Analyzing my dream…

I haven’t remembered most of my dreams for a very long time. I used to have crazy weird dreams a lot and I’d remember them in vivid detail. Like the time I asked my roommate what she wanted for dinner: “Beans, peas, tomato rice soup?!” I’ve never eaten a bowl of tomato rice soup in my life. That dream was 25 years ago and I still remember it, yet I couldn’t tell you what I had for dinner two nights ago. Odd how the mind works, isn’t it?

Or, one of my all time favorite dreams EVER… About 10 years ago, I dreamt that my boss at the time had really long, thick, wavy hair. Like … Tiny Tim long, thick and wavy.

He was really proud of his long hair and kept flipping it around and flicking it back with his hand – much like you would over-exaggerate how a stereotypical flirting girl might flip her hair. Then, he walked past me and I noticed that his chest was protruding quite a lot — as if he had breasts. I poked one and it indented and made a crinkling sound. It was in the shape of the clear domed plastic top that’s on the cup when you buy an Icee at the gas station — including the hole at the end. My eyes got really big like “Dude, what the fuck??!!” And he looked at me like “WHAT?” — as if he had always worn them. I looked at his hair again and said to him, “Do you want to borrow my flat iron?” He got all pissed off. I was just trying to be nice.

WHAT the hell was that dream about? I have no idea, but you can be assured that I immediately told my boss about it. He roared! Thank god, because telling your boss you had a dream about him has the potential of going a few different ways, and it could have created quite an awkward moment. Or working relationship.

So anyway, for whatever reason, I either haven’t had any dreams (doubtful) or haven’t remembered them for quite some time, except for an occasional random one.

Well, earlier this week was that random occasion. I didn’t immediately remember it, but as I methodically washed from head to toe in the shower, as I always do, when I got to my legs, I was surprised to find them unshaven. I was perplexed for about 3 seconds — just long enough to rattle my memory that I had only dreamt my legs were nice and smooth. Ha!

Now you might not really think this is that funny. But it struck me as funny because, if I’m being honest, I don’t find the need to shave my legs. It’s winter in the Midwest and bloody cold (currently, the wind chill is 14). I don’t wear dresses/skirts, and no one is sliding their hand up my leg — either for entertainment or just to check to see if I’ve shaved. And if I’m being incredibly honest, I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks. Months, in fact.

art beautiful blur celebration
Photo by Pixabay on

SO. I’ve been thinking about this dream for a few days. Analyzing it. Mulling it over. What was the point of it? What does it mean? Maybe subconsciously it means I’m moving closer to being ready to date. If my legs are white, dimpled with cellulite, dry, scaly, and hairy, I’m clearly not in the frame of mind to pursue a relationship. Maybe my hairy legs are my “shell” of protection and I’m getting ready to free the armor.

brown animal on brown rock pathway
Photo by Free Nature Stock on

As long as my legs are hairy, I’m not going to date. Because, you know, when you’re dating someone, that one time you don’t shave your legs — THAT’S the time you should have because Winston was about to get his freak on at the end of date night. So maybe my not shaving is my protection from dating. Fear of being intimate. Fear of being vulnerable. Fear of getting close to someone or, god forbid, someone getting close to me. Someone wanting part of my time. Too much of my time! Wanting to know things about me and telling me things about him. Maybe it’s a fear of losing a part of myself.

Or it could just be that I’m lazy as fuck and just don’t feel like shaving. Which is probably the closest to the truth, really.

Maybe, jusssst mayyyybeeee, I’ll consider actually shaving my legs this week. Because I just slid my hand across my leg and I had to look to make sure I was feeling my own leg and not the cat’s.

Have a great week! Nine days down…


Endangered Brown Bear, Starving…

20171124_140932…for affection.

