Said in the Silence

I. You’ll never know this, but in the car I always trace confessions against your skin in lazy circles, like

People carved their names into my bones when I gave them a home there.


It made me so weak I broke my spine and called it a sacrifice for love. Maybe sometimes people weren’t right for me but I still tried to save them from themselves. I think it may have broken more than a spine.


My armor is crumbling; you’re starting to settle in just under my skin and it’s scaring me because I don’t think I’ll ever mean to you what you would to me & I want to be wrong, but I don’t think I am.

Or, simply:

I want to be wrong.

II. Your head bobs to the music and fingers tap the wheel. I watch out of the corner of my eye and pretend I’m not fascinated by your habits. You reach over, graze my arm. You touch a scar you don’t know is there. My hand slips up your sleeve to keep my next confession more hidden.

I have more than skeletons in my closet. There are monsters that howl & ghosts that haunt me. Sometimes they get too loud – the door breaks open & I have to let it hurt & bleed in ink until they quiet and I can lay them to rest again.


Before I wrote on lined pages in notebooks I cut lines into my skin, but I’ve lived so many lives since then it seems like it was forever ago. Until it doesn’t.

You change the song and settle back again, your gaze skittering along my skin. Prickling. I know you’re taking in my measure, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve already dissected the anatomy of every failure, every hard decision I’ve ever made, every time I felt like I wasn’t good enough for whatever reason.

I trail letters down your arm as I pull my hand back to me again.

Go ahead & try to read me. I’ve picked through my own history enough to feel like a scavenger. I won’t ever hide that my conscience is scarred enough to glow in the dark from all the old wounds.

III. We get to where we’re going. You park & I stare out the window like I wasn’t just watching you. I glance over when you don’t say anything and you quirk an eyebrow, reach over and squeeze my hand. I trace words into your palm, like

I hope I’m more than ego boost. I hope you see me the way you see stars at night, or good music. I hope you see me like my own kind of magic.

IV. I open my hand inside yours. The size difference is almost comical. I stretch my fingers against yours as far as they would go, then slide my hand until our fingertips touch. You watch & don’t say a word. I make little circles, and say things like

I think you’re going to hit me like a freight train and it’s going to hurt. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to take a hit like that anymore


I wish you’d give me somehing other than a ride, give me something from inside your head, do I even mean anything to you other than a way to kill some time because it’s not feeling like it.

V. I hop out and watch you leave. My fingers drift to my collarbone, where I can feel the bone under my skin. There are things I don’t even say out loud to myself.

Dont set yourself up like this. Don’t let him under your skin when you aren’t under his, don’t make a home for him in your bones when you’re already brittle. It doesn’t matter what he makes you want when you don’t make him want the same.

Don’t break your own heart. Stop while you’re only halfway to never going back.


Sometimes you can’t get people out from under your skin. Especially when you don’t want to.


Hey, you guuuuys! A.K.A, I was Sloth for a Day

Thursday morning, I wake up like I do every morning. Grumbling, stumbling, and generally cursing the world in general. Have I ever mentioned I am NOT a morning person? I can’t manage to get all the crap out of my left eye, and it feels weird. Squishy. Big. Not the way my eyes normally feel in the morning. I go into the bathroom to pee, and bam:

This bad boy is staring back at me. Sorta. As you can see, my eye decided to be lazy as well as super swollen and bloodshot.

I fully admit that I freaked out. I woke up the mister, yelling at him that he needed to take me to Immediate Care.

“What for?” He asks.


I look like Sloth from the Goonies from the nose up, and he asks why I want to see a doctor.

I kindly point out the gimpy eye.

He blinks at me. With two good eyes. I’ll admit, I kinda wanted to poke him in one just so we’d be more even.

So I throw on some clothes and am texting my mother, who works at the county health department and therefore has much quicker access to medical professionals than I do.

The conversation goes like so:

And she says NOTHING back after receiving the picture. Granted, she’s at work, but I’m her only daughter and clearly having a crisis.

