Starry, starry night

Is not the name of that song , I know. Some people on You Tube don’t, either. If you want to live a happy life, I recommend never going in the comments section.

If you need to know what’s getting me through one of the most excruciating times at my job, please to let Piper and Paul show you.

I bought this little Chromebook off Amazon on Prime Day for less than $150 bucks because I wanted to try writing again. I wanted to try doing SOMETHING again that didn’t feel like drudgery or monotony or didn’t involve staring at a wall. Which I do. A lot.

So far I haven’t used it much but I just figured out how to brighten the display so today is a victory.

I used to be able to lose myself in music or literature or movies or ART ART ART of any kind but it’s getting harder and harder in today’s world. Which is why the fact that I’ve watched this free dance debut from the Nebelhorn Trophy a dozen times good or bad depending on how I’m feeling. Good in that in can make me  feel an emotion again, any emotion. Bad because I’m tamping down my real feelings, just like I always do.

It’s been a tough week, hasn’t it? Especially if you’ve ever been sexually assaulted. Especially if you know someone who has been assaulted. My story (ies) aren’t going to be told today. Maybe not any day. But how sad that most of us have a story to tell.

I think all the noise that’s surrounded the groundswell of what’s happening in 2018 in regards to #metoo is the systemic HOLDING DOWN of women. I don’t make as much as my male counterparts even though I do ten times the work, and better.

I don’t get considered for a promotion by my former MALE BOSS. But the guys? The same ones who sleep off their hangovers in a hidden break room, or skip work altogether to watch the World Cup? The same “bros” who bungle advertising budgets and lose important clients’ money?

I don’t do any of those things. I just excel. And here’s what I get: being treated like a secretary. Diminished. Discriminated because of my age. Hey, at least I’m not being discriminated because of my race! There are other women that my company does that to! Enough to go around! Discriminate and compartmentalize us and keep running your boy’s club. Have fun with that.

Keep putting me in the little box you’ve chosen. But here’s the thing about boxes: unless you’re a cat, you probably don’t like them. And you’ll climb right out.

I know I’m ready to.

That voodoo that you do

Still trying to find time to make time to do the things I long to do. Still trying to find a way to rectify working at a job I hate with making the money I need to survive.

Still trying to find things that inspire me. That part’s easy.

1981 horror movie Possession haunts my dreams.

Here’s the batshit crazy trailer. It’s got nothing on the whole shmegilla, though!

A woman no man could possess indeed! Damn, this thing is my latest obsession. I think it’s the use of the color blue (and red).

But wait! If that wasn’t enough, there’s more!

Massive Attack has put out new music that doesn’t suck! It’s been a long time since Mezzanine, kids. And the video for Voodoo in the Blood is a direct take on the subway scene from Possession, but this time with a blonde. Take a bow, Rosamund Pike.

So the next time I’m at work, looking really preoccupied, I’ll be secretly dreaming of tentacle sex and orbs that mindfuck people.

Now you know!


It ain’t easy/Tuesday afternoon

sleeping ringo

My Ringo doing what he loved best.

I don’t remember the exact day we put Ringo to sleep. I didn’t save any of the paperwork from the vet’s office. It was February, I know that. Our boy got a death sentence last January and he made it relatively happy for a whole year. I know I was blessed.

I have wanted to sit down and write this ever since I held his lifeless body in my arms and kissed him. Wanted to, but it is hard. My job is very stressful and the moments I have to myself are limited. I have been struggling with my high blood pressure and anemia issues, and honey was hospitalized in February with kidney stones. It’s no fun getting old.

But now I have an Easter Sunday to myself. Honey has to work, and I’ve been diligent and finished my housework for the week, although I still need to do some cooking. So allow me to take a moment for my boy. Will anyone read this? Who knows. But if someone does, I want them to learn from my experience. This is hard to talk about, but I am determined to do it.

I have never put a beloved pet to sleep before. My mother has, several times. But not me. Why do the women always end up making the decision? Honey was there with me, but he forced me to make the decision. I  understand why – Ringo was my pet first. He was my baby.

I had heard about a special “Rainbow Bridge” room at one of the local animal shelters. But I simply couldn’t afford to take a day off of work. I had to do it on the weekend. So I called my vet’s office – they were within walking distance of my apartment, and I didn’t want to take Ringo very far – he hated being in the carrier. Doctor Felz had been kind to me the previous year when Ringo was diagnosed, even calling me after hours to discuss options. I appreciated that. I called and asked if I would have to make an appointment when the time came. I also discussed payment. I was told, since I didn’t want to have the ashes saved, it would be about $150.

