Why I Cried Today ~ Elsie

Elsie 1

“A dog is the only thing on earth who loves you more than he loves himself.”

Dogs. If you have known me for a hot minute, you know I have a soft spot for dogs. It goes back to when I was 5 years old, and was given a rescue dog named Laddie.

Laddie was a short haired, male collie. He looked like Lassie, but with a short nose. If he couldn’t be Lassie, Laddie was the closest thing.

He was the best behaved dog. We could leave the back gate open, and he never left the yard. The funniest thing he did was try to bite my mom the one day she attempted to spank me in the backyard.

Laddie died when he was 13 years old, and we buried him beside an azalea bush in the backyard. I wept, and I remember my father softly crying as he dug the hole in the earth.

My first dealing with loss was losing my first dog.

Today, I lost another dog.

7 days ago, I rescued a 13 year old Lab mix named Elsie. Life had not been good to her as of late, and she looked so sad in her photo, that tears came to my eyes.

I brought her home while recuperating from being spayed. She slept a lot the first 48 hours.

I let her walk around the apartment like Sophie does, and it soon became obvious that she has been an indoor dog for a long period in her life.

The funniest thing was that she had Sophie’s graying face, and brown eyes, but a slightly longer face. From my peripheral vision, I didn’t know which dog was standing next to me!

Elsie started feeling better on Day 3. Her tail began wagging a lot more, and she began to show signs of jealousy. She loved her humans with her entire being, and she was incredibly jealous when it came to sharing them with Sophie. Life quickly became a constant source of growling, snarls, and finally, fights.

Obviously, Sophie bore the brunt of this jealousy. She began showing the signs of a not so happy dog. It didn’t help matters when Elsie commandeered her chair. (Sophie’s chair sits in front of a window, and she watches for me to come home from said chair. It’s a bit like her “headquarters” where she can rule the world.)

Sophie could just walk in front of Elsie, going from the kitchen to the living room, and Elsie would go for her face, teeth bared and growling.  This morning, I woke up at 4:25 a.m. to growling. I quickly turned on my bedside lamp, and Sophie was laying on the floor, as close as she could be to the bed and my nightstand, and Elsie was in the doorway, growling at her in the darkness.

Now, it sounds like Elsie was a bad dog, but she wasn’t. It seems as though Elsie, once upon a time, had been the queen of the castle in her own home. She was house-trained,  leash trained, and loved her humans with her whole heart. I can’t fault her for that. She greeted me with a furiously wagging tail every time I walked in the door. She almost knocked me over when I walked her because she pushed so hard against my leg. She loved being close to me.

I might have thought that a few things could go wrong, but I never anticipated in a hundred years that my girls disliking each other would have been one of them.

Today, I couldn’t stop the tears as I stood at the desk, and the clerk told another employee, “She is returning Elsie.” I felt like the lowest piece of shit on earth. I know it had to be done, but I can’t help what I felt.

I left a list of all the good things Elsie has going for her. The only negative thing was that she probably needed to be the only dog in the home. She was able to keep her bed. I hope she draws comfort from the softness and smells.

The tears are falling as I write this. I hope Elsie finds a good home. She deserves it.


Carrie Fisher & Me


I watched the HBO documentary, “Bright Lights: Starring Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds”, this weekend. To be honest, I wanted to cry the entire 1 hour & 35 minutes of its running time.

Let me offer up some background. Before I fell in love with Princess Leia, I had fallen in love with her mother. I am actually an old soul in many aspects. Growing up, I was a voracious reader, and biographical books were my crack. I absorbed books about prominent figures in history, and, about the stars of old Hollywood. I read up on Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Lana Turner, Marilyn Monroe, and Elizabeth Taylor. Wait. Elizabeth Taylor? Yep, and that story dovetailed into reading about Debbie Reynolds.

Debbie Reynolds, the mother of two small children, who handled the affair between her husband and Elizabeth Taylor with incredible grace. She never said a negative word about them. She was always gracious and stunningly poised. She was beautiful & funny. I admired her.

