There’s a boy at my house. And he’s been here for a few days. Sleeping on the couch.  And I’ve been drinking a glass of wine tonight. And he’s on the back porch playing the guitar. And the thought of all of it together makes me smirk with an anxious satisfaction.  

He’s the same old type of boy I’m always attracted to. Wandering in life.  Handsome as hell.  Dreamer.  No car. (not something that has ever bothered me.) Musician. Complicated by life. 

He’s sweet with my girls. He has three of his own (which always prompts the Brady Bunch theme in my head when I think about it.) They keep asking me where he is when he goes outside. Fern especially.  Her own daddy has not been so involved in her life (his choice.boo).  I don’t flirt with him in front of the girls.  At least obviously.  Because I don’t want them to get attached.  Because I don’t really know what’s going on. And I don’t really know that I care to know.    And i don’t wanna get attached.  Unless I do. 

Flow. Going with it.  Playing it cool. Not hanging on the every move of him.  Don’t even really want to?  Though he is becoming a thought in my brain.   I like to kiss his cheek I guess. Yeah. 

I’ve been so very alone for so very long. I’ve become so independent. So very to myself.  I think I’m not as good a talker as I used to be. And I don’t care to pretend I’m some great conversationalist. And that seems to be okay.  Just the way it is. 

I’ve snuck away long enough to think about it all.  More wine.   He doesn’t drink. 


Raffle Raffle Frozen Raffle

Tonight was family fun night at Fern’s preschool. There were dollar slices of pizza, free drinks, a baked goods sale, and dollar raffle tickets you could buy and drop into varying prize buckets with hopes of having your name drawn and winning. We bought several tickets, dropping most into the bucket for free passes for Tweetsie Railroad (a $156 value), quite a few in the “Frozen” gift basket bucket which held the movie, dress up clothes, books and other memorabilia, and some here and there in other baskets that caught the girl’s attention. There were about 50 prizes in all to be raffled away. With the anticipation of each name drawn and each prize given away, Ollie danced and hopped with excitement. Fern, too little to care about the prizes, was more into hugging on Mrs. ‘Silla at the baked goods table , glowing at the novelty of seeing her preschool teacher at night. One by one, names were drawn and called, prizes collected. We didn’t win the gift certificates to the restaurants on Walker Ave. We didn’t win the collection of art supplies. We didn’t win the summer fun basket. We held high hopes for the Tweetsie Railroad tickets, but alas, we didn’t win that, either. Ollie was sure we would win the Frozen basket. “Mama! I just KNOW we are going to win the Frozen basket! I really want that DRRRESS!!” she exclaimed numerous times happily jumping in my face. She held her hands together as they spun the basket that held the tickets around and around. She stood stock still as the lady pulled out the lime green ticket that held the Frozen movie gift basket’s fate. There was a slight pause as the lady squinted to read the name written on the ticket. Ollie raised both her hands up high in the moment of hope. And then collapsed in utter defeat when the name that was read was not ours…. As soon as we walked out the door of the school’s fellowship hall, nearing 8 o’clock, both girls fell into inconsolable distraught. Fern hollered, squealed, flounced, “I wanna hug Mrs. Sillaaaaaaa, I WANNA HUG MRS. SILLAAAAAAA!” I’ve never seen Ollie so disappointed in my life. Ever. Over and over and over through her high pitched cries that lost breath, “I wanted to win the Frozen baaaaasket! AAAAAaaaahuhuuuuhuuh! I wanted to win it! Mooooommmmmmy! It was so special to meeeeeeee!” …It was a long long 8 minute drive back to our house. The red stoplights mocked me. The woeful wails of my children widened my eyes to full circles, I am sure, as I directed our vehicle over the potholed roads back to our house. At some point I began singing Whitney Houston’s “The Greatest Love of All”. “I believe the children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way, show them all the beauty they possess insiiiiiide, give them a sense of pride, to make it easier…” The singing did not help much to stop the girls howling, but it unquestionably calmed my nerves that were unraveling from the din of their bawling. So grevious in their broken hearts, I undressed them, put them in their nightgowns, held one each knee, still singing til they went silent, “…And if, by chance, that special place that you’ve been dreaming of leads you to a lonely place, find your strength in love.”



Bitters: A Dying Self/Anger Blaming.

I’ve been mad at the world lately.  I can’t focus on any sort of long term functionality. I can not keep it together and I always feel like I am falling apart.  

I’ve had to let a big part of my self die over the past years.  

I’ve been angry about how my kid’s daddy up and left, drunk in the middle of the night with a plan to call home crying about how he’d fucked up and for me to please take him back again. When he’d left with another woman. Again. Hell naw, son.

