(Four bassists and a drummer walk into a restaurant…)

Now Playing: Blues Deville

Let me walk you through what it takes to see friends as an adult:

• A Facebook post.
  
• A band’s penultimate show.
  
• A bassist who shares event notices.
  
• Friends you haven’t seen in far too long.
  
• The tenacity to volley messages to all parties and pivot when the weather gods frown upon your good time.
  

Welcome to Saturday night in your (well, let’s not say how old because husband and I are in different decades for the next half a decade) season beyond youth. And if you don’t want to stay home in your pajamas watching SNL—oh, who am I kidding? Does anyone actually stay up that late anymore? Don’t we all just catch the replay on Hulu when we bother?

Anyway, back to Saturday.

It started when J, the bassist in the band my husband is in, posted that Blues Deville, a band that’s supposedly ending, but apparently not quite yet, was playing locally this weekend.

The main draw? T, the bassist in that band, is also a co-sub with B in yet another band, and he’s B’s coworker too. The two of them subbed together in a different band just a couple of weeks ago, T on bass, B on keys.

Are you keeping up? It’s a lot, I know. And hang on because I’m adding more.

Here. Word Raccoon made a chart.  👇

---

🎭 Cast of Characters (Because It’s a Lot, I Know)

Initial	Who They Are	Why They Matter
B	My husband. Lead guitarist, sometimes bassist or keyboardist	Plays in multiple bands
J	Bassist in main band B is in, friend for 35+ years	Posted the FB event. Might attend with his new girlfriend
T	The bassist playing Saturday. Also B’s coworker	Fellow sub and solid musician. Saturday’s main event
M	B’s former coworker, K’s partner, drummer	Also delightful. Loves to playfully snark on my FB posts
K	My friend. Partner to M	Hilarious. Wants to catch up. I do, too!
Old S	J’s former girlfriend, not so old. At all.	Word Raccoon is sad and wants a say in these things. (Giving shades of New Adventures of Old Christine, am I right?)
New S	J’s new girlfriend, age unknown.	Academic. Probably also lovely. D tells WR to give her a chance
WR	Word Raccoon, my chaos-fueled alter ego	Possibly definitely sneaking into the event inside my purse

I asked B if T was even still in the band. I thought he’d dropped out. Turns out, yes, he had, because the entire band is dropping out. (They’ve been together quite a few years but apparently it’s run its course.)

T is an excellent bassist, a solid singer, and the band is tight. Definitely something to look forward to. (And let’s be honest, I will be shocked if a certain someone I attend with doesn’t get asked to sit in on a couple songs. I will be even more shocked if he declines.)

B had clicked “Interested” on the event J posted. I clicked “Interested” too, partly so B and J would know I was game if this was a roundabout way to create a group event.

Then I noticed my friend K had also clicked “Interested.” Ooh. That thickened the plot, especially since she and her partner M live in the same city as the venue. I took it as code: It’s time we get dinner. Whether it was meant that way or not, I was going to reach out to our friends because why wouldn’t I?

B and I have been trying to meet up with K and M for a while. M used to work with B, which is how I know K at all, and they are the most fun couple. Sadly, the last time we saw them was at the viewing for my mom.

So I texted B:
“Any gigs this weekend?”

Nope, he said. His schedule was open. (He’s supposed to put his gigs on the digital calendar but doesn’t always. I’m also supposed to read it and, well…so I’d say that one’s 50/50.)

Hurdle one: cleared.

I asked if he wanted to go see T play, my way of signaling that I was willing to go. (Sometimes Word Raccoon hisses at anyone who threatens her writing time, but she merely asked if there would be umbrellas in the drinks and then declared herself in. She needed a break, she said, and was already imagining a piña colada. She lives to be a middle-aged cliché in tacky earrings.)

B said yes.
Hurdle two: up and over!

Then I asked, “You texting M, or should I text K?”

Normally I’d be the one to text K, because let’s be honest, isn’t it usually the women who coordinate, but not always in this relationship, which is nice, though I do like a good excuse to text.

B said, “Why don’t you text K?”

So I did, and she replied that she and M would love to come. Yay!

But of course, that’s not the end. That would be too easy.

There’s a chance we’re adding two more to the dinner party. Remember J, the bassist who originally posted the event? I asked B if J and his new girlfriend (whom he’s met, but I haven’t) would be going.

Her name begins with S.

(Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but… what happened to the former S? We were buddies. No one ran this by me. I’m sure the new S is lovely. I truly am. But I will miss the (not-so) old S. I could text her, but that would feel…a little nosey-parker, wouldn’t it?)

(Word Raccoon, meanwhile, is texting her with both thumbs. Because former S was SO MUCH FUN. Who will dance with us now? Who will help us channel our inner 23-year-old at 2 a.m. while the band packs up? Let us not speak of our shenanigans. WR is distraught. Don’t worry, there is zero chance J, old S, or new S will read this. I hope.)

I asked B if he’d text J to confirm.
(The possible attendance, not the breakup. That, alas, has been confirmed. Word Raccoon is now sulking in her flowered robe and clutching her stuffed Minion.)

Barry agreed to text J.

Three days passed.

I still hadn’t heard anything, which meant B had probably spaced it.

So I had a choice: ask again or ignore it. If I ignored it and they showed up, I’d feel awful. Would there be space at the table? Did the venue require reservations? A final head count would really help.

I hate to be sexist, but this is why the women do the planning! I wrote a poem today called “In Emotional Labor,” y’all. Do you see why? LOL. I did write it, but not because of that. It wasn’t aimed.

(Reader, I asked. He had spaced it. A quick text to J got a “probably” in response. Which, fair, it’s kind of a maybe for all of us at this point with the weather.)

So the current guest list is four…or six…or will it happen.

And honestly? That feels just about right for adult friendships, semi-defunct bands, and heat-stroked/rain drenched venues.

