Monday, April 30, 2007

Coffee Guy

Can you find a man in these coffee beans?

Friday, April 27, 2007

Well This Is Just Shitty


If you wish not to read about normal bodily functions, (poop, for instance) I would suggest you move along and find some nice other blog that discusses something more entertaining, like Rosie quitting the View or Alec yelling at his kid.

So, you may remember in December a little post referencing me as the Toilet Clogger.

OK, I'm not. Not all the time. Occasionally, well, occasionally I've had plenty of fiber, and maybe our toilet needs to be snaked or something, but today was one of those days. Or maybe I should stop buying the Ultra Aloe, 16-Ply freaking toilet paper. I am beginning to think that's the culprit of these incidents.

So, had a little toilet problem today, nothing major, everything nasty cleared out OK but there was that soggy paper left in the bowl, and that tiny bit of water that leads you to believe there is a toilet issue.

So, I leave it, thinking that it'll clear itself up. I flush it a little later, the water rises to the top, with about a half-inch of safety net. I heave a sigh of relief. The water did not go any higher.

I got the plunger out, and tried to plunge a little, and keep in mind, this is not gross plunging, or else I wouldn't have gotten the plunger out, I would have just waited till Hubby got home and blamed it on one of the kids.

So I plunged a little, nothing happened, flushed some more and watched the water rise again to the half-inch mark and stop. Again, I heave a sigh of relief.

Fast-forward six hours, back at home, and the phone rings. It's Swishy. She has just received the CDs I sent her so we're chit-chatting (if you could hear our conversations...), and then I tell her how I clogged the damn toilet again, and she starts laughing and says, "Didn't you blog about that once?"

I'm like, "Yeah, why does this always happen to me." Then I go into the bathroom, with Swishy still on the phone and I tell her I'm going to try to plunge it some more.

The toilet is looking OK. Not so much water. No gross stuff, just some of that ultra 16-ply sogging up the toilet hole (what is that called anyway? The toilet spout? Is there a name for that place where it all goes down?).

So, I'm plunging and laughing with Swish on the phone, griping about it, and griping that I'm home and Hubby's downtown tonight for something and then I flush and watch as the water rises. No worries. I've flushed it six or seven times since "the incident" and the water always rises to half-inch and then stops.

Except for this time.

The water begins its slow cascade over the rim and I begin to scream, "OH MY GOD! IT'S OVERFLOWING!"

Swishy's yelling, "No it's not!"

"Yes it is! Fuck! Shit! Fuckshit! AJERS, GO GET ME ALL THE TOWELS IN THE HOUSE!"

I totally floundered in the emergency. I wanted to start bailing water, but with WHAT?! I tried to put the garbage can next to the toilet to 'catch' water, which is the dumbest thing I could ever think to do. I am standing in poo water, and it's sliding all across the floor, into the foyer, behind the door, almost to my office, and into the hall closet.

"Swish! I gotta go!" And I toss the phone God-only-knows where.

"THROW ME THE TOWELS!" I sop up the mess with seriously, about 18 towels, and my feet are squishing all over it and I'm yelling at the kids, and I'm standing in water that has housed about a million poos from our family alone, and if I think about it I'll start puking.

I noticed water went down the air vent, so after I have the 18 soaking towels layered upon one another to sop it all up, we trudge downstairs, and yes, of course, there is water seeping from the ceiling onto the desk, the carpet, the computer harddrive.

Holy Eff Bomb!

I am furious, mad, angry, but then also thankful that I do not live alone because, even though I am handling this situation as best as I can, I have come to realize that I need my husband for more than just S E X! Ha, did I just say that! Like I even need him for THAT!

Anyway, long story too long, I am pissy, want to open a bottle of wine and suck it down. My feet, although I have washed them in the shower, feel yucky to me, tainted from walking in poo-water, and my hands aren't feeling that fresh either.

Yuck. Yuck, Double-triple-yuck-fuck.

So after screaming for towels, screaming because of the mess, screaming because the basement ceiling is now leaking, I go into the kitchen, still screaming and tell the kids to put on that damned movie now or else they can go to bed!


Diva says very timidly, so I don't scream at her, "Mom, no offense, but I think you already did."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Addendum: So, Hubby just calls and I tell him the toilet overflowed again.

"Who's the culprit?"

"It doesn't matter," I say. "That toilet NEEDS TO BE SNAKED!"

"Did you clean it up to save the wood floor?"

Me, "Of course!"

We start to bicker a little bit about the problem, I tell him we need a plumber, and that it's not my fault!

He says he'll talk to me when he gets home. I say I don't want to fight about it.

He says, we're not fighting about it, he just does not want to discuss my stinky poops while he's trying to drive home.

I just can't win, can I?


Thursday, April 26, 2007


Actual conversations between Hubby and me tonight--

Hubby: "Hey honey, guess what?"

Me, picking up the kitchen, yelling at the kids, going through their schoolbags: "What?"

Hubby: "Did you know the 17-year Cicadas are coming this summer?"

My mind flashes to the best summer of my life, where I was dating the hot lifeguard and had the tennis-club part-time job, where all we did was get drunk all summer long and fool around any chance we could get, any place we could get it at! The summer when my parents were out of town A LOT, and I threw a lot of parties, and we went downtown Chicago a lot and I had a fake ID so I got into a bunch of bars, and it was the epitomy of The Greatest Summer of One's Life...

Me: "Yeah. And do you wanna know what I was doing seventeen years ago?"

Hubby: "I don't know, some boy?"

Me, thinking of that awesome summer: "Oh, he wasn't just a boy... he was... (me, recalling his hot swimmer bod, his cute smile, the way he... all the while trying to figure out thirty-eight minus seventeen in my brain, cuz remember, I'm not too savvy at math... Long pause as the calculations surface to the realization of thirty-eight minus seventeen equalling twenty-one...)

"Oh wait. I was doing you!"

Next conversation:

Diva walks in, then walks out. Hubby is drinking the last of the bottle of wine he opened. Hubby notes Diva's height and says, "Wow, she's getting so tall."

Me: "Yep."

Hubby: "I hope she doesn't turn into a slut like her mom."

Me: "Why? She turned out all right."

For those of you a little behind the eight ball, *I'M* Diva's mom!

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

CD Giveaway--Finally

Hey, sorry for the delay, but here's how the contest winners will be chosen. If you were one of the people who commented here:
MUSIC CONTEST and if you're one of the first three readers* to comment HERE, you will win the CD--your choice of 15 songs from Manic's Library 'O Tunes.

