Que Sera Sera

Really, everyone’s a winner. Except for the ten of you who lost.

A big hand to the winners of the haiku contest: Jackie-O and Mrs. Kennedy. (That’s right. What fodder for the conspiracy theorists!) Below are all the entries, along with our esteemed judges’ comments. This was definitely a good time, and thank you all for participating in the fun. Adam suggested cinquains sending props out to the cast of Saved by the Bell for our next endeavor. We shall see. (Right after I look up “cinquain.”)

Without any further ado:

Judges’ Comments, by Helen Jane: I have three qualifications for determining the winner.
First, the poem must follow 5-7-5.
Secondly, as Adam said, it must be humorous.
Finally? It must realize a deeper truth through the YG2.


Personal letters
sent to the stars of Young Guns
Two: A collection

R.D. Call: Sorry
about your career; I saw
“Murder By Numbers.”

Mr. Phillips: I
haven’t seen “Bats,” but I still
want my five bucks back.

James Coburn: Do your
friends still make fun of you for
“Eraser?” I would.

Kiefer: Can I call
you Keifer? When did “Freeway”
sound like a good plan?

by Brian

Adam says: An interesting concept by creating a haiku sequence dealing with the respective careers of the YG II cast members. The series seemed to fall short because it doesn’t comment on their appearances in the movie so much as it deals with movies later in the respective careers. A parallel drawn between YG II and the latter films would have no doubt added to the already funny, yet sad quality of these poems. The conversationally quality of it is funny, yet melancholy because the films are sad, in themselves.

Helenjane says: I assume the Kiefer-Keifer was intentional.
And in the voice of Mrs. Renee from Pee Wee’s Playhouse,
Today, I will call the ceiling, the cieling, and I will blame it all on you.

One criticism, however, one cannot, simply cannot, refer to the Lou Diamond as Mr. Phillips, it takes something away from the very rockstarness that he’s cultivating in that petri dish of image.


For Lou Diamond Phillips:

Faux rockstar name
does not ensure a great career.
Wolf Lake, Lou? So sad.

by Jackie-O

Adam says: Beautiful use of monosyllabic words to create tension with the “so sad” aspect of the haiku.

Helen Jane says: Props for the use of FAUX. I wonder if there are rules for faux rockstar names like there are for your porn/stripper name. Like, take a popular name from 1952, add a gemstone and finish with the last name from one of the Beach Boys.

I would be Gus Ruby Wilson.
Oh. That sounds like I’m creepy Uncle Gus, with ring-around-the-collar and binoculars next to the sink.


For Balthazar

I can’t remember
anything else you were in.
Are you sure you exist?

by Jackie-O

Adam says: While strong, the poem lacks imagery to backup the statement which is quite true and revealing in itself. The poem is very quiet and lonely.

Helen Jane says: Honorable mention for incorporating Balthazar. Or incorporating the shadowy nature that is Balthazar.


For Mr. Mortensen

Viggo, how I love
to say your name in a fake
accent and then swoon.

by Jackie-O

Adam says: Yes! My favorite of these three—the poem begins with “Viggo” and ends with the speaker “swoon”ing. Again, wonderful use of single-syllable words to establish a solid, unwavering rhythm.

Helen Jane says: This is my winner.
Maybe we can have two winners?
This haiku rules because it called me to action,
How can you not say it in a fake accent?
How can you not correlate it with hot, viggo-rous loving?
I swoon only for Jackie-O



it does not matter
if you play good guy or bad
you always kick ass.

by heidi

Adam says: I like this poem because it depends on the title to make sense. A poem which relies on the title for information is always helpful, especially when writing a haiku and being forced into a form which is depending of each syllable.

Helen Jane says: Although Kiefer kicks ass, like Adam said, the poem depends on the title.
And also, it reminds me of the last name of a girl I got in a big fight with last year.
And oh, how I hated her and her weaselly ways.
And now I’m angry and would like to kick her ass.
And Heidi, it’s all your fault.


That movie’s about
American Indians
Where is Lou Diamond?

by Jennifer Setter

Adam says: A strong poem in its conciseness and word choice. The turn at the end functions like the ice cube on the stove riding on its own melting. Ending with the question is both sad and ominous.

Helen Jane says: Any poem about Lou D is all right with me.


balthazar getty
with the hard to pronounce name
may i call you bal?

by Jennifer Silver

Adam says: Beautiful sense of humor here. The fact that the poem is actually addressed to “Bal” makes the reader feel a bit removed from the scene, but the imagined conversation between the reader and Bal makes it funny—as if the scene is taking place at a bar over draft beers or maybe via cell phones. The poem doesn’t necessarily have a turn or twist—it begins with an idea and mostly stays with it to the end. Very cohesive.

