I have in who you are.
It's the way I feel when I am with you.
It's all you.
It's not anything, but, always...
YOU.

He Breaks My Fall

Its my house and the way I left it.
Coiled toys, uncoiled.
My grandmothers spun.
The way the door opens,
and I catch my kids awake.

Bedtime hits in intervals.
Swings and misses.
The girl with no childhood bed time enforces them,
and I think you know I have been up to no good.

My husband smiles,
I tell him I can read his smiles in my sleep.
His beard starts to grow... on me
I like to see his smile spread to the corners of his face.
Fully bearded he seems safer.
Easier to read.

My house is the way I left it.
He sees that.
Dishes piled.
Floors unswept.
His home unkept.

His little girls awake.
My sleep stolen.
My hands reach for the sink.
The cold water.
The breakfast dishes.

He sleeps.
I read his smile.
And I look down at my hands wrinkling.
He mocks me.

But even his mocking smiles,
turns my world upside down.

What I Dont Blog

I know my text will wake you up.
So I don't text.

I know my cry will wake me up.
So I don't cry.

I sit still and type and try to hear the words I am not saying.

Sing It Like You Mean It

I am so unbelievably sad right now.
But, I am doing everything right.

I'm blogging in the dark.
I have dance music on.

Ella. Ella. Ella.
Get this Damn girl an umbrella.

How is that sexy?
That it's raining?

And if they are gonna shine- they'll shine together.

I'm too angry that I don't get it.
He wants to be under her umbrella?

Baby its raining!

Well over here- its F'ing storming.
And I have no umbrella.
Say that. Umbrella. One word.

If I were to stress a syllable.
It would be Um, Um, Um....
not Ella.

Um. Um. Um.
I don't know how to tell you.
I would sing.
That I just walked outside.
It was sunny. I was happy.
But, then it started to spit on my head.
It was G-d. I know it.
Just spitting on my head.
Then it F'ing poured.
Thundered. I was soaking wet.
So ill prepared.
I started walking faster.
then I just looked down, gave up...
and sat in a puddle.

Um, Um, Um...
can you share your...
um, um, um..
I can't say it. But I need to stand under your..
um, um, um...
Umbrella.

Anything To Let Go

It's all here.
All the proof of no longer being twenty.
I read about a woman who married six times and had two great loves.
neither of whom she married.

I can't get her life out of my head.
Was she ever twenty like me?
The twenty I thought would last forever?

Sure, age would sneak itself onto me and cast frown lines across my face,
but my heart I believed,
would beat wild forever.

Now my heart seems to pause before every beat.
I overwork my heart.
My emotions.
My hormones that make me scream angry woman angst when the showers are so hot-
that even I wonder if I let go of that yell.

I wonder about that woman and if six times was really enough to forget the two men she never married.

Or better yet, was it enough to make the men feel forgotten?

I will always believe that in the light my life shines,
it casts hues on my leftover men.
Their limbs waving wildly at me.
Not to love me, because G-d knows I am unlovable.
But just to hold me.
To make me know friendship.
To make me look up from their tight embrace and catch their eyes loving me.
"your true friend," they would whisper, "Knows you can do anything."

Is "anything" like the feeling I had today when my grandmother who survived world war two asked me to lose some of my excess weight.
To allow myself to shine through my skins.
Is "anything" like holding onto a past so fanciful, so full of footwork,
that even i feel winded by the memory?

And you.
What about you?
Will you always call me into play?
Will I always retreat into my heart?

Is "anything" ever going to feel like the right choice to me?
Is diet coke really the safest drink to be swallowing?
Should I ask for water?

Do I believe if I turned back the heavy handles of time- I would choose freely this time?
Free of what?
What does "anything" really cost?
and how much does it weigh?

Someones On The Phone For You

I hear myself talk.
The story unfolds on my lap.
Blond hair. Trophy couple.
Young Love.
...and I'm just dying to show off my scars.

This Is My Memory

You always call me into play.
Always.
Like a damn near broken record.
Playing.
Playing on.
I am so turned off.
I could sprawl on this bed and catch you watching.

You are too many digits too easily remembered.
You are the reason I use caller id.

My phone can be off, or changed,
or gifted to me.
But you still have the same ring.
I can dress you up,
but you still come to me dressed down.

My memory is brutally sharp.
I left you a thousand times,
and I still feel you next to me.
Remind me why I never felt you let go?

When I retell a story and your in it,
I see you smile.
You knew I would retell them one day.

And so you waited.
You left yourself right where we were,
in hopes I would come back one day.

And here I am retelling tales.
And I have to play the shocked little girl.
Oh, look who we have here?

But you never left did you?
You never left?

The A Is Silent

"Miriam?"

Whats in a name?
I don't know if it's not mine.

I know my name is symbolic.
Its the name my parents gave me instead of finding one from the ashes
of my massacred relatives.

My mother didn't want me or my sisters to carry a heavy name.
She wanted a name that had not been snubbed out too early.
She wanted something she liked.
Also, something she would mispronounce.

Like carnival and ridiculous,
my name took on an accent.
And when I heard my mother call me,
I felt her stop on my O and pull on my A.
She had a way of making vowels ring.

Today I almost answered to "Miriam."
I shrugged and pulled back my shoulders.
I could be "Miriam" If I cared.

But I do not care.
I do not pretend to have cares.
Or concerns.
That a woman who does not know me,
sees me as Miriam.

And all the faces for who I was not named,
seem vacant.
Searching for my namesake,
in all the wrong places.

I told you,
my mother-
she just liked the name.

"I Like You Just The Way You Are"

Happiness comes with heartache.
You take the happiness and shy away from the pain.

Happiness in a cup of frozen ice blended coffee.
Ordered through a drive through window.
With straws and change,
and the fastest window action you have ever seen from foreigners.

You get left with straws, nickles and dimes.
Somewhat shortchanged.

Your music taste has changed.
And so what if you think you can dance like she does?
You can't.

Happiness comes in knowing you can't do it all.
But, maybe you can still have it all.
That you can have a friend who catches your tears,
without them having to fall.

In popcorn and high fat foods eaten with pride.
Because you never felt so comfortable in your skins,
till you typed this right out.

You used to write your blog with the saddest music blaring from your computer.
Then it lost its sound and you couldn't find your voice.
Now you blare Timbaland from your I-Pod
and think thoughts of happiness.

Happiness in similarities and perfectly timed texts.
In sisterhood and the drive out of this neighbor hood.

And how now if you drive endlessly,
you can always change the station...
and listen to something a little less dramatic.

That's happiness.

Fighting For You

I hear your voice and the way it breaks into pieces.
I pick up your slack and all your unsaid words.

How come the things you say,
never match the expression on your face?

Even My Own Mother

I try to drown her out, but over her waters- I see her waving wildly at me.

Unforgetable Blue Ink Days

I see it in the papers I write on.
How limited a space we all have.
How we intrude on each others spaces...
and you feel the pains of being touched.

I took it up again,
the scribbled angry blue ink spots of my teenage years.
I took it back with a passion.
Timely, you could say.

I see it in the way you retell a story to me,
pausing for effect,
when really you lose me in every well thought out gap.
The effect is all in the way you accuse me,
I hear nothing but your accusations.

I knew it then and I don't stop knowing it now.
Not because I can online shop.
Not because I can drive a four wheeled vehicle,
and never because I am forever older then you.

I don't stop.
And you words find a way to catch up to me.
Friendship you think doesn't fit me.
Its to loose a garb to hide under.
And you smile,
"I still see you." You seem to say.

Well seem to say this.
I can find happiness outside a box,
and still be boxed in.

I can talk and still not talk about you.

I can have a friend and still not forget you.

Lost In The Explanation

Don't make me explain myself to you.

Your Secret Is Safe With Me

I want to tell you a little something about secrecy
and how it festers

A little secret in cupped hands,
starts to overflow
before long you have to hold your arms across your chest,
to stop its ebb...

But its white
and pure and you have all the best of intentions.
but, you don't have mine.