*Swishy need not apply. Also, relatives of Manic Mom are not eligible. But if you're my relative and want one, call me (Tse Tse Fly!)

Monday, April 23, 2007

Virtually Impossible

Believe me when I say trying to write a sex scene during the hour it's time to get the kids to bed really, really SUCKS!

Cripes, can they come down the stairs like sixteen-hundred more times? Ajers came down, sad puppy eyes, and was like, "You promised you'd come in to tuck me in."

I had promised. I had also forgotten. He was mad.

Diva was mad too, because my "stupid little book" according to her, was more important than "your kids, and their teeth and their health. Don't you want your kids to be healthy, with clean teeth, or do you care more about a stupid little book?"

And then Ajers, with the, "it's just a dumb book," comment. It made me think. Am I missing out on golden opportunities with my kids just because I am trying to write another novel? Does this make me a bad mom? Does this negate the pizza, ice cream, putt-putt golf, walks and bikerides, trips to Target to get something fun we did all weekend long while hubby was golfing? Huh? Did any of that crap count for anything?

Noooooo. God forbid mommy wants to do something for herself and it's spilling out of her head and if she doesn't get it down onto the computer, it'll be lost forever, and believe me when I tell you, this was a hot, hot sex scene.

I tried to explain it to Ajers this way. (Wait! Not the sex scene, the part about me needing to write tonight)... I said, "You know how like you're in the middle of a video game and I yell to you to come upstairs and you yell back that you will when the game is over, and you're so focused on the rest of that game, that nothing else seems important at that moment?"

He said yeah.

I said, "That's what it's like for me when I have something I need to write and it's a priority, very important and I want to get it done right then. Like when you're playing a game."

"Well, what's more important? A dumb book or your kids?"

I shot it right back to him. "What's more important to you? Your PSP or mom?"

Fortunately, after some thinking, he did choose me, but when conversations with the kids come up like this, they really make me wonder if I'm being neglectful to them? Hell! I even planted seeds with Tukey today! We went to the store, bought actual seeds and are attempting to grow stuff in the yard. I have no idea if we'll be successful, but I can't tell you how many times he exclaimed sincerely, "This is such a fun project!"

I do so much for them, always let them have their friends in the house, in the yard, over for snacks, always suggest fun activities we can do. Spoil them to death if you ask anyone. And what do I get? They don't get enough of me? Come on. Am I being over-the-top here? Or are they just working the system, trying to get a little more time awake?

Cripes, I don't know. What I do know is that I am now no longer in the mood to write a sex scene, and I did get quite a workout going from the computer up the stairs, back down and back up while I tried to settle them...

Oh, and look, here comes another kid...


: )

Peace UP.

PS... This is a total quickie rant and I'm just going to post it now without edits. Then I'm going to bed, where I will not be reenacting any of the sex scene I had been working on, much to hubby's dismay.

Saturday, April 21, 2007

Like Cho

I am just trying to understand all of this. And this morning, I woke up, and had these thoughts. They are just my thoughts. Nothing else. I feel so desperate for the families of the victims. I am not accepting or excusing what he did, only God can do that. I am just trying to think through things, work through my feelings, and wonder how Cho felt his whole life. It is bothering me. That is all this post is about. Feel free to comment at length, but please know these are just some things I think about and felt like sharing. I would love to hear your thoughts on this as well. Here goes:

What if
a student,
when asked his name
the first day of school,
stood up,
yet looked down at
bitten fingernails,
felt tears begin
their usual burn, and

"I could be like Cho.
I feel lonely.
I am shy.
I have no friends.
I am shattered inside."

Would you
reach out to him?
Say hello?
Choose him for your
lab partner?
your head
as you passed in the hall?
Laugh at him as others did?
Move to the
other side
of the room
when you see him
all alone, face down,
always face down,
searching out his sandwich.
Willing to be swallowed up,
an instant hole in the ground.

Would your eyes
shine with a terror
you'd never known
when he finally
one day
faced you
eye to eye?

Would "hello" ever have
been enough?

To calm the angry, anxious,
hateful storm
that emerged
on a day,
not unlike today,
in our already
not-safe world.

In a world that has since
been changed forever.

Would hello had been enough?

I think I know.
I feel
no hope arrived.

He made that hole, crawled inside.
But not before taking 32
lives, ruining hundreds,
making thousands fear
their walk outside,
their school,
their children's safety,
the grocery store,

He wanted to be seen.
Nobody saw him
his whole life

And now, because of
one man's anger
at not
being recognized,
will know him
for all our lives.
Those of us who were
not cut short
of life.

How can we be safe again?

Would hello
have been enough?

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

No Title Poem

She should have known
2:30 a.m.
Drunk in a hot tub,
A walk on the beach,
and Denny's
meant nothing,
not much to you.

At 19, everything.

She should have known
not to
pass the note,
words scrawled
on college-ruled paper,
ripped from the spiral of math equations,
confetti edges float to the floor.

Wished the words had instead.

Ironing a t-shirt?
Nothing but an ego-trip.
Pushed her head down further
More. Please. Oh more.

Feel Like Making Love
on the other side of
the door.

Voices and Noises
Music and Sounds
Not their own.

Drunk fingers,
whispered promises
were everything
but true.

Every wave
of the half-filled
bed of water.

She should have known
meant nothing
on that ocean-bed
when the shudders
came, he was
on the framed picture
above his head.

A photo
Not of you.

Monday, April 16, 2007

Dear God

Please say a prayer for those affected by today's shooting at Virginia Tech. It's a sad day, again, in our country, and there's lots to say, but for now, just pray for the victims, those dead and wounded, and their families.

And make it a point to tell your own loved ones how much they mean to you.

41 Years Ago Today...

My fate was sealed as the two best people in the world said "I DO" to one another. Mom and dad, thank you for blessing MY life by being blessed as husband and wife!

143, Stephanie

Sunday, April 15, 2007

Birthday Blitz!

Thank you all for the fun, nice, upbeat birthday wishes. I think my bad vibes are O-V-E-R, and I seriously think most of it had to do with the fact that we were having shitty no-sun-more-snow weather here, and I really am a victim of S.A.D… Seasonal Affectation Disorder.

I also was not really prepared for accepting the fact that I would be turning 38. I was afraid I would turn the “I’m-No-Longer-Thirty-Seven” corner and I would discover that I had become, overnight, completely over the hill.

Guess what? I’M NOT!

What a revelation!

