GINA GOLDBLATT – Oakland – 2022

I’m out of cat food and dish soap. The sink is therefore embarrassing. My dog won’t cuddle me how I want until it’s time to get out of bed and suddenly, there is is his big head on my pillow, trying to tip my thoughts over into fuck everything and stay in bed. It’s not much of a tipping. Im there mostly, already. Dreaming of my bed after work. Thinking about the onesie pajamas I can put on as soon as I get in the door. Artichoke hearts marinating in the sun, in the center console of my new used car. My poor Juke having met its end in an irrigation ditch in Lincoln, among cows, horses, and trump supporters. Damn it. 

I tried to put me first last week, like my therapist told me. I told this guy I went on a few dates with that I was having a hard time. I told him that I was displeased with him. That when he said he wanted to give me a hug and make me a feast, he should have followed it up with actually coming over and making dinner. He said he didn’t mean it literally. The too much, too fast, too many emotions deflection. But we are in a pandemic. And I am tired. Tired of pretending everything isn’t fucked up. That regular shitty things that happen aren’t just enough to almost push you over. And so I said so. And he became a ball of unavailability. Oh well. 

Today, I went out to dinner with a friend. Italian. We shared our latest stories about dating. She met a short man, very much into his recovery. The day after they hung out he sent a picture of a man laying in a casket and wrote “I got to see my dad today.” We mused on if this was dark humor, slanted coping, or something to be concerned over.

Then we drove away from the restaurant in my new old car, a Honda Element. A dog car. A camping car. An end of the world escape vehicle. And my dog again, cuddled me with his ass up, awaiting morning.