Between you and me, this is my forty-second blog attempt this month—it seems no matter where I start, I keep ending up in the same place where I hate what I’m writing or worse, am totally bored by it.

Solution?  Go AWOLA Writer’s Outrageous Liberty to write whatever she wants, or stream of consciousness, if you will, wherein I blurt random thoughts and hope they result in something I can finally post if for no other reason than to break the fog of writer’s block that has me pinned to my computer accomplishing nothing.

Strawberry Boy

Do you know I have a thing for estate sales?  Well, I do, and the primary reason I have a penchant for pawing through dead people’s junk is because it’s socially acceptable voyeurism, but also because sometimes I discover the most amazing things.  Case in point:  Strawberry Boy.   He’s cute, strange, and oddly comforting in a way I can't articulate.  He sits beside the kitchen sink and I feel a small wave of goodness come over me every time I see him.  Total cost:  $3

Failure to Sleep

So you roll around like a rotisserie chicken until you can’t stand the feeling of sheets around your feet, huff downstairs to watch TV at 2AM and choose between Better Wigs with LaVonda or Tiny House Living, opt for houses and watch what looks like a group of nine years old build outrageously expensive micro-homes for buyer’s weeping with joy at their tiny good fortune.   Three hours later you trudge upstairs praying for sleep but scare the dog and he barks and scares the husband and then everyone is awake and not sleeping together.


I mean the silly things you put on lamps to hold the shade in place—I ordered a silver version the other week and when it came it was all wrong, looking nothing like the website had promised.  What ensued was a flurry of emails that grieves me.  Why do companies adamantly refuse to employ common sense?  They waste my time and patience and worst of all my good-will when they badger and dodge and refuse to stand behind their products.  It blows my mind.  Over a $12 item this company (whose name rhymes with Ramps Fuss--just saying) elected to destroy any chance at a repeat customer, from me, their dream customer, the kind of person who actually cares enough about lamps to shop online for a damn finial. Seriously, how many people even do that?!  Well, I did, and now I wont. 

Songs That Get Stuck In Your Head

Hamilton’s Dear Theodosia, for reasons that will become clear once I write the post called HUMAN GUINEA PIG:  Experiments In Terrorizing MYSELF.  Want to hear what's endlessly chanting in my head?


Who knows why, but last week I found myself skimming through old college files (poetry in particular) feeling nostalgic for the time when I played with language and words for no other reason than I felt like it.  I share one of them here, not because it’s good or I’m particularly proud of it, but because I have the urge to say ‘whore’ in a productive manner and that opportunity doesn’t come around very often.

If I Were a Nomad and You Were a Shoe Whore

I am hardly fierce
no ma’am
fiercely rooted
I am friends and swords
waylay disaster
I know the stars in heaven
justin, pedro, jesus
The wheels remain
sudden hidden
I am your memory
hungry rider
I am crossing
dessert betwixt
Wonton heels wobbling softer

Terrible Books

Ever have a friend recommend a book to you, rave about it in fact, only to discover it’s written more poorly than graffiti on a bathroom wall?  And you’re left wondering what the hell to say next time you see them and they ask if you’ve read the book? Why does honesty have to be so hard?

On Having a List

Spotting wild sheep has been on my bucket list for years and last week I finally saw my first herd.  More importantly, I saw the ram—the Big Kahuna himself—and he posed for me atop a rocky cliff as though I were National Geographic.  Caught without a camera, I must hold his image strictly in my head but good lord what an image it is:  fierce, wise, entirely at ease, everything I wish I could be.