Fast forward to 1977. Star Wars was released. My parents thought it was too “worldly” for me to watch, so I had to wait for it to be bought up by HBO in 1983. We were getting free HBO due to some cable screw-up, and I snuck around and watched Star Wars every opportunity I got.

To say this sassy and feisty girl fascinated me, was an understatement. I wanted to be her. (I also wanted to climb Han Solo like a damn redwood tree because my 15 year old hormones were running rampant but that is an entirely different blog.)

The Empire Strikes Back was released in 1980, and I can’t remember exactly when I watched all 3 original movies, but Leia was amazing. Oddly enough, the gold bikini didn’t do much for me.

Not only did I see Carrie in the movies, but I saw her life play out on the tabloids and in magazines. I always admired her ability to not give a crap what other people thought. We know now that she was a manic depressive, but regardless, I liked her style.

After Carrie’s novel, Postcards from the Edge, was released, I got my hands on a copy of it. I devoured it from cover to cover. (I don’t think a lot of people realize that Carrie has 14 published books as part of her legacy) In 1990, the movie adaptation came out, and I went to see it. I loved it.

In watching the documentary, I felt a bit of kindred spirit-ness with her. Growing up Carrie was called “The Bookworm” and I to, would read entire series of books, back to back. She smoked pot. I have smoked pot, but that is where she went through the “gateway”, and I stopped at weed. She cursed, and spoke her mind. She has a wildly eclectic decorating style which I relate to. Coke a Cola Classic is like crack to her, and I think we actually mind melded together on that addiction. She loved her daughter, but gave her to room to breathe and grow. I have hoped to have done, and do, that with my sons. Carrie worshiped her dog, Gary, much like I work to pay rent so Sophie can live in the lap of luxury.

I have seldom cried for fallen secular figures, but I wept when I learned that Princess Diana was dead. 19 years later, I could not stop the tears when I heard that Carrie Fisher no longer walked in our galaxy. My heart broke when news came the following day that Debbie had passed away also.

It seemed fitting. I don’t think Debbie wanted to go on without her best friend.

I get teary eyed just thinking about Carrie. She was such a force of life. She lived life “balls to the wall”, and seemingly had no regrets. I imagine that she had said everything she needed to say before she took her final breath. She didn’t seem the type to let things linger.

I hope at 60 years old, I am rocking the gray hair and trendy glasses the way she did. I hope I am still cursing, drinking Coke, and loving my tribe like Carrie did.

Carrie, thank you for being authentic in a world where that isn’t popular. For keeping it real. For giving me countless hours of being pretending to be Princess Leia in my front yard. For your literature. For sharing your sense of humor with us.

Thank you for being you.

An adoring fan –


My Friend


This blog isn’t my usual bitch sesh about something that annoys me. (I am actually having a difficult time finding enough blog material for regular bitch sessions) (which you can see by the inconsistency of blog posts)

I want to talk about a friend of mine. I had the amazing good fortune of meeting her in the late 80’s. We clicked. We had the same vibe. We both have the loudest laugh when we are really enjoying ourselves.

We broke rules together.

As we grew older, she married and got pregnant. I got pregnant and then married. We were pregnant at the same time with our oldest sons.

We both experienced challenges in our first marriages and dealt with divorce.

We both found love for a 2nd time, and married again. Albeit in 2017, we find ourselves single, and fiercely independent.

I am so comfortable with her, that she is the only friend I was honest with, about my feelings of abandonment, while my husband was dying.

She has never once judged me. Even though the entire year of 2006 has caused me to never be able to run for public office, she always had my back.

On March 21, she will be a published author. I am so unbelievably proud of her. Over the years, we seemed like the two girls who had life obstacles that our other friends avoided. I always felt closer to her because of our common struggles. She has clawed her way out of circumstances that would have broken a normal person.

She loves me, my sons, and my black child. I love her, and her children. (I am allergic to her cats)

*She raised 2 daughters who adore me, so there is the proof of her spectacular taste

I learned from a counselor during my divorce, that the people in your life are divided into sections:


Best Friends



She is part of my core. She is one of my first calls when I have a body to hide.

