an rdg poem

Speaking In Tongues

I’m not some canary
You can thrust into a box
That cavity next to your beating heart.
I sing too loud.

I’m not a simple house wren
Content to nest nearby
Whose pleasant chirpings
Greet you.
I sing too loud.

Don’t mistake me for a cooing dove,
A Nightingale,
A Warbler in the marshes.
My song is not for pleasantries.
I sing too loud.

I climb higher than the others.
Point my beak into the wind.
Whir and click and speak
In tongues.
Swoop deeper than the rest.

A loon
A kite
A swan
An owl
A single note sung

~ by red dirt girl, 2009


oscar, wild

who, me ??

yeah, okay. so maybe I did it. whatsit to ya?

beloved pet or ..... criminal mastermind??

  • Male miniature dachshund, 4.8 years of age
    13 lbs with Brown eyes
  • Goes by the name of Oscar (a.k.a. Merlin in another life we won't discuss)
  • Markings: Black and tan
  • Occupation: Beloved family pet
  • Unusual Personality Traits: Enjoys shredding toilet paper. clean toilet paper.


What we know:

Suspect was attempting to sunbathe in his back garden when three men of unknown origin entered his domain, brandishing garden tools including, but not limited to, lawnmower, weed-trimmer, and blower.

Suspect claims he was only attempting to find a more peaceful napping location, but witnesses claim that suspect yelled, "I'm BLOWING THIS JOINT.'

Suspect claims he was cornered unwillingly in Defendant's car and quote, "I did what any red blooded American dog would do in my situation."

Defendant placed call to 911.

Time Served: 10 days in county lock-up; placed in the special 'bite unit'

Came home with suspicious markings inside left ear (jailhouse tattoos???); attitude; and a crooked tail (I don't want to know, alls I'm saying).

The cost of Oscar's Great Escape?



I Want

to shove my clothes
to one side of the closet,
give you the bigger half.
Quietly I'll hide most of my shoes,
so you won't know I have this many.

I will
rearrange furniture to add more,
find space on my shelves
for your many books
nail up the placard that says
poets do it, and redo it, and do it again.

I want
to share a laundry basket,
get our clothes mixed up,
wait for the yelling
when my reds run wild
into your whites
turning them a luscious pink,
your favorite color of me.

I will
move my pillow
to the other side of the bed,
lay yours next to mine,
your scent on the fabric
always near me,
even on nights you're away.

I will
buy a new bureau to hold your
thousand and one black socks,
find a place for all those work boots,
the ones I refer to as big and ugly.

I want
more pots and pans to wash,
piles of them leaning high
from late night meals
cooked naked and drunk,

red wine pouring into
a sauce of simmering
tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil,
kisses bitten between bites,
and platefuls of our late hours,
stacking up into dawn.

I want
to stock cupboards, closets, and pantry,
fill the house with us.
I want to gain weight with you
because our love,
our love makes me fat.

~ by Kim Konopka


blog thievery


"Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup."

I'd have to amend that statement to say, "for you are crunchy and taste good with GINGER BEER."

All images and quotes stolen from Gary Rith's Pottersblog. Without his permission. These are a couple of my mugs, btw. AWESOME.


a few good books

Have you ever felt like smacking someone in the head ???

No, I'm not violent by nature (volatile, yes) nor do I throw books unless they are horribly written, waste of timers that have disappointed me to no end....... then I'll toss it across the room in the general direction of the trash can! I've read a lot this summer and I've listened to a lot of books on tape. The fare has been pretty lightweight: chick lit / beach reads. But there have been a few stand-outs:

1. I liked The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society because it was written in the form of letters being sent to and fro amongst the characters AND it depicted life on the Isle of Guernsey during and post its German occupation WWII.

2. I loved Mary Alice Monroe's Time is a River. The title comes from this quote by Jorge Luis Borges: "Time is the substance from which I am mad. Time is a river which carries me along. But I am the river." The book itself describes a woman's journey of healing from breast cancer and a broken marriage through fly fishing. I've always been fascinated by fly fishing, so it was a perfect match!

3. I had a dear friend who has been living in Qatar for the last 4 years visit me last week. She bought this book for me as a gift. You know you have a true friend when they buy you an excellent novel as a gift! Water for Elephants is a lovely read. A great story about circus life during Prohibition and the Depression. It has a great surprise ending ...... !!

