I Don’t Want to Use the Same Bathroom as You

Guess what.

I don’t want to use the bathroom with anybody.

And that could just be because I’m a mom and 100% not exaggerating when I tell you I don’t recall the last time I had a piss in peace. My cat lays on my feet. My dog stares at me in a super creepy way. (Seriously, if you’re worried about perverts I’d like to report her.)

My kids? The older ones fucking talk to me right through the door. The youngest . . . just all up in my grill. Practically sits on my lap. Even gets my feminine products for me when it’s my “Mommy that’s gross!” time of the month.

Honestly, I don’t give a shining fuck what’s in your pants. I don’t want to go to the bathroom with you.

But sometimes, it happens. It’s natural. It’s unavoidable. I often find myself away from my preferred toilet (the one in my home) and have to use a public restroom. And hey, as shy as I am about public restrooms, let’s all stop a minute to give thanks they exist! I’m stoked I have never had to shit in the street. Like my super creepy dog who also, come to think of it, stares at me while she’s shitting.

Yet here I am, writing about going to the bathroom with you. Why is that?

I don’t normally rant on here. I certainly don’t discuss politics. That’s what everyone on Facebook does. And seriously, fuck Facebook.

I appreciate that it allows me to keep in touch with faraway friends and family in a convenient, visual manner. But in all honesty, lately it just makes me ill and inspires rants like the one I’m gearing up to drop right here like a deuce.

Everyone is basically an asshole. I won’t even explain that any further. If you’ve been on Facebook, you get it.

To be honest, I’m hopeful enough to believe that all of us are open enough and accepting to just get that this is really a non-issue. That we shouldn’t even have to discuss this.

But just in case . . .

1. There are SO MANY more important things in this world to get up in arms about.

Why have you chosen to hyper focus on what is in someone’s underwear prior to that human being choosing a restroom to use?

Armchair activists raise my blood pressure like very few other things do. Because this is what I want to shout at each and every one of them:

Hey asshole! You hate how the world works? Instead of sharing that misguided, hateful, ignorant meme that lacks grammar (seriously it contains ZERO grammar) get up, get the fuck out of your house, and GO MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN YOUR COMMUNITY.

Then, feel free to come at me, bro.

2. Guess what used to happen in the bathroom before all this bullshit started?

You went in.

You went to the bathroom.

AND YOU HAD NO IDEA WHAT WAS IN THE PANTS OF THE PERSON IN THE NEXT STALL.

Seriously. You had no idea.

Guess what?

I’m gonna let you in on a secret.

Shhhhhh.

You’ve already peed next to transgender people.

AND YOU LIVED.

3. I have a question.

HOW THE FUCK DO PEOPLE CONDUCT THEMSELVES IN THE BATHROOM?

Here’s how I roll.

I go in.

I piss.

I wash my hands.

I leave.

I keep my head down.

I make eye contact with NOBODY.

The New York Fucking Knicks could be pissing in that bathroom with me, I’d have no idea. Want to know why?

BECAUSE IT’S ALREADY INSANE TO ME THAT I HAVE TO PEE WITH STRANGERS.

I don’t want to acknowledge it in any way. I just want to be back home with my pervert dog staring at me.

There are several moments in every day when I want utter peace and quiet and privacy and tranquility. No, not when I’m meditating.

WHEN I’M IN THE BATHROOM.

Do you seriously spend so much time in public restrooms that you feel you have the time, and even the inclination, to check everyone’s genitalia?????

Then, guess what.

You need to reevaluate your entire life.

While you’re at it . . . see # 1 above and follow those instructions.

Eternity Can’t Be Ours

I miss you already.

Not the way I do when you leave for work or are away for days. I miss you then, too, in that silly way that makes me coo into the phone when I hear your voice and smile thinking of your return.

No, I miss you more than that.

When I stop to think about the fact that everything will end . . .

That we will end . . .

There’s no avoiding our goodbye.

I’ll go first. Or you. We might go together.

But we’ll be over.

This love that bleeds from me to you and back again, a never-ending pulse of life that flows between us, will end.

Our language will be catalogued among the many whose echoes have faded from existence. Our inside jokes will illicit no giggles.

I want us to go on forever, comets across the sky.

