So it’s December now. Today’s my personal New Year’s Eve. Tomorrow’s also the twelve-month anniversary of my finally acknowledging that the 2025 family math wasn’t going to work with both my husband and me having weekdaily 120 minute commutes (on good days).1 Fortunately, he’s still right about our being okay.
For now.
Continue reading “Contingent upon Avoidance”I’m deliberately avoiding talking about what I’m working on.
-“Underlining the Ephemeral“, August 5, 2025.
… but in my newly copious free time, in addition to spending more time not doing so well the things I wasn’t doing so well when I wasn’t on this unexpected sabbatical, I’m crawling through the second draft of that rural noir I’ve been hinting at. I also just started(ish) brainstorming(ish) a post-apocalyptic fantasy, because I decided to participate in The Novelry’s The Big Write.
Continue reading “Avoiding The Subject”My husband got a new car on Friday. I didn’t go with him to his test drive, so he was itching for me to go for a ride in it or take it out for a drive all weekend.
Continue reading “App Overload”Last week, my husband realized that I’d started blogging again. I thought I’d warned him last fall, but it’s just as likely that I warned his imago, or at least that’s what he’d claim if I suggested that he might have just forgotten, say … like for some completely random example, one of his work shirts stuffed into the couch cushions. It’s also just as likely that his imago would say that. It’s a thirty-year-old response model, and honestly, it’s freaking fantastic … even if my saying that in front of people might…
What?
Er, sorry. Never mind. Hi!
Continue reading “Underlining the Ephemeral”Clowns behind us, jokers in front of us … Happy Solstice!
Next week will mark six months since I stepped off the hamster wheel. I still receive calls from recruiters, but not as frequently as I did when I started this adventure.1 The credible ones2 are beginning to check in to see if my situation has changed. It hasn’t, nope. Maybe by January, when I’ll also be out from under the shadow of my non-compete, but we’ll see. My son is in a holding pattern, waiting for his third and final site evaluation with his employment training provider.
I’m getting an uptick in ‘you should start a business and employ him’ type advice, as if I seriously need to buy an abandoned stable and turn it into an ice cream and monster milkshake place with vintage arcade games and pinball.
Yes, there is an abandoned stable with an intact, great old barn just down the road from where I live, on heavily traveled road frontage, with plenty of land to support parking and auxiliary buildings. Additionally, farmette-sized housing developments are being built all around it. It’s also conveniently located near sports fields and our local schools. It’s not listed for sale, which suggests a couple of things: the parcel is too small to interest housing developers (it could support only one house in the area zoning plan), or the owners don’t want the great old barn torn down, as it likely would be. They might be amenable to a purchase deal to preserve the barn as part of a business operation…
…or so I would advise someone else looking for a business opportunity in this area. That is, if I were back in the business of doing business development. I’m not, and won’t be, unless I have to be.
I’m also not a YouTuber or Instagrammer and have zero desire to start a channel to share the journey of restoring an old stable and turning it into a business and potential community hub. I won’t be, unless I have to be.
I also don’t think building a business around my son will help him out in the long run — but, we’ll see.
On a less uncertain note, I have motivated myself to start the refresher training I need for my expiring professional certifications. The credible recruiters have given me solid advice to expand on those, based on my preference to remain a generalist, so I might pursue those once I finish the refreshers.
Or I’ll snap and look at data (or education) master’s degrees, or take the LSAT just to see how I do.
We’ll see.
The writing’s still going well, though.
I was thinking about Mema last week more than I noticed until yesterday. Sometimes I do that with thoughts: I look them over, nod, and toss them onto the library cart for re-shelving. Better than ninety-five percent of the time, that works like it’s supposed to, despite my mental library’s being staffed by penguins.
That less than five percent, though, y’all? When the system breaks down, it can result in ideas I can’t shake for days, or worse, not until I translate the root disturbance into bad poetry to trap its troublesome ass so it no longer vexes me.
Yesterday’s system failure was not so dramatic. Or maybe I’m understating the drama, because it really doesn’t compare to the current drama going on with our septic system, but … that’s another pile of crap. Literally.
