Donna Ison's Blog, page 13

Mean Girls Suck!

In lieu of the recent rash of cyberbullying (including my own run-in with one), I was inspired to write this poem.

                                    Mean Girls
She bled out sugar, spice, and everything nice, 
During her first menstruation at 7th grade graduation.
It was replaced with venom, vitriol, and a sense of superiority,
Soon she amassed a likeminded sorority,
And began her reign of terror over Mountain View Junior High.

Day after day, she sought out her prey,
A ruthless seeker of those who were weaker. 
With her roving crew of cronies trailing behind,
She trolled the hallways hoping to find, 
The perfect innocent on which to unleash her wrath. 

While her classmates swilled beers, she got drunk on tears.
Others pain was her cocaine. 
Her energy was poured into one master scheme, 
To transform herself into every boy’s dream, 
And every girl’s nightmare.

Year after year, she ruled with fear.
Her sadistic streak grew, even when high school was through.   
In college, she determined that to gain clout, 
She need only play on another’s self-doubt.
And point out their every flaw in the name of sisterly concern.  

She used technological innovation to perpetrate devastation.
Without any trepidation she would ruin a reputation.
The workplace just served as a fluorescent-lit lab.
For her to experiment with new ways to torture and backstab.
Mean girls, if left unchecked, become mean women.         

She even became so bold, as to wear a cross of gold.
Painted herself the picture of pious and pure, devoted and demure.
But no amount of make-up could disguise or erase,
The hatred that lurked behind her glommed-on face.
And even her DD silicone implants couldn’t hide a heart that dark. 

Years passed...
Rather than admit defeat, and that cruelty had grown obsolete.
She tormented others for torments sake, leaving heartbreak in her wake.
Instead of learning that to be strong, you must be kind.
She chose to remain bitter and blind.
All the while convincing herself that she’d rather be feared than loved.

Even on her deathbed, she sneered at the doctor and said, 
“Dear, with those looks, I see why you buried your head in books.”
She remained a mean girl until the ugly end.
And died without having one true female friend.
Imagine her surprise when she found out God was a woman. 

The Ugly Truth about Online Dating

Welcome to the Sunday Confessional. I confess that I love Catfish. I am not talking about the mud-dwelling variety, although I do enjoy those when Cajun-seasoned and blackened. I am talking about the M-TV show with Nev Schulman and his surly sidekick, Max Joseph.

It’s a spin-off of the documentary film chronicling Nev’s online love affair with a stunning and successful model/singer/songwriter/philanthropist who…believe it or not--because no way that sounds too good to be true…is not who she says she is. Instead she’s a frumpy middle-aged mother who uses her fake Facebook profile to escape from her stressful life. This apparently happens so often that each week they help hopeless romantics involved in cyber relationships connect with their soul mates. Surprise--it rarely ever works out and the person on the other end of the keyboard is seldom who they claim to be. These impostors are called catfish, which according to Wikipedia (who we all know is an indisputable source of information) is, “a person who creates fake personal profiles on social media sites—pretending to be someone more outwardly appealing than his/her true self, by using someone else's pictures and false biographical information.”

After watching every episode, this is what I have learned:
1) Unless they are a vampire, if they refuse to video chat…they are not real.

2) If they claim to be an astronaut/space archeologist, swimwear model, cage fighter, Sherpa, psychic porn star, Druid, opera singer about to sign with a major label…or have some other career that usually only exists in James Patterson novels…they are not real.

3) If every time you are supposed to meet in person, their rare form of cancer comes out of remission…they are not real.

4) If they swear the reason you cannot see each other face to face is because they are in the Witness Protection Program or working undercover for the FBI…they are not real.

5) If their photos look like they were taken during a Victoria’s Secret/GQ photo shoot on a Bahamian beach …they are not real.

Which leads me to my final lesson...

6) If the person you are communicating with online is twice as hot as anyone you’ve ever been able to score with in real life…they are not real. I know it’s sad and superficial, but it is the ugly truth…pardon the pun. 

My Poor, Pork Pitiful Husband

Today, Frank is crock potting Great Northern White beans. As usual, he is disappointed because I did not purchase enough pork. 