This happy guy is looking for his next (probably not) forever home. Gently lounged with, never drooled or snotted on, he’s well-groomed and has soft, clean fur. Also, he was previously declawed before he came to live with us, so no worries of being maimed (or scratched, for that matter). Sleep in peace, knowing that your child is snuggling with this friendly, urban, vegan bear who accidentally migrated to the Midwest.

He’s hip and Smokey the Bear-friendly, having lived in a smoke-free and pet-friendly home. Although he has tried to befriend the family cat, she’s having none of it since he took over her favorite nap space, so she completely avoids him, flipping him the tail when he tries to make eye contact. He is lonely, but you would never know it. He smiles 24/7, even after having been recently abandoned.

I know what you’re thinking… When you adopt a pet, it should be a lifetime commitment. I hear you. But another, bigger, bear came to live with us not long ago. Sadly, Cocoa no longer gets the same attention he had grown accustomed to and he went into an unnatural hibernation over the summer.

We are all in agreement that he will be happier in a home where he isn’t competing for love and where he can come alive and truly be himself. No one should have to go through that humiliating experience, and you really have to give him credit for recognizing that it’s time to move on. And I love that he’s taking the high road, keeping a positive attitude and smiling, even though he is sad and hurting inside. He’s one tough bear and has a really giving nature. He’s still great for big, soft bear hugs! Gotta love his spirit.

Please consider adopting Cocoa into your family’s home before the holidays. Think of how happy you will be, knowing that you truly made a difference in saving his pride and giving new meaning to his life. And with him smiling at you every time you walk into your child’s room (or your living room – not gonna judge), how could you not love him as much, and let’s be honest, *more* than we have?

Please open your heart, and your wallet, to give Cocoa a new lease on life. He is free, because you can’t put a price on his life, but there is a $50 non-refundable re-homing fee.

Out of Body Experience

I always thought it would be cool to have an out of body experience. Some people are freaked out by just the thought of it, while others think it’s hocus pocus and no such thing is possible. Well, I’m here to tell you that it is possible, and I’m scheduled to have one next month. This OBE isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but then again the Universe sometimes has a twisted sense of humor when it comes to some of my rockets of desire.

So anyway, several months ago I had some lab work done. (This is putting it mildly.) It’s about to get graphic, so feel free to stop reading right now and either go find a good recipe to save to your Pinterest board or scrub your floor. Either will be more relaxing and much more gratifying than what I’m about to share.

As of January of this year, I hadn’t had a period in … oh, I don’t know, maybe 18 months or so. Yay me! I was thrilled to have graduated from periods, cramps, hot flashes, and so much more that I’ve buried in the far dark stretches of my memory. And then, out of the clear grey sky (remember? I’m in the Midwest, and that’s pretty much all we have in the winter) in February, I had a period. Full. Blown. Period. Cramps, bleeding, clots (yes, I said it… clots), and a general feeling of complete shit on a stick. Just like old times. What. The. Fuck. Knowing this is not normal, and in fact is abnormal, I called my doctor. “Let’s have a look-see,” she suggested. And so the lab work was scheduled. Blood work (OH, I’ve got plenty of blood to work with!) and probably an ultrasound. Depending on what “we” find, perhaps a biopsy. Oh-fucking-yay.

Blood work was gorgeous. My numbers were fabulous. Doc beamed over my panel. So we schedule the ultrasound. I mentally prepared myself. A lot. I anticipated from past experience that I was likely to get the cattle-prod version of the ultrasound. Even though I was not currently sexually active, at least not with another person, I was not looking forward to being probed – particularly in a clinic, and especially with an audience of one. How unromantic.

Still perioding and cramping, I show up for the appointment. I was guided into a dimly lit room by the (thankfully female) lab technician. She instructed me to sit on the table, slide the waistband of my pants down, and lift my shirt up for her to begin the procedure.

“Hot damn! I got myself all psyched up for the hot poker. Thank god!” I was so excited. I was to be immediately deflated.

