Tiara Me Sue

I quit my job as a chauffeur last month. The act itself wasn't a surprise - the writing had been on the wall for a while - but the timing was. Due to circumstances that came way out of left field, I did something I've never done before: I quit on the spot. Without another job lined up. David Bowie, again. In 2016, I wrote "Turn and Face the Strange - Changes" , about future, known changes. Now, three years later (there's that 3 again that I talked about then), I'm talking about surprise and unknown changes. And while I thought my next writing about change would reference Tears for Fears or Yes, it is still David Bowie's musical conversation that fits best right now. I think I enjoyed 2016's perspective better. This one's not as much fun. Exciting, yes, but not the fun kind. The specific circumstances around my abrupt departure don't matter, and certainly don't serve any purpose other than to spread negativity and encourage the lingeri...

Today is the beginning of my birth week, number 52. I share this birth week with a lot of friends, and sometimes I still hear comments about birthdays that surprise me. I am a Birthday Fairy - my birthday means a lot to me, and I think everyone else's birthday should mean a lot to them. Just the fact that we are here is a big deal . Like in the movie "It's a Wonderful Life" the lives of every single person around us would be different if we weren't here. Even if you only did one nice thing for one person in your life, that person's life would have been different if not for you - so, yes, your being here means something. YOUR EXISTENCE IS YOUR IMPACT. Without doing, creating, or being anything - other than just being here . So, no, your birthday should never be 'just another day'. For you alone, your birthday is a personal New Year celebration. Personal . You don't have to share it with anyone else - and it is not necessary to. Yo...

I cried the other day -no, not the blubbering I do when the Boston Pops play the ‘1812 Overture’ right before the fireworks on the 4 th of July, or the tears of pride I let loose every single time I watch Susan Boyle’s first audition on Britain’s Got Talent , or even the goofy “I’m so HAPPY!” wet mess that I become every time I watch a video of soldiers being reunited with family and pets- No, this was that ugly cry; you know, the one that Carrie Underwood is talking about when she sings that there is no way to “Cry Pretty” while wearing bedazzled thigh-high black boots with glitter pouring from her eyes. Yeah. Just like that. The reason doesn’t matter, because it’s no different a reason than every other adult has had more than once in their lives. It’s just life . Sometimes, things get to you. What makes this event worth mentioning are the peripheral circumstances, because, aside from the above-mentioned, tear-filled blubberfests I have not cried – I mean crie...

My child's uncle, my former brother-in-law, died two days ago at his home. B was spending the weekend with Dad, so they got the news relatively fast and made it to his house while his body was still inside (they were already in the car to go out). "When we got there, the police came out and said they were sorry for our loss. We didn't go inside." That's one image memory B keeps bringing up. I made plans to go pick B up, but my older daughter Deren volunteered to go, and B agreed. I have a tendency to be too 'talky' in B's opinion, and the older sister would probably be of more comfort. Once home, I figured B would head straight for the bedroom (and I was right), but I readied the kitchen table to paint. Maybe if we painted together, it would help. B is quite the little artist and there are a few creative projects we work well on and enjoy together, so I knew it could be comforting. At the time I got the call, I was sitting on the bed contempla...

Forgive me all, for I have slipped; it has been four months since my last blog post. That's what happens to a writer when focusing on finishing a book, or to someone who's been working too many hours at a job, or the person who's gone on vacation and managed to be  on vacation - and even the person who finds herself so stressed out that she has to isolate (and yes, sometimes, hide ). Sometimes it's all of the above, too. That's what happens to anyone when life  happens; we slip a little, stop to regain our footing, and start again. I've been writing an awful lot during these past four months - I know, not that you'd notice - and one of the reasons I haven't written anything here comes down to a number of awkward thought processes that writers go through regarding 'putting forth work'. I call them awkward because they are a blend of the reasonable and the unreasonable and have the power to hold a writer immobile in a sort of limbo. Writing is ...

When I started using Instagram, it was really only a place for me to sort my pictures. My special  pictures would go here - the ones that I planned to use later in some way for my writing, crafting, or my new photography passion. Then I started publishing books and needed more of a 'platform' (I really only like that word as a description for a type of shoe). Facebook has been my social medium of choice, but I'm already too much in my friends' faces without me wanting to sell anything to them. Self-publishing means self-promotion (which sucks, by the way), and with a couple of new books coming out soon I had to step up my game. I'm by no means a niche writer; I don't even have one subject for my blog, and trying to force my focus down to one or even two subjects is a little too limiting for me (limits are the reason I barely use Twitter). What I post here now is me, all of me, because all of this that I post here is what inspires me in some way. I have a n...

In Celebration of a Life That’s Passed: Aunt Flo 1981 – 2019 (Good riddance, Bitch) St. Patrick’s Day, 1981, a glorious day for the onset of menses. Menarche - MALARKEY! You may wonder how in the hell I remember the date of my first period - and why I would want to remember it at all. I could lie and fall back on my line, “Writers are the recordkeepers,” but that’s bullshit. I remember because it was a holiday – at least to an 8 th grader looking forward to dressing up all in green for school that day. I guess we really can be suckered into anything at that age; I get it – it made the day different for us thereby encouraging a little more alertness. Any trick will do, with kids. That day, I wore red, too. The worst part about it is that I’d been waiting for it. I blame Judy Blume. Her book, “ Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret” was so relatable to young girls that it duped us all into thinking that starting your period was this wondrously awesome mileston...