Chronic Ama

The voice in my head keeps yelling at me to write. He's like this annoying super fan at a kids basketball game, standing on the bleachers, yelling shit at an awfully high decibel. Yeah, I've given the voice in my head a gender for some very odd reason. Maybe it is just natural to think that way being as old as I am. Every time I finish a book, he gets up and yells, "why the hell did you put those huge nails on?! You know you can't type with those!" He totally forgot the part about telling me to write. So, I ignore the rude remark about my fabulous claws and sit down with my journal. I write about my day. as mundane as that sounds. It's so routine and lacks that voice that my fingers are so adept at portraying on a keyboard. What will people think reading that when I'm dead and gone? "No wonder she was bat shit crazy. She was bored out of her fucking mind." Life moves at varying paces that change daily and even sometimes by the hour. This past mon

When the sun came in through the window, she opened her eyes and fell through the sunbeams. She fell through the floor and was left with gashes She fell through the tangle of twinkling lights Fell through the wrapping paper and tape Fell through the bows and stockings Tore through the ribbon and was left with gashes Fell through the stories of pain she heard Fell through her own pain and stopped to check her bleeding gashes She knew she couldn't fall any further.  She was buried and bleeding Until she got up and flew through the pain Flew up through the bloody mess of paper Ribbon and lights left behind Stockings and bows left bloody She flew Up from her bed to grab at the sunbeams Bright and cold  Sunbeams that fell on her gashes, pulling them shut Sunbeams fell on her face Fell on her naked breasts and blood-stained hair Fell onto her soul to lay her pain to sleep She was awake again and ready. Ready to just be. Dancing the day away until again she fell Fell asleep.

 My day was going like the typical mom day... fucking laundry, fucking dishes, not enough fucking coffee, and a kid at home on Thanksgiving break when I needed to cook pies and prep a turkey and find a little peace in the bottom of a large peppermint mocha cold brew.  Of course my kid was in the way. I bumped him on the head taking out my pie crust from the fridge (I use store bought, bitches, because, time.) I gave him a flat tire putting a dirty pan into the sink. He was constantly jumping up on me, hugging me and not letting go. I pictured myself as a football player, just trying to avoid the defense getting to the peppermint mocha col brew on the other side of the touchdown.  Man. It was barely 9am. Mind you, at the time I'm writing this, I have missed a therapy appointment totally by accident. Sorry, I was busy momming.  There's a person there, behind the offensive lineman I play in my head.  That person had a brilliant fucking idea! Kiddo wanted to help make pumpkin pies

 It was a necessary evil, or whatever people call it. I had to get my COVID shot. My hip has been giving me serious grief, especially with the no rain, rainy weather we're having. So, it's getting injected again along with my SI joints, but I needed to get vaccinated first because all them pain relieving steroids tend to knock my immune system down like a bought boxer in a two round knock out. Although, I'm feeling like I walked into a bar fight and didn't walk out. My nose is so stuffed, I can't hear through my right ear. Funny how that shit works, eh? The best part of the first dose of the vaccine has been watching my teenager cry over a sore arm while I cough up boogers the size of mucous plugs. Yep. I went there (um, this is a mom blog. If it has to do with vaginas, I'll talk about it at some point in time). I'm not even going to touch on the post nasal drip that makes everything taste like I'm a toddler with a hardcore booger addiction that no 12 st

Most adults have been through the grind of middle school. We often talk about how hard our jobs are or how much adulting sucks. But, I bet most can give you middle school horror stories. They should make a suspense movie about middle school. It would be more believable than the feel good Hulu specials we are inundated with to make kids feel alright. I kinda remember sixth grade. My teacher was Mrs. Kewin. She was amazing and kind and nurturing and our student council sponsor. I stayed in touch with her through high school. The last time I talked to her was over a pizza dinner at Mama's one evening when I was in college. Man, that's a real teacher. Someone that can stay in touch and whose name I will always remember.  Sixth grade was meh. I was in Catholic school with a class of 30, which included kids I had gone to kindergarten with. I think I hung out with Shannon, the only white girl in the class. She was petite with long blonde hair and her mother was the first grade

 Hear me out here, we have a shower bucket.  Wait, that's not a fair place to start.  Let me rewind to February, the month that I usually start my garden. I've been gardening for about 4 years now and have gotten better at it over the years. (It honestly is great for quelling anxiety and getting my mind off whatever is bothering me at the moment!) This year, I planted more tomatoes, garlic, cilantro, basil, more red chiles, thyme, and some other shit that I can't even remember. You see, it's been a dry ass year and I've lost plenty of plant babies, including two of my coveted lavender starts, to the extreme heat that all us Arizonians should be used to by now. I got a little smart this year and made room on the patio for lots of things, but that wasn't enough. I was growing bored of trying to schedule what to water when and how to mourn the lost little green things and how to make a shade cloth impervious to the haboobs. (Not my boobs! Haboobs! Just google it al