Anyway, Colorado Writer was pretty much was dead-on when she mentioned what her perfect birthday would consist of in the comments. Her first name is the same as mine, and, as you’ll discover, we both have the same exact ideas for ways to celebrate our birthdays, including any and all of the following, which I will list here as Manic’s Birthday Mania Blitz.

But first, a little family tradition passed down from generation to generation is that we don’t just celebrate one day of birthday. Our family has an “Octave” celebration that my uncle invented once when he was drunk. I’m sure he was drunk when he proclaimed birthdays be OCTAVES, because who would go for this tradition? Basically, it means, that in our family, you have an Octave—which means we begin to acknowledge our birthday eight days prior to the actual day, and then following the eight days after the birthday, you’re still within your “Octave” of your birthday. It’s kind of like the Christian Lenten season, only not forty days, just eight before and eight after the day of your birth. Like this celebratory idea? Feel free to use it in your own family.

Example of celebrating your Octave-- Let’s say it’s like April 6, which was the commencement of my Octave. Let’s say I wanted a glass of water but didn’t feel like getting up to get one so I ask Hubby. He doesn’t feel like getting up to get me one either, so I simply call out, “OCTAVE!” This negates any response from him, and he must then go fetch me water. Or chocolate, or whatever I want. It’s totally being spoiled, it’s totally ruthless, it’s totally insensitive to the others in your family, UNTIL it’s your own Octave, then all bets are off. And like this a.m., when we were basking in the afterglow of a child-free-night downtown Chicago. Hubby opens the drape. I yell to him to close it cuz it’s too bright. He has to, cuz it’s still ‘within’ the Octave of my birthday. He turns on the TV to SportsCenter. I yell to him to turn it off. He doesn’t try to argue; he knows it’s still within the Octave. You get the picture? It’s completely spoiled-child-kid-syndrome, but hey, everyone in my family abides by this, and everyone gets their Octave, so it’s fair when yours comes around. And, admittedly, I won’t make total use of the next seven days and claim Octave status, it’s just fun to do if the mood strikes ya.

Quick recap of “leading up to the birthday and the actual birthday” blitz, including ALL the food I ate this weekend, cuz we all know how much I love food:

Treated myself to a half-hour massage. Paid for with my very own-earned money. Happy birthday to me.

Got flowers, albeit from Jewel, but they still look pretty and smell nice.

Happy hour with friends, where we participated in a tequila-tasting.

Got some fun presents from friends, including yummy soaps, luxurious lotions, B&N gift card, candies, lip gloss.

Dinner at this Sushi Restaurant and Lounge. Included two appletinis. Notice the website says nothing about food in it.

Sleep in until 11:00 a.m. on my birthday.

Diva gives me a homemade envelope that says, “To My Amazing Mommy.” Before I open it she tells me, “No matter what, you have to keep this present.” I open it up. She has given me four dollars. HER four dollars she has saved and earned on her own. And she wants me to have it. Insists that I keep it. I will. And I will probably buy her ice cream with it later!

Café-vanilla frap and reduced-fat blueberry cake.

Drive to the city. Listen to Manic CDs that I made because it’s my birthday and I want to listen to music I love.

Get a room at the Sheraton with a beautiful view overlooking the River.

Walk to Millenium Park to look at The Bean. Check out the fountain architecture where there is a picture of a person spitting out water here.

See a cute wedding party, which I think they picked a good day to get married, date-wise, but the weather is not typical April-in-Chicago weather so I kind of feel a little bad for the bride; and the bridesmaids look cold, but cute in their chocolate colored sleeveless dresses with cotton-candy pink shawly things.

We promise each other we will take the kids downtown more often to be ‘culturized’ so they don’t die in their little suburban bubble.

Decide it’s time for a cocktail. I know I don’t want my appletini now. I have to save it for later. We search for a place. I want something chippy-crispy to munch on since all I’ve had is the blueberry Starbucks cake. We go to House of Blues. They are under construction. We check out Bin 36. Nah. We decide to go to the Westin for a glass of wine. The bar is packed with hot young guys. Obviously a bachelor party. I wonder what their night will consist of. I check out the ones with rings, and the ones without rings. We find out who the groom is. He walks by and I ask, “You the groom?”

“Is it that obvious?”

Turns out he lives in Tampa. I used to live in Tampa. He is 11 years younger than I am. I feel old. His wife-to-be had her bachelorette party in NYC the weekend before. His party is in Chicago. These parties last a whole weekend these days. I tell him actually his wife sent me to spy. He tells me not to let her know he smokes.

What? You’re getting married in one month, yet your bride-to-be has no idea you smoke? You cannot go into a marriage with such a secret. What next? Is he going to do the stripper? My prediction: the marriage won’t last.

Hubby and I drink some very good wine (McWilliams Australian Chardonnay) and we share grilled pita and hummus, cashews, and caprese crostinis which was the most fun and yummy appetizers. I get a little buzz, a happy one.

We make our way back to our hotel. I want a nap. For me, I love to sleep. I can sleep 16 hours a day and probably be more productive than when I only sleep 8. Instead of going to our room, we go to the Java Bar and I have another glass of wine. Hubby has two beers. We eat those fun crunchy, spicy mixed nuts and thingies they give you at a bar to ensure you will drink more to put the spicy fire out of your mouth.

We start people-watching. There are functions going on. We saw a sign for a Gastroentologist Conference. Hubby makes a joke. He says their slogan is: Gastroentologists—You’ll Have A Blast!

Get it? Blast? Fart? Hee hee. See, hubby is not above me in the humor department.

Then we start watching people who are attending a wedding but at the bar prior to the reception. We decide whom we would do. Whom we think the other would do. Who we’d do together. There is one chick wearing a god-awful magenta outfit that Hubby says, “I saw her on the back page of Glamour with a black bar over her eyes!”

We watch interracial couples, and young, newly married couples. We watch a gay couple and decide who’s the man and who’s the woman. We check out older ladies with plastic surgery. I point out a chick who is far too heavy to wear the dress she is wearing, and the thong under the dress. You know it’s bad news when you can see the outline of the thong under the dress! We notice who cannot walk in heels. I point out some hotties, some I like, some I think he’d like. We curl up on a cushy couch and I kiss him. He rubs my leg. We finish our drinks.

“Let’s go upstairs.” I say. He knows what this means. I know he knows what this means. We get to our room, close the drapes so it’s nice and dark and warm and romantic.

He looks at me. I look at him. “Should I?” he asks.

