In progress.

I’ve found that it’s easiest to be frustrated with change when it’s disappointing.


I had, like everyone does, a picture of what I expected from my life at whatever point. This point. Three years from now.


I wouldn’t be upset if, say, I were a millionaire this time next year. That’s not in my plan, but I think I could handle it.


(On a completely separate note, I’m watching the State of the Union and DAMN MY PRESIDENT HAS BALLS. Just saying.)


It’s when things go wrong that I don’t handle things well. 


When there’s less money than I need.

When a little girl looks at me to make it feel better and I can’t.

When I’m presented with a fourth grade math problem and I have no clue ho to begin it.

When the house looks like a cotillion of hobos took it over the night before.


I know I sound like a whiny brat. A pampered little simp. I suppose I am, but that doesn’t change the fact that sometimes I am totally at a loss. A loss of drive and fervor, a loss of confidence and security.


I suppose I need to buck up. Have a backbone.


I’m working on it.


In 1998, I graduated from high school. I went on to the local community college, because that’s just what most of my friends did.

In 2000, when I should have been finished with community college, I had changed my major six point five jillion times and I was considerably behind. Then I got married.

That ended that.

In 2002, I went back to that same school and tried to pick up where I’d left off. I had an infant at home and we had next to no money, so when the semester was over and I got a job opportunity, I took it. Thus ended my education.

A couple of months ago, after talking about it for years, Josh and I decided to try school again. It has been a mess of red tape and confusion, but we got everything in order. Scheduled. Ready and waiting.

Well, today is the day.

All our classes come live online today, and me, who has never taken a single online class, I have 16 hours of classes. While I realize that I’m not expected to suddenly have everything finished and done and I’m going to have to learn to schedule myself, it doesn’t change the fact that having a list of things to do and turn in and know is going to overwhelm me more than a little bit.

I really didn’t think I was going to be so scared. But I am.

I’ve had those dreams where I forgot about a class and never did any of the work.

Where I showed up for an exam and it was a class I was never supposed to have taken.

The good news is that if I make it through this semester I’ll (finally) have my Associate’s Degree, and it will only have taken me thirteen years.

I feel a little (or a lot) silly that this is so important to me. After all, what is an Associate’s anyway? Not much.

Except it’s more than I have.

And it’s that much closer to the PhD I ultimately want.

Yeah, I said it. That’s what I’m going for. Farfetched, right? I’ll be like eighty by the time I’m finished.

But that’s okay with me. I’ll be eighty when I’m eighty whether I have a PhD or not.

So if I die today, it’s because the online classes done kilt me.

Next stop, prostitutery

Lately, along with wanting to make clothes and bake cakes, I’ve found myself wanting to write more and more. I always heard that creativity begets creativity. I don’t know how much of what I write qualifies as creative, but I have certainly been writing more since I decided to write/post every day. I am always afraid that saying so much will soon turn into telling far too much, but I fear I burned that bridge long ago.

I’ve said before that I’ve always written. Well, that’s not always true. I’ve gone through long, long black spots of producing nothing beneficial at all…but somehow, I’ve always thought of myself as a writer. I suppose I’ve always known it was where I’d return.

I decided a while back that perhaps, if I ever wanted to write more than this blog, that I might do well to find myself a writing partner – someone to bounce ideas off of, research, plot and plan, and generally just collaborate with creatively.

And as weird as it may sound, I don’t know that I would really be able to do that with someone I actually knew. Despite all my flittery, I really am quite insecure about how people regard me in person.

I thought that the concept of a writing partner might be a little strange, but Google told me otherwise. That made me feel a little better.

Now the only mystery was how to find someone who wouldn’t go all Single White Female on me.

To be honest, I have this fairytale Beaches scenario in my head, where I correspond with some faraway person and we finally meet when our first book is released to massive crowds.

I never said I was realistic.

I found this website called that seemed to be just what I was looking for. So I made an ad.

Hardest thing I’ve ever written.

It was like a cross between a dating profile, a personals ad, and a business resume. These are things that should never, ever go together. Ever.

I’m not really expecting much, but I figured it was worth a shot.

If I come up missing in the next few months, that’s what happened.

Gainfully or leechfully

I’ve been looking for a job.

I haven’t said that out loud in wow, a long time, but there it is.

I just really don’t think I have what it takes to be a stay at home mom, wife and whatever else. You guys already know I have a habit of staying in my pajamas all day, but lately I’m realizing that it’s been so long since I’ve actually put on makeup that maybe perhaps I might’ve forgotten how. Like Wednesday – I was going to the school to get the kids and hopefully catch Max’s awards ceremony (which I didn’t, because they started at 8:30 instead of 9:30 like I thought, which meant that instead of calm clapping and proudness I spent almost an hour walking muggy elementary school hallways that always seem sticky, trying to locate my children in end of school hoopla), and in getting out the neglected makeup bag I was totally intimidated. It was like being thirteen. If I’d had time to get into eyeliner and brow pencils and such I probably could have managed to leave the house looking hungover, bruised, and old instead of just tired.

There’s always next time.

So, job. I’ve been looking. I probably don’t have to elaborate for anyone out there with a pulse and a credit score, but just in case you’ve missed how things are…

Guys, it sucks trying find a job.

I mean seriously, even if I had degrees and a love of human fluids and my CDLs, I think I’d still be out of luck. I haven’t worked in over a year, and I haven’t worked locally in…almost two? Is that RIGHT? Ugh.

