somewhere here there’s a poem

My good friend the psychiatrist informed me of a way I could make some extra cash. She gave my information to one of her colleagues that teaches at a medical school in the area. I will not disclose here which school.

Before I know it, I’m asked to be a Standardized Patient for a full body exam. I would be the guinea pig that taught med students how to test reflexes, how to properly palpate the liver, how to feel for glands and other exciting things of that  sort. The director told me to wear a bathing suit top and shorts, so the doctor could check for horrible diseases without having to disrupt too much clothing.

To my complete and utter horror, when I walked into the exam room, there was only a bed, a doctor, and a cameraman. Whaaaaaat????

And in my head I’m trying to figure out what on EARTH my friend signed me up for. Don’t porn videos have similar beginnings? Where are all the students? I was ready to be funny and witty in front of a group; I was not ready to have my body parts zoomed-in on and then broadcast to a lecture hall of students.

But I quickly forgot my anxieties when I reminded myself how much money I was racking up per hour. I could do this. I can do anything.

The exam was strange, and I was constantly trying not to look directly into the camera, pick my nose, burp, or embarrass myself to the mysterious people watching me. After a while I completely melted away. As the doctor’s hands were percussing, palpating, I was on a boat feeling wind in my hair. I was lying on my own bed, staring at the ceiling, counting sheep. I was calling upon my deepest meditation powers. I barely heard the doctor address the class, and then me.

“Female patients have breasts. But they also have lungs underneath them. Just ask your patient to move their breasts out of the way.”

And then to me: “Could you please push your breasts to the sides?” Done. “Could you push only your left breast to the left?” Done. Listening, breathing, listening. “Now lift your left breast up.” Done. It’s normal, fondling  yourself on camera. After three rounds of “lift up your left breast”, I was the perfect puppet. I knew exactly when he wanted to listen to the underbelly of my boob.

After four hours of poking, prodding, palpating and percussing, we were finished. I had made it through a slightly mortifying yet financially lucrative situation. When they asked if I would come back again two days later for another demonstration, I accepted.

Somewhere in here, there’s a poem. I haven’t found it yet. But the things we English majors do for money never ceases to surprise me.

Does anyone want to pay me to write a poem? Or move my breast to the left? I’m pretty good at both.

How am I not myself?

“How am I not myself?”

- I Heart Huckabees

Sometimes I don’t feel like myself and I look down

and I don’t look like myself. If only I could get away

from myself for just a minute or two. Let me

shelf that thought to bring up this one:

What if we could crawl out of ourselves and into

each other, then we would still be selves just not

our selves, and then we could look at our selves

from another self. This wouldn’t be the same as

looking in a mirror. It would be a peek at yourself

from outside yourself. You could see how your edges

curve away and into space, and you could see

how alone and how together we all are, always.

drooling for a nook

I have a conundrum. I am a book lover and an earth lover. So much paper, so much waste!

Lately I’ve been doing research on eBook readers, and I’ve decided that the Barnes and Noble nook is the one that looks most pleasing to me. Now they’re back-ordered until January-something, so it looks as though the holiday season is working wonders for their sales.

The features that excite me include the touchscreen, the ability to share eBooks, the ability to make notes and highlight passages, previews before buying eBooks, free titles on Barnes and Noble’s website, and of course, cute accessories (yeah I know, but it’s all reminiscent of school supplies, which I absolutely adore).

Will the nook quench my thirst for reading and helping the environment? Who knows! You’ll just have to wait and see.

If you’re interested in donating to my nook fund, please message me. I will repay your kindness with warm thoughts.

on correcting grammar

When someone says “Amy and me were at the mall the other day”, we all wince. When someone forwards you an email with the subject line “send this to ten people or your doomed”, we turn our noses up and hit delete. When your boss sends out a memo reading “employees are wasting to much lunch time”, we physically recoil/roll our eyes/bang our fists.

Why do you work for someone who doesn’t know the difference between too and to? Or –gasp!– why are you working for someone who wouldn’t care about the difference even if you told him?

The trouble with grammar is, no one cares.

Say my mother were correcting you on how to bake cookies. I bet you would listen to her, because you want cookies. But grammar-correction comes with nothing but embarrassment. I’ve embarrassed you because you were wrong. You’ve embarrassed me because everyone thinks I’m a nerd. No one cares about the difference between who and whom.

My boyfriend’s expertise involves math, computers, sound, engineering. He is a very smart audio/electrical engineer, and he frequently attempts to explain his projects to me, and sometimes I even understand them! I, being the nerd that I am, listen with zeal, excited about another academic challenge. Can I follow? Can I understand a tiny fraction of accoustics, with absolutely no training? I am a genius! I knew I could’ve been anything! I just chose to be an English major because it was my passion!…

Wait, why didn’t I choose something else…?

And there. I’ve really gotten away from the point, but I’ve found it again. The point is, you listen to the plumber so you can unclog your drain. You listen to my mom because you love cookies. You listen to my boyfriend because he can tell you how to hook up your electronics. Why do you listen to me?

