I’d planned to be Heathcliff’s Cathy, Lady Brett,

Nicole or Dominique or Scarlett O’Hara.

I hadn’t planned to be folding up the laundry

In uncombed hair and last night’s smudged mascara,

An expert on buying Fritos, cleaning the cat box.

Finding lost sneakers, playing hide-and-seek,

And other things unknown to Heathcliff’s Cathy.

Scarlett, Lady Brett, and Dominique.

Why am I never running through the heather?

Why am I never raped by Howard Roark?

Why am I never going to Pamplona

Instead of Philadelphia and Newark?

How did I ever wind up with a Henry.

When what I’d always had in mind was Rhett,

Or someone more appropriate to Cathy.

Dominique, Nicole, or Lady Brett.

I saw myself as heedless, heartless, headstrong.

An untamed woman searching for her mate.

And there he is—with charcoal, fork, and apron,

Prepared to broil some hot dogs on the grate.

I haven’t wrecked his life or his digestion

With unrequited love or jealous wrath. He

Doesn’t know that secretly I’m Scarlett.

Dominique, Nicole, or Brett, or Cathy.

Why am I never cracking up in Zurich?

Why am I never languishing on moors?

Why am I never spoiled by faithful mammys

Instead of spraying ant spray on the floors?

The tricycles are cluttering my foyer.

The Pop-Tart crumbs are sprinkled on my soul.

And every year it’s harder to be Cathy.

Dominique, Brett, Scarlett, and Nicole.