You secretive little boy.
I have been on this playground before.
And I will tell you,
monkey bars were never quite my thing.


I was never one for timing.
I always guessed to much and fell to hard,
and in the moment before I hit the sand,
I thought,
I should have held on with two hands,
a bit longer.

You have the timing down to an art.
Two hands closed.
You leave me with nothing but presumption,
and the way I must have felt...
eating pavement at seven years old.

Its all for the glory of the secret keeper.
And you waive it all to have the last look.
But, I told you...
I have been on this playground before.

And although I might not know when to let go.
I know when to not hold on.

Thoughtless

I thought.
Please dont throw up.
I cant get out what I pushed in.
I cant see my self in pieces on the floor,
with a toilet bowl cradling my chin.

I thought.
I could not have danced.
Feet should not have their own say.
They will cross you, then leave you without shoes.
Or soles.

I thought.
I could drink myself away.
To you.
with moves I do not have or hold.
Not with an audiance, never with a stranger,
always with the promise I just might not recognize myself.

I thought.
How unbelievably embaressing.
But it was planned.
Chugging back vodka laced with sugared cranberries.
It was so unbelievably believable.
This time.

I did not think.

Slow Motion

I.
Have.
Been.
Here.
Before.
Slow walks, speed talks- the price of nothing known,
I.
Have.
Been.
Here.
All.
Along.
knowing there will be a price to pay.

Disturbing A Peace

Attentive to your needs. Needing to know your wants.
She learnt your walk quick. In order to outrun you.

12:50

Another night died in her arms.
She stroked the F---er to sleep. Just like that. He was wound up too tightly, too coiled, too had to, have to have me. She put him down for the duration of her fancied life. She placed him so perfectly, so poised on the edge of what she thought was his seat. It all goes on, in circles from here. She tip toes, twirls away. She slips out, in, back, forth with only him. She came, she had it all, she left....she left him right there. "I'll be right the hell back." she said without the hint of truth. She said it all so well, so wrung out, so damn quietly to only herself. At night it all dies. Not even a well thought out scent can last through the darkness before we plunge into day. All mine. The day is all mine.
The nothingness. Another day and you die all over again. Under my brutal probing touch. She strokes you to hurt you. Nothing to do with sleep. Just the unconscious motions of her deliberate mind. Her want to unravel you. To revel in you. To just leave. Just like that. Her. She. Is. Me.
It all dies under her desire. Her wishes come true. She wants to have you, not at all, no one else... she ruins you for other nights spent. Unslept. Unsatisfied. You crave it like you are supposed to. Just not enough. Just like you, but not like the others. Another night, another chance. Another lie spread out on virginal sheets.... she's counting down. away. to you, for you. It's all over. Begun. Unfold. I fold.
Whatever the F--- did you think we had?

Midnight Snack

Macaroni past midnight should always be wrong.
But after a day of grapes- it should be sinful.
Not seductive.
Like when you think you are being teased,
and then taken.

Like too many portions of me.
I think you know it.
All the times I have tried to hold you,
you move my arms and hold me.

I don't even taste food anymore.
It just fills all the places you can never reach.
Coats it all in sugared finery,
but look who is still red with sin?

I move and the house feels my weight,
like a balancing act without any scales,
I tip,
and you totter.
Something is so childish about my stance.

I eat macaroni past midnight?
Whats your excuse?
I try to swallow my pride-
but it's the only thing that tastes like anything anymore.

Shiny, New.

I swear I don't even recognize myself anymore.
I swear it.

And then, just as my religion would have it-
the man gets to void all my oaths.

What am I left with besides my macaroni?

The Going Rate Just Got Going

Money matters and then its spent.
Like a casual affair, you spread yourself out,
only to find it is too thin.
I spend and feel like loose change.

Pennies really.

I try not to think about the mattress you sleep on.
How money does not buy happiness-
is misconstrued.
It buys it repeatedly.
It just never keeps it.

I always look down so our eyes don't meet.
Like guilty pleasures and sinful glances,
I can't see how little you already have.
I wait until it's all gone.

Then I can build from your scratch.

Somewhere in all the gifts,
is a daughters face
and the guilt life has etched on it.

Oh Brother

This is for you.
Because you said I whirl the poetic.

My brother,
I would hope you see me whole.
Not broken.
But in my hopes I know you see me.
Twisted sideways cramming whipped foods into my mouth.

That's not poetry.
Poetry is giving you something to think about.
Not work for.

I feel myself in your new skins.
The way you touch your jeans and hold your arms out,
reminds me of myself in those years.
tight clothes and the urge to be less restricted.


But you will never be who I was.
Broken and stolen.
Cheap and used.
Wild and still able to act pure.

Like a Poem I explain too easily,
when we all know I have riddled you up on purpose.

Thank you then for all your compliments.
You will never know how much they mean to me.

All I Can Afford: Cheap Perfume

Betrayal smells so good on me.
Like the scent was bottled for my body type.
The Fat girl trades her family in for friendship.
So typical.

But, I hate myself in it.
And I shower often with more then soap.
I feel my spoken words as a presence around me.
They make me feel naked,
when all I really like is thick, dark clothes.

And I am so uncomfortable in my skins.
They mark me pale and translucent,
and I see you seeing me,
and I am not that light.

I try to dress it up in my familiar colors
of black on black,
but my words have painted me a chameleon,
and I hate the way I am starting to look like you.
Colorful.

I even smell like you.
Because I have always believed betrayal should leave its mark.
A scent.
That others can follow.

Your Voice I Know Well

Your voice.
It's the thread I hold onto.
Its the tone I know well,
repeated,
then coated.
You find a way to touch me from so far away.

I am quiet.
It's not the silent type, it's the one that beats loud in your heart.
I can't speak,
and then we are speaking.
As if time never passed and we never stood so still.
Apart.

Together.
We are magnified.
I look too big in your lights and you are moving to large.
But, in your voice...
everything falls into place.

Distorting facts I thought were truths.
I love you.
In your silence,
in your speech.
In the way I need to just G-d damn be me.
And you respect it.

I am smiling now.
I forgot how it felt to touch the skies.

Too Honest And Mostly Too Kind

Now I blare angry songs at every red light and people stare at me from neighboring cars, because they sense I have lost something.

Another Accessory

Hate isn't such a big word after all. It's small enough to fit in your purse. To wear it like a satchel over your shoulder. To take it out and use it at family gatherings.
So Handy.
Like when I see you smile and I have to think of a word that does not start with bitch.
I always have hate.
Its comforting. A plaything to toss back and forth in my hands, just to keep me warm and satisfied.
Easier than thinking up new words to disguise my feelings.
"Oh she's Sweet." Or "Isn't her whole family just lovely?"
Sweet, lovely. Makes me want to swing my purse full of hate in her face.
Imagine how she would look with my contents staining her white skirts.
My hate, my angst.
My G-d awful excuses.
"No, I can not watch your son. Your daughter. Your house. Your home. Your life. I'm busy."
Or bored. Maybe even a little bit of sad.
Walking, sometimes even running, anywhere but here...
with a very big word stuffed inside my bag.

Fall Down. Hug Up

I've fallen and I cant get up, sounds so cliched.
But my finger was throbbing and its the finger I usually use to pull up my weight.
all two hundred and forty pounds of me.
So I had to use the other nine.
My brother looked amused.
He had this look on his lips,
like as if... he could not have thrown me down better.
Pursed,
and then paused.
letting the neighbor dust me off.
My coat of snow and shame.

When she hugged me, I felt funny.
"hey, I do this now!" I thought to say.
I give hugs, get hugs,
and when I end up on my butt on a sheet of ice,
I can stand up
and give a good solid hug.

I do that now.
I think my neighbor might wonder,
why I planted such a heavy hug on her?
But I cant shake this feeling...
This happy, go lucky, go drive by and hug...
feeling.

And my brother he smiled.
Laughing at the look of me hugging this woman.
And the way my head must have looked naked
with his hands full of my wig.

