sparkledame

My Heart

I miss you.
I’m grieving.
I know, I know, technically speaking you’re not dead.
You just spent five weeks visiting us, so obviously you’re very much alive.
But I miss the you that was my brother before my brother turned into the kind of person you see walking down the street and say:
“Oh that poor soul.”

You are that poor soul.
The one who thinks his apartment is bugged.
The one who talks to himself all day and all night.
Some of what you say scares me a bit, so when you visit I close my bedroom door tightly and turn on the white noise machine to block you out.
And then I think of my other brother, who when he last visited bought us very sharp kitchen knives because our dull ones drove him nuts.
Should I hide those knives?

But how can I be scared of you?
You and I used to be so tight.
Remember when we went out on that fishing boat in Florida? And the water was so choppy that I started throwing up and the vomit just flew past my head and you were laughing and I was laughing and there was that weird couple who chainsmoked the entire trip?

That time in childhood when we were getting up to mischief and we accidentally locked ourselves in my bedroom closet? Yelling for our mom to rescue us, but also giggling.

For a short while you were the lead singer of a metal cover band and I went to see you perform at Barrymores in Ottawa. You had the most beautiful long golden ringlets and you banged your head up and down like the guy from Metallica and I was so proud of you.

But now, apparently there are multiple fatwas against you.
I had to google fatwa:
“A ruling on a point of Islamic law given by a recognized authority.”
You also said that you are an Angel.
If you are an angel, shouldn’t you be able to wave your magic angel wand and get rid of the fatwas?
Those are my actual thoughts, though of course I don’t share them with you.

We both still love junk food, so when you visit I buy cheezies and kit kat bars, leaving them on the kitchen counter for you ~ little offerings for the dead.

I love you so deeply, but Dear God you are exhausting to be with.
Like an experienced vampire you suck the life out of me and when you leave I crumple to the floor, exhausted.
I have enough tears to water a whole forest, but I have difficulty crying. The tears don’t spill out of my eyes, instead they fill up my lungs until I can’t breathe.
No sobbing.
Just choking on sadness.

Back In The Day

When I was very young, a neighborhood girl bullied me. I don’t remember exactly what she did, but I do remember that for years afterwards I was petrified of spiders. And I remember her face: pale skin, pretty freckles and squinting blue eyes. If you met her in passing you would think:
“That’s a pleasant-enough child.”
But if you spent any real time with her you would think:
“I bet this kid is going to grow up and become one of those crazed nurses who kills all her patients.”

For years after the spider debacle, at bedtime I would ask my parents to tuck me in very tightly to keep the spiders out. Which of course was insane. “Tighter, tighter,” I would tell my dad, as he tucked me in with army precision. Then all my stuffed animals had to be placed around my head for protection, like a magical stuffed crown.

If God forbid a spider was found in our house, I had to watch dad flush it down the toilet (I feel guilty writing this now, sorry spiders) and I would stare into the toilet bowl, making sure the spider was vanquished to the sewer system.

The fear of spiders combined with my fear of fires to make me one very nervous youngster. Back in the day, it was common for parents to put large stickers on their children’s bedroom windows so that firemen would know directly where go. But the stickers were kind of scary-looking, at least to me: they depicted a fireman holding a child in his arms with flames in the background.

At night, tucked in so tightly I was barely able to move, I would pray:
“Dear God, I hope things are going well. Please when I die, could you make it not by fire? I could drown, that would be fine. But please don’t let me burn to death. Thank you so much God, I love you.”

Though I was obviously a nervous kid, I was also an organized kid, who had a packed ready-to-go bag in case of emergency, aka fire. I kept it in my closet in an easy to grab location. The bag contained only one item: my old Snoopy, flattened with time like Flat Stanley, with silly putty stuck to his long black ears. I imagine a fireman trying to scoop me out of bed, flustered by the tight sheets and me saying:
“Not so fast mister, I’ve gotta grab my snoopy bag first.”

A Normal Mother

“It’s 70 degrees today. Not normal for March.”

“I know, isn’t it lovely? I’m getting a little color on my face.”

“It’s global fucking warming, it’s not lovely.”

“Oh Jesus, so now we can’t enjoy a sunny day?”

