I’m the Slut in the Grocery Store

I am your sexy eye candy.

I’m only here for you to stare at, to whistle at, to mumble comments under your breathe like some creepy mustached pervert.

This is obviously what I want.

This is why I came here.

I got up this morning and chose clothing based solely on how I thought you would react.

I was looking for a reaction.

To the guy I met in the grocery store today…is this what you think of me? Because when I walked past you, toting my little shopping basket, you paused in the aisle. Your eyes did an exaggerated roving gesture, full head tilt and all, from my feet to my chest and back down. You never even made eye contact with me.

“Damn that looks good,” you said.

That?

That as in my dress, because you can’t have it. It won’t fit you and it really isn’t your color, dude.

Or that as in my body, because that’s not some thing that you get to just give your approval of, claim like an image you post on Facebook of some car/shirt/pair of shoes/house that you want. My body doesn’t go in that list.

But it’s okay, because I ignored you. I said nothing and kept right on walking.

I went and got the bread I came there for.

Except I met you in the line and you were saying it again.

“That looks good.”

And I ignored you.

And then you said, “Bitch.”

Now, because I ignored you…because I didn’t turn around and give you the green-light to go ahead with your degrading attempt at flirting…I’m a bitch.

slutSo now I’m a bitch who came to the grocery store dressed up simply to tease you into thinking you had a chance, because that’s obviously the only reason I would have for coming to the grocery store and I just knew you’d be here.

I must be a tease as well.

That’s me: the slutty, bitch, dick-tease at the grocery store.

You have said less than ten words to me, but they were powerful enough to put me in my place, to make me feel tiny, insignificant…wrong.

So when I turn and blast you. When I growl out, “Just shut up.” When I practically run to my car and lock the doors and head back home to change my clothing, because I don’t want to go to my children’s school in a dress anymore. When I feel less pretty and wipe off my lipstick, because I worry it makes me look like a slut…

Just know that all you had to say was, “You look nice today.”

And I would have smiled.

And I wouldn’t have been a bitch and you wouldn’t have altered my day in such a negative way.

I would have smiled.

I would have said, “Thank you.”

 Herstory Lesson: Don’t let someone else’s ignorance mess with your identity…or your day.

 

12 Days of WTF

On the first day of Christmas the cosmos gave to me

An Uncle with progressing dementia

He has a good sense of humor. We laugh about it.
He has a good sense of humor. We laugh about it.

On the second day of Christmas the cosmos gave to me

Two loved ones in the hospital that I have to go visit

This. Is. Grandma. I mean, not the picture, but the description. She would totally do this.
This. Is. Grandma. I mean, not the picture, but the description. She would totally do this, but with a few eff bombs dropped in for good measure.

And an Uncle who doesn’t remember today is Monday, not Sunday…no church.

On the third day of Christmas the cosmos gave to me

Three more things I forgot to wrap last night

imagesTwo loved ones in the hospital that I have to go visit

And an Uncle who just lost his pants again.

On the fourth day of Christmas the cosmos gave to me

Two kids to get ready for school plus two packs of brownies to bake at 6:30 in the morning

download (1)baking-cookies-the-metal-way-10

Three presents staring at me like, ‘Whatcha waiting for?’

Two loved ones in the hospital that I have to go visit

And an Uncle who poured three different cups of coffee so far.

On the fifth day of Christmas the cosmos gave to me

Five rooms that need to be cleaned yesterday

downloadTwo kids plus two packs of brownies that are in the oven but are STILL not done

Three presents that may get rolled in tissue paper

Two loved ones in the hospital that I have to go visit

And an Uncle who just said, “Who’s that?” when my son ran by.

One the sixth day of Christmas the cosmos gave to me

A six foot tall pile of paperwork I haven’t filed all year

I-have-some-paperwork-to-do

Five rooms to be cleaned and I should start with the fridge and whatever that stain is

Two kids plus two packs of brownies that are finally done but I have no plate to send them in on

Three presents that might just get tossed in the box, ’cause Santa doesn’t wrap, does he?