I See You, You Don't See Me

Five hours in your house left me dizzy.
Did you spin me silly?
Or do I just like awkward, well planned pronunciations...
of Screw you!
That's what you were saying, weren't you.
Screw you! Screw your friends! Screw your family!
Screw the hand that feeds your fanciful face!
I mean, you flowered it up,
you tied it all with a nice bow-
but your stuff still reeks like jealousy.
and Pent up revenge.
I see you and I see dollar signs.
I see a hunger for a want you cant fill.
And I get so dizzy.
It makes me tired watching you pace and rant.
Like a panting dog.
I am most definitely not scared.
Just amused.
Then dizzy.
You spin me so unbelievable silly-
with your big words and small mind.
So silly.
Little boy? Isn't it past your bedtime?

Lightly Frosted Please

You laugh and it snows.
I try to cry sometimes but it comes out like little gasps.
And you roar with laughter.
I stretch out my hands to throw a snowball and they coil in frost bitten terror.
You aim well.
I brush back pieces of my wig,
wondering how ice melts on these things.
You don't ever have to know,
that I was your friend first.
With greetings and new days,
come the most predictable of goodbyes.
Didn't a great man once say,
each new day brings us one day closer to our death.
Didn't I say something?
oh yes...
I always say something.
Well here's to the first of many snows,
and the friendships of teenagers.

You Fancy Little....

I can not wait to write tonight.
Its excitement is mounting like the words you used.
Well intended, my friend.
Rolled right off your tongue and now they will be splattered on my blog.
...for my brothers to read.
For my mind to wrap itself around.
The written word, we know, is so much more powerful then your voice.
So, I shall get my kids to bed and return to tuck my blog in.

Why I Don't Blog It Right Out

I have just read some of my recent posts and in their run-on-and-on sentences, lies the reason why I have not written in awhile.
I can't write truthfully on here anymore.
I can only write when I'm happy and come on- admit it! That's not fun.
You want to know why I'm on my knees somewhere and no one hears my crying.?
You need to know why I don't feel safe writing.
Why I never really could.
Why crumpled papers serve me better then these pages.
And you wonder, You wonder why I haven't lost any weight and why my posts are so moody?You find yourself picturing my face and I have no smile.
I have given up on so much of myself,
to make room for all the You's.

Sister Friend

You don't have to hold on as tightly as I do.
You can just hold on.

Again, and again and again

Some things I will never feel again.
You know it well.
You knew when you left me,
I would only remember leaving you.

I wont ever feel that age again.
Even though I taste it in every binge.
I wont feel it.

Some things don't get named.
You knew it.
And I, I knew only you.

Some things I will never feel again.
In your memory I hide the tears.
And I never feel them decorating my face.
I have cried before,
died before.
I have held my hands to my face...

some things I will never feel again.
Some things I only hear when the music is so loud,
I can see the sounds.

The way a mouth opens to scream,
the way an eye closes to tear...
The way I know somethings I will never feel again.

A Dying Art

You hate me, but you dont even really know me.
I see the way you look at me,
all this wrath so misplaced,
it stains your short skirts.

I see you stretch your legs out and I laugh at their length.
Height would give you so much more personailty.
Short is selling you out.
Hate is doing it cheaply.

And you hate me so well.
I smirk.
Its the power of a smile that knows it all too well.
And you fumble with words,
and I drill you till you curl into a fetal position.
How do you look now sitting with your legs folded underneath you?
Fifteen.

I watch the way you hate me.
Classical and over stated.
I have been hated before,
with more grace
and less determination.

You are spewing your hate,
from your nose.
You are rattling yourself,
and I am perfectly composed.

I think I have come to the realization,
that hate can do no harm.
It is so loud an emotion,
that it carries no pains,
just the clatter and noise
of a dying art.

Back From Vegas

This is for you.
For milkshakes and sweeter things.
For love lining chaos,
for cheap thrills and expensive thoughts.
I see you always.

This is for you and who you are to me.
Images of black cloths,
and silver linings.
You coming undone.
I see you always.

This is for our romance,
and the sweetest here after.
this is for short hairs pulled tight.
This is for bedtimes, and curfews,
and stolen moments.
I see you always.

This is for your thoughts,
and the way I entertain them.
This is for your love and the lulls in between.
This is for your smile,
jeans and new wardrobe.
I see you always.

This is for knowing,
and never not wanting.
This is for the moments you let me trade in,
for the times we have had.
I see you always.

Its All Or Nothing

Today I tried hard not to notice you.
You were running and I stood still.
But it was one of those tricks- where I felt like I was moving.

You can do that to me.
I am the one who has done no wrong,
but you silently cloak me in your garb and I'm left so black-
I see you.

You must hate me.
I see that now.
But, in your rush to point fingers at me.
You have drawn your fists.
And in your anger, I see weakness.
Hate is such a passionate emotion.

You hate me.
I see the way you look at me.
Sizing me up and tearing me right down.

I hold all my power in the time it takes me to turn around.
To not notice you.

compromised

I fall hard.
Its happened before.
I find myself needing to take a shower and rid myself of your scent.
G-d how it follows me.
Its happening again.
You climb in any way you can.
I let you in,
because loving you is letting you.

Hold my hand,
I want to sing.
Hold my hand and heal me slowly.
And just like that I'm on the floor.

You are gone and in your absence,
I find the pieces of myself I let you touch.

So cruel, my friend, so cruel.
Pasts haunt and I scare you-
the way I am not just brilliant.
Not. Just. Brilliant.
Remember that when you remember me.

Man, you will say,
I never knew she could sing.
And I can.
Off key, uncharted- terrifyingly accurate notes.
Here's one:
I told you so.

And I'm on the floor. Knocked down.
Defeated.
Dreaming of tomorrow.

Yes, tomorrow I will eat grapes and
think thoughts of other things.

I am compromised.

My Dirty Laundry Room

Reseal me.
You have teased me enough.
Like candlesticks and dripping wax- I am a spark.
You are my fire.

I touch.
I take eclairs and let them defrost in a laundry basket.
I take binge eating and make it a closeted affair.
You kiss me madly and taste nothing but toothpaste.
I ache for you to realize,
I have been touched,
taken.
and on my knees in the laundry room.

And I can feel so sad if I just don't eat.
I can taste the edges of my bitter pain.
I can feel the fear, the hope and then the despair.

Calling me wildly. Calling me by my name.
But, when I'm loaded on high fats I can be anyone.
My sadness can hold me but it can not keep me.

So release me.
Let me be.
And if I meant to crawl back to you... I will.
Because, you know-
right now,
I can't handle the pain.

The frozen eclairs are so much easier to swallow.

A Breath Of Diet Coke

You can't breath and then your breathing. Its that moment in between, when you know you should just hold on... and in.
...and out.
You shock me. Little pulses, so often- I feel beaten, when others think it can't really be that bad.
Oh, but it is.
Suck it in?
I wish I could.
I sometimes mind travel back to the beginning and I hate myself for letting myself go.
It was all for you.
Maybe not, but its easier to blame someone.
To point out and not in.
To find the time to catch my breath.
The one you took, take, keep on taking.
The takers.
I am your addiction.
You keep on coming back.
Like diet cokes.
....and I try, I really, really try.

So Raw

Motherhood is risky business. You doubt yourself. Often.
The risk is in the quick movements, when you act on instinct rather then thoughts.
I instinctively thought it was a good idea to remove her from the store,
but I thought I could still find a toy, stand in line and pay.

The thinking can get you down.
Then looked down upon.
Then hurting in your left arm because your balancing you baby and dragging one toddler and one "should have known better" across the parking lot.
But, you have the gifted toy.

Ahh... the price of shopping for someone other then your own children.
In their faces.
But, I remember window shopping and hoping I would be gifted.
Nowadays it's all MINE! MINE! MINE!

And the mother of all loads is carrying the kids into this world and on her shoulders right through it.