They say when the times comes, you’ll know. I hate that saying, just as much as I hate “Everything happens for a reason,” but sadly, they are both true. I knew. His coughing was worse. He wasn’t eating. My big boy, who used to weigh 16 pounds, was skin and bones. When I pet him, I could feel every rib. He gasped for breath sometimes. He barely pooped. But he still lay with me in bed to read on a Sunday. Right by my side, sleeping with me like always. I didn’t want to be selfish and keep him just because he brought me so much joy.

I made the appointment on a Thursday and got through work on Friday. I had to stay late, as usual, and resented my boss and my job more than usual. I had so little time left with my boy.

I took a picture and put it on Instagram on Saturday morning as I spent my last hours with him. Stroking him and he lay beside me. Did he know? I can’t say.

When I got to the vet, and I’m just going to call a spade a spade – Ibis Animal Hospital – I was shocked to find Dr. Felz wasn’t there. A new woman was, and she was big, mean plain woman who looked like a female guard in Prisoner Cell Block H. She was brusque and unfeeling. The staff seemed terrified of her and one was openly weeping. In my state I was still able to overhear things. Although one of the techs said Dr. Felz was working less now because of her children, I heard the receptionist tell someone she had sold the practice to this bitch.

Because Ringo, even though he was ill, STILL hated the vet, he was hissing and growling. So they did what they do at IBIS ANIMAL HOSPITAL. They put in in a plastic box with a hole in the top and gassed him to calm him down. I found it cruel and unnecessary.

While he was prepared, I had to pay the bill. I was charged $300, NOT the $150 I was quoted. But I was in pain, in shock and crying nonstop. How could I dispute it at a time like this?

And so they brought him back. I put him on a quilt my mother made especially for him. His eyes were open but he was still from the tranquilizer. The port was in his leg to give him the drugs that would end his suffering.

I kissed him, hugged him and told him how much I loved him. Then the shot was administered, he was pronounced dead and I stayed with him for a full ten minutes, still kissing and talking to my boy.

And then it was done.

I am angry, still angry, about the way his death went down. I BLAME MYSELF. I always do, but I know now I should have handled this differently. That going to the close, convenient place was not the answer.

My mother, my friends, anyone I told about the charge I was given for this, could not believe it. My own mother had to put her beloved Westie terrier Bonne Bell to sleep not three weeks prior to Ringo’s death. And she was not charged $300. She was so mad she wanted to call the office and demand my money back.

The thing was done, though. I would pay a million dollars to have my boy back. I was not going to make an issue out of an overcharge. But I want anyone to know that this place is bad. Though I haven’t done it yet, I plan to leave a very negative review on their Yelp page, for what it’s worth. I would hate for someone else to be suckered and cheated and treated the way I was. This was NOT how I wanted my Ringo’s life to end, and I regret that this is the last place he saw before he crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

young ringo

Ringo in healthier times.

As I approach my 49th birthday, I know I will never have children. It wasn’t a choice I wanted to make, but I didn’t marry until after 40. We have both struggled with jobs, finances, and health issues. It just never happened. And unless I adopt sometime in the future, it never will. I know it is a cliche to say our pets are our children, but I believe, especially in my case, they are.

I identified with Ringo because he was abandoned in a box on the side of the road with his siblings. As an adopted child, you feel abandoned at birth as well. Sorry, but that’s the truth of it. He was my precious angel, my best friend, my little boy. I called him many things, Ringo, silly boy, ma petite chat…He was my world and was with me through shitty boyfriends (and finally a good husband!), crap jobs, a heart attack (for me), a splenectomy (for honey) and my father’s death. His love was unwavering and gave me so much more than I could even return. And I pray that one day we are together again.

But life goes on, and I could not take the loneliness. On days like today, when honey works, I need a friend, even as I crave the time alone to refresh and revive. And so we found Tuesday.


Miss Tuesday – I’ve not gotten her to pose like this since, she’s hard to keep still!

I forced myself to go out and look at cats to ease my pain pretty quickly. I went to Peggy Adams, but I found the cattery overwhelming and my allergies couldn’t handle it. The staff weren’t exactly my cup of tea, either.