Her name is A.  Yes, the person who kicked my ass until I blogged.

A, I love and adore you. May we never stop weaving in and out of each other’s life chapters.



Back to Life

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Usually I bitch about something using my blog. This time, it’s not a rant session.

The title of this blog is “Back to Life”. Soul II Soul wrote a song:

”Back to life, back to reality,

back to life, back to reality…

back to life, back to reality,

back to the here and now yeah…”

Back to life, back to the present time,

back from a fantasy.”

Last Sunday, on the 5th, a male friend and I embarked from Galveston, Texas on a 7 day Caribbean cruise.

You snort laughed. I know. The entire cruise everyone thought we were a couple because we sat next to each other, or, stood with each other in line. In reality, J and I met because both of our spouses died from GBM brain cancer. That is an entirely different blog.

For 7 days, I didn’t have to lift a finger to do anything. I simply existed. I ate. I won’t deny that. The plain rolls on a cruise are my kryptonite. Yes, there is a serve-yourself ice cream machine on the pool deck, and I literally ate salmon and steak every, single, night, for dinner. After 11 pm each night, I ate 2 pieces of pepperoni pizza and drank a Coke. I ramble, but suffice it to say, if you have never been on a cruise, GO ON ONE.

Back to the purpose of this blog.  After driving back from Galveston, J dropped me off at my apartment at 6:30 p.m. My son had apartment-sat for me while I was gone, and he doesn’t exactly have my OCD sense of cleanliness. I picked up all Sophie’s toys, wiped down the TV tray & coffee table, vacuumed up a weeks worth of dirt, dog hair, and crumbs.

I unpacked my 2 bags. Put everything back into its place. (I did have to invent a place for the leftover sunscreen. This has never been a problem for me before, but I didn’t sunburn this trip! First time for everything.)

Started 2 loads of laundry.

Unloaded the dishwasher.

Worked up an appetite by 8:30, and who can get back to clean eating on a Sunday?! Out to the Escape to forage for food. Dang! Did all the pollen in the free world find its way to my SUV while I was gone?

To the carwash I go. Wash the Escape.

Hit a drive-thru for a chicken breast and mashed potatoes. It was no salmon & steak, but those are the breaks.

As I waited to turn into the street to head home, I had a momentary thought of what all I had done since I got home, and for a millisecond, I had the urge to complain. Then, it hit me: I have a great life.

I have a great life. No kidding. I love my life. I didn’t go on vacation because I hated my life. I went on vacation to replenish my soul, not because I was trying to escape my present day life.

We need to create lives for ourselves that don’t need an escape from. Yeah, life gets monotonous and hard, and there is the 8 – 5 grind, 52 weeks a year, dealing with family, kids, activities, pets, etc. The list goes on and on.

Yes, we should be living a life where we love the insanity.

On August 1, 2013, I woke up a widow, who was living with her brother, unemployed, and with $1300 to my name. Life pretty much sucked as much ass as it could suck that day. At 45 years old, and for the second time in my life, I was starting over from scratch.

Today, it’s February 12, 2017, and as I think about all the good things that have come into my life since that day in August, I can honestly say that I love my life. It’s nowhere near perfect, and Lord knows it has its share of bumps & potholes, but overall, right now, I wouldn’t change much.

Hey you. Yeah, the person reading this. I sincerely hope you love your life. If you don’t, I hope you can move some things around so you can. It really does the soul good.



Offspring of A.


This blog is posting on the 1 week anniversary of Caleb’s surprise visit. One week ago today, there was a knock on my door, and there stood Caleb with the cheesiest smile on his face.

Tip of the Day: Do not make the comment, “My door is always open to children of _________.”  unless you really mean it.

Who is Caleb? Ah, Caleb. Caleb is one of 5 children birthed by a dear college friend of mine. His mom and I were pregnant at the same time – she was carrying Caleb and I was carrying Colin.  NOTE: I have also featured one of Caleb’s sisters, Hannah, in an earlier blog.

