Hanging up my shingle….

So I am officially hanging out my shingle! I have scheduled my first wedding…I’m both excited and nervous…the whole standing up in front of a crowd will be a challenge…but I’m up for it…I’ve met with the happy couple and they have quite a story to tell…which I won’t be sharing…but nonetheless I am quite honored that they chose me to officiate. It will be a quiet little affair, they’ll have a few friends and family, sadly most of their family is not on board but they are defiantly fighting for their right to be together. I’ve even been invited to share in the festivities after the I do’s….I might have to hunt up a date….and I’m so not into dating….my gift to them will be no charge for officiating…being that this will be my first time and if I screw up…well…I won’t screw up…but it’ll help me with the jitters for the next time…


El Don

Regalo o cosa que se da voluntariamente en señal de afecto.
Translation: A gift or thing that is voluntarily given as a sign of affection.

Countless….heat for my water, a stick on my fence, an ear for my words, a lock (or two or ten) for my door, a mower for my grass, a blower for the weeds, a brush for the paint on my walls, sealant for a leak, a charge for my battery, a battery ….the list just goes on and on….

But it isn’t about all the little things….it’s about all the little things put together.

Sometimes gifts arrive in unsuspecting packages. I’m not into gifts of the material kind, more importantly for me is the gift of self: trust, companionship, friendship, shared laughter….but a helping hand goes a long way.

A storied past, a colorful life….we all have our stories…stories muddied in violence, deceptions, love, hate…all forming little pieces of a puzzle that when put together create a big picture, a life story. I enjoy the intricacies of extracting the little nuggets of life that form each little piece….a short or long session where the truth of a soul comes out. Revelations made in turn, speaking over each other and filling in the blanks….rediscovering old forgotten memories, revisiting old memories and more importantly creating new memories.

I promised someone I would have a piece written for them born out of inspiration, in my head the story is still being written, still being pieced together….but a preface…well that I can start off with.


The chats are painful, disclosures of abuse, not physical, but verbal, her psyche is broken, I know things will get better, as long as there is distance between them. When they are apart and they speak to each other it tends to be somewhat more cordial. I ask her how she can put up with it, it’s a stupid question to ask anyone in that position. I know the answer too well. I could be her and I have been her and she has asked me the same in the past, “How could you put up with that?”

That horrid little four letter word called love. Take the word by itself “LOVE” it sounds pretty, it sounds hopeful, but it can be the worst thing anyone can suffer through and suffer for. I know her reticence, her reluctance to say anything, knowing that nothing she can say or do will be right. Her hesitancy to be out in public and be ridiculed or to be humiliated. We can try to dissect the why’s but the why’s don’t matter. To preserve the relationship as skewed as it is requires sacrifice, sacrifice of self, self-esteem, self-respect. I say to her I couldn’t do that, then we both laugh because we have both done it and been there and worn each others shoes. The bitch of it is is that we have both been digging into the same closet. Yet we hang on to the old, the comfortable, the known.

In a few weeks time things will get back to normal…for a while, then the same old patterns will emerge, the guilt trips, the airplane trips, the mind trips. (More like mind fuck.) Will I have to see her do this forever? It saddens me to know the answer to that…but even sadder is that I would dare venture to say I’d be willing to do the same for “LOVE”.

I have a couple of pieces of wall art that serve to remind me and those that enter my home  that we should Laugh, Live and Love. The three L’s. The impossibility of those sentiments are obfuscated underneath all the miasma that surrounds us. Demonic possesion anyone?


To hear that voice, see that mouth move

Venom from a snake, a heart with a stake

Wishful thinking, blissful lilting

Nails, wires, ropes for a dope

The joy of silence, the end of trilling

From a tree or a cliff or a mountainside

From a bottle, a pillow, a knife

In the water, on a plane, off a deck

Poof no magic draggin’

Rounds or ovals, whites and pinks

Yellows and blues, oranges too

Sweet tasting goods can fix your car

Voices that soothe, voices that lull

Words that hurt, words that purge

Love and hate, Hate and love

Words written in blood, spoken in truth

Feeling the love♥

I love my boys!