Two loved ones in the hospital that I have to go visit

And an Uncle who claims to know the men in the Tandy catalog.

On the seventh day of Christmas the cosmos gave to me

Seven more minutes until its time to take the kids to the bus stop

download (2)

A six foot tall pile of paperwork that would make good kindling

Five rooms I might clean tomorrow

Two kids plus two packs of brownies that are going in this pan and I’ll just hope someone returns it

Three presents I got to take the tags off of

Two loved ones in the hospital that I have to go visit

And an Uncle who is wasting all my precious coffee…

On the eighth day of Christmas the cosmos gave to me

Eight hours to get this grimy pair of bibs washed for the husband

download (3)Seven more…no five more minutes until the children get on the bus and out of my hair

A six foot tall pile of paperwork that makes me think we should save more trees and not send this crap home

Five rooms that aren’t getting done this week. Maybe next week

Two kids plus two packs of brownies that I’ve got to figure out how to cut nicely into 26 pieces

Three presents and one’s for a dog so I so don’t have to wrap that

Two loved ones in the hospital that I have to go visit

And an Uncle who just made a record of times to go in and out of a house in under five minutes.

On the ninth day of Christmas the cosmos gave to me

Nine more hours to go until the husband wakes up and has to run off to work eight days straight

'Cept there's no tie involved in his work...more like hard hats and cranes and stuff.
‘Cept there’s no tie involved in his work…more like hard hats and cranes and stuff.

Eight hours to try to remove…What is that?…off his bibs

Seven minutes…no now it’s ten minutes of freezing outside while the bus doesn’t come

A six foot tall pile of paperwork that I’m thinking of turning into origami

Five rooms that if I just get the living room and bathroom done, no one will notice the others

Two kids plus two pans of brownies that I’m going to have to drive to the school…and I should get out of my sweatpants for this

Three presents I’ve got to figure out what I’m doing with, ’cause it’s almost time to box and ship them

Two loved ones in the hospital that I have to go visit

And an Uncle who is hiding things in his truck again.

On the tenth day of Christmas the cosmos gave to me

Ten times of hearing the Kid’s Bop Shuffle

download (5)

Nine hours until grumpy gets up and I have no idea what I’m feeding him tonight

Eight hours to…maybe I’ll just spot clean them. That’s a big spot…

Seven plus ten minutes to get to the school in my car that isn’t warmed up

A six foot tall pile of paperwork that I want to try swimming in like money, just to pretend

Five rooms that seven people trample through all day, so give me a break

Two kids plus two pans of brownies that I took to the school while the principals and receptionists eyeballed the box like, ‘I’m in 2nd grade today’

Three presents…I got to get the blanket washed, too. And wrap the monkey, so let’s make it five.

Two loved ones in the hospital that I have to go visit

And an Uncle who I think just cussed out the guy in the TV…again.

On the eleventh day of Christmas the cosmos gave to me

Eleven recipes on Pintrest I swore I’d try this year

images

Ten times of hearing, “To the left, to the left, to the right, to the right, now kick, now kick, now kick, now kick…”

Nine hours until I lose him for a week and by the end of it he’s grown a beard and I am looking at him like, Who are you?

Eight hours to dump those bibs in the tub and spray with Febreeze until the stains melt

Seven people who stop me on my way out of the school and I got rid of the kids…I want to go home

A six foot tall pile of paperwork that…let’s face it, will still be there tomorrow

Five rooms and only one is decorated for Christmas, we can use the front door and let people squeeze by the tree

Two kids plus two pans of brownies that I took to the school…and forgot to take napkins

Three piles of things to ship to my brother and I wonder if he’ll get it in time

Two loved ones in the hospital that I have to go visit

And an Uncle who used my Garnier hair repair oil yesterday…he’s bald.