One word sums up Caleb: Effervescent. (Alka-Seltzer on crack, if he knows & loves you)

In an attempt to get away from playing games on his computer, Caleb decided that a 2.5 hour drive to surprise me would be just the distraction! Can you imagine a 24 year old driving 2.5 hours one way just to get away from a gaming addiction?!

In all seriousness, I had a great time visiting with him. He brought his ARC (advanced reader copy) of his mom’s book, and had me autograph my chapter. #iamchapter31 In the reminiscing, we had to call his mom, and consult with her on some details. We were still on speaker phone with A when he got a Snap Chat message. It was his sister Kristina saying she had just gotten engaged.

Caleb reads it aloud to A and me.

A begins squealing.

Caleb and A simultaneously phone Kristina.

She picks up Caleb’s call.

Imagine if you will, A talking to Kristina, via my phone on speaker, and Kristina was talking to all three of us, via Caleb’s phone on speaker.

Quite an unforgettable evening all the way around.  (I didn’t even mention how I taught A to talk like we were using walkie-talkies. Where you have to speak and then say, “Over.” when you were finished speaking. This is an essential skill if you are overly excited and using a speaker phone.) It is always refreshing to talk to a young person who is making their way in the world without a sense of entitlement, and has a huge heart for others.

Caleb, thank you so much for coming to visit! Since you have managed the sneak attack, next time, you can give me a heads up. Remember my OCD thing about Monday – Thursday evenings.

And in case you were wondering, my door is always open to the offspring of A.  Monday – Thursdays even.

Maybe I should address some of my OCD particulars in a blog sometime…


The Upstairs Neighbor Part III


10:35 p.m. January 1, 2017

If you have read blog “Neighbor Part II” you are up to speed as to where this story is going to pick up. I don’t write like George Lucas and give you Part IV, V, VI, and then dovetail back around to I, II, and III. (don’t get me wrong, I LOVE Star Wars.)

Note the usage of the p.m. Yes, I am speaking of night time. Time when you are quiet. Time when I should not be listening to the sounds of anything coming from upstairs.

Monday, January 2 is a holiday for me, so I am taking advantage of the opportunity to stay up late. Sitting at my desktop surfing the internet, while watching/listening to a British documentary on Netflix about swingers, (another blog entirely) and I hear what sounds like drops of water falling.

I listen for a moment, and the sound continues.

My investigation leads me to my bathroom, where water is dripping from my ceiling, above my wall mounted cabinets. Yes, Deanna does have her water running in the tub, and come to think of it, it has been on for a while.

I grab a bowl and place it under the worst drip. Suddenly, water begins pouring from my ceiling vent. Off I go to get the largest, empty container a non-hoarder can have.

That container goes on the floor. As it collects the steady stream of water, I phone the After Hours office number. Is it an emergency? Hmm, water pouring into my bathroom from the upstairs apartment constitutes an emergency. Push 2. Leave message.

10:55 p.m. Water has been turned off upstairs and has stopped draining into my bathroom. My floor is wet, and the containers have water in them.

11:00 p.m. knocking at my door. It’s the maintenance man. I walk him to the bathroom and he immediately sees the problem. He informs me that he is going upstairs to find out what is going on.

Upstairs he goes.

Loud knocking. No response.

More knocking. No response.

Very LOUD knocking. No response.

Maintenance man comes back downstairs. Neighbors with large cardboard box are in parking lot looking around, and wondering what in the hell is going on. Looking up, they all see Deanna sitting on her patio, head down, and headphones on.

Maintenance man: Hello?

Maintenance man: Louder. Hello? Hello? Ma’am!

Neighbors literally begin throwing cardboard box up at her railing. Repeatedly. I can hear it hitting the railing.

Maintenance man: VERY LOUDLY. HELLO?! HELLO LADY! (I know, I hear Jerry Lewis in my head too)

I kid you not, the male neighbor has a flashlight on his person, and begins shining it up at her.

