“Are you six like me?” the little boy tottered unsteady on the river rocks in front of Jack. He was much slighter than my son, still…they seemed oddly similar in age. “I’m ten.” Jack said. Numbers are easy, and his speech patterns didn’t twist on such a simple answer. He was looking past the little…
Pioneers used buffalo turds for fire fuel, y’know. They had too, there’s long stretches of treeless-ness in the middle of America. But “buffalo chips” are Nature’s Duraflame logs. Grass digested, compacted, dried by sun with a spark friendly infusement of methane perhaps…the words of one pioneer diarist I’ve read said “You might think it unpleasant,…
Barb and Mr. Barb (in two years, I’ve never heard his name) have been good neighbors. They made peace with our dogs and children and the constant brutal cacophony of “memories being made” and “vengeance being wrought on the weak” that comes constantly from our side of the fence. Mr. Barb doesn’t talk except the…
This isn’t a New Year’s Resolution. This is what is whispered alone, only to yourself, when you’ve washed up on a strange but solid shore, chest heaving, frightened, shocked, but still alive. You’re alive. You’re going to need to fight to stay that way. Not vague, namby pamby promises. No. You are precisely aware of…
Well I’m scared, is all. The pain is coming, and I’m all out of ideas. First, there was what Breezy said last year in my red whore-house chair. Breezy was my not-quite-friend when we were 13. She didn’t laugh enough at my Star Trek:TNG jokes and she liked Randy Travis so there was little to…
Tomorrow is Monday. I got nothing scheduled tomorrow. So I can spend one more day trying to sleep off this cold. I’ll watch Supernatural on Netflix and Adventure Time on Hulu, the two shows I’ve chosento see me through this month. When I’m uncomfortable, I like to watch shows so removed from reality that I…
We can’t all be good mothers. It just doesn’t add up.
I put him to bed tonight. I tried to tickle, hug, sing, play. Slow, gentle; I know not to smother or overwhelm him. Interspersed between each new attempt was the constant refrain, near tears, “Get out! Get Out! Get Out!” pointing at the door.
Since I became aware of blogs, I’ve had one. Always anonymous because I had guck, and I wanted to be free to splatter that guck any way I wished to fling it. I can’t do that freely anymore. I’m real now, accountable for my whines and prejudices and selfishness. But just this once…I’m just gonna…
It’s back to my woo-woo Lisa the Good Witch therapist, and her hourly rate; which is so high it seems like only the most sad and baffled aging Hollywood wives would be asked to pay it. And me. Because goddammit, she’s a soul-fixer genius. I don’t care if she DOES believe the midichlorians that incandescence her blood…
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