Helen Jane says: Bal is the beginning to so many wonderful words.


William Petersen
The man of C.S.I. fame
Love your curly hair

by Carolina

Adam says: I like this poem because of the lack of enjambment and the resolution being such a strong image. The three lines of the poem, in this way, actually become three strands of the “curly hair” that the speaker “loves.” Clearly derives form the school of imagism; H.D. and Pound would be proud.

Helen Jane says: Although William Petersen’s hair is juicy enough to cut with a steak knife, I find hair like his winds up in my burger more often than necessary.

Sarah B. says: Dude, Adam said “enjambment.”


The long hair is better
Than the short like in Breakfast Club

By Heather Moylan

Adam says: Strong comparison between the two films in such a brief poem. I like having “Emilio” on its own line, even though the last syllable is left off. By leaving off the last syllable, the poem has a strong way of feeling unresolved, much like Emilio must feel every time he gets his “short” hair cut or makes a movie, for that matter.

Helen Jane says: I would have made this the winner except of the missing syllable.
I even tried to add another syllable to Emilio, making it read, “EM-EE-LEE-EE-OH”
But I couldn’t do that to Martin Sheen.
I’m sure he only wanted Emilio to have a four syllable name.
I know I would be pretty pissed if someone started calling me Helelelen Jane.
Or at least my mom would.


Arthritic fingers
frightening teeth whistling smoke—
dogs bark: James Coburn.

by mrs. kennedy

Adam says: This one’s my winner for several reasons. First of all: the name “haiku” is derived from the type of “renga” known as “haikai,” which means “humorous.” Most of the haikus submitted have a humorous edge to them, but this particular one captures a strong sense of imagery throughout the poem, in addition to the comic sense. In the first few lines we feel the fingers, see the teeth, smell the smoke, and then hear the “dogs bark” in the last line. By this point, the haiku is working on several different levels. The closing: “James Coburn” brings forth a nice humorous, unexpected twist. Frost says poetry should be a “momentary stay against confusion” and this haiku does just that. It leads the reader in a direction he/she does not intend to go in, thus representing the world we live in (as well as the characters in “Young Guns II”).

Helen Jane says: Hm.
I have to disagree.
I can’t give it my vote because Coburn is a scary, scary man.
It’s like saying that your perfectly and elegantly prepared Beef Wellington is gross just because I don’t like the pate.
Like, I’m sure this is a great haiku and I’m sure your Wellington is right on the money.
But I fear the Coburn.
I fear and loathe him.
In fact, I might go start an “I’m afraid of James Coburn” club right now.


the jon bon jovi
“blaze of glory” for the deuce
young guns cameo

by helenjane

Adam says: The only haiku that deals with the JBJ song and appearance in the film. I like it if only for the originality. However, it fails to mention the quarters in his eyes while being propped up in the coffin.

Helen Jane says: Since I wrote this poem, I shouldn’t have to comment on it. Or maybe I could comment on it like my boss just made me write my own performance review and this is the performance review I’ve always wanted to give myself:

Attitude: 4 (out of a possible 10)
Promptness: 5
Cheerfulness: 6
Service with a smile: 2

What Helen Jane lacks in initiative she makes up for in drive. Helen Jane should go to Taco Bell more often. Helen Jane smells nice.


Emilio E.,
How I did truly love thee
Until “Men at Work.”

Lou Diamond Phillips
Sorry your wife left you for
Melissa Etheridge.

by Sarah B.

Adam says: Ah—Melissa Etheridge’s made several appearances. I like the consoling quality of the poem. The direct address of the first line really grabs the reader’s attention and ending with the full names of these two lovers really captures the tension between these two people and the relationship they share through the common lover.

Helen Jane says: I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Any poem about Lou D is all right with me. Who says that haikus can’t teach you something?


melissa etheridge
you know we love it when you’re
tonguing lou’s wife’s ass

by Cameron

Adam says: Woah! Probably the poem with the most element of surprise, but the haiku fails to comment on the film. Perhaps if a connection was made that the reader wouldn’t have thought of, the poem would have exceeded what it sets out to do in this form. The two possessives in the end create a strong order of displacement—one similar to what Lou might have felt at the time that his wife left.

