Saturday, February 14, 2009

My First Love - The Rest of the Story

For Part 1, scroll down.

Video camera? OMFG!

Does black make you look fatter or thinner on camera?


I should have read my poems out loud. 


I should have practiced an introduction. 


I should have worn a T-shirt, “Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Poem.” 


Hell, I should have worn those damn control top panties.

Breatheeeeeee.  I think I'm going to be sick.

People gather around. Everyone is waiting. What do I do? What do I do? What the F... do I do?

I take a deep breath and begin the way people at readings are supposed to begin. “Ahem. this mic working? Can you hear me? “

“You sound great,” yells my Buddhist Buddy from the back of the room.

“Hello. I'm Meg and I’m going to read from my latest collection of poems, ‘There’s a Reading on Love, So I Gotta Write Something. Quick.’”

Somewhat acceptable laughter. God, or Enlightened One, I might just be able to pull this thing off.


The Dream Love of My Life

You see me after the show
and you want me,

with my long blond hair,
my unshaven legs,
my thrift shop shoes,
my English lit. degree,
the Midwestern way I say pop.

There’ll be no more rich girls, no more
British models, no beauties from Latin America.

I am the genuine article you’ve been looking for.

You kiss this genuine article,
with your lovely, luscious, thick, fat, luscious lips.
It’s the first kiss. The last kiss. The only kiss.

And then you whisper
a lovely, luscious, thick, fat, luscious secret.
And this genuine article knows
who Ruby Tuesday really is.

I look up. No one is leaving.  Yeessss!

I read the other two poems and guess what? The applause is somewhat acceptable. 

The poets who follow read stuff about lesbian love, radar love, and Zsa Zsa Gabor, leaving more than a few confused looks on people’s faces.  Yeessss!

The reading ends and people begin to mingle. Bookclub Friend 1 comes up to me, a plate of blue tortilla chips in hand, “Yours were the best,” she says, stuffing a handful in her mouth.

Bookclub Friend 2 joins us, nibbling a brownie. “Yeah. I loved the one about The Dancer.”

Bookclub Friend 3 heads our way. “Doesn’t your husband mind you writing about your ex-boyfriend?" she says.  "And hey, I didn't know they had desserts."

“What are you all talking about?” I grab a few tortilla chips as suddenly I'm starving.

“The poem about going to the show,” says Playgroup Friend 2

“The luscious lips poem,” says Playgroup Friend 1.

“Doesn’t your husband mind you writing about The Dancer?” asks Playgroup Friend 3.

"Dancer? Hahaha...hackhackhack...ahemmm.  That wasn’t about my ex-boyfriend,"
 I swipe the napkin she's holding and cover my mouth. "That was about Mick Jagger."

“Mick Jagger?”



My ex-boyfriend, The Dancer, AKA the Chauffeur Dude, was my first real, 3D, breathing, erection-prone love. His real name will not be revealed, but in Greek it means “Lover of Horses.”

The Dancer looks like a Jewish Tom Cruise, and he has big lips. Which I guess explains the confusion over the poem. That, and the line about the show. Being in a modern dance company, The Dancer's performed in hundreds of them.

We met in a modern dance class at the university (an appealing substitute for physical education). At the time he’d been in pre-dentistry. “You’re crazy if you do anything else but dance,” I’d told him. 

We had a passionate romance (we did it in the library, we did it in the museum in behind a Rodin statue, we did it in a metro park at dawn, and were hard pressed to explain to our parents what exactly it was we were doing when the park ranger phoned them after finding our abandoned car in the lot).

But after four years of doing it in the Midwest, he took a gig with a dance company in Toronto. I did write poems about him. But none that I’d ever read in public.

My Spousal Unit hands me a glass of Chablis and heads, you guessed it, back to the food table. 

Buddhist Buddy approaches, “Good work. I really like the poem about your dancer friend.”

“That wasn’t about The Dancer,” I say. What's with these people?  

“It was about Mick Jagger.  "You know, of the Stones?  The Rolling Stones?” But of course, not being into popular culture, she doesn’t know The Rolling Stones from The Flaming Lips.

“You mean that poem, The Dream Love of Your Life, wasn’t about The Dancer?

“No. It was about a rock star. 



“Are you sure?”  

