Elmer Fudd.

You ever watch Looney Tunes? As a kid, I was baffled by how Bugs Bunny tricked Elmer Fudd every single time. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me—or whatever.

Let me explain. Say Bugs Bunny dresses up as a barber. As the audience, we can see it’s still him—he literally has big, floppy rabbit ears. He’s winking at the camera. He knows we know it’s him. Meanwhile, Elmer Fudd settles into the barber’s chair, asking for a shave and a trim—despite being completely hairless.

This happens every episode. Bugs disguises himself as a woman, a schoolboy, a genie, a ballerina, a Viking, a cowboy, Little Bo Peep—the list goes on. With each wink, we in the audience think Elmer Fudd the fool, and ourselves, along with Bugs, the magician.

As a kid, I couldn’t understand how Elmer Fudd missed all the signs. It was obvious! It was right in his face! Everyone else could see it.

As an adult—having lived an Elmer Fudd life—I get it. It’s easy not to see what you don’t want to see.

For years, I fancied myself bisexual. I liked girls, had crushes on girls, even slept with girls. But every time I thought about pursuing one, I’d hear my mom’s voice. I was maybe fourteen when I told her I thought I was bisexual, but that I liked girls more. She said something like, “Being gay is hard. Not only because of discrimination, but because your dating pool drops to, like, five percent of the population. If you like both and have a choice, stick to men.” In some strange way, that felt like sage, practical advice.

In the 2000s, bisexuality for women was a party trick—tie a cherry stem, kiss a girl, cue Katy Perry. I kissed a girl and all the boyfriends didn't mind it. It made you the cool girlfriend. Man after man, I played along. It didn’t feel like a lie; it felt like I was choosing the easier, softer way. Cue Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken—except I took the one more traveled by, and that has made all the horrible difference. Thanks, Mom.

By my second marriage to a man, I decided I was basically straight. Ninety-nine percent of my dating history was penis—statistically significant, I figured. Maybe I was just plain yogurt: not vanilla, not fruit-on-the-bottom, and definitely not tropical. Call it a day.

Then one day—no gentle awakening, just blunt force to the head—Bugs Bunny tore off the tutu, and there it was all along: I’m a fucking lesbian. Not a shred of bi. Not “experimenting.” Not “liking both.” I’d been tolerating man after man like wet, limp, overcooked vegetables—because I thought it was the right, practical choice. 

You can't always get what you want, ma'am! Not everything in life can be enjoyable. Sometimes you just have to push through it, like a horse pill you break in half to swallow. 

In hindsight, yes, the heterosexual male dating pool was big, lots of options, but all gross and disgusting. Like cleaning a toilet, but without the satisfaction of a clean toilet at the end. 

My God, if the men in my life knew how I actually thought and felt about them the whole time. I'm sorry, fellas! I enjoyed feeling wanted.

Now, what does this have to do with Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd? Well, that gay shit was there the whole time. How did I not see all the signs? It was obvious! It was right in my face! Everyone else could see it!

Maybe it was the fact that my favorite shows were Xena, Buffy, and Dark Angel. Or how obsessively possessive I was of my female friends. Or that I played a t.A.T.u. CD so much it melted in the boombox. I gave it a proper burial in the backyard. But at the time, I chalked it up to feminism. These things were a little too queer cliche to be taken seriously. I could recount a hundred little stories and you might still be on the fence—after all, straight women like Ani DiFranco too! So I’ll just present this one.

About three years into a job, my boss called me in. He thought he was doing damage control. In hindsight, I understand why. Another employee had told him that, on the shared drive, there was a document—an Excel sheet made by an interviewer who’d since left the company—listing all the job candidates for my position (including me), their qualifications, red flags, pink flags, and green flags. There were lots of positive notes about me under green flags. My boss assured me there were no red flags. But under “pink flags” (ha—the irony), it said: “Probably a lesbian.”

He apologized profusely, said it had been deleted, all that blah blah blah. Whatever.