4. My best beloved gave me this book to read. He told me that it reminded him of me and he knew I would love it. I LOVE THIS BOOK. The Gargoyle is definitely my number one book of the summer. IT'S A MUST READ. I want to tell you all about it, but it is unlike anything I have ever read. The writing is superb and the book design is elegant, down to the 'charred' edges of its pages.

So back to smacking heads. Nope. Don't do it. I've found the 'ear thump' to be much more effective in getting mama mule's point across ........... snickers!!



PHOOEY !!!!!!!

One of the many delightful 'tastes' of England that I became quite addicted to during my visit is GINGER BEER. Ginger Beer is a NON alcoholic, quite 'spicy' and 'gingery' version of its insipid cousin, Ginger Ale. I fell in LOVE WITH THE STUFF. You'd see me at all hours, in all manner of dress or undress, in pubs, restaurants, grocery stores ......... QUAFFING my beloved Ginger Beer. I especially liked Old Jamaica's brand --- mmmmmmmmmMMMMMMYUM!

So I have been prowling our super-dee-duper grocery stores here in Bubbletown and discovered today, oh bless my red dirt girly soul, REEDS GINGER BEER !! I didn't get too greedy. Just a 4 pack to start. But all the way home I envisioned myself kicking back with a cold Ginger Beer whilst watching and directing the unloading of groceries by my mulette pack.

Truth be told: they unload and I put away. Works pretty well. So. A 2-hour grocery shop; 3 full meal preparations stored in the fridge; fresh fruit for my late night sweets cravings; minimal chips and NO COOKIES, CAKES OR ............ okay. One small pint of B&J's FroYo Cherry Garcia .... and I'm ready for my Gingery Beer treat. A glass of crushed ice, a turn of the bottle cap and a whiff of ginger.

SIGH................ i'm in heaven ..................... NOT

One drink of this poor excuse for a beverage, much less Ginger Beer, and I'm a-sputterin' and a-spittin' cause it tastes AWFUL !! I'd compare it to .... well, I've never drunk piss, but I suspect it tastes a lot like Reed's Extra Ginger Beer. This stuff wouldn't even pass as Ginger Ale or a mixer at some Lush's Luau ......


I'm glad I only went for one 4 pack. I actually traveled a fair distance to a larger store in hopes of finding an alternate brand .......... no luck. I'm one sad mule. I miss my Ginger Beer. I do! I do!
In the meantime, I'm ditching Reed's. Where is Fentiman when you need him ????????



elbow room

When I was a mulette of 11 yrs, I spent my entire summer in the Appalachian Mtns. of West Virginia with my grammy mule and grampa mule. It remains as one of the top summers of my lifetime !! I had so many great adventures that summer. And isn't life somehow sweetly magical when you stand on the cusp of childhood and adolescence? Life looks like a glimmering blue ocean beckoning you to dive in and play. And yet life IS play when you're 11. At least that summer it was - even if I was shelling beans or shucking corn or picking wildflowers, I experienced that glorious live in the moment feeling each day. This is how I remember my 11th summer. It is how I choose to remember it.

So about those elbows. Well, grammy mule went a-churchin' every sunday morn at, I kid you not, the epitome of the one room church with a steeple, open the door and see all the mules. Oh lordy, lordy - it wasn't one of those types of 'talk out loud' churches. No, it was very Methodist with hymnals and red prayer books. But my great aunty mule, Lucille, she sat up front so she could PRAISE BE THE LORD loud and clear. I giggled everytime she tossed out an AMEN BROTHER MULE ....... ok, grammy mule would pinch me if I giggled too loud. The mulegration just accepted aunty Lucille's exhuberance with .... dignification.

Oh, right, this post is about elbows. See how I digress ??? During grown up Sunday school, all the mulettes were ushered down into the basement for mulette sunday school. Now, I'm phobic about basements, so I was already feeling skittish. I'd much rather hang around the grown-ups 'cause they always say something I'm not supposed to hear. Sunday school was governed by a sweet lady who was a distant cousin, Mrs. Ruby Lynch. (It was Mrs. Lynch's granddaughter that threw the metal tipped dart at my leg, and it stuck straight out of my mule shin during a 'playdate' that summer !!!!!)

