YOKED

Rod Stewart is one sexy man. This is, at least, what my aunts have conveyed to me over years of concert going, stage crashing, and radio blasting rides. Apparently, the only thing that compares to that dirty blonde rock and roll mane and those skin tight leopard pants, is a voice so raspy and soulful it “will steal your heart away.” And while I wanted nothing more than to tag along with my mom and aunts, each of them icons of that oh-so-distantly-enchanted womanhood, the concerts were always waaay past my bedtime. So I perched on the edge of the bed as late as I could, watching them gussy up in a cloud of Hairnet and polka dot ensembles, as they convinced me that a dab of confidence was all one needed to storm the stage like a rock star. And dance with Rod, of course. Were You Tube around in the 80s, they would have video footage testifying to their stage-robbing fame and you would have no trouble imagining how enormously cool they really were. Whether boosting one anot...

There’s nothing about this lemon-colored umbrella in my drink that is necessary. It is frivolity and glamour under the faint Seattle sun. And while I know all too well the limits of its luster, it charms me still. And isn’t that the point of every sweet and senseless surprise? Isn’t that behind every wink, every kiss mistaken, every nickname ever given? Each gestures beyond mere utility. And yet, if a bee can land upon it, believing my little umbrella a font of nectar- a bee so evolutionarily intelligent, so mathematically inclined- then I too can resist bitterness for the ways in which I have been undone by seduction. I can admit my weakness for pyrite, and still smile for the way it makes me stumble and shimmer, often interchangeably. And I give thanks for being as crazed as a bumble bee.