This, my friends, is what adult playdates look like:

• One part bass players
  
• Two parts shared calendars
• A dash of Facebook reconnaissance
  
• And a generous pour of I hope the weather cooperates

We’re not finished. It’s not just rain we have to worry about.

Today is Thursday, and the outdoor venue already posted on Facebook that they closed early today due to extreme heat. So even if it doesn’t rain on Saturday… are we really going to be up for a concert in the molten core of July?

(Can you tell I’m writing this early for next week’s post? That’s why the tenses are doing the cha-cha. Time is a construct, especially when coordinating adult hangouts.)

Friend K texted to ask if we should have alternate plans in case of rain. Which:
A. Means it’s not just about the band; they want to see us, YAY, and
B. Is a brilliant suggestion. Why didn’t I think of that?

We also now have alternate plans in my mind for heat: dinner somewhere air-conditioned, then maybe the show, once the sun stops trying to murder us.

Oh, and Word Raccoon has not been invited.

Because…isn’t it obvious?

She knows. She’s pretending not to care while polishing her nails. I caught her sneaking glitter sunscreen into my purse and checking the hourly forecast on three weather apps. She’s already picked out a dress with swishy sleeves, earrings shaped like tambourines (which we don’t actually own, but now… we might need to fix that), and she keeps muttering something about “poetic closure in the parking lot.”

She was also carrying a tiny case that may or may not hold a raccoon-sized bass.

And honestly? With this many musicians floating around, there’s a non-zero chance we’ll be asked to sing for our supper. So… we might need her, right?

If WR makes it out of the bag, I cannot be held responsible.

She loves to dance. And by now, she’s probably learned to play that bass. Not like Jaco Pastorius or anything, but I happen to know she knows a few notes.

And that’s how adult playdates work now:

• With the help of social media
  
• A side of texting
  
• A weather app obsession
  
• An increasingly chaotic entourage of bassists
• And a big measure of music
  

Or here’s hoping it works out.

Saturday evening update: Just home from outing. Band gig canceled due to rain.

B texted J and told him that. Since J lives in Huntington and the gig was in Warsaw, end of transmission. So I still have not met S. 2. B’s band has an annual gig next weekend that I haven’t decided if I’m going to. That might be a chance.

Back to Saturday: B, I, K, and M ended up going out for Italian and a movie instead.

We went to a place called Salvatori’s, a restaurant my brother has been suggesting for quite a while. I should’ve listened to him sooner because I had the best meal I’ve had in a long time.

Their special, chicken piccatta, was excellent! Description: “Pan-fried chicken simmered in a lemon-butter white wine sauce served with capers.” It came on a bed of linguine and grilled lemons with a piece of bread, along with a side salad. It was perfectly seasoned, just this side of too salty; the white wine melded beautifully with the butter and lemons, and when warm, was amazing. It was still really good when it cooled, but I’m a stickler for warm food. It definitely could’ve fed two, and actually, I shared it freely with my tablemates.

After a quick trip to the Dollar Tree where Word Raccoon did not fill her purse with candy and buy some fun eyeshadow on a lark that she hopes doesn’t stain her eyelids, we went to see Fantastic Four.

(It was not my suggestion to buy the candy, but of course I went along with it. You have not lived until you tell the clerk you are definitely not buying candy to take to the theater and he hands you an extra bag so you can definitely not separate it from your other purchases.)

Also, I was purse shamed by someone who shall remain nameless who said I should know by now that I cannot bring a small purse to a movie.

“But I thought we were going to be normal people and buy from the concession stand. And also, we just ate dinner! Even Word Raccoon is not hungry.”

Which would’ve played better except at that point WR had a Twizzler in her paws.

“What?” she asked when I glared at her.

While I’m not a sci-fi fan on any front, Marvel movies are usually fun. Despite not being sure we wanted to see it, it was a sweet movie and people clapped and cheered during parts of it that I won’t spoil here. It was heartening to hear people still enjoying an American pastime during times like these.

So yeah, socializing as adults has its challenges. But also, you feel free to say “No, I really don’t want to go to the 9:45 showing. That’s past my bedtime.”

Except you have to hope they forget your husband is a musician and sometimes plays into the wee hours of the morning. But honestly, that feels like a whole other burn.

Quick bit of housekeeping: here’s the link I promised to my poem “Fight Me in the Waffle House Parking Lot at Dawn.” It’s now live. Yay!! Many thanks, The Daily Drunk!

I’ve decided I’m not going to write this weekend. I’m calling it a challenge. A sabbath. A truce. A polite but firm ceasefire with the part of my brain that sees everything as material. No poems. No posts. Just rest. That’s the goal. We’ll see.

I’m going to cozy up with some poetry craft books. (You see the problem with this strategy, don’t you? Those books are going to absolutely turn my brain into flames and I’m going to have to be forcefully called back to daily life. You know that, right? You know it. I know it. But sure, let’s plan like I’m actually going to see a whole ass movie and go hear a band without begging for a pen.)

Yesterday, I wandered into a café, and there was a young man, someone I’ve only ever seen in his Official Librarian Mode. He noticed the Sylvia Plath biography in my hand and said he’d never read her. I blinked. “You’ve never read Plath?” I began, just starting to open that glorious can of worms. But then my phone rang. Conversation, gone. (But a poem? Probably already blooming in the background.)

Later that day, I finished a humor essay I started back in May and submitted it. To a long-shot journal. Nothing ventured, am I right?

And since the piece was already floating on my clipboard, I shared it with a literary friend when I answered an email. He wrote back warmly, and before I knew it, we were deep into a conversation about Southern food. Specifically, cornbread. You can tell he lives below the biscuit line. I’m not big on cornbread, but I’d love some of Mia’s cheesy cornbread! (That’s my eldest.)

