“When I’m dead and gone you’ll get married again and he’ll get all this stuff and the land."
“I’m not getting married again.”
“Yeah right. You’ll need to.”
***silence (and some counting to ten)***
“What I need is to live alone. I have no interest in being married again, I don’t want to pick up after a grown ass man.”
“You’ll just screw around.”
“See what? And you’re not dying.”
“It could be cancer.”
“But it’s a pulled muscle.”
This was just a couple of days ago, while we tossed around the merits of land buying-packing-storing-building…
There’s never been a better time to sell our home than in today’s home buying market. Our location, modest size and affordability is what’s considered “prime" in this area. Unfortunately, we are too busy (lazy) to fix what could or should be fixed before selling.
Also, we have nowhere to go.
Ever come back home after an extended stay away and smell the putridness of your dear abode now that you have a fresh set of nostrils? Living among these ruins is similar.
Our house isn’t old. The ruins of which I speak of are non-structural, highly functioning issues since…
Sometime back in my kid years, the advice to ‘always wear clean underwear' since 'you might get hit by a car' or 'you might wind up in the hospital’, formed a foothold in my brain’s cortex.
I still make my bed because I might get hit by a car or somehow wind up in the hospital, an influence never completely replaced with the inclination for being tidy.
I catch a view of my toenail polish, it’s winter shade: disappearing color, and decide to reapply soon since sandal weather is coming. And wouldn’t my cadaver body appreciate cute toes?
I’m in a brain smog state.
Words aren’t spilling from my fingertips or floating in the head as much as they used to. I haven’t written. My dreams are quite vivid, story framed. Awake I feel corrosive and scattered.
When I was earning an income, I’d frequently be steeped in moments of wishing for a different sort of day. I had ideas. I had a pretty extensive “get done” list. I had lingering wishes to write for hours — to edit until exhaustion!
Since the ‘Upheaval’ (was it really only 5 months ago?) I have reduced the list in a…
This, the last day of the dumpster fire year, I’ve begun to dismantle the Christmas decorations in my head, tidily putting them away. Before actually doing it, I’m using my alone time to sit robed at my desk before sunrise to jot down a few thoughts floating between the ears. The fact that I’ve had to use the bathroom several times should go without mentioning, but in the very real event that this is published months from now, we can all be sure of the reason for it.
Yesterday morning I used a snowblower for the first time in my…
The taxi screeched to a stop in front of us. Helen and I climbed in, leaving the disheveled, uneaten pizza behind with any hopes of another slice. I was going to be hungry, but only slightly more important, Christmas was disappearing. We needed to crack this case, and the driver needed directions.
Just when I was going to ask, a bus careened through the intersection right in front of us. Believe or not and you will because this is part of the story, it was the Partridge Family bus again!
“Follow that bus!” I shouted at the driver.
The very first season of Survivor premiered in 2000 and has been surviving twice a year ever since, all of which I had never watched, ever.
But like all you people I used to know, binge watching any program that promises a tiny glimmer of entertainment has become as normal a routine in this household as sleeping. Sometimes I do both at the same time.
We have just finished Survivor Season 2 (after completing Seasons 28, 20, and 1 respectively), which is Colby’s debut on screen and into my heart once past the cornea stage. I make no apologies, the…
Not this many words, kids. You're welcome. Sorry?
Although none of you have found the magical love of reading (yet), I know you will one day cherish my words to you when I can longer be there as support, a guide or to listen. You may one day pick up my writings and letters (written to you) and feel, once again, my love — and perhaps it will keep the darkness from setting in.
You’re independent kids now, young adults. …
Yammering bits and some blathering. Humor is my first language, my second skin, and my hello.