“Your generation ruined everything. Our planet is dying, there’s no affordable housing and the government is corrupt.”

“Every generation thinks like that. And by the way, we didn’t exactly have it easy: we had Reagan, the AIDS epidemic, multiple recessions and teal eyeliner.”

“Whatever.”

“What is up with you today?”

“What is up with me? Well, I’m a little upset that we’re taking part in a genocide, that a wannabe dictator might be running for President & that our parks are full of people living in tents.”

“You need to have sex. Your energy would be more balanced if you were having regular orgasms. Your father and I have more sex than you do.”

“Why can’t you be a normal mother?”

“A spring fling would lighten you up. What about that guy over there? He’s cute AND he’s reading an actual hardcover book. Old school.”

“Mom, stop it, I’m not up to any of your shenanigans today.”

“That’s your problem: you need more shenanigans in your life. You’re young. Your life should be overflowing with shenanigans. Plus he’s totally checking you out right now.”

“Mom, I beg you, for the love of God just stop it.”

“Alright alright, but listen: you gotta get rid of this gloomcore vibe, it’s not going to get you anywhere. And it’s bad for your skin, you’re getting frown lines.”

“Thanks, like I don’t feel shitty enough. I’m telling dad that you told me to get Botox.”

“For someone who didn’t go to theatre school you’re a real drama queen. I know the world is fucked up, I get it. It’s terrifying. But you still need – and deserve – to experience joy. You still need to fall in love. You still need to feel the sun on your face and rejoice at the freckles it brings out on your nose.”

“So I should just “shake it off” like Taylor says?”

“Exactly. Just fucking shake it off and start living your life despite the gloomcore of it all.
Live big.
Live madly.
Live every color of the rainbow.”

“Fine. FINE. I’m going to ask the cute guy what book he’s reading. How’s that for living big?”

“It’s a damn good start my love. Go forth and copulate.”

Little Pills

Lily adjusted her headphones and turned up the volume. Spotify knew her better than her boyfriend did. The songs were perfect: like little pills, each one numbing her just a bit more. No need to be fully sedated, but a light numbing – kind of like when the dentist freezes your mouth, then does painful things to you but you can’t feel it. Kind of like that.

Those guys over there look sketchy. Scary meth-head sketchy. They’re smoking something with a pipe. Crack? Is crack still a thing?

Looking around, Lily was struck by the style de jour:
white sneakers, fanny packs worn across chests and eyes searching phones for proof of life.

Dear God.

She wanted out of this. She wanted to live in a small, rural community surrounded by nature. The only problem was she didn’t have any country-living skills. Never chopped wood, knew nothing about gardening – except how to grow tomatos on her tiny patio – and was terrified of bears.

Taking a turn to get off the main drag, Lily passed a cute heritage home with old Halloween decorations left up. The owner had added Easter decor, so now it was a web with a giant black spider surrounded by pastel Easter eggs. So perfect that she stopped to take a photo.

This was modern life: decorating for holidays, one after the other with cheap toxic crap made in China. Everyone just Pod Person-ing around from Christmas to Valentines, to St. Patricks Day to Easter, to Cinco de Mayo to Summer, to Labor Day to Halloween, to Dia de los muertos to Thanksgiving and back again.

Wow. What a fucking nightmare world we’ve created. Like living in a 1950’s B movie, or an episode of The Twilight Zone.

The Penis Diaries

Non-fiction.

WARNING:
SEXUALLY EXPLICIT CONTENT & POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING

High School

In high school, (in the 80’s, pre-internet), no one talked about female sexual pleasure. Giving boys blow jobs was a privilege we were blessed to have. Yay! In fact the whole vibe was:
“You’re lucky to be with this guy at this party where there are no parents, just tons of floral upholstery and wine coolers.”
I didn’t even know that a boy, or a girl, could “go down” on me. Go down where? Do what? I don’t remember one friend ever mentioning the joys of reciprocal oral sex.

University Part 1

The movie 9 1/2 Weeks was released right before I started University, so everyone wanted to use food in their sexual play, it was the “in” thing, (watch the movie if you haven’t, it’s an 80’s classic). My boyfriend bought whip cream and honey, but we both just ended up feeling like barfing.

