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He said to me, “I don't know why anyone wouldn't love you”. It wasn't a question. The old man wasn't asking about past loves. He simply stated it. Out of the blue. As I wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his forearm because his upper arm was too fat. It caught me off guard. And he noticed the tilt in my head and squint in my eyes as the words passed through my ears. How does one respond to that. Especially here, at work, in the hospital. Was he being inappropriate or just trying to be nice? Whichever he was, it left me with a pit in my stomach. “I don't know why anyone wouldn't love you”. We hadn't spoke of my love life. Maybe he noticed there was no ring on my finger. How could he know of a love I loved but did not love me back? He didn't. He didn't know there was someone he was speaking about when he said those words to me. A few moments passed, and as I took off the blood pressure cuff I had a response. “I guess I haven't met the right person yet”. It was a better response than “I don't know”. And I thought it would be satisfying to the old man. Just enough thought to entertain him, but not enough to continue this conversation. An art I have mastered. But to my dismay, he continued on. “So you are picky?” Now I was beginning to think this was dancing on the lines of inappropriate. So I told myself I would give him one more answer then this conversation would be over and I would leave. I have never let a man know me enough to truly love me, though he may have thought he did. He was in love with the mask I so carefully crafted. Until time wore down its corners and it began peeling away. He realized that in fact it was not me he was in love with at all. These thoughts never left. But as I left the old man's room, I fluffed his pillow one more time, turned down the lights, looked him in the eyes gave him a smile and said, “I'll be back to check on you in an hour.” Then pulled the curtain and shut the door behind me.

I am on the other side of 35 now and the mother of three awesome children. My son is an amazing person. He is a non-conformist and at times very caring and at other times, he's your stereotypical teenager. He is an artist at heart and I love him fiercely. He is strangely thoughtful and has been this way. At 6 or 7 years old, he surprised me with the questions, “what is love?” and “where does love come from?” Once, right in the middle of his homework assignment he said “Mommy, it must have been hard for you”. Not knowing what he was talking about I said “what are you talking about?” He said “Your mother dying when you were young”. He was wrong. While I am sure my childhood was different than the average person's since you weren't around, I never really dealt with your absence at that age; I began to process it when I was an adult. As a child your death was never something the family spoke about. We just went on living. We moved in with daddy and kept the play button of life on. I went to school, did what was required of me and moved on…until the teenage years. Daddy was a different kind of parent than you were: he favored the strict dad approach and I was very limited in the places I could go. As a result I did a little sneaking around and did some things I probably shouldn't have. But there is nothing I can do about that now. I didn't think I was worse than the average teenager at the time but I certainly wasn't the best. I only had a couple of close friends at the time and I don't know if that was a good or bad thing since she wasn't really the most sympathetic or sensitive person. But she's who I had, and I am grateful for her. Daddy got married to a woman I admire and love very much. She is one of the kindest people I know. She was definitely the motherly type but different than you, which is probably a good thing you know? If she seemed like she was a replacement for you maybe we wouldn't have gotten along. She was a worrier, always worried about other folks having what they need and often neglecting herself. I can't recall one bad experience with her. You were a different kind of mother; I like to think I somewhat take after both of you, you know? You were a creative, a poet who loved music and danced with me and sis all the time. I remember spending nights by granny listening to ‘Lady in Red' on my Walkman, smelling freshly baked bread in her oven. Those were much simpler times. It's been a bit more complicated in my adult life. I miss you most now because I am struggling with being a grown-up. Somehow, I feel like I don't understand what it means to be a woman because you were not here to teach me the rules. I don't know how to balance being a mom and a wife. Heck, I don't even think I am doing the being a mom thing right, and now that I have a teenage step-daughter and my 4 year old, I feel like I may not be preparing them for life as a woman. Sometimes I think that not knowing was an advantage for me but at other times I feel like life would've been easier if I would just follow the rules and conform. Would I want to teach my kids to conform to societal rules? Probably not, but I do think life would be easier if I could find that sweet spot between conforming and doing my own thing…I believe that is where life becomes easier to navigate. Either way, I suck at the balancing act of working full time, (full time and half actually) and being a mother. Not just a mother but a loving mommy that has the energy to play with the kids and clean and cook wholesome foods and not feel like I'm losing my mind doing that and forsaking my own desires to be who I truly am (which is not always kid friendly). I do not believe I am defined by this thing called being a mother and feel profoundly selfish for even having the thought of being something besides that. Realistically, I know you were more than a mother, but I suppose that is all I saw, and you seemed happy that way. Why do I struggle with that? I am most bothered by not being able to ask you for advice. It sucks that I can't sit with you as an adult and have a conversation with you, something I enjoy doing with daddy and my step-mother. It disturbs me that you will never hold any of your grandchildren and they will never know what you smell like (I still remember after all of these years). They will never know the awesome person you are, and they will never truly understand why I am so bummed out every mother's day and every August 28th (yes, I still remember your birthday). I'm not ready to leave my kids, but I am sure looking forward to seeing you again. I just want to talk to you. Take care of yourself. I hope you read this letter. With love, Your daughter.