A sigh escapes my lips. “Oh yes. Do it now!”

He’s going to do it, and I’m thrilled! He comes to my side of the bed, leans over and touches it in all the right places—the alarm clock! He sets the alarm for 7 p.m. so we can take a nap and wake up in time for dinner. Oh yes, the romance is still alive and well!!!

We fall asleep. For a kick-ass nap.

It’s fun to take a nap at a hotel when you’ve only got like 24 hours for a getaway because then it makes you think you’re away longer than you really are! This is how my brain works.

We get up, get ready and go to Shaw’s Crabhouse for one of the most awesome meals ever! We share tuna shushimi, a wedge salad, mashed potatoes that remind me of ice cream, garlic spinach. I have my appletini. He has wine. I have wine. I have Alaskan King Crab Legs drenched and oozing of butter. They bring me a slice of chocolate cake with a candle. There is a guy the next table over celebrating his 30th birthday. Somehow, I think he and I are kindred spirits, being born on the same day of the year.

I need to unbutton my pants I’m so full. We walk back to the hotel. I’m far past the stage of staying up till 4 a.m. getting hammered and sharing my life story with strangers. I won’t say I’ll never do that again, but it’s going to be a rare occurrence any longer. The hangovers are just too draining. And I so hate wasting a day with my head stuck in a dirty toilet. Unless it’s my own personal toilet, that is.

We get back to the room, cozy on up and watch a little SNL. I know! I know! Stop the madness Manic Mom! Slow it waaaaay down you crazy woman! Hey, did I not tell you I am middle-aged now. I need to start slowing down. We go to sleep and I get pissy cuz the room next door is hosting a party with probably 20 people and they’re even singing Gwen Stefani’s Sweet Escape, complete with Wee Hooooos! I remember what it was like to be young, to be partying till all hours of the night. It wasn’t that long ago. But I’m tired. I want to sleep.

Somehow, sleep finds me. So, I sleep.

We’ll skip the part where we wake up cuz that’s private. Let’s just say, no kids, no worries, and leave it at that.

Today, we walked around the city, held hands, made jokes, went into some thrift shops and used book stores. I got this book called Downers Grove, which is where I went to high school.

Hubby was a real trouper because he could probably care less about browsing through musty smelling stores. I was in heaven. I love doing that stuff. I love eavesdropping on conversations, thinking about how I would start a novel with someone’s words as they walk by me.

Then we went to La Pasadita, which is an authentic Mexican place we used to go to when we would be in the city late-night, drinking so much and being stupid and thinking we were immortal, driving home all hours of the night. We got a killer burrito and chowed down. Then came home.

Diva made me a cookie cake, decorated it, and they all sang to me when we got back. I missed the kids. A lot. I wanted them with me at times when we were away. But it is so good to sneak away for a little healthy one-on-one with your spouse, to know that you can get away, still be in love, still laugh, talk about the things you’ll do when the kids are gone, and know you won’t be bored of each other.

Finally, one of Hubby’s cards to me featured an old couple and the old lady was blowing out her candles. The old man says to the old lady:

“Did you wish you were young and sexy again?”

The old lady’s reply:

“No. I wished YOU were young and sexy again!”
~ ~ ~
Want Manic Music? You choose the songs you want from Manic’s list. Anything from Neil Diamond, Jane’s Addiction, Peter Gabriel, The Cure, New Order, Dave Matthews to name just a few. Go here and leave a comment. I am picking three winners later this week, so stay tuned!

Friday, April 13, 2007

Birthday. April 14, 1969

Looking back on birthdays. Looking ahead to birthdays.

I’m thinking today that I am thirty-eight. If this is the half-way point in my life, that means I will live to be 76. I want to live longer than that. Because if I die at 76, that means Diva will only be 46. I don’t want her to be motherless at 46. Hell, I don’t want to be motherless at 46. I want my boys to have their mommy even when they are growing hair out of their ears and bald. I want to be their mom forever.

I’m not sure how I’m feeling about this age. I am writing this on my last day of 37, which also happens to be a Friday the 13th, which also happens to be the time that I’ve just returned from the mall with nothing to wear. I am more depressed about my weight than my age right now. I need to get control of that. I know how to. And I will. Soon.

Anyway, in recalling significant birthdays, I thought I’d try to remember some of them.

I’m Three or Four
The very absolute first one I do remember is either my third or my fourth, and maybe my mom remembers. My sister and I both share April birthdays (as does my other brother) but my sister and I are the same age for two weeks each year. Irish twins. So, I’m guessing we had a lot of shared birthday parties. This one, where I was either three or four, probably four, cuz who can remember things at the age of three? I don’t think there were theme birthdays back then, but I do clearly recall my parents had a horse at our house for the party. I think it was a big horse, not just a puny little pony, and I guess the horse was there to give rides. My aunt was dressed as a Princess too, I think, and my grandmother was dressed up too, I think in like a white wedding dress (we were a strange family), and I’m pretty sure my grandmother had a leash around a white duck’s neck and was walking it around the yard.

So, I walk over to the horse, probably to pet it, or feed it a carrot, and the horse steps on my foot. My bare foot. My bare it’s-my-birthday-and-I’ll-do-what-I-want bare foot. And it hurt. I remember it hurt, and I cried and I ran into the house into my bedroom and cried and cried cuz my birthday was ruined. I don’t think I came out of my room after that. I probably fell asleep. My adult family members probably got drunk.

Eleven. Or Twelve?
I think I should remember other significant ones. Let’s see, I do remember the birthday when I was in fifth or sixth grade because we had just moved and I got a Bananas magazine subscription and I got to choose where to eat for dinner. One of these years, I know I chose Arthur Treachure’s Fish and Chips. Another birthday, I chose a pizza place, and as I’m writing this, I do think the name of the pizza place was called Thick and Thin Pizza. Seriously. How am I remembering these things.

Sweet Sixteen.
My parents tried to throw me a little surprise birthday party. I knew about it though, and it was at a pizza place too. I have a pizza thing, I guess! And I remember a couple of my gifts from a friend. Fuzzy dice, red and black. And the Animotion tape, with the song Obsession on it. No boyfriend, and doesn't every sweet-sixteen-year-old want a boyfriend to practice kissing on her birthday? Never had that.

Significant because I think my father came home from work and I was walking around, prancing in front of him, trying to get him to say Happy Birthday to me. He didn’t. He forgot it was my birthday! I also think I got a pair of white tennis shoes on this birthday. Had no boyfriend then. Hardly ever did for birthdays, or Valentine’s or Proms or Homecomings. But, that’s another post for another day. This is sad, but I am positive that my restaurant of choice this year was Long John Silvers.