University Part 2

Later on, during that same first year of university, a different boyfriend became irritated with me when he couldn’t get his penis inside me:
“You’re gonna need a pencil thin dick to get in there!”
Wow. Your mother must be so proud to have such a poetic son.
Backstory: I was raped in high school and I hadn’t had a penis inside of me since then – which he knew. The next day he tried apologizing and I was like “Boy Bye,” except we didn’t say that in the eighties and I don’t remember what I said, but he and his penis were banished forever.

NYC

Later, at The Fashion Institute of Technology, I decided that my Advertising professor was perfect for me. Total dreamboat. I made up excuses to visit him in his office, we flirted and he blushed a lot. But he had morals, (damn), and he followed school rules, (rats), so he didn’t let anything inappropriate happen.

Now my Textiles professor was a different story, he wanted to sleep with me. He had an office a few blocks away, I think it was on 23rd street.
How convenient.
I remember him calling me at FIT’s residence, trying to convince me to have sex with him. His rousing pitch went something like:
“My wife and I have an arrangement, so don’t worry about it.”
Wait, first of all, you have a wife? Second of all, I’m pretty sure she did not sign off on this “arrangement.” I might have been young and stupid but I wasn’t that young and stupid.
“Boy Bye.”

Just One Drink

I was working my dream job ~ managing a vintage store ~ when one of the city’s most notorious bad boys appeared at the cash register. I quipped:
“You’re going to ask me out now aren’t you?”
like I was Lauren Bacall in a 1940’s film. He was uncharacteristically tongue-tied, not used to this level of confidence in a woman (granted it wasn’t real confidence, but he didn’t know that). We agreed to meet at the European cafe where everyone hung out. Word had traveled fast (pre-cell phones) and when I arrived early, staff and customers warned me about meeting up with him. I said:
“It’s just one drink, don’t worry about it.”
Because being in your early twenties is all about making the most deliciously dreadful decisions.

We drank wine and bantered, like Howard Hawks was directing our scene. Who was this new version of me? She was amazing. I liked who I was with him. I was more assertive. In the past I had assumed if a guy wanted to date me, I had to date them; like I had no say in my own life. But now I was trying to be pro-active and make smart decisions about men.
Insert Taylor Swift lyrics here:
“This is me trying”

For awhile it worked. I felt some sense of agency and that felt so damn good. Turns out the bad boy wasn’t so much bad as he was badly traumatized, in ways I only fully understood years later. We never stood a chance. In the end it was serious “Boy Bye,” so much so that my psyche blocked out almost the entire relationship, save for a few very tender moments. But what I do remember is that after being with him I completely shut down: No Men. No Dating. No Sex. It was extreme self-protection. Everyone said:
“You’re in your twenties, you should be out there dating & having fun!”
I didn’t care. No one was getting in.

Every once in awhile, when I’m least expecting it, a wave of grief washes over me and I mourn those years ~ Those Lost Years.

Photo: Pinterest @quentindebriey on Instagram

Good on Paper

“Mom?”

“Yes honey,”

“I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.”

“No one does. And if anyone tells you they do, they’re lying.”

“But for real, I’m spiralling.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not ready to go away to college.”

“Ya, I kinda got that vibe from you.”

“But the idea of staying home is horrifying – no offence.”

“None taken.”

“Dad will lose his mind if I defer. He thinks I’ll turn into a meth addict if I don’t go straight to school.”

“He will lose his mind, he’s an epic worrier. But he’ll get over it.”

“And the competition for internships is crazy, like I should be interviewing now. My year off needs to look good on paper.”

“Fuck that.”

“That’s your advice, fuck that?”

“Fuck good on paper.”

“Again, not the kind of guidance I’m looking for here mom.”

“Rosie you’re seventeen years old, you’re allowed to take some time to just live – sometimes spiraling, sometimes having the time of your life.”

“That’s such a Gen X thing to say.”

“Maybe it is, but it’s also the truth. Listen, your grades are excellent, you’re in three school clubs – which I know you hate – you have a part-time job, you volunteer and you sell vintage on Poshmark. That’s enough. You are enough. Take a fucking break, live a little.”

Sal took a long sip of wine, trying to keep herself from raging. The fact that her daughter was worried about how her year off school would look on paper was everything that was wrong with the world.

“But what does that break look like? I need a plan. I’ve never not had a plan.”

