Dusty Mantels and Unmade Beds

I’m like 98.587% sure I’m sick.  I’m not calling it yet because I DO NOT WANT TO ADMIT DEFEAT to whatever this thing is that is making my throat feel like sandpaper every time I swallow.  Fuck this shit.  I’m not acknowledging its existence and maybe it will go away. If I ignore it, it can’t bother me right?  Right.  So carry on, will ya?  I’m fine.

I really really really feel like horse shit, though.


Most of the company from out of town has arrived now.  My sister will be here tomorrow and she’s staying with me.  That means I’ll be running around like a psycho making sure everything is in order and presentable.  Not that I don’t keep a clean house…..well, what’s your standard of clean?  We should talk about this.  I have a young boy, two fairly large dogs and a cat.  There’s a lot of living going on around here and it’s not always pretty.  I do keep the dishes and the clothes washed, though, and I vacuum pretty regularly.  I’m not the greatest at dusting or putting things away after I’ve used them.  I have 712 junk drawers and they’re all full.  I don’t alphabetize the cans in my pantry.  (I have a sister-in-law who does.)  My refrigerator sometimes resembles one you might stumble across at a frat house.  Being just the two of us here, there’s always leftovers that rarely get eaten.  I throw them out eventually but sometimes they get shoved to the back, like they’re hiding, and I forget they’re in there.  What else?  I don’t have a whole lot of junk everywhere but I do have a dedicated junk room.  That’s where Max’s old toddler bed is that I’m thinking of turning into a dog bed.  They have a whole couch to themselves now but it’s getting kind of raggedy and I want to replace it.  I’m thinking of getting another toddler bed, one for each of them, and painting their names across the headboard.  How fucking adorable, I know.  Also, I don’t make my bed everyday.  Horrors!  A fucking grown ass adult with an unmade bed.  What in the actual fuck.  Ok.  But listen.  Here’s the thing.  Who the fuck is going into my bedroom?  (I mean, clearly, you’re not.  I’d make it up the first time you saw it, though.  After that, I can’t make any promises.)  Look, it’s not like my bed is in the middle of the living room when a guest walks in.  It’s upstairs and down a hall.  No one is seeing that shit.  I’m not giving people tours of my home for fuck’s sake.  I do regularly wash the sheets, so don’t worry.  I really like things that smell good.  I’m all about scents.  I love linen sprays and room sprays and candles and all that predictable girlie shit.  And incense occasionally.  Depends on my mood. 

Don’t worry, it’s really not so awful around here.  I just have other things to think about other than the dust on my mantel on any given day.  I bet there won’t be a speck of dust to be found anywhere tomorrow, though.  Watch.

Anyway, I have to go socialize now.   Actually, they all went out to eat but will be back soon.  I didn’t feel like going.  I really am sick.  Blah.  Come tuck me into my unmade bed and read me a story.  But not one of your sexy ones, dammit.  I am in no condition to jump your bones at the moment.

P.S.  Is it mantel or mantle?  It’s mantel, right??

Christmas Eve

It’s quiet now.  Everyone has gone home.  It’s late.  Max is upstairs sleeping.  Waiting on Santa.  I’ve put all the gifts under the tree, filled the milk half full in Santa’s mug, chomped the end off the carrot, left the crumbs from the cookies, filled his stocking.  We’re ready.  I can’t wait to see him in the morning.  There won’t be many more of these left.  Maybe one.  Maybe two.  This blind faith.  This innocence.  It’s so fleeting.  You have no idea how fleeting it is.  I never did either until I became his mom.  I think of him sleeping up there in my king size bed and I think of all the sleeps he’ll hopefully have from here on after and I wish every single one of them could be a Christmas Eve sleep when he was 8 years old and he knew Santa was coming.  I wish all the world could have that kind of sleep forever.  The pure exhaustion from a day of anticipation.  He didn’t think he’d ever be able to fall asleep but he was passed out by 8:30 on the couch.  I carried his limp body up the stairs and tucked him in under my covers and whispered “Santa is coming.”

I’m exhausted and my house smells like a Hallmark Christmas movie if you can imagine what that might smell like.  It’s disgusting and comforting and home all at once.  I don’t know what that means or how that makes sense but somehow it does. I’ve cooked all the food I can cook and tomorrow I will take it over to my dad’s house and we will all laugh and talk like the past never happened.  And maybe it didn’t, you know?  Maybe life is just a series of individual events and not some ongoing monologue you can’t escape.  I like the idea of that.   It’s not true, of course, but for this one day, let me believe it just as surely as that sweet boy upstairs asleep in my bed believes that Santa Claus is coming tonight.