Our love streaking in vapor trails through the universe. They’ll point up and stare as we burn beyond the moon and leave behind the hope that comes from wishing upon our light.

I want us to go on forever, hands locked together and legs entwined.

Sculptures, quiet muses, for the artists who want to know what love looks like.

I want us to go on forever, filling pages with stories of struggle and triumph.

Our love soaked in tears from those who read between our lines.

My heart aches from missing you already . . . in those moments when I stop and breathlessly recall that eternity can’t be ours.

I’m Here to Find the Moments That Matter to Me

I want to wring every potential miracle from every fleeting moment.

I don’t mean the biblical style miracles or the stuff of fairy tales.

I’m talking about the real ones.

Miracles . . . like life where once was none.

An empty vessel that suddenly houses a being that kicks at my heart from within. The warmth of a tiny body and the grip of ten tiny fingers. Eyes that blink up at me from my breast and greet me with a familiarity bred within my soul.

Miracles . . . like love that gives without motive.

Love that says tell me what you want. Listen to what I’m hearing. Share with me what I have. See all that I gaze upon. Drown with me here in this bed. Let the sun fill our lungs with a new day.

Love that says ride this out in my arms.

Miracles . . . like friendship that feels like family.

People who come along and recognize in you something they feel in themselves. Moments where they turn their backs to their own lives to share with you in yours. Then invite you to share with them in theirs. Histories that weave themselves together so completely that the whole world can see you were cut from the same cloth.

My miracles . . .

. . . like the sun on my face . . . or words that seep into the air in my lungs . . . or a photograph that captures a memory I’ll never have to say good-bye to . . . or music that makes me soar . . . or ache . . . or dance . . . until the world falls away and I’m just me.

Not a mother or a wife or a friend or a label. I’m just me, smiling, and breathing, living that one moment. And loving it.

My miracles aren’t yours. But I want you to find yours. And love the fuck out of them.

It isn’t always easy. At my lowest point it became next to impossible to find one in any day.

But I’d hear a giggle from a loved one.

I’d feel his warmth at my back.

My phone would ring and I’d hear a smile. I’d hear it. A smile from a friend because she was happy to hear my voice.

Sometimes I’d have a hard time finding my miracles.

But they’d always find me.

I’m not here for any one purpose. I’m here to live. And maybe my way of living isn’t balls to the wall. I’m not traveling the world and jumping out of planes or rocking stadiums.

Those miracles are for someone else.

My miracles are here for me and I love living them.

I’m not here to achieve any one thing. I’m here to achieve as much as I can. To live every day cognizant of how miraculous it is that I’m here, that I’m healthy, and that I get to smile as much as I do.

I don’t worry about what will happen when I’m gone. What I’ll achieve or not achieve before my time runs out. But, if asked, I’ll tell you what I hope to leave behind.

A reminder.

Not of me or what I achieved. Not of who I was or what I did. Not of where I went or what I left behind.

A simple reminder for you who still lives . . . to keep living for as long, and as true, as you can.

A reminder for all who still live to keep finding your miracles . . . and keep letting them find you.

She Won’t Fall Away

Slivers of heartbreak slide down her cheeks
Her breath stutters
Caught in the turnstile of her emotions
She circles through the blackness
Arms outstretched
Hands open

She seeks strength she forgot she possessed
Waiting to be conjured
Trapped beneath the corners of her soul
It calls to her
Begs of her strength
And waits

She’ll be the one to rise anew
Wrought with a new understanding
And empathy
Her path paved with stones carved from pain
Echoes of solitude
Die in the silence behind her

Tears fight their way from her eyes
She won’t fall away into the dark
It’s how I love she whispers
And she clutches the phone
A voice
Whispers back, You’re not alone.

Dripping With Wishes

The rough skin of your hands
Sliding up my thighs
A rainstorm of kisses
Drowning every peak and valley
In heated sheets
Leaving steam rising from my skin

My hair wrapped through your knuckles
Silken and strained
Leashed by your power
Curving my back
Until your lips meet my ear
You like that, my little slut?

The sliding and pounding
Slapping of skin
You tease and I beg
Whimper and sigh beneath
Your tongue
Between your lips

Lust and love found
More so in the less frantic moments
The sounds of silence
Filled with our fragile hope
The desire we cling to
Drips with wishes for happiness