The Facebook (Facebeg) Experience

Ooh! New gig!
Watch this space for details on my new weekly gig over at Work It, Mom! Woot woot! (Dances like Beyonce, only much worse)

Roam
I have become a ghost in this old house— perhaps its quietest inhabitant. I turn lights on and off and most of the time, there is no one here to notice, no one to exclaim, to marvel at all we do not understand. TV channels change at my will—no one cries foul or questions the electricity’s motives. I do not need to eat because I am no longer here. The kitchen ghost is happy to have the abandoned room all to herself. She rolls out her biscuits and tries to ignore the still earthly 21st-century table detritus that interferes, the kaleidoscope mess that ma

Sewage partay. My house.
Two words. Liquefied poop. Blockage. My luck. My basement. Men came. Men tromped. Slimebugs flew. Men screamed. Hammers pounded. Sewage everywhere. On pants. On shoes. In kitchen. City wrong. Mr. Rooter wrong. Cleaning, me. And friend. Made call. “$1200 to $1800.” Nope. We’ll do. Tears out. Friend in. Shop Vac in. Sewage out. Vomit, plentiful. Sewage gnats. House, sullied. Bleach, ammonia. Shop Vac? Don’t ask. Metaphor, yes? Or no? Ebay? Sell house? Tears, plentiful. Anger, plentiful. Done in. Done with. Just done.

Bipolar Jell-O
I know more than a few women (I’m one of them) who will only go to a female gynecologist, because of the infamous “would you trust a mechanic who’s never owned a car?” theory. I’m not saying it’s an intelligent way to choose a gynecologist. After all, my brother has ob/gyn privileges and delivers babies like a champ. I’d trust that guy with my life—and my parts, if it were necessary, although that might send both of us into therapy right quick. It’s just a gut thing. I’m just not comfortable, in general, talking froufyhooha with Dr. Hoojackapiffy. Bipolar disorder and major depression are lonely hauls, partly be

Punchline
Yellow Penske trucks, hospital hand towels, ventriloquist dummies, silver candlesticks. All puppets— socks to marionnettes— it will never matter. Rolling farmland, Canadian cities (except, perhaps, Porcupine Plain and Winnipeg). Lice combs, shaving brushes, proscenium stages, the hole in the roof, the maple roots forcing their way into the pipes. When I flush the downstairs toilet, the sink gurgles and small insects spray out of the drain. They will be here, all week. Tell your friends you enjoyed the show. Another Penske truck, just ahead. I cannot understand wh