Bringing Sexy Back


woodpeckerThe first day of spring break has arrived with a wet, clammy breath down my back, and the damned local woodpecker drilling into the chimney pipe again, hell-bent to set my teeth on edge.  And he’s not even the pretty kind, just some ugly jerk from Alabama looking to score with the local ladies.

After setting a handful of wet leaves and cedar chips ablaze I hollered out a few choice words for my feathered nemesis up the flue, then set out to make myself a cup of tea to chase off the chill. I’ve had to resort to tea now that my old lady innards are reacting to java like vinegar on baking soda. I’ve also come down with a mighty attractive case of eczema on my neck …. and left butt cheek, so I’m doing the dance of the herbal tea witch to try to chase it off, since the only prescription the doctor could give me was “Try to reduce the stress in your life”.  It’s a thing with her; seemingly stress is the cause of everything in my life, and the only cure is to magically reduce it.


As in, “No Shit. Why didn’t I think of that? Let me get right on it.”

Thus, I am reduced to an infusion of expensive herbal tea to clear up both ass and attitude; I’m bringing sexy back with a vengeance. I’ll let you know if it works.

Despite my rashy ass, and tea that tastes like a copper penny, life is slowly turning into something less horrific. And this despite the fact we just got the Jeep fixed, only to have the Dodge die yesterday at a most inopportune time.
(WTF Mr. Jesus? Seriously dude, your timing blatantly sucks moth balls and kerosene.  Flaming stink buddy.  FLAMING STINK!)

Back to the whole broken car thing; The Daughterling and I were on our way to her school where she was to give her Senior Seminar Presentation. …. which I can only define as numerous essays (I lost count after 15), science fair sized “activities”, community service hours (she did 34), applications, fees, signatures, verifications, tests, assessments, monkey with an organ grinder – jump through the hoops and dance like a bitch for our small town entertainment – bullshit – rub your morning eyeballs with glass frit then break your pinky toe on a rusty axe before falling into a vat of human excrement and vomit Project of all PROJECTS. All of which are mandatory or the child will be denied a high school diploma. This town is the only town in the county that does this. All the other schools recognized the Senior Seminar Project for the steaming pile of rabid baboon dung that it is.


Anyobtuse. After an entire year of working on this monstrosity it all comes down to twenty minutes. One second more they deduct points. One second less, she fails, and they have a huge Flavor Flav-like clock they place on the desk just as the poor kid starts, slamming a palm across the top of it to start the time once the first word crosses their lips.


(Perhaps my description of how the timing goes down was a touch extreme, but that’s how it was similarly defined in a snarky email I received after I dared question the validity of such a divinely inspired seminar.  I did add the Flavor Flav bit.  .. maybe.)

Anyjudgement; 20 MINUTES, by god! Or hellfire and damnation will be thrust upon us, and our loins laid barren unto the third generation! … or something like that. And forget being late, because if you’re not early you fail. Blink and you fail. If the wind changes direction and Jupiter aligns with Pluto YOU FAIL!

This town is big on FAIL.

What. Ever.

So back to the car thing: the Durango refused to start, thus now we’re running “seminar late”, because I have to switch the insurance over from the Dodge to the Jeep, and the lady on the phone at Progressive is playing at being related to a mentally impaired chimpanzee – yet, we still manage to get there on time; ten whole minutes before her “start or you die!” time.


Then we discover the teacher she was assigned to (Read: bound by a soul oath with Lucifer, and sealed in the blood of a fuzzy, baby seal – IT SHALL NOT BE CHANGED!) … has indeed, been changed. So we run across the campus in our finery, looking like frantic gazelles fleeing from the jaws of impending death
… okay, maybe looking more like lurching gibbons in fancy hats and nude colored pantyhose – but we make it to the new “unchangeable” teacher’s room on time. Thankfully it happened to be her ASL teacher, whom my daughter is not only familiar with, but can also speak-a her language with.

Daughterling was composed, and knew her business. She sailed through without a hitch, sounding and communicating like some kind of adult who knew what she was about. She was grace and intelligence combined, interacting with her teacher beautifully, and answering questions eloquently, leaving no room for bullshit. .. this child actually knew what she was talking about!

I wanted to cry. Maybe roll on the floor a bit and drool in awe.

I didn’t. But I wanted to. I’m not sure if I was just relieved to finally have this massive hurdle over, and I can now regain a HUGE chunk of my life and time, or if the realization that my last child is no longer a child, has just sunk in.