“Oh, that will come. This is a two-part procedure,” said Wanda. (Probably not her real time, but I decided that was appropriate.) Damn.

When she was finished with the belly ultrasound and the technician pulled out her magic wand, I was horrified. I had forgotten how big that joy stick was. Fast forward, please, to the end of Part 2 of the wanderful experience. I won’t get into the nitty gritty, but I will confirm (or deny) what you’re thinking. It was not a stay at the Sybaris. Let’s just say it didn’t provoke an orgasm.

So back to the doctor’s office I go. The results of the ultrasound showed two fibroids. No surprise, as I’ve been told before that I have them. Apparently they never go away, but sometimes you experience symptoms and sometimes you don’t. I’m in the special group. The ultrasound also shows a thickening of the endometrium, which isn’t normal for post-menopausal women. I’m now in the extra-special group. “Oh, and also, you have a prolapsed uterus.” I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a compliment. “So I recommend we do a biopsy to see if we can find out what the cause of the bleeding is.”

Joy. Let the fun commence. Again.

Back to the doctor’s office I go. Before the procedure, she explains everything that’s about to happen. She also explains that, depending on what the pathology report indicates, she may recommend a hysterectomy.

While I really no longer have a need (as in, using them for their sole intended purpose) for my reproductive organs, I can’t say that I’m particularly excited to have them removed. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t care that I wouldn’t have them, and I truly am happy that I wouldn’t have to deal with the potential future havoc that they could unleash. I’m just not keen on the idea of going through the surgery part. “Just a few snips laparoscopically and we can remove everything vaginally.”

Say what? Yeah. My doctor said that with pretty much a smile on her face. As if it’s no big deal. As if the cleanup crew is just gonna come in with a shop vac after she makes five “small” incisions on my torso to suck my babymaker out via my sacred cave. I’m envisioning scars on my belly that resemble a smiley face. If only I could be so lucky. “Like Shrek says, all you need it for is making babies.” Wait. Did you just say Shrek? You’re dispensing medical advice based on words of wisdom from Shrek? Yes. Yes she was. My view of you will be forever changed. Check back later. I’m not sure if this changed view will be in a positive or negative way.

So where was I? Oh, right. So she continues explaining all of the what-if’s and various scenarios and makes me sign a consent form for the biopsy. This shit’s for real. Okay, fine. I sign, then saddle up into the stirrups. She gives me a warning before everything she does, explaining along the way, which I appreciate. I think. I imagine pink skies, lying on the beach, leisurely munching on un pain au chocolat while sipping café au lait at Les Deux Magots. Purple unicorns shitting rainbow Skittles. Anything happy to remove myself from the current situation. It works only mildly.

After all is said and done, the doctor begins blathering on about what will happen next, how long it will take for the pathology report to come back, and who knows what else. She then picks up the small jar that contains tiny fragments of me swirling around inside. “See? No big deal. Wanna see the tissue samples?” At this point, I’m not feeling so hot. “No, thank you.” Why am I being polite right now, anyway?

I don’t consider myself a squeamish person when it comes to blood and gore. (Well, except when I have to clean raw chicken, but we’re talking about a different kind of animal here.) In this situation, we’re talking about my own blood and gore, and quite frankly, it makes me more than a little woozy. Let me share. Some more.

She’s still talking about something, but my vision becomes blurry and she begins to fade away into mist as I softly mumble, “I’m not feeling well.” The next thing I know, she’s in my face, literally, asking me if I know who she is and where I am. The fuck just happened? I’m moderately freaked out.

Doc explains that I just experienced vasovagal syncope. Holy crap, what is that?!! Well, apparently it is not uncommon. Compliments of the Mayo Clinic:

Vasovagal syncope (vay-zoh-VAY-gul SING-kuh-pee) occurs when you faint because your body overreacts to certain triggers, such as the sight of blood or extreme emotional distress. It may also be called neurocardiogenic syncope. The vasovagal syncope trigger causes your heart rate and blood pressure to drop suddenly.