ELBOWS !!!!!! Yes. So, cousin Albert, 49 times removed, with thick bottle bottom glasses (just like mine) had been nudging around my stall all summer. Ms. Ruby asked that everybody rise and hold hooves and pray together. Well this jack of a cousin, slides, sweaty palms and all, next to me and reaches over to grab my hoof. I jerked my hoof away as fast as I could, but had no where to hide it !! So I tucked my hoof into my opposite hoof-pit, and sweaty palmed Albert grabbed my elbow instead. He took a firm hoof to my elbow and held on tight - long after prayin' time was over!

Now you KNOW how adult mules will talk. And Ms. Ruby thought my demureness to be the sweetest and funniest thing she'd seen in the longest ........ so straight aways after sunday school, when we finally get to the donuts and fruit punch, she races to grammy mule and aunty lucille and Albert's mamma mule and ......... well, I've been teased my entire life for making Albert hold my elbow instead of my hoof.

And that's the truth!

post script: Albert grew up to be a very fine optician, so I am told.


sunday dinner



feeling like a square peg



what i'm learning from the shoebox blog

Yes. It IS a blog from a card company. It IS a blog that features cards rejected for one reason or another from mainstream production. Which makes it EXACTLY MY KIND OF PLACE TO HANG! Here are a few of my current favorite words/pictures. I'm thinking DEATH TO DEPRESSION via inane and random parodies . What say you ???


dragon lurve

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes
the whole world around you
because the greatest secrets are always hidden
in the most unlikely places.
Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”

~ Roald Dahl



my sister wants to kill me !!!!!!

Heh. Grabbed your attention didn't I ??

It's true, though. I swann on my grammy mule's grave, polished hooves crossed and all !! (ps. we'll just keep the info that I'm prone to distorted thinking secret, like, ok ?) First she tried to do it here on the Rio Dulce, Guatemala - right underneath that thar bridge - SHE DID !! I was riding shotgun on the back of the jet ski, and she commenced to swerving, swooping, flipping - you name it - my li'l sis can do it on a jet ski. This was ten years ago. Apparently her dastardly plan did not work. I might have lost my voice from screaming on that sweet river, but I managed to hold onto my life .... !

Fast forward to the end of my summer vacation, which included a quick stop over to visit my fam in the red dirt hills of Georgia. My li'l sis and fam had just moved to their 17 acre horse farm. Lots of stuff going on: frilly male decorators, wood burning he-men, fence builders - you name it - she had a whole posse of men (now THAT'S my gorgeous sis for ya) working round the clock to get her new farm into shape. So she asks me if I want a quad ride around the farm to see it all. Hey, I haven't lived 45 years for nothing ...... so I thinks to myself: self, if she didn't kill you on the back of the jet ski, chances are better that she might do you in here .... So I said SURE. Then she asked one of the decorators if they knew how to run the quad. Was that a sign for me from a higher power ???

She's got the info she needs: turn it on. turn it off. make it go fast ..... REAL FAST !! Let me point out that they had just received a good rain. The route was deeply rutted and full of RED CLAY, and my li'l sis LOVES TO SCARE THE HELL OUT OF ME !! So we go ripping down 'the road' which looked a little bit like this:

Only the sun was going down, so it was twilightish-ness, and the moon was already high and full and we skidded to a stop in an open field to look at what will one day be the lake. And also to gossip about family since we were finally not surrounded by .... family. Then she rev'd up again whipped us around and up to the front pasture with its new fencing (yes, we rolled right over the old poles and barbed wire that had been the previous fence !!) Then we jumped a few small hills just for fun (SCREAMED MY SIS) and then....


This time we stopped to talk about MEN !!!!!!!!!!!! argggggghhhh ........ and she asked me if I was having fun. I was, actually. Then she grinned her evil li'l sis grin at me and said .......


Apparently, I've survived to share the tale with you. Now I'm trying to figure out how to incorporate some of those life lessons into my current chaos:

1. dive in even if you don't know what you're doing
2. scream when needed
3. go ahead and lean into the curves
4. hold on and hold tight
5. stop and gaze at the moon every now and then
6. have fun

7. be thankful for a brave little sis !!!



skullduggery !!

One of the wonderful things my beloved did was purchase Robert Louis Stevenson's book Treasure Island for me to share with my youngest son. My beloved and I were both taken with the lovely illustrations and care to make the 'new' book look 'old.' I only hoped that my eight year old would find the story as intriguing as we did...