I didn’t care. I’d already been there three years. I’d found that Excel sheet my first month on the job, and this was not news to me. “Probably a lesbian” seemed more like a green flag anyway. And besides, it wasn’t the first time something—or someone—had said I was probably a lesbian. I’d heard it plenty, including from ex-boyfriends. It barely fazed me now. Can't these guys come up with something new?

In that office, that day, that Excel sheet pulled off the hat to reveal bunny ears and winked at the camera.

And I still didn’t get the joke. I was just Elmer Fudding, still chasing that rascally rabbit.

inheritance.

Last night I dreamt

the mother of a boy I once knew

stalked me through crowds,

eyes fixed, mouth set.

Then she attacked me in public.

Everyone in the crowd

just stood there, staring.

When I woke, I felt safe.

I knew she was dead—

and so was her son.

Actually, everyone who has ever hurt me,

truly hurt me,

is dead.

Except one.

That’s not some tough-girl flex.

              More like a fun fact.

Eight years ago my mom died.

Yes—everyone who has ever hurt me,

truly hurt me,

is dead.

Except one.

It wasn’t until this morning

I could be honest—with myself,

with others.

All this stuff—my mother,

in her dying days,

curated and selected

just for me—

it’s a burden, not a blessing.

No gift. No inheritance.

Just a continuation I wish to end.

It took me eight years to say no.

To remind myself:

everyone who has ever hurt me,

truly hurt me,

is dead.

Except one.

I am safe.

Safe for now.

I can outlive the worst of them.

unfriendly.

[A man sits down next to a woman and points to the tattoo on her arm.]

Man: What’s that say?

[She looks down at her arm.]

Woman: It says, “It was a boundless place to me and silenced as the awful sea.”

It’s matching—with a friend. I testified in her father’s trial. Prison. He’s out now.

It’s from a poem by Emily Dickinson. It’s called “He Touched Me, So I Live to Know.”

Actually, like—none of Emily Dickinson’s poems have real titles. They’re just known by their first lines because she never named them.

Imagine that—so many creations unnamed. People just calling them by the first thing they ever said.

What if I were called by my first line?

Like, the first sentence that would tell the whole story of me.

What would that sentence be?"

[Pause. She looks back at him]

Maybe something like… I do not want to talk to you. Yes. You.

I do not want to talk about what’s on my body with you.

I wanted one evening without a single hint of you—and the likes of you.

I wanted a night to just exist, without bother.

Man: God, you’re such an unfriendly bitch.

Woman (yelling as he scampers off): AND THE IMAGE IS A LITTLE BOY FISHING—HUCKLEBERRY FINN STYLE!

[Another man enters, sits down next to her, and points to the tattoo on her arm.]

Man: What’s that say?

E-mail from Instagram

Did you request this password reset?

It’s for an account I haven’t used

since the divorce—nine years ago.

Did I request this password reset? No.

What stalker, or ghost, tries to peer in?

Don't look for meaning; make meaning.

Cull the Stones

There’s a Super Full Moon in Taurus on Wednesday—the biggest the moon will appear all year. Themes of relationship, comfort, care, or whatever. My horoscope: The stability you want starts when you stop settling and start choosing. Whatever that means. 

So I drank a cup of mugwort tea before bed. Does it do anything? Probably not. It’s like my husband eating a handful of blueberries every morning for “antioxidants.” Still, let’s not dismiss the power of placebo.

Last night, I dreamed. I dreamed a lot, but one dream stood out. I attended a wedding—beautiful, radiant. A young groom and an even younger bride. She wore a brand-new designer gown, fitted and breathtaking. For some reason, I walked her down the aisle. I wasn’t a family member, a friend, or even a person. I was the embodiment of her conscience.

In her mind, I saw the scene differently. The dress—she remembered working, saving, researching for hours. All the details she’d taken pride in, she had planned alone. The groom, smiling his boyish, docile grin, believed his grand contribution was recycling cans from the pay bar. He hadn’t even tried.