“Oh. That’s happened before,” I say.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” she exclaims, sort of smiling. Yet not.

“No one ever used that term with me. No one has said I have that tendency. No one ever told me that it was worrisome.” So now I know.

“The next time you have any sort of procedure, tell your care provider so that they can be prepared. There isn’t anything that can be done to prevent it, but at least we can be prepared for it.” Awesome news. I’m feeling incredibly extra-special at this very moment.

She continues. “You were only out for like two minutes. Your blood pressure and heart rate dropped, so we’ll want to keep you here until you’ve fully recovered. Do not get up off this table. Just lie here for a while. I’ll have the nurse check on you a couple of times. DO NOT get up off this table.” She then exits the room.

Well, no chance of that since I feel like complete shit. Speaking of which. Oh my god. What is that smell? It seriously smells like poop. Oh. My. God. Did I fart while I was passed out? Ugh. How fucking humiliating! If I can smell it, I know she can. The nurse can. They’ll go back to the nurse’s station and talk about the patient in Room C that farted after a minor biopsy, and what on god’s green earth did she have to eat this morning?? Could my day get any worse?

Oh, yes. Yes it could.

The nurse comes in a couple of times to check on me. All seems to be going well. But I’m pretty sure that smell is still lingering. Perhaps it’s just stuck in my nose. I’m still beyond embarrassed.

After a while, the doctor comes back in one last time to check on me. Looks like the color has returned to my face, my pupils are no longer completely dilated (such that she couldn’t see any of my iris), and my blood pressure and pulse are more stable.

“What did my vitals drop to?” I’m curious because I have already been diagnosed with sinus bradycardia (basically, slow pulse).

“Your pulse was about 40,” and I have no idea what she said my blood pressure was. Not good, is all I can recall. 40. FORTY beats per minute. That’s not even one beat per second. I’m now in the Rare Gem category of special. But wait. It gets even more special, if you can imagine.

I’m told to proceed with caution getting up off the table. Before she leaves the room, I tell her I feel like I’m bleeding and ask for Kleenex. Instead she gives me a dry washcloth and I use it to check “down there.” Yep, sure enough, bloody hell. She digs in the drawer and pulls out a maxi pad that’s only slightly smaller than a loaf of Wonder Bread and hands it to me before exiting the room.

I gingerly slide myself down off the table and do a more thorough cleaning. Wait. Something doesn’t feel right. I do a little plié and reach a little farther with the washcloth. I inspect it and gasp out loud. Yes, you guessed it. It was not a fart that escaped when I passed out. There in my hand (well, in the washcloth, thank god), was a small piece of poop. POOP, people. I shat myself on the table. Holy fuck. Now what?! I’m pretty sure I’ve never been so humiliated. A grown woman. Pooping on the table. Oh my god. You shit yourself. You literally, seriously shit yourself.

Panic ensued. What the fuck do you do with a piece of poop when you’re not in a bathroom?? My eyes darted around the room. If I put it in the trash, they’ll know for sure that I pooped. It will no longer be a suspicion. The room will wreak for the remainder of the day. And then some unlucky sod will have to empty the trash and it will have permeated a good, long time so that he gags while trying to tie up the bag. No. I can’t leave it here. What am I supposed to do – take it with me??!! Think. I-Spy. I spy the exam gloves on the wall holder. I pull out a large one and stuff the poo burrito into it and tie the end. I shove it into my very small purse. It’s now bulging. Has anyone ever asked “Whatcha got in that bag, anyway?!” when your purse is clearly overstuffed? You respond, “Oh, you know, the kitchen sink! Makeup bag, wallet, phone, glasses, sunglasses, gum, a bottle of water, snack bag, the day’s mail…” And feces. I’m carrying feces in my purse.