My 19th.
I remember very much. I was a freshman in college, and my roommate (Hi Sue!) got me a cookie cake, and a bottle of amaretto. I think that was the drink of choice if we were splurging back then! My goal that night was to do 19 shots, and / or beers. I am pretty sure I still have it written down as to how many I drank that night, and I think I only got somewhere around 9 – 11 before I called it a night. Oh, and hello, I did have a boyfriend that year, kind of. Dan C., who I met a few weeks prior in Daytona who also went to the same college. He gave me a card. I probably gave him something. I still have that card. He's bald now, and I think divorced.

Whoa. This one was a surreal one. I think I have something written about it somewhere and will have to look it up. Let’s just say it involved a boyfriend, who wasn’t really a boyfriend, more of a jerk, no presents, no card. Some erotica. Fishnet stockings. Probably a little bit of pot. And champagne. Yes, I should definitely look through my old journals for a recap of this one.

This one I remember. And usually, you shouldn’t remember your 21st, right, because it should have been so crazy-nutty that you can't remember all the shots you did, and all the dances you danced, and all the guys you made out with. Right? Well, it was the first year Hubby and I were dating, we were into it for just barely 2½ months. He gave me a Swatch Watch that we went to pick out together, ensuring I would get something I wanted. I might have gotten flowers, but probably not. We went to dinner with my parents that night, and then went to a lame-lame-lame bar that was lame. My friends were there, which was not the lame part. The bar was just stupid, and then-boyfriend-now-hubby was in the middle of spring training for football, so the wimp was tired, and it was just a lame night. I remember a Madonna song. That's about it. No hangover on your 21st, that’s what I call lame. Also lame was the fact that it was Easter weekend so we were at home for my birthday, and not at school, which would have been much more fun.

I remember this one too because my dad got me a hotel room downtown Chicago so then-boyfriend-now-hubby and I went to shack up for the night in the city. It was going to be fun! We were going to get crazy wild! We were going to get drunk! I had a new outfit and everything. We get to the hotel, probably had S#x because, well, just because we were at a hotel, I guess. Then we went for Giordano’s pizza cuz that’s the kind of pizza you have to eat in Chicago. Then we went back to the hotel to get ready in my brand-new outfit and everything. I get ready, am all dolled up. Guess what? Not only do I bring TWO.FREAKING.DIFFERENT.BLACK.SHOES… I also bring two RIGHT shoes, not even two different left and right.

So, the night wasn’t exactly ruined, but I ended up not wearing my cute outfit. I put back on my jeans and my white Genera sweatshirt and we went to Hang-Ups. My presents: A friend (Peggy!) made us a cute gift basket with wine and snacks to take to our hotel. Then-boyfriend-now-hubby got me a little chocolate bear, a bracelet, and OMG, I just remembered… A SEX TOY!

Twenty-four was the year I got married a month after my birthday. I don’t think we had anything spectacular planned since it was almost get-married time.

I’m pretty sure 26 was one of the most fun birthdays, with a bunch of friends at an Italian restaurant, Basta Pasta, and then a trip downtown Chicago back to that same Hang-Ups bar.

Twenty-eight. I was pregnant with Ajers. We went out to dinner with our friends we met on our honeymoon. Do not recall presents.

Twenty-nine. I had a six-month-old. Restaurant of choice was TGIFridays. Some old man wanted to hold Ajers cuz he was cute. I remember being flattered. I remember hubby being possessive over a stranger wanting to hold our son. I also remember that I had the Cajun Chicken Salad, with extra dressing. It was my favorite, and I ordered it all the time at Fridays. It is, sadly, no longer on the menu. I am sure I got a “I Love You Mommy” frame for this birthday.

Thirty. This was a good one, yet uneventful in the ways a 30th birthday should be. I was 8½ months pregnant with Diva. We had seen Stomp the weekend before, and the baby was kicking like crazy to the beat of all the stuff the Stomp team played. The night of my birthday was another trip to Fridays. And yeah, I probably got that same damn salad, and … oops, I was gonna say an Ultimate Mud Slide but I was pregnant, so I probably didn’t. Hubby got me some placemats (why? Maybe I asked for them), and a cool platter that I actually still have and love. I received FOUR gifts of flowers for my 30th. One from hubby cuz my mom told him to order some for me. One from a Chicago pal (we were then living in Philly), one bouquet from my new Philly friends, and a bouquet from my sister-in-law’s parents. I also got a lot of cards. The day after I turned 30, we took Ajers to the hospital for a scheduled tonsillectomy. Usually, kids don’t stay overnight anymore, but he had an oxygen problem afterward; they put him in a plastic tent. He was only 18 months. I was so pregnant, and so sad seeing my little baby all sick and hurting. I slept in the hospital on the crappiest chair-bed thing, 8½ months pregnant, worried about my little baby. It sucked.

Thirty-two. I was pregnant again. Tukey. Oh, and I think I was sick with a cold. But I also think we went out to an Italian restaurant for dinner.

Thirty-six. You can read about it here: OK, never mind. I didn’t blog about my thirty-sixth birthday so obviously it musta sucked.

Thirty-seven. You can read about it here: And I didn’t blog about my thirty-seventh birthday either, but this is what I remember. And obviously, sensing a pattern about birthday-blogging, and them sucking.

Flowers from hubby. It was on a Friday, and the place by our house has $1 Roses on Fridays. He may have even splurged for a dozen-and-a-half. They were red. I probably got a B&N gift card and a Starbucks card, which is what I want every year. He was tired, didn’t feel like going out. We went to a PIZZA place. Sensing a theme here, huh? I drank a very good margarita, for it being a pizza place. Then the following night we went out to dinner with friends, and then to the bar. I had a cute outfit on, which, sad to say, and one of the reasons, I may be in a bit of a funk this year, it no longer fits.

Two days prior to Thirty-eight, yesterday:
OK, if you’ve gotten this far, it’s safe to admit to you that I had a mini-nervous breakdown last night, and another one two nights before that. The kind where you feel like you’re 13 again, and your hair won’t go the right way, or you’ve totally screwed up your makeup, even though I don’t think I was wearing much makeup when I was 13. But where you cry for no significant reason, just because you feel like being sad. And angry. And confused. And bitchy. And the kids couldn’t put their cereal bowls in the sink, and the laundry is still piling up and even thought you got a wax and a nice massage in preparation of turning thirty-eight, it didn’t do much to lift your spirits and you’re just in a sucky mood.

