A fellow condo owner harassed me verbally with sexual undertones. I ignored what I considered a run-of-the-mill nuisance and figured I’d deal with it later. Then the security guard who witnessed it filed an incident report and my building manager sent me a let’s-get-him letter.
 
We want you to know this conduct on his part will not be tolerated…. the board kindly asks you… to submit a written statement of the incident… The board is committed to have all residents feel safe and secure.
 
Then I sent her a way-to-go with my incident statement.
 
Your attention to this issue is so heartening. I was resigned to having to deal with his behavior myself as I have had to do in the past with other men… it is reassuring  to know I'm not alone in resolving the issue and that the association will protect my well-being.
 
To which she responded with a three-sentence blank stare.
Thank you for your response.  I have forwarded it onto the Board as more information on the incident helps with the Board trying to address the issue. If, at any point, you feel threatened I always recommend contacting the police department to address.
The police? What? Where’s the internal commitment to security? Even just one sentence reiterating their dedication to my well-being would have tempered their blow-off, their recommendation to call the police, to cover their asses. That’s all it takes. One sentence to restore a victim’s belief that they were wronged and are protected.
 
I want to share that distinction with them. But I’ve got a harasser to fend off.
 
And, sister. You’re no sister.
 
 

I start saving other people. Even though they didn’t ask for my help… Maybe if I talk to her one more time, she’ll take her meds. Maybe if I can get his dad to stop supporting him, he’ll get a job. Blah, blah, blah.
 
Luckily, I only do that in my mind now. I don’t grab the phone or jump in the car.
 
But aren’t I just adorable? Instead of dealing with my shit, I want to torture other people. 
 
Art: Temptation of Buddha by the Evil Forces of Mara, 700s. Northern India, Kashmir, 8th century. The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.

If you have regular dinner parties, yes. If you have kids, maybe. If not, you know that your dining room is a glorified mail room anyway so why not declutter and retrofit.
 
One of my friends converted her dining room into a mini-work out studio. My cousin converted hers to a sewing room.
 
How about a game room? Play on-demand ping pong or pool or even foosball like Joey and Chandler of Friends fame.
 
How about a cocktail lounge?  Comfy chairs. Tiny tables. A player piano.
 
Or how about a performance space? Guitars on the wall. A karaoke machine. A stage.
 
Spin, people. Spin. Think outside the dining table.    
 
Art: Still Life with Herring, Bread, and Cheese, 1858. Alexandre-Gabriel Decamps (French, 1803-1860) The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.

I’m still journaling about the same shit. Men and food.
 
Trying to decipher his words and to adapt to his mood. Blabbing about Lays Potato Chips and my big belly.
 
Maybe I’ll make my journal man-free and food-free. But then how will I get to the good stuff? But maybe I’ll lose weight?
 
Art: Mary Cassatt at the Louvre: The Paintings Gallery, 1879-1880. Edgar Degas (French, 1834-1917). The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.
 

After a stay in an Airbnb dwelling, the owner reviews you and you review the owner. And it’s all very civilized. “Lora even makes the bed!” “Such a delightfully decorated place.” Staying in other people’s home might be wearing thin on my psyche because this is what I really want to write this time…
 
Though the house is sparkling clean, there’s an undercurrent aroma of sweat. Those reed diffusers mask nothing. Are you a grandma disguised as a man?  
 
When your fucking Roomba vacuum robot started up during my mid-Saturday Netflix binge, I nearly soiled your leather sectional. Speaking of which, decorating with a leather sectional demonstrates a serious lack of imagination. And promotes laziness. See mention of Saturday binge.
 
You have a furniture problem. There’s too much in the living room and too little in the bedroom. I need a fucking bedside table!
 
And I really don’t want to get personal but Cocoa Puffs? 
 
Maybe I’m a hotel girl at heart…
 

It started in Morocco. A rug store salesman asked, “Sister, what do you think?”
 
I thought I misheard him until he said it again. And again. Our guide said addressing women with “sister” is a sign of respect.
 
Then when I arrived home the extremely helpful security guard in my building said he considers me the sister he never had. Then my office landlord exclaimed when he saw me, “Sister!”
 
I guess it’s better than “grandma” but still it made me a feel a little old. Even though catcalls definitely disrupted my state of mind when I was younger, part of me would prefer catcalls to “sister” calls.
 
And I address my aunt as “Sister.” But she’s a nun. And a nun’s life wouldn’t suit me. All that community living. All that promise of no hootchy coo.
 
I feel a little dried up when a man calls me sister. Like I’m outta juice.
 
My friend disagrees. She said, “sister” is such a cool term of endearment. It’s shows deep affection, she said. Which makes me wonder if, despite my reticence to date, maybe I want more than affection.
 
Here’s another thing. I already have three brothers, three big dude brothers. They might get jealous. And you don’t want them to get jealous. 
 
So how should you greet me? Maybe “babe” would be ok. Maybe “beautiful.”
 
 Art: Reading. 1873. Berthe Morisot. (French, 1841-1895). France, 19th century. Oil on fabric. The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.
 

I’d rather do my taxes or my laundry or the dishes than face returning items to overstock.com or amazon.com. Sometimes I’ll even give them away just to avoid the process.
 
But I have $50 worth of glass cabinet knobs that do not work in my bathroom. Who knew that the length of the attachment screw mattered?!
 
So yesterday I did my taxes, my laundry and the dishes. I should be grateful for all the work I get done but still…
 
Art: Frieze of Dancers. c. 1895. Edgar Degas. (French, 1834-1917). France, 19th century. Oil on fabric. The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.

If you marry at 17.
If you start a business without working many jobs.
If you work on teeth all day.
 
That’s just fine but you should know that your vision leans toward short-sightedness.
 
“I’ll stay married even if he’s mean because all men are mean.” “How hard can it be to run a business?” “Patients love me even if my staff is sullen.” 
 
Vision is myopic without perspective.

Art: Tulip. 1875. William Morris. (British, 1834-1896). England, 19th century. Roller printed cotton. The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.

Maybe I’m just a lazy blob of passive acceptance but audience questions during a presentation make me crazy. Interrupting a speaker or tour guide or docent mid-talk with questions like “What year was that?” or with a story about how her father did it differently is not about elucidation. It’s about obfuscation. It’s about the questioner heaving himself on stage.
 
In my most impatient moments, I want to mutter “Shut the fuck up. We don’t interrupt actors on stage. Let it flow. Trust the storyteller.”
 
But that’s just the angry controller in me. Just because I prefer a sense of contemplative study to a sense of relentless query, doesn’t mean everyone must.
 
But, really, no one cares about your father.
 
Art: Apollo the Python-Slayer. c. 350 BC. Part of a set. Attributed to Praxiteles. (Greek, c. 400BC-c. 330BC). Greece, Athens, mid fourth century BC. Bronze, copper and stone inlay. The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.

So honored to be in the "She Persisted" issue of Earth's Daughters. Here's the poem that appeared. I started this poem nearly 30 years ago and finished it just in time to meet Earth's Daughters deadline.



Immortality
 
Even in the absence
of my footsteps,
this oak floor
sighs and creaks --
 
as if she still elbows
her sisters in the forest
and heaves boulders aside
with her muscled roots;    
 
as if white-throated fungus
and snarls of moss
still mount
her pleated bark;
 
as if her limbs
still sprout ruffled fronds
to snag the perfect
suitor’s pollen;
 
as if she still prays
at least one of her young
escapes the squirrel’s
lethal pantry.