Church of Choice

My son, Jimmy, and I have been getting Daddy accustomed to the idea that we're going to church now. My husband is, most decidedly, not, which is ironic as he was a religion major in college. OK, maybe it's not so ironic, but he plays along by asking our son how it went every Sunday after services.

One day during brunch, after a bit of direct questioning on my son's part as to what Daddy's own particular brand of church is, my husband answers, "The Mets is my church."

I'm thinking, "Oh, great."
Jimmy waits a beat and counters with, "Writing is Mommy's church."

Hallelujia, praise the Lord, little Jimmy's catching on.

Signing

The other night I was at the book reading of a friend of a friend's. She's a sharp cookie and hilarious lesbian (yes, you heard me right) as her writing and especially her storytelling deftly communicates. I was in awe. But at the same time thought, "Hey, I can do that." I can get my books published and go to bookstores and read my work and chat with the hoi polloi and sign their books and make nice. I have attractive handwriting and no germ phobias or fear of public speaking. I'm your gal.

I was feeling good about my new life as a published book-signin' author when I wandered into the conversation being held by the two warm-up authors who had read first in the evening's line-up and a third guy who was also a published author, though not a lesbian, as well as something alarmingly called a Live Fiction Critic, yikes. They were discussing how they sign their books when at their own book readings. They said things like, "If they've bought this book, I sign it this way, and if they've bought my other book I usually sign it another way." And how they always ask if the person wants an inscription or just an autograph in case they plan to resell it on e-bay. They weren't preening, they were just harmlessly swapping tricks of the trade.

I felt as if I were surrounded by earnest mid-western beauty queens trading tips on how they polish and maintain the high luster of their rhinestone tiaras.

They were generous to include me in their conversation, and perfectly friendly, I might add, especially since I had absolutely nothing to add. I suppose I could have tried to interject a dry little ditty about signing Christmas cards, but I didn't bother. Too much of a reach, and these lesbians weren't nearly as funny. So I just listened, trying to soak up the other team's play book, that of Published Authors.

I wonder if they knew I felt like an anxious puppy with my wet slobbery nose pressed up against the cage, panting and drooling with wild desire. I wonder if they know that I'm next.

Buttons

There are laces we tie up and zippers we zip
There are snaps we snap snugly with nary a quip
There are hooks that get hooked at the neck's lovely nape
As we dress up for dinner's much needed escape.

But the buttons we push just by being one's self
When they leak hideousness from the very top shelf
And that black gooey stuff with those sharp little shards
That can hardly be cleaned, though we try oh-so-hard
Keeps on drippin', then runnin' a strong steady stream
Until every thing's sopped; patience, hope, love and dreams
Once we're stepping in muck and we're covered in goo
Seems the self that I thought was the right self won't do.

So it's back to the salt mines, yup, back to my core
Back to the original factory store
To tear down the walls, asbestos and black mold,
(I pray I can do this, that I'm not too old)
Like the bionic woman I'll stop at no end
To re-code and re-build me as Mom, wife and friend.

It's gonna get ugly and messy and ick
There's no other way, there is simply no trick
To avoid the inevitable unbearable truth
(It's been chasing me since I got off in Duluth)

So here I go on this most treach'rous of trips
I feel bad for the stains left from those nasty drips
Please move a small rug, shift the couch, inch the chair,
And for heaven's sake do wash the pain from your hair,
And I'll do the same and then before we know it
Time will have passed and then more time will show it
Was best for us all, was the best we could do
So anon the next phase, the next chapter or two

I'm gonna need tissues, some wine and a cookie,
I'll slump to the floor, yes, and moan like a Wookie,
But I'll get by like the vast hoards gone before me
And tepidly, gingerly glide gently toward thee
My blessings are many, my good fortunes, great
I'll cover my grey hairs and gain back the weight

Then one bright fine day I won't sob any longer
I'll stride from the ashes a bit happier, a lot stronger
I'll dust off my funny bone and my thinking cap
And I'll write it all down and then take a long nap
Then wake up and pick up my sweet son from school,
He's my bright shining star and he's no body's fool

He'll bounce back as I will, he's young and he's malleable
Our family we'll cherish as precious and valuable
Together we'll forge, yes, our problems we'll suck up
I'll do what I can so that he's not a fuck up

Like his parents, grandparents and those gone before
Such damage to undo'll take patience galore
And willpower, fortitude, gumption and grace
I'll put feet in my mouth and get egg on my face

But I'll try and I'll try and I'll try with great might
Until one fine clear evening when saying goodnight
I'll look up at the full moon and down at my son
And know without a doubt that a battle I've won
OK, maybe not won but triumphed just a bit
So the buttons I push don't turn evr'ything to shit.

The End.

(Smile and curtsy. Blow a kiss. Wave. Exit stage left.)