My day has reached the lowest of lows. I slink out of the room, Wonder Bread in place and my cramps long forgotten. My mind can only focus on the fact that I just shit myself in public. With an audience. In my haste to get to my car and get the hell home, I forgot to deposit my doo-doo bag in the trash receptacle outside of the clinic. So there I was, driving my embarrassment home with me. Before dropping it into the trash tote, I take a picture to keep as a reminder of perhaps the most humiliating experience of my adult life.

To top off my magical day, I realize that I can never again truthfully say, “I shit you not.”

Zippity Doo-Dah

I think I often dress in certain colors according to my mood. I’ve thought about this before when something happens or I’m contemplating some big life event. Or not so big meaningless event. Without consciously making the choice, for example, I may wear grey or black if I’m feeling a little blah or somewhat uninspired.

Today was a run-of-the-mill day. When I got up this morning, it was overcast and there were some brief snow flurries. I wasn’t necessarily feeling down or uninspired, but I chose to wear grey cords, a dark grey pullover sweater, and a chambray shirt underneath. For a little color to break up all the darkness, and apparently to embrace the current weather, I wore a white, silver, and blue snowflake pin on my sweater and a pair of rhinestone snowflake earrings. A little bit of hip pizazz.

Nothing really monumental happened for almost the entire day. Chatted in the hallway with a few colleagues, had brief mini-meetings in drive-by fashion with a couple of co-workers, stopped by my boss’s office for a little chit-chat, and went about my benign, merry day. While yakking with my boss, he mentioned my wardrobe and little pop of blue in the snowflake and how it coordinated my ensemble. That isn’t exactly what he said, but the conversation was relatively light and I thought nothing more about it until later. Hours later.

After 5, one other person and I were the only ones left in the office. I ran downstairs to use the restroom. And it was then that I made the horrifying discovery that my fly had been unzipped the entire afternoon. Perhaps the entire day.

My mind raced. Did I go to the bathroom earlier today? Have I really been walking around all day with my pants unzipped? Holy crap. I’m a grown woman. With all most of my faculties intact. Yet I somehow forgot to zip. my. pants. Are you freaking kidding me right now? OhMyGod! I gasped.

I had the memory of standing in the doorway of my boss’s office. His comment about my wardrobe came to mind. What was it he said about the blue in my outfit? Shit! Could he actually SEE my underwear?! Cute paisley design. Blue. Yes, they’re definitely blue. Did he specifically comment on the blue in my pin, or did he just comment on the pop of blue?! Think think think. What did he say? Ohmygod. I could feel the heat rising from my chest and up through my neck to my face. I felt the crimson glow on my cheeks. This was not my normal hot flash. It was worse. Much worse. Pure. Humiliation.

Wait. Wait a second. At least I was wearing underwear. Everyone wears underwear, right? Well, most people wear underwear. Or at least a large majority of the adult population in the United States wears underwear. So it isn’t like I was parading around nekkid. I immediately felt better after putting it all into perspective. Aaaannnnd… at least I don’t have a penis. Now THAT could have been a real pop of color!

Happy HUMP day, friends!!


Laced with Frustration

20181201_111342These are my daughter’s tennis shoes. They’ve been sitting in the same spot, just like this, for exactly 13 weeks. Why is this a story? you’re asking? They’ve been on top of the dryer, taunting me every time I do the laundry, which is a couple of times a week, for over three months. So no less than 26 taunts and mental jeers. They’re a constant reminder of the stress they caused me and the guilt I feel about them just sitting there. Oh, please. Drama much? Yes, well. There’s that.

This summer, my daughter wore them to do some yard work. They got all muddy and then sat by the back door for weeks. And weeks. So after she went off to college and left them behind, I finally decided I should wash them. For whatever reason, I apparently found myself with nothing better to do with my time. They were, after all, cute shoes, and still in very good condition, sans mud. Nike. Not cheap. But also a year old, and had been replaced by “this year’s model.” And Adidas. Ah-dee-dahs, as we used to call them in high school. I discovered that they’re still called that. I’m not really sure why that makes me smile. Maybe because Adidas has replaced this pair of rudeness.

