The Audience

I have a bit of a problem.

I cry.

Now, being one who enjoys the physical act of weeping, you would think that this would not be a problem. However, there is one issue that I have with how easily I cry…in the audience. I’m not kidding. Every fucking time.

I cry at friends’ children’s graduations, I cry at live performances, I cry absolutely any time my daughter takes any spotlight at all, it’s absolutely horrifying. Wait, wait, I know that you think, “shit Mikki, this is so fucking normal, you’re such a big ole’ drama queen” and you of course are right, however, wait…I cry at Buddhist blessings….no wait….I cry at any spiritual ‘performance’ at all. You want to see whether I’m pretty when I cry? Fucking take me to fucking Sunday Mass, no wait, I have cried in court! Everyone thought it was my nerves. Fuck no, I’m serious, this is so embarrassing. I can’t even with this shit. And I’m not a pretty crier! It’s terrible, my face squishes up into this….Ms. Potato Head gave birth to Teddy Ruxpin’s drunken post rave LSD-induced Bacchanalian love child. I cry the way that I do everything, over the fucking top.

So…what is it with my place in the audience which moves me so deeply? Honestly? It’s gratitude. It’s honor. It’s pride. It’s pleasure. It is the recognition that these humans in these roles are sharing it with me, from celibate monks to naked ninety year old burlesque dancers, from my grandson’s footrace to a paper napkin poet, they are fucking awesome, because right now they are there, letting me watch them, letting me participate as a voyeur, watching something that they worked on, they are passionate about, something so beautifully human, so sharing.

Even though I get it, trust me, when nobody near you is bawling, and you most visibly are….well…it is just very noticeable…

But then again, what’s the trade? To not be impressed every time one of you has the balls to take center stage? Nah….what fun would that be?

What is your embarrassing ‘cry’ trigger? Do you mind or do you wish you could put a cork in those tear ducts?

Closure…or were you born in a barn?

like most parents, mine were regularly using adages about closing things…specifically doors. the reasons that most parents remind us to close doors are numerous, from the cost of the cool air or the heat getting out, to critters and bugs getting in, but the lesson is clear, close the fucking door behind you.

why do we get caught up in the idea of holding on? why do we get caught up in heading on over that bridge, and sure maybe you might not want to light fire to every bridge you cross, but maybe don’t keep the fucking door open, maybe close that bitch, lock it the fuck up and walk away…turn away and don’t be like Lot’s wife, what the fuck are you looking back for? that door…there’s a reason you walked through it, why you exited, why you needed to shut it behind you and now, you’re looking back at it like it’s a fucking dish of the most amazing flan. fuck that.

you weren’t born in a barn.

or maybe you were.

but I’ve known enough people who were born in a barn, to know that they too, know that you’ve just gotta shut that goddamned door behind you.

Kismet or maybe that mother fucker Cupid

Many years ago, I was driving past a Union Gospel Mission, a guy walked out in front of the car, and if you’ve ridden with me, you know that jaywalking is my trigger and I will scream bloody murder when that jaywalking could have made me a killer.


I didn’t scream.

I stopped and made eye contact with the guy who slowly sauntered in front of my car, while cars behind me honked and angrily drove around me and the pedestrian who now stood in front of my car, our lusty smirks challenged each other’s grit.

And in any other case, oh good God, Baby Jesus in Heaven above, I would not have even blinked in most cases. I would have kept eye contact with that beautiful man until the fine looking local police came and arrested us for public indecent telepathic molestation while blocking traffic.


It was like time stood still. It was ethereal, hypnotic and way too much weird “this is meant to be” energy, and I will face off with Death any day of the fucking week, but I will not play Chicken…with that fucking asshole Cupid.

You see…a lot of folks like to get everyone believing that it’s destiny, kismet, it is the mother-fucking prophecy, you met the person of your dreams, the fire in your loins, and you just know that it was the gods, the guides, the grandparents and Gaia, whew….

And you mean to tell me that you aren’t even going to question, I mean, are you sure it isn’t just the arrows of Cupid?

Mother fucker fell on his own arrow…just saying.

And I sat there, both hands on the steering wheel, and I looked at this beautiful specimen of human and I knew that this was a human that I could feasibly get all caught up in, like a net, and I’m a fish, flopping all over, not being able to breathe….all…because…I didn’t move.

And I am telling you, my whole life flashed before my eyes and I realized, if I spoke to him, like I would at any other time, it would not be like any other time.

You see, something that people don’t realize about destiny, fate, kismet…or even the gods, guides, grandparents and Gaia…we don’t have to listen, we don’t have to take the straight line, the fastest route or the suggested directions.

We can make the universe work harder to make us believe.

We can close our eyes, breaking eye contact and drive away, reaching up to move the rear view mirror, so that we won’t be tempted to look, flipping off Cupid just in case.

Wicked Witch

I was watching a documentary about Mark Twain while I texted with my friend, half-listening to the story behind the legend and honestly, I’m not a fan. I’ve never been a fan and though I love to read, I considered pulling my own tooth just to get out of reading another page of that sweet, down-home, syrupy writing.

So you can imagine my ‘what the fuck’ moment when I burst into hysterics, sobbing at the story of his life, this man that I wasn’t even a fan of. Within the hour I was then laughing, feeling like a giddy cheerleader who just spotted the new quarterback and I was sitting on the toilet when I looked up at myself in the mirror and curses upon the person who thought that shitting in front of a mirror would be a good bathroom design, and I thought, “whoa, I look like a stereotypical witch,” my face smeared with the day’s makeup, swollen from the tears an hour before, but eyes twinkling and laughing as I yell to my roommate from behind the bathroom door.

Holy shit, epiphany time….how the fuck many ‘witches’ throughout history has been accused of being a witch, demon, harpy, succubus, seducer and the list is far too long…because of menopause?

My physical senses weaken while my visions are clearer, readings more precise, workings more expedited and with the discomfort of my aging body, my mystical one is riding high on life.

How many women have felt that frenzy, that chaos of menopause and how many around her have considered her to be possessed, insane, mad, and how many ‘witches’ have been in the ecstatic throes of the cessation of the menstrual cycle, the end of birth control for the purpose of birth control….

insert Public Service Announcement about continuing to use condoms throughout your sexual life because STD’s aren’t ageist and neither is the pleasure of banging the night away.

and how many have considered the beginning of menopause to be the end of their ability to bear children, as if that would be the extent of the power of the human female…to breed…to bear life….oh no….

Why should the focus be about the end…when it is the beginning….the small door of procreation closes and the large, unfettered door of wisdom, of aged women thought to be past our prime, of power that was once distributed to creating the world around us through others, and all at once, when the blood stops flowing and the eggs stop laying….a rush of power floods everything within us, and we can feel everything, with a filter of fluidity, moving easily from moment to moment, not dwelling too long on one, experiencing them but not grasping at them, trying to hold on so tight.

So sure, sobbing one moment, laughing the next, maybe in another time and another world, it would have bothered me, but I just don’t feel like holding on that tightly.