Ah, finally, she notices the crowd of 3 trying to get her attention. (I will note here that I am observing all this from my front window)

Maintenance man: I need to come up and look in your apartment. There is a water leak and I need to check it out.

Again, he goes upstairs.

A few minutes pass.  I hear him coming back down the stairs.

Knocking on my door.

Maintenance man: “Well, she said she didn’t overflow the toilet, and she didn’t fill the tub. There is a counter full of empty beer bottles, and she seemed more than a bit incoherent. Her bathroom floor is wet, and towels draped over the side of the tub are soaking wet. I think she overfilled her tub. She is a mess, so I didn’t feel comfortable staying up there. Leave your containers out tonight to catch any drainage, and I will talk to the apartment manager tomorrow about this situation.”

Lovely. This could explain her multiple declarations of love for me…

About an hour later, it sounded as if Bigfoot, and 8, overweight & drunk toddlers, collapsed above my living room. I haven’t heard much from her since then, but the little bit I have heard, leads me to believe she didn’t kill herself in the fall. Ironically, the former neighbor across from me did indeed die after a fall in his kitchen, so my thought process isn’t as far fetched as you might think.

This tenant is proving to be fodder for much blogging. And anger. Frustration. Annoyance. Etc., etc.

I am considering putting 1-800-CHOKE-DAT-HOE on speed dial.

Praying for tolerance –


The Upstairs Neighbor Part II


If you did not know, I have a Facebook page. Don’t say “Doesn’t everyone?” because no, not everyone does. This was the Status Update that I posted on December 28, 2016:

“It is very anti-climactic when you leave your upstairs neighbor a “gift”, and she didn’t come home last night. (The “gift” is a Dollar Tree trash can, container for cig butts, and 2 pkgs of bubble gum. I included the following note: Hello Neighbor. I am gifting you with a trash can & cig butt receptacle. Based on the amount of cig pack wrappers on my patio when I swept today, I don’t think you have one. Enjoy.)”

A bit of history. I have lived in my apartment for a little over 2 years.  For the first 2 years, I didn’t even realize I had anyone living above me. Recently, a single woman moved in. Within about 72 hours, I knew she existed. It was like having a group of drunk toddlers living above me. *See blog post “Neighbors” to get up to speed*

Today, January 1, 2017. As of 10 a.m. today, I had yet to meet my upstairs neighbor. She had been oddly quiet since I left the trash can for her. The note I left was so passive aggressive, that I assumed she might very well be plotting my demise.

10:30 a.m.  I take Sophie out for her morning urinary duties. I notice that my neighbor is sitting cross legged on her patio floor, cigarette in one hand, head down looking at her phone, and some huge earphones on her head. I am NOT going back inside until I have a few polite words with her to break the ice! Sophie roams at the end of her leash while I look like an idiot just standing there casually staring at her.

Finally, she looks up. I wave. She waves. I act like I am speaking with a deaf person, and make pointing motions to my ears. She obviously understands sign language, and pulls her headphones off.

Me: Hi. I just wanted to meet you, and say that I hope you didn’t take the gift of the trash can as a bad thing.

Her: Laughing. I loved it! See, (reaching down beside her and holding it up in the air) I am using it! I love it! I have mean meaning to say Thank You!

Me: I am so glad! I put gum in there, because who doesn’t like gum, so you would know that it wasn’t meant to be mean.

Her: No, I love it! I love you! You are wonderful!

Me: Well, umm, I just gave you a trash can…

Her: Laughing. I know, but I love it! I needed it! Thank you! I love you!

Me: My name is AGS.

Her: I’m Deanna.

Me: I just wanted to touch base. Oh, and one other little thing, when you are giving directions to your booty call from your patio, I can hear every word.

Her: Oh no! Embarrassed laughter. I am single…

Me: I’m single to, no worries. You might also want to pull your bed from against the wall, because I hear all that as well.

Her: Shrieks. Oh no! I am so embarrassed!

Me: Don’t be. I am just letting you know. You might be a government agent who works undercover or something and don’t realize I hear everything.

Her: Laughing.

