cigarettes and ten cent dreams

scorcher, today
sit on the curb, kick off my flip flops
back to the filmy, dime store window
i live for these 15 minutes
every 4 hours
smoke hovers around me
not even a slight breeze for it to dissolve in

highway sounds mix with wails
momma tells her it’ll just be a second
i nudge a condom wrapper with my toe
how the hell did it get in the middle of a parking lot?

shirt stuck to my back
don’t care
10 minutes left

she comes back outside
slaps the kid
screams stop

that’s a relief

get a whiff of greasy chinese next door
finger sticky change in my pocket
food or cigarettes?

suck in the last bit
exhale slowly
mash it on the ground

5 minutes
enough time to walk across the street
and bargain for another pack

a girl's gotta eat, right?
i can finish him off in a minute
and still get some chinese

2 minutes

it’s ridiculous how i live for these 15 minutes

ultimate oxymoron

writer's block

 

tight, white skin,

stretches

freckles pull apart,

disintegrate

splintery letters, press, insistent

words dissolve in wet flesh before surfacing

again

 

 

Friday morning memories

Leaving Texas

highway in new mexico

i stop for gas,

standing alone

biting cold whipping through my bones

like wooden floorboards on a bitter gray morning

hafta fill up, pee,

buy more cigarrettes

old man stares at my shorts

he wonders where i came from

i tell him

it was warm when i got in my car this morning

baker city, oregon

check into motel 8 off interstate 84

sit and flip through unfamiliar channels

watch the rain and sleet fight with the window

trace the tattered edge of the blanket that has obviously seen many nights of truckers and whores

pull it tight anway

cold doesn't know the difference between you and i

somewhere near the washington state line

sky is massive and blue, wild and untouched

so fierce it burns my eyes if i keep them open too long

windows down, air tastes cold

fly down the highway, pass lonely truckers

heading home

it's been so long since i've seen snow

radio's going out

nothing but fuzzy jazz and some man screeching about his god

on and on they go,

but i just smile

'cause i know they don't really know the answer

i'm headed home

Recycled McGriddles

 I've discovered that Caden gets carsick if he eats McDonald's and tries to read in the car.

Monday, we were up before the sun, packed in the car and headed toward College Station to meet Jo, my step-mom. I stopped in Hillsboro to get a white chocolate mocha with two pumps of caramel from Starbucks and Caden saw the golden arches. So I got him this pancake/sausage/biscuit contraption. He devoured it, and even proclaimed, "I am going to eat at McDonald's EVERY DAY for breakfast. Okay Mom?"

Sure, Caden.

We make it a little past Waco; he is intently studying one of his books, and he casually calls up to me, "Mom. My tummy hurts."

I don't think much of it. He is always hurting something. So I mumble something to the effect, "That's nice," and continue to drive.

Again, this time with a touch of panic in his voice, "Mom. I think I'm gonna...I'm gonna throw up!"

As a mother, you can sense the change in your child's tone when he is in fact, panicking and truly scared. So I whip over on the side of the road and hand him the only bag I have handy. Which is, in fact, a McDonald's bag.

Yeah, those are made out of paper.

So Caden is throwing up every thing I think he's ever eaten, and I'm turned around, trying to help him get it all in the rapidly deteriorating bag. He manages to get recycled mcgriddle and apple juice all over my hanging clothes (which aren't hanging; they are laying on the seat next to him), his booster seat and himself. And his DVD player. And his headphones.

When I'm sure he is done, I take the bag to dump it out my door. In order to do this, the bag must cross over my lap. And precisely the moment it's crossing over me, the bottom falls out of it.

Good times, good times.

Here goes....something?

I honestly don't know how many blogs I've begun in the last 7 or 8 years. It always begins with a rush of words, swirling with energy and excitement, about documenting the little things in my life that I just know I'll appreciate remembering later, and it always seems to fizzle out after a few posts.

I was unsure what to title this; I even visited a few blog name generator sites that suggested names like "Yard Helpless" and "Dancing Pottery".  And although those names were appealing, I was reminded of a blog I recently discovered, written by a single dad who was chronicling all the funny shit that his kid does. Now, I don't know much, but I do know funny kid shit. I've got a pretty funny kid of my own...and remembering all the cool things he says and does is partly my goal with this blog. Anyway, Dan named  his blog, Single Dad Laughing. Thus, Single Mom Laughing was born.

Dan's blog: http://www.danoah.com/p/bit-about-me.html