I cry for the mistakes I have made and will make.
For the mess I am making of my kids.
But, I am learning that in my tears is the answer.
In my tears is the prayer I need to hang on.
Sometimes I think I am doing it all right,
so it must be that right for me- is supposed to be all wrong.
And sometimes I have it so very wrong-
that only G-d could possible be making this so right.

I was crying today, a bit from disappointment and allot from just sheer humiliation,
but then I smiled,
knowing if I was feeling those emotions-
then that was EXACTLY what I was supposed to be feeling today.

Well Intended, My Friend

How do you know I'm that pathetic?
I didn't see you at the mall... but did you see me?
I was leafing through racks of clothing for my daughters.
In all sorts of pastel shades.
I was in black.
Silly pathetic girl.
But, you still attack me.
Almost barking when you see me.
I know it.
I know it so well that I try not to move when you come-a-knocking.
I try not to draw attention to myself.
If I have to bend down or turn around- I just save it for later.
Today you followed me up the stairs.
In my mind, I imagined you were noticing all my flaws.
butt, back, legs, shoes. Head to toe.
Then, I convinced myself I was judging you...
and I stopped.

But, oh- how you continued!
At the top of the stairs you said my legs looked swollen.
No matter how hard I tried to move away from the conversation- you backed me in.
"OK, you got me," I should have sad. "Me, Fat. I never knew!"
But, instead I let your words fall on me like little accusations.

Uncared for...

You do know they are just swollen feet?
(even though I still think they aren't)
Feet?

What about my feelings?
How do you know I'm that pathetic- that I will take it all.
And more.
Whatever you have to give me.

Tonight, though- my sister rallied for me.
Granted you were gone by then.
But she said the sort of things sisters say.

My sister, my family- build a fortress around me,
but your greatest of insults, aimed well and intended for me-
make it through.

Congratulations!

I Love You Always

I am strong.
So they say.
Like paper towels soaking up spills.
How does it do that?
My daughter flipped her yogurt on the floor.
I said I would mop it up- but I bounty'd it.
Those commercials aren't kidding...
Two paper towels and the mess was gone.
That strong!


I am carrying the weight of my world.
Around my middle.
I now it makes me look weak- but I am strong.
I take care of my own kids. I sow, I plant-
I watch them grow faster then I can care for them.
Grilled cheese for breakfast has turned into lunches packed for school.
They grow
and I watch.

Nobody, I tell them, loves them like I love them.
Nobody loves like a Mommy loves.

I love them always when,
and,
even if...

The strongest of loves.

Just Saying

I love you better.

I'm not comparing. Just saying.

The kids aren't asleep. I am sleepy.

The long weekend, was neither long nor weekend like.

You were gone and in your absence I doubted you.

Like never before and never again.

You are,

the softest, quietest, sweetest morning man.

Barefoot,

walking out of our room, my dreams...

and I don't think I was awake, untill I saw you.

In Capri pants I knew you would look great in.

newly shaved head, and if you are gone

then your pillow still has your scent and it is free.

and mine.

You are who I will always aspire to be.

Forgiving.

Kind.

Loyal.

Fierce.

And when we argue-

right.

Where Emails Go To Die

I wrote you an email. Then I erased it.
You can forget me. But, the girls wont let you.
I tease you only to reseal you.
They come in, then out- and growing up is quick when you don't have the time to notice.
I like long weekends and wonderland.
I like the smell of suntan lotion.
I see your look and its not amusing.
I wrote it all, but then I erased it.
But, I believe that you know better.
Maybe even, it all.
Long weekends are for family.

Only You

I like to walk down memory lane sometimes. Even though nobody lives there anymore. It makes me sad when I catch my image in the window panes- but, I'm still holding your hand... That's gotta say something!
And I say this...
You feel exactly like you always did. Your hand covers mine and I feel the reassuring squeeze. I'm safe. Then sold. I start to believe it could be six years ago, today, maybe even a year in our future- and I'm still held in the same regard.
I love the way you love me.
Down memory lanes, up challenging hills, over the rainbow-
you know I can get sappy when I get happy.
But you lead and I feel like I'm not really following.
We walk and talk and I forget I'm trying to keep up.
We have a chance to argue and we pass it
and you know what?
I think we have made it to the top.
Where the very best viewing point-
is the one we have... looking back.

Two Weeks Today

I took my kids to a party today. Two, actually.
One had a pony but no treats to tempt me.
The other had fried foods for a main course and cupcakes for dessert.
I ate none.
I marveled at how incredible abstinence feels.
How it even has a taste.
It's hard to describe.
It's more sweet then sour.
It feels like being full from the most incredible meal.
It's like "having enough."
I watched the other guests eat.
I drank water.
I felt free.
But, somewhere- right along with all my hope and good thoughts...
I saw you.
You didn't see me.
You have a way of looking right through me.
And I hate to feel it, but I do-
Invisible.
At the party I got in your way.
You were Wheeling your son in circles, his training wheels centering the bike-
and I stood too close.
The way you spoke to me, the way you asked me to move-
embarrasses me.
Pains me.
Then kills me.
And then your gone.
Tzitzis tucked out and wild.
And I'm watching you
and I marvel at how good it will feel...
To call you back.

Diet Coke And Egg Whites

Forgive me.
I crave diet coke.
I Eat egg whites and spicy ketchup.
I hate you.

You remind me of all my insecurities.
You tease me, only to reseal me.
You judge me-
And I have not found it fair.

Forgive me,
but hate has built itself up in me.
Suppressed at first,
and then enlightened.

I drink diet coke and egg whites.
And I hate you.

you know,
writing this post-
I have come to realize:
It comes out so easily now,

Diet coke and egg whites in.
Hate out.

In Her Likeness

I am more like her. Less like you.
I am even, where others are not.
I am down 8.6 pounds... but that is not the same as 10.
10 pounds down is a dress size and a new reward level.
It's a double sticker at weight watchers.
But, to you- its all the same.
10 pounds does not make a dent on my appearance.
It does not rid me of my black robes.
It doesn't announce itself in my newer, less 10 pound image.
I am still the same girl.
Broken in places,
bandaged in others.
Smiling because it feels like the right thing to do.
Because if I cried every time a nasty comment hit me,
I would be less like me.
I am the strength in my sadness.
I am the girl who blinks back tears, and answers
"No, no I get what you mean."
But, I don't get it.
If you are more like her, then me.
Then what does that say?
What the hell does that say?

So Grateful

I am so grateful that I get to watch you.
Curled hairs cut too short to unravel.
And your wearing the jeans I bought you in Switzerland.
That was then and this is now.
Then was adventure and twenty something year olds with new responsibilities.
Now is late nights at the office, brand new thirties and old, worn, responsibilities.
I try not to call you or interrupt your train of thought.
Sometimes I succeed.
At night when your blackberry is open-
I think I disappear.
Other times its not that easy.
Nothing is ever just a phone call away.
I have just one question and it repeats itself.
I have a few seconds to state my case.
And sometimes when we hang up I'm more confused that when I dialed your number.
Other times I take the sound of your voice with me.
I drag it through my day.
Your words, spoken softly- have a way of making me feel full.
But I'll be honest-
Sometimes it is just not enough.
I hang up and breath.
And your not there.
Your words have fallen short. Your response isn't the one I expected.
And worse- you sound like someone else.

Purple Skins and Simpler Things

Bruised not battered. That's how I would describe what's left of my ego after you walk in. As If I have hit my shin and it hurts like hell, but I only get to see the bruise mark days later. Only then do I know the pain I inflicted on myself
Well you are no different. You come, you see, you point out one flaw or another, and only later do I see the effect.
So casual, but yet days later I bruise.
Purple skin blotching my pale legs.
And when I end up unshaved and in open toes- you see my lack of nail polish and stubble.
And I see you seeing me for the first time.
I am no longer the fairy tale girl with the sun kissed hair. I wear black and read mommy blogs. You see me and you see yourself. Only too far gone.
You tell me what you tell yourself. Only this time you speak out loud.
I take it.
Like I am told to. Even, often, and always when I have had enough.
But, you cant know that I have changed.
That underneath all this fat, is a woman rising.
I have lost weight and I will continue to lose weight.
Yes, it is hard to see...
But as I drop the pounds I kiss everyone of them goodbye.
I am never going to be this fat again! Never!
You see, I have been bruised. Not battered.
The mark was only temporarily showing on my skins.
I am still whole.
Watch me! You might never get a chance to see this clearly.

