Concert Etiquette

Text with my family last night who was at home while I was @MumfordAndSons concert.

Me: I understand now why some women throw away perfectly good underwear at concerts.

Hubs: Uh…the kids are on this chat.

Me: Haha. Just joking.

16 y/o: MOM WTF

Me: I meant other women. Not me.

16 y/o: Ok then.

Me: My panties are firmly in place. For now….

11 y/o: Ewwwwww

16 y/o: Thanks mom. I need to f %^&ing bleach my brain.



An Enchanted Evening?

I love romance and romantic musicals, especially from the 40s and 50s. One that I never really took to, though, was South Pacific.  The song, Some Enchanted Evening, sets up unrealistic expectations about love at first sight. (Never mind the hundreds of other musicals that set up unrealistic expectations of love at first sight…) So I rewrote the song for the modern woman which, while maybe more depressing, is a sight more realistic than whatever lovey-dovey bull Rodgers and Hammerstein were slinging back then.
Here is:”A Disenchanted Evening:
Some disenchanted evening, you will see a stranger,
You’ll see many strangers across a crowded bar,
Some tall and some short, rich ones and poor
All trying to chat you up while you try not to snore.

Some disenchanted evening, someone will cop a feel,
Someone will grab your butt, and you will throat punch them
It’s not 1950 anymore and you’re self-actualized, not a toy,
The sound of their whining and gasping, will bring such joy.

Why didn’t you stay home? You’ll ask yourself many times.
Foolish and hopeful, you know you prefer Netflix guys!
Some disenchanted evening, you’ll not find your true love,
He’s not at a crowded pub in a smoke-filled room,
So fly far away, stay at home in your sweats binging TV
It’s better to dream alone than be saddled with a man-baby.
Once you’ve found the perfect series, binge until you’re done,
Once you have found it, you will never be alone!

Dry cleaner


I wish there were a dry cleaner for the soul

Wait ten minutes, we’ll mend any holes!

Clean out the soot, remove all the stains

Have it back in a flash, free from all pain.


But then what would I do with a soul sparkling clean?

While my thoughts are riddled, ugly and mean

This pure soul would take a look at the shell

Who’d housed it in good, yet brought it through hell.


It would want to flee, fly far from its home

But knowing to do so would leave me to roam

Without a beacon, some promise of hope

Body without soul is unable to cope


Instead of fleeing into the light

My soul would give over with nary a fight

And so I’d be saddled once more with a hole

Which used to be, once, a beautiful soul.

(C) Sara Ackerman, 2019


Take me Apart

Tickle my toes

Lap over my feet

Lick up my shins

Burn thighs with cold heat


Craddle my buttocks

Release all my strain

Peel back my skin

Expose all my pain


Dissolve my bones

Take me apart

Stop breath in my lungs

Surround my cold heart


Gurgle your way

Through throat and nose

Seep through closed lids

Bring life to a close


Quiet the mind

With your soothing song

Take me away

From sorrow too long


Lift me on cool, salty waves

Carry the seafoam, the debris

The driftwood

And me


(C) Sara Ackerman, 2019


The decision once made formulated with surprising ease. After a decade and a half of marriage, she had imagined it would have been harder to plan her partner’s demise. Should have been harder. Yet once the idea implanted itself in her mind, it grew with ferocious tenacity, its toxic roots wrapping her in the satisfied flush of suppressed vengeance at last unleashed.  

He grunted, and her single-minded focus slipped, allowing her icy, calm reserve to fracture and reveal the loathing she kept hidden when he was around. As if he noticed. Sipping her wine, she regarded the man she had once loved over the rim of her wine glass. Head lowered over his plate, bald head shining in the yellow glare of their dining room light, he shoved his food into his mouth with single minded intensity, the small grunts he made as mundane as the whole of their marriage. As mundane as the day she realized she no longer loved him.

It was a Tuesday last April. He came home from work like any other Tuesday, threw his coat onto the floor and slumped into his chair. He looked tired, and she noticed for the first time how anger and resentment had warped his once handsome face. Deep lines surrounded his eyes and mouth and he sighed, catching her staring at him.

“What are you looking at?” he had asked, his voice flat and distant. No warmth greeted her in his chocolate gaze. No smile curled his handsome mouth. He was a stranger to her. And then she knew.

“Nothing. I’m looking at nothing.”  

“Then stop standing around and get me something to eat. I’ve had a long day.”

