In it. Out of it. Whatchyougot?

I’ve been using my study for real in the past two months. For real, as in,

I am the writer who lives in this house, and this is where I write.

How incredible is that sentence? I am still feeling it guys. The incredible, the doubtful, the incredulous. Yes. I am watering the plants regularly, and new leaves are unfurling as I sit. I am, yes, still finding the Easter Candy I hid on the shelves. I am still balancing my extreme candy consumption with protein-packed lunches. I have a writing space.

And I’m writing. I’m in it. Its’ been suggested that I should be able to do it with a house full of children, but I can’t. And I’m not going to apologize for that. The way in which my brain settles when the house is empty is an entirely novel experience, and I feel the weight of it. It is an entirely different brain that I carry at those moments, as if I am an entirely different creature. And I am.

I admit, I am not a perfect at-home worker. There are times I definitely struggle to focus on the work, and I dither in the kitchen or decide to do a grocery run. And if I’m freaking out and can’t function, I’ve watched tv. I mean, I hate when I do that and I judge myself very harshly. Daytime tv watching is for sick people or thirteen-year-olds watching soap operas after school. (this is not fair, and not appropriate to the covid era, i know.)

I’m not perfect, but here I am, in a writing space. In and out of doldrums and running like spring weather all around robin hood’s barn. I’m still in it. Watch me shake it on the dance floor, babes.

love love,


Writing spot


All done.

I’m done with a bunch of things. I ate a bunch of broccoli yesterday to attempt to keep my damn kid out of my bed last night. She is adorable, and often I love to have her sleep as she is the most adorable thing in the world. However, I am also a fan of my ‘own’ bed.

But honestly, why my brain would make me think broccoli was a good plan? Sigh. Slept like shit. farty shit. And now I am here, at almost eleven am, exhausted. Yelling at my kid who is 15 now to get out of my room so maybe I can take a nap. He is farty too, or I’m hoping thats the smell there. but I want just one place in the house that is mine, that the messes are mine, that the laundry I launder is just mine. MINE.

I’m all done with sharing. can i be? can i be all done with sharing my bed with children? is there some lost chance, some missed opportunity to snuggle that i will regret forever?

I’m done with my big project. Yes, another will arrive in a month, because it is luck to have work at all. This one was a particular challenge as i was morose and not working at all for a week, then the kids were here and recovery and grief and all, and suddenly i was in deep shit. brutal encouragement did the trick. but today, it is done.

now i go off to look at the class i signed up for, and get dreamy again, and maybe clean out the fridge. I’d like to rent a truck to move furniture to the dump. because otherwise i have to burn this messy house down. another thing i am done with.

teenagers. not done, but done, if you know what i mean. done.

sigh. i want some energy. where is it? did i have it before the broccoli problem? last year? When?

another thing I am done with? thinking that I should be all done with this pandemic thing. I ‘should be’ moving on, getting through, getting out. I should be moving, losing the weight, turning it around. The numbers are great, so great, comparatively. My mother is fully vaccinated, as are my in-laws and many people I love. And I don’t know how to accurately express the emotional salad bowl I have going on in me. What’s my resistance? What’s my problem? Why do I want to make another cake when I start thinking about it? Shit. fuck.


What are you done with? Really. I mean it. What are you done with?

close up photo of stacked brownies on chopping board
Brownie cake will do just fine. Photo by Marta Dzedyshko on


Friday, motherfuckers.

Its been a shit week, friends. And today will be long. Yesterday I took a nap in the middle of the day, and I think it was because I was upset still about conversations from Wednesday. The old memories cause bad dreams, wherein I fight for something I am doomed to fail at. (primarily my self-respect, hello?!) So I don’t sleep well, but sleeping in the middle of the day? This is a bad sign, for me. It makes me worry. I only left the house to do pickups at 4:30. Dinner had been prepared the day before otherwise these kids would’ve had takeout. Believe it or not, I just can’t afford to get takeout every time I’m bothered.

There are times when working at home is not all that easy.

