Waiting For Dave

I hate waiting for people.
I don’t mean standing in line for a bathroom
kind of waiting.
I mean waiting for people who say they are coming
to your house
to say, fix a door,
but then never show,
or if they do show,
they show up three hours later than they said they would.
It’s unnerving.
I mean,
don’t these people care?
Like the guy who’s helping me with my closet floor.
He seems really nice.
He said to call him if there’s a problem
and now that there’s a problem,
he doesn’t call back.
And the two times he’s said he was coming,
he doesn’t show.
What’s the deal?
He was so amazing and now the whole encounter
has turned into a bad date.
It’s not like I gave him a venereal disease
Or had food in my teeth when I was talking to him.
I even paid him more than what he asked for.
I’ve called his cell phone seven times.
(I’ve used call blocker to see if he would answer).
I’ve even called the office
that referred him to me and asked them to call him for me.
Still nothing.
No call.
I don’t get it.
Why would someone be so nice one minute
and completely different the next?
Has he inhaled too much polyurethane?
Or is he so busy he just doesn’t need to care?
Maybe he enjoys making women wait.
I don’t know
and I don’t care.
I just want my floor fixed.

Beatrice and Me

I think of Beatrice Wood
in Ojai,
making her pots out of clay,
the hot desert sun baking into her,
molding her
like a soufflé.
I went to see her once,
when I lived in L.A.
and I was feeling especially lost.
I brought her a Lindt chocolate bar
and had my picture taken with her on her couch.
I was so alone then
and feeling like I had nowhere to go.
Fifteen years later
nothing has changed.
I am still feeling lost and alone.
I thought when I drove to see her everything would change for me.
I would be touched by her love of life
and walk away with it in me.
I would see her smile and find my own.
I would touch her hand and her wisdom would be mine.
On the cover of her book she is thumbing her nose,
as if to say don’t take life too seriously,
or maybe she’s saying to be full of play,
even at a hundred.
Whatever it is,
I want to be like her.
I want to be alive and free and creative,
not sitting at a restaurant
telling a nine-year-old what they can and can’t eat.
I want to be dipping my hands in clay
and exploring small towns with my camera
and making music on instruments I have yet to learn.
I want to look back at my life,
many years from now,
and know that my trip to Ojai was not in vain.

Hungry

I’m hungry.
I know that’s absurd
because I just finished eating an hour ago,
but I’m hungry.
I want a tuna melt on rye
with purple onion on it.
I want it toasted golden brown.
I want to feel the crunch on my lips and
the heat on my tongue.
And I want to wash it all down with an unsweetened ice tea.
I want to sit in an empty diner with just me and the waitress
and stare out the window and write in my journal.
I want to ask myself how I ended up here.
I want to question the plate.
I want to ask the waitress what she’s doing here too.
I bet she’ll tell me to mind my own business.

The Land of Oz

When I stare at it now,
it gives me chills,
the tall grey building where they used to live.
It is there like an ugly skyscraper
misplaced in a world of overpriced green.
The prison-like windows,
the decaying sidewalk,
the stench of fried
emanating from its lobby.
I think of the people I came to know there:
The ninety-four year old with her Pomeranian dog named Timmy,
the dark-haired man who always said hello to me,
the nasty woman at the counter who always insisted I signed in,
even though she knew who I was,
the gossipy quartet who always ate lunch together and
whispered about my mother,
the black maintenance men
who never seemed to do anything,
but yet always seemed busy,
and the awful silver-haired woman who worked at the cafeteria
who was sure I was using my parents’ discount to buy my own lunch.
I see them sometimes
when I drive by,
out on their patio chairs,
or in the parking lot walking to work,
and I wonder how I ever survived those six months
with my own parents.
I know I will never see any of them again.

Wood Is Scary

I am trying to fix it myself.
But the truth is
I don’t know what I’m doing.
The man from Lowe’s said it was easy
as he handed me a sander,
wood filler,
wood stain,
and a can of polyurethane.
He told me I could do it myself.
He said just use an old t-shirt for the stain
and a brush for the gloss
and I’d be fine.
And I thought I was doing o.k.
until I put the wood filler in
and let it dry and began to sand.
He told me to sand lightly.
But that doesn’t seem to be cutting it.
Now,
I’m frightened I put too much on.
It looks blotchy and bulbous and I don’t know if this is how it is supposed to look or not.
I don’t see how this is going to end up looking smooth or natural.
I feel like calling up over there
and making the guy come over.
But I know he never would.
So instead, I’ve called for back-up.
I’ve called someone who actually refinishes hardwood floors for a living.
Hopefully they know what they’re doing.
Hopefully when they arrive they’ll say that what I’ve done is good.
But I doubt it.
They’ll probably tell me they have to double the price of the job,
because they have to undo my handiwork.
I knew I never should have gone to Lowe’s.
Those guys tell you you can do it yourself,
but they don’t know what the Hell they are talking about.
And they’re not around to clean up the mess.
What I’ve learned from this whole experience is that
I’m fine for painting or raking or mopping.
I can even change a light bulb without incident.
But wood,
wood is something I’ve never done.
Wood is scary.

