Thursday, February 23, 2017

That One Time We Fled for Our Lives.

Yesterday was National Margarita Day.

I did not partake. But if I were inclined to celebrate things in that way, I might have had a couple because yesterday was also the twentieth anniversary of the day I escaped THAT MAN.

I remember it well. I had waited three months for the perfect moment, and when it finally came along, I took it.

I had four babies, two diaper bags, and a tank full of gas.

We've come a long way.

So cheers  to us.

Monday, February 6, 2017

Good Lord, I'm a Goner


Don't tell him I told you this, but... he snores.

He says I snore, too, but we all know girls don't actually do that sort of thing. It's right up there with belching and passing gas on the list of Things It's Biologically Impossible for Girls to Do. So when he says I snore, you know darn well he's just being silly.

But he definitely snores.

Surprisingly, it doesn't bother me at all. It's part of the noises of the night. It's rhythmic and somewhat soothing, and it makes me feel cozier and warmer to know he's right there. (Most nights, he's not there, so I soak up what time we have together.)

And when he's not there, the silence makes me nervous and restless. I've grown so comfortable with him, it's as if he supposed to be there, as if he's always been there. His absence feels like the anomaly. The night is off kilter without him. I get fidgety, and I have to wait for the lullaby of the passing night trains to soothe me to sleep. It's something to drown out the silence when he's gone.


Wednesday, January 25, 2017

Lifestyle Choices

I had hostile neighbors last year, which is almost an unbelievable fact, because they also had an incessant practice of filling up the entire duplex with marijuana smoke. I often thought to myself, how much more hostile might they be if they hadn’t embraced that particular habit? Isn’t it supposed to calm a person down?
            Personally, I don’t care what they smoke, but I am allergic to marijuana, so I became rather aggravated by the constant two a.m. struggle to rid my side of the duplex of the thick cloud that would waft through whatever duct system existed there. They couldn’t have known that I was in danger of actually dying from their lifestyle choices, but I often translated it to a personal assault on my lifestyle choice—specifically the lifestyle choice I had made to continue being alive as long as possible.
I never approached them about my problem. They had already reacted badly when I asked them to move their vehicles away from my garage, and one time, the postal carrier put their mail in my box by accident. When I tried to knock on their door to give it to them, they threatened to have me kicked out for trespassing. This was their mindset, so I never spoke to them about my very real issue with their pot-smoking habits, even though it is still illegal in Texas.
Instead, I bought a little house very far away from them. It’s adorable. Or, if you want to use the words my real estate agent used, it’s “totes adorbs.” Two bedrooms, one bath, washer dryer hook-ups, garage, fenced yard, nice neighbors. I like it. I low-balled my offer, and the owner accepted it, no negotiation at all, on my birthday in July. I moved in on August twelfth, and the plumbing started acting up ten days later. No worries, though. My super smart real estate agent signed me up with a home warranty, and all my plumbing issues are slowing being resolved. It’s an old house. It’s going to take time. The washer is draining and backing up into the bathtub as I type this, but there’s not a pot cloud in sight.
            The funny thing is, during the time it took to get all the paperwork and inspections done so I could get away from the old neighbors, they up and moved away from me. They took their five cars, their four dogs, their two teenaged boys, and all their pot with them. They didn’t even say goodbye. Go figure.

            The landlord grumbled a little about the mess they left behind, but he was happy for me when he heard I was buying a house. I left my side of the duplex nice and clean and got my entire deposit back. 
             I’m a good neighbor like that. 

Monday, January 9, 2017

All these nice things are MINE

This is awkward.

I graduated three weeks ago, and I haven't paid any attention to all the things I swore I would pay attention to as soon as I graduated. My house is still messy. My car still has bird poop all over the passenger side door handle. My  manuscripts remain unwritten.

Lazy...

But, you know, it's been nice. I know what my kids look like in person instead of just seeing them on Facebook. I got to help my little grandson Damon create some refrigerator handprint art. I went on a few dates with a sexy Irish guy who opens doors for me and makes me laugh. I went shopping.

2016 was my year, you know. I realize it pretty much sucked for so many people on the planet, and I'm afraid I made off with the one little bucket of great things 2016 had to offer. I know this, but I'm still holding on to all my great stuff. In fact, I'm practically flaunting it. Wearing it like people wear Michael Kors, and bragging about it just as much.

"Look at my beautiful trip to London, and my new gray house with the red door, and my four point oh. Aren't they to die for?"

yep. It's been a great year.






Sunday, September 4, 2016

Stand to the right, please.

