I wrote this poem to explain why I couldn’t take a shower
It might as well be part of my marriage contract.
ENTITLED
(1) To one Sunday
in bed, with no thinking, no
washing, no
us
Then I’ll love you forever.
One Sunday under cotten
scratching behind my knee
over and over as the morning
turns too bright and then dies
You can sit with me
if you want, and feed
me, but you don’t need to
Just promise you won’t pull
my limbs, won’t drag me,
won’t force me to think the bitterness
that would populate a Sunday
if I emerged.
I promise it won’t ever be a Monday.
Just think of me as a cat,
being a cat, for one day.
Tomorrow I’ll pretend
I can be human again.
(2) This love entitles you
to one day of dissappearance
under a 600-thread-count
invisibility shield.
Exempt from this marriage
is one morning a week, one
morning where no breakfast is
cooked, no clothes brushed
off and put on, no questions
answered or asked, no movement.
This agreement can only be sundered
if you sleep through an entire Sunday
to a Monday where our life lives.
(3) I’d like to renegotiate
our deal, my love.
The precious days off work
that are for us?
I need one of those back.
To do nothing with
To wallow, really; it’s
necessary wallowing time.
It recharges my thought reactor,
my heat source,
the thing you love.
I need that day to let it stifle, let it
simmer, let it’s pressure build
so in the other
hours of our live, there’s some steam
to burst through to you.
Otherwise I’ll dissipate.
(4) Or dress me, and bring me coffee
and peel my dirty underwear off and
wash me, and find my shoes and drive me
to the movies or the park.
If it snows it snows and I suppose
I wouldn’t mind seeing it.
They found this old wise man hiding in a monkey in Africa.
Either all our troubles are about to be over, or he’s using his grandfatherly face to lure us into a false sense of safety and then—bam!—it’s “Outbreak” all over again.
Look at those eyes. He can only possibly be thinking one of two things: 1.) I want to buy humanity a Werther’s Original, or 2.) this time, Dustin Hoffman dies.
(Read about the amazing discovery at New York Times)
When I can’t stop thinking about how my “Call Me Maybe” joke got cut.
When my “Call Me Maybe” joke gets cut.
My new obsession: Latvian Sprats in oil. Smoky, salty, strangely beautiful, and a lot of fun to say, too. Thanks to my stomach’s soul mate, Russ & Daughters.
For a whole week I couldn’t do my Russian accent. I think it was because Putin jailed the Pussy Riot girls.
You remember you’re fat when…
You’re caught microwaving pork mushu leftovers by the skinny coworker in white pants who enters the kitchen to carefully under-dress her cabbage salad.
How awesome would it be if I walked down the aisle to the fanfare for 20th Century Fox?
Disclaimer: I am not kidding. I really want to do this. But I won’t, because my family and my fiance totally don’t “get” me. JK!
Today I went to McDonalds’ drive through and got a small fries and a large coffee, because I’m a patriot supporting our Olympians.
It was the least I could do.