Then I went to see the kitties at Adopt-a-Cat. Every Saturday they are at a local pet store, and we’ve always gone to visit. When I saw this little girl, I fell in love. Her name was Chloe but she didn’t answer to it, and when I think Chloe, I think Khloe with a K Kardashian, and I’m sorry, but I just CAN’T with that!

I saw her on a Saturday and fell in love, but it was too soon. Then, a woman came in the room where the cats were and let me tell you – this creature was plastic surgeried within an inch of her life with fake tits and tattooed makeup. “I want that one,” she said, pointing to this sweet girl. “My son’s cat was eaten by a coyote and he doesn’t know. She looks just like his cat.  I want to get her before he finds out.”

Can you believe that shit? I was so uncomfortable I didn’t know what to do. But the staff at Adopt-a-Cat are cagey, and suspicious. I left, but went back a few hours later to make sure she hadn’t been taken by the crazy. They assured me they would never give her up to one such as her. I told them I really wanted her, but my pain was too fresh, and I’d try to come back the next week. I have nine days off from work, and it was the perfect timing.

When I went back, they welcomed me and told me they were afraid I wouldn’t come, but that the creature would! Never fear. I knew I had to give this girl a forever home.


Those eyes, am I right? We think she is part Tonkinese (not Siamese) due to the very light blue of her eyes and the silky blonde fur, that hardly sheds at all.

We’ve had Tuesday for a little over a month, now. She is a very different cat from Ringo – I mean, come on, she’s a girl! – but I love her already. In a different way, and maybe not as intensely as I loved Ringo. But that will come.

She is so beautiful I think you can see why I was drawn to her. She was part of a colony of ferals abandoned in a trailer park in a bad part of town. That’s why her little ear is tipped. She is a little over a year old, and had been with Adopt-a-Cat for quite some time. I am glad she is with us now. She is a bit of a drooler, and her meows are almost silent. They are sort of barks and clicks like she’s talking in Swahili!

Petting is definitely permitted. She is always waiting for us when we come him from work, and wants to be pet and loved and touched. Holding? Not so much. You can hold her for about 20 seconds and then – no mas! Even though she’s a very small eight pounds, this kid has some force and will get away. She is still a kitten and LOVES to play. Going from an old cat to a young one is quite a transition! She naps with me, but not next to me, like Ringo did. Will she ever be a close cuddler? Hard to tell. But she wants to be around you, no matter what room you are in. And she’s a counter surfer, oh laws!

I named Ringo after Mr. Starr because of a photo a friend had taken of him backstage at the Royal Albert Hall and shared with me. Mr. Starr looked so happy and carefree, I knew that had to be his name. Um, actually, that happened AFTER we realized he was a boy – because at first my sister, who was a vet tech at the time, thought he was a girl! He was originally going to be Musetta. I shit you not.

Miss Tuesday….well, honey and I talked about a lot of names and we ALMOST named her after Kim Novak, another blonde bombshell, but then I knew it. If you know me or have read any of my blog iterations over the last decade and a half, you know that I adore Tuesday Weld. And since this little one is a petite blue-eyed blonde with a will all her own, it just had to be.

If you have read this entire post, thank you. I needed to get this out and talk about it. I don’t know when I’ll blog again but it feels good to say these things, to say what happened and let someone, anyone, know. Don’t make the mistakes I did. I have forgiven myself, but I will never forget.


There is nothing more pure and sweet to me than a sleeping cat.




Houses in Motion

I’m walking a line
Visiting houses in motion
I’m walking a line
Just barely enough to be living
Get outta the way
No time to begin
This isn’t the time
So nothing was done
Not talking about
Not many at all
I’m turning around
No trouble at all
Two different houses surround you, ’round you
I’m walking a line
Divide and dissolve

Happy New Year. I’m going to have to put my cat to sleep soon and I really hate my job. I know that second part has a whiff of lather, rinse, repeat about it. I’m officially too old for this shit.

Don’t worry. I’ll be back in late February, drunk Oscar tweeting. I’m taking the week off, anyway.

All I want to do lately is listen to Remain in Light on repeat. Enjoy the concert from Rome. I did.


Sometimes I feel so deserted

Do you ever feel like we rely too much on gas? Me too.

Tired. Diagnosed with anemia. Job sucks. Working out a lot. Reading. Knitting. Looking forward to Thanksgiving weekend because it’s four days off and I can watch Brooklyn.