Goodnight, wherever you are.  I hope you’re already asleep and dreaming of some epic Christmas Eve when you were a kid.

Holiday Cheese Balls and Whatnot

I just lost my damn mind at the grocery store.  To the tune of two hundred and some odd dollars.  What?!  What is wrong with me?  I went through all my holiday recipes this morning and decided I was going to make ALL OF THEM!  Dumbass.  It’s too late to back out.  I’m committed now.  I hardly have time to type these words to you.  There are cheeseballs to put together, Christmas chex mix to bake, casseroles, snowmen shaped fudge, chocolate covered pretzels, roasted pecans.  Oh my god…. Not to mention the cheese chowder I make every year for Christmas Eve.

 I need an intervention.

If you need me anytime before Christmas, I’ll be in the kitchen.  I’m just gonna sleep on the floor.  There’s no time to waste.

So listen, this is a sad but cool story.  There’s this guy I follow on facebook (don’t worry, I don’t actually post or do anything on facebook – I just troll around).  I’m not exactly sure how I stumbled across him but somehow I did and he’s interesting as all fuck.  He lives over in Mississippi and used to write for some magazine or newspaper or both, I’m not sure.  Turns out, he and his lady are driving to San Francisco at the end of this month to attend the Dead & Company show on December 30 and 31.  Here’s a link to the story.


How badass is that?  I’m super jealous.  I want to travel across the country in a cargo van and sleep in the back (as long as there’s an air mattress) and sell my pimento cheese sandwiches and copies of your  book. (wait…what?)   We can go back to real life eventually but, god, that would be a fun detour.
Obviously, I donated to the cause.  I’m a sucker for wanderers and lost souls and under dogs and anything and everything that is both gentle and honest.  And also lewd and sarcastic.  Basically, anything real.
Anyway, maybe I’ll go over to Mississippi and hide in their cargo van before they leave. 
Come look for me in the parking lot of the Chase Center, ok?

P.S. I’d stay longer but there are mounds of groceries waiting on me to turn them into something and this mixture of cheese and whatnot is not going to roll itself.  Also, Max has a migraine. Also, there might be some champagne and a tabletop tennis set included in that two hundred and odd dollar purchase.  I’m not sure.

Meet Me in New Orleans in April?

If I were to buy an extra ticket to see Taj Mahal in April in New Orleans, would you come?

I’m serious.  I’ve been thinking a lot about this since yesterday when it suddenly occurred to me that, at some point, I will have to accept the fact that you are not coming back.  I won’t be able to do that unless I’ve exhausted all my resources.  I need to know I did everything in my limited ability to try to reach you.  I say limited because you’ve left me only this platform with which to speak to you.  I come here every single day to send my words out to you.  I don’t always know what I want to say.  I don’t always know if I’ll have anything to say.  Hence, the utter garbage as of late.  I only know I need to say something so you will know I’m still here.  I don’t ever want you to think I’m not here or that I’ve left you.  I’m never going to leave you but I will eventually have to accept the fact that you may have already left me.  I won’t accept that without something concrete.  A sign, if you will.

So I propose the following:

Meet me in New Orleans on April 30.  I’ll buy an extra ticket to see Taj.   We’ll meet somewhere at a certain time.  I’ll give you those details later.  I haven’t quite worked that out yet.  I’ll tell you exactly what I’ll be wearing.  You already know what I look like so you’ll recognize me, I’m certain.  I’ll buy the tickets on my birthday and post a picture here when I do.

I know you aren’t reading any of this and this is all in vain but it will maybe give me closure on April 30 when you don’t show up.  It will give me the proof my heart needs that you no longer exist except in my memory.  I will go to the show alone.  Maybe I will leave the extra ticket on the bar before I make my way to the venue.  Maybe some stranger will pick it up.  Maybe he will hold my hand while I weep for you.  Maybe he will hug me and tell me goodbye after the show and maybe I will whisper goodbye back to him, knowing I’m really whispering it to you.


Soap Box Sugar Cookies

It’s official.  I need to disengage from the world for a while.  I need to hide out in a cabin in the woods for the better part of forever.  Or a cabin in the mountains.  Or a beach shack somewhere.  Why not all three?  I’ll just rotate around the different seasons.  Somehow they’ll all be magically stocked with everything I need and even some things I don’t.  Just as long as I can completely disengage from humanity for a while.  That’s the main goal here.  I’m not trying to ‘rough it’ or anything.  Hell, I couldn’t hunt for food if my life depended on it.  I can’t even bait a hook with a live worm.  Poor worm!  Poor fish!  It’s all so tragic.  I eat meat, of course.  I just can’t actively participate in the killing of the meat.