“Go to Ireland and meet your relatives! They would love to have you stay with them. They literally say that every time we’re on group chat.”

“Dad told me your extended family is nuts.”

“They are kind of, but the right kind of nuts. They’re loving, colorful, live out loud kind of people. In fact they might be just what you need.”

“Live out loud? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means living boldly.”

“But I’ve literally never met any of these people.”

“Exactly, that’s the fun of it, it’s an adventure.”

“What would I do there?”

“Are you kidding me? You’ve heard me talking about them at dinner. Aunt Mary owns a boutique hotel. Maura’s clothing store is super chic – Bono shops there. Eileen’s farm is so damn cute it’s like made for Instagram. You could intern for all of them and they would give you real work to do, you would learn so much.”

“Okay okay, this does actually sound kind of cool. But who’s Bono?”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“So you really think I could make this work?”

“I do. And it would be really fucking good on paper.”

“Okay, let me think about it. It’s not the worse idea ever.”

“Thank you my lovely daughter, you’re so kind.”

The Loveliest Christmas

Our faux Christmas tree is shimmering in the prettiest way.
Every year I buy one new ornament, this year I bought a felted pink snail.

“Do you want some brandy?”
“Oh that sounds lovely, thanks.”

We’re sitting on either end of our long sofa, both balancing our laptops and now our glasses too.

I can’t tell if you’re playing a video game, or watching pornography.
Just like you can’t tell whether I’m chatting in my DMs with an old lover, or searching for the perfect winter wedge boots.

I accidentally see some horrible photos on Instagram:
“Dear God Almighty.”
“What’s wrong?” you ask worried.
“I just saw the most upsetting images from Gaza. I’ve been trying not to look at any of them because they’re too horrific, but they keep popping up in my feed.”

“You follow Democracy Now, what do you expect?”
“True, good point. Maybe I’ll just unfollow all the news and political accounts until things have calmed down a bit. Because it’s too much.”

“Solid plan. You have to protect your mental health. Plus, we’ve already given donations to multiple organizations to help, there’s nothing else we can do.”

“I know. This brandy is really good by the way.”

“Isn’t it smooth? I read about it in Bon Appetit and it wasn’t even that expensive, like $85 I think.”

“It’s fun to drink something different at the holidays, makes it feel special.”

“Do you want to listen to any music?”

“No, I’m watching these beauty videos. Trying to learn how to do a metallic eye for Jess’s New Year’s Eve party.”

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too babe.”

Pink felted snail watching its owners drink brandy while the world collapses

Phlegm

“Ma’am, are you sure you need to buy seven bottles of cough syrup? Don’t cha want to leave some for other customers? It’s winter, everyone is gettin’ sick.”

Susan was incensed. How dare this shop clerk give her attitude.

“There is tons of dry cough medicine left, but I need the wet cough syrup. I have an issue with phlegm.”

“Phlegm? Best way to deal with phlegm is to hack it up and spit it out,” the clerk said, looking at Susan like she was from outer space.

“Well, not for me. My phlegm is different. I can choke and die on mine, so I can’t cough it up.”

The clerk stared at her.

“That will be $94.92 please. Debit or credit?”

“Debit.” Susan answered, glaring at the clerk, whose name tag read Emili.

“Is your name really spelled like that or did they make a mistake on your tag?” Susan asked.

“My name is really spelled like that,” Emili answered, her face devoid of emotion.

“Happy Holidays Ma’am.”

“Yes, Happy Holidays to you too.”

Emili spelled with an i was one of the more ridiculous things Susan had seen lately. The younger generation was nuts, just nuts.

At home Susan added the cough syrup to her bathroom closet. She now had 63 bottles. Not bad, but not quite enough. She would need 97 bottles to get through the winter.

Out of nowhere Susan coughed: a wet, phlegm-filled cough. She heard the phlegm swishing around in her lungs, sounding like hundreds of goldfish swimming in a bowl.

She un-packed a new bottle of couph syrup and took a swig, like it was whiskey.

Since it was bright outside she decided to put her head in the sunshine for a few minutes, the vitamin C would boost her immune system. Pacing back and forth in the backyard wearing her black puffer coat, she tried calming herself:
You’re okay. It’s only a little bit of phlegm, don’t worry.