I took them outside and banged the crap out of them to get as much of the dried mud, leaves, and grass off as I could. I wondered if it was even worth my time to wash them because I wasn’t sure if they were ever going to come clean. My kid loves to step in the mud, rain puddles, snow banks, you name it. Even at 18, it’s like a magnetic attraction. When she was working in the yard this summer, I’m pretty sure she walked in the mud and squished her feet around in it intentionally, trying to see how much she could build up, even when she could have avoided it. It just strikes her as a challenge. A dare, if you will. Good, not-so-clean fun.

Like I do with all tennis shoes when I wash them, I took the shoe laces out. Herein lies the story. And the mistake. Ohhh, had I known. See those little grey things around the eyelets? The devil put them there. I kid you not. Little mind-fuckers. It never occurred to me when I was removing the laces, even though they were difficult to pull through the holes, that what my future held was pure, evil torture. You think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not.

I was giddy when I took the shoes out of the washing machine and saw how clean they were. Soap does wonders, no? So I put them on top of the dryer to allow them to dry out for a couple of days before re-lacing them. I was excited just thinking about taking them to my daughter all purdy from my awesome Susie Homemaker skills.

A few days later I found myself with nothing better to do again and opened the laundry room door to lace the shoes “real quick.” Holy crap. Two eyelets in and I was reduced to a little girl. Baffled. Frustrated and confused. Pissed. Off. Those little grey loops undid me. I could not for the life of me figure out (A) how to put this puzzle together, and (B) what purpose they served. (I was convinced that they had served it – giving me an anxiety attack.) These shoes were no longer cute to me. They were the bane of my Susie Homemaker existence and I hated them with a passion. Was this design some joke? Was its very purpose to annoy and mock? I nearly had a nervous breakdown trying to figure out how to put these damn shoes back together. How can this be so hard to comprehend? I didn’t know. But it was. It was like the Rubik’s fucking cube with laces.

It honestly took me several minutes and several tries to figure out the pattern. Aha. Got the pattern. But then, attempting to put the end of the lace through the holes was an all-new challenge. The end of the lace was much bigger than the hole, and trying to jam the little fucker through the hole and the two grey loops resulted in smashing the ends of the plastic tips that keep the end of the shoelace nice and smooth and compact, enabling one to re-lace one’s shoes in a stress-free manner rather than like trying to stick a wet noodle through the eye of a needle. Or eye of the storm, which turned out to be the case here.

After about 20 minutes of this exercise in pure frustration, I slammed the shoes down on top of the dryer and walked away. And there they have sat for 13 weeks.

Whatever man designed these shoes – and I am 100% certain it was a man, because any woman in her right mind would have given the design extra thought as to whether the shoe could be easily re-laced after washing (not to suggest that men never wash their tennis shoes, but even if they do, are they really removing the shoelaces and re-lacing them afterwards??) – should be strung upside down by his toe hairs to think about what he’s done.

So today is the day, my friends. Truth or dare. I’m setting the timer for 10 minutes – and that’s a generous amount of time – to re-lace these disciples of the devil. If it can’t be done in 10 minutes, they’re going into the donation box to let some other poor soul challenge herself with this mind game. More power to her.

Happy Sunday!


Today is the first day of the rest of the month

Okay, not as profound as “Today is the first day of the rest of your life,” but today is December 1. Yesterday marked the end of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), during which time I wrote precisely zero words on my blog(s). Absolutely not one word. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Nil. Naught. Nothing. Not a single damn word.

writings in a planner
Photo by Bich Tran on

Yesterday was also my birthday. (November 30 – mark your calendar so that you don’t forget next year and all the years to come. I’m not much of a birthday cake person, but you can send me pie or dark chocolate.) To celebrate, I went to a friend’s house for dinner and Ouija. Kind of like dinner and wine, only better. No buzz, no need for a designated driver, no hangover, and no stained lips. I still had hot flushes, but I’m lucky enough to get to experience those even without the wine, so it was a win-win. Sort of. Well, not really in that sense, but whatever. I’m trying to stay on my high-flying disc, so just go with me on this one.