All this to say: I haven’t even started not writing yet, and I’m afraid of failing spectacularly. Word Raccoon asks what exactly she’s supposed to do in the meantime, work on her tan? “Word” is right there in her name, she says.

Maybe I can tempt her with a book. She’d probably chew on it, though. 👀

Welcome, New Readers

To those who’ve just arrived, maybe from a Facebook post, maybe from a journal that featured one of my poems, or maybe from that half-finished café conversation, hi! Welcome!

Word Raccoon and I leave the porch light on for readers, rebels, and people with strong cornbread preferences. This space is messy, but the intentions are good. You’re welcome here, whether you want to wave or lurk.

🎵 Unexpected Bonus Track

Oh, and I mentioned over on Facebook (yes, Facebook, but that’s where most of my writer friends and our writing program alum group hangs out, so there we have it) that my poem, Authorial Intent Ale has been published. A friend commented that there’s “lots to admire” in it, and that he’s printing out a copy to save.

A poet friend.

To save.

Reader, I melted.

That’s the real dream: not going viral, not applause, just to have your work be quietly kept by someone who found something worth holding onto. Wow.

So anyway, I’m not planning on writing this weekend. But beforehand, I’m submitting essays and poems, being read, almost evangelizing Sylvia Plath, and contemplating whether a hummingbird is a sacred object. (Several have discovered our backyard. They’re mesmerizing miracles and WR wants to hug one but I told her no, no, they are too fragile. She’s not so great with the restraint, but she’s trying.)

Don’t put money on me not writing this weekend, friend. You might well lose it. But I’ll try to write less, anyway.

Now Playing: “God’s Favorite Customer,” FJM. 

My poem  “Fight Me at the Wafflehouse at Dawn” has been accepted by The Daily Drunk: “Pop culture writing that pops,” and I’m thrilled.

After agonizing and praying to the Nyquil gods during a nasty cold in April of this year to please, please, give me some way to call out to certain poets who were not, as far as I knew, using their considerable talents, this poem came to me at about 3 a.m. 

(Apparently I’ve become the self-appointed Art Room Mother of wayward poets. Particularly the talented ones. Why? Because art supersedes everything. It’s not about me. It’s about the work. Collectively.) 

I wasn’t even sure what the poem meant when I finished it, but I knew it was exactly right. Or the cold medicine thought so, anyway.

Word Raccoon wasn’t fully formed yet; I was winging it, and poetry felt scorching to the touch. You should see her poor little paws now that she gets to hold the fire!

I liken writing “Wafflehouse” to this moment in Hook when Robin Williams remembers he’s Peter Pan. When he sees the invisible feast and reclaims himself. I won’t try to describe that further because you really need to watch it for yourself, loves. 

Let me say ahead of time that this clip applies to all artists. So yeah…the power of imagination rules!

Anyway, my poetry popped that morning as if it had always been there and I just hadn’t seen it, and it was only when I called to others to please, god, use theirs that I became aware I had any of my own.

Still shy. Still unsure on the poetry front over here. But sometimes…maybe? 

In the meantime, I’m huffing others’ poetry, mainlining it because that’s where the good stuff is hiding. That’s where it’s real. That’s how we can be known, if we’re brave enough to write it. 

Not a pretty way of saying this, but here it is, anyway: some people make themselves known with their mouths. Some need to write it down. But in either case, you deserve to be known in a way that casual contact with the world will not give you. So try a pen, love, if you are feeling backwards. 

Art is all the plausible deniability the world needs. And I wouldn’t even term it that, because it’s just truth in different clothes. Truth is beyond the pettiness of details. 

Dammit, can’t give up that room mother role easily, can I? Sorry, where was I? 

Word Raccoon is covering her eyes in second hand embarrassment. I know, WR. I know. 

Maybe “Wafflehouse” doesn’t say all this to most people, but maybe it does just for the one person listening for it. 

Hell, maybe that’s not even who I thought it might be. But if it is…they’ll know. 

Art first. Art always. 

Mr. Rockwell will see you now. (Someone call Father John Misty, because we need to write a song with that in it!) 

Also, Sweet Loretta is getting back to the café where she once belonged. Let others talk of bagels and London Fogs while she huddles in her former corner with her notebook. The view might not be as good, but my pen has moved to lesser ones before.  

Except on Mondays, when the usual haunts go dark and caffeine cravings might reroute Word Raccoon and me elsewhere. Unless Word Raccoon stages a pajama coup and declares our kitchen table a sacred desk. 

Which, honestly, why isn’t that our default? 

Hons, I know this is probably embarrassingly earnest, but in case you hadn’t noticed, art is life to me. 

So many thanks again to The Daily Drunk.

Fight me in the Waffle House parking lot if you dare. 

But you’d better bring a pen. 

Yesterday morning, Word Raccoon insisted on wearing a dress.

I reminded her that we’re currently on foot. The totaled vehicle has not been replaced yet, though the search has begun. Ugh. 

She gave me that look. You know the one. The “I’m made of poetry and rebellion” one. She said she didn’t care.

Fine, I said. It was too early to argue. But she’d have to make do with sensible shoes, and I wasn’t letting her freeze; leggings were non-negotiable. It was going to be in the 60s when we reached the café, and I was absolutely sitting outdoors.

She acquiesced. (Grudgingly. With a dramatic sigh.)

But then she bargained.

And I, softhearted sucker that I am, agreed to wear the cowboy hat.

This should have its own decision tree, frankly, but that’s another post. And once you have it on you’re stuck unless you’re cool with hat hair all day. 

So there I was: dress, leggings, cowboy hat. And wouldn’t you know it? A guy going into the café said, “You look just like Reba McEntire!”

(Spoiler: I do not. Not even a little. Not my face, not my hair color, not at all. But thank you, Stranger.)

He said I just needed a guitar and to sit outdoors and sing.

I did not tell him:
A) I do sing.
B) I play a (very) little guitar. You know I mean I play a little bit of music, not that I play a tiny guitar, right?
C) I was already sitting outside.