Won’t be spending it with family. Again. Haven’t had a proper holiday since dad died. It makes me sad, but what can you do?

Honey had four days off from work and he’s complaining he’s bored.

For me, it’s like heaven.

How about YOU???

Compared to What

It’s been two months…..

I will be honest, blogging may be something I eventually give up. I was doing good at a one post a month clip, but the summer, as usual, got away from me. When you turn 48 (gasp), which I did two weeks ago, it matters.

I have spent the summer acclimating myself to a new job. I like my job, and enjoy my co-workers. On Friday, I sat at a table with them during lunch and felt included and happy for the first time in a long time – in a workplace setting, that is. But unfortunately, the day before we had all been informed layoffs were imminent.

On Friday, some people got notices. They were long timers, and over 50 years of age in many cases. But I don’t feel safe, not under any circumstance.

One thing the last eight years in the job market (and out of it, for that matter) have taught me is how to be fluid. How to move from one thing to the next, and never count on it lasting. When I took a job at the paper last year, a place I left eight years ago, I said I would keep it for one year at the part-time schedule I was on unless I went full time. Well, I’m full time now. If I can survive  this round of layoffs, I hope to stay one more year. And then, I can take what I’ve learned and move on if I have to.

One thing I have done this year is start exercising. I hate to exercise, and yet I’ve now become a gym rat at Crunch. Why a gym? Because this is what happened during my walking routine.


Poison Ivy? Well, I thought so. But now, I’m not so sure. I fear it could be a rash brought on by my blood pressure meds. Either way, I couldn’t walk in the summer of Florida. I was getting sick to my stomach from the heat.

The good news? I’m trying to walk at least two miles a day. And I am using the personal trainer for 24 sessions to get some weight work in. It was expensive, but I keep telling myself it will be worth it. Of course now that my job isn’t as secure as I thought it was….oh, balls. I’m all paid up, so I’ll finish the program.

The sad news is I’m not losing any weight. I’m gaining. And before you give me that “muscle weighs more than fat” trope, I don’t think that’s what’s happening. Again, I’m concerned my blood pressure meds are doing a number on me. So, off to the doctor this week to see.

I have a four-day weekend coming up, and am taking two more before the end of the year. I will have worked more than a year now with no vacation days at all. I’m so fucking tired, I can’t. I can’t even. No, I can’t.

The other two four-day weekends will be working ones – I’m doing the ninth iteration of Stitch Rock, and also Atomic Holiday Bazaar in Sarasota. My goal is to sell as much of my stock as possible, because with the exception of a desire to do Stitch Rock next year (tenth-anniversary and all that), I’m pretty done. I’ll be closing my Etsy shop at the end of the year, because it’s just not worth it anymore, and I have a real problem with how they do business. I have never been able to make the sales that some knitters do, and that’s mainly because I don’t make big, ugly crap on size 15 needles using yarn from Michaels and Hobby Lobby. Yeah, I said it. Ladies, you can call your yarn “vegan” all you want, it’s still fugly acrylic. And knitting garter on size 15 needles isn’t exactly growing the craft, now what I’m sayin’?

I’m going to close now. After months of reading nothing but duds, I am finally reading a book I ENJOY. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Yes, it took me long enough, I know. I enjoy reading about what went on before the hipsters took over Williamsburg!

We have gone to a few movies this summer – I loved Man from U.NC.L.E mainly for the clothes and locations and soundtrack. I liked Inside Out, but it didn’t make me misty like they said it would. And that short with the singing volcanoes was pretty weak. Ant-Man was surprisingly fun. Oh laws, Paul Rudd, you don’t age, bitch.

I’ll leave you with something great. One of the nice surprises in U.N.C.L.E was the opening titles, with Roberta Flack’s version of this Les McCann tune. Enjoy.

Stop making sense!

I want to say before I forget: Don’t you hate it when people say, “Does that make sense?” I say people, but let’s be honest – GIRLS. Girls say it all the time!

Does that make sense? Does it? Are you stupid? Because that’s what I’m implying when I ask that question. A simple “Do you understand?” would work just as well. “Do you have any questions?” That works, too! But please, for the love of David Byrne,


Although to be fair, I’m guilty of it, too.

Here, let’s talk about slippery people for a moment.