We have moved one step closer to Utah. To Daughterling’s independence. To leaving this town.

Life is weird.

And that has been my week to date. So right now my biggest hurdle is getting this house in order to move, and finding a way to defeat the damn woodpecker. So far I’ve tried burning every noxious, unfriendly thing I can get my hands on. All I can say is these little woodpeckers have physical constitutions like freaking titanium. I am now working on a mixture of cinnamon oil, rosemary, tabasco, and wet pine cone bombs I can lite up. I’m also hoping this incontinent dog of mine will prove useful. Having a plethora of towels I go through every day on her behalf, I have reserved a particularly ratty one I’m letting her get nice and piss soaked; coated in all manner of dog filth and stink. I’ll be tearing it up and using those bits as fuses for the afore-mentioned pine cones.


If all the above fail to bring about desirable results I may resort to BBQ. I am a chef, after all, and I will resort to butchery when pressed to my limits. …. though after all the WMDs I’ve marinated the little pecker in, I might not want to actually consume it.

But I just might, out of spite, because I’m no good … and I’m thinking of embracing that part of me.


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The Song of the Gypsy


The echoes of frustration run around the dustier corners of my mind. At this point in life I had wanted to be … more. Just more; a creature of substance with worth and purpose.

There are corners of this earth; hidden alleys and vast, open grounds my feet itched to run. Explore. Know. This soul of mine wears the colors and dust of the gypsies, with a mind like a ragged mustang; It’s not in me to stand still. To remain stagnant and alone. I desperately need to run, with wild abandon, and with other creatures too wild at heart to live between the solid, ugly lines society dreams up.

I mourn an elusive career that would have allowed me to unleash the creativity inside, expanding my horizon and opening the pasture gates onto new, even more fantastic peaks and hills of this life.

The faces of people in distant places that had stories to tell me, and marvelous food for my heart to experience; I’ll never know so many of them …..

But I sold myself into domestic apathy and bound myself on the short leash of motherhood. … are there regrets? Yes. Some so overwhelming it makes me sick at heart to remember I chose them. …. but I don’t regret those little lives I’ve always known somewhere inside me …. Manchild and Daughterling. My biggest ache is that I feel I’ve failed them in the failing of myself.

Now I stand facing a gate I vowed never to reenter. That place called Utah. A geographical location that literally sucks the joy from my bones and leaves me to mummify in lonely, gritty abandonment.  Caged in and surrounded by emotional zombies.

I’m fighting desperately to change the way I think about it. … Facebook doesn’t help. So many of the people I knew remain there; stuck in a time warp of shallow pettiness and strict devotion to kissing ass and selling out. …. At one time I could walk among them fairly unmolested and ignored, but I have never been able to play the game. It’s not in me. I don’t want it in me; the person I am now has no room inside for any of it.

But family is there, and Daughterling is feeling the need to know these people as more than just names. She’s been as lonely as I. The great irony of it all is here, where my heart is at peace … covered in moss and rain (ironically), she has found it to be her Utah…. the rejection. The torment. The closed doors and fenced in rules that are suffocating her hope … killing the gypsy that joyfully sings and dances in her own heart.

I’ve already given over my soul so hers can fly free …. I don’t resent her, I only regret that’s how it all worked out. … I just hope she’s prepared for what she’s asking for.

The only way I can see to get through this is to fully unleash my inner gypsy. Slap that mustang on the backside and let them both run through the mental china shop that is Utah.

I will have to search out the wild places and sing to the stars. Though Utah is a desert (in fairly every sense one could possibly imagine), there still remain oases. Places so wild and untamed that even the unbending minds of the locals had to fence themselves in around them, or face certain enlightenment and change.

So many don’t travel outside the lines.  They don’t feel the earth move and turn beneath them; time grinding the rough edges into a sweet caress.  Something wild inside is missing. … at least I still have mine.

So I’ve started a bucket list for the Daughterling and I. (Manchild refuses to do anything with us …. except when he needs something. Sad to say… I’ll work on that.) Sometimes we’ll have to drag the husband along, but he’s city and suburbia through and through. Being cold or sleeping on the ground are not … well, he doesn’t do it. .. Unless maybe war has broken out or he’s trapped in an elevator. – The concept appeals to him, but the reality is never quite five star.