Later, at the gym, a young man was singing loudly and enthusiastically, though almost entirely off-key. I think it was rap?? So calling it singing might be a stretch. It was…oddly charming. A kind of public karaoke confidence. I respect it. Even if his fun verbal doodles did remind me of bicycles. IDK why…the way they spun? 

Anyway, the point is: sometimes the dress wins. Sometimes Word Raccoon wins. And sometimes you just want a flowchart to help make the call.

So here you go.

Should I Wear a Dress Today? A (Mostly) Functional Flowchart 

Step 1: Do you want to wear a dress?

• Yes → Wear it.
  
• No → Don’t. That’s it. End of flow. Go live your pants or shorts truth. (Or skorts, but that’s just a confused garment if you ask me. Shorts? Skirt? Both? Make up your mind, oh piece of clothing!)
  

Step 2: Are you leaving the house?

• Yes → Do you want to make a statement?
  
  • Yes → Dress it is.
    
  • No → Consider your top-tier stealth outfit. Preferably all black. 

• No → Is a delivery expected?
  
  • Yes → Lounge pants or pajama shorts. Preferably the ones with the koala on them. BTW, where did they go? Word Raccoon!!
    
  • No → Night gown. You’re royalty now. Although is a night gown really a dress? Probably not. And if someone comes to the door unexpectedly, you will not answer the door in that. Pinkie swear?? 

It is one thing to wear your robe over your clothes on your sun porch for comfort and color. We do not wear our night gown (or robe, for that matter) when we are out and about. Are you listening, Word Raccoon? Word Raccoon??? Naturally, she is now at the top of the stairs in my blue night gown, hands in the air. Take that off before you trip, WR!  

Step 3: Weather? (I feel like you already know this, but just in case…)

• Warm → Dresses win: breeze = built-in AC. Curses on cute sundresses because you will be forever battling the “but these bra straps are so cute can’t I get by with displaying them because hiding them is next to impossible anyway but oh no. That’s so tacky. But who would even know it’s not a tank? But I know.” 

• Windy → Proceed with caution. Ditto crossing street vents. When I was in Paris last, I pulled a Marilyn but thankfully with just my blouse.  (And here I thought I’d never tell that story.) 

• Cold → Add tights, boots, blanket scarf, etc. And, if you’re me today, even though it’s July, add a small throw because when you bring your cape, people say you have a blanket anyway. Might as well oblige them.
  
• Rainy → Do you curse when you come home dragging wet material like a stray dog begging for a meal? Then not today. Or just  be sure to make it a shorter one if you do wear one, love.
  

Step 4: Will you need to climb/squat/perform chair and possibly table moving maneuvers?

• Yes → How agile is that hem?
  
• No → Proceed to twirling test. Administer by spinning thrice in both directions. You should have the sensation of wanting to squeal “Whee!” If not, it is not the dress for today.
  

Step 5: Is this outfit about being seen?

• Yes → Turn it up. Channel main character energy. But what about those times when you hope you were seen by the world but just aren’t sure? Hey, feeling cute beats feeling not regardless.
  
• No → Wear the dress you love and act like no one else exists. P.S. If you love it, everyone will ask you where you bought it. If you hate it, it will become invisible and rightly so. Also, why are you wearing a dress you hate, sweetie? Life is too short.
  

Step 6: Do you own a cowboy hat? (Word Raccoon made me add this!) 

• Yes → Is today the day it gets worn?
  
  • Yes → Saddle up, Reba.
    
  • No → Save it for your next crisis of identity. Or the next time it comes back in fashion because aren’t you a couple of years off, babe? Not that we pay attention to that much. If you have style, you’re always in style. Or so says Word Raccoon. 

• No → It’s never too late

TL;DR:

If Word Raccoon wants the dress, you’re wearing the dress.
If someone says you look like Reba, smile and sip your iced tea.
If an off-key man serenades the gym, consider it ambiance.
If you need a flowchart to make your choices feel sacred or at least well considered: here it is.

You’re welcome.

And Word Raccoon is a bit disappointed that only the stranger mentioned her hat. Next time she’ll try wearing a traffic cone atop her head. You know, for stopping traffic. 

Or maybe she’ll just hand out comment cards instead: How would you rate today’s ensemble? That could be entertaining. Or embarrassing. Or just very on-brand for WR.

 Now Playing: “Hey There Delilah,”  Plain White T’s

Besides Word Raccoon, I had another co-writer yesterday for a bit. A 7-year-old girl whose mother owns the store next to the coffeehouse asked me what I was doing.

“I’m writing,” I said, but I had switched to the home page when she glanced at my computer so as not to scorch the little dear’s eyeballs. (I don’t think she can read much yet, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.) 

“You are not,” she said.

I told her I was, but that my writing was “private.” We discussed how sometimes you’re not ready or willing to share what you’re writing and that’s okay. 

I told her I was writing poetry. She didn’t know what that was.

“Roses are red, violets are blue.” I said the whole thing.

“I know that one,” she said. 

She wanted to write a poem, too, so she typed her name on my laptop and dictated the rest of her poem to me. Part of it was:

Fries are yellow.

Cars can be any color.

She waved goodbye when her mother came out and the girl called me “the lady who writes poems.”

Writing with her was my favorite part of the day. 

Before and after she kept me company, Word Raccoon and I wrote poems (and poemettes) that were certainly not for tender eyes:

– Even Her (I might print this one just to shred it with my bare hands. Backspacing is not enough for my ire.) 

– Line, Please (Self-explanatory, duckies.) 

– Five Sacred Minutes (That was my time co-writing) 

– These Bows are Made for Walking (Bows, boots. Whatever. You know what they do. ) 

– (I wrote one with a title that was 41 words long as a joke. The title IS the poem and it’s also pissed.) 