Me: If you ever need anything, I am down stairs. I just wanted to meet you and say hello.

Her: Nice meeting you. I love you! Thank you again!

I would say that it went very well. I was curious as to how she could possibly love me since she just met me. I AM that lovable, but even this early declaration of love seemed strange.

At this point, you are probably thinking that we lived happily ever after, but you would be wrong.  10:45 p.m. Same day. That is another blog post.

Leaving you with palatable anticipation –




Neighbor: a person living near or next door to the speaker or person referred to.

I consider myself an extremely good neighbor. I have a lot of experience. From a college dorm, apartment, house, duplex, and apartment, I always kept/keep the comfort of my neighbor’s, forefront. (If you don’t think I was a good neighbor, just ask any of the cul-de-sac homeowners when I owned a house in Manteca, CA. The ones involved in a 1 am skinny dip party in one of the swimming pools will be prejudiced no doubt. The first few seasons of Knots Landing weren’t too far fetched…)

I digress. When living in an apartment, I am mindful of my noise level, the dog barking, and the loudness of all the gymnastics I involve myself in regularly. OK, I don’t do “activities” like referenced in the movie “Stepbrothers”, but I have never gotten a complaint. I am even thoughtful enough to keep my headboard a good 5 inches from the wall everywhere I have lived.

Note: When I was a home owner in the cul-de-sac, I actually made homemade bread and gifted loaves to the neighbors for Christmas. Yep, Betty Freaking Crocker here.

Fast forward to the present. I have lived here at Pine Knoll for 2 years. In that time, the apartment above me was so quiet that I questioned if I had neighbors. I only heard the sounds of sweet love-making one time. I did wonder if they were going to come crashing through the ceiling and land on me at one point, but overall, no complaints.

Today, I have what seems to be a single female, around my age, with no flipping idea that I live under her, residing above me. It’s going on 2 months, and Saturday, I think she must have been holding every piece of furniture in her hands, lost her balance, and fell. My son asked, “What in the heck is she doing up there?!” 3 weeks ago, she stood on her patio and gave directions to a VERY geographically challenged individual. I know, because I could hear every direction she gave, since she was standing directly above my bedroom window on her patio. He arrived with beer around midnight. Yes, I looked out to see who couldn’t find the turn at Church’s Chicken. I am a human being after all.

The rapid fire sounds of some sexually deprived people began at 1:40 am. I couldn’t sleep, so I laid in my bed wishing for an ice pick to stab my ears with. Thankfully, satisfaction was reached by 2 am. (I have reenacted the noise for a couple of co-workers, and am very adept at imitating the intensity of that night at any given time.)

She seems to be a night owl, so showers at the most insane hours is common.

Bits of her trash fall through her patio floor and land on my patio bistro table. (beer bottle caps, and the wrappers to her packs of cigarettes)

As you can imagine, AGS is not a happy camper. As you can also imagine, AGS is eagerly awaiting the moment she and I meet in the parking lot. Casually of course, and very neighborly. In a very neighborly fashion, I will make introductions, and you can bet your ass that I will sweetly let her know that I can hear everything. EVERYTHING. I will suggest she pull her headboard from against the wall depending on how it goes.

If you know me personally, you know I am very capable of reading people and playing correctly to the audience. The “chance” meeting just hasn’t offered itself up as of yet. The intensity level also hasn’t reached the point where I am stalking her in order to force the meeting.

I will keep you posted.

If you are a neighbor, be a decent one. Be polite & pleasant. The world already has enough dicks in it.

Oh, and DON’T sit and blow your vehicle horn to get someone to come out to you. Don’t. Everyone hates that.

Here’s hoping it’s a “booty call” free evening –





This past weekend, I spent some amazing time with some of my favorite people. (I will blog on that later)

One of the perks of hanging with my favorite people, is that sometimes, their offspring enter my atmosphere. Generally speaking, if I am kicking it with you, you are cool, and therefore, your kids have a higher chance of being cool as well. I can deal with cool offspring.

