What I have done since my hiatus.

Painted 3/4 of the house, read, played small amounts in the stock market, dishes, scrubbed the basement floor, screamed, had my period a few times, misplaced thing like my car, worked my same old, boring ass job, complained a lot, slept, painted the basement floor, let my daughter borrow the car, cried, lived the life. That’s about it.

Now, you’re caught up.

An Update 

I haven’t written here in a while for various reasons, and I wish I could promise that I will write here more often, but I can’t. The truth is that I haven’t written at all because I haven’t felt the least bit creative or witty. I banged my head against a concrete wall repeatedly in a great effort to make my self-published book go somewhere—anywhere—even down a short road or a parking space, but it didn’t. 

My sixteen-year-old daughter advised me against self-publishing. I knew what I was up against, but I felt I had nothing to lose since it had been sitting unread in digital form for a decade, and I knew that getting it conventionally published was a long shot. Around 2008, I had sent a handful of queries that were responded with rejections. This did not surprise me. I just let this, like writing turn into obession, and let getting the damn thing published take over. I emotionally tried to hard. I tried starting a blog to rouse up interest, but none resulted. No more than a handful visited, I felt the need to preform and the importance of each post grew. I woke up early to write. I took notes at work and on the train. Obsessed. That’s how my mind works.

There were so many versions of my memoir. I couldn’t/can’t afford an editor. It got to the point where I couldn’t read it anymore. Every sentence needed to be crafted. Every sentence sounded silly. My mother and sister would proofread each version and every time that I went over the typos, I would change something that created more typos. The few read, mostly people in it, would tell me how good it was. I would take out things to be nice. I changed it too much. I found myself constantly combating the grammar police. I became embarrassed that people out there had versions that had that had any typos at all. My daughter’s English teacher downloaded a copy! I defended my title, which I should have forseen, over and over, and over again, why it was everday and not every day. Every second, I second guessed my talent. 

People would comment that it seemed exaggerated. My warped perception of reality surely exaggerated the negative. Depression tends to do that, but the actions of the individuals, their words, were exactly as I remembered it. None of that was untrue. And Vanessa’s reaction and vendetta, well, I won’t get into that right now.

I didn’t write it to become famous, but I did hope it would result in something. I gave away hundreds of copies and only got one review from that. Most were given to Facebook friends. I even begged for reviews. Begged. On Facebook. And got zero. This hurt, so I quit.

My skin is not that thick, it turns out. This is why it took me ten years to do anything with it. Oh well. It’s time to move on. So, I will.


I’ve been having an incredibly hard time with this lately. I’ve been depressed many times before, but this isn’t depression. This is different. This feels like death, grief. After 25 years of holding on to this, an integral part of my existence, letting go, and having people walk by this without immediately glancing, or pointing, or laughing (at or with), kills a part of me. But beyond that, the mere fact that this is over, that I have published the words, leaves a void, a hole that I must fill, and I will.  My words made my memories concrete. The pages are no longer in a white binder, or on a hard drive, real to only me. The proper tools reside within and my consciousness knows that this will get better with time. Depression is the opposite. That would be knowing that this would never get better, only worse. Depression would be experiencing this every minute with a ten ton truck on your back, a gaping wound in your chest, your head in clamps, and an ulcer in your heart, locked in a small dark closet—alone. This is not a pity party or a call for help. This is nothing new. This just is. This.

Originally written March 31, 2017.

Rabble-rouser Ramblings

Every once in a great while, my kids say something sorta funny.

Mali, age 16: I hate driving. It makes my feet hurt.

Me (to Simon): Today, Max gets a bath. Tomorrow, you get a bath.

Simon, age 8, channeling Oprah and making the correct hand gestures: You get a bath! And you get a bath! Everyone’s getting baths!


While playing “dinosaur,” Max, age 5 (to Grandad): I’ll punch t-rex in the penis.

Note to self: Buy father-in-law a protective cup.


Mee Maw: We can each make one bodypart (out of Play-Doh) and then we’ll put them all together.

Max: I’ll make the chest hair.


Max: I don’t like Delaware momma.

Me: Why?

Max: Some of my friends are from there.


After watching a clean Lonely Island video, Max: Do you think I’m a charity case? You can’t buy me hot dog man.


After losing to his sister playing Wii Sports Resort Dogfight and Slicer

Me (to Max): Why exactly did I put you in time out?

Max: Because I took the remote and I THREW IT ON THE GROUND!


My husband: Max, if you don’t brush your teeth, you will have no screen time tomorrow.

Max: Why you illin’ B?


Max: That was Mommy.

My husband: That was not Mommy.

Max: Yes, it was. Mommy just took a galactic fart.