Helen Jane says: Hm. The tonguing.
Dirty dirty poem.
It made me suck my teeth.
And I don’t think that is what haikus should do.
doo doo.

Sarah B. says: I felt that I should add: I sent my original haiku to my friend Cameron in an email, and he responded with this. He has no idea I took the liberty of submitting it for him. Perhaps he would not have been so cavalier with the tongue-mentioning had he known the internet at large would be privy to it.


This entry came in late, so the judges didn’t have a chance to comment on it, but I thought I’d post it anyway:

pat garrett? loser.
billy escaped and became
the mighty ducks coach.

ritchie valens is
jose chavez y chavez
just with shorter hair.

kiefer sutherland
should never die in movies
it makes the girls cry.

by Some Dude


Congratulations, all.


I’m getting paid to housesit in the next few weeks, and I was planning to use the money to finally fix my car. I’ve needed a new muffler since right before I got laid off, so I spent all winter driving around with the windows down while my heater was on, and I sound like one of those kids in the tricked-out purple Civics you see loitering in convenience store parking lots on Saturday nights. However, now I’m seriously considering saying screw you to the muffler for another month and buying a Gamecube just so I can play this game.

Legend of Zelda on my old NES just isn’t cutting it anymore.


Man. I was really thinking about it, and erasers are just like magic.

Search strings:

Some interesting searches that have recently led people to my site: Colorado girls kissing, boyfriend haircut, girls in cut-offs, and, most heartbreakingly, I need a real friend who will not cheat me.


There comes a point in every person’s life where you have to weigh a sore throat versus losing your entire snowglobe collection.

Put Captain Solo in the cargo hold:

It’s about that time again—that magical time of Aleve and chocolate ice cream and crying. Why in the world my period makes me cry so much is beyond me, but I turn into a goddamn Lifetime movie. And every month, I refuse to believe that my period could be the culprit. Everything is going wrong today and now I can’t the lid off this jar and I hate my liiiiiiiiife! And every month, some nice, timid person offers up a helpful, rational explanation, and I am just livid that someone would even suggest such a thing. I take it personally. This has nothing to do with my body! I am having a serious problem here and I cannot believe you would discount my problems for—oh, hey, what’s up, period.

The worst it ever was: I woke and up and cried because someone was already in the shower. I cried in the shower because I was out of conditioner. I cried when I got out just because I’d already cried twice that day and that really got me down. I managed to pull myself together long enough to sit down and relax in front of the TVThe Empire Strikes Back was on—but when they froze Han Solo in carbonite, I was inconsolable.

Haiku Update:

The poems are pouring in—Lou D. included. Get them in before midnight tonight, when I’ll turn them over to our esteemed judges.

It’s gonna be good, kids.

Haiku Revisited:

I briefly considered expanding this into a sort of haiku collection for each cast member of Young Guns II, but then I realized I was at a total loss for what to say about Balthazar Getty. But that shouldn’t stop you, gentle reader. Let’s have a little impromptu Que Sera Sera Young Guns II Haiku Contest. Send ’em in an email to me, the sooner the better. Maybe I’ll even get some real judges, and do this up all official-like.

UPDATE: Judges obtained: Helenjane, of Poetry Friday fame, and Adam, of actually attending grad school for poetry fame. Keep the entries coming—I’ve yet to receive any about Lou Diamond Phillips.


(Special request from Brian)

O! Christian Slater
How my young heart would sing when
You would gleam that cube


What are people thinking, walking in here and beginning a sentence with “I’ve got a really hot job…”? It is three o’clock on Friday. That means in some countries, it’s already Sunday or something. The nerve.

Maybe if I just stare at them blankly long enough, they’ll be uncomfortable and feel compelled to leave.

Degrees of Sadness:

I can’t imagine anything worse than being a paunchy, balding, 50 year old man wearing Dockers and your company polo shirt, eating lunch at a Mexican restaurant with two other paunchy, balding, 50 year old men in their Dockers and corporate knits as well.

At least the pudgy 50 year old ladies in their beige flats and suntan pantyhose have their Beanie Babies to look forward to.

I’ll bet he fights like a girl:

S. called me to tell me that Steve was no longer on Blue’s Clues, the show we used to watch every summer morning back in the day.

“Now there’s like Joe, because Steve died or went to college or something. Joe is so lame. He changed the mail song.”

“Want to see what Steve’s doing now? Go to www.steveswebpage.com.”

Click click click. Pause.

With an audible sneer: “What, is he becoming a man now?”