That was me. And I know it’s a bitch-way for me to behave. I am healthy. I have beautiful kids. A husband, for some reason or another, who totally adores me and tells me he loves me all the time. A beautiful house, great family, terrific friends. So, to me, I say: Manic! Stop yer bitching, and just be thankful for once in your freaking life.

OK, I am. And this post is blah, and I don’t even think I should post it, but if I’m going to be true to myself, then I’m putting it all out there. This is me. This is me eight hours before I turn thirty-eight.

Ain’t it beautiful?

And, a couple of days ago, I was thinking of a birthday haiku, and here’s what I came up with:

Happy Birthday Me
Thirty-Eight And Feeling Great
Two More Till Forty

But I don’t think that’s properly reflecting my pre-birthday feelings, so how’s about I come up with another more realistic one:

Chubby Thirty-Eight
But Healthy Still, None-the-Less
Try to lose some weight!

Or how about this one:

Can’t Get Drunk Tonight
Then What About Tomorrow?
No Head in Toilet.

Just me and Hubby
Twenty-four hours alone
How to spend the time?

Apple Martini
And Alaskan King Crab Legs
That’s a birthday meal!

Don’t want or need cake
Just want some hugs and kisses
Or maybe a book?

Smiles, Laughter, and Love
All this I do want and more
You truly know me

Wednesday, April 11, 2007


OK, so by now, everyone is familiar with the blockbuster book, The Secret, which I have not yet read, but am a firm believer in the theory that if you will something long enough, and hard enough, and strongly enough, then you can make a difference, you can do what you believe in, you can make it happen!

This morning, case in point, is my story. It is an example of the power of believing:

It’s snowing here. It’s frigidly cold, with pelting little bullets of rain-snow that hit the skylights and clank like nickels dropping from heaven. Or quarters. You get the picture. It’s damp and dreary, and white and gray all mixed together, with no ounce of sun in the weather forecast for days.

I get Diva and Ajers off to school, drenched in the rain-snow, and I yell after them not to run because surely they will slip in this mucky crap and start crying and miss the bus, and dammit all, there is NO.WAY.IN.HELL I want to go out in this weather today. SO DON’T SLIP kids.

I spy two little squiggling earthworms wriggling for the nearest mud hole as I make my way back into the house and upstairs to crawl under the covers and await Tukey’s morning arrival, which is, we all know, one of the grandest moments of my every day!

So, he arrives, and we do our cuddle thing, where I am rolled up into a fetal ball, under the covers, trying to keep myself warm, snuggled up against his nice warm, newly-awakened body, while he’s drinking the extra-extra, chocolately chocolate milk I have waiting for him.

I get an urge.

A coffee urge.

Must have coffee.

Want a latte, maybe even a peppermint mocha, not-fat, three-pumps-peppermint, extra-hot since it’s sooo dang freezing cold. Or even a cinnamon dolce. No matter. I just have the urge for coffee.

I stare at the phone. I start thinking to myself, “Hmmm, I’m going to put that The Secret stuff to work. I am going to will one of my neighbors to call me telling me she is at Starbucks and could she please deliver me a coffee.”

I wait, I squinch my eyes together, my body still encompassed into a ball, trying to keep warm, while Curious George does his stupid monkey talk in the background.

Ring, Dammit! Ring phone.


And it’s a neighbor!

But she doesn’t want to bring me coffee. I don’t think she does anyway, because she called looking to see if I knew of any magicians.

“Dammit woman! If I knew of a magician, I would ask him to magically appear with a nice nonfatsugarfreevanillalatte, no whip, extra hot! I don’t know of any magicians!”

I hang up, not completely discouraged, and begin willing the phone to ring again.


And it’s also a neighbor!

My workout pal. Who tells me I sure did pick a good day to cancel going to the gym and she wonders if I had it planned out all along.

I hadn’t, but there’s no way I’m going to go work out if I can’t even get my butt out of bed to go get a coffee I am desperately trying to will into my home.

However, this neighbor KNOWS A MAGICIAN so she’s going to call my other neighbor to tell her about it. How ironic is that?

So, that’s kind of like The Secret working THROUGH me, if not FOR me. Because I willed the one woman to call me to ask me about the magician, and then the other woman called me KNOWING about the magician. The Secret is working THROUGH ME!

I still don’t have any coffee, but now, Tukey is starving cuz it’s like 10:30 a.m.

We trudge downstairs and I look at the kitchen counter.

We own a coffee maker. While I’ve never, ever used it, I’ve seen it before, and I’ve seen it with coffee in it. I’ve cleaned it many, many times. I’ve just never used it.

“Tukey, I think I might make some coffee, but I’m not sure how to do it.”

“I can show you! I watch Daddy make coffee all the time!”

Joy! Oh Joy!

But then I worry; I am not sure how much coffee to put in. What if I make it too strong? What if I don’t do it right. I start by filling the coffee pot with water from the sink.

Tukey stops me. “Mom, that’s not the way you make the coffee.”


“You need to get the water from the refrigerator. The good water.”

Oh. My five-year-old is teaching me how to make coffee.

I proceed to fill up the pot with the proper water, I find the coffee grains, sands, nuggets, whatever you call ‘em, and I do the best I can to measure how much I think I’ll need.

“Next, you pour the water into that thing, Mom.”

My God, I knew my kid was a genius, but come on! He’s utterly brilliant!

“Turn it on,” he instructs.

I push the button. Stuff starts coming out! We jump up and down!

“We did it! We did it! We are making coffee!” We sing and dance around the kitchen.

After a while, it stops percolating, and then I pour some into a mug. Then I pour a ton of that creamer stuff, the French vanilla flavor, into my cup.

It’s still not right.

Then I put a scoopful of that “sister-friend coffee” stuff into it; you know, the kind you drink with your sister, the kind that is like magical moments coffee… what the hell is it called? General Foods International…

(I had to get up to go look at the container!)

So, I pour some of that in, then mix it all up and taste it.

It’s yummy. It’s warm. It’s good! And I’m buzzed! It’s taken me all of two minutes to type this up. I am jazzed up on coffee I made all on my own (OK, with the help of a five-year-old!).

And then I realize that The Secret is absolutely true to some extent. That if you want something bad enough in life, you have to really, really, really want it, and you have to believe that you will get it.