Daughterling wants to see the Grand Canyon. Yellowstone. The backcountry red rock and Indian ruins. Run a few rivers. Hunt for geodes. Swim in Lake Powell. Learn to snowboard. Walk the trail her ancestors, the Mormon Pioneers, walked. Hike Bryce Canyon and the East Rim of Zion’s National Park. Explore lava tubes and more of Goblin Valley. See Mesa Verde and the four corners. Explore the hidden canyons some of her less talked about Navajo and Paiute ancestors lived in, and search out their petroglyphs; some (from various tribes) over seven thousand years old. Watch the sun set over the Grand Tetons. Smell the rain move across a valley of sagebrush in the middle of summer, and … most important of all, start college someplace new.  Unfurl her own wings.

When I look at this impending move like that; when I remember the feel of soft, red sand under my feet in the high mountain desert, and the scent of rain as it changes the olfactory landscape ….. then I can calm my heart. … My husband has actual gypsy lines, but mine are all Native American; there are no lines drawn – the heart of a gypsy follows no labels, and Natives draw no lines to force themselves to stay between…..

For now I am absorbing as much of my Olympic Peninsula as I can. We’ll visit the Hoh Rainforest, hike Lake Lena, visit Rialto Beach and Salt Creek. There is still much to do here before we leave. I need to saturate every pore with my moss and salty beaches before I can leave them.


When one knows what will be taken from them, they are a fool if they fail to appreciate what they have before it’s gone, and all trace is washed from their sight.

…There is one other thing. The Husband and I are attempting to move forward with the whole long-haul trucking. – Anyone that has ever met me has the same reaction, “You can’t drive a truck! You’re too small!”.  ….. I’ll tell you what; I’ve driven big trucks across this country numerous times, and never once did my lack of height cause an issue. Aside from seeing what’s on top of the fridge, being short, or small, or chihuahuaesque, has never proven to be much of a hurdle. My brain doesn’t know I’m this short, and I’ve no intentions of telling her. – I’ll be fine. Aside from wondering if I actually will smother my husband in his sleep for driving me insane, I’m looking forward to the movement. To seeing and experiencing something more than motherhood and this small town.  Maybe it’s time to let the moss stop growing.

I have no idea what I’m in for, but I’ll tell you what; this wild heart is up for the task.

Even in the simple act of writing this I feel the old stirrings of those remote corners calling to me. The red rock pulses through these veins; sometimes the call is so strong I would give years of my life to feel the red earth beneath my bare feet at that moment. It has been a long time since the siren song of the high desert sang in these old bones…. but I’m hearing it, just a whisper; maybe that is enough.

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Note: These pictures aren’t mine. I found them on Google; state pages, and advertisements for tourism.



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March Madness


It’s been a long darkness; rain and shadow settling to the marrow. And, I actually have written for this blog, but some shadows and verbal vents aren’t fit for spreading into this already troubled world.

I’ve always been honest on this blog; anonymity lending my voice a mask to hide behind, emboldening an already uncensored personality. However, this past month or so has been more of an unleashing of all the frustrations that have plagued my life the last ten years. Y’all’ve heard it before, so trust me when I say nobody needs to hear it again, and to the level in which it came spewing forth.

I’ll give you the abbreviated version.

My husband blew out a knee and landed in my space for a good month. Then my Jeep blew a clutch, which my now lame husband had to fix.

Anydither. The husband. Home. Time vampire.  (My) Space Madness.

Space Madness

Men eat a lot, and take long showers, even when they don’t have long hair to wash, or any shaving / “yard work”, or issue addressing to do to their bodies. …. whatever do they do in there? Wash each hair follicle separately? Secretly relish intense loofah-ing?

And the whole not flushing the toilet thing; has this man simply forgotten how without my daily demonstrations? He claims it makes the water pressure too low when he gets in the shower.  (Clearly one must always shower after a wizz. … ? whaaa?) Or, sometimes it’s that it makes the water a few degrees colder…. which frankly, has got to be a lie…. because every time he’s flushed it while I’m in, it gets distinctly hotter. I’ve taken to waiting until he’s just gotten comfy in the afore mentioned shower, then I go around and flush every toilet in the house, start laundry, and do some of those dishes he seems to pile up in spades.

::One cup, one day:: – just stating it’s possible.

… and why does it take a man an hour – literally A FULL HOUR, to have a bowel movement? I’ve suggested he try pushing, and even offered some breathing techniques I learned while having babies; he didn’t think I was being helpful.

Jezaus, Mary & Juan, it’s like he’s been living in a hotel for the last 3 years …..