Danny Zucco, MD:

Brian: …so what if I got brain cancer—

Sarah: Don’t even say that! That’s awful!

Brian: No, listen: a special kind of brain cancer, one that made me super smart.

Sarah: I’ve seen that movie. You’d have to die in the end.

Brian: What movie?

Sarah: That John Travolta movie, where he’s stupid and then he gets struck by lightning and he’s really smart, but then he dies.

Brian: You mean Michael?

Sarah: No, that’s the one where he’s an angel.

Brian: You mean Grease?

Sarah: Ohhh no… he’s a whole different kind of angel in that one.

Reading Material:

Every morning while I dry my hair, I notice the tag on the hairdryer cord that reads:


  1. Why the quotation marks? Is this a well-known saying? The Conair motto? Is it an alleged premise? I imagine some hairdryer exec winking while making the little ironic finger quotes.
  2. What a macabre thing to say to a child. “Gather around, little ones, and let grandma tell you of all the horrid ways you could die in a freak accident in the home.”
  3. Who is my appliance to tell me what I can or cannot do? Every morning I consider rebelling and removing the tag, but then what would I read while I dried my hair?


The party was a smashing success.

There was drama and intrigue and fighting: Someone said something so offensive to Someone Else that the Someone Else felt compelled to leave early, providing much speculation and gossip for the rest of the evening.

It rained, but then stopped around 11:30, so everyone ended up on the deck under the little white lights. The conversation was well worth the damp bum.

I learned a joke so filthy, it hurts to think about. If by “hurts,” I mean “makes me laugh so hard I drool,” which I do.

The margaritas were strong, and the guacamole was excellent. I told Emily that if everyone left and it was just me and the guacamole, I’d still be happy at the end of the night.

There was not quite as much making out as I would have liked—just a few girl-on-girl kisses—but it was before the married people left. Involving one of the married people, actually, so I really can’t complain.

Ryan flew in from New York, brought the elusive and reclusive Michael G., struck out with Kerry, and earned himself a new nickname (Neopolitan) with appropriately inappropriate origins. He was probably my favorite guest.

Two former boyfriends showed, and both brought me books: one brought some Babysitters Club, and the other Everything Is Illuminated. I’d like to say that these gifts are representative of both relationships, but that really wouldn’t be true. Well, just a little true.

Speaking of books, Cameron brought me this, which will sit on my shelf next to the book he gave me at my housewarming party last October.

Everyone sang to me, and there was a cake with candles and all my friends’ faces in the glow, and for a minute I thought I was going to cry like a Hallmark ad.

The evening ended at 4 am, with only five people left, barefoot on the floor, discussing who was a slut in high school. As all good parties should.

Overheard from a coworker on the phone:

Aaaaaaactually, I’m going to go run some beeeeeeeer errands… you know, I’ve got Colorado Mike over, so, whatever.”


I read Jackie-O’s comment and decided to call Sheila’s cell phone one last time before surrendering to the will of Tyrone. Lo and behold, she answered! She sounded hungover, and I distinctly heard Sesame Street in the background, but she scheduled me for Tuesday evening at her new new place.

The location of the new new place? The same salon where my mother has been getting her hair highlighted for ten years.

You better call Tyrone:

I have a full head of thick, wavy, sometimes unruly hair, which is only charming when it’s on your head. Elsewhere on the body, this sort of hair is just annoying, so I have my brows professionally groomed every three weeks by a very flaky young woman named Sheila.

Up until recently, Sheila was a very harmless kind of flaky—she talked endlessly about her ex-husband and his teenage son and her new boyfriend and her mother, sometimes doubling the length of the session—but I didn’t mind, because under Sheila’s direction, my eyebrows became works of art. They made eye makeup application fun again.

But about a month ago, Sheila left the salon where she’s always worked, and no one told me until I showed up for my appointment. They offered to reschedule me with someone else, but I flashbacked to December, when I was a bridesmaid in a friend’s wedding and Sheila was out sick, so I went ahead and let some horrid woman wax away at my forehead until I was left with two thin, comic book half-circles where my eyebrows used to be.

“No, thank you,” I said, shuddering with the memory. I would find Sheila.

Sheila left a message on my machine two weeks later, leaving the number of her new place of employment, and her cell phone number as well. I rejoiced. I called. It was an answering service. They would page her. She would return my call. My eyebrows would be lovely again. I waited with bated breath, and increasingly furry brow.