And my little one LOVES THIS BOOK. He eagerly looked through the book at the illustrations. Then he pulled off the dust jacket to find this bit of embossed skullduggery on its cover:
My child explained to me that he wants the book itself to get all 'old and dusty looking' the way a REAL TREASURE MAP would look !!
The drawings on the endpapers are lovely and intricately sketched. But my son especially loves the map on the title page with its 'treasure coins.' (Yes, he did ask if I had any treasure coins to go with the book!)

My son remarked at how the book's pages look 'old' already - so cool, mom !

We've now reached Part II and the introduction of ..... Long John Silver ..... of course, I had to laugh when my son exclaimed: "Wow! Just like the restaurant name, mom !!" Yeah. We aren't as literary as we like to pretend. But he's enjoying the story despite the difficult wording, and we are both spending some quality 'snuggle' time together which isn't really considered snuggling to an 8 yr. old!

Ship's ahoy!

ps. apologies for poor photo quality - laptop doesn't have the best camera/flash arrangement.


daughter of fire speaks

Bear with me my few faithful readers as I try to 'weave' together some thoughts I've had over the last few days and also share a beautiful gift with you. First, the gifting: my beloved has been on the hunt for a celtic design ring for me for a very long time. Why celtic? well, without trying to sound too 'new age-y', the celtic designs appeal to me because of their symbolism: they contain the idea that there is no beginning and no end to our journeys - much as I feel about my love for my beloved. It is a love than truly feels 'destined' - a love that always 'was' and I know will always 'be' deep in my heart and soul.

I know. I know. My words are clumsy. Here is a photo of a common celtic knot pattern to give you a visual and a quote regarding the knot's 'meaning.'

Knotwork patterns are symbolic of life’s journey, an attempt to make sense of the maze of existence. They represent a continuity of life with no beginning and no end, a journey to one’s spiritual center, an inner quest for spriritual rebirth and a pathway to the sacred and divine source.
My beloved's journey led him to a jewelry designer in the uk by the name of Vin Bootle. Vin commonly uses celtic designs in his work. And as fate allowed us, (and I do believe that all timing is of essence, destined, not randomized,) we found a few of Vin's pieces at a small gallery in Masham on one of our day trips.

As soon as I saw the ring, I knew it was perfect. I slipped it on my finger - perfect fit. The gallery owner explained to us that this was not a Celtic design but a Brigantia design - a 6 stranded braid. Soubriquet explained to me a little of the history of the Brigantians, the one tribe that allied itself with the Roman invaders of Brittania. He told me of their fiery leader, a woman named Cartimandua, and her place as one of only two queens written of in Roman historical texts.

I was intrigued by the history and by the queen. Soubriquet recalled reading Daughters of Fire by Barbara Erskine. A historical fictional epic about Cartimandua and the Roman invasion of Brittania.

So I am reading and enjoying a rather rackus romp through the Iron Age history of Northern Britain - home of my beloved Yorkshire and Yorkshireman. If you know Barbara Erskine, then you know her style. She reminds me a bit of Victoria Holt's novels that I read as a teenager: historical fiction, suspense and romance all rolled together.

Now, for my last bit of thread. As I shared in my opening posts, I am in a mental crisis and have been for the better part of this year. Why? I don't know, honestly. So many pieces of thread to weave and braid together. I can list the big three, but the big three have been around for a few years now. And I have asked for your patience, kindness and most of all, kindredship. I need open hearts, encouraging words. But the braid is of my own making and of my own choosing. And therefore, let me be clear, it is up to ME and ME ALONE to find each thread and follow its course; re-weave a new pattern for my life.

I do not think that it was by chance that we found this particular ring, at this particular juncture in my life. And I welcome and love all comments and emails that send encouraging thoughts, inspirational thoughts, or even the occasional kick in the pants that I need. But I know that I have to face these irrational thoughts and fears and conquer them myself. Actually, conquer is not the correct word. I must incorporate my fears, acknowledge the irrationalities, and face my challenges, scared, but with the gumption of my mule-headed self: to try and try again.

Hence, the talk therapy. And geesh don't I wish she'd only charge me a nickel per session !!

So ..... love me. hate me. disown me. or befriend me. I'm on a journey and I need support. Not saviors. Supporters. Remember, I'm a red-headed double dragon ......... i'm trying to get my roar back.

much love

the cost of a good education ...