Just Another Sunday

I hate the way you make me care. You talk endlessly and often and I find myself bored, then oppressed and then finally caring for you. You are nothing. The poor little rich girl. The image no one wants to look at long enough, for fear of noticing your own reflection. You talk and I turn. It's an act I know well.

Today I felt for you. A feeling I wanted to contain. But, it hit me- like friendship and sistership and all the other ships I wish I could sink instead of sail. You lied to me and I accepted it as your truth. You wrap your distorted stories up so nicely- I feel gifted.

Well, stop! Take your tales and find a better listener. I have had enough and then some. I feel like I have been beaten by your games.

And I have decided that the worst thing is that I am your friend.

Because, I am. I really am.

Touching Ten

You are my secret.
A weapon I use well.
I eat egg whites and lace them with spicy ketchup.
You love me, have loved me, love me well.
I eat sugar free frozen yogurt and diet coke.
Your face waves at me from a finish line-
Run, little girl, run!
Touching the ten pound loss mark- I begin to notice,
that you have been waiting all this time.
My emotions, now raw, without the sugar coating...
makes me tear.
It was you, always you, only you.

That Too

"I thought maybe you were crying because I gained a hundred pounds?"
That too.
I thought maybe I was more than skin and folds. I thought wrong.
That too was wishful thinking.
I will no longer think of myself as anything but what I need to lose.
A woman with too much weight to carry and when I walk in front of you now, I feel naked.
That too has changed.
I am my weight. The numbers only.
I enter a room and you are in it and I feel 250 pounds.
It doesn't matter that I lost almost ten.
That I live, laugh, and play mother well- means nothing to you.
I am my weight.
I will forever hear your little sobs and think-
That too.

Dad Does It Again

My Dad did it again.
I thought he couldn't possibly beat the full out frozen waffle/mayo episode. But he did.
I watched him from my place at the counter.
I was there to make muffins, not eat the batter. Though if my father wages his counter-blog, I'm sure he'll say the muffins didn't look that well baked.
But, this is still my blog. However unread and overfed I am.
So there he was.
He had a line up of crackers and he was putting margarine on each one.
Now granted, this doesn't sound that weird.
But let me explain:
Only minutes earlier he was ranting about juicing.
He has this hefty bag of carrots and celery just waiting to be juiced tomorrow morning. He even has them front and center in the fridge for an eager start.
The scary part is his disassociation with his "tomorrow self." And the scariest part is- I hardly saw my dad- I was so busy seeing myself.

What If?

You taste like "what if's?"
Salty, never sweet.
I tried to play Regina Spektor's Fidelity, but my computer had no sound.
It hasn't had sound for days. Maybe weeks.
No volume makes me feel like my googling is soundproof or subtitled.
I press play on videos and I imagine what's trying to be said.
It adds a complexity to simple previews.
"What If I counted points?"
I did for 3 days and 14 hours.
I counted and counted. I ate and then didn't eat.
I heard about other peoples diets and how easy they were to keep.
"What If"
Come on, really- what if?
What If someone put sound on my computer?
Would my words be able to scream instead of just being read off the screen?
SCREAM!
Sometimes I think about screaming, but then- isn't just eating myself into oblivion- the loudest, most silent, blood curling yell around?

My Aunt. My Memories.

At your memorial brunch, they served the sweetest Grapes. I thought of the taste for days afterwards. But when I bought my own, they tasted sour in comparison. I sat outside with my husband, remembering last summers visits. How you noticed everything. A comment for my daughters matching outfit. The way you cared about the choices I was making for her. You asked of summer camps and summer toys and I sat with you and watched the neighbor care for his garden.

He was there again. This time I watched the Cardinals and enjoyed seeing my husbands joy in them. I showed him things you showed me. The deck. The summer chairs you loved. (I think I will forever feel the guilt of breaking yours. I feel the loss for that chair). The way the porch was made to "almost" fit the sukkah.

And then I got passed with a card. "When I think of Eva, I think of..."
And I couldn't write anything then. Maybe not even now.
But, as husbands go- mine is always right. Even when I tell him he is so very wrong.
He said I owed them a cue card. But, I owe no one what I don't know yet.
My husband took two cue cards home with him and when I was quietly sitting at the table, he handed them to me.

I took them and stared.

When I think of Eva I think of life. I can not picture her not alive. She was so real. So larger than life. She didn't have to pause and she never really did.

So I didn't think. I try not to think.

Today I noticed at your stone that the font is so familiar. Your name is exactly the way it was on your office door. And I felt tears falling when I had the most perfect memory.

I pass the secretary desk and see your name on the door. In that font. And I peek in and youre on the phone. You let me come in and I fall so comfortably into the chair across from you. I listen to the rest of your conversation.

I think those years teaching at spring farm were my best years.
I was so happy there.
You gave me that job as an aunt. I didn't deserve it.
But, every day I proved myself and nothing felt better than you noticing.
I can see you coming into the classroom while Chanie is teaching, and we meet at the sink and talk. You always peeked your head in for a few minutes, even seconds.
But you were funny, witty, and if you had to be serious- you were kind and quick.
I can not believe you are not here.
I think to myself that you loved living. That you showed others how.
You made teachers better teachers and parents better parents.
You made us laugh.
You liked the coffee I used to bring you from second cup. This was before Starbucks.
And you ordered tuna pitas from not just yogurt.
But I know you placed the orders for me to get some fresh air. It was our shared laugh.
"Naomi, I will send you out later."
And I would wait to hear what for.
Later life drew me to you.
I got to bring you little tokens of flowers or fruits.
But really, I came for the company.
I came to see you sitting at your chair in the kitchen.
To hear your rendition of your day. To have you hear mine.

To me, because I missed your funeral, you are very much alive.
I have to remind myself that you are not here.
The font on your stone is cruel. It reminds me all too well.
When I think about Eva what don't I think about?

A Relative Song

I've thought about writing. But, then I think my words do more harm then good. I leak revenge and at times I seem bitter when all I really am is sad.

And you see it.

The way vision feels when the windsheild wipers aren't working.

Is it something external making me appear blurry to you? Or are you so lazy- you fail to see I'm being hurt?

And you see it.

The way your eyes adjust to a darkened room. And the lights are turned off without a true warning.

But, I whispered it in your ear- do you pretend I didn't warn you?

And you see it.

In the candy wrappers tossed deeply into the garbage. In the way my back turns away from you.

But, I never write it. For fear of sounding too bitter. But, maybe I am.

Maybe sadness grew in me till it could grow no more.

Maybe life changed and I stood too still.

Maybe.

But, I think you know I see you watching.

And some say, Seeing is Believing.

But, do you?

Do you belive in me?

Weight Watchers Has Me

I think back in March I posted on Weight Watchers Wanting Me and if I actually tagged things here in my blog, you would be able to find it.
But, have no fear- weight watchers caught up with me.
Sure, I seemed to be running as fast as anyone can carrying this much weight with me- but somehow, with good friends and the promise of new skirt sizes- I joined.
...And even went to a meeting.
Then I came home and heard a message left on my machine from Dr. Poons Office. The protein crazed Chinese doctor who made me bruise my arm with blood tests. He seemed so much more drastic with a weight watcher meal filling my belly.
But do I cancel an appointment that was so hard to get?
Do I trust the feeling of a new start at weight watchers?
Hmm, if only I actually had comments in my blog- then my questions wouldn't be this rhetorical.
At my first ever WW meeting, (and I have been a member on and off since 6th grade) I found myself staring at a familiar face across the aisle.
Staring. Trying to pin pint where we had met before.
She waved. I waved.
I think I'm easier to recognize with all my weight issues. So no fair on her figuring it out first.
But, then I got it:
She's my neighbor from across the street.
We had a smile over it.
When she told me she has been a dedicated member for 18 years, I scolded her for never knocking down my door.
I have a feeling that she will be my silent strength.
Sure, I'm in a diet group. I signed up with two friends.
But, come on- Isn't there something to be said about the Joneses.