I left my number. No return call. I tried again later that week. I left my work, home, and cell number. No return call. I called her cell phone, sat through a message that paused so the caller could recognize Led Zeppelin’s “Thank You” in the background, and left a pleading message to please, please, please for the love of God call me back.

Two more weeks passed.

I started to feel like I was in ninth grade, and I should wait for her to call me, but I really needed to talk to her, because what if she thought I didn’t like her and asked Megan to the homecoming dance instead? I mean, what if she didn’t ever return my calls and I ended up looking like Bert from Sesame Street?

Six weeks have passed since my canceled appointment, which put me at nine past due. Things are not pretty aroud here. There’s only so much I can do with my tweezers. Every morning, I pause before I apply mascara, wondering if it’s such a good idea to draw any attention to the upper half of my face.

Then yesterday, someone from Sheila’s new salon called. She apologized that Sheila had not called me back. Sheila had left town for a conference a week ago and not called her back, either. Frankly, we were both less than impressed with Sheila’s business conduct. She offered to schedule me with Tyrone.

“I don’t want to sound high maintenance or anything, but is he good? I mean, I know you that of course you have to say he’s good, but I’m a little gunshy because everyone else who has touched my brows who’s not Sheila has just butchered them.”

“Oh, he’s very good. He’s very Hollywood.”

Hollywood? Is this some sort of code word for gay? I didn’t get it, so I elaborated. “I just like them very natural—not too thin, just an arch. Very clean, you know?”

Then she said what I’m sure she thought would undoubtedly reassure me: “He’s very professional. He did a lot of the girls who competed in the Miss Oklahoma pageant last weekend.”

I am a broken, hirsute woman, so there was nothing left for me to do but wince, sigh, and make an appointment with Tyrone.

I have a feeling things are only going to get worse.


I’ve started the summer habit of walking in the door from work, hot and tired, and immediately kicking off my shoes. This is in addition to my regular habit of not ever picking anything up, so a rather large collection of discarded shoes has amassed immediately to the right of the doorway. They look like they’re all milling about, mingling and laughing, like a little shoe cocktail party, and I really hate to interrupt.

Thug Love:

Scene: Emily and Sarah, sitting in Emily’s Honda Civic at a busy intersection, 9:30 on a summer night. An early ’90s Chevrolet Caprice pulls up next to us. There is a large sticker on the back window that reads “Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics.” The two gentlemen inside—not a day over 18—begin hooting and honking and revving their engine in some alternate-universe attempt to woo us.

Emily: Ohhhhh, boys. Boys boys boys boys boys. You have no idea what you’d be getting yourselves into.

Sarah: They probably wouldn’t be revving that engine so loudly if they knew we were just discussing how we were too fat for lace-up-the-front leather pants.

Soup, anyone?

I made myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen at work, and while looking for a spoon, I discovered:

a) We do not have any spoons.

b) We have an entire drawer full of funeral home can openers.

You heard me: can openers—not the turn-and-twist kind, but the kind with the sharp end—with the words Moore Funeral Homes: First in Facilities, First in Service on the handle. I’m not quite sure what the intended demographic is here. People mourning the loss of a loved one, but desperately craving canned peaches? Very unsettling.

I took them all, of course.

Guess what everyone’s getting for Christmas?

Dinner with S and K, ages 10 and 9:

S: I don’t need the kids’ menu. Tell her I need a big menu.

K: Do they have pizza here?

Me: Yes, on the kids’ menu.

K: I don’t want it from the kids’ menu. I want it from the real menu.

Me: They don’t have it on the real menu.

S: K, all you ever want is pizza. Sarah, tell her she has to eat something else.

K: Their crayons aren’t very good here.

S: I’m not even hungry. I had ribs and a milkshake for lunch. I want something kind of light.

Me: They have soup, salad and sandwiches on the back page of the menu.

S (to waiter): I’ll have a barbecue burger, with extra barbecue sauce, please.

K: I need more ketchup.

S: That is so gross, K. No one puts ketchup on their pizza.

Me: Please eat the layer of ketchup already on your pizza first.

K: When I grow up, I’m going to drive a red Lexus convertible with my name spelled out in flames on the side, and my license plate will say “BOYS R TOYS.”

S: Sarah, what does constipated mean?

And Frankenstein, on Channel 9:

Four people have called and sang to me so far this morning. I love any holiday that requires other people to sing to you.

(I think you can count your birthday as a holiday, right? I distinctly remember being five or six and wondering why June 10 wasn’t marked in red like the other national holidays on my grandma’s calendar. Maybe that makes me spoiled, but I was an only child and the only female grandkid at that point, so birthdays were a pretty big deal.)

