Annabelle was my best girlfriend and by that, I mean the one who’s seen me through a divorce, at least two abortions that I’m willing to admit, and the birth of one of my children with shit coming out of my rear end as the nurses tried to get my feet back in the stirrups. Always the voice of calm in the eye of a storm even when I wasn’t sure I’d qualify for unemployment benefits due to some scum bag boss wanting to stab me in the back, and the only person who would return my phone calls within a one-hour’s time frame, no matter what else was happening in her life, even a pile-up, she’d pull over and call because that’s what we did for each other. I won’t bore you with how we first met, but it was in second grade when she tapped me on the shoulder since she had no implements to write with and our teacher, Mrs. Woodcock, was about to dismiss her from the room for coming to school once again hopelessly unprepared, a teacher who delighted in locking her charges in the clothing closet for the smallest infraction. Some would pooh-pooh this as an exaggeration of a deranged mind, but I assure you that is not the case. I saved the day with my offering of a pencil, and inconspicuously threaded my fingers into her palm. To show her appreciation, Annabelle shared with me her peanut butter and jelly sandwich that oddly tasted of Campbell’s Tomato soup, which I greedily ate, since my own mother had prepared a bologna sandwich that had fallen out of my bag and onto the yard during recess, a gravelly mess. Since then, we’ve been BFFs forever, so whenever AB wants to tell me something, I listen.
I’d been languishing after yet another failed relationship, which had gone into a Tomb of Annihilation. I’d found little solace in thumbnails of online daters, all who blended into a generic profile, and after several years of making my way through these pathways of disillusionment and single-handedly keeping several coffee shops in business through a revolving door of prospective daters, I vowed to retire to my queen-sized bed with a good book and my cellphone. “I’m done with it,” I told AB and put down my cup of coffee on the drain board. “Not by a long shot,” she said, and opened up my computer to a site where they were advertising a writing contest for stories about online dating. “Who better, my pet, than you?”
September 18, Berkeley, Poetry Express, 1585 University Avenue, 7-9pm, Open Mic
October 14, Alameda, Frank Bette Art Center, 1601 Paru Street, with Nina Serrano, 7-9pm, Open Mic,
November 1, Osher Marin JCC, San Rafael, 200 N. San Pedro Road, with Rose Black and Andrena Zawinski, 1-3pm
November 12, Jewish Community Library, San Francisco, 1835 Ellis Street, 1:30pm