But the worst has been the snoring, and the rather unmanly whining about that stupid knee. For the record; the injury was a direct result of a lack of proper exercise and diet. The muscles didn’t ever stretch some ligament / tendon enough so it started to stiffen up. The cure was physical therapy. That was it. The limping and whining were optional.

Here’s the thing about my heart; she’s solid as hell, provided she’s not wiping the nose of some six year old boy in a forty year old body. She believes in Cowboy-ing Up. As it is she’s breaking right now, because the move to Utah has been definitively decided.

She’s not happy with that decision.  Or the whining.

And she’s oh so freaking tired …. I did mention the snoring.

Stop Snoring!

Every. Damn. Fool. Night! I’m so tired I would sell my grandmother’s soul for even one solid hour of uninterrupted sleep. – It’s a well understood fact that I am not a morning person; I barely qualify for a noon person. The devil himself steers clear when the look of Medusa is upon me; eyes glaring and red, mouth curled into the vilest of sneers framed by venomous fangs dripping in the blood of innocent by-passers. Thus, this whole unsleeping, whiney, dirty dishing, non-toilet-flushing, hour-long waiting for gravity to pull the excreta out, “Month of Man” has left me wrung the hell out. I’ve also been dragging the daughterling to her physical therapy for her broken arm (which she’s never whined about),

The Armdealing with Obamacare (is this a joke?  Seriously.), and trying to get her caught up with all the random bullshit projects this small town thought would put them on the map for making their high school seniors do – that she has to complete in order to graduate – grades and broken arms be damned.

I want to run into the wilderness and just scream until I burst a vessel… though I will settle for punching someone in the face. …. a deserving someone. Not just innocent someones. …. I do still have ethics people.

I am becoming unhinged. – When the husband finally left to go back on the road at 5 a.m. my parting words to him were (..and this after yet another night of literally zero sleep)
“I can’t live like this anymore! Get out of my house before I have to kill you while you GET to sleep! And I’ll do it ::starting to cackle::, oh yes, I WILL DO IT! Just try me you snoring, unable to poop like a normal person man!”

hermit At this point there may have been spittle. There was wild and unruly hair, because one other ungodly thing that occurred this month was that I made the mistake of getting my hair cut – in town. Horribly. The fix has been hair almost as short as my husbands in places, which makes the rest of it kind of just stick out all over.
Then I promptly threw myself back into a prone position on the bed and slammed a pillow over my head to make the voices inside it chanting “Beat him! Beat him! Beat him!” sound just a wee less tempting.

What can I say, March in the northwest is a schizophrenic, bi-polar fiesta at best, so my behavior is nothing more than a reflection of the weather. Biblical rain, hail, wind storms that uproot, and sunshine all in one afternoon. I’ve had to find a happy place just to survive.(Now all I need is the $300k to buy it)  And I would show you a picture of it, except iPhoto crashed again, and needs to be rebuilt .. again. (Apple, you’re starting to show your “suck”.) – All that said, I did pick up a new little fish and then named him Franklin.  He’s pretty, but kind of stupid.


I’ve tried to upload a clip of my 1 Second A Day for the months of February and March to show you a little of my fantastic month; live, and in person – using both YouTube and Vimeo, but neither work; the sound is off or it just won’t share.  So thanks for nothing YouTube and Vimeo, and WordPress for making video un-doable…. more and more I’m yearning for Blogger.  For sleep.  For anything in this obtuse life to just WORK.

I’m having some orange juice, watching something incredibly mind-numbing, then going to bed.



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Red Pill or Blue Pill?


Just when we think we’ve decided on one thing, life throws in the inevitable monkey wrench. No sooner had I firmly, irreversibly decided that no way was I moving back to Utah for anything short of a lobotomy, or 500 million dollars, then the universe chuckles at my insignificant flailings, and Poof! All sorts of crap comes shooting down the cosmic slide.

My parents are offering to let the Daughterling and I live with them until Husband can get something in the order of a real job started. Which in code speak means the Husband and I are looking at starting a trucking business.  Let’s be honest, at this point in life we have no other options, and starting in the trucking business means living below the poverty level…. longer, and even more so. Basically, if we’re not working for ourselves we’re laying our necks out for big business, which doesn’t give a goat full of poo as to whether we can afford medical care, a roof over our heads, or trivial things like food. This country is sliding so fast down the highway to Hell that I’m beginning to suspect people are too traumatized to realize they’re headed to slaughter, like a bunch of complacent sheep roofied out in the back of the Disneyland pedophile van of death.