So Happy It's Mothers Day Today

Mothers day is everyday.
But it is so not.

If mother's day was everyday- how come today, with all the drama and all the tears. Three scraped knees and no band-aids left. How come today didn't win me any hallmark cards?

It is not that I need something big, it is that I wonder why you could not have made me something small.

A card. A child sent to hug me.

It's pathetic, but- at times I feel like you make me feel.

The Way You Sound

I have decided you can not hear the way you sound, because if you could- you wouldn't sound like that.
Mean.
Like being nice would cost you too much money and we all know you have none.
So, I have this crappy day full of crying background music.
I wake up and my one daughter is crying.
I fry eggs- and off goes the other one.
It's swimming lessons, lets cry some more.
I end up in the pool- and that's no laughing matter.
When I'm feeding my kids frozen yogurt and adding minutes together to figure out when I'm due for an explosion of tears- I find myself wiping at my own eyes.
So, I call you.
When tough gets going- I call.
And somehow you haven't learnt that I call only when I need you.
And you sound,
well you sound so mean.
And I am just the go-to girl for tantrums and tears.
And your voice might not be laced with tears- but your tantrum is evident.
The way you say your words sounds like they are being spit out at me.
And now I'm wet again.
Does it really matter why?

Frozen Waffles and Mayo

My dad ate frozen waffles with mayo. When I say "frozen" I am not talking about the type of waffles I bought, rather the state they were in when he ate them.
I was watching Greys anatomy when he sat down next to me. I try not to look away from the screen. I'm pretty religious about the only show I watch- even if it sucks. Always when it lets me down.
But I thought I saw him eating a waffle. He was holding it in his hand, and it had some sort of white glaze on top.
So I looked.
And then I couldn't concentrate on Greys anymore. Not even with the Merideth/Derrick heartaches starting to Code blue on me.
"Are you eating a frozen waffle?" I asked my dad.
His reply:
"It's actually less calories to eat food frozen. The body has to work to bring the food down to body temperature."
"Is that mayonnaise on top?" I asked scared of his answer.
His reply:
"Um, Yes."
And so you see, this is why I have no hope. This is why family sized servings are good for one. This is why corns get re buttered and breads get slathered in mayo. This is why I write a blog where Mommy is "so not" on a diet.
I have decided that in the time It would have taken for my father to actually toast the waffle and maybe reach a little deeper in the fridge and take out a tub of margarine instead of the oh-so-easy to squeeze mayonnaise bottle- I lost something.
Not weight. That seems to love me.
I lost my singularity. My voice I thought was so unique.
Because the truth is this problem I've got myself stuck in... it runs very deep in this family.

Buy Buy Bulk

I found myself at Costco today. Between the aisles of family packed cookies, jumbo mayonnaise, and 15 lb cashew containers- I felt perfect. Like I had plopped myself into a world where big was better.

You want ketchup? Take 3! You still want one ketchup? Take 3!
You only need one ketchup? Again, take 3!

Everything over inflated- even the prices. but, I hardly noticed in my excitement to purchase 95 load detergents. For those horrible laundry days or for the next nine months. You choose. But, the sooner you pack your belongings in the sub basement storage- the sooner you can come back.

Ah, the bulk of it all.

Trying to squeeze my deeply unnecessary purchases into my car. yes, its made easier by the fact that I have no bags. Just bulk. I pile them up on each other. My avocados end up in my cup holder. I drive home with the smell of tide and the rear view of family packed batteries.

I have heard that objects in the rear view mirror are closer then they appear.

The Heat Will Do It

Oh, I knew you were crazy. Crazy has a way of following me. Up Shits creek without a paddle and I know I'm not alone. There is a crazy girl sitting next to me, using her oar for exclamation. She's waving the darned thing like its a prop, when I know If I had that oar, had even the slightest chance of guiding us- we would be free. But, She's in charge and so I sit in the painful heat listening to her talk about herself.

Life must be so hard for you. True religion jeans tapered and sized in extra small. Perfect clothes, a body that turns heads. My own life seems so unplanned. Like I had only a few minutes to put myself together and this was the best I could do.

A black T shirt. 90 pounds untucked. Booger baby stains on my shoulder. The Winnie the pooh stickers attached to my ass. And the worst part of it all- being caught talking to you.

To Do List

The post it notes are colored on.
Every single one of them.
Some with only a line, others with your name on it.
It feels like you marked the whole note pad as yours.
I grab another post it pack. This time the yellow one.
I gave up on the good colors a long time ago.
Purple, Pink, the fun looking blue- they are all the first to go.
But, now yellow is looking crumpled.
Your little scribbles all over the heart shaped papers.
Endless circles.
What a waste.
I find myself flipping through the pads- spotting little pictures.
Your name, and a heart.
Three smiling stick figures. One with a lopsided hat.
A boy on what I assume is a chair with three legs.
Three smiling girls- I think are sisters.
I can't even remember why I needed the post it note anymore.
I unstick a few treasures and tape them to the fridge. My blackboard.
The back of the telephone. The cupboard.
Anywhere.
Your little masterpieces.
I make a mental note to buy more post it notes.
For you.

Front Row Seats

I watch my children come apart by tantrums and tears. The bruised shin that has my five year old whining, instead of crying, doesn't faze me. I just watch. Amazed I have front row seats to all the free melodrama. I wait it out.

I have seen where tantrums take them. Fresh tears sprout where emotions overflow. But, I wait. I smother my own emotions. if I feel like giving up, I never give in. I calmly stop the tears with my story telling. I spin them well. Often. At times, even when I don't know where the story is going- I tell it- just so we can get swept in the tale and forget that we were only a moment ago sitting close to tears at the edge of her bed.

I just watch.

I watch my children grow up.
So fast.
I am the luckiest mother in the world. Of this I am certain.

Love, A Little Past Midnight

I love you in ways you can not imagine. I know this- because I have run with your imagination. I have held your hand and told you not to look and when you didn't peek- you didn't see how far I had gotten without you.
But, I have loved you. Love you. Kept on loving you. From distances and corners and anywhere you never thought to look. There I was.
You just have no imagination.
So follow me, imagine this.
I am sitting with you at a park reading "my little prince" and noticing you haven't shaved. I am racing downhill on a scooter and you are right behind me- so close, we seem to be falling together. But then I'm flat on my back and your not. Your face is so close, your scent covers me. I close my eyes, and you are there.
I am sitting on a hospital bed and you are holding our first child. Your eyes are closed and I'm seeing for you. Your singing and I know how much you will love our children. I see her mouth, her eyes, her chin- she looks so much like me. But, she is made perfect only with you.
Imagine I am playing with your hair and you tell me I have the perfect touch.
And I touch and take.
Little bits of your heart, all your time, most of your effort and your precious sleep.
But,
Just imagine,
You could see where we end up.
Where love goes to grow.
Where our children will one day sit.
And I, I always knew I had it all...
Love.
"Imagine," Our daughters would say, "She loved him that much."

You Can Not Know What I Mean

If I close my eyes tight enough and lie very still on my back- I can pretend I am alone. Even lonely. I can pretend the noise I hear, the clutter I'm surrounded in, the mess I've made, is not mine. I can make myself feel so secluded, that when I finally open my eyes- I'm startled to see anyone there. Certainly not my own kids. And 3. All girls. Oh, wow!

Today I drove downtown and on my way I saw some men struggling to put up a giant tent, on my way home it was standing, all white, strong and unable to move against the wind. The men weren't around anymore. The tent was up and gone was the struggle that the rain had seemed to make for the men.