On the twelfth day of Christmas the cosmos laughed at me

With twelve mental breakdowns left to go

download (6)

Eleven recipes on Pintrest…hell, everything’s on Pintrest and ain’t nobody got time for that

Ten times of saying, “CHANGE THE SONG”

Nine hours until the husband wakes and works on a week long zombie impression that could fool the Walking Dead cast

Eight hours to…I promised I’d get them clean -whines-

Seven minutes of talking to the vice principal, but leaving with a smile ’cause he said I was doing a good job with the kids

A six foot tall pile of paperwork that I’m just going to yank the kiddo’s artwork out of and trash the rest

Five rooms and maybe a day at a time…next year?

Two kids plus two pans of brownies that I took to the school and they’ll eat them with their fingers anyway

Three piles of things to ship to my brother and get all sappy because he won’t be home with us this year

Two loved ones in the hospital that I have to go visit

And an Uncle who thankfully can still make me laugh.

Merry Christmas.

The Telling

Last, but not least…Here is the reader’s choice from my latest book, The Telling.

Submissive

I like a dominant man in my life. I like someone who is in control. I like to think I’m in control, pretend it, brag about it, lie for it. I like that I know, that he knows, that I know I’m not really in control.

We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to.

The perfect line. The perfect pitch. He’s already made the decision, but poses it in such a way that I can make-believe it is mine. I like to take what doesn’t belong to me.

He’s a steamroller in my life and I like to be laid out flat. I like his hands on my chest, pushing me down whenever my back turns to the span of a bridge. His hands on my thighs, forcing me flat, flat, flat. Yes. Yes, I like that.

He makes me crow like a rooster and I want the world to know I’ve seen the sunlight. It’s like daybreak bursting to life inside me and for a split second I’m lit up brighter than a Christmas tree in Times Square. My body becomes a beacon, a calling card, a flash bang grenade and it draws more, more, more. I want a sunrise that keeps coming, up and down like a yo-yo on fire.

I like when everyone can hear my sunrise, my daybreak, my rooster call.

I’m vocal about it.

I’m in charge of it, or so I pretend.

Want it now? Click the picture to go to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!
Want it now? Click the picture to go to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!

We still have one day of the contest left! Get over to http://facebook.com/HistoryofaWoman and LIKE my page to be entered for a chance to win a copy of one of my books! Your choice!

History of a Woman

Like I started the other day, I am sharing the reader’s choice from my second book, History of a Woman. Enjoy!

The Check

The check came once a week and on it, in the tiny, informal script she could see the statistics. She saw the demographics, the signatures, the dates, the times, the dollar signs and the cents. The sense. Pay to the order of the single mother, the broken hearted, the lost and struggling. Pay to the order of that bitch who walked out, that gold-digger, that useless leech.

Twenty dollars and thirty-two cents. Thirty-six dollars and seventeen cents. That was the breakdown. That was division at work. That was the price tag, per child, per absent father, per paycheck, as order by the court.

So her son was worth $20. 32 a week. He was worth one pair of sneakers, plus tax. He was worth a family dinner from KFC. He was worth two Wal-Mart brand t-shirts and a pair of jeans with the little buttons inside to adjust the waist so they wouldn’t fall off his thin hips. He was worth one pack of the good brand of nighttime pull-ups and a fruity flavored Tummy Yummy.

$36.17. She was worth fifteen dollars and eighty-five cents more than her brother. And why was that? Because she is the older of the two? Because she came first? Because she was left behind first? That extra fifteen dollars and eighty-five cents makes her worth ice-cream at school for an entire month. She is worth two of those scarves from Target that she wants, because all the other little girls are wearing them. Thirty-six seventeen means she is worth one new dress and stockings to match. She’s worth a movie date with her mom and maybe, just maybe, she’s worth popcorn with extra butter.