I Hate That Gecko

I’m starting to think it’s all a racket.
Insurance.
They’re happy to take three hundred dollars a month from me,
but never want to pay me a dime
when I have a problem.
They had a great excuse when there was water under the house,
(long standing problem)
and now they claim my new problem is worth less than my deductible.
Of course it is, if you fix it cheaply enough.
But that doesn’t mean it’s done right.
It’s all so convenient.
I keep paying them,
but they never pay me a penny.
How is it possible?
No wonder they have millions of dollars.
They never pay out on anything.
I think about the poor victims of Katrina
still living in mobile homes,
still without power,
still waiting for checks that will never arrive
and I understand why some of them would want to get a gun and start shooting.
We are raised in this country not to steal,
don’t steal candy,
don’t steal at a drugstore,
don’t swipe a sweater,
but those crimes are paltry
compared to what the corporations do.
And they do it with such perfect rationale.
We’re sorry Mr. So and So,
but you have a pre-existing condition,
so we are going to deny your claim.
Or Ms. So and So, the tree that fell on your house died seven months ago,
If you look at section seven, letter c of your policy,
it is your responsibility to remove any dead trees,
that tree was a hazard and we are not responsible for hazards.
Oh please, give me a break.
What are we paying for in this country?
How is our society ever going to learn that stealing is wrong
when the very people running our society are the biggest thieves of them all?

Sleepless in Nashville

Last night
I couldn’t sleep.
It was the third night this week.
Tossing and turning.
My back aching.
My head talking.
My legs on a cross-country road trip
with no road beneath them.
I thought tonight I would have no problem falling asleep.
After all,
I took a very intense yoga class in a room that was almost eighty-five degrees
and bordered on masochistic.
Surely that would guarantee me passage into dreamland.
Surely pure physical exhaustion from two nights of no sleep
would leave me no alternative but slumber.
But no.
I stayed awake,
wide awake.
I spent hours looking at the clock,
counting how many hours had passed and how few I had left if I were actually going to
consider this night a success.
By four a.m.,
after three ibuprofen and a piece of valium,
I went in the bathroom and got a heating pad.
I feel asleep with it under my back.
An hour later I woke up sure I had third degree burns on my back.
By seven a.m. it was light out.
Morning had arrived.
Now,
not only was my back on fire, I also had a stomachache.
I can blame my back on the yoga,
but what caused the stomachache was something far more mysterious.
It was either a fruit roll-up,
some raisins,
or a vegan hamburger that had defrosted and been refrozen.
I don’t think I want to know.
I hobbled,
in unbelievable pain,
to the bathroom clutching my stomach in one hand
and holding my low back with the other.
I looked like some kind of arthritic train
chugging along to the first stop it could get to.
Now, eight hours later, neither my backache nor stomachache have gone away.
I want to go lie down,
but I know if I do I won’t wake up till dark
and then I’ll never fall asleep tonight.
So,
I’m going to stay awake and write,
and paint the ceiling,
and tell myself that tonight will be different,
tonight I will sleep.
I have to.

Spring

Spring is coming.
Can you see it?
It is in the air
like coffee roasting
or garlic browning in a hot skillet.
It is so near
I can taste it.
It is in the blues and reds and yellows.
It is in the daffodils’ heads
and robins’ breasts.
It is in the lawn with its new green shoots of grass.
It is in the backseat of cars,
and in school yards,
and in the morning sun
which comes earlier and earlier each day.
It is in my eyes,
and in my walk.
It is in the grasshopper’s flight,
and the bluebird’s song.
It is in the paws of pups hungry for adventure.
It is everywhere I turn.

Banana Girl

The yellow curve of sweet flesh
that comes at me this morning
is courtesy of Ecuador
where the sun is ripe and round.
I peel the skin back
and marvel at the golden beauty tucked inside.
So firm
and tender.
So perfect.
With each bite I take,
I shake my head in disbelief.
For twenty-one years
I didn’t like them.
Wouldn’t eat one if you begged me.
Now,
they feel as though they have always been in my repertoire,
like green grapes,
or black plums,
or the Velvet Underground.