What about you?

If I had a sugar daddy, I wouldn’t waste his time with fur coats or purse puppies. I’d make him buy me the entire collection of Edward Gorey books, this kick-ass yet ridiculously overpriced T-shirt, and maybe this.

And now that I think about it, maybe I’d also demand Lady Holiday’s baseball diamond. Just to keep him in traditional sugar daddy character, of course.


Yesterday I received a card in the mail. Since it’s nearing birthday season, I was excited, especially since I didn’t recognize the return address—perhaps I’m still clinging to some secret admirer or mysterious benefactor fantasy, one that led me to temporarily overlook the fact that they’d misspelled my first name on the envelope.

It was an invitation to a bridal shower. For a girl that I used to work with nine months ago. The extent of our relationship had been to eat lunch together twice, with all the other women in the office. (How I dreaded those salad-and-iced-tea estrogen fests!) No, wait: the day I got laid off, she walked into my office, saw my tear-stained face, the boxes, the fact that I was blasting “Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangster,” and said brightly, “Do you want to see a picture of the dress I decided on?”

Of all the nerve.

Calling me “Sara.”

Just the smell of the summer can make me fall in love:

I wish I was on the beach right now with a hat and the New Yorker summer fiction issue.

I wish I was at my aunt and uncle’s backyard barbecue, with James Taylor playing in the background.

I wish I was seventeen, wearing cut-offs and kissing a boy under the front porch light.

I wish I was fourteen, swimming at night all by myself at the neighborhood pool.

I wish I was nine, dodging water balloons on the playground with my yearbook.

I wish I was five, waking up at the crack of dawn and riding my big wheel in my black-patent maryjanes and Dukes of Hazzard T-shirt.

I wish I was in my swimsuit and red rubber boots, watching the rain wash away my chalk drawings on the driveway.

I wish I was eating a popsicle on the kitchen floor, feeling the cold linoleum tile against the back of my legs.

I wish I was tan and lazy, the braids in my hair still damp from the lake two days before.

I wish I was on the deck of my parents’ friends’ house in Colorado, falling asleep before I counted all the stars.

I wish I was ten and fearless, sleeping in my little blue tent in the backyard during a thunderstorm.

I wish I was barefoot in the soft damp grass, catching fireflies with my cousin while the grown-ups talked until midnight.

I wish I was on my own balcony, under the little white lights on the red porch swing, drinking a beer and listening to Wilco.

Kindred spirits:

My boss’s nine year old daughter is in the office this week while her brother is away at camp. She has made an abandoned cubicle her own, complete with a decorated piece of cardboard as a welcome mat. She is very quiet, and serious, and busy. She has accumulated an enviable assortment of office supplies, and puts them to good use. She buzzes me at my desk to ask me what the words “barrage” and “tirade” mean. We had a long discussion about Lemony Snicket. She admired my Mary-Kate and Ashley screensaver. Yesterday, she wrote a small book titled “All About Dogs,” printed it off, bound it, and placed a copy in everyone’s inbox.

Is there any way I can make sure I have children like this, and not little football players?

Yeah, good luck with that

Best search string so far: sorority rush advice for high school

Um, my advice would be not to do it.

Sweet Jesus.

Viva la punk rock!

I wonder if she wore a necklace of safety pins.


Emily is throwing me a birthday party.

There will be margaritas and guacamole and fresh pico de gallo and Coronas with lime.

There will be lemon squares and homemade cupcakes with buttercream frosting.

There will be citronella candles and little white lights on the deck.

There will be cleverly designed invitations that people will display on their refrigerators for months afterwards.

There will be old boys and new boys and gay boys and friends’ boys and those irresistible slouchy hipster boys.

There will be tall girls and curvy girls and girls with curly hair and girls with red hair and girls who will sass you back when they’ve been drinking.

I will wear a flower in my hair and my Vargas pin-up girl bracelet. I have the go-ahead to be the belle of my own ball.

Tony assures me there will be drama and intrigue, and fighting, and crying, and it will last until the wee hours of the morning.

There may be singing.

There may be a scene.

There is a slight chance of it becoming a makeout party, maybe, after the married people go home.

Maybe even before they go home.

Did I mention the margaritas? There will be many, many margaritas.

Of course, you are all invited.

One more week, part two:

Expanding that list, and renaming it Things I Want But Will Not Receive for My Birthday:

One more week:

I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I think what I really want for my birthday is AM Gold.

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