She stares at the names and the dates and the amounts. She pulls out her calculator, because she’s logical, because she’s sane, because she knows there must be some algorithm in play that dictates the price attached to another human being’s name, date of birth, and social security number. Somewhere inside her children’s DNA is the bar code that is engraved with all this information. That’s why she couldn’t find it. That’s why the numbers never came out right.

One month is $81.28 and $144.68. That’s school supplies for both, new book-bags and lunch boxes, and for her daughter, that means she’s worth a new pair of dress shoes where her toes won’t hang over the edge.

One year makes them worth $975.36 and $1,736.16. He is four, so that means he’s worth $3,901.44. She’s six, so it’s $10,416.96. Right? That makes sense, she figured. I mean, by the time they are grown, their price-tags will be immense. They will be worth so much…so very, very much.

And that was the game. It was all a gamble. They had set the bet and she had called. Not only had she called, but she’d raised. She’d raised and raised and raised. She met each of their bets and doubled and tripled them. She’d paid in her part, and not only with money, but with her time. With her kisses, her late night wake-up calls, her trips to the family doctor, her white hairs, her once a month new toothbrushes, her story times.

So when those men would show back up, she’d be able to look them in the eye. She’d be able to say, “Hey, I figured it out.” She knew her child’s worth and she’d raised the bet. “It’s on you now. Call or fold.”

Want it now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!
Want it now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!

Remember the contest is still going on until December 15th! Visit http://facebook.com/HistoryofaWoman and LIKE my page for your chance to win a copy of one of my books! Your choice!

Wake Up a Woman

I recently asked some of my readers what their favorite story or poem was from each of my books. After figuring out which was the most popular, I decided to post that choice here.

But that’s not all, because that would be relatively boring.

Not really…but this part is more exciting!

I’m doing another contest!

CONTEST CONTEST CONTEST

Yep. You could win a copy of one of my books…I’ll even let you choose. All you have to do is find me on Facebook (http://facebook.com/HistoryofaWoman) and LIKE my page. Yep. That’s it. I’ll gather all the new names and on December 15th will draw a winner. That’s only a few days! So get on Facebook and click that Like button!

Now, for the reader’s choice from my first book, Wake Up a Woman:

This is an Uprising

I need your attention

for just a moment,

a minute,

an ounce of your time

and you better give it

’cause I’ll only say this once.

I need you to know

that I’m okay.

I’m alright.

I’ve settled my accounts

and I know who I am,

and I’ve accepted that.

I have a firm grip

on my identity,

and what you think of me

is just as true

as what I think of me,

and that’s alright.

You hear me?

It’s alright,

’cause I can handle

the way you describe me to your mother.

I’m an artist,

a student,

a tutor,

a writer.

I actually read for fun.

I’m a Goddess of the Household Duties:

the Queen of the Laundry,

the Ruler of the Dishes,

I can make bread,

fry bacon,

boil eggs,

and bake a cake,

all the while

showing my dominance

over the hills of coffee grounds.

And I’m alright

with the way you talk about me

to all your friends.

“She’s a freak in bed,

got an amazing ass,

and gives the best head.

Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like my,

my sweet,

my baby,

my doll,

my love?”

And all those other sweet,

choke-on-the-sugar

words you spill in my ear at night.

I’m a “cunt,

a bitch,

a whore,

and a slut,”

whenever you’re pissed,

and that’s alright.

I’ll be that,

as long as you get to be

a “douchebag,

an asshole,

a dickhead,

and a bastard.”

I’m the Master of Imagination

and I make one hell of a Mother.

So, you promise your own

a herd of screaming,

wailing,

red-faced babies,

and that’s alright

’cause I’ve done it before and

I’ll do it again.

Ain’t nothing to it!

I’m a taxi driver,

a short order cook,

a night owl,

an instant human,

just add coffee,

an amazing

baby-making machine.

I’m a cow with a pump

hooked to my chest

and I’m feeding the world.

I’m a woman,

a daughter,

a sister,

a mother.