– Bet You Were Naked When I Wrote This (Metaphorically, naturally. Unless?)

– Congratulations on Your Assignment (The cosmic dice have spoken, darling.) 

– Welcome to Me, the Accidental Songstress of Longing (Lucky me. Erryday.) 

– Bitter (redacted) with a Lyricist’s Ear 

– The Lady or the Lager (Inspired by the short story of a similar name, one of my mother’s favorite stories.)

– Meta Breakdown in Aisle Five (I would never. Just on paper, loves. That’s where all good drama belongs.) 

– Big River (Rio…river…get it? About Beth from Good Girls. And me warning Rio about her.)

– One More Glass of “Eff It,” Please (Do I really need to explain?) 

– Love Letters Disguised as Literary Wrecking Balls (Eight emaciated lines that want to do the title proud but just aren’t yet.) 

– Choose Your Lose (I can’t remember what this one is about.)

Out of those, probably only two are capable of breathing on their own at this point.

Most of the poems are in the “in progress” file. 

Word Raccoon says we’re being too hard on the poems, but I don’t want to give the impression I think I’m spinning gold. I know when something is still finding its way and when it has found its voice.

Does all of this poem making even mean anything? 

I’d like to think so. 

Remember, I’m the “lady” who writes poems, the one small children offer Skittles to and grace my keyboard with their sticky fingers. Which honestly, I loved. 

I’m getting published some and I’m grateful for it. Let someone else hold the coals. 

In the meantime, someone tell the title it’s an effing liar. 

My eyes are still sore. 

Very. 

I’m probably not supposed to say so.

Fuck that. 

Now Playing:
“The Sound of Settling” by Death Cab for Cutie

First of all, feel free to groan aloud at this post’s title.

Now: guess what? My poem “On Reading Crush” will be published in the September/October issue of Cathexis Northwest Press!

Over the weekend, I had two journals accept my work, with a total of five poems between them. Told you the frog was good luck. 🐸✨

This particular poem, “On Reading Crush,” is about a very specific kind of heat—the kind that comes from falling into a book that rewires something in your soul.

It’s not about a person.
It’s about a book that reminded me I have a body.

I first read Richard Siken’s Crush when I went back to college in my thirties. I was married. I had children. And I was stunned (okay, maybe a little scandalized) by how fiercely I responded to it.

That book didn’t just speak to desire. It validated mine.

It made space for the idea that I was still allowed to be a sexual being, even while doing the dishes, helping with homework, or even though my own children were already dating. It said: You are still here. And you are still alive in this skin. And, There is no expiration date on desire.

That was a revelation.

So yes, this is a crush poem.
But the crush was on language.
On intensity.
On the parts of myself I’d filed away as impractical and, worse, unallowed.

When “Crush” was accepted (and I really am thrilled and grateful!), I immediately worried about my grown children reading it. I’ve always told them they can tell me anything. I hope they feel the same toward me, even if this poem makes them squirm a little.

I started writing a warning post just for them.
Except, of course, it turned into a poem.
(And a pretty cool one, if I do say so myself.)

So I won’t share it here just yet. But let’s just say that between now and September, Mother may need to have a little chat with her kinder. Love yous. 😘 (My kiddos are great; I think they’ll understand.)

It’s always strange, though, isn’t it? Thinking of your parents as full-fledged, yearning, occasionally unruly human beings. Did Word Raccoon consider that before she slung those lines?

Yes. Yes, she did.

Now if I can embrace that part of myself too, well…
You’ll see what I mean when “On Reading Crush” drops on September 1st.

Stay tuned, and maybe clear a little space for secondhand blushing. (I did read it aloud to exactly one person before I sent it out, and let me say, I hope everyone doesn’t flinch that hard. Still sent it, because Word Raccoon does what she must.) 

TL;DR: Yes, darlings, your mother still has a pulse. Try not to faint. 💋

---

Now Playing: “Die With a Smile”: Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars

I picked up the frog today.
Yes, that frog. My ceramic prince. My chalky, paint-chipped protector with my childhood scribbles hidden on his underbelly like a secret survival spell. The one I wrote about last week (that post lives here) and today, he lives with me!

I can barely see the words I carved into him all those years ago, but I can still feel them. Literally and otherwise.

He’s heavier than I remember. So is everything. Because I didn’t just come home with a frog today.
I came home with a bread box. With photos. With a crock. With a ziplock bag of who-we-were. And a few other things I’ll share in the coming weeks.

Word Raccoon, to her credit, bought donuts this morning before my eyes were barely opened. “For the meetup,” she said. “And maybe two extra, just for… you know.” She didn’t say grief-eating, but she didn’t not say it. (Pictured above: those two “extra” donuts.)

We don’t usually eat donuts. We didn’t need donuts.
We ate the donuts.
But we shared, so really we only ate one. 

When she started squeezing peaches at the grocery, I put a halt to her shenanigans. I take produce selection seriously, and I was not in the mood that early. Besides, the peach she chose should’ve been eaten within the next ten minutes to be at its peak.

We needed something to hold on to, she said. Like a ceramic frog. Or a poem.
Speaking of which…

Something wild and wonderful is happening, and I suspect my frog prince had something to do with it, because apparently he’s my lucky charm (maybe I should make him a tiny crown): four of my poems were picked up this week by The Rye Whiskey Review. I’m so excited!

One of them, “Authorial Intent Ale,” is already out in the world over at The Rye Whiskey Review

I wrote it for a certain subset: my darling writing friends.
Dear Bro Poets: don’t hate me for the poem. You know I only speak the truth.

I’ve hung out with you at writing residencies in foreign countries, watched you suck on cigarettes like that’s where you’d find the words, sat beside you at bars. I know this is how you think. (Some of you. Many of you?)
No, not you. You know I don’t mean you.
But you others? Yeah, you.