I have two ways I can look at this. Either I can feel like life just kicked me in the teeth again, or I can seek out the adventurous route, and try to see this as a 2-3 year adventure to get me back on my feet. Visit family. Hike the red rock. Give all those gossipy church gals someone new to be horrified and scandalized by…. I’ve never been received well by that society…. this could all go so horribly wrong.  ::grOan::  … and I did mention that part about living with my parents, right?


It’s not that I’m some atheist, anti-religion fiend. I’ve deep spiritual beliefs of my own, they just don’t include organized religion. Why? Because I have been judged, condemned, and run out of town by so many of them and their self-righteous posses of snottery that I’ve lost count. I’ve found more acceptance and unconditional love in people with no religious agendas. Live and let live.  Normal people seem to appreciate who I am, and some even enjoy my company. CRAZY … I know.  One should also take into account that I’m talking Utah.  Unless you’ve lived there; been born into the “flock”, so to speak, you truly have no concept of how warped and Fkd-up closed a society it is. — When I ran away left at eighteen, it was remarkably similar to The Matrix.  And once you take that Red Pill you realize how many Blue Pills you’ve had forced down your throat.  … and yes; I see the irony of the Blue Pill allowing you to join the free people in Zion.  Life is full of irony.

Red or Blue Pill

So yeah, Utah is back on the table, and I’m at that point in life where my mouth gets me into a lot of trouble. I have the unfortunate habit of saying whats is on my mind. … You’ve read this blog.  You know what I’m talking about.  OY … Utah is not the place for independent thinkers with liberated mouths and big boobs. I think that particular combination is actually illegal in certain cities.

Good grief. What am I doing?-!


This could be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Even worse than eating that fajita in Tijuana.

I’m going to go drown myself in music and paint now. messy


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Vibrantly Messy, with a chance of Crabass


I’m going to attempt to blog with more frequency, if for no other reason than to get my write on. Bear with me; it’s no secret the grey matter inhabiting this vast space inside my cranium can be a might bit, well … weird. Off. Vibrantly messy, with a chance of meatballs.


You poor folks have no idea what you’re in for. …. Once, way back in high school I wrote a love poem; from some seriously slutty mud, to a hippopotamus. It wasn’t what I had in mind initially, it’s what came out when I put pen to paper. I think I was still delirious from a Sunday night Mormon bender of root beer and green jello. (Yes; that is actually a thing in Utah.) Thankfully my creative writing teacher .. who looked feature for fact like Elmer Fudd, didn’t kick me straight to the principals office. He found it amusing enough to place in a national competition … along with a few other things. It got a nod, along with a horrible poem involving Santa, BBQed reindeer, and some power lines. ….. let’s just say he read way more into that one than I did, though I did appreciate the wad of cash it won, so I forgave him.

I can’t make any promises as to what might come out of this head of mine. It may be poetic, or messy; possibly cringe-worthy or flat-line boring. All bets are on.

Thus, for today’s ….. hang on……………………



Well that was fun. As I sat here tickling the keyboard I heard a sudden screeching and knocking from just outside the slider door. A Stellers jay had managed to find the bamboo wind chimes I got in Key West years ago with my brother Jase. He had flown down with another brother, Ben, and we had all headed south to get a little snorkeling in along the Keys. At some point margaritas and Corona had gotten involved, and we came home with several sets of coconut/ bamboo wind chimes. This particular one had the coconut end of the combo carved into a crab. Seems le crabe is offensive to El gran pájaro, so the blue punk decided to kick a little crabby ass. (I have to admit, I just now sat here and wondered how one might go about doing that, literally. Where, exactly, is a crabs ass?)

Yes. I Googled it.

Did you know there is such a thing as an ass crab?

Asscrab n.) Generally used for a person or thing who, apart from being a complete asshole, is also very obviously crabby.

crabby christian

It was on Google, so it must be real.

Then there is the hermit crab; not to be confused with an asscrab. They actually live with lots of other little crabs, so the concept of ornery, lone curmudgeon crabs living in shacks in Montana would be inaccurate. Anybutt, on these guys the “ass” happens to be called a “telson”. Apparently they poop in the shell then use their stubby-leggy-thingies (pereiopods) to shove the crap out. But, if you’re thinking more along the lines of something you might want to dip in butter, it’s basically the same plumbing, they just look different. The telson on something like a Dungeness is located at the tip of that flappie-thingy on the abdomen (triangular abdominal flap). BTW; their poop looks like dirt, kind of like most kinds of poop on earth … at least that I’m familiar with, not including that weird green poop that babies sometimes shoot out of themselves though. Your guess as is good as mine on that mystery.

crab anatomy

I told you this could go anywhere. At least now you have something to tuck away for that day your child asks, “How do crabs poop?” (And at least fifteen other people that are either high, or drunk, are going to google how crabs poop, and come across this post. To them I say, “You’re welcome.”)