I went Christmas shopping today.  Hence the need to disengage.  It’s so awful.  And before you make any remarks about how shopping between Halloween and Thanksgiving would alleviate this need for solitude, I’ll have you know I always feel this way when I have to go shopping.  I do not enjoy shopping.  I like things and I like buying things but I do not like other people who also want to buy things.  I do not like the sad, old men sitting on the benches while their ladies have been in the same store for half a century and still can’t decide on the red or other-red scarf.  I can’t stand to see them dejectedly pushing the carts around after their Martha’s and Shirley’s while both Martha and Shirley have been standing in the middle of aisle 3 for thirty minutes now talking about the church potluck.  I want to punch both Martha and Shirley in the face and take ol’ Tom and Ed to that little bar up the road, settle them in all nice and comfy at a corner table, order their seltzer water and tell the bartender to turn the game on already.  Poor Tom and Ed.  Neither one drinks much anymore but they still enjoy the atmosphere of a bar with a ballgame on in the background.  At least let them have that while you ladies take up the entire aisle talking about the same shit you always talk about.  And for the love of all that is holy, enough with the hairspray and baby powder perfume.  I can’t even deal.

And double fuck the socialite moms with their oversized sunglasses and Starbucks.  Bitch, it’s raining.  It’s actually raining.  They’re constantly on the phone and have to stop right in front of you to shoot off a text to …who?  The Queen of England, apparently, because it cannot wait one fucking millisecond.  You’re just going to have to deal with it whoever you are behind me because don’t you know I don’t give a fuck about you.  You are a mere peasant.  Didn’t you know you were in the presence of royalty?  I don’t know, ma’am, half your face is hidden under those giant sunglasses and the other half is swollen from the lip plumpers your husband keeps begging you not to get because you can’t suck dick for at least a week after the injection and a dick suck is all the poor bastard gets anymore now that you’ve gained a few pounds around your middle that NO ONE can even see except you.  Maybe those fake eyelashes are casting a shadow on your tummy and making it appear to have grown an actual curve?.  Go sit down somewhere.  You fucking exhaust me

God, the teenagers and the couples in love and the awkward dads and the single moms and the kids and the babies and even me and my own goddamn self who is just as annoying to someone else as they are to me.  It drives me as batshit as all the crap stuffed on all the shelves everywhere all over every damn store you walk into.  There are literal pathways through all the junk, forcing you to walk single file like you’re back in elementary school.  There’s a million different versions of the same thing everywhere.  There are 76 shades of this brown pottery and 184 portraits of this painting with the red dot in a slightly different place.  Changes the whole meaning of the piece, don’t ya think?  NO.  I don’t.  Put the red dot back where it belongs and destroy the other one hundred eighty three imitations.

Awww, fuck.  I’m turning into an ornery old lady!  I’m gonna be swinging a cane around pretty soon and yelling at all the neighborhood kids from the rocker on my front porch.

Except I won’t.  I’ll just keep it all to myself and then vent to you about it when I get home.  I’ll get on my soap box and deliver a tirade so full of expletives you’ll have no choice but to grab me off that soap box, haul me into the bedroom, throw me on the bed and proceed to pound all the bah humbug right back out of my bones.

Then we’ll decorate sugar cookies and lick icing off each other.

Like these.  Maybe your name will be on one next year.

Every Single Second

This new coffee maker I got doesn’t make any noise whatsoever when it brews. I’m kinda pissed about that.  The son of a bitch isn’t even red, either.  The only red one they had was $30.  This one only cost me $20.

Wait a minute. I lied.

I just walked in the kitchen to get something and it’s over there making these faint gurgling sounds all under its breath like it’s embarrassed or something.  Like “sorry, I have to do this, hope you don’t mind.”  Bitch, let me hear you!  My old coffee maker made so much damn noise.  Like an old man working all the kinks out when he stood up.  I guess maybe that’s why it died on me.  It was old as fuck.  Well, this new one needs to go on and live a little because I like a coffee maker that talks to me while it’s working its magic. 