As if she hadn’t. As if she weren’t as tired as him. But it didn’t matter. It never did.

At first, she considered ending her own life, but that only ended her misery while causing him a minor inconvenience. No, he needed to suffer as she had done. She wanted to watch him as he died, to revel in the exact moment he realized his life was ending. No one would blame her. He had long since ceased to resemble the man she had married. His twisted sense of justice and fairness had taken whatever love they had once shared and warped it, choking the air from their marriage like strangle weed in a garden once full of brilliant blooms.

“You look tired,” she said, placing her wine glass on the table. “Maybe you should take a bath tonight.”

He grunted his response. Undeterred, she rose and poured the remainder of the wine into his near-empty glass. She gave him what she hoped was a coy glance from beneath her lashes. ¨I can join you.” The startled lift of his brows emboldened her to continue her role, but she feigned indifference and shrugged a shoulder. ¨If you’d like.”

She lifted her wine glass between thin bloodless fingers and sashayed up the stairs, her pounding heart almost eclipsing the hurried scraping of his chair over the wooden floor. His haste amused her, something of which she little experienced. Yet, she had to bite her tongue to stifle a giggle. Nerves, perhaps, or maybe something more. There was some sort of poetic justice her husband would die with a plan of his own creation, a plan he had suggested with arrogant flippancy in the early days of their marriage when all was starlight and moonbeams.

“If you ever want to kill me off,” he had purred in her ear, water droplets trickling down the sensitive cord of her neck, “love me in the tub like this and I’ll be so spent you could push me under with a finger.”

Of course it would take a little more than a finger to finish the job, but she had planned each moment with military precision, starting with when he had walked through the door this evening.

She glided into the bathroom and turned her head over her shoulder to gift him with a sultry smile. Despite her open invitation, he hesitated at the threshold. Loosening the belt around her green silk wrap-around dress, the slinky material slide down her shoulders, caressed her buttocks and pooled around her feet.

Turning, she unbound her hair and swung the heavy mass of thick black curls over her bare back. “What are you waiting for?” she purred.

“Nothing,” he said, pulling his shirt from his waistband and shucking his trousers with fumbled haste. “Absolutely nothing.” He closed the door with his foot and pulled her into his familiar embrace.

“I thought that might be your answer,” she said.

(C) Sara Ackerman, 2019

From the mouths of babes

My kiddos, CJ, age 11, and J, age 15, and I had an honest conversation. I asked them questions without prompting and here is what they think of their mom.

Me: What is something I say a lot?
CJ: Yes, I love you.     J: Damn it.

Me: What makes me happy?
CJ: Me     J: Scottish men

Me: What makes me sad?
CJ: When I’m gone     J: School

Me: How tall am I?
CJ: 5’4″     J: 5’4.5″

Me: What’s my favorite thing to do?
CJ: Binge Hallmark Movies     J: Look at kilted men on the internet

Me: What is my favorite food?
CJ: Eggs     J: bread

Me: What is my favorite drink?
CJ: Water     J: Wine

Me: If I could go anywhere, where would it be?
CJ and J: Scotland

Me: Do you think you could live without me?
CJ and J: No

Me: How do I annoy you?
CJ: I don’t know that I want to roast you, Mom
J: By insisting you’re 5’4.5″

Me: What is my favorite TV show?
CJ: Big bang theory      J: Scottish porn (Outlander)

Me: What is my favorite music to listen to?
CJ and J: Classical music

Me: What is my job?
CJ and J: Teach ESL

Me: How old am I?
CJ and J: 38

Me: What’s my favorite color?
CJ and J: Blue

Me: How much do you love me?
CJ: More than the sky     J: (hides in closet)


I used to feel weird when I’d curl up and hide

From the fear of the past, the horror inside.

To find a dark corner where no one could see

Where no one could find me and I could just be.


I never knew when they’d come along.

Would I be eating, talking or listening to a song?

Memories’d flash up in waves, that horrific past

Seconds to hours, I never knew how long they’d last.


It’s been three years since I’ve been swept away

Seeing the rot of humanity, smelling the stench of decay.

The memories are there, I can see them still

But their power has lessened, they only maim, not kill.


But courage and bravery,  and strength are no match

For the doubt, guilt and shame whose weight have attached

To the stigma of abuse and those who survive

Those women and children who make it out alive.


Because years later I still question God’s grace.

Am I good enough or do I have to earn my place?

But slowly I’m learning my worth is inside

Where good and bad have learned to live side by side.