Please don’t get butthurt, babes. (Maybe that needs to be a poem.)
I’m just suggesting you take poetry out on the road, too, and open it up, see what she’s got.
(She’s got a lot.)

And also: fuck you for not inviting me in. I had to kick the door down!
Did it occur to you once to ask if I might like to play along?
That I might not want to just listen as you watched to see if I peed myself at your enjambment?

Bro.

Love you. 😂

I am so grateful to Editor in Chief John Patrick Robbins for choosing my poems. I’ll keep you updated as the others come out. 

Heads up: One of them I wrote when I was angry. We don’t execute poems when we’re feeling better. That would be a word betrayal, and writers don’t do that, but please do keep that in mind when it gets published.

(Word Raccoon is somewhere sulking because she thinks she should have been credited. She claims she wrote it at 3 a.m. with one paw and a stolen red pen. I’m not arguing. In fact, I remember the wide grin on her face when she wrote the title “Authorial Intent Ale,” and she knew some brosephs were gonna feel seen. Or slain.)

I don’t know if the chalkware frog is truly good luck. (He is.)

I don’t know if it’s timing. (It is.) 

 But I do know this: after years of being quiet about what I want, I said, “No. That one’s mine.”

And this week, some poems said “yes” to me, too.

Bittersweet doesn’t even begin to cover it. But I’ll take the bite.

And that frog feels just right in my arms.

While I can’t, as I said, clearly make out what I wrote on its underside all of those years ago, there is a symbol I still can.

That’s poetic.

---

I’m Out Here Testing the Maxim 

Now Playing: God’s Favorite Customer: FJM

I broke out the Freewrite tonight. Seemed just right for writing poetry at the cafe, even if my name isn’t Chad and I don’t smoke cigars. 

Word Raccoon was just messing around, socializing, but when I opened the Freewrite, her eyes got huge. She hadn’t used it before. 

Let me say, she liked it.

A friend of mine stopped in unexpectedly and ended up sharing a table with me. After we chatted for a while, she read, I wrote. Ideal.

(Okay, we did laugh at a raunchily, unintentionally mistyped text I received, and other things. The laughter just drove away the seriousness in me for a minute, which was good.) 

I was kinda worried I still wouldn’t be able to settle down, but when I channeled Father John Misty, Word Raccoon got to work. 

FJM ended up in a poem, but I don’t have it handy to tell you how: ye olde Freewrite needs to be updated. Until then, I think it has full custody of most of my poems of the night. 

I will be using the Freewrite again for poetry, and soon. 

A few I took pictures of and uploaded to my email to be sure I didn’t lose them.

Somehow, and honestly, IDK how, I wrote two flash fiction stories about Bonnie and Clyde: B & C Go to Target, and B & C Go to Therapy. I meant it to be writing poetry, but when I saw that ragged, long right edge, I realized it wasn’t poetry, and I laughed.

In the first, Bonnie asked Clyde to grab her a pack of Twizzlers while he’s in the Target NOT knocking it over.

Spoiler: he’s totally knocking it over.

Word Raccoon was on full display this evening, starting with the Twizzlers. 

Then when she threw the two of them in a therapist’s office, you can imagine how Clyde liked that.

See, Clyde brought back Red Vines, not Twizzlers. Which meant they argued, which meant Bonnie didn’t take right off. Which meant they got caught.

That’s how they ended up in therapy. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have spoiled it, but it was unintentionally written anyway. 

There were a couple of poems that were not so much. They still reside, as I said, on the writing box. 

Actually, one featured Corpus Christi and lipstick, along with Goodwill bedsheets, so I might like that one, too. 

Then there were two short little A-bombs that made my throat squeeze and WR began packing up our things saying it was time to GOOOO!

And it was, anyway.

On the way home, I found a painted rock. Those haven’t been a thing for a few years now, and I thought it was sweet. Is the trend coming back, because I think Word Raccoon could get into that, instead of painting them, writing poems on them and putting them out in the wild. Or doing both.

Maybe she’ll do it regardless.  

Once home, I found my new earpods in the mail slot. Yay! When I wrote about them the other day I asked myself why I hadn’t bought new ones. I told myself it’s because I was attached to them, that the struggle was funny and endearing. 

Then I had to admit I was being ridiculous and overly sentimental. So yay, they’re here now. 

Remind me to upload a pic of my grungy old ones another time. 

I submitted four poems earlier, but I’m thinking I’m a living chapbook. Do I really need to publish them except for giving to others? 

It’s kind of like giving people your strange little pets, or the things that live under your bed and going, hey, look at this weird thing. 

It’s raining again.

I don’t mind. 

It’s cooled things off, the plants, I’m told, are happy. 

I’m writing on my own porch now, wondering what Bonnie and Clyde might do next. 

Really, WR, Bonnie and Clyde? Haven’t they been done to death? I’m not even particularly a fan. 

But the raccoon is in charge tonight. 

Where shall we take them next? 

I’m thinking La Sagrada Familia. 

You know, it just occurred to me that there are multiple meanings to the title. 

Oh, in Spain, when one of the women in the group asked me for a quip (apparently I was “a quipped.”), I sang La Sagrada Familia to the tune of In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.

Try it sometime. You can make it work. 

Word Raccoon is not a coy creature, so she nudged me to share this:
I might have good news.

Today, I had my fingers x-rayed. Two on my dominant hand (I’m a Southpaw) have been swollen for what feels like forever. I’m still using the hell out of them: typing, cooking, writing, you know, living, but it would be really nice if they didn’t hurt so much. There’s a treatment option on the table if we can get a clearer diagnosis.

And yes, I have a jewelry box full of rings WR is dying to wear again. She’s already pawing at it.

That was the first hopeful thing from my doctor’s appointment yesterday. The second? She suspects there may be a different explanation for my chronic hip pain that PT has not helped. Here’s hoping. I don’t have an appointment date for that yet to confirm, but I am hopeful!