He stood alone in the outhouse, his back to the door held open by his girlfriend. If not for the twelve-gauge shotgun in his hands, he would have appeared to be doing what normal people do in an outhouse. But his plans were not normal. His companions' cheered and dared in the secluded, pristine northern California campsite. The friends were alone along the banks of the riverside campsite. In the offseason, few people braved the cold conditions, unless partying. The remote area provided privacy, a nice beach along the bank, enough wilderness to do some target practice, and a convenient outhouse. This site suited the needs of Danny and younger brothers Sam and Frank who planned the weekend outing to get back to nature, with their girlfriends. Older, more experienced, Danny ruled the group. Stronger than his size suggested, a true outdoorsman, he was the kind of guy people followed. The kind who'd been kicked out of community college when the admissions staff discovered he hadn't bothered to graduate from high school. “Wasted four months of my life,” Danny would say. Danny seemed to draw the company of attractive women with ease. His companion this trip was Amy. Wilder than most, with no fear in her soul, she stood ready for any adventure. An adrenaline junkie, she proclaimed life was too short to live it bored. Middle brother, Sam, more of a thinker the studious sort who, at age ten, calculated the trajectory and ricochet of a BB fired at a telephone pole, bounced it off and struck Frank in the head. The shot was legend in their family. Sam reveled in solving puzzles of all varieties; the more difficult, the greater the sense of accomplishment. Sam brought his girlfriend Kathy to the campsite. A wonderful girl, her heart wide-open to everyone she met. Her thick black hair stationed almost a head taller than everyone else in the group, her intellect hovered well below the dimmest. Youngest brother, Frank would rather play than work, viewed school as an excuse to play sports and date girls. Athletic, affable, with a smile that beamed likability, he slid through his youth on cruise-control, and did only as much as necessary to get by. Bore him with the mundane, and he would be lost to the lure of pretty girls or any other equipment that bounced. Frank's girlfriend Cheryl, a quiet introspect, preferred dancing or reading good books to trapesing around in the wilderness. Athletic, carefree, and nimble, she lied to her parents to go on the weekend outing. Just the type of girl Frank admired. During an afternoon target shoot, Sam wanted to experience the kick of Danny's ten-gauge shotgun. Kathy warned him to be careful. Afraid of the recoil, he held the shotgun away from his body, pulled the trigger. The gun flew out of his hands and landed behind him in the rocks. Sam stood frozen, his hands still clutched the now imaginary shotgun. Danny barked, “Go pick it up and clean it. Next time think about what you're doing!” That night they sat around the campfire, the only respite from the chill of the autumn air. Frank snuggled close with Cheryl. Sam offered well-chilled beers retrieved from the near-freezing river. Danny, his personality bolder than studious, pondered the effect of firing a ten-gauge shotgun into the outhouse hole. Cheryl cautioned him, stating she thought it a bad idea. Rather than dissuading his doomed-to-fail experiment, the rest of the group's shared inebriation resulted in rousing support. He decided it was a good idea, grabbed his weapon and strode to the outhouse. While Amy held the door open, he stood facing the open hole, shotgun at his waist, ready to fire. The others gathered nearby to witness. Danny pulled the trigger. The report boomed a concussive shock that stunned everyone. In an instant, the scene became surreal, played out in slow motion like a WWII movie. Danny stood frozen in place, as if unable to comprehend the need for retreat. His eyes followed a large column of thick, brackish muck as it rushed up to the outhouse ceiling and exploded in every direction. The group cheered and laughed. Danny stepped out of the outhouse; they laughed without control. Splotches of fecal matter in various states of liquid and solid forms covered his blue jeans and white t-shirt. His face showed the depths of his humiliation in the smears left from wiping the sludge from his eyes. His embarrassment highlighted by bits of toilet paper that clung to the splatter from his head to his feet. He stood there resigned to his misery and announced, “I'm going for a swim; anyone want to join me?” Most declined the invitation and left him alone to brave the frigid water. As everyone watched, Amy and Danny stripped naked and dove in. Kathy said, “That was great.” Sam agreed, adding, “But not smart.” Cheryl looked at Frank and said, “We warned him. When will guys listen to girls when we say what you're doing is dumb or dangerous?” “I'm guessing never,” replied Frank. “We're not that smart.”

Dear men, According to my Kurdisch-Swedish friend, a woman is like a friendly volcano. “She really is,” he stresses. “I'm not,” I huff, “but I see your point.” Indeed. A woman is beautiful and serene: one truly amazing sight that stands out. Like a volcano. Until she errupts. Her volcanic ash, along with her conveniently aligned pyroclastic and mentstrual flow, can and will destroy everything dear to you. Including your upcoming dudes-trip, tickets to the match of the century, or your precious porn mags. Especially those. I'd like to say I'm the exception. That I am, although womanly and girly at the best of times, more like ‘one of the guys'. I can burp for Britain, fart for France. I nod and say I understand perfectly well how men drool over a gorgeous woman's body, without a hint of jealousy on my part, knowing “it means nothing”. I claim to find women annoying, how I detest nagging, how women never really seem to know or say what they want. And when they do, they change their minds. I state that I don't get them either. I say that I am this serene and beautiful volcano too, though a dormant one. One you can easily take on your man-cation. While you try to drink me under the table, I will banter until you're totally tongue-tied. The exception. Me. Sure. I burp, fart, and banter. But the exception? Nah. Don't tell porkies. For I am like all the others, just as all the others are like me. Women are NOT docile little creatures that agree with you eternally; who scrub your floors; cook; raise your gaggle of kids; wriggle a soft, manicured hand down your trousers to warm and tickle your yearning third leg. Even the most devout of nuns, calm and chock-full of self-restraint as she usually is, has her boiling points. At times she grows so angry and frustrated that simple gardening won't suffice to diffuse the situation: a radish will perish from her ferocious and terrifying screams, cucumbers will curl up in fear. She too encounters moments when she's so pent up, she'll lock the monastery door, shut the curtains, stick her Bible in the fridge and sinfully masturbate for six solid hours until she gives herself carpal tunnel syndrome, just to find some form of relief. So, yes. That thing about women being like volcanoes? It's true. For all of them. Be warned. Best wishes, Volcanic Female.