I wish I could say that I have learned the secrets of the cosmic forces and that they are contained in the sacred text herein. That I am the universe’s librarian, staid keeper of the most cherished and occult records. That in my assortment of files is an atlas that lists the location of every sock that has vanished from every dryer in the world. With such a tool, you could restore balance and harmony to that wreck of mismatched socks that lie in wait for their mates to return from the unknown. If you’re like me, you are a truth-seeker; you want to know where your real family is, as you could never have come from the people you eat with during the holidays.

I wish I were mere minutes away from developing the technology that makes it possible for dogs to vacuum. Or the drug that prevents the man in your life from talking way too much about his ex-girlfriends. If only. I wish I could remember whole jokes, instead of just the punch lines. If I could, I would tell you the one about the recipient of a blowjob who cries, “It’s just an expression!” Maybe it’s better that I’ve forgotten.
Instead, I write personal essays. Friends and family sometimes wish I didn’t–for various reasons–and sometimes I, too wish I instead wrote spy novels or action thrillers featuring heroines that looked like you and me and fought for more reasonable prices at favorite retail establishments. But I’ve met all kinds of people and had all kinds of experiences while I happened to be holding a pen. And though I don’t necessarily have answers, I do have a scorching case of hypersensitivity–Attention Excess Disorder (the opposite of A.D.D.) if you will–and their accessory opinions. You’ll be glad to know that I do what I can to sound helpful.
As a personal essayist, I’m for expression–with some exceptions, including comb-over hairdos and boy band music. I’m equally down on anyone who would quash one’s self-expression with his or her own. ‘When life hands you lemons, make lemonade’ comes to mind. It’s a real nice sentiment and all, in a charming, Lady’s Auxiliary kind of way. But who are you, Aunt Bea? Dealing with life’s lemons is more art than science, yes. But refreshingly tart summertime beverage preparation? I just don’t have that kind of time.
If they could talk, my dogs could tell you that when life hands you lemons, you could make yellow snow. Carmen Miranda might kindly tell you that when life hands you lemons, you could stash them in her hat. My husband would say that when life is pushing lemons, act as if you don’t speak English’it works on telemarketers trying desperately to save you money on long distance. Jim Jones would have made Kool Aid. Of course, you could just hand them back.
If you’re like me, you consider yourself saucy. You’ve acquired a taste for true grit, an appreciation for the passive-aggressive, a zero-tolerance policy toward, ‘Go along to get along,’ ‘Smile and act nice,’ ‘Sit like a lady,’ and ‘Boys will be boys.’ There are kernels of truth in the hated: Boys will be boys’if they’re never expected to act like men. And women will be solipsistic shoe whores’if you spend enough time in the ‘burbs. It’s small stuff, I know, but you can either sweat the small stuff, or you can let it bludgeon you silly once it grows up. And it always grows up. If your glass is half-empty, that’s supposed to make you a pessimist, but maybe you’re on to something. Maybe what’s more important is what’s in the glass. And asking, Hey, what’s that thing floating in there? That shoe might fit, but what if it’s not your color? Check the caller ID before answering the phone; do not accept the charges. Make no apologies. No sale is final. Jesus saves’with double coupons! If you don’t like the bed you’ve made for yourself, there’s a Bed, Bath & Beyond ’round the corner.
What you can expect from me in this monthly ditty the folks at SFWP are kind enough to host are pieces that are intended to make you laugh or cry or think, that may help you feel less alone. They may help you discard your old “co-ed naked lacrosse team” tee shirt, and buy a “Team Vagina” one. They may remind you that you too are allowed to express yourself. If you’ve ever worked or loved or traveled, if you have a family or a home or a car or a dog. If you’ve ever felt silenced, if you’ve ever been dissuaded from saying something you’ve always or never wanted to say. If it’s silly or serious or juicy or nothing at all, and you’ve wanted to use your voice to give it a name. If you publish your diary on the Web, or if you are immersed in the life of someone you’ve never met because she publishes her diary on the Web. If you are polite in your salvos, or if you tell the people who ride you particularly hard that they can lead a horse to water, but it may decide to drown them instead of drink.
Or just come on by to kill your lunch hour. Whatever works. Just know that I’m here doing my thing because of my personal credo: “‘Express’ isn’t just a line at the supermarket.” And because I’ll never make it writing ad copy.