I’m a friend,

and enemy,

a lover,

an ex –

I’m a woman,

so at times

I’m PMS personified.

I’ve got every limb I need

to kick your ass

and might just have

the strength to do it!

I have been stepped on,

stepped around,

and I’m stepping it up.

I’ve been trampled,

I’ve been beaten,

bruised,

and scarred.

I’ve been raped

and forced,

pushed

and pulled.

I’ve fallen down

and got back up.

Sometimes, I just laid there

and took it.

I’m weak and frail,

but I’m not porcelain.

I’m girly in ribbons and bows,

but I got a pair of nuts

to make Chuck Norris jealous.

Are you listening to me?

I’m telling you I’m alright.

I’m okay.

I can look in the mirror

and know every day

just who I am

and who you think I am,

and that’s alright too.

I am unknown,

uncaring,

unaffected,

unemotional,

and in charge.

I’m the leader of this pack,

the glue that holds the family together,

and I’m only out in the open

screaming at the top of my lungs

when it gets to be too much,

too often.

I don’t drink

’cause I’ve got a low tolerance

and one of them would have me

on a tabletop somewhere,

losing clothes

like I’m losing hair.

I dance like a white chick,

all elbows and knees.

I sing like a wounded cat

and play drums on my steering wheel.

I’m a woman so I can’t drive,

can’t parallel park

and can’t reverse.

I’m run into

and away from

and around

mailboxes,

ditches,

people,

responsibilities.

I like language

and can’t master my own,

but I’m a true professional

at the Art of Sarcasm.

I say, “I’m fine”

when I’m not,

and “nothing’s wrong”

when everything is.

And “whatever” is the equivalent

to a nuclear warhead

landing on your face.

Do you understand me?

‘Cause I’m a woman

and I want you to listen

as much as I want to talk.

I’m me.

I’m alright with that.

I’m okay.

I’m stoic.

I can look in the mirror

and I know who I am.

I’ve been stabbed

and poked

a million times

by needles of every shape

and size.

I treat my body like a canvas

and here I am,

a work of art.

I dye my hair

like I change my underwear.

So you can take

a new girlfriend to bed,

red,

brown,

blonde,

black,

blue,

purple.

Doesn’t matter,

I’ll be what you want.

It’s amazing

what a little

Revlon,

Maybelline,

L’Oreal,

Vicadin,

Exlax,

cocktail can do to a woman.

I am Cosmo,

Maxim,

Playboy,

and Good Housekeeping.

I wear skinny jeans

on my fat days.

I wear pantyhose

to streamline

a beeline

straight to my boobs.

I wear a bra

’cause some man said I should,

even though

I got nothing to put in it.

So I’m thankful for Victoria

and her Secret

gave me something to expose.

I’m a model,

a calendar girl,

a rockstar,

in my mirror with a hairbrush

and I’m belting out the tunes

of punk rock,

oldies,

metal,

and the classics.

I’m a country girl

with an affinity

for hip-hop.

I am tuneless,

tasteless,

careless,

and passionate.

Are you still here?

Hang on,

’cause I’ve only just begun.

I’ve just got going,

just got started,

and I’m not there yet.

I’m equipped with high tech

plug-ins.

I’ve got a vagina,

a pussy,

a cunt,

a hole,

and it’s been stabbed,

and poked,

prodded,

and stretched.

It’s bled,

and pushed out life.

I’ve got an attraction

and you can’t deny it.

It’s dress and silk in the day,

and leather and lace at night,

And I don’t get it,

I’m confused,

but I roll with it.

‘Cause you want it,

and I can handle it.

I do.

I’ve seen myself do it.

I am uptight,

upbeat,

upchucking,

and this is an uprising.

This is an acceptance,

of who I am,

and who you make me.

And that’s alright.

It’s okay.

I’m telling you I can handle it.

I’m allowing,

alluring,

and an illusion.

I am me.

I am woman.

And I’m alright.

Want a copy now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE.
Want a copy now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE.