Sexing it Up

An afternoon at the hair salon was a welcome break from this exasperating week (Chris has been in Seattle since Sunday). I haven't had my hair done since before Gideon so it was past time. Back then my stylist suggested to have it short because it would be easier to deal with in the hospital and early-on. I agreed, but now sort of wish I hadn't because now I have to grow it out. Today I told her I wanted "sexy" hair. So now I have a bunch of short layers and gold and cashmere highlights. See, cashmere is way sexier than caramel. Or so I was told. I don't know. Sounds Paris Hilton to me. Oh wait, that's HOT.

I still haven't decided what I'm reading for my fifteen minutes at Carrboro. I decided to limit it to work I've written in the past year but I noticed that a lot of it is peppered with random f-bombs and handjobs. Nothing over-the-top or risque, but my concern is that this might be more of a family event and the last thing I want is for a family's day of culture to be ruined by the depraved housewife who can't handle being out of the house. I asked Ken Rumble what he thought. He read at last year's and will be reading again this year so I figured he'd have good advice. He told me not to sweat it and to read whatever I wanted, that there was going to be plenty of naughty fare and he had a whole bevy of penis poems he couldn't wait to read.

Imagine my surprise when I read this article by Ken that in the first paragraph quotes a woman saying the festival is great for her five-year old step-daughter.

Clearly Ken is setting me up. What a schemer! All the other poets are going to read their poems about rhododendrons and pomegranates and I'm going to read a poem about a handjob in the muck and afterward find my car keyed in the parking lot. Thanks a lot, Ken.