Apparently My Husband Didn’t Realize What He Signed Up For

By now, you all know how I am and how circumstances conspire to the point that I wind up somehow injured or humiliated in a way that normal people don’t ever have to deal with. It’s inevitable. I’ve learned to just roll with it over the years because hiding and crying about it isn’t my style.

People, women especially, seem to hate getting older and actually admitting to their ages. Me? Please. I’ve managed to survive 33 years so far.

It’s been a challenge.

I’ve got two girls, 6 and 12. A few weeks ago, the oldest broke her pinky toe because she forgot exactly where her bed is located in her room (hint…same spot it’s been in for over a year…) and a couple of days ago my youngest pulled her own stunt.

There’s nothing that makes your stomach sink faster than looking at your caller ID and seeing that your child’s school is calling you. It’s even worse when you answer and can hear your six-year-old screaming and crying in the background. Apparently, her class got an extra recess at the end of the day since it was so nice out. A couple boys were playing tag and came my daughter’s way. She turned and then ran full force into a pole, mouth first.

It did not end well for her, the poor baby. She busted both lips, had to deal with a lot of swelling, and knocked out one of her front teeth. Luckily, it’s a baby tooth so she won’t wind up looking like a munchkin redneck. Right now she’s missing two other teeth that came out the usual way, so she’s looking pretty funny anyway.

This was taken the next morning, so you can imagine how bad it looked right after. She kept complaining about how her top lip kept “overflowing” her bottom one.

Of course I immediately came and picked her up from school, and since there was only five minutes left to the day they also released my oldest so I could take them both home. My husband had come with me, so we’re driving back home and trying to cheer up the youngest by telling her stories of how we’ve gotten hurt too.

I noticed my husband was being really quiet, so I look over to see what’s going on. He’s slumped over, holding his head in his hands and looking panicked. “Oh my god,” he’s muttering.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I mean, I’m about to panic myself, thinking his sugar has dropped or spiked or something.

He shakes his head. “It’s just that there’s THREE of you.”

“….yeah, babe. It’s not like I surprised you with them or anything…”

“WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!” he wails.

I can’t help but bust out laughing. “Dude, I tripped over a crushed can in your yard one of the first times we met. There’s nothing you can do but buckle up for the ride and be prepared.”

He continues shaking his head and looking shell-shocked.

I can’t really feel sorry for him at this point. We were together for four years before getting married. He has seen firsthand how things just happen around me, and it’s hard to feel pity for him when I know how much free entertainment he’s getting out of this deal.

At least life is never boring with me.

What Do You Not Want to do 4 Times in 2 Days? Faceplant. In Public.

So my lovely unbiological sister came to town for some girl time the other day. I’ve been ridiculously excited to see her (hello, adult time with someone who doesn’t keep me up half the night farting) and it was finally time.

We went to see Cock Blockers. Highly recommended, btw, if you’re into raunchy humor and the occasional flash of ballsack. I also appreciated one of the fathers of the teenage girls trying to lose their virginities busting into a hotel room, picking up the boyfriend of his daughter, and throwing him into a wall. I may have even cheered out loud and shook my enormous bag of popcorn.

We were starving by the time the movie let out so we decided to get some pizza and breadsticks in us before the lack of carbs made us cranky. She isn’t a smoker, but I am and was dying for a smoke by the time we got to the restaurant. We’re hanging out by her car and having a good ol’ conversation when tragedy strikes.

One thing to know about me is that if I’m standing on my feet, I can’t hold still. I shift my weight back and forth, I step to the side a little. I’m always moving somehow. And it finally bit me in the ass.

Winter has been harsh and never ending here this year and has left it’s mark on pretty much every road and parking lot in this town and every other I’ve been to lately. The parking lot here was no exception, and if you add in my luck…well…I hit a freaking pothole.

I step onto the edge of it with my left foot, and since that foot had the brunt of my weight behind it, I swung my right leg around and actually managed to stop my fall before I completely faceplanted. I’m sure it looked weird doing some strange, swingy dance move but I couldn’t have cared less what it looked like. I had saved myself! Bwahahaha!

At least I had until my left flip-flop snapped on me and plummeted me to the pavement like fat chick going splat.

