I think there should be a store for left-behind broken hearts. For the pieces that just fall out of your chest when you’re not paying attention.

As if you dropped them in the parking lot in a grocery bag.

Those pieces are already broken so we could price and re-shelve them accordingly:

  1. Top Shelf: Visible cracks. Evidence of damage, but salvageable.
  2. Second Shelf: Pieces missing. Make an offer.
  3. Bottom Shelf: Shattered. But valuable.

And then we realize that no matter what, we have to go back to get that piece we left, however small. Whatever it is; it is full of love. And hope.




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Have courage and be kind.

via Have courage and be kind

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Have courage and be kind

“Have courage and be kind.” I’m not sure if another quote has affected me as much as this. It found me at a time when I needed it most. And it is now my house rule.

I wear it on a bracelet given to me by one of the most courageous and kindest person I think I’ve ever known. She bought it for herself, but I was going through a really rough time so she decided that I needed it more that she.

At a recent hospital visit, they asked me to take it off. I impolitely refused. After a pretty decent argument, I gave in. Only because the wonderful friend who gave me that bracelet was there as my “person”. She put it on her wrist to keep it safe for me and immediately put it back on mine when I was out of surgery.

I don’t know much, but I know this: we must treasure our dearest friends. Because those are the ones who love us unconditionally. And unconditional love is rare.

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Just Think

“Think”, my mom says. “Just think”.


Don’t think about your feelings.

So here is what happens when I just think:

I often wonder if life imitates art. In my case, I believe that to be true.

When I was in high school, I read a book called “Self-Help stories by Lorrie Moore”. I love every story in the book, but one in particular still speaks to me. “How to Become a Writer”. The first line is “First, try to be something, anything else. A movie star/astronaut. A movie star/missionary. A movie star/kindergarten teacher. President of the World. Fail miserably. It is best if you fail at an early age – say fourteen. Early critical disillusionment is necessary so that at fifteen you can write long haiku sequences about thwarted desire”.

So I thought, got a degree in English Literature…and went into sales…probably because I couldn’t write a haiku to save my life.

Early disillusionment IS necessary. You don’t get awarded for trying. This applies not only to writing, but to life. Keep thinking.

I was never good at much, but I can write. I have great authors as examples and my mom to thank for that. (or I can just fail miserably over and over and over…).

But I keep thinking.

I have never really been great at creative writing. Blogging has helped me vent, but that isn’t truly writing (…fail miserably…thanks, Lorrie Moore).

So, I keep thinking.

From “How to Become a Writer”: “Later on in life, you will learn that writers are merely open, helpless texts with no real understanding of what they have written and therefore must half-believe anything and everything that is said of them”.

So I thought. And, I believe this to be true. I am an open, helpless text. I write and I write and I write and I understand some of that. I, however, do not care what is said of me. I write for my soul; I’m not sure I have anything of value to say, but I have to put the words on a page. It is my journey.

“Occasionally a date with a face blank as a sheet of paper asks you whether writers often become discouraged. Say that sometimes they do. Say it’s a lot like having polio”.

It truly is like having a disease. Like there is something inside that you’re just not sure how to fix, but you have to get it out. It’s not always eloquent, but it is an exorcism of sorts. Just. Put. Words. On. Paper.

Lately, I have been quite maudlin, but I am thinking and finding my true voice again.

Here is what I KNOW: I am simply a thread in this fabric of life and I will keep writing.

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I want to have a pity party because I’m pushing 41 and no one except my daughter and my cats love me.

So I’m sad.

My hair looks pretty and my face doesn’t move. (That shit is expensive.)

But still, I’m sad.

I have a beautiful house and a fancy car.

And still I’m sad.

Our country is a shit show covered in bullets and blood.

Which is a good reason to be sad.

Someone needs to smack me in the head and remind me of what is important. Because sadness is unbecoming.


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Dancing in a hurricane.

woz-dorothyI’ve heard that you can dance in a hurricane if you’re in the eye. 


I have been single for four years. I have acquired lots of cats and tattoos, and I thought that was enough. As it turns out, I was just dancing in the eye.


I want to be loved (by someone other than my kid and my cats). 


I think I had that for a minute and lost it. So I’m sending this out to the universe: I want the hurricane. 


I want all of the beauty that is love (without the broken heart this time, please?!).


Sorry, there’s no snark on this one. It’s my mom’s fault – she said I needed to write it down (so obviously, that means blogging about it).

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Go home, 2017. You’re drunk.

As 2017 draws to a close, and I reflect upon the fact that I turned 40 this year (WTF?!) I realize that I have a lot to bitch about (as always) but I also have a lot for which to be thankful. I’ll start with the bitching and then work my way back to thankful.

Big changes in 2017. Fake eyelashes and fake freckles have usurped fake boobs.Eyebrow weaves, lip appliqués, and too much glitter are just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

Ice caps melting, hurricanes, temperature shifts, fires, volcanoes, etc. seem to, sadly, be less important than the above.

Despite all of this, Voldemort’s hair STILL does not move. For those of you who don’t know, my amazing daughter refers to the president of the United States as either Voldemort, or “He Who Shall Not Be Named”…she regularly does this loudly in parking lots and shopping malls when she hears his name spoken and I have never been more proud as a mother (albeit a bit scared because we live in a state where it’s legal to carry a concealed weapon).

Next, it is still, apparently, ok to abuse women. Seriously?! Ladies, it may just be time for us to rise up and start punching those entitled assholes in the balls. I’m not sure what else we can do, but I’m pretty sure that would at least land us on the cover of People magazine so we don’t have to deal with the mind-numbing details of another royal wedding.

Lastly, I would like to thank all of you who have seen me through yet another broken heart. This one happened to be timed such that it was both physical and emotional. I harbor no ill will toward either him or my heart. I will simply endeavor to take my meds for the physical and guard against the emotional in 2018.

While there were certainly bright spots this year (the 49ers have a really hot new QB), I am ready to move forward.

So go home, 2017. You’re drunk.

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