Now, I didn’t get my coffee in the original manner I was hoping for, but, with the belief that I would have coffee, and the belief in my ability to get things in life that I want… well, you see where I’m going with this?

If you desire something so tremendously, and you concentrate on that desire, and you believe in that desire, knowing you can get it someday, and if you can’t get it the way you originally thought you might want it, then you just have to come up with a new, original, interesting way to achieve your goals.

So, yes, I did get my coffee. And it probably tasted way better than if I had just gone to Starbucks to get one. Because I worked hard at getting the coffee. I thought outside of the coffee box!

But most importantly, I believed.

I believed in the coffee.

I believed in me and in my abilities to have that coffee, no matter what it took, no matter how hard it was to get that coffee. I willed it to happen. It happened.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

This is all an analogy for my writing, and the will and the desire and the belief that someday, if I can’t get out to Starbucks to make my dreams of writing become a reality, I will make it happen eventually. It will happen, somehow, some way, some day.

And that is because I believe.

Ah, the powers of The Secret... Which basically means, Believe In Yourself.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
IT'S STILL NOT TOO LATE TO ENTER THE MANIC MOMMY VOLUME I CD CONTEST. Simply go here: (ENTER TO WIN!)and leave a comment. You do not need to have a blog to enter, just make sure you've left your name so I can announce the winners.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

The Hairs on His Head

I wish I could recall the conversations word for word at times. Like last night, laying in bed with Tukey, wonderboy of age five, who twisted the pieces of my hair around his finger, then grabbed my face and squished it in his chub hands.

Want me to count the hairs on my head? he asked.

That would take forever I said.

I can tell you their names.

You name the hairs on your head? I asked.


And then a quiet moment of thought before he felt his scalp.

This is Jimmy.

And this one's name is Bob.

And then he moves his hand over a bit, and introduces me to another hair on his head.
This is, um... Freddie.

Nice to meet you Jimmy, Bob and Freddie I say. I didn't ask him why there were no girl hairs on his head, cuz come on, that would just be plain silly. He's a boy, after all.

Next, he tells me that each hair on his head has a color name too.

This one is orange, and here's red. This one is blue, and this one is black. This one is skin color, and this one is purple. This one is magenta!
Magenta! That's a big color word for a five-year old.

We lay there, he and I, snuggled with his Sesame Street blanket that I will never get rid of, and his Mickey Mouse and Goofy blanket that will remain with his Grover blankie until they are simply bits of thread and memories.

Because, when he's no longer naming the hairs on his head, or giving them each an individual color, I'll be able to at least crawl into his bed, smell him on his blankets, wish for these days to freeze in time, and cry.

Yep, I will sob for these moments. And wish they'd never leave me.

Monday, April 09, 2007


I am so crabby and there's absolutely no reason for my crabbiness right now. How can I stop this crabbiness. It seems to have grown from within, and just festered and has risen to the point where I am all crabby, all the time. Like an ivy weed along the side of a house, unstoppable, this crabbiness. No amount of chocolate can cure this weed-demon inside of me that will stop at NOTHING!!!

I just want to freaking scream my head off for really no reason other than it might feel good to do so.

I am not PMSing either, so I can't blame that. I think I may be getting crabby because soon, I will officially be O L D. Yes, I will soon no longer be able to skate by saying, "Oh, I'm in my mid-thirties." I've skated by that for a couple of years now. Now, I'm going to have to admit that I am in my L A T E thirties. How in the hell has this come up so quickly? I mean, just twenty years ago, I was driving around in my J2000 Sunbird with my "Party Animal" and "Florida Native" bumper stickers, my Violent Femmes tape slammed into the tape deck (for those of you who have no idea, when I refer to a TAPE, I do not mean a roll of sticky stuff--go ask your parents), and a two-liter of Sun Country Wine Coolers lodged in the trunk in that little corner spot where it was guaranteed not to be shakened up.

That. Just a mere twenty years ago, and PHLOOOOO! It's here. Twenty years later. I think I am having trouble realizing that I am aging. And I won't stop aging until I ... D I E.


OK, blogging was supposed to CHEER me up; make me feel happy that I was putting words down, as when I get the shit out of my brain, it usually clears me out, like how one may feel after a particularly healthy visit to the toilet. But me, not feeling cleansed right now.

Maybe it's because I haven't done yoga since Saturday, maybe it was because I am not getting as much sleep as I usually do, maybe it's because I ate like a sow yesterday, and today I have been back on the points and am crabby because I haven't eaten anything F U N!

And isn't eating food fun? And it sucks when you don't eat anything fun for a whole day, not even a jellybean, and let me tell you, there are a ton of jellybeans, and chocolates, and Peeps (but those suck anyway), and I didn't even get my favorite white chocolate solid bunny this year.

What else can I bitch about? And don't any of you get snide and tell me not to bitch so much, because it's my blog and if I'm feeling bitchy, well, damnit, then I'm going to bitch about it.

Like I said, I do this to get it out of my system. It beats being a druggie or an alcoholic, or...

Ah, whatever. I'm done. Going to bed. Don't forget to leave a comment on the previous post to qualify for the CD.

I'll make up a real quick Haiku to put my mood all into perspective...

Am pissy, moody
No legitimate reason
Just because I am

Sunday, April 08, 2007

Manic Mom Music Contest

A contest for you

If you want to win music

Comment... qualify

OK, remember when you all gave some rockin' music suggestions

Well, I've come up with my list of iTunes and this is what I've chosen:

A Letter to Elise, The Cure
Abacab, Genesis
The Sweet Escape, Gwen Steffani
Slide, Goo Goo Dolls
The Middle, Jimmy Eat World
She Will Be Loved, Maroon 5
Say It Right, Nelly Furtado
De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da (Live), The Police
Lovesong, The Cure
Synchronicity, The Police
Fidelity, Regina Spektor
Fix You Up, Tegan and Sara
This Is The Day, The The
Ice Ice Baby, Vanilla Ice
Baba O’Riley, The Who

Kinda whacky huh? Kinda nerdy huh? Well, that's me, and these are the songs I wanted.

If you want a copy of this Manic Mom Volume I CD, leave a comment to qualify. I'll award three CDs, and you can choose your own mix from Manic's iTunes library if you don't want these songs. Seriously, I've got some better tunes, and some dorkier ones as well... something's in there to fit everyone's taste, unless you're a "Metallica-Scorpion-White Snake-Yanni-Celine Dion" kinda listener, then you might not want to waste your time.