Spent a lovely day today with a good friend visiting from Qatar. As I am having difficulty handling the everyday muck of life, I asked her to accompany me on a 'School Supply' shopping expedition. Usually, I order the ready-made 'school packs' from the PTO at the end of each school year. But this past spring, I was letting all the items on the 'to-do' list slip through the cracks of my depression. My daughter went on-line and copied the school's 3rd grade supply list for me to take. CHA - CHING. CHA - CHING. $169 later and I'm swearing at myself for not purchasing the ready-made pack at the bargain price of $110.

Of the many items on the list, one was 48 No. 2 pencils. Now with an instructional year of 180 days, 48 No. 2 pencils averages to 1.3 new pencils per week. Is my third grader going to be writing so prolifically that he will be wearing down, to the nub, 1.3 pencils a week ?????

Yes. $169 was for my THIRD GRADER. That amount does not include all the 'School Spirit' Items that the PTO just emailed me for purchase. Order now so the kids will have their hoodies and t-shirts for that first day of school !!! And please, I'm refraining from even listing all the school fund-raising functions and book fairs that are to come .....

Next week my TWO HIGH SCHOOLERS have their orientation and will be given their supply lists ...

sigh. anyone have a spare nickel ?



the sky is falling down ....

Is it just me?

I have returned from my appointment with the infamous Dr. Jab. I was already in a puddle of tears when he opened his door, so he greeted me with a kleenex and softened his usually acerbic wit. Frankly, I wasn't 'up' to it. My prognosis? Apparently, well, okay, TRUTHFULLY, the meds are doing their job. Whilst on vacation I rarely had a depressed day and had minimal meltdowns. The problem is in ....... My Head.

So you can understand why I am identifying so readily with Chicken Little. I have no defense. The source lies within my 'distorted thinking.' The glass is half-empty and the sky is falling down and I'm a big fat failure (yes, fat AND failing) and this thinking is way more than feeling sorry for myself. Dr. J pointed out that vacation is just that: a trip away from our every day lives. I happen to view my every day life as an insurmountable mountain of giant molehills. No compass to guide me. No shovel to dig myself out with. And I don't even dare begin to believe I'd be deserving of a cute red backhoe to help me out. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. And therein lies the problem: my self-talk is pretty screwy.

The solution? Talk therapy. And I happened to run into my old talk therapist right before I saw Dr. J, so maybe one piece of the sky isn't falling so rapidly. She agreed to try and work out a 'plan' of payments and appointments to see me. It's time I get some ears to listen to my jumbled thoughts and help me sort a clear path through this maze of I'M A FAILURE that I've created in my head. Oh and I have to go get another needle stick ..... yuck. But I scheduled it - yeah for me, right? Next step is to call the therapist ....

Bonus: Dr. Jab pointed out that I'm not the perfect mother, but I'm a good enough mother; a good friend and ........ a good girlfriend ??!!!

Every little bit counts. In the meantime, start collecting those pieces of blue sky for me, will ya?? I'll need them to piece the sky back together again.



my heart beats true ...

One of the many things I like to do is browse old bookshops. And in England, there are soooo many used book stores, I'm like a kid in a candy shop - I just cannot leave a shop without a purchase or two ... or three .... So, from one of the many bookshops I entered, I purchased a slim volume of poetry (of course - it's always the first and usually ONLY section I peruse) entitled: Philomena's Revenge by Irish poet Rita Ann Higgins.

I'm becoming more selective in my purchases: a poem has to really grab me to purchase the entire book - and a second poem is needed to woo the volume's way into my hands. Rita's words did just that. So I want to share my favorite of her poems with you about a clockman and a bicycle and his love. I chose this 'steampunk heart' to illustrate because my sweetheart shared it with me, and I like thinking that the clockman's heart beat a steady rhythm against his beloved's breast, for always.

"Old Timers"

She loves the clockman;
she leans on his shoulder
from her bicycle,
cycling slowly
through a field.

Slightly out of step
the botched hip job
leaves him
one foot shorter
than the other.

She adores him;
his slight tick-over
his offbeat with time
but never with her heart.

Children have worn a path
for these old lovers,
harmony; not always seen,
the eye is good
but the heart is better.

They're headed for the pub now.
She loves the clockman;
she leans on his shoulder
from her bicycle.

On their return,
his short step less noticeable,
harmony more visible
as the falling together starts.