“Susan, are you alright?”

It was her new neighbor, Ed. He had just moved in a few months ago. A divorcee with three cats. Three.

“I have a phlegm-y cough,” she answered.

“I hate phlegm. I prefer dry coughs.”

Finally someone who understood.

“I almost died once from choking on my own phlegm, I was seven years old.”

“That’s terrifying,” Ed said.

“My parents were having a dinner party. I went downstairs in my pink flannel nightgown and told them: ‘I’m scared. I can’t breathe. There’s stuff in my chest.’”

“And what did your parents do?” Ed asked, leaning on the wire fence.

“They said: ‘Oh Susan don’t be silly, that’s just phlegm. Cough it up and spit it out.’ And then my dad lit a joint and put on his favorite Cat Stevens album and they told me to go back upstairs. I stayed up all night trying not to cough, terrified that I would choke and die.”

“That’s the saddest story, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. How are your cats doing?”

“They’re pretty good. The oldest one, Jo Anne, is almost blind now, but she still gets up to hijinks. I don’t know what I would do without them.”

“I’ve never had a cat, but I like them. They’re quirky.”

“Yep, they’re characters alright. Listen – if you ever need help while you’re dealing with phlegm, just knock on my door, I don’t want you to be scared.”

“Thank you Ed. That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“No problem. See ya later.”

Susan tilted her head back, letting the mid-day sun warm her face, tears running down her cheeks.

Good Enough

What if we’re all good enough?
What if we don’t need to try to be “better versions of ourselves?”
What if we meet ourselves exactly where we are and say:
“You’re good babe, just be.”

I don’t say to my house plant:
“You gotta grow more, bigger, greener!”
No.
I just let the plant do its thing and admire its loveliness.

So let’s be like the houseplant.
We’re fine As Is.

We don’t need a poetry-self-help book written by someone who has never gone to therapy.
We don’t need to use a cleanser, followed by a toner, followed by a serum, followed by an essence, followed by a face oil, followed by a cream, followed by a mist.
Our skin is fine.

Enough already.

No more processing emotions 24/7.
No more worrying about whether everything we do is a fucking trauma response or if we’re co-dependent.
No more trying to evolve into a shinier version of ourselves.

Ca suffit.

This is not giving up, it’s giving in.
Giving in to just being.
Giving in to living without trying so hard.

One day ~ maybe soon, maybe later ~ you’ll be dead.
But right now you’re living, so live.
No more striving.
You’re enough.
Just live.

Harriet Hall wearing Molly Goddard. Photo by Lisa Jane Photography, British Vogue 2020.

Tiny Homes

My friend lives in a tiny purple house.
She’s always there with a cigarette in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, saying something sarcastic and tossing her head of dark curls back as she laughs.

Her tiny house is kind of like I Dream of Jeannie’s bottle, with that circular couch covered in velvet pillows. Except her cushions have needlepoint cases – which she made herself – that say things like, “Fuck You Very Much.”

Because my friend is so tiny she can no longer wear her favorite silver rings, so I wear one of them every day.

I miss seeing her in person, I’m too big to fit into her house. But every night before going to bed I look at her – her house is on my corner table – and I say something like:

“Hey, I miss you. In the few months since you’ve been gone the world has become an even bigger shit show – really, everything is fucked.”

Sometimes I think:
What if I open her I Dream of Jeannie purple house? Would she come swirling out in a plume of pink smoke?
Then she yells at me:
“Girl get it together, I’m not fucking swirling out, I’m DEAD, remember?!” And a Smiths song blasts at full volume:
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die

I yell back:
“I know you’re dead I’m not an idiot, Jeeze Louise. I remember our last conversation. You were crying while telling me how much pain you were in. I said let me talk with your doctors you need more pain meds. I don’t want you suffering.”

The last thing you said to me was:
“My nurse is here, I gotta go. Love you.”
And I said:
“Love you.”
Then two days later you were dead & before I could say “pouf” you were cremated.

I don’t think I’m going to sprinkle you anywhere. I’m going to keep you on your little alter: there’s a photo of us together, a lovely painted postcard that I took from your office, some rocks from the beach outside your house and a few other mementos.

I like looking over at you. We can chat anytime.