Y’all. I’ve been in pain and not been able to do what I want now for years. And now, for the first time in a long while, it feels like something might shift. Like I might get to be a new woman.

(As if I’m not already. Blame Word Raccoon.)

---

The Field Trip That Brought the Words Back

You want to know how the poems returned this time?

I took them on a walk.

My hip and I marched ourselves uptown, waved to my porch buddy outside the usual coffeehouse, and said Shhh, please don’t rat me out, I’m skipping my regular spot today. He laughed and promised not to tell.

We went to the other coffeehouse, and plot twist: the owner and his family are our neighbors. Not just in the vague “we live in the same town” way.

I mean I’ve watched this man chop at a tree, ride a moped with his youngest daughter on it, sit on the lawn with his wife, grill with his girls.

I may have written a poem about the tree in the family’s yard. I know I wrote one about the moment when it looked like the owner didn’t want to leave his youngest daughter to go to work and how she clearly didn’t want him to leave. So sweet.

(No one tell them I wrote a poem, please. It might get awkward.)

And still? I didn’t connect the dots until I saw his car. Some writer, Drema. You’re supposed to notice things. 

I brought his older daughter, a barista there, a Ray Bradbury graphic novel I found in a Little Free Library, because she once said she liked his work. She lit up when I gave it to her today; I’m still glowing from her glow.

(Guess I could’ve just walked it across the street. SMH.)

Then an in-law’s cousin dropped in for a coffee and showed me photos of the train collection her late husband left behind.

I had to wipe my eyes and hug her. That kind of grief is still fresh for me, too. (And boy howdy did that man apparently love trains! That was sweet to see.)

(At the other café, the barista recently lost her grandmother. When she told me a couple of days ago, I hugged her as she had hugged me when my mother passed. This is how grief floats between places, and this is what it is to live in a small town.)

---

Photo: actual photo of the butterfly mentioned below. What shall we name it?

And Then There Were Poems

Last night, I was sulking. Word Raccoon and I hadn’t written much yesterday. I started to spiral AGAIN:

Maybe it’s gone, WORD RACCOON, maybe I’m dried up, maybe I’ve used all my words. That’s it, no more, so many per customer. 

(Is this doubt going to be a regular ghost of writing poems? I don’t feel that way about fiction, like I’ve lost everything or never had it. I know it takes concentration. Dedication. That it’s a skill as much as a talent. I just don’t feel as confident or like I know what I’m doing yet with poetry.)

WR just raised an eyebrow and reminded me:

• We wrote part of a poem at the doctor’s.
  
• We lived a whole day full of lines. (Dr’s, coffee with a friend, lunch with hubby, gym…)
• And I haven’t even mentioned the porch writing yet.
  

I sat there last night, windows cracked open, lanterns beginning to glow. A couple outside their house kissed just as I glanced over (I swear I wasn’t peeping), and a cat I don’t know came up to the screen door like a summoned muse. Both of those things made it into poems. They had to.

(We don’t have pets because Barry’s allergic to most living things and possibly even me, JK, definitely allergic to Word Raccoon, but I let the cat muse pretend to be mine for a while.)

WR wasn’t thrilled, but I told her the cat could stay as long as it remained outdoors.

And then the angrier I got about not being able to write, the more alive the writing became. 

The result? Ten poems from wild-edged ones to almost prose to you-know-you-could-almost-submit that-one–today.

One features Lady Mary from Downton Abbey, because apparently that’s who showed up.

Tentative titles from last night’s wild writing sprint:

• Not Even My Doctor
  
• Ten Things that are Mine, All Mine
  
• I’m Not Trying to Be a Poem
  
• The Neighbor’s Cat
  
• Learn to Haunt in a Weekend
  
• How Tasteful
  
• Even My Titles Aren’t Playing Along
  
• I Told You Not to Say That at Brunch
• Overserved
• Back Row, Bucko
  
  As I said, some are nearly cooked, others just cauterwauling. But they’re mine. They’re here. They get added to the master list as soon as they have a (semi) permanent title.
  
  Meanwhile, Today
  I woke up at 5 AM for no good reason. So I put the time to use:
  
• Wrote an email to someone curious about MFA programs.
  
• Paid bills.
  
• Re-sent poems to a lit mag after they kindly let me know I’d mismatched them with my cover letter (note: maybe they liked the first poems if they gave me a second shot??).
  
• Walked to the café.
• Later today:
• I sat across from the town’s colorful soap store and wrote a poem while trying to remember the name of a candy I’ve definitely eaten but cannot recall.
  
• I touched bases with a friend’s mom when she came by for coffee and learned what my young friend has been up to this past year.
  
• I watched a young woman rescue a butterfly and we had a whole tender conversation about it. (She thought it was dead and was going to pick it up to collect it because butterflies remind her of her grandmother. Then she realized it was alive and put it in the planter as I watched. I know, right?)
  
• I almost yelled down the block to a stranger who said, “I live 45 minutes outside Nashville,” because I needed to know which direction.
  
• I overheard someone say, “they used to only come in black and silver,” and still don’t know what they were talking about.
  
• The bookstore owner held up a jumpsuit on a sale rack at a store just down from hers; I told her, “Yes.” It was for her granddaughter, but I stand by my vote: she could rock it.
• I reapplied my sunscreen. I remembered to hydrate. I did, technically, write.
  
• The barista asked, “Are you working on something out there?”
  “Supposed to be,” I said. And I was.
  
  But also? I was gathering. Stories. Fragments. You know, those Wordsworthian things.
• And, as I mentioned earlier, I went for an x-ray. They said it could take up to two weeks to get the results because they’re backed up. What?? What’s two more weeks, I guess. We write on. No matter what, WR. We write on.
  
  
  Today’s Poems-In-Progress (Messy Titles, Be Kind)
  Life, a Sleeping Butterfly — part prose poem, part soft sigh. (Maybe too soft? Yes, definitely toughen up.)
  