Do you know what tonight is? It’s my 30th high school reunion. Do you know where I am? Not at my 30th high school reunion.

I went to the 10th, and a muscle relaxer combined with some Johnnie Walker Red made the evening bearable. I went to the 20th, and took the husband. But he wasn’t my husband yet. I was utterly miserable and ended up sitting at a table where the principal decided to plop his dumb ass. No seriously, this guy was notoriously stupid. When he asked me what I was doing now, I said I was making meth in my basement.

Maybe that wasn’t a such a good idea?

But I digress. I hated high school with the fire of a thousand suns. I made excellent grades, graduated in the top ten of my class. But I was deeply unhappy and felt like such a freak. I know kids today have it just as bad, maybe worse. But at the same time, the tide seems to be turning. Being a freak is a good thing! It’s good to be different, better than it was!

I wish it had been that way for me. No one told me to wear safety pins on my stockings or clothes pins in my ears, it’s true. I made those decisions stone cold sober! No one suggested I have posters of Echo and the Bunnymen AND David Byrne in my locker. That’s kind of a double-nerd whammy. But I was a pretty big Talking Heads’ fan. “More Songs About Buildings and Food” was my JAM.

But more than anything, I wish I could go back in time and tell myself don’t be hurt or hate yourself for a single day because of what people say about you. I was called ugly or a variation thereof almost every single day. “Dog” was a particularly favorite term in the halcyon days of the 1980s. Which is why you’ll never hear much 80s’ nostalgia from this quarter. Seventies, well, that’s a different story….

Screen Shot 2015-06-25 at 9.15.16 PM

This is a very small picture I know. I got it in a screen cap from our yearbook, which I found online. When I look at my 17-year-old self, I can’t believe for one day I every believed all the things those people said to me. When I look at myself as I was then, I see a beautiful girl with perfect skin who had a head full of curly hair, it’s true, but why was/is that a bad thing? And yet I was made fun of for my hair more than anything! When I look at myself, I see a beautiful girl who looks out of time, like an old-fashioned cameo. And I’m so sad for all the years I lost hating myself.

And one more reason I’m not going: They’re all a bunch of right wing zealot jerks! One of them just posted a screed praising the Confederate flag! AND SHE’S A TEACHER!

This was my favorite song to dance to in my underwear during the high school years. Very Risky Business, just with less Seeger and more Byrne.


Summer Fever

I haven’t posted in a month but I’ve been busy. I got the job I applied for at the paper, but I’ve only been at it a week and a half, give or take. I won’t get my first bigger paycheck until this week (Friday), although it may not be complete if they didn’t start me until June 1. We’ll see, I guess the next mid-month check will tell the tale.

And I’m looking forward to the money, and the vacation time that I’ll accrue, and a bit more job security, although does anyone really have job security these days? I’m happy to be away from Negative Nancy, whose real name was actually Debbie Downer. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

My mother did indeed get married, and I wish her all the best. She is on a trip with the new groom to Chicago now, and I haven’t even been there so good on her.

About a month ago, when I still didn’t know if I had the job in the bag or not, I finally decided to stop moping and do what I wanted to do. How great would it have been if I had done that back in September, but better late than never, right? So, I started walking at the park almost every day.

I bought a Fitbit in February, and was doing good until the flu sidelined me. But I decided if I was going to buy the damned thing I was going to USE it. And so, I have. I try to get at least 10,000 steps a day, and 30 minutes of activity a day. I’m proud to say I hit that goal five out of seven days each week.

Have I lost weight? NO. And it’s tough but I’m going to have to release that desire and just try to be healthier and happier. Walking for between a half hour to an hour a day after work is doing that for me. Being in nature, even though if you had told me I would look forward to this six months ago I would have laughed at you. HARD. Every morning when I get up, I can’t wait for the workday to end so I can go home, feed the cat, change and head to the park.

I have two I go to. If one is overcrowded, I got to the other, secret park, unless I see someone skulking around in a van (which has happened). Stay away from me, G. Gordon Liddy!

Even though it’s Florida, and even though it’s June, I have managed to stay comfortable. And I’m never without my iPhone and headphones. I listen to Amazon Prime, or Pandora, or Hoopla Digital – the library’s free lending program. I tend to listen to the absolute disco-ey of the disco tunes. Van McCoy. K-C and the Sunshine Band. Earth, Wind and Fire. And especially Donna Summer deep cuts, anything from Four Seasons of Love, a disco concept album. It’s not just for prog anymore!

