Just Write: Ain’t No Damn Off Button

It’s been a while, huh? I kept sitting down at the computer and standing back up. I have started no fewer than 3643434303578 posts and each is still in draft. There was just too much going on to sit down and talk coherently about one or all or just a few. So, I went silent. I don’t like being silent. But it felt good for a little while. And then it started to hurt. Having an incredible need to write but being unable to form words is not writer’s block. It’s more like I NEED TO WRITE BUT AM UNABLE TO FORM WORDS.

Everything was happening at once: birthdays and biopsies and lost jobs and more vodka and holidays and late paychecks and no vodka and bills and snow and no more eggs and where in the hell is the off button?

Ain’t no damn off button.

Just turn yourself off.


Not long ago she turned 13. I know how that happens, but that doesn’t lessen the blow of the realization that the teen years are here. Thought about as a number, sure, I see 13 as far as time having passed, skills having been mastered. But looked at it from the standpoint of her being a person, an individual with thoughts and likes and undone homework and lied about projects and misplaced socks and deleted texts? No, not really. I’m still struggling to see that version of 13.

I am not afraid of the teen years, mind you. I have certain stances I will not waver on, certain things that are simply undoable. There are things I am willing to bend a bit on. There are things I will have to just figure out as they happen because maybe she’ll never sneak out or steal the car or drink all the Private Stock or miss curfew or hide hickeys on the back of her neck with turtlenecks in summer like that’s not going to be conspicuous at all.

There are so many maybes, so much shit I don’t know. I like not knowing everything, seeing where this parenting gig takes me, how I’ll adjust, what I’ll be broken down to say yes to. I like it. But it also scares the hell out of me because what if I say yes to the wrong thing? What if I don’t investigate that one friend? I’m tired of too easy access to bullets, too easy acceptance of rash decisions.


I am in love with a four-year-old. I am in love with the way he caresses my face when he wakes before me. I am in love with the way he looks into my eyes, turns his head to the side, and smiles. I complain about him giving me only 12 minutes on the weekends before he wakes too, finds me, and demands grits. But I love it. I love him. And I will make him grits until he decides all white food is bad for him.


I got so many thoughts and prayers and gift cards in the past few weeks. The power of blogging, of connecting, of resonating.


Marriage can be beautiful, time consuming, hard, worthwhile, fuck you I’m leaving, stay, passionate, don’t say another motherfucking word, I need you, I’m going to stab you, you are part of me, did you really drink the last of the orange juice you selfish bitch, you light up my days and fill my nights with song.


Titty lumps are the devil even when they’re benign.

My husband let me laze around for four days straight after I had surgery. It is what husbands do, no? But I can’t stop being ever so grateful to him for making me go to bed, making me rest, feeding the children, feeding me, rubbing my head. It is this one gesture that surpasses all other things in our relationship. It can diffuse any situation, and I love that something so simple can bring me back from the brink of fuckmarriage.

And then I think of my friend Issa, sick with a sick kid, and doing it alone and it hurts because good people deserve good people to help when the person wiping a snotty nose is also snot filled.


Christmas is in 10 days. We bought a tree today. It’s still bare. I’m not done shopping. I don’t want to buy another thing.

It’s raining and 38 degrees. I’m going to bed soon, leaving the dishes, leaving the half folded laundry, and going to burrow under the covers to continue reading Under the Dome. If it’s still raining when I start to drift off, I’ll do what I always do when it rains and I’m indoors: sing Prince’s 17 Days. Let the rain come down, let the rain come down down.

The Extraordinary Ordinary

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