For the record I am not one of those girly girls that expect or want anything on a so-called “holiday”. In the past my kids have asked me what I want for my birthday or for Mother’s Day. I don’t want for much, certainly no material tokens deemed appropriate by the retail giants. I’m quite simplistic and practical. I am not a flower person, though I do think flowers are beautiful, I did a stint (a lifetime ago) working with flowers, exotic, expensive, beautiful flowers. I was able to take dozens of roses, gladiolas (my favorite) tulips….etc, etc.. home practically every day. I had fresh flowers daily in every room of the house. Two to three dozen roses in the bathroom, whatever was to be discarded or was leftover was free for the taking, and I took, and I made careless and creative arrangements and put fresh flowers in every nook and cranny of my little home. But fresh flowers made into pretty arrangements require care and attention, water needs to be changed, stems need to be recut. Flowers die and in their wake there is a stench that builds up if they are not discarded. I worked 14 to 16 hours a day back in those days…pretty soon the newness of fresh flowers wore off. I one day swore off of flowers, roses especially, sure they are pretty when they are bought at your local florist shop and the stems have been taken care of and the thorns are all gone. But roses undergo quite a bit of handling, roses from Columbia come in huge boxes with stems that are over 30 inches long. With thorns starting at the top and going all the way down. Someone has to get those roses ready to be picked up and bundled…and that is where the blood comes in….wow…I’m a bit off track here…lol…anywho…we worked by piecework, meaning we had to get a certain number of arrangements done to get a chip, chips were color coded by complexity of arrangement. At the end of the day chips were turned in and tallied….I was able to work with a group of women that I enjoyed, we were diligent and conscientious of our work, we got our chips and were actually pretty efficient (and then some). So anywho…it was this stint working with flowers that got me to where I lost my appreciation of the beauty of fresh flowers. So while I may appreciate a gift of flowers, my mind will naturally go to the thought that a. you paid way too much for them, b. they are already dead and will die some more 3. chocolate isn’t dead.

Wow…that up there was so off topic, not that I have a topic or anything, I am just blubbering. Back to what I was jabbering about….Mother’s Day and the propaganda that goes along with it…..for me…it isn’t a necessity. I am  a mother 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year.  I don’t want, need or expect any platitudes…but that is not to say I don’t appreciate the little things done by my sweeties. A cup of coffee, served just the way I like, actually made just the way I like, 2 scoops, per cup of water with one sugar and 2 creams. See….very simple. I don’t want/ need cards, flowers, chocolates or any trinket emblazoned with the word mom encrusted in diamonds.

As long as I know and sense the sincerity of love and appreciation coming from my boys I am the most content and the happiest of mother’s. Boy # 3, my sweet tater pie was the first to come to me to wish me a HMD, he knows how I am but still wanted to fix breakfast for me…it was hard to allow this spoiling…I am no longer a breakfast person, just give me my coffee and I’m good. Well he gave me my coffee but he also whipped up some french toast.  I did forewarn him that I would only have one piece and mine had to be the last one, and please no hurry and make it extra dark and toasted. It was actually pretty good, but I had to struggle to eat it, my appetite is not where it has been.

Boy # 1 was the second one to acknowledge me and the day, he called me and we chatted for a while. I love my first born in a different way than I do my other two. I’ve had him longer in my life and we did a lot of growing up together. He will always have a special place in my heart.

Boy # 3…..it took him quite a while to say anything…guess he must have caught something on TV or the internet that let him know what today was. No biggie. We laughed it off.

If there is one thing I know, it is that my boys love me. and they know I love them. And this Mother’s Day and every other one in the past has been a great one. I’ve felt the love, and that is what matters most.

Going clubbing~

Their relationship was…interesting…and they both battled for control, and not infrequently they had heated discussions — arguments — okay, fights. They regularly resolved to do better, but on whose terms would they do better?

His! Hers!

Round and round, and then they would be making up and falling back in love, until before long they were “discussing” again. Over their many years together, this rhythm, which others might find unbearable, had become familiar and even comfortable, mostly because it was theirs. And in spite of the storm cycles, there had been no big betrayals — no affairs — or at least, um, none that she knew of.

She came to appreciate the volatility of their union, in her it cemented a warped sense of love, honor and trust. She knew the opposite could be said for him.

She stumbled upon many clubs in the night-time hours when others slept. She went clubbing, on her own, as a voyeur she could sit back and watch implosions. Relationships are a mystery to her, on the outside they can look shiny, pretty, wrapped up in a perfectly puffed out bow. Upon closer inspection, looking through a film covered glass the once shiny façade becomes a run of the mill story that can be found in every “Once upon a time” tale. Sitting there, eavesdropping on a table of jaded lovers she hears truths.

Yes, she has the best possible “Once upon a time” tale of her own.

Happily never after….cause she has it good~

STUPIDITY: doing the same thing over & over & expecting a different result each time.

 STUPIDITY: doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result each time.

Or is that insanity? Well for me I guess it is both and then throw love in the mix and well, that will lead only to some more stupidity. I know what I’m saying, but don’t expect anyone to follow my illogical nonsense.

The time has come to let go of that bit of “Hope”. I had an epiphany, kept me awake but it was also a plot twist and the need to finish reading the book…just so I could start another.

I’m tired, like really tired, like I’m ready to disconnect, to move on, move away, I am ready for a do over…a makeover…start over. HELLO

So I am officially going on the market, going to the market, but not to get tainted eggs. I want a new house in a new city, new friends oh and a new car…wake up…can’t I’m asleep…which means I have some mad skills.

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