I was listening to Out Q radio on Sirius this week, as I do EVERY day (you don’t have to be gay, but it helps if you’re a drag queen, like me), and Larry Flick was playing his Friday night disco extravaganza. Listen, when you start it with a Sylvester obscure album cut, and follow it with Loleatta Holloway, I’m IN. But then he played “Lucky” from Bad Girls, which is an icy, pre-techno workout that tickles my sweet spot. Larry then said what I’ve always thought: Even though Donna can BELT, it’s her high, piercing head voice that really commands attention. I think it will be a long time before we find a vocalist who’s so fluid again. And there I go, getting nerdy with the music talk.

I’ve also been listening to Dawes’ All Your Favorite Bands for the Laurel Canyon, Jackson Browne-type feels, which I got for free on Amazon Prime, and Brandon Flowers’ The Desired Effect, which is 80s’ Simple Minds-style pomp at its finest.

I’m re-reading Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine, to celebrate the start of summer. I haven’t read it since fifth grade, so I figured it was time to revisit Green Town. This cover image from about 20 years ago, by Thomas Canty, is one of my favorite pictures – I used to want to get a print of it, but I have so much art I haven’t even framed yet, it seems wasteful.


And now I must run, because it’s almost time for the Tonys! I have to fight honey who wants to watch Game of Thrones, but really, we can do that anytime with On Demand. I only get to see what happens when someone loses best actress in a musical once! And also, there’s Ken Watanabe in The King and I. One of Mama’s Precious Angels! Shall we dance? Indeed!

What are YOU doing this summer? Whatever it is, I hope it brings you the little piece of joy my daily walks, my books and my still-here kitty Ringo bring me.

Pictures of Lilly

I am a lifeflong South Floridian, but lord have mercy on my soul I have never been a fan of Lilly Pulitzer’s clothing. Oh, you can research her and the brand all you want and see they are both an integral part of the SoFla lifestyle. But I was never a preppy girl, not by any measure. And after I lost my job at the yarn barn, I really disliked Lilly, since my boss there, the multi-millionaire Palm Beacher who told me to “get the fuck out” as a way of laying me off, almost exclusively wore Lilly.

BUT. I needed a dress to wear to an upcoming outdoor wedding. I had nothing that would suffice, and it’s going to be approaching 90 degrees this week. What to do?

A few weeks back while my husband was on one of his work trips (or was it a vacation that I couldn’t take? I lose track) I set my alarm for 1 a.m. on Saturday night and was a part of the insane Target Web site breakdown when they released their Lilly for Target collection. Even celebrities were live-tweeting the horror of finding a shopping cart emptied. And I saw horror in jest, because I watch the news and know what’s going on the world.

But through a measure of luck or social media skills (I could see the CEO tweeting time windows and that helped) or the fact that I had a Lukas Moodysson movie queued up on Netflix and the cat was particularly rambunctious, I managed to score a simple trapeze dress in the XXL (my boobs!) size. And it actually came in the mail, and it actually fit.


And I know that may seem trivial and stupid and I’m frankly not thrilled about it anyway because even charging under $50 on my card was a stretch. Plus the fact that the dress is for my mother’s wedding this Thursday to the 88-year-old boyfriend.

Friends, I am not happy. And I don’t want to go to this wedding. My sister probably won’t. Which is not a surprise, and since I haven’t spoken to or seen her in almost two years, doesn’t much matter to me at this point.

But I decided to be the bigger person, to realize I can’t decide what does or doesn’t make my mother happy. It’s not my choice to make. If my mother is horribly lonely and wants to do this, I need to support her.

However, there are circumstances I can’t go into that make me very wary. All I can say is that she signed a prenup, and that will have to do.

But the enormity of the whole situation has started to hit me this week as I go through my cat worsening (lung tumor) and the possibility of losing him soon, even though I have been blessed to have these last five months with him that I didn’t anticipate I’d have.

Add to that my quest to find full time work that keeps hitting wall, and I have been crying this week. A lot. I’m driving my husband crazy, and that is not my intention.

This wasn’t the blog entry I wanted to post for May, but it’s the only one I’m capable of writing today. I had hoped things would be different. But I’m still trying, applying for multiple jobs daily and actually setting an appointment to see about getting my teaching certificate.

Wish me luck. And patience and acceptance.