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The Longest Rain in March

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YOU ARE LONG. I don’t care where you came from or how you made it to this day, you’re the most significant abbreviation of living. It’s like clear water, the catch-them-all, the longest rain in March. I can see us sitting at a picnic table someday, in, say, late July, sticking and chipping paint from the wood, enjoying. We’ll be.

I don’t know where we’ll start, but we won’t end. Together we’ll become dehydrated, turn around and lost, sparks shelling from our darnd’est moments. We’ll be night watchers, hitchhikers, safety and danger and later, dancing on the floor in laughter. (It will be beautiful, too.)
I don’t care where you are or how you got there. There’s twelve months a year and I’ve yet to find a time in my mind more fragile or well-spent. I don’t care if you’re like blue or smell stained, I don’t care if you’ve lost or you’re smooth or chipped or taken. We’ve been dehydrated and that’s that—and you cannot take away that thirst.
You, the longest rain in March, fall in sheets, so long
and so slow.

How to Order a Taco Salad

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THERE ARE SEVEN WONDERS OF THE WORLD. Some people find the Taj Mahal, or Great Wall of China to be inspiring. Yet others are moved by the diligence of the London sewage system, Machu Picchu, or the Tilt-a-Whirl. Some people are still fascinated by toasters.

What fascinates me are articulate people, in particular those that have a knack for communicating things that aren’t particularly gracefully communicated. For example, I was sitting at my studio desk the other day when a friend passed by and said, “I’m going downstairs to take a poop in the theater kids’ bathroom.” She said it in perfect English, with perfect confidence, and with a perfectly straight face. That’s communication. Granted we don’t all pass along this type of information—and seldom are we prodded for it—it’s still an admirable gesture in my eyes. It’s hard to talk about a bowel movement with such eloquence.
Each day presents a lofty amount of situations that are difficult to convey. Many days I lack the words to describe what’s going on in my hair. A lot of times I can’t remember the coffee drink I order eight times a week. When I was younger I couldn’t go out to eat with my family because it terrified me to place my order. The waitress would come to me at the table and ask what I wanted, and I’d crumble, and my family would laugh at me—they’d laugh! COMMUNICATION is no laughing matter! I stayed at home eating peanut butter and jellies for the next ten years! Keep laughing!
Even more awkward are certain words. Say “pap smear” or “tampon” and I guarantee your listener will raise their voice four octaves and counter with some “AWW SIIIIIICK! SICK!” or the like. I refuse to use many words ending in “ies,” including “panties” (one of my least favorite words in any language), “booties,” and several synonyms for breasts due to their sheer tastelessness. I can’t use the words “condiments,” “thrust,” “wiener (hot dog),” or “vibrate”, no matter the context, without feeling that the listener thinks I’m a prodigious pervert (I’m not). I’m also passionately opposed to the word “youngsters” and the phrase “jeepers creepers,” both highly wielded in Midwest vocabularies.
One of the most hilarious parts of my job is listening to grown men order fried chicken. You can feel the shame permeating when they ask for “two breasts” or “two breasts, two thighs, two legs.” One night a woman came up to the chicken case and asked if I had two breasts. I replied—in hindsight, very loudly—”Do I have two breasts? Yes…yes I do.” Of course, she wasn’t getting personal; she just wanted chicken.
Which leads me to taco salads. I went to lunch today and had a craving for a taco salad. I don’t usually eat the fried taco bowl, so I skip it and get the salad “naked” instead. I’d feel pretty weird ordering something like this, but Qdoba actually calls it a “naked taco salad” on their menu. I remember when they first started advertising cutting calories by “getting it naked instead” or somesuch. I stepped up to order my salad and leaned in as far as I could over the glass, then in my most audible whisper requested “a naked vegetarian taco salad.”
There’s something about saying the word “naked” in public that makes me feel entirely exposed. It was as though I didn’t want people around me to know that I was, technically, getting a sleazy pile of black beans on a dirty bed of lettuce, or think to themselves, “What was wrong with the clothed taco salad?” Well, nothing, I guess.
When I got to the till I took a look at my naked taco salad. It was clothed, fully dressed in a deep fried shell. I’d said “naked” too soft.
I started talking about the Seven Wonders, and am ending with taco salads. How articulate.
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I COULDN’T SLEEP. It was the most wretched, awful thing, wanting to drift off so bad but all I could do was turn, toss, tug at my sheets. I stared at the clock for six hours last night hoping for a wink, but my mind was swamped with the world.

At 6 a.m., I gave up. I went to the kitchen and made a breakfast that didn’t feel merited, and put on my bathrobe to take a morning’s shower, seemingly mistimed. It was miserable. Before I stepped beneath the hot streams to stir awake, I decided to try sleep one more time.
So I went back to my bed, still wrapped in my bathrobe, fresh from yesterday’s laundry, curled up like a terry cloth snail on my mangled, clean sheets—also fresh from yesterday’s laundry. It was 7 a.m.
I fell asleep in my bathrobe. It was bizarre, it was pleasant, it was the only two hours of sleep I could give to my bed. My biological clock hates me. I’m an insomniac. And I’ve forgotten how to really sleep.