So, leave a comment, and I'll choose three winners randomly. Comments will close and winner will be chosen after 60 comments, and please, you can only comment once.

Free music! What could be better!? Maybe some chocolate thrown in too?

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Haiku Time

Kids Driving Me Nuts
Why Won't They Go To Bed Now?
No School Tomorrow

(I originally had the last line say, Time For A Cocktail, but changed it.)

Apple Martini
With A Caramel Drizzle
Slice of Granny Smith

(this one might not work if you pronounce caramel as two syllables like I usually do, but in this case, read it like car-a-mel)

Thoughts Go Inside Out
Turn 'Round In My Heavy Head
And Spit Out My Mouth


So I Said To Him
I Do Not Want Your Baby
Fucked Me Anyway


I'm A Blond Redhead
What The Fuck Does That Mean, Huh?
Your Stylist Screwed Up?


Use Five Syllables
Seven For The Next Poem Line
Then Five More To End

(So, this one may not work either, if you pronounce poem as two syllables, but I didn't so it works.)

OK, your turn in the comment section--whatever first comes to your mind, write it. Remember, it's 5 - 7 - 5 syllables for the lines, just in case you didn't interpret the last poem. Show me what ya got, and feel free to write as many as you want.

I'll leave ya with this one for the upcoming holiday weekend--

You - Happy Easter
And If You Don't Celebrate
Have Some Candy Still

Monday, April 02, 2007

I've Found It; Stress; and Other Nonsensical Things

I have finally found it. The one true place where I can go.

A place where I really know I belong.

A place where when I get there, I am hot stuff. A place where I am better than everyone else; a place where I can shine, and really, really feel great about myself...

Yoga Energizers (for the 55-and-over crowd!)

Yep! Quit yer laughin'! I can out-stretch any of those chickie-mamas in there, can hold a tree-pose longer than even the most practiced yogite in that class. Can do a bridge like nobody's business! And check me out on the downward dog.

Yo. I'm all that and a piece of pie.

Anyway, (and as I write, anyway, I am wondering if I did a search, how many ANYWAYs would I find on this blog, because I tend to segue into the ANYWAY paragraphs far too often. That and the SO preface.

To continue on...

I. Am. Stressed.

But, it's really good stress. The kind of stress where you're like,
"Now what am I gonna do?" and "How the hell am I going to get everything done," and the "I-can't-believe-I've-over-committed-myself" stress. It's the kind of stress where you want to do everything, and you're happy to be doing these things, yet, you don't know if it'll all get done.

Except I know me. And I know I'll figure it out and get this S#$% done. (And funny that I decided not to spell out S H I T right there when I do so every other time).

What is coming up? Baseball, softball, and tee-ball this spring. A brochure that's due to my RWA Chapter; a reunion committee commitment, that I am very excited about; a non-fiction book proposal I am working on; a writing contest I'm assisting in judging, a second fiction work; doctor appointments; lunch-making; Easter-egg basket preparing; grocery shopping; laundry-folding; house-cleaning; husband-loving; children-rearing; showering; my work; taking general care of the family; dieting (WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG POST TO DISCUSS DIETING SPECIFICALLY... and also to go to to check the spelling of INTERRUPT)...

I've hit Rock Bottom. Solidly on the ass, have hit rock bottom. D I E T. Not good. No excuses. Florida in just two months. 'Nuff said...

(BACK TO OUR BLOG POST, more on hitting ROCK BOTTOM later...)

What the "F" am I complaining about. I know you guys work hard too. We all do. Why do we get so strung out and so stressed out about things like this? These are the little things. These are the things that keep us focused, and happy, and alive. Right?

Well, either that or it'll all kill us.

See, I'm so burnt out already I have no freakin' clue what I'm talking about. You?

Sunday, April 01, 2007

Blog Sucker

You know what?

Sometimes, blogging sucks. Not all the time, but times like these, when there is much on my mind but some of the stuff should not be shared because this is not an anonymous blog. Things that will reveal too much about me, make me seem different than how I really am. But if these are things I think about, and want to do, and am intimidated by, then this is really how I am, right? But there are people out there who know the non-blogger me and then there are people out there who know only the blogger me. When a little bit of both of thoses MEs come together, it gets confusing. Like, there are parts of my life that will show insecurities, vanities, flaws, ... I don't know. Things that I don't want to share because of how I will then be perceived, the non-blogger me and the blogger me.

So, get it? No, me neither really. Like I wonder how many readers out there do know me as the non-blogger me but have discovered my blog and also know the blogger me but they don't let me know they know the blogger me, like they are spies, reading my personal diary, and then they know more about me than even I know about myself.

And no, I am not drinking right now.

So, anyway, that is how I'm feeling right now, about how a blog can expose you but also how a blog can keep you trapped in a way that you are unable to be as revealing as you may want to. I wish if there were people out there who know the non-blogger me who have discovered the blogger me, I wish they could just say, "Oh, I see you've got a blog." Then it would be all out in the open, not just some little secret thing. I mean, I know I have a blog, I write a lot on here. If they know I have a blog, it's OK to tell me they know and it's OK that they are reading it, because I've put it out there for anyone to read. But, I would just like to know if you see me in my non-blogging world, that you are reading this. Sometimes the worlds reflect one another and I'm not sure if I've told someone something in person, or if perhaps they've read it on the blog. Which is a bad thing because it stops real-live communication, and I don't want that to happen.

So, that's that.

Other news: I am really working on the second novel. I think it's coming together like the pieces of a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle because it's taken a while. Scenes will appear in my head, when I visit a place, or think of something that happened in the past, and I'm like, "OK that scene has emerged, now to get it onto something concrete so it can live."

Let's see if I can describe what I am writing. Hmmm... I suck at that part. It's about the old me, but fictionalized, in an old fictionalized relationship, and the character is not me, just parts of me, or parts of what I imagine a character like the old me would have behaved in a particular relationship.

Then, when that relationship goes to shit, which, of course, it has to, because it's fiction and in order to write fiction, there had to be friction. Ha, I'm laughing--Friction Fiction. That could be a new genre. Anyway, when the intense relationship goes to shit, she, the non-me, but if it were me, it could have been me, ... she plummets herself into the safest relationship she can find and becomes submerged to a point where she wonders if the shitty relationship was actually the best relationship in the end.

Does that make any sense? Does any of this make any sense? Probably not, but it's out of my head now, and that's all I can do. Spill it out, until it finds somewhere else to live.

Peace UP!