  Americana for Sale — working title only, for vibe check only. Has a bathtub and a human-sized rubber ducky.
  
  Destroying Sentences to Save Them — self-explanatory.
  
  
  Tomorrow, I’ll do more. Here’s hoping, anyway. 
  Barry has a gig far enough away and running late enough into the evening that I’m skipping it, so I’ll have him drop me at the café. I’ll walk home after creating my face off.
  (Assuming I don’t get sucked into too many irresistible conversations. Again.)
  And there’s still tonight. WR’s tapping her paw. The cat’s on the steps again.
  I have a good feeling about the writing.
  
  
  

🎵 Now Playing: “Slow Burn” by Kacey Musgraves

“I’m alright with a slow burn…”
(So is cube steak, if you treat it right.)

Word Raccoon has a new device she LOVES: a solar-powered charger! It’s barely bigger than my phone, and now when I’m writing outdoors, I don’t have to worry about running out of juice for either my phone or my MacBook. It’s already saved my outdoor writing time more than once, and I’ve had it less than a week.

You can plug it in to charge it or charge it in the sun (that takes a while, but hey, poetic patience). Once charged, though, it juices up your devices fast.
And you can plug your device in and still use it.

Highly recommend. Word Raccoon is happy since she does not like to be cooped up indoors!
(Not a sponsored post, just a delighted raccoon with gadgets.)

When I told Word Raccoon we were going to the café to write, she said I’d better feed her well when we got back.
So I pulled a mystery meat pack out of the freezer and tossed it in the fridge before we left, assuming Future Me would know what to do with it. Actually, I thought it might be boneless chicken thighs, which are versatile AF.

Reader… in truth, I had no idea what I had pulled out.

Thankfully, it was cubed steak. Thin, boneless, quick thawing. By the time we got back from the gym (after the writing), it was no longer frozen. Whew!
If you’ve ever played freezer roulette, you know my relief. (If you haven’t, friend, you have to learn to walk on the wild side, at least when it comes to decisions that don’t even matter. It’s a beginning.)
Which brings me to another approximate recipe.

🥩 Accidental Stovetop Salisbury Cube Steak with Yellow Squash

What You’ll Need (Emotionally & Otherwise):

4 Servings
• 4 cube steaks, sliced into bite-sized “it’ll do” strips
• 1 tbsp olive oil (don’t bother measuring, love)
• 1 yellow squash, chopped into half-moons
     Preferably bought small and tender, like it was raised gently in a pumpkin patch and never knew adversity. This is the kind of squash that cooks fast and forgives your past mistakes.
• 1 big ol’ onion, sliced thin (We only had red; it worked.)
• 2 cloves garlic, minced (or a teaspoon of the lazy jar stuff)
• 1 tbsp ketchup (Trust me, it will be ok.)
• 1 tbsp mustard (Dijon if you’re feeling flirty, yellow if you’re not)
• 1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce, aka emotional depth or umami.
     Condiment note: eyeballing is fine here. Don’t go digging in the drawer for the elusive tablespoon like it’s a cursed talisman – you won’t find it, friend. This is comfort food, not chemistry class.
• 1½ cups beef broth
     (Or, in my case, water + a saved ramen seasoning packet because Word Raccoon lives in the land of chaotic ingenuity)
• 1 tbsp cornstarch + 2 tbsp cold water
     (FYI, that jar you used for overnight oats? It’s perfect if you want to put the ingredients in it and shake, shake, shake your slurry. Or put it in a wee bowl and stir.)
• Salt and pepper to taste
• Something warm to pour it over: like, oh, leftover pasta, or rice. We are making supper, not a special occasion meal. Let’s get you fed!

---

What to Do:

1. Steak it up:
Heat oil in a big skillet over medium. Toss in the cube steak, no pounding required. Salt, pepper, and brown it like you mean it (5–7 minutes). Be sure it’s all browned or you won’t be happy with the texture, love. Pull it out and set it aside like a moody subplot.

2. Onion meltdown:
Same pan, toss in onions. Stir and stare dramatically until they’re soft and golden (5–6 minutes).
Add garlic and stir for 1 minute like you’re making decisions. BE CAREFUL OR IT WILL BURN! ASK ME HOW I KNOW!

3. Gravy stage:
Combine the ketchup, mustard, and Worcestershire. Stir with a tiny spoon for maximum fun.

4. Pour in the beef broth (or ramen-packet magic water if you’re me and don’t have any other on hand). Let it simmer gently.
Now make your slurry (cornstarch + cold water), and stir it into the pan. Let the sauce thicken a bit (2–3 minutes). This can happen fast, so pay attention.

5. The return of the steak (and friends):
Add your steak back in.
Toss in the squash. Simmer uncovered 5–7 minutes, or until the squash is tender but still holding it together better than you are.
Taste. Adjust. Throw in thyme if you’re feeling poetic.

6. Serve with something soft and ready:
Ladle over buttery rice or leftover pasta like your supper depends on it.
Do not garnish with parsley because parsley is a waste. No one likes that guy.

Closing Thought from Word Raccoon:

I heard back from another literary journal. A sweet rejection that said one of the poems was “almost.”

Which, honestly? Felt both encouraging and like the story of my life. (LOL, but make it literary style.)

I worry sometimes that Word Raccoon has used up all her poems. That the well’s gone dry. That there’s nothing left but scraps and metaphors stuck to the sides of the pan. That maybe we’re writing the same poem five different ways.

So I made dinner out of what we had on hand. I guess, if you think about it, that’s how Word Raccoon makes poems, too. The pantry’s not empty yet. But maybe it’s time we went shopping.

I have some good news to share that is not about writing, but I am going to wait until tomorrow. This post is too long.
Word Raccoon is biting at my thumb. Stop it, raccoon!
Pardon me while I go fetch some words to feed her.