One Stinky Breath at a Time

My adorable Chinese medical doctor, Scott Blossom, tells me that the lungs are connected to grief – which explains my love affair with cigarettes this past week. I wasn’t going to tell him I was smoking, and planned on not having a smoke until after our 5pm appointment was over so he wouldn’t smell it on me. That was some serious nail biting for someone who had lately been having her first cigarette before the milkman arrived. I know. It’s been a rough little spell. Between the overnight departure of the sexy cowboy, which left me in a crumbled little huddle, and an avalanche of deadlines which appeared out of nowhere – I found myself overwhelmed, distracted, incapable and exhausted. Cigarettes and their delicious nicotine rush were more rewarding than a hot bath, a glass of wine, even a good cry. I think it was the way Scott lifted up my limp little wrist to feel my pulse, the way his forgiving green eyes bore down on me – I couldn’t help myself and I blurted, “I’ve been smoking!” Then I burst into tears. At least Scott would know the truth about me and wouldn’t confuse me with those darling yoga girls who traipse through his office with their starry I’M CHANNELING BLISS eyes. I can be me; messy, goodhearted, clunky and sorely imperfect. Besides, I’m a terrible liar. “I can feel it in your pulses,” he smiled. “Your lungs are like…” and then he made this horrible sound like he was a small rat drowning in sewer sludge.  Three cheers for me for telling him the truth. “It’s...

The Transvestite, the Smoker and My Grandmother Underwater

A long time ago, in another life, I was an eager, young journalist – delighted to take any assignment I was offered from my editor at the East Bay Express. I’d scoot around the streets of Berkeley writing stories about local artists, pieces on the new trend in juice bars, cute stories about what the local jewelers were doing for Valentines Day. No big shakes, but a terrific beginning for someone who wanted to write. As much fun as it was to see my byline, what I noticed was that the stories I really wanted to write had nothing to do with what my editor found interesting, but instead the things that captured my own attention. For instance, I lived across the street from a transvestite and had a clear view from my apartment into his room. On weekends, like clockwork I’d watch him enter his home as a skinny, bean pole of a man in jeans and tennis shoes, and leave hours later as a sensibly dressed woman in her white patent leather shoes, matching white handbag and prim white skirt. His interpretation of what being a woman looked like intrigued me. He looked just like a secretary on her way to work. From the vantage point of my third story apartment, not only could I watch him paint his toes, which he dried on the windowsill of his apartment, but I could see into the entire Lucky Supermarket parking lot below. One woman was a daily regular – shopping first, then leaning against her family wagon smoking cigarette after cigarette. The parking lot was her refuge –...

Real Cowboy Poetry

There’s poetry in not getting what you want. Tugging hard at the flower that doesn’t break easily from the bush. It’s not yours. So when my last two texts to the cowboy went unanswered, I realized, shoot, a door was being closed on me hard and I wasn’t ready. I’m hurt, but for him too, and all times I shut down shop on someone because I was afraid. The astrologer told me to keep the beautiful wall-sized mirror he made and gave me for my birthday. “But it makes me sad to look in it,” I said. “That’s his pain honey, not yours,” she said. Like a lot of women, I am particularly skilled when it comes to men; how they feel, what they need and what they struggle with. But I had my own pain here; a man turned away from me, and it was very hard to hold. I took it personally. Not just ego, but a firm nod to my own unworthiness. Old pain. Cowboy triggered it. And there’s poetry in that too. Poetry for the teenage daughters who witnessed the month-long love fest, who examined the new dress for the date, who giggled when they caught us kissing, who gave a thumbs up for sleepovers, who opened their arms wide, saying “Oh Mama,” when I wept. Someone told me that it’s fine for your kids to see you fall, but they need to see you get back up. I’ve always been a buck up kind of gal, but with a lot of cowgirl, get-outta-my-way swagger. This time is different. I am sad for me, but...