Frank: Is this all of country ham you bought?
Me: You told me to buy a package of country ham pieces. That is one package.
Frank: Didn’t they have a bigger one? The ham is what gives them the flavor.
Me: I know. Heaven forbid your beans taste like…beans.
Frank: Beans aren’t very good. 
Me: So, you’re basically just using them as little fibrous pellets to soak up the tasty ham grease.
Frank: Yeah, basically. 

Still in Love and Partying Like it's 1999!

Do you remember the song “1999” by Prince?
“Say, say two thousand zero zero, party over,
Oops, out of time.
So tonight we’re going to party like it’s 1999.”

That song came out when I was fourteen years old. I remember doing the math and  realizing I was going to be thirty-one in 1999. I cried. I cried because I was going to miss the biggest party of the century. You don’t dance when your thirty-one. You don’t make out at midnight. At fourteen, I thought  that at thirty-one, for all practical purposes, you were dead. I did not die at thirty-one, and now at forty-one, I am more alive and in love than I have ever been…even at fourteen.

At fourteen he introduces you to Jim Morrison’s music and pot and takes you to roller rink where he plays hockey. A girl says, “That’s my boyfriend. Which one’s yours?” You point and blush and say, “The one in The Cure tee shirt with the earring and the bi-level haircut.” And you are so proud because he is the raddest dude in the place. At forty-one, he introduces you to his bald buddy’s punk revival band and pain pills, which he needs from decades of injuries and you need for energy. And he takes you to a skate park filled with boys on boards and bikes. A woman says, “That’s my kid. Which one’s yours” You point and blush and say, “The one in The Cure tee shirt with the beer belly and the beard.” And you are so proud because he is the raddest dude in the place.

At fourteen you know he is your soul mate because you talk on the phone every night, have both read “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” and love big dogs. At forty-one, you know he is your soul mate because you talk all night when you both have to get up early and go to work. And you’ve read everything and he’s read nothing, but that doesn’t matter--because he can read you better than a book. And your big dogs are your family and have taken the place of the children you both chose not to have.

At fourteen, you know he will be a good lover because he has watched porn and dated a girl two years older and he bites your bottom lip when you kiss. At forty-one, you know he will be a good lover because you are a good lover and will make certain of it, and he knows his way around when he goes down, and there is a mutual acceptance that neither body is what it used to be--but that experience and commitment can make up for a flat stomach if the lighting is just right.

At fourteen, you get jealous because he keeps a picture of his ex-girlfriend in a shoe box in his closet and still hangs out with her brother. At forty-one the ex-girlfriend is an ex-wife who he loved enough to give her his granny’s heirloom ring, offer to adopt her daughter, and wait celibate for months while she served her sentence. You wonder if a man can love that way twice in a lifetime, but you don't care. You’ll take whatever is left, which with him is more than enough.

At fourteen, you dream of a wedding with either him or a pop singer or a European royal. It really doesn’t matter as long as you get to wear a white princess dress and ride through the streets to the flower-filled church in a crystal carriage drawn by white unicorns with all your friend’s watching.  You’ll hold your reception in Milan or on the moon.  At forty-one, you know how hard marriage is and how often it fails. And yet, when you look in his eyes you know if you could ever spend forever with any man, it’s him. You are way past white. Besides, you know what looks good on you…you’ll wear red. There will be no flower-filled church. Neither of you believes in organized religion. And since he slept with a florist for eight years it would be rude not to employ her, but then she’d have to be at the wedding, which would be weird. You'll be wed in a bar. Instead of a crystal carriage, you’ll employ a fleet of yellow cabs to make certain all your drunken friends get home safe…cause we will party like it’s 1999. 

Yes, I am more in love than I have ever been in my life. For better or worse…because at fourteen, you think you may be able to die of a broken heart. At forty-one, you know you actually can.

*This piece was written for the The Sisters Provocateur show, “Love is a Unicorn—Horny at the Start, a Myth in the End.” Frank and I had just become engaged. On this, our 2nd Wedding Anniversary, I am happy to say that I am still more in love than I have ever been in my life.*