One of my tribe, A, birthed a super cool kid named Hannah. (Kristina, you are the bomb-diggity as well, but Hannah specifically asked for a shout out)

Let me give you one example of why Hannah is a super cool kid.  Hannah works for a movie theatre. This conversation took place as she was heading out to work on Saturday-

AGS: Hannah, can you bring me some popcorn?

Hannah: You want some popcorn?

AGS: Yeah, I would love some movie theatre buttered popcorn!

Hannah: I will bring you a tub of popcorn!

Hannah leaves for work. Hannah has a break a few hours later. Hannah does the following:

Gets her movie theatre popcorn bucket.

Washes it.

Goes to a popcorn machine.

Has a fresh batch of popcorn popped, and holds the tub up so the fresh popcorn falls directly into the tub.

Places hot, liquid butter in one takeout cup, and popcorn salt in another.

Brings the HOT popcorn, butter, and salt to me on her break.


Seriously?! Can a kid be any cooler?! (had it been a 6-pack of Taco Casa tacos, I might have possibly had a spontaneous orgasm)

*Tacoma, if you don’t know what that “O” word means, ask A.

Hannah recently turned 18, which means she was permitted to be my Facebook friend. She was very excited about reaching this milestone. My Facebook has settled down a lot since A considered it a too dangerous place for her under 18 children. I hope Hannah isn’t too disappointed.

So, this isn’t a blog where I have a rant about something. It’s a blog for my Hannah, because she asked for a shout out. Hannah, I hope you are happy with how I have immortalized you.

You are loved. I don’t do straight vodka shots to celebrate just anyone’s 18th birthday. I also have never offered to get ordained online so I can marry anyone, so consider yourself & Skylar elite. Stay in school, don’t do stupid things, be nice to people, and don’t text & drive.

Readers, I thank you for your patience if you have read this far. I don’t have to rant in every blog. Also, know that if I am asked to give a shout out, I take it seriously.

So until next time,


Sabbatical is over.


What a sabbatical.

I checked. My last blog was posted on September 19. Let me explain why.

This blog was designed for me to have some place to vent (basically bitch) about whatever got under my skin at any given time.

Enter the final months of the 2016 Presidential Race campaigning and social media.

Holy *. For the first time since I actively began using Facebook and Twitter, the amount of vitriol and hate mongering reached epic proportions.

A little background: I grew up in a house where anger & arguing were like taking a breath. It went hand-in-hand. “Fool!” “Idiot!” “Ignoramus!” “Stupid!” All words I heard uttered on a constant basis. There was always shouting to accompany the cornucopia of name calling. When I was growing up, it didn’t have the fancy label of “verbal abuse” yet. (I was born in 1968, but that last sentence makes it sound like I am a dinosaur)

The constant conflict was why I chaffed at the bit to get the hell out of my childhood home.

I always swore an oath to myself that I would NEVER call anyone “stupid”. I also swore that any children I might have, would be raised to think of “stupid” as a curse word that you did not utter under my roof.

*Note: I successfully raised 2 sons who do not use the word “stupid” in reference to others. Ever.

So, fast track to the present time, my childhood helped shape me into a person who hates conflict. Literally. I abhor it. It is even worse when I am forced to witness conflict between a man & wife. It makes me literally cringe and want to crawl into a hole and die.

I write a blog where I bitch about things. I was going to be adding negative, albeit in a humorous way, to the whole “jacked the hell up” news feed that I dreaded seeing each day. I just couldn’t do it. I did not want my blog to be another piece of negativity, to another person who might be as bothered by the current state of affairs as myself.

Tonight, I got a kick in the ass, from my most narcissistic friend. He said “Hey! Blog woman. That is a command, not an identifier.”

He was right. I do need to get my mojo back. The election is over. I have less dread checking out social media. The world is ready.

(He also might be slightly less narcissistic than he was a few months ago.)

I digress.

You really didn’t miss that much in the 50 days I was MIA. My oldest son turned 25, and I saw a dead body.

Oh, the dead body? Always leave them wanting more they say.


“Your past does not determine who you are. Your past prepares you for who you are to become.”