Y’all! Tomorrow is the big day. The adventure begins. Time to start my new life. The one where I go to work. In a new position. With new coworkers. And a new curriculum that I’m absolutely. Positively. Crazy about. In my home office. Surrounded by all my favorite things. Where I take my girl to school. Just twice per week this year. Thanks to the best invention of all time. Carpool. Where I have to start planning dinners. Packing lunches. Setting alarms to remind me to give Oscar his breaks. All while keeping the house in order. And my plants alive. Doing laundry. And dishes. Floors. Sheets. And bathrooms. And bills. You know the routine. Continue reading “The Big Day”
Y’all. I’ve been doing a lot of counting lately. Hours of sleep my girl might get. If she’ll sleep until 10. Which she never does. Even though she’s stayed up way past her bedtime. And mine. Again. I’ve also been counting how many episodes I have left in my show. Chapters I have left in my book. The next five books I want to read. And shows I want to watch. How many insurance appeals I have to write. Pills I have to take. Purses I have to list on eBay. Because Marge and I have now have a market on eBay. And she has a lot of purses. And shoes. I’ve also been counting down the days until Oscar gets 15 more minutes of freedom. Because really. He’s the one who needs the break. Let’s just be honest. And then suddenly. Without even realizing it. I’ve started to panic. Because this week. In just a few days. I’m down to 19 hours closed. And holy shit. Have I even been listening at all? Shouldn’t I be wiser. Or stronger. Or less panicky. Or more like Jesus. Or something. This played out so differently in my head five months ago. Shouldn’t I be enlightened by now. But then I remember. This whole thing. This whole jacked up jaw mess. It all started because I was trying to be something more. Someone I wasn’t. Trying to be like the girl I envied in middle school. Trying to be anyone but me.
I’ll be 40 in four months. And currently. At 39. I live with my mom. I have a home. A beautiful one. One with a mortgage. An electric bill. A water bill. And I still pay them. On time. In it are all my favorite things. My old fans. And vintage cameras. Rusty things. National Geographics. And my bed. My seven-year old daughter is here with me, too. We sleep in a full size bed together. Even though there is a queen down the hall. And a king at our own home. I like being close to her at night. Her body is so warm. And we hold hands while she falls asleep. Sometimes she even wakes me in the wee hours. Asking for my hand. And I love it. I’m almost 40. My daughter and I live with my mom. And to be brutally honest. I don’t want to leave. Continue reading “Forty”
This whole thing about the girl who listens. That girl. The one whom this blog was based. The one who currently has her mouth banded shut. For 22 hours a day. That girl. She’s a fraud. A fake. A lie. Because in the words of her mama, “she has not shut her flapping mouth.” Not since she was in the recovery room. Not since she was rolled into her hospital room. Not since she was wired for five days. Not once. And you know what. That girl is me. Continue reading ” The Pinch”
I’m a firecracker. A little explosive even. My mouth tends to get me in trouble. A lot. Historically speaking. I’d very much like to blame this on my parents. First my father who I believe gifted me with my combustible nature. And I do mean gifted. After all, I am able to use this burning flame to the benefit of myself and others. Sometimes. Then there’s my mother, nary a firecracker in her, but she did leave me in a hot car. In the Tampa heat. When I was just three years old. “Jesus Christ it’s hot in here,” my mother heard as she opened the car door after those (no more than) 20 seconds. Thus beginning the saga of my dramatic nature. My explosive mouth. The trouble to be had. Historically speaking.
Today was a good day. I failed my state certification exam. Again. By one point. Again. There’s irony behind it. This is a written test. Like a sit down, look at a prompt, draft an outline, and write kind of assessment. Written. Y’all! I once won a state poetry contest. So what if it was in 1994. I even beat out my older sister who is a much better writer than I will ever be. I studied creative writing at Florida State University. I’ve written a 123-page thesis on homelessness. Homelessness. I’ve been a high school English teacher for 10 years. I do this every day. I write. Hell, I do this in my free time. I write. And yet, I can’t seem to pass this written test. But like I said, it was a good day. I failed the exam.