I immediately popped back up, but the damage had already been done. I thought my sister was going to pee her pants she was laughing so hard. All I could think to do was to get inside as quickly as possible. Get away from the scene of the crime, and all, right? Plus my foot and my knee were killing me from scraping it on the pavement. I’m hobbling inside, and it’s slow going because for one thing that freaking hurt, and for another, my flip-flop is all flop now since the piece between the toes ripped out of the shoe. I’m limping and my shoe is flapping onto the floor announcing the presence of the idiot who just faceplanted in the parking lot.

Dinner afterward was pretty tame compared to my entrance.

Weather for the next few days was pretty crappy. No real sunshine, chilly, and drizzly. I worked a couple double-days at work (those fun open to close shifts, yay me!) and only had a half day after that. I was excited to get through my half day and get some time off. Apparently a little too excited, since when I got to my car I realized I had left my work keys in my apartment and had to trudge back upstairs to get them. I wasn’t quite running, but I was walking fast up the sidewalk when I hit a patch of wet dirt, slid, and faceplanted again.

That’s right…I slid in the freaking wet dirt that gets stuck between blocks of sidewalk in that little crack. It wasn’t quite wet enough to make mud, but just enough to get squishy and slippery. I hit it like it was a banana peel in a cartoon, started to fall backwards, and over-corrected when I threw myself forward so I wouldn’t hit my back. Instead I went forward. It felt like my left ankle turned itself into a squiggly line. My enormous portable black hole of a purse swung in front of me (thank god) and took the brunt of the fall for my upper body, but my right knee again took the brunt of the fall and sacrificed its skin.

It sucked. It sucked as it was happening, too. I couldn’t believe it. In fact, it was so unbelievable to me that as I was falling I screamed, “Are you serious?!” I mean, what did I expect was going to happen? Did I think gravity was going to push me back upright and say, “haha, just kidding!”?

I’m pretty sure the only thing that saved my upper body was the fact that my giant purse cushioned my fall. You know how some women claim they carry everything in their purse? I can back my shit up, honey. I had a notebook, my planner, a pack of sticky notes, a variety of hair products, random pens and markers, a tank top, my wallet, and half a bag of Doritos bouncing around in that sucker.

I was completely filthy and still had to go grab my keys anyway, so I hauled my sore body upstairs and walked back into the apartment while dying laughing. My husband looked at me, did a double-take, and practically ran over to me while bellowing, “What the hell happened? You were gone for 30 seconds! 30 seconds!”

Dude. When it comes to my life, a lot can happen in 30 seconds. Obviously.

I changed and made sure I grabbed everything I needed. That adorable man actually escorted me to the car because he was afraid of what would happen if I was left on my own again.

So I got to go to work that night with a broken finger (had my keys in my hand when I fell and it didn’t end well), my left ankle sprained, and my right knee pretty much scraped raw and getting blood on my pants every time I moved. I couldn’t even pick a leg to limp on because they both hurt.

And that’s my life in a nutshell. Gotta love it!

Scaring Jehovah’s Witnesses While You’re Trying to Stalk the Mailman

Amazon is one of my biggest guilty pleasures in life. You can get on there, pile all these things into your online shopping cart, check out, and boom, they ship it right to your doorstep. It’s amazing. No more getting dressed and running to eight places only to find out no one has it, no cashiers secretly judging you while you check out, and no making accidental eye contact with people crazier than you or trying to avoid people you’d rather not talk to. It’s amazing.

According to the almighty Amazon, a package I ordered should have arrived yesterday by eight.

It didn’t.

Being a time-sensitive shipment, I contacted amazon and let them know if it hadn’t arrived by morning, I would need a refund so I could go to a store and buy what I needed. The next morning, I get up and drag my tired ass to the post office.

The package had arrived, but it was out with the carrier. The same carrier who won’t leave my packages at my door like most do…probably because they’re annoyed by my love of amazon and are tired of lugging me packages and have decided to pay me back by making me pick them up in person. The post office will be closed by the time the carrier makes it back with the package, so I can’t pick it up later and no, they can’t call the carrier to see where they’re at so I can meet with them for it.