I just remembered I have lots of reading to do before I get back to school on Wednesday. So naturally, I've decided to completely ignore that to-do pile and catch up on some blog-posting.

Lots has happened since I was here last, yet nothing has happened at all. There's the rub.

I don't remember if I mentioned I went to London last May. That was a riot. I've got loads of pictures, and some of them are amazing. Most of them are only interesting to me.
Here's a few:














I'm a Tube expert now. It took about two days for that to happen. I started getting grumpy like the locals, but expressing it in the most polite terms possible. The British are all about manners.

Before all that happened, I had my very first ever bona fide car wreck. It wasn't my fault and nobody was hurt, but it was scary and surreal, nonetheless.

I'll tell you about it sometime.

Thursday, February 25, 2016

bulletpoints

These are the bullet points:


  • The kids have been out of the house for a significant amount of time--long enough that I actually miss them.
  • I am still in school, still rockin' the four point oh. This has a lot to do with my absence on this blog.
  • I got a nice promotion at my job.
  • I also got a humble pay increase.
  • I had a dream about that guy I like.
  • It was a very nice dream.
  • I don't have nice dreams. This must be a sign.
  • I'm going to London in May for two weeks.
  • Dr. Doty, who is leading our London trip, is not going to come back to WTAMU in the Fall.
  • Dr. Doty got a better job.
  • Dr. Doty got a better pay increase than mine.
  • Dr. Doty deserves it. He's pretty brilliant, and could probably get a job anywhere he wants.
  • I noticed I lost about six followers.
  • It kind of hurts my feelings that people actually chose to give up on me.
  • I'll be back soon.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

The Five...or Maybe Six Stages of Grief

     I resisted my friend's rude intrusion last night while I snoozed in my bed. He kept shaking me and telling me the toilet was overflowing and the bathroom was flooding, but I only wanted to snuggle deeper into my pillow and pretend the world could get along fine without me. I don't ordinarily get the kind of sleep where I don't know I'm sleeping, and I had been thinking to myself that this sleep was that kind of sleep.  I wasn't aware of my dreams all night, so my brain was finally achieving a level of rest I had been seeking for my entire life. These nights are the best nights. But my rude bed buddy persisted in waking me and insisted I take control of the increasing horror going on in the bathroom.

     Here's the thing. Three or four degrees decorate his wall. People far less educated than him have been able to figure out the overflowing toilet problem for generations. What is his freakin' problem? For that matter, what's my freakin' problem? How am I always ending up with the kinds of guys who can't or WON'T take the initiative to fix the problem (whatever the problem may be) when the problem arises? Why do I have to be the one to give up all the excellent sleep? Why do I have to do everything myself?

     I would have given him my third-born child if he would have just taken care of it and let me roll over and get a couple more hours of sleep. I'm tired, bitches.

     But...he was right. It's my bathroom, my responsibility. It's my toilet.  I'm the one who knows where I hide the plunger. I understood at that point he would never be able to find it slightly to the right of the toilet tank. I groaned as I rolled away from him to my side of the bed.

     I sat on the edge for a few seconds. Through bleary eyes, I stared at the clock and tried to calculate how much time I had been asleep and if it was going to be enough to get me through my day, because I still have to do homework for five classes, and hang out at my job for eight hours or so. If this toilet situation didn't abate, I might have to deal with a plumber on top of everything else.

     Whatever. I'm Supergirl. I can handle it.

     The bathroom is about fifteen feet away from my bed, and in the time it took for me to drag my tired body over there I had prepared myself for the worst case scenario. The sights and sounds, and OH MY GOD, the smells of what I was about to face...

     But you know what?

     There was nothing there. Just a nice, clean, orderly bathroom. The mats on the tile floor remained fluffy and un-disgusting. The pristine blue water rested in the white porcelain bowl without a hint of overflow. Nothing needed my special attention.

     I looked twice, just to be sure, and maybe again, because why would my friend tell me there was a situation when there was obviously no situation? Was he dreaming?

     I decided he must have been dreaming, so I returned to the bed to shake him awake and let him know that the toilet was not overflowing. The horror was not increasing. We could all go back to bed and get some well-deserved sleep.

     And then it hit me.

     He was not there. He was never there. I live by myself. I don't ever have a bed buddy. That guy doesn't even know where I live. We don't hang out.  The last thing he said to me was he'd see me this summer and, I haven't seen him all summer. He would never be cozy enough with me to be shaking me out of my dreams.

     Ain't that a bitch? I can't even dream the good dreams when he finally shows up in them. I can only dream the dreams that have me wishing for a better dream.

     Or at least for a couple more hours of sleep.