I don’t know why I’m making coffee at 1:30 on a Friday afternoon except that when my other one died, it suddenly became urgent that I replace it ASAP.  The thought that I couldn’t brew coffee even if I wanted to suddenly made me want coffee at all times of the day.  It’s 5 p.m. on a Wednesday, need coffee.  It’s 2:30 in the morning and I can’t sleep, must make coffee.  Brains are a total mind-fuck, aren’t they?

How do you take your coffee?  Do you even like coffee or is tea more your thing?  I like both but I drink two cups of coffee every morning.  I drink the first cup black and the second cup with powdered creamer.  I don’t use any sugar or artificial sweetener.  If I have coffee in the afternoon I’m inclined to use powdered creamer.  Obviously, I’d love to use heavy cream in my coffee but that’s just too much decadence for everyday life.  I save the heavy cream for places like Waffle House or the continental breakfast at a hotel.  One simply cannot live luxuriously every single day.  What ever would become of us if we did?  We’d be way too bougie.  I like peppermint tea sometimes in the evening.  I once read this book where the main character was always drinking peppermint tea.  Like every other page (I don’t even remember the name of the book now).  I’d never had peppermint tea before but halfway through that book, I made a special trip to the grocery to pick some up.  I’ve been drinking it ever since.  Sometimes I put milk and honey in it if I’m feeling special.

Max’s guitar came today!  Oh my god.  I’m so excited.  I want to take it out and play with it.  I bought him an amp and a stand for it plus the picks.  What else does he need?  His best friend, Dez, is getting a drum set for Christmas. They’re totally going to jam together.  Obviously, they’ll be rock stars any day now.

I plan to finish my Christmas shopping tomorrow, you’ll be happy to know.  I only have every single person left to buy for so I should be able to knock it out in an afternoon.  Max is mostly done, though, so that’s really all that matters.  I’d buy a gift for you if you were still around.  Maybe I’ll buy myself one instead.  What should I get?  I really need a new flat iron for my hair.  I banged mine on the counter the other morning because it was in my hand and it just sorta accidentally happened to slam down.  It may or may not have a crack in it now.  I’m not sure.  But whatever.  Listen.  I’m not a violent person.  I was just very frustrated because my hair would not lay flat no matter how many times I passed the iron over it.  Fucking bitch ass hair. 

I’ve had two cups of coffee while I’ve been writing this whole junk of nothing to you.  I guess I’m feeling a little better today.  I’ve made it to the top of this hole but I still haven’t climbed out.  I’m kind of just hanging here on the edge, like a swimming pool.  It could go either way really.  I might get out and sit on the side or I might hold my nose and go back under.  Too early to tell.

I really just stopped by here to tell you that no matter how many days keep piling up between us,

I still think of you every single second of every single one.

Day and Night

I’ve been keeping really late hours these past couple of weeks.  I can’t hide from the day anymore because there’s a small human that lives here who absolutely does not want to hide from the day at all.  Not even a little bit.

I’ve always felt better in the night even though she scares the hell out of me.  Why is that?  The night falls around me like a soft shawl across my shoulders and then like a knife slashing my shower curtain.  She is a wily little bitch, isn’t she?  I revel in her.  I love the way she both comforts and frightens in the same space.

The day, though?  That guy is such a giant douche.  He shows up before the night is even ready to go home and starts fucking shit up right away.  We’re all chill as fuck and riding out the last few moments of  peace and then Day arrives and starts yelling at everybody to get the fuck up.  He douses his fucking sunshine all over the goddamn place until nobody can see shit anymore.  Then, the goddamn birds start squawking at each other because they don’t have a clue what the fuck is going on.

What a shit-show.


The universe is trying to convince me you’re never coming back, you’re not out there and you deleted me from your life because you wanted to.  I’m really struggling to believe otherwise today.  I keep waiting for it to pass but it’s lingering.

Forgive me.

I’m sorry to burden you with my insecurities but I have them.  They’ve been talking to me all day and I can’t get them to shut the hell up.

Maybe I’m not as unflappable as you once believed me to be.

Do you remember saying that?  “You seem unflappable to me.”

It was when Max had the flu.

Maybe you chose the wrong word that day.

I’m far from unflappable.

I’m fragile and broken.

But I’m also not ready to give up on you.  I’m not giving up on you no matter how loudly the universe yells at me.  She can scream at me and throw baseballs at my head.  I’m not covering my ears or ducking.  My ear drums may collapse and my skull may crumble.

My heart can still feel you.

Maybe I am unflappable after all.

Or really, really fucking stupid.

