Portland Panic

Every five or six years, I get to do something really cool. Five years ago a long-gone beau took me on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Amsterdam.

Next week, thanks to the kindness and generosity of a long-time friend, I will be going to Portland. Hood River, to be exact. This friend, Kathy, is the kind of person you really doubt exists until you meet them. She's journeyed to hell and back, a couple of times, and remains one of the sweetest and most benevolent women I know. She lives in Oregon, has for several years. For her 50th birthday, she decided that she wanted a gaggle of her old timey friends to come out and celebrate. And so we are.

Of course, my broke ass couldn't afford a plane ticket. Guess what? Kathy bought it for me. See what I mean about this earthbound angel?

That's why, when I started to fret about the trip a few months ago, and when the fret morphed into mild anxiety which in turn blossomed into full-fledged freaky deaky panic, I had guilt. Here is someone doing something beyond lovely for me and in return I become a quivering, sweaty banshee.

Group texts pop up and I'm incapable of responding with the exception of a lame smiley face. Emails plopped upon the ol' inbox are read through with a stone cold slab of dread ensconced in my gut.

What's there to be anxious about, you ask? Oh honey. Grab something to drink and get comfortable. Imma spin you a yarn about the trippy funhouse that is my brain.

First and foremost, there is the certainty that I am not worthy of this. Good luck convincing me otherwise, therapists with impressive credentials and seemingly endless patience have tried to no avail. Simply put, I don't deserve it. My secret fear (well, it was secret, until now) is that I will go, the fun will happen and when it's all said and done Kathy will regret spending the money, time and energy on someone like me.

But that's basically a given with me and anything good that happens. Let's get to the meaty part of the mental, shall we?

Flying. Oh, not the actual up in the air, lookit all these cotton candy clouds part of it. I love flying. The former flight attendant in me wishes we could do it more often. No, the part that sends an icy, jagged talon of terror sliding down my vertebrae is worrying about whether or not my butt will fit in the seat. True story. I'm not a slim woman by any stretch of even the most active imagination and the fear of not fitting in chairs is very real. Add to that the spate of "omg you should have seen how this fat lady was treated on the airplane" stories floating around online and what you end up with is a woman possessing prodigious hips and ass unable to sleep thinking about that moment she dips her rear end down on Delta's finest cushions.

After that comes the next worry: smell. Anyone else have this incessant fear of stinking? Just me? If it's not my breath (a penchant for coffee, curry and cheese that reeks does a mouth no favors) it's my armpits (I use "natural" deodorant because I worry about the aluminum and "natural" sometimes means "reminiscent of a bear den in high summer") and if both of those crevices are fragrance-free it will be my feet (Birkenstocks are what I wear in the warm weather months and if you're familiar with them you are most likely aware that they sometimes exude their own special miasma. And it ain't patchouli.)

Are you beginning to feel very, very sorry for whomever draws the short straw and ends up next to me on Flight 1503? I sure am.

Another fear is that of fitting in. I've known these women, all four of them, for at least 35 years. One of them much longer than that. And yet I am convinced I don't mesh. They are successful, beautiful and have all made good choices in life. Unlike yours truly, who is awkward, barely scraping by and for the most part always feels like the lady-version of Seth Rogen in social settings. I am eternally the poor one of the bunch. The fat one. The weirdo who somehow managed to slip, unnoticed, into the inner circle of the cool people. I guess I'm always terrified of being discovered, of someone turning around, pointing an accusatory finger and announcing YOU ARE NOT ONE OF US. WHO LET YOU IN HERE??

Something else that is inspiring this interminable trepidation? FOOP. Fear Of Offending People. As a diehard introvert, it is imperative that I get some recharging time every day. Hell, there have been entire weekends I've devoted to not interacting with anyone owning less than four legs. Unfortunately, those of us who desperately need chunks of quiet time are often also filled to the brim with anxiety. This