She had toiled for months to reach this “happy day.” Mon dieu! If joy required this much effort, what would happen when real trials arrived? When the officiant asked if she did—she didn’t. She didn’t want more years of this. Saying yes meant signing up for it for life. Better to back out now—lose a little money, a little respect from the smiling, teary guests blot-blot-blotting their eyes and the photographer snap-snap-snapping every “keepsake moment.” Move on.

Of course, it was only a dream. But dreams are stitched from waking life: experiences, memories, emotions. Maybe the brain is problem-solving, consolidating memory, or maybe it’s just the mugwort tea and the full moon. Maybe it is nothing.

Still, I like to see dreams as messages from the Universe—or God—shedding light on what we cannot otherwise see. Dreams are like your conscience walking you down the aisle, showing every curated detail in a new, harsher light. Perhaps the bride was showing me what I can’t see in my marriages—that sometimes saying no is the truest act of care.

And as the dream faded, I saw my own life. I’m not yet forty and have been married twice. The first time, I was like the young bride who said yes. The second, like the young groom who smiled and let someone else figure it out.

My first marriage was like arriving at work and being told there’s a surprise 5K race today. I’m in uncomfortable shoes and the wrong clothes when the organizers ask, “Would you like a gift?”

“Why, of course!”

And they shackle a rock to my ankle. But it’s a pretty rock—it looks nice—and it’s just 5K! I try to run. People pass me and say, “What a nice rock! You must love it so, to take it all this way!” And I am blistered, tired, last—dragging myself across the finish line hours late. No prize. Only ache. Still, I love that rock. It hardly looks like my body without it attached.

My second marriage was different. A 5K in six months, with a $5,000 allowance for equipment, a gym membership, a personal coach named Dan, and four hours off each day to train. On race day, I could take a taxi if I wanted. I win. I barely lifted a finger.

I love the taxi. I love coasting. But even victory feels hollow. I’m unsatisfied with both dynamics. I want a third way—not the workhorse dragging a load, nor the pampered passenger coasting to the finish.

So now, let’s wake up. This morning, before the alarm, I basked in bed. The softness of the pillow-top mattress, the warmth of blankets, the cool side of the pillow, the purr of a cat—I soak it all in. Perhaps I could be a spouse like a bed: warm, soft, comforting.

Then the alarm rings. First, I must be a spouse who gets up, makes the bed, feeds the cats, scoops the litter boxes. My husband will make coffee, feed the dogs, empty the dishwasher. Maybe I’ll be bed-like once I’m dressed and caffeinated.

While getting ready, I knocked over a box of rocks on my dresser. Too many rocks—amethyst, aventurine, onyx, obsidian, agate, and more. Drusy, cabochon, raw, carved, and so on. I’ve carried them from before my first marriage through both marriages to now.

Stuff is a little like that rock shackled to your ankle. I’ve accumulated too much. On Wednesday, under the Super Full Moon in Taurus, I’ll drink another cup of mugwort tea and set out all my rocks, crystals, and stones—to “charge under the full moon.” Please, let’s not dismiss the power of placebo.

In the morning, I’ll cull the stones. Bury them? Drop them off at a thrift store? Mail them to a friend? Toss them away? Any option is fine.

Yes—blessings upon thee, O city dump! I present a fluorite pillar for you! Return to the earth from which it was cruelly cut! Join the coffee grounds and broken plate, brethren!

C’est la vie. Things that once looked so good—then, with new dream eyes, appear distorted, wrong, and ready to go. I’ve tried the workhorse and the taxi. Now it’s time for a third way—one that isn’t about dragging or coasting, but moving intentionally. The stones I keep, the ones I cull, and the dreams I carry forward will help me figure out what that looks like.

Guess my horoscope is right. The stability I want starts when I stop settling and start choosing. 

I didn't divorce him because he was sick,

but because he wouldn’t do what it took to get well.