Back to the bird. He had managed to tangle a leg in the string that holds the whole thing together, so I got out some work gloves and freed the damn thing. Now he’s sitting in the tree in the middle of the yard yelling at the crab … maybe at me, I’m not entirely sure. I have to say though, this is a first for me. Apart from one or two small feathers the jay is fine, and my wind chime is none the worse for wear.

This is turning out to be a really weird day, so I’m going to end the post here. After that fiasco and crabby sidetrack I’m ready to get back to cleaning the house. My brother Ben, his friend Trouble, and my son are all flying up from Utah to celebrate ManChild’s 21st birthday. (So far no sign of the girlfriend – Woot! ) The husband has set up a Seattle pub crawl for all of us. Not the advertised cushy ones that citified beatniks and rockabillys do … oh no. Those wussies only do 3 hours / 4 pubs / 1 mile. So far ours is up to All Day / 8 pubs / 2 miles.


The last time Ben and Trouble were here we did Several Hours / 4 pubs / Innumerable miles. I was the DD, so I had to babysit the bunch of boobs as they prowled the streets of Seattle until the last ferry out, around 2 a.m.. Then, when we got back to the peninsula where we had parked, the car wouldn’t start. I ended up going home in a tow truck while the boys wandered around Bainbridge Island until 4 a.m.. When I finally got back to the island to pick them up they were nowhere to be found … so I followed the racket around town. I could hear hollering off in the distance; I knew that much like finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, I would find my motley hooligans where the ear found the source of the clamor.

I was right. And, because I could elaborate for another hour or two, I am ending things here for today. I’ve gotten sidetracked enough for the time being and need to get back to life.  And I’m starting to feel morally trashy. …. really, I don’t spend all my free time pickling my liver.

So, uuhhh, yeah. Vibrantly messy, with a chance of crab butts, hooliganism, psychotic birds, and the Florida Keys. Thats what my day looked like today.


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Like Sands Through The Hourglass…

Hour_GlassI’m not the most prolific blogger to hit the web.  I don’t do giveaways, have comments that number in the hundreds (or even tens), or write posts about events I completely make up.  I don’t even have a job involving other people I can live vicariously through.  Mostly I clean the house of a quiet elderly couple:  I refer to this as The Lawrence Welk House…. today the full orchestral score of “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” was softly poking my brain in Dolby surround while I scrubbed their already pristine toilet.  The woman “June”, was busy sewing another quilt for babies in Africa while “Ward” rearranged his military memorabilia and sipped on seltzer water.

It’s balls to the wall crazy around here!

If my life becomes any more beige I’m going to slip into a coma and drool all over myself.

Other than pretending to be an exotic, sassy, domesticated servant, I have been at bat with other issues that have popped up.  First and foremost is the imminent arrival of ManChild, who has recently quit his $45k a year job after 3 months, and has decided that moving back in with yours truly is the best option for him.  Because I can obviously afford this new phase in his life better than he can.

Did I mention he’s intent on flying in his (until about a week ago completely unknown) homeless girlfriend from Loxahatchee, Florida?  He describes her as.. and I quote directly here, “She’s going to tell you exactly what she thinks of you, and she’s not going to take any shit from anyone … so everyone just better respect her or she’ll defend herself by whatever means she has to.”


The reasoning behind her touted “homeless” status is beginning to make sense.  This girl … whom I’ll refer to as “ForTheLoveOfGod-PleaseNo!” until I actually get to meet the dear face to face … has not only reportedly been kicked out of both her mother’s and her father’s home, but also every home she’s managed to set foot into, including but not limited to: best friends, relatives, strange but friendly men she met at the local bar, homeless shelters, hospital emergency rooms, mall bathrooms, and I’m guessing, Disneyland.


It is a safe assumption that my home will be next.  I’m hoping his newly updated status of “Poor and living with mom” will have her searching for her next meal ticket elsewhere…. like, before I have to kick her out of my house with a frying pan to the skull.