Stupid Shit I Did As a Kid

Everyday, my kids do something that makes me question their sanity and wonder if they’re not just weird, psychopathic, alien creatures sent to destroy the Earth one adult at a time. To comfort myself, I am listing some of the weird, goofball stunts, and hobbies I was into as a child. After all, I turned out semi-quasi-sorta-conditionally okay.

  1. Eating entire heads of iceberg lettuce whenever I could get my hands on one.
  2. Biting a chunk out of an onion like it was an apple.
  3. Playing “soup” with pink-stained brush cleanser that was discovered in a mason jar in my backyard (probably gasoline or turpentine) and a straw.
  4. Eating Chapstick (any flavor, but preferably cherry), notebook paper, facial tissue, chalk, crayons, toilet paper (clean), decorative candles, cough drops, cardboard, paste, glue sticks, liquid Elmer’s glue, construction paper, paper plates, waxed cups, dirt, Play-Doh, banana peels, orange rinds, and watermelon rinds.
  5. Chewing on but not ingesting: wood of all kinds except particle board (my crib, the dining room table, random sticks on the ground, pinecones, toothpicks, and popsicle sticks), my father’s lounge chair, my hair, and glass Christmas ornaments.
  6. Smearing Elmer’s glue on my skin so I could pretend my non-existent sunburn was peeling.
  7. Faking breaking my right arm in the second grade by wrapping an ace bandage around it. That day, I pledged allegiance to the United States of America with my left hand.
  8. Getting my hair caught in a remote control car by pretending it was an electric razor and buzzing too close to my hairline.
  9. Cutting off all of my hair achieving a length of one inch.
  10. Sleeping with a cut-out picture of Nick Rhodes.
  11. Trying to break an arm or leg by repeatedly jumping out of our mimosa tree.
  12. Sending my brother in the U.S. Air Force an April Fool’s letter stipulating that our old, beloved, pain-in-the-ass cat had died, days before it actually happened.
  13. Practicing flying off the top bunk.
  14. Making multiple red dots with mercurochrome on my tongue to prove my measles infection. Fun fact: mercurochrome contains mercury.
  15. Testing Fisher Price’s child-proof, unbreakable tape player by catapulting it from the top of a tree. Results: totally not kid-proof.
  16. Playing Amelia Earhart on Dawn Rosheka’s garage roof.
  17. Playing Santa Claus by first filling a trash bag with toys and then wrapping it around my neck.
  18. Using a cooler as a row boat in a drainage ditch.
  19. Weaving a crochet hook in my grandmother’s rug until it became irretrievable.
  20. Playing gas station with my father’s riding lawnmower, a garden hose, and water. I don’t remember the repercussions.
  21. Tasting Dawn dish detergent.
  22. Playing grocery store which required alternating from being the shopper and working as the cashier.
  23. Playing bank. See above.
  24. Peeing myself in the third grade because I was to terrified to ask to use the bathroom.
  25. Collecting potato bugs off tomato plants and observing them procreate.
  26. Collecting bottle caps, particularly from alcoholic drinks. I had 2/3 of a brown grocery bag full.
  27. Carting home a used, water-buckled Playboy magazine that was found in the middle of the woods when there were plenty available in the basement.
  28. Asking my little sister not to tell mom that I insert activity here.
  29. Licking stones, envelope glue, pennies,and wallpaper.
  30. Posing for school portraits, every single one.
  31. Riding on the kitchen cupboard’s lazy susan.
  32. Storing my prized stolen science textbook under the pine tree in the front yard .
  33. Painting my lineolium bedroom floor with bright blue latex paint.
  34. Allowing my uncle Francis to place my sweet little hermit crab named Olivia Newton John into his brief case and then violently shake it causing her premature death. Suspected cause of death: heart attack.
  35. Making skis by adhering toy race tracks to my feet with rubber bands.

Donations of stupid kid shit will be greatly appreciated so I can use it in a later post/list. All names will be confidential unless specified otherwise.

Maxwell’s First Book

Presenting Maxwell’s not-yet #1 New York Times Bestseller, The Night of the Living Sponge. Front cover title and page number typography credits to his older brother Simon. Translation coming soon.

Maxwell currently attends a public full day pre-kindergarten program. He doesn’t  have a MFA from Arizona State University or a high school diploma. Night of the Living Sponge is his first graphic novel.

Maxwell says…


Maxwell, my 5 year old, currently attends full day pre-k. This incident occurred shortly after getting off the bus.

My husband: How was your day? What did you do?

Max: Actually, it wasn’t good.

My husband: Why not?

Max: I had my period.

A note from his teacher was discovered in his backpack explaining that he had two episodes of diarrhea. Apparently, diarrhea = menstruation.

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