 I couldn’t take him back (again). The act would have been a self defeating blow.  And, oh! OH! What a tough two years it has been since. Who the hell am I now? 

Eric left me with a four year old and a four month old. Girls.  Beautiful loving girls. 

He left with another woman he’d knocked up when we were splitsville but still involved. You know. Baby daddy shit. 

She had her baby in January. And he didn’t see the baby.  She came knocking on our door, 90 miles away in February.  

I gave them room.  He met the baby. Another girl.   

He’d said. He’d promised. He wanted to stay with me.  

And, by God. I was willing to try.  I was willing to reach.  One more deep down try. 

I went for a walk with Ollie.  We left Fern with him. We came back. The woman and the baby were gone. Eric was there with Fern.

I felt some sense of closure. Some sense of peace.  We went and ate Mexican food.  

We put the girls to bed. We watched television together. I went to bed.  

He left in the middle of the morning.  Eight beers deep, left on the TV table.  

It was Valentine’s Day when I woke up with my four year old and my four month old.  Ollie came into my room. Asked, “Where’s Daddy?”  

I said, “Is he gone?”

“Yes,” she said. In her four year old’s voice.  

After a day of being gone her Daddy called and called begging for me to come and get him.  I couldn’t . I just couldn’t.  And I shouldn’t have.  And I didn’t.

And ever since then, many days I am either mad. Or sad. Or solitary. Or tired. And down. Little motivation. I struggle to keep up the patience. Or the laundry.  And the dishes.  The homework. The loving attention.  The baths.  Nutrition?  The bills. Friendships? Music?  Exercise? Fuck! Work! All this other stuff!?! Some days I can’t accomplish anything what with the weight of all I feel I have to accomplish at hand.  

I can’t concentrate on anything but loathing life when the house gets too out of hand in the untidy department.  But if I were to spend everyday picking up after my girls, there would never be time for anything else, so the house does get messy. And it does effect my mood.  I HATE my home being messy.  It brings me loooooooowwwww dowwwwwwn.

I’m not rich. I don’t have a maid. So there’s not much I can do about it except do the best I can. And, the best I can fluctuates to sundry degrees great and small.

Thinking about it now. If I did have a maid, she’d have to have an accent. Preferably, an English one. Because what could be more cheery than that?  

All this talk of anger.  Least I am aware. And I’m trying to let it go. 



Hesitating Suzanne

Here’s a song i’m singing in my head as I work on cleaning the house up when I’m not distracted by something else.  Like the guitar. Or the children and their hunger. Their thirst. Their arguing with one another.  The cries. The stopped up kitchen sink. The cats and their meowing.  The call of the computer. The thought of something more. 

Here’s the song:

I’m not a fan (I’m not a fan)

Of Suzanne (why’s that man?)

I think she can

do better

than she does. (i hope she does)

I think Suzanne (i think Suzanne)

Should get a plan (get a plan)

Get herself together while she can (yes ma’am)

I ain’t a fan (ain’t a fan)

of Suzanne (c’mon man)

she don’t do anything that

she’s dreamed she can (aww man)

Come on Suzanne (Suzanne)

I think you can (Suzanne)

Don’t think you can’t

Then you won’t

and you never will. (and you never will)

The Day of Reflective Goals & Paper Notebooks

I came in from sitting on the porch and thought, “I don’t ever write anything down anymore.”

My younger self came supplied with notebook and nice pens, ever ready in the bag of dreams, to whip out and.  I haven’t kept a serious notebook now in, what?  3 or 4 years.  I found myself immediately blaming the computer for making me a slave to it, and thinking the only suitable format for writing was kibbling on it’s square letters and symbols. 

But it’s not the computer’s fault I don’t write. It’s my own fault.  Or. It’s circumstances.  You know.  

I wish there were some form of magic where I could just say snap and everything be way way easier.  It’s nine o’clock and I am exhausted.  I want to write more.  

I’m challenging myself to write something. Anything for the next 5 days.  I am always so long winded I intimidate myself.  But. I need to practice 30 minute writing spells for the next five days to complete a goal for myself. I’m not really a goal maker, so this is a big deal. Because you’re supposed to set goals, right?  

I remember being taught that in elementary school, but it didn’t translate to real life for me.  

I need to start making goals and lists. Crossing things off gives you a buzz, right? Sure. I’ll believe that.  

But I’ll need a notebook for the lists and goals.  I need to start writing more. With a pen.  Like I did in my previous life. 

Before children and struggle.  