Continue reading “Looking Through The Back Glass”Tomorrow is my late grandmother’s birthday, either her 105th or her 112th, depending on which record one believes, but the Internet has settled on both the birth year she preferred and the name she wanted people to call her. She hated her first name so much that it didn’t make it onto her tombstone.
Continue reading “Canceling Names”I haven’t found someone to do the hand-weeding yet. I’m not sure if it’s genuinely too late in the season to schedule such things, or if I’m scaring people off by explaining why I’m not doing it myself.
It’s not that I’m embarrassed about it and want reassurance.
Okay, I’m probably lying. Neither my husband nor I are comfortable hiring people to do things for us, even when reality puts up a billboard questioning our sanity. He grew up actively avoiding yardwork, whereas I was prohibited from using anything that could be considered “dangerous.” The quotes are intentional because ‘dangerous’ was being scoped by people who were religiously opposed to babyproofing.1 For example, it was my job to remove dead vermin from sprung mousetraps, but I wasn’t allowed to set the traps. I was also tasked with cleaning wire tangles and removing pulped frog skeletons from the lawn mower that I wasn’t permitted to operate.
To be fair, the one and only time I used a riding lawnmower, I did take out a fence, and I’ve had some ah, weird bicycle accidents.
I haven’t ridden a bike, except for a stationary one in a gym, since one sunny morning in 1994. I was running late for work on the Mizzou Campus, cutting across the brick plaza beside Ellis Library, when my bike suddenly stopped moving. I went flying into one of the trees that used to be in the concrete planters there. I’m fuzzy on how I got from being sprawled upside down against the tree to collecting my bike and walking it to work, but I do remember locking it in the rack outside Townshend Hall and Leaving It There to Die Or Be Impounded To A Good Home.
Oh, sure, it wasn’t the bike’s fault, just like it wasn’t to blame for me a) crashing into the trunk of a parked car after being surprised by a dog lunging for my back tire, b) cracking my wrist by grabbing one of the iron fences on the edge of the Stephens College campus while I was speeding downhill and realized I couldn’t stop before hitting the intersection with Broadway, or c) snapping my helmet in two when I miscalculated a turn while riding down one of the ramps at Brady Commons.
That said, though, our relationship was clearly cursed, so it had to end.
I’ve gotten a lot of recommendations to try Ivy Block or IvyX, so I’m going to give that a whirl before giving up on outdoor gardening entirely.
What’s one more layer of protection that I didn’t seem to need when I was a kid?
(Shout out to Mele Gaddini for unblocking me from writing this blog post by sharing her struggles with imaginary chickens. Rather, the struggles with a lack of them!)
As I’ve been saying for a while, the local wildlife probably wishes we’d commit to the farmette part of our farmette-with-Internet and buy some chickens already. I’ve begun to suspect that the local flora’s listening to their discussions. Since the vegetation isn’t more scared of me than I am of it1, it’s been doling out encouragement in its usual nefarious mysterious plant-y way.
A little post-Mother’s Day story about one of the other mothers I’ve had in my life.
Mrs. Gelena Carter Fisk, my fourth grade teacher, gave me a pair of knives at the bridal shower my childhood church held to celebrate my first wedding.
She didn’t want a penny in exchange. Mom was concerned that I didn’t offer her one anyway, never mind that we were standing in a church fellowship hall, and if there was going to be an Old World superstition that could get into the building after me past my grandfather’s ghost (he had died across the street five years prior), we really would need the Good Lord to step in and break it up.
I wasn’t the target. Mrs. Fisk was side-eyeing my ex when she handed me the box and announced what it contained.
Not long after, he decided to use the paring knife as a screwdriver. The tip slipped and snapped: I don’t know if he got cut when it broke, because he didn’t let me see him do it.
I took the carving knife with me when I left. Even after thirty-two years, it’s still super-sharp, though I haven’t done anything to it but make sure I handwash it instead of throwing it into the dishwasher.
I should say we, because my husband now also uses it routinely. Oh, he did wait until after we had our son, and when he uses it, it’s usually to slice something he’s baked from scratch.
Thanks, Mrs. Fisk. Happy Belated Mother’s Day!
Modus Dementi 
You must be logged in to post a comment.