In other news, the Daughterling finally got her cast off (6 weeks early), because she’s losing mobility in her wrist.  In 6 weeks we can start the physical therapy… or put the cast back on and hope to find a magical lamp with a wish granting genie inside.

Fun times.

…. there is one more event I’m dragging my feet on here.  Over the weekend we lost one of our little dogs.  “Boo” (AKA: Butt Nut, Poo Poo, Poops-a-lot-of-mess, Boo-boo-ton, Boobers, Bugga)  was 13, and had a horrible case of Cushing’s disease.  His skin was literally rotting off of him; he was also blind, deaf, and completely out of his mind.  We made the decision to help him into the next world … and I’ll tell you … I have never felt so horrible in my life.  It took me a good hour at the vet’s clinic to allow him to administer the first of two injections…. and that was hell.  The first is a sedative, which takes about ten minutes to fully set in.  Ten minutes of eviscerating my soul as I watch my little guy slowly sink to his bum, then his chest; liquid brown eyes drowning me in guilt.  I felt a whisper of betrayal in his sigh, then I collapsed into a tsunami of tears and apologizes.  He fell asleep peacefully, snoring in my lap.  Then the vet arrived with the second, and final dose.  I couldn’t watch, but sat and cried quietly (hysterically) into a kleenex while I kept one hand on his tiny, warm head.  The vet tapped my knee to let me know he was gone…. and I was lost to misery.

Boo 2001-2014

Now, I’ve been around animals my whole life, and death isn’t new to me.  But this boy was special.  He’s been with me since my daughter first fell apart at age four.  He’s been through the horrible teenaged years with my kids, the trial separations from my husband, the bankruptcy, the suicide … everything; all of it.  He was my rock.  My therapist.  My heart.  My friend.  Wherever I went, he was with me; traveling, flying, camping, hiding, running away… my shadow.  He would come to sleep by me as I lay on the couch, gently tucking his head on my neck, just under my chin.  I would feel his little heart beating, and I was content; safe in the vibrations of his snoring.

I made a hard decision.  I needed to do what was best for him .. not me.  If it were all about me, he would still be here, so my heart wouldn’t have to break.

The last three months he’s been confined to a corner of the dining room because he couldn’t control his bowels or his bladder.  He had lost so much muscle to the disease he often fell over, and couldn’t get back up.  He was missing skin, down to the muscle, that required hourly care.  Sometimes he would sleep so deeply it took a long time to rouse him.  I knew what was coming, but its taken me a while to work up to it, and I almost backed out of it again… but it was time.  He let me know that; it hasn’t made it any easier.

It was time for him.  The hard part was accepting it was time for me to acknowledge and accept that.

Changing subjects now.

As I was typing this my son called to tell me he had made it to Utah, to my brother Ben’s house, and he’s decided he’s going to hang out for a week or two; maybe look for work, because one of Ben’s dogs really likes him.   Wha????

(Translation: I want to hang out and drink beer, and if I stumble across a job while I’m here, I’ll stay.)

Awesome.  :::insert motherly sigh of “Yeah, there’s a great foundation to base a life decision on.”:::

Speaking of motherhood, I’m now off to do all the running around for Daughterling’s school crap.  With all the school she’s missed, and the end of the semester a week away, she’s suddenly remembered all the projects she needed to get done months ago…. and I’m the schlump who gets to fetch all the supplies, go to the printers, email all the teachers, and pretend I have any clue what the hell is going on around here.

Mazel Tov.


Posted in Housekeeping, Mental Walkabout, Motherhood, S.S.D.D., The Daily Grind | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Nightlife; Van Gogh and Setting the Town on Fire

Van Gogh, Nightlife

The other night, while scouring the back streets and shadows of Bremerton, Washington, the husband and I stumbled upon The Boat Shed under the Manette Bridge. It’s weathered backside hovered precariously over a surging tide that winked in the reflected bridge lights, not unlike Van Gogh’s “Nightlife“.

The Boat Shed Restaurant

The Puget Sound being the eclectic little entity that it is, allows for the continuous discovery of such quaint hidey-holes of tranquility, and I never tire of searching out these rumored gems.

Typically we never go out, considering petrol costs approximately the same amount per gallon here as the yearly GDP of Liechtenstein.
…. No. I’m not joking, and don’t call me Shirley……
We made an exception, because let’s be honest; the Husband and I need to spend more quality time together.  Time that doesn’t involve laundry, kids at the hospital, or looking for jobs that don’t suck the life out of us. .. none of that sparks l’amour; now back to the story….