So I can berate you on your ignorance of homonyms?

There’s really no reason to listen to me. Just read something funny, stimulating, or intelligent. Words on a page don’t talk back; I do.

disgruntled freelancer

In just a few days, I’ve gone through a roller coaster of emotions, mostly related to my job(s). The talented group of Hello Metro writers were let go, and oddly enough, I didn’t even receive the email stating that oh-so-sad fact. BURN! My friend and former HM Cleveland writer informed me of our day-bumming news.

I write my editor an email, confirming the news and wondering why I wasn’t included in the first place. Maybe all the writers were let go except me! No, that was not the case. So getting fired is bad enough news for one day, but having to email your editor to ask if you’re fired, worse. Humiliating.

So this past week I’ve been wallowing, sulking, (drinking), rebounding, trying to pump myself up for better opportunities. I’ve also been finishing up my final articles for Hello Miami.

Including Pasha’s Healthy Mediterranean Cuisine, a restaurant I’ve eaten at several times and really like a lot. Clearly I wanted to do what I could to promote their business, even if it’s the last one I’ll get to promote for that particular publication.

As I’m walking up the steps to Pasha’s, I have my camera out and I’m snapping a few pictures. I have a sinking feeling in the tummy, one that says This won’t be the glorious finish you were hoping for.

When I enter the restaurant, it’s lunchtime, and I snap a picture of the inside. I was planning on ordering my favorite dish, too, even though I wasn’t that hungry. But uh-oh. The guy behind the counter in his white hat and white shirt looks unhappy. He’s staring at my camera like it’s a bomb.

I step up the counter and sit my camera down. He’s still afraid of it. “Miss, you cannot take photography in here, it is highly illegal.” (Obviously then I want to tell him he means “photographs” and not “photography”, but I refrain.)

“Sir, I’m doing a restaurant review. I’m taking photos to accompany my article, which is already written and very positive, I might add.” I try to smile when I say this, but it was probably closer to an animal baring its teeth.

“I cannot allow photography. For trade secrets. This is private property.” I’ve heard this before. I even worked at the Gap for a long while, where corporate did not condone photography in our stores. I understand, even though I’m furious. I mean DAMN, it’s my last article! I was fired! Cut me some slack, dude! But I cannot break down in front of this man, will not break down in front of twenty business people eating kebabs and wearing heels and pencil skirts.

“I understand. I will just put in my article that I was not allowed to take pictures.” Lie. I won’t even have the balls to do that. “I’m going to take photos of the outdoor area.”

“No no no. That is private property, too. If you’d like, you can go across the street and take pictures there.”

Play detective? No thank you. I’ll just use the photos I already have. Arrest me? Fine, at least I’ll get fed in prison. I hear they have good food.

and it begins

I am a recent college graduate from a state school who cake-walked through most of my academia. It’s not that I didn’t try, it’s just that I didn’t have to try very hard to do well, if you know what I mean.

As an English writing/journalism major, I was caught in the middle of two disciplines. My studies in English taught me to express myself, and my journalism studies taught me that the expression I valued so highly was simply editorializing, which was not ideal.

There was not much talk of life after college, of career goals or roads to take to make them happen. My senior project was a sonnet sequence based on James Wright’s sonnet Saint Judas. Here’s one of them:

Our Last Meeting

My name, my number, how my day began,
were unimportant. Sitting on the end
of grandpa’s bed, I listened to the fan
and felt its breeze. I wanted to extend

the moment, take in all the smells and all
the words that crawled like caterpillars from
his lips. I held my breath; I swear the walls
moved in on us. I willed the words to come.

And then he said, “You daddy thinks I’m mean
to people, but I’m not.” His hands were sheer
as butterflies but wired like machines.
I held them so they couldn’t disappear.

And even when he died, I couldn’t say
the words that clogged my throat then slipped away.

And what did I learn from that? I learned how to write a sonnet. (Did I mention I’m a sucker for form poetry? Well, I am slightly a nerd that way.) I really do love writing sonnets. Especially ones that trick you into thinking they aren’t sonnets. For instance, here’s a Kim Addonizio sonnet I love from her collection What Is This Thing Called Love:

Stolen Moments

What happened, happened once. So now it’s best
in memory—an orange he sliced: the skin
unbroken, then the knife, the chilled wedge
lifted to my mouth, his mouth, the thin
membrane between us, the exquisite orange,
tongue, orange, my nakedness and his,
the way he pushed me up against the fridge—
Now I get to feel his hands again, the kiss
that didn’t last, but sent some neural twin
flashing wildly through the cortex. Love’s
merciless, the way it travels in
and keeps emitting light. Beside the stove
we ate an orange. And there were purple flowers
on the table. And we still had hours.

Ahh, Kim. So I digress with the poetry, but I’ve found my way again. I was rambling to get to this. Who in their right mind would pay me to write sonnets? Sonnets cannot pay my rent, sestinas will not buy food, and heroic couplets can’t pay my parking tickets.

That’s all for now. Thanks for reading my rambling.