I open my eyes sometimes and no one knows I have tried so hard to shut them from my surroundings. To not see the looks or the stares. Sure, I hear- but "they" say seeing is believing. I try not to believe what they say. I try to close my eyes.

When I open them, you seem certain I have never cried. You seem to think I had no great struggle. But I did. I just built myself up before you came driving back down.

Promise me, I'll never go that far downtown again.

The Veggie Fruit Combo Diet

Blended between an apple and a pineapple, I feel fruitful. I juiced all day and into the night, when I decided (yes, the night time diet decision, that's sure to cost you your morning) that if I can eat raw fruits and vegetables- surely I can eat them boiled. My reasoning's have yet to win me happiness, but anyways- I ended up eating blended veggies. I told myself it was because I am nursing mother. I tell myself a lot of things lately.

The first of them being that I will lose my weight. That I will lose it at ten pound intervals instead of one massive 90lb drop. I tell myself that I will be rewarded with each 10lbs down. Because G-d knows weight loss alone hasn't been a powerful enough reward for me.

I tell myself I will lose weight, fit into couture, smirk at my old ways, and have a bag of cut up carrots on me at all times. That my finger will soon be able to wear my engagement ring. Or take it off. It doesn't matter. As long as its my choice to take them off and not done with a jewelers scissor held that close to my skin. I tell myself I will even have to make time for a manicure then.

I DO NOT tell myself that the fruit and veggie diet makes me worry. That Fit For Life forbids mixing fruits and veggies. That over eaters anonymous only allows one fruit and only in the morning. That Atkins allows none. And I never worry about the horrible, but healthy fats found in avocados.

I tell myself none of this, because its only day one.

Red Peppers, Chicken Breasts and Diet Coke

If you are what you eat, I'm red peppers, chicken breast and too much diet coke. I'm more tears then water. More hurt then healed. A little bit scared and a long way from giving my forgiveness.

I feel like nobody. The man you don't see riding the bus right next to you. The child on the playground who hides the whole time in the sandbox. The sister who is so quiet she demands no attention. The mother in law who doesn't intrude. The girl with nothing to say and no one to play with. You know her. Everyone has a nobody.

I am yours.

I am your smile when you need to feel noticed. I am your accomplice when you need to be included. I am your conscience when you need to be understood. I am your tears, when you need to inflict pain. I am your punching bag when you need to be heard.

I am your nobody.

Only when your gone and I breath. I breath free.

Red peppers, Chicken breasts and diet coke.

And when you come back, I feel like oil, margarine and butter.

I Exercised You Away

I finally got myself physical today. I worked out like never before. You know, the first workout of, where are we now? the year. I sweated you and your ugly comments away. I moved so far on my stationary machine that I only saw your outlined form lying in bed. I was so far that I could pretend you weren't real enough to hurt me.

I Exercised you away. I was working out for me. I felt so far, so free, so unlike the girl you have made me be. (a rhyme. a rhyme. I'll try again next time). I felt like myself when I pumped my legs. I felt like I was unattached to any errand or any plan I ever had for that day. And I just soared as I watched a repeat of Greys anatomy and my "calories burnt " moving across the screen. Even Sara Ramirez and her full figured popularity couldn't get in the way of my happiness.

That is until my five year old wandered into my moment of zen. I had to take off the blasting Grey's and work out with no outside distraction. Every second seemed to tick and all of a sudden I hated this workout. This pain. This idea I had to work out for a flipping hour. And my daughter asked just the wrong questions. Rhetoric's of Whys strung together to make me test my Patience and motherhood.

And I passed. With flying colors. I got off my machine and made a work out for us to do together. We used the toys as hurdles, the backyard park as a relay and her imaginative dance steps as a beat I had to follow. It wasn't the ideal "Me time" it wasn't as easy to pass time as watching Grey's is- but I accomplished a lot in not giving up or giving in.

And where are you? You are no where near me. It doesn't matter if I'm fat, or favoring solo workouts on a machine, or even making up an energetic dance with my daughter- I am no where near you.

And I am happy I can exercise you away. That there is something that I can do to run as fast as I can away from you. That even on a stationary bicycle, I can move.

Haven't written, Haven't slept, Have Eaten

Just so we are clear, I haven't done a lot of things lately. I have avoided this blog and all the reasons why I haven't attracted any readers yet. I have avoided sending out emails to my friends and almost-friends to call them into play here. I haven't slept much. I've tossed and turned as the most un festive of festivities is about to begin and I have wondered how I will feed the onslaught of people I am hosting for passover. (Even though most of my guests would be happy with matza and mayo combo).

I have slept so little and have watched other sleeping so little- that I have come to accept my windblown unkept look as my own signature style.

Oh, but I have eaten.
I've swallowed my pride whole and it tastes a lot like Starbucks pastries and full fat ice cream.

Unpacked and not ready to go

My sister makes me laugh. Her melodrama is so fun to watch.
The other day she had this whole routine about our brothers and how they attract responsibility. They race to into, instead of shrinking from it. Like sponges they suck it up.

"You want to move your whole house and all the contents in it? Well here we are!"
"You want me to get groceries from Costco, and carry them in to your house, up 2 flights of stairs- bagless? Sure"
"Watch your children after you have feed them licorice and Slurpee's? Of course"

Even though I have them racing to reach me a diet coke, the power they hold over me is greater. I am humbled by them and everything they do in their lives for others.

I watch them and feel so lucky to have front row seats.

Somewhere Far Far away

Your too damn far to feel touched by this madness. I open the door and the air is cool, I feel a chill and shiver and the neighbors don't know it yet- but, I'm sold. Not the house... that I'll reside in. I'll live the lie. I'm sold on notions and ideas and the realization that I have everything and nothing all at once. And your too damn far away to be close enough to care.

You can't understand my choices and the way they seem made to measure. "You chose?" you seem to be asking, "or somebody chose for you?" And I want to show you how they aren't choices at all. Just the same choice cloaked in different packaging's. And I don't get confused, I just get tired. And I let everyone else make my decisions for me.

I choose only how I will destroy myself. If it'll be in loaded carbs or refined sugars. If it will be death by oil or death by sweets.

And you, you are too damn far to see my pain.

Look At Me I'm Driving A Lexus

I park at Loblaws and I'm driving a Lexus. Status symbol for those who care- for me its the cheapest way to torture myself. I shop and then lug my bags to the car only to realize it doesn't fit in. So I end up removing my daughters booster seat and holding it under my arm while I wrestle with the horribly built back seats. I angle them up with my other hand. The one that dropped the shopping bags on the floor. And caused the tomato paste to roll away. Unbroken maybe, but angry just the same. Then I toss the booster seat back and pile the bags in. They have no where to go, so they end up falling between the seats and try to make it out the door. I hold the bags and then give the door a slam. Then I pick up the tomato paste and put it in my front seat cup holder. Lexus, maybe. For me the car is everything I don't need. To me the car is a symbol of how things might look good- but feel horrible inside.

I hate the car. I Hate how it can't fit my car seats and I hate how it makes me complain. How I end up repeating the same conclusion to the hubby daily, "It just doesn't work. It's too small!" And he seems to look through me, hating me for what he thinks is my spoiled nature. It's a car. Its a bloody expensive car. But to me it's the thing that makes me sweat. It can't fit the smallest of strollers and it can't fit any shopping bags. It seems to want to remain empty of purchases. As if it knows it costs too much to begin with and now it shouldn't dare cost me a penny more. I hate it.

I hate it when my daughter is without a booster seat, because it doesn't fit. And I hate it when I'm on all fours trying to put her seat belt on for her. And I hate it the most, when I'm driving into the school parking lot and I look like I bought myself a Lexus. That I dreamed of a labeled car when all I want is four wheels, eight seats for car seats and a trunk.

The other week, I tried to pull the stroller out and it got tangled in a web of seat belts and i ended up crying. I wasn't even emotional, just so deeply frustrated.

But then again. Some people drive bicycles.
And then again. I know if anyone but me drove my three kids to school and stopped for groceries. They would hate Lexus just as much as me.