Either way, you need to come back now and bring me your crumpled up body and your worn out bones and let me love the shit out them while there’s still time.  Or at least let me be friends with them.  I’m a great friend!  I promise I won’t try to touch you inappropriately or rub my boob on your arm or anything like that.  Hands to myself at all times.  I will not wipe that bit of caramel off your mouth and lick my finger afterwards.  I will not sit too close to you on the subway or stare at you dreamily while you’re reading a book or ordering your french fries.  I won’t take your arm when we’re crossing the street or try to kiss you when you read me that poem you found.  I mean…of course I won’t try to kiss you.  Nope, not me.

I will, however, send you cool shit for your birthday and all major holidays.  I’ll listen to you when you need to vent.  I will talk to you when you’re sad.  I’ll make you laugh when you need cheering up or even when you don’t.  I’ll read the books you recommend or watch the movies or listen to the music.  I’ll go to concerts with you and book signings and hole-in-the-wall shows. I’ll  talk to you about art and current events but only about politics if it’s really necessary.  And you can tell me all about your favorite baseball team and I’ll probably watch a game with you now and again.  I can do all that without jumping your bones.  I swear.  

But first.  Listen to Townes.  He knows what he’s talking about





    1. Sadness or depression of the spirits; gloom.
    2. Pensive reflection or contemplation.

I’m feeling rather melancholic today.  I’ve been listening to Townes Van Zandt a good deal.  I should really stop but I can’t.  So I won’t.

It’s all sad, gray, gloom.  The weather is even sad, gray, gloom.  I love sad, gray, gloom weather and I could handle sad, gray, gloom melancholy if you were still around.  It’s ok that you’re not so don’t go feeling bad about that.  I just miss you.

We had an almost tornado last night.  We were in the pantry with our helmets and pillows.  It eventually veered north but not before it caused me to genuinely worry.  I’m super talented at worrying.  Like if there was an award, I’d get it.

I worry about you all the time.  But not in an annoying way like “god, why am I worrying about this dude, ugh.”  More in a “damn I really hope he’s feeling alright and I wish I could make him feel better” kind of way.

I do wish that.

Max’s Christmas program is tomorrow.  I’ll try not to think about straddling you in a kitchen chair (god, I’m so inappropriate!) wearing only your discarded t-shirt from beside the bed; your musk all over it.

Oh, who am I kidding?  I’m gonna think about exactly that.  I think of exactly that all the time.  I want to straddle your lap, put my hands on your face, take your bottom lip between mine and suck it, swirl my tongue around it.  Your hands on my waist; you stiffening between my legs; Nina on the stereo:

Later, I’d tidy up your beard for you while I cooked you breakfast.

Well, hell.  That took an unexpected turn.  Strangely enough, I feel a little less melancholic now.  I know you don’t mind either so I’m not apologizing.  The thought of you still turns me on.  I am totally and completely wrecked over you.

In case you could use someone telling you this: you’re completely hot in every way…mind, body, soul.

Everything the same.

Long Monday

I’m having a real shit day today.

I yelled at Max this morning.  He didn’t want to wear the green shirt I picked out for him.  It’s the last week of school before Christmas break and each day they’re supposed to wear something different.  Today it was green for The Grinch.  Tomorrow it’s a tacky sweater.  Wednesday it’s red for their Christmas program.  Thursday it’s pajamas.  He didn’t like the shirt.  It was the only green shirt he has.  He said it was too tight.  It wasn’t.  We were short on time.  He was digging through his drawer to find another shirt.  I lost my temper.  Now, he’s at school in an orange shirt when he’s supposed to be wearing green and that breaks my goddamn heart.

I’ve spent most of the day feeling sorry for myself.  

I wrote this sixteen page poem about being a mom/soul guardian that spiraled way out of control before it was over.  I almost posted it but then I thought…hmm…I don’t want to show you my crazy all at once.  

So anyway, wanna read it?  It’s not actually 16 pages but it is a hot mess.   

I’ll spare you for now.  But someday I’m gonna make you read all my garbage.

It’s about time to go sit in the pick up line and wait for Max.  I don’t have any good songs today.  I’m not feeling the music at all.  I’m not feeling much of anything, really.  Well, besides what I feel for you but I’m not counting that.  I always feel electric for you no matter how shitty or blah my day has been.

I hope you still feel electric for me too. 

Oh wait.  I do have a song for you!  I was trying to think of what to name this post when I thought of ‘Long Monday.’  That’s a John Prine song I always wanted to play for you.  I was saving it to send to you after I got back home from meeting you for the first time.  But now works too.