The treasured bicycle
now takes third place;
it trails like an unwanted relative,
uncle somebody.

When they hit home
he'll make the tea,
he'll rub her old feet,
they'll make yes and no sentences
for ages with love,

and if the voice is good
she'll sing out to her clockman
sweet youthful melodies,

making him forget
years, months, days,
minutes, seconds,
ticks, tocks,

until the only down-to-earth sound
is the click of her new teeth
as she whispers, gently,

'Love, oh love,
there is no time like the present.'

~by Rita Ann Higgins

ps: an added bonus is a handwritten note penciled on the fronticepiece of the book signed 'love, R.'


How Cool is This ??

Soubriquet of Grit in the Gears fame has posted some glorious photos of our Jurassic fossil finds from the North Sea coast of Port Mulgrave. I urge you to go HERE to take a look.

This post is inspired by the comments left on my last "Navel Gazing ..." post. Each comment struck a unique chord within me: Remember that i'm unique; Remember that i'm deserving; Remember that love lives far across an ocean. But Soubriquet's comment reminded me of my personal accomplishment: trekking down and up a steep headland; hunting for Jurassic Age fossils (160 million+ years old); the thrill of discovery; the satisfaction of accomplishing a dream that became a desire that became our reality:
"Look at your ammonite, and reflect that you, you, were not just the first person ever to see it, you were not just the first mammal, you were the first air-breather ever to see that ammonite. A hundred and sixty five to 180 million years ago, (give or take a million or two, either way), whilst that dactyliocareas was idly swimming about, in a shallow tropical sea, YOU were its future destiny." ~ soubriquet

1. the first fossil i spotted
while walking across the rock strewn beach:

2. we became adept at looking for a particular rock shape
and colour, a hint of something hidden inside:

3. A swift tap of the hammer; hopefully a break along
the right seam; and then -
ahhhhhhhhhhh !!!!

4. My own personal victory: climbing down and then back
up the steep headland. I confess: I did complain a wee bit.
I think the smile on my face declares my victory
(and relief !) What a beautiful place !!!

thank you for making my dream come true, sweetheart.



navel gazing ...


I have a confession to make. Well, I have a lot of confessions, so maybe I'll hold back on one or two. I love blogging. But I hate it as well. I mean, I love interacting with you, my blogging friends. But I find that at times I bore my own self with my wailing and gnashing of hooves and teeth and swishing of tail.

You see, for reasons not clear to me, I am suffering the most debilitating depression I've known in my life. Yes, Dr. Jab is still hanging tough, coaching me ringside and medicating me as best he can. But I still find myself painted into a corner. And while corners are probably fascinating places and subjects for some, I am just plain STUCK.

So, I self-medicated without Dr. Jab's approval (my day of reckoning is Friday) and went on a month long holiday while the children spent July with dad. I spent 10 days with my parents in my old childhood hometown. Then I spent a lovely 20+ days with my beloved Soubriquet in England. And I found I wasn't ....... DEPRESSED !! For some reason, possibilities arose where none had existed before ..... I could see the new life I've been wanting to create for myself. I smiled. I had real adult conversations. I watched movies, ate lemon cheesecake and drank myself silly with ginger beer (a more gingery tasting ginger ale).

Then ....... I came back to my reality. And depression has snaked itself around my thoughts again. So here I am, navel gazing again. And putting forth a plea to you, my blogging friends. I need help. I'm stuck. Fear is doing it - not being able to control what is going to happen to me and my family. I'm meeting with my not yet ex to be x'd tomorrow in hopes of moving forward on a settlement. I have not begun looking for a job. Yes. The teaching hiring season is long past. I cannot cry over spilt milk. Depression has sunk deep fangs into me, eroding all of my confidence in myself. My lease will be up in November and I must think about where I will be moving to .... find a new place. No job = no mortgage ..... you see? These thoughts snowball into one another.

I need encouragement, guys. I hope you're in for the long haul. I know I can get by with a little help from my friends.



latte therapy


"The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating -
in work, in play, in love. The act frees you
from the tyranny of your internal critic,
from the the fear that likes to dress itself up
and parade around as rational hesitation.
To commit is to remove your head
as the barrier to your life."

~ by Anne Morriss

Starbucks Therapy:
* cheaper than a visit to the psych.
* no need to talk
* tastes good
* tells me in a nice way
to remove my head from my hindquarters


not out of the woods, yet ...