Anyway, after putting the lasagna (vegan – and delicious!!) in the oven and setting the timer, my friend Jan pulled out the sacred Ouija board. We started the session as we always do by, you know, asking for all the good shit and none of the bad shit. And then we stared at each other for a solid three minutes to decide what to ask. One would have thought that I’d have amassed a list of questions for the evening so that I could get all the answers, especially in light of the fact that the last time we got together with Ouija we had a conversation with God. No shit. That was some pretty heavy stuff, but that’s not who came to visit last night.

Finally the light bulb went off in my dull brain. (After a long week at work, Friday night typically isn’t when I do my best work. I’m not really sure when I do my best work, but it definitely isn’t Friday night.) I said I wanted to figure out what to do about my writing. I’m kind of all over the place and I have something like five blogs going. Well, they’re not really going. They just exist. I really wanted to write, but I have all these topics in my head and I couldn’t focus or narrow down what posts to put in which blog, so I didn’t post anything. Productive, right? Which is where Ouija comes to the rescue. So I asked the Ouija how to manage my blogs and writing so that I could unparalyze myself and stop doing nothing. I’m not even sure if that’s a double negative. Stop doing nothing. Stop doing nothing? Does that even make sense? I told you – it was Friday night.

abstract blackboard bulb chalk
Photo by Pixabay on

Lights dimmed, our eyes closed, and fingers lightly perched on the Ouija thingy (the technical term for the thing you perch your fingers on – look it up. I’m sure that’s what it says in the game insert), I asked what I should do about my blog(s). Without much hesitation, the thingy moved. Once it stopped, we both opened our eyes. There, in the middle of the Ouija eye (the other technical term that has to do with the Ouija thingy is the “Ouija eye” – the clear plastic circle through which you peer to see where the thingy has landed, thereby giving you a “clear” message), was the number “1.”

“One,” we both said slowly, brows furrowed, looking at each other. How slowly really can you say a three-letter word, and how can you really not understand what that one three-letter word means? “One?” We sat in a moment of silence to ponder the profundity of the message delivered via the sacred board. “Oh! One blog. Focus on one blog!” Sweet Jesus, what a relief! I had been slaying my brain for months, trying the figure out how I was going to manage three blogs (shhhh… don’t get hung up on the fact that I said I have five – it will make this an even longer post and we don’t really want that now, do we?) and balance the rest of my life.

Why it never occurred to me to ask the Ouija before, I’ll never know. Ah, the wisdom. Sheer brilliance. Spirit knows. Only the Shadow knows. There I had it. My ticket to write. [Subliminal message: She’s Got a Ticket to Ride Write will play in your head now for days and days and days…. You’re welcome. My baby don’t care!]

Seriously. With the steadfast guidance of the Ouija Goddess, and after discussing it for a bit, I came to the realization that Life in the Crass Lane is as me as any blog ever could be. All along, I’ve had this idea in my head that my blog should be focused on one area. Says who?! Zeroing in on the “me” of any and all of my blogs through my writing is what directs the theme. Duh, genius. I really am smarter than I sometimes seem.

With an instantly renewed enthusiasm for my writing, I declared last night that I would post every single day during the month of December. No matter what, I’ll publish at least one blog entry a day. It may not be as long-winded as this one, but I’m committing to 31 continuous days of posting. And then we shall see what we shall see.

So buckle up, my friends. We’re in for a joy ride. Or at least a ride. I have no idea what’s in store for this li’l blog of mine, but I’m about to find out.

Happy weekend, people! May the good shit forever be with you!


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