Anyways. That’s all for the night. 


Seriously, Dude. Blues & Cupcakes.

I’m in the new house now in Greensboro. The house is finally settled. We’ve been here since September, mostly. I’ve been drowning in a great depression for a month now, a rather heavy one. I’d like to think I’ll be able to shake it off, but I haven’t been able.

The year always starts with a bang. A new place to start counting from, now’s the perfect time to do what you’ve been putting off, let’s get skinny again!

I’ve gotten fat this past month and a half of 2014. I’ve stuffed my face with pretzels dipped in sour cream, in sweetened condensed milk. I’ve squirted Hershey’s chocolate syrup into the carton of strawberry ice cream and finished off a quarter size box of Breyers. I’ve eaten my children’s leftovers, used two bags of oatmeal at breakfast, and sprinkled lots and lots of salt on my single serving microwave popcorn. I’ve drank orange soda and milk and juice straight out of the bottle and put it back in the fridge. I went out for a burger and fries at Hops Burger Bar and had the most tasty burgers I have ever tasted in my life (get The Big Truffle if its on special), three days in a row. I’ve eaten my children’s candy. Cookies have been made and I have been the monster.

I shower hardly ever. I cut all my hair off. I am slowly slinking into being a blob on the couch til I’m dead.

Who am I kidding, I’ve been depressed for a while. It’s easy to say it when you just say it instead of putting it off.

I’m depressed! Okay then? Yes. Yes you are. Depressed.

Reason’s I’ve been depressed:
1. Children’s father is a nightmare to deal with. I’ll keep that explanation short and simple for now. No details. Just the thought of a tangent makes me scour. GRRR SERIOUSLY, DUDE.  I see now why some mothers opt their children’s fathers out of their lives. And I don’t want to do it. But I am convinced you are a psychopath.  And I’m not using that word to be funny. SERIOUSLY, DUDE. Look up the definition and deny deny deny who you are some more

(oookay)(back to the lissst)

2. General lack of healthiness. Can’t find jeans that fit right.

3 Can’t seem to wake up at 6 a.m., which for some reason, I have equated waking at that time to achieving happiness.

4. There is no music going on in my life. Unless you count me singing to The Little Mermaid Soundtrack in the car and my daughter shushing me.

5. I don’t see my friends as much as I thought I would after I moved back. I fully accept some blame for that. Life happens, like a nail gun on repeat.

6. This house I’m renting is okay but the oven and the tub and the kitchen sink suck.

7. I haven’t been writing, and writing always helps. Always helps.

8. Children are difficult to take care of day in and day out and day in and day out and day in and day out and day in and day out and day in and day out. It’s one of the joys of single motherhood.

Yeahhhhhhhdepression. So what now?

I dunno. There’s this blog post I guess, which is something good come of it. I’m writing. #winning


Somebody give me a fucking cupcake.

SERIOUSLY. Need cupcakes. Gourmet with neat flavors.


Maybe I should make my own cupcakes and apply that thought to life.  Make my own way, and do the things I need to do to get myself out of this got-dog depression. I started this blog saying I was going to get up at 6 a.m. the following day, and I never did. Maybe tomorrow I will.

Seriously doubt it.  Maybe. I’m depressed.  And it’s supposed to snow. Maybe I will start writing in this website I paid for more, though. Maybe. Hopefully.  Writing helps.

So do snacks. Snacking my way through the depression. Gotta stop doing that, too. But not tonight.

A Short Thought on Millions.

If I had a million dollars I would buy a custom built house bus, paint it black and blues, hire my daughters a weirdo tutor genius, get a couple of dogs, and travel long roads with my band for as long as we could stand at a time.

We wouldn’t play shows every night, no.  We’d play maybe 3 or four shows some weeks, and other weeks we wouldn’t play at all.  We’d discover the land. We’d take the back roads, and stop at every swamp attraction we could. We’d visit museums. Eat ice cream. Wander cemeteries.  Stare out across mountain valleys, and shout to the other side. Some days we’d all get separate hotel rooms and unwind in Marriott beds and pools. I’d spoil my children with attention.


If I had a million dollars I would take my Mama on a trip to Europe, I would take her anywhere she wanted to go. She could come on the bus, she could have the biggest bed.

If I had a million dollars, I’d invest in renewable energy and tear free baby shampoo.

I’d give money to ALS and Parkinson’s Disease research. I’d help a family who really needed it.

I won’t ever have a million dollars, though, likely. So, I will go to bed, and live my normal life tomorrow.   Dreams are never drab.

Monday is forty-four minutes away.

What would you do with a million dollars?