The crowd clears out and the Unit heads home to relieve the sitter. I stroll around and take a look at the paintings. As I peruse the gallery I find I’m happy. 

Today I am a poet. 

Today I am more than a Harried Woman who tries, most often unsuccessfully, to potty train her two-year-old son.

Today. I. Am. A. Poet.

Just then my cell rings. “Hey hon,” the Unit says, “Can you pick up some diapers and a gallon of milk on your way home? 

POP (the sound of my fantasy life breaking)

"Oh,"  he adds, "nice poem about The Dancer."

Happy Valentine's Weekend All.  May you always know who it is you are writing a poem about.


Posted at Humor-Blogs.


Jen of A2eatwrite said...

It sounds like a great reading.

I got the Mick Jagger thing immediately, but of course, I don't know The Dancer.

I loved the poem and loved the aftermath of the poem. I don't get crap time to read these days, but I'm really missing my "Meg fixes".

sage said...

Poems are always up to interpretation in the minds of folks... Congratulations! You done good.

"Catch your dreams before they fly away..."

Anonymous said...

Finally someone else who says pop.

JD at I Do Things said...

I quite enjoyed reading this -- especially your poem.

Like all great poets, you will be misunderstood. But at least the applause was acceptable.


Jinksy said...

Like all fine artists, you are misunderstood.

Thanks to the food, at least no one (yourself included) was a starving artist.

Very nice poem, btw.

Jeff said...

Nice work. Even though you didn't produce footage I'll still keep you in my feed. ;-)

Cat said...

1) Great Post. Yes you are a poet and a writer. You are an artist.

2) I knew it was about Mick, but I had the advantage of reading the previous post and not knowing about the dancer.

3) You have a two year old?! How the hell did I miss that?

Chris Wood said...

Well done on doing that! And I hope you bathed in the moment.

April said...

Interesting that us bloggy friends got it better than your IRL friends.

This post is a perfect display of your blog's title!

Prefers Her Fantasy Life said...

Thanks everyone.

As the title of the previous post indicates, this is from the H-Files (the Hippie Files). My two-old is now ten and my spousal unit will be soon be losing the "spousal" part of his title. Yep. I LOVE my fantasy life.

Doug at Taunt Vortex said...

When I was in high school, I'd fantasize about being a virtuoso rhythm guitar player (if there is such a thing).

Mick Jagger would then discover me (yeah, in Fort Worth Texas), kick out Ron Wood, and let me tour with the now new and improved Stones.

Then when we weren't touring, Mick and I would hang out in Fort Worth - specifically the Taco Bell near my high schoo - and all of my friends and high school nemesi(?) would stare in awe.

I wasn't nearly as pathetic a teenager as that just made me sound. Really.

Nice poem, by the way.

Kevin John said...

Nice writing Meg. Happy Valentine's Day!

Sue said...

There is no way I could ever get up in front of people and read something I wrote. You go girl!

Anonymous said...

Jen of Ohio, I had poetry classes in college and actually wrote a little poetry myself, even a few published. Your poem looked very good; I'm glad to see the poetry reading went so well, even if they thought it was about someone else.

Chat Blanc said...

I loved LOVED reading these two posts. Fabulous poem about Mick, and even more fabulous is that you're a poet and so much more. :D

A Free Man said...

Great story and kudos on the reading. I don't mind public speaking a bit - but I could never read poetry or anything personal at all for that matter.

It's easy to forget - when you see him in his current form - that Jagger used to be hot. He is not growing old gracefully.

Pearl said...

My reading is in March, and I'm going to be thinking of you!!

Ms Picket To You said...

poems are never written about ONE person. even if you think they are. books are never written about one story.

but someone or THAT one doesn't get it....

oh girl. come to the bar. come.

Ms Picket To You said...

because you and me?

pees in some fantasy pod and you are a brilliant and brave person and i adore you!!!!!

Father Muskrat said...

Beautiful. Reminds me of an experience I had at a drag show in Little Rock.

Matt-Man said...

Well done, Meg...And yeah, I say "pop" too. Cheers!!

Debbie said...

I am so impressed at your courage! This was great.

for a different kind of girl said...

The Ruby Tuesday thing wasn't a big enough clue?! I loved this. The line about the midwestern way you say pop made me grin. Solidarity, sister!

Anonymous said...