Life is Loving Things, Hating Things

I love men clean-cut & clean-shaven;
I hate man-buns & gauges.
(Less hair, more flesh, please.)

I love older men,
not old men (in “that way”).

I love mint-green MINI Coopers;
I hate smart cars.
(They look dumb.)

I love my womanly curves;
I hate that one of those curves isn’t concave.

I love epidurals;
I hate contractions.
(Except when I’m trying to reduce my word count.)

I love the Bible;
I hate some of the things in it.
(God as Bad Cop, Jesus, Good Cop.)

I love humanism;
I hate feminism.
(But femininity rules.)

I’d love to write for Harlequin;
I hate reading Harlequin romances.
(But such is called research.)

I love linguistics,
I hate statistics.
(One is a carton of pretty lies,
the other can be a pack of damn lies.)

I love it when people make an educated argument;
I hate it when they copy-and-paste.

I love conducting interviews;
I hate cold quoting.
(I am not a “Woman on the Street” type.)

I love Valentine’s Day now that I’m married;
I hated it when I was single.
(Still think it’s stupid, only I get stuff now.)

I hate things about this life,
but I love my life,
& live without regrets,
for to change the smallest thing
might have changed everything.

Pinky Tale Creations

Pinky Tickles penned greetings for anonymous givers—
cards for every anni, quarrel and bicker—
cards for divorces and broken engagements,
for the neutralizing of toxic friendships,
and friends-with-benefits relationships.

There were cards for congrats
on being canned like a tuna,
or sacked like a potato chip;
for being kicked to the curb
by roommates growing herbs.

There were cards for bad bosses,
“You’re welcome” cards and “Sorry…not!”;
for unhappy birthdays and ugly afterthoughts.

There were unsympathy cards for deadbeat dads and
“Don’t Get Well” cards for mommy dearests;
“Happy Lonely Valentine’s” days,
“Santa Hates You” Christmases,
and “Thank You for Climate Change”,
for those who fired up the works on Independence Day.

Pinky was a minus sign in a plus-sized biz suit—
a fractious little number—
but the day she finally got some shag,
her heart bloomed into a redrum rose and
her words became sweet as a lollipop gag.