My only option is to go find the carrier myself and get the package. They helpfully told me a general route area for me to wander around in looking for someone they really couldn’t give me a description for other than they will be carrying a mail bag and be dressed for the weather.

Yay me.

So I’m off to stalk the mailman in this area. I’m driving down a main road, looking for the mail truck or the mailman himself, and see a young, clean-cut looking man with a black official-looking coat on, a messenger bag, and a black toboggan with the little poof at the top and a small symbol on the front of it.

I immediately jerk my car to the curb, roll down the passenger window, and yell, “hey!” a little louder than I’d intended, but it worked. I got his attention. He jumps way up in the air and dashes over the other side of the sidewalk in a hurry. Whoopsie.

“I’m so sorry to bother you like this, but I’m desperately trying to pick up a package and they said it was out with you.”

The guy looks at me like I’m absolutely bonkers. To be honest, I don’t blame him. I can now see that the symbol on his hat is the Jehovah’s Witness sign.

I panic. I admit it. All I can do is yell, “Sorry, go on about your business!” and swerve back into traffic while laughing maniacally. Because what else can you do when you’ve scared the poor guy half to death over something he has no idea about?

So I’m back on the hunt. This time, I see the mail truck pulled over to the side of the road so I just pulled in behind it and I’ll just wait for him to come back to the truck. Great plan, right?

Except the truck suddenly lights up and takes off before I even have a chance to scramble out of my car.

Shit. So I hit the gas and follow it, taking a right at the light and sailing along behind it.

I’m not so lucky at the next light. I hit red and start cussing, keeping my eye on him so I don’t lose him. Fortunately, he turns into the parking lot of the store right after the light and gets out to go inside. Yes! Some luck after all!

Only…not. Because as soon as I pull in and get behind him again he hops back into the truck and takes off. So we’re back on the road and I’m following him again, only this time it’s through a residential neighborhood and he’s making all these turns and I’m just trying to keep up and not die while I’m living my life like some bumbling idiot in a spy movie.

Finally he pulls over, so I jerk to a stop behind him and rush to his window just in case it’s a trap to lure me into feeling comfortable. I walk up to his vehicle and politely tap on his window to get his attention.

At least that’s what I thought I did.

Judging from the way he jumped two feet into the air and ducked down in his seat, and from my crazy-haired and wild-eyed reflection in that window, I don’t think he perceived the situation the way I did at first. He looked more like he was considering throwing his wallet at me and crying until I went away.

But in the end, after scaring some poor religious guy and the crazy car chase the other guy didn’t even know he was in, I got the package.

Thank you very much!

To “Me Too,” or Not to “Me Too”

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, I’m sure you’ve seen the sexual assault/ harassment posts going around on Facebook. Tons of women (and I have seen some men!) have raised their hands in a show of solidarity to show just how prevalent the problem is and to support each other.

This post is not for them. While their ability to put it out there is admirable, this post is for those who still aren’t brave enough to do so, who fear repercussions for one reason or another, or simply just don’t feel like sharing a vulnerable moment in their lives with so many people they aren’t comfortable with.

This post is for those who are staying silent rather than joining in the sharing. Whose fingers are numb and frozen, who can’t breathe when they think about it.

Whatever happened, it’s ok if you don’t want to tell everyone. If and when you share your story, you should feel comfortable. Safe. Even if the words feel like glass leaving your mouth and you feel like you’re raw and bleeding when you’re done speaking, you should feel safe.

You matter. Your story matters. Whomever you tell that story to matters. It’s a tough thing to open up and make yourself vulnerable, and it’s ok if you don’t do it on Facebook and put it out there.

You survived whatever happened to you.

You are still putting one foot in front of the other every day.

You are still breathing.

Those things matter, too.

Marriage and the Antibiotic Olympics

I’ve mentioned before how the Mr. has been struggling with his health, especially over the last year. First he had digestive issues and then he developed a diabetic ulcer on the ball of his foot that he’s struggled with for nearly a year now. He took as much sick time and short-term disability as he could from his job, but eventually it reached a point where his job felt forced to let him go and he lost his insurance. Trying to get insurance through the state (my job does not offer any health insurance) has been a whole other herd of lions to fight, and in the meantime, he was unable to keep receiving the medical care he had been getting and things got bad for him – and then they took a turn for the worst.