I want a van. I want a van, so I can look out my windows at every Lexus I see and laugh and the absurdity of it all.

Only 90lbs To Go! Yay!

Before you raise your eyebrows at my title. I lost no weight yet. This blog, these past five days- nothing. But, I have realized that my goal weight is unrealistic, so I altered it by ten pounds. So now I "only" have to lose 90lbs. It feel so good to be going down finally. Only 90lbs to go. Yay!

Waxing Nostalgic

No one comments. No one really reads this blog. Unless if you count, my spell checking as a read through. But still, sometimes my brothers might wander on here for pity or familiar prose... so I cant expand on this topic. But, come the hell on- who need their waxing Lady's love.

She pours it on me. I wish she was that generous with the wax. She stops mid way through my legs, and I'm biting my lower lip, and she hugs me. When she releases me I can almost swear she has my hairs on her white coat. And I'm not hairy- so that's saying something about the fierceness of her bear hug.

She really loves me. I start to think about how creepy her affection is, but then I just bask in it. Someone, for no particular reason, thinks I'm loveable. And she knows me NOW. With loose skins and stretch marks and angry eyes. So, I take her love and her awkward hugs and keep them for when I feel like the world is full of hate and I'm surrounded by the 'only if" kinda love.

My waxing lady throws in the eyebrow wax for free. It's not that exciting. I think I have seven stray hairs there. All blond. She tells me in her accented way "No tell, I just say Bikini and leg." I'm shocked. She can't do that. She doesn't own the salon and besides I have to go pay at the front desk. She can't say bikini and leg and there I am with puffy red eyes.

I insist I can afford the 10 extra bucks and she seems deflated that I won't accept her kindness. One more hug and all seems to be forgiven. Maybe I'm just cuddly. She ends up escorting me to the mall entrance, where we part with- you guessed it- a hug.

I have a feeling I'm going to go back to the nice Asian lady who is quick, pain full and hug free. I know what to do with that. Free love is the thing that confuses me.

A lie is a nice place to live

I have come to the conclusion that if you can not lie to your friend, then she isn't a friend. Friends need honesty, sometimes brutal but they also need the naive shoulder to lean on. The one that feels like shoulder pads are back in and their cushioned, innocent remarks- appear sweet rather then contrived. And if you cant lie convincingly then you aren't trying hard enough.

Allow me to explain. I bumped into a "friend" the other day and she gave me such a slap of truth, I felt stung long after we parted. Here's the thing... I like being lied to by my friends. I have enough family telling me my truths as is.

This is a picture of me. I'll paint it for you. I usually end up leaving the house looking like I don't care. And I do. I care allot. I just cant try because trying breaks my spirit. So, I end up dressed from head to toe in black with something rushed flopped onto my head and no trace of make up. Not even residue from yesterday- because hey, I didn't wear makeup yesterday either.

When I bump into people I know, I feel ashamed. But, I can;t hide- so I say something like, "Oh I didn't think I would meet anyone. Look at me. I just ran out." Or the famous, "I don't usually look like this."

So, I bump into a friend on Friday and start off with a standard, "I didn't think I would see anyone."

Then she unleashes on me. Not with malice, but Icould feel her misplaced anger falling on my with intent. "You always say that and yet I never see you looking any other way." Then a pause, where she lets me fix my head covering and blink, "If you don't want to be seen the way you look, then don't dress like that."

Ah. The truth from a friend. Ouch! I actually think about not leaving the house, I think of telling her, but then who would I feel unworthy in front of. And G-d knows I need to feel unworthy.

So next time you see me. Would you mind? Just lie to me. I like it so much better.

Blogging Motherhood

I peeked at many a mommy blog today. There was the sad ones with tales of tired eyes and terrible two destruction. Mommy's with Lego's scattered where Ideas used to stir. They wrote of the kids wonder and sometimes even the simplest of moments. Tales of feeding, burping and bathing. Details kids take for granted that Mommy is watching. But, now also writing about.

Then there were the Moms that plastered photos of their kids for all to see. Smiling, shining kids unaware that mom blogs and uses their faces as candy. My kids cute! Come see what he did!

Moms blogging are all the rage right now and here I am trying to take a slice of the pie. But, I tried to surf through the motherhood genre, trying to see where I fit in. I read a few critics claiming how attention craved these moms are- but some aren't stay at home Mommy's like me and I doubt they need the attention as much as I do.

I'm a mommy- hear me whimper!

But the same truth unravels on every page, even if the child is nameless or faceless and just referred to as "the kid." We are using their innocence and imagination to captivate an audience. I'm not that worried though, because everyone wants to crawl back into a fetal position and observe the world through trusting eyes. But yet, I haven't introduced my children yet. I think its because I don't like to share them. Not their smiles, not their days and definitely not their stories.

I am the type of mom that has my kids by my side all day. That while they are at school- I look at the watch and count the hours till I can bring them back in to play.

Will I write about them? Maybe, but then I feel like I am invading their place. If I write of a moment we shared, I take away from there chance of remembering it without intrusion. One day, they will be unable to distinguish between the memory I created for them in my words and the one they actually held.

My daughters are lights. They are what makes me most proud of myself. That I had even a golden strand of hair, facial expression, or ounce of stubbornness to do with it all- will always amaze me.

I think I will write of them through my eyes and let them know that I am just observing from a distance. Honoured to have such a great view. And If I have learnt anything from my trip through Mommy Blogs, its that a blog with no comments is a blog that's not heard. So, I guess I can start to consider this my sounding room instead of my sounding board.

There once was a time when Mommy's didn't share what their kids experienced because we were a private family unit who didn't want the "neighbors" to know. Now the neighbors don't need to raise their windows to hear the sounds from next door. They need only to Google.

I will raise to the ranks of mommy blogging but until I get a comment or two I wont raise any ethical eyebrows.

Eaten words: 2500 calories

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I have eaten them.

Tonight my home looked so clean. Looked, and actually was. My Nanny had cleared out drawers and cupboards and as I peeked inside I came across heirlooms (OK fine I just thought they were lost forever, so excuse me for being melodramatic) of my past.

I found an album of the year I became a Mommy. I was not fat, but I remember I thought I was. I wish I had known I looked good then. Maybe if I had known, I would not have stuffed my face with fried foods. I think somewhere, on some remote island- there are other people like me who eat fried anything to deal with issues, but here I just feel weird.

The other day my brother came into my house and I was frying pastry dough right out of the package. He tried to convince me that's not what the product was intended for. Single standing consumption.

I think in those pictures I found I looked awesome for me. I just didn't know it. I remember feeling overweight and the more I picked myself apart the more food I needed to put myself back together again.

All those pictures of being 23 and fitting into images or even the camera lens and here I am now touching twenty nine and the only thing between the girl in those pictures and the girl I am now is 100 pounds.

The only thing is 100 pounds. 100 pounds.

Another brotherly nudge came today when I got asked why my entries aren't following my blogs title. Come on, Mommy's supposed to be on a diet.

Oh shut up, I'm getting there.

Weight Watchers wants me

I have been offered the welcome back offer. Come back! Come Back! We will deduct the regular sign up fee, we will waive the membership fee, pay your tax for you, stuff a wad of tissues in your mouth. Oh, the things we will do if you just come the hell back.

"Your still fat!" they presume. You couldn't have left us all at weight watchers and actually lost the weight yourself. I imagine when you turned your back on us, that alone cost you a few pounds.

But don't worry about the shame of it all. Come to think of it, the extra pounds you gained without us- will cost your more to lose. Welcome, welcome Back!

You see, weight watchers wants me.

Sure its a spammed email, but they know I'm still out there checking out e-diets and Kirstie Alleys new look. They know I'm not at JUICY buying sweats or snacking on carrots. They know. Just like I'm starting to know. I'm the "type" now.

Weight watchers wants me because I'm the type of client that's here for the long lonely haul.
They want me, and you know what- I get sucked back in with all the cheap thrills of believing in their diet. For today. Maybe for a week, Weight Watchers can have me.