This week I’ve had three days in a row with no kids here during school hours, and I haven’t even had to drive anyone to and from school. I think the schedule-less time is a challenge for me. I need a structure as much as I say the kids do. Yesterday, when I slept? I was supposed to be maintaining a certain number of words written in another project. I did not.

*And yes, I am gentle with myself and yes, I know it is a pandemic, still. So I make my coffee strong enough to peel my face off, I have a to-do list that will provide a certain amount of structure. I have a few animals to care for and a tax form to sigh at. I’m here, and I’m on it.

I’m going to spend some time today making a house list. What the hell are my plans for this place? Are plans just dreams? How can I get it to be a help to me instead of a millstone? I think I can do it, I’ve just got to make another list, I think.

*Its still a hard time, for all of us, and sometimes I feel like the weather change is actually hard. this spring stuff, because it takes me longer than I think it should to shuffle off my winter’s growth. I need the shearing first, and comfort is not as easy as taking off a winter coat. First its a risk to even remove it, right? Then there is the inevitable chill. The cold nose, the chapped fingers. I’m not ready.

so, yes, I’m fine. and its friday, which feels completely irrelevant to my life at this point. so fuck it.

Damn. bet you’re glad you read that one.


love you anyways, ya mugs.


grayscale photo of human face statue
Today, me. Photo by Jean Pierre on

Old socks. in which i.

Its not that super a day. All the facts are that I am completely competent. I’ve got the trash out for tomorrow because I forgot last week and woah, the recycling is out of hand. and, this post was actually mostly prepared already, so I don’t have to tell you how much I still want to punch something. I was pretty damn emotional yesterday and had a hard time and didn’t talk about it very much. So, there is still a little sludge to work through this morning. I will be writing. OH yes, i will. (PMS, and reactions to stuff from yesterday and hatred for people who drink too much. i want it not to be hatred but it is very very complicated, right? I.AM.NOT.CRAZY. and its not hatred for you, if you drink too much. just look at it, okay?)


It might not be surprising to note that I do not enjoy the cold. I LOVE winter, but I like it for the warmth that I can find in my many blankets, boots, sweaters and leg warmers. Yes, leg warmers. They are a new addition to my life, and very important. The snuggles, the cozy nest I have made of my house.

I have, evidently, reached a real pinnacle of adulthood. It is time to release what has worn itself out, what no longer works in its intended capacity.

socks. must.go. these are the socks of my marriage. pretty, wool, striped, now worn so thin that i’m constantly poking through them. translucent. no longer providing warmth.

the metaphor game is strong here and i don’t know if I can be bothered to fill in the blanks today.

there is much still to be tossed of my old life, and yesterday was very sad for me, lots of old choices and feeling trapped and just a lot of teary drives to do the errands. Masks really do hide a multitude of things.

and so my plan is, today, to work and write and go through my sock drawer. These are the corners which must be hunted out and eviscerated. let the fire of my cold toes cleanse me.

(i mean it, and yes, i laughed.)


Starting up. February’s ending game.

I know I’ve been off my game, I’ve felt it. I haven’t been writing, but I’ve been full of thoughts about how I’ve not been writing and that, honestly, can just bite it. Its not enough, its not.

Its like the taxes that are sitting next to me on the desk. The actual job would take ten minutes. So, why are they sitting next to me on the desk and not winging their way to their destiny? Hmm.

So, I’m going to set myself the task of writing again, for real, again. I’m not holding myself to every day, but 5/7 would be pretty awesome. March it is. The anniversary of our discontent.

Sigh. all the ‘last times’ that we didn’t know about. a year ago. I predict not much writing about it really, i am not really producing a time-capsule for the sake of history, after all.

I find that the writing connects me to my deeper self, and i’m bolstered by the sharing of it. The imagination that tells me there are a small multitude cheering me on, and maybe doing their own thinking of their deeper selves.

I want to go back to that tether ball pole, idly waiting for players. I need the tether, in this chill spring. A whole tumult of change is arriving, again, and I do like the smell of the dirt in this season. (though the mud? questionable)

End of February. Beginning of March. What have we here?

What have we?

Love love,


black and white chickadee
Photo by cmonphotography on