He wound up being hospitalized for three weeks, guys. Diabetes, bone infection, and sepsis are no joke. They will take your body and hold it hostage. The man has been through so many powerful antibiotics that I almost believe he could be immune to herpes at this point.

When a bone becomes infected, there isn’t much they can do. Even with aggressive antibiotic therapy it can still spread and spread quickly – even to your blood. And since your blood goes everywhere in your body it is extremely dangerous. He wound up having the second toe and some of one of the long bones in his foot amputated and was still so septic he had to remain in the hospital for an extended amount of time.

So much time that we wound up spending our very first wedding anniversary in the hospital. I had a grilled ham and cheese sandwich and a piece of cheesecake, in case you were wondering. It was delicious.

It was also not at all how I expected our first wedding anniversary to go, you know? Not that I ever put too much thought into my expectations for it, but still. Everybody always hints around that when you get married your relationship changes, but I didn’t really expect mine to. We had been together for four years beforehand. We had weathered serious issues in that time – the death of his father and subsequent family turmoil, a child custody arrangement on my end, moving in together and job changes. Getting married never mattered much to me but it was so important to him that it became important to me as well. It was less than two months later he developed the ulcer and the issue continued to snowball from there. I certainly didn’t expect the “in sickness and in health” portion of those canned wedding vows to become so front and center so soon.

And while those canned wedding vows may be the standard in wedding ceremonies, I am still me and I still have my shining sense of humor that has gotten me through the many shitty hands of cards that life has dealt me over the years. This whole experience has taken its toll on the Mr., and it breaks my heart to see him so down.

So I made it my personal mission to make him smile in some way every day. The man is my best friend and he puts up with all of my shenanigans and special quirks. He knows my house may be messy, but by god my towels will be folded just so and put in a certain place in the closet. He knows I like sweet, cold things just before bed and that I will always throw my leg over his in my sleep, almost like I’m afraid he’s going to jump up and make a run for it. Losing a toe and some bone? That’s ok, babe. It doesn’t change a thing about how I feel toward you. I’m still going to treat you the same and make fun of you just as much. It’s how I show my affection.

And with that in mind I contacted a friend of mine who makes shirts upon request. And BAM, these beauties came into fruition:



I know that second one has a small print, but it says “You can count on me, but only to 19!” 😉

Everyone who snickered at me when they said marriage changes things was absolutely right. That man is stuck with me now, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

The Pasta on the Floor

With school having started back up now, I am determined to cook more meals for my family. It sounds great, but half the time I’m running around like a crazy person and then I realize it’s time for dinner and I dint have a plan for it.

Yesterday I decided to make my chicken pasta – one of the girls’ faves and there’s aways leftovers to heat up for lunch the next day. I was excited. I went to the store, got my ingredients, came home, and got busy. I’m frying bacon to crumble, I’m cooking chicken, I’m even chopping veggies up to make the Mr. his own meal since he’s diabetic and can’t have all the carbs pasta brings to the table. As soon as my chicken gets done I throw my pasta in to boil while I crumble bacon and shred chicken. I make my sauce and toss is the whole shebang in a pan and sprinkle on parmesian cheese so it can bake for a bit and all the flavors mix together.

Twenty minutes later, the small wafting through my apartment has me drooling. I’m done waiting. So I throw open the oven, grab my potholders, grab onto my pan…and proceed to slip and flip the pan upside down as I pull it out. I now have pasta all over the bottom of my oven, all over the oven door, and trailing onto my kitchen floor.

The Mr. hears all of the commotion and comes running, worried I injured myself, and finds me staring blankly at this disaster and trying not to cry. I see him, panick for some weird reason, and reach down to grab my pan. I immediately throw it back down because, of course, it’s still blazing hot from being in the freaking oven.

I am the reason we can’t have nice things. Also, our pizza last night was delicious, thanks.