Parking was a challenge, since the sun sets here around four in the winter, and the spaces where one could actually park were situated in such a manner it was akin to playing a bastard offshoot of a rousing Tetris-Frogger game, while both blindfolded and legally drunk.

Inside the atmosphere was warm, if not a bit too dark to read the menu, but the waitress was cheerful and attentive, so that made all the difference. We started with stuffed mushrooms and a sourdough, their steam coating the windows in a micro version of the northern lights in black and white. Later I moved on to a smoked salmon linguine while the husband enjoyed a seafood version of the same. (clam, muscles, scallop, shrimp, salmon & halibut) We talked briefly about moving while we watched the tide swing out, swirling driftwood and flotsam just below our window. Occasionally I squinted through the steam, sending the bridge lights into a swirl of fireworks; was this how Van Gogh saw his world… ? I sat there content, surrounded by the earthy scent of smoked salmon and a cool pane of glass against my forehead; lost, if only briefly, in whimsy and possibility.

Inside The Boat Shed

(Oh!  So that’s what it looks like inside!)

Inside myself I feel that same tug of change; something swirling just below the surface, unseen and mysterious….. I’ve toyed with the idea of moving to Utah, for my sake; for the Daughterling’s sake…. and there is some appeal to the wild red rock that sleeps in a high mountain desert… but my heart is anchored here, just north of normal, and somewhere below forever. I hesitate to make the commitment of such a long move again; the last move to Florida having been one of the less intelligent decisions I’ve made in the last decade… I don’t care to repeat that failure.

Then there is the older lady I used to clean for; she’s called, and begged me to come back, forsaking the gossipy cleaning Troll that has been the bane of my existence… I know there will be fallout …. around here, when isn’t there? So I’ve taken the offer. It won’t be much, but it’s something, and that means everything. I’m also starting an internship with the local humane society in K-9 behavior and training. I seem to work with dogs well as it is … they’re much easier to understand than people, and far, far more adorable. I simply need something I know I can succeed at to get me back on my feet, while attempting to live as though my life has purpose and depth.

As for the impending move, I’m downsizing. Eliminating the excess. Walking away from the weight of domestication.. and seasonal chocolates. I am becoming a *Running Woman once again, and the promise of liberation that offers me is sprinting like a sirens song through my veins. I really have no idea what this next year will bring, aside from change, and I’m just fine with that. I’m still struggling with a unmedicated perspective, but discovering that I’m okay with who I am inside. I feel as though self-acceptance has been a big step towards freeing myself from the strangle-hold of depression. – It has not cured it, and I’m not expecting to rise every day like Cinderella; singing to the little birdies and happily mopping everyone’s footprints from my forehead as I dream of castles, and passive-aggressive revenge on the local townsfolk. (Though I would buy popcorn and a large soda, and watch as the whole place burned to the ground as Hell rose up to swallow it. I might even clap at the end and scream, “AGAIN! AGAIN!” But I’m not out to strike the first match. They play with enough fire every day on their own, no help from me needed to set it ablaze. …. Burn baby, BURN! .. MUAhahahahahahah! …ummm; ignore that last bit.)

This is where I am right now.


(* Running Woman:  A woman with a gypsy heart she follows relentlessly, despite being married, a mother, or enslaved domesticated.  Running Women must escape from time to time, either by allowing their mind to run wild, or actually running from any afore mentioned spouses / children / domestication, to undisclosed locations for extended periods of time to regain their sense of self, remember their own value, and to bond with other running women in need of the same.  Running Women do not wait for a Prince Charming; they would only run him over.  Running Women do not diet while in running mode; dieting is the accidental consequence of forced labor during suburban domestication, and child rearing.  Running Women always invite other women to become runners; everyone needs someone to run with.  Unlike Fight Club, Running Women are encouraged to talk about running away, and practice what they preach…. consequences be damned.  …. See Jane run.  Run Jane.  Run!)

Run Jane


(Considering how things are unfolding in my personal life, I figured a clear representation was in order… and I am not, in any way, insinuating anyone has a little ball, or trying to trivialize anyone with one.  The fact that Dick even has a ball is a moot point…. this isn’t even about poor Dick.  This is about Jane.  Dick was merely a pawn to my point.)
Posted in Left Field, Mental Health, Mental Walkabout, Motherhood, Social Climate, The Daily Grind | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments