Blue Days

For Meme Meme called them her, “blue days.” I didn’t know what that meant then, but I remember her sayin’ it. “Meme, are you all right?” Momma would ask. “Oh yes, dahlin’. I’m just havin’ one of my blue days. I’m all right.” Now I know. I

Caught in the rain

I’m naked at my bar. Clothes on the floor. Wet. I got caught in the rain. It’s that time of year in the A. Movin’ into June. It was a pop-up shower. And it just caught me. Cold drop after cold drop. And I just stopped.   I’ve

Phffft—

There’s a lot to contemplate over a pickle jar, fridge door ajar, wasting energy— energy the EPA doesn’t really care about anymore— in the quiet of my condo downtown.   It got me today. It hasn’t in a while. But somehow, standing over that open jar, plunging my

6, 8, and 14 Athenians

I have the boys tonight—my nephews.                                                           The last time I saw them, Nono (6) said, “Three, when are we gonna stay at your house?” “I will come get you next weekend,” I told him. It’ll be a blink before they aren’t asking me those questions anymore. Busy

Ticking Time Bombs

My fucking A/C panel broke last night. She just died—reset—died—reset—died— and so on. Meanwhile it was getting warmer in the condo. I don’t do “hot”—not temperature-wise anyway. My home is arctic, and I like it that way.   I hate it when things break

Tarragon

For my Momma, and for my Gran   I like tarragon best of all the herbs. She don’t pussyfoot around. You’re either for her or you’re not. There’s no warmup. No middle. Just love me or don’t, baby. She’s just fine either way. Maybe it’

Oregano & Lavender

For M Lavender…bitchy queen. Have you ever tried to grow a lavender plant? Well— It seems simple. Full sun. Drought hardy. Well-draining soil. Water— Now here’s where we screw the pooch. Lavender needs water. But only so much water. Too much, she dies. Too little, she fries. It’

The Art of Directing Traffic

We like bookends, don’t we? Us, humans. We want a clean wrap. A bow on it all. I’ve spent all my life chasing bows— hell, maybe there is one somewhere out there for me.   I don’t really know if I want a bookend anyway. I haven’t

Doing dishes

I don’t know who came up with those stupid, “dance like no one is watching” signs. You don’t “dance like no one is watching.” You dance when no one is watching. In the kitchen— While you’re putting up dishes. Maybe to Prince. Or Britney. Or Madonna. Or

a symphony in the park

I went to the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra in Piedmont Park tonight. I thought, “this is why you live here. In the city.” I sat there on the grass with my illegal glass of champagne and listened in the cool of the spring as the birds swirled over Lake Clara Meer.

Yell at your casseroles

People who do not speak to their ingredients are not real cooks. I don’t care what Ina or Martha think about that. That’s what I’ve decided.   I was throwing together a dinner for my friend Jayson. His mom has been sick. And this is the South, and

New Chandelier

There’s a new chandelier hanging in my living room. We installed her today. She’s beautiful. I hung her with A, while M cooked our dinner. We sat on my balcony—newly refurbished. Mad brought her new boy around— he’s nice.   The truth is, when you’re not

Unlost

For Car & Nono The phone rings on the couch. I look, Mad (actually it says, “GP.” I changed her contact because of the giant cat tattoo she just got on her thigh.) “Hey you,” I say as the line connects. “Let me tell you what your nephews did today,

Tracing her letters

For my Gran You know what I love? Like really? It makes me giggle. (Don’t you just love that feeling?) I fucking love putting something on the mail. I mean the whole thing is amazing. Writing it out. Tasting that tacky sweet but also probably carcinogenic flavor of the

Stuck

For A   I got my arm stuck in one of the fold down seats at the Fabulous Fox tonight. (facepalm) Do you know about the Fox Theater? You may have one in your town, but you don’t have ours. The one on Peachtree St. The one that was almost

Hey, Junebug

I didn’t intend to write today— But then it just happened, as it so often does. The spark of a thought popped into the rusted open rattle trap of my mind, and here we are.   Anxiety is like a Junebug. Or rather, anxiety is like the kid holding the

The amber in the road

Do you know that I love North Ave? I do. I love her. She’s one of my favorite things about Atlanta. The A has a sort of checkered history with her street names. It’s mostly due to racism and the segregation era. One name stands in the more

Holy Saturday

The music plays. 80’s. Drama. Life. Chimes. Dun. Chimes. Bam! “The love I’m sending, ain’t makin’ it through to your heart—”   Doesn’t it just send you? I think Jesus listened to Heart. I think they were His vibe. I think I’m his vibe when I’

Headin' Downhill

I don’t like to talk about the bird patch too much—there’s more to life than a badge and a gun and a paycheck. But even so, I started 15 years ago yesterday. March 31, 2011. I was 23 and had no idea what was in store for

Sushi for 1

I sat at the sushi bar alone tonight. Usually I’m here with M and A, but they had a prior commitment this evening and so, for the Monday night ritual of sushi—it’s just me. And that’s okay. I sip my Sauvi B and watch the Reds

Eatin' Hydrangeas

The quiet of the single life— It’s funny how that internal storm, that steady rolling of the tornado hooks, and green sky, and hail, and force— how it silently, ominously, churns overhead. and then it just drops. Accompanied by the shriek of the siren that sends the 5th graders

More than spit & lips

I walked home from Inman Park tonight. I had a date. The walk was light and cool, as the Atlanta air sometimes is in early spring. I walked the beltline to the Stone Mountain Trail, to N. Highland, and made my way on to downtown. The lips of the men

Just a pen in the glovebox

We bombed Iran in recent weeks. The U.S. I mean— I heard this news as I contemplated whether or not I’m brave. Sometimes I feel brave. And sometimes I just feel like a negative, grouchy, yoga trying, begrudging gratitude journaling, middle-aged, graying beard, green eyed, bald man, watching

1/2 Dead Petunias Wear Rouge

There are half-dead petunias growing in the planter pot, on the little table, on my balcony, in the A. They live with a half-dead verbena, who is also coming back for the season. My great aunt Marcelle would call these “volunteers,” because they just grow right back of their own