But y’all I am not even playing – I am a stellar employee. I really am. I even friend my bosses on Facebook. You would think that I’d have no problem finding some place to slip in and make my own – except how do you convey that? Without sounding like everyone else, I mean. Because of course everyone will say that to get a job. People will say anything to get a job.

WANTED: Nancy Drew expert who has never broken a bone, farts glitter and eats sunshine and ponies, for secretarial and surgical duties. Salary DOE.


Except of course it can’t be like that. There are all sorts of hoops to jump through and then what if the job ends up not even being worth paying someone six figures to manhandle my three kids (three kids, my sweet rubbery trouty mouth, three kids!)?

I mean really. I want to work. I enjoy working. I’m good at it and I can learn almost anything very quickly. But it’s like dating – how do they know I’m the one? Do I say, “Hey, if you want to know me, read my blog, I ramble and sometimes I’m foul and if you look at my Twitter feed on the side can you please ignore that one tweet about feeling bad about bleeding on my cute maxi pads?”

I’m thinking maybe no.

But you know what, this is me. It in no way means I’m unfit to work, and if it were going to offend a potential employer I probably wouldn’t really enjoy working with them anyway, so why not head it off at the pass?

I’m not an idiot. I know boundaries. I can veil things and situations that don’t want to be colorfully exploited via the Internet courtesy of yours truly.

It just seems like a lot to ask. And maybe it is.

Things to do before I’m 35

I was looking around the Internet the other day, checking some old bookmarks and reading like I hadn’t done for a while.

In my perusal, I came across a blog from a girl I used to know, at

She stopped liking me because I was the weird ex-wife, and because Josh said mean things about Twilight because he knew it annoyed her. She and I were a lot alike and I probably wouldn’t have liked me either.

Anyway, she has fun ideas sometimes, and one of them that I’ve been known to share is a love of lists. Except that hers are usually useful I’m sure and mine are not much other than a time suck – like 6,000 things about me or embarrassing fact #392.

So, I’ve decided to make a list like one I found on her aforementioned blog, and thus I present:

the things I want to do before I’m 35
kind of a before-the-bucket bucket list

  1. Make a blanket. Knitted, crocheted, woven. Some sort of blanket. And a normal person sized blanket, not some damn copout baby blanket.
  2. Write the book (at least a rough draft) I’ve dreamed of writing for 25 years. First, though, I should probably decide what said book will be about.
  3. Run some sort of official race. Participate. Who gives two frackity farts about competing, I just want to finish. Without dying or wanting to die.
  4. Get another tattoo.
  5. Learn to sew, and do it.
  6. Make an outfit using said sewing skills.
  7. Have a home office, even if I have to share.
  8. Camp for more than two days. I’ve never done that.
  9. Make and decorate a cake. For real decorated, with…decorations.
  10. Be paid for writing. In some form. Ad copy, captions, articles…whatever. Just something.

For now, that’s all I’ve got.

In case of the Zombie Apocalypse

So, I just finished The Walking Dead comics. Well, I got up to date on them, anyway. The next one comes out at the end of this month.

And here’s the thing. Out of all the (as far as I know) unrealistic events and fantastic scenarios, a couple of things kind of niggled (oh no, autocorrect, not jiggled. I said NIGGLED and I meant it) at me.

First of all, we’re all beasts at heart. Really. We bathe and corset and spray ourselves into thinking we’re somehow above the very basest human animal parts, but throw us into hopelessness for a bit and it gets REAL real quick.

Secondly and what’s gotten to me the most, is you can never really know anyone. Like KNOW them know them.

Don’t give me the soulmate true love bs. I’d bet my right leg and my left arm that Sweetie Pie has ten thousand thoughts a day that would shock and astound you.

The thing is, now that I’ve decided it’s really true, you can never really know anyone, it’s kind of scary. And by scary I mean petrifying, horrifying, poop your pants kind of fear.

Because the thing is, with that kind of uncertainty, you have to trust.

Trust that Sweetie Pie won’t strangle you in your sleep.
Or have another family.
Leave you to the zombies.
Tell your secrets.
Close the church doors and leave you to the madness.

And I don’t know anyone with that kind of trust.

I suppose all we can do, at the end of our ability, is to give up and learn that maybe trust is the best hope we have to be happy.

Although I really think prenuptial agreements should begin to somehow integrate undead protection clauses.

Writing prompt #68

It was Erica Jong who said, “If you don’t risk anything, you risk more.” Write about what this means to you.

I’ve always been kind of withdrawn.

Sometimes loudly withdrawn, but that was usually just to hide any insecurities I had.

I’m not good at making new friends, grasping new opportunities. I’m usually not much of a risk taker.

But sometimes it’s worth the chances you can take, because if you let the chance pass you by, you spend the rest of forever what might have been.

And that can drive you crazy for real.

I still wonder what my high school years might have been like if I hadn’t wasted so much time and energy on feeling inadequate. If I had cared less what everyone else thought and more about what I thought of myself.

It’s cliche, I know. Everyone says it, how they wish they’d been more outgoing and more assertive.

Everyone says it because it’s TRUE.

It’s so easy to put yourself on the back burner, to let everyone else have the fun or opportunity that you can’t have because you are too busy being self conscious.

I didn’t dance at my senior prom. I felt gorgeous and I was with people I’d known forever, but I was too worried about looking foolish.

I can never ever get that back.

True, there are other examples throughout my life, and there are also times when I did what needed to be done.

It’s just, the one side SO outweighs the other.

Looking foolish for a minute only lasts for a little while. Wondering what would have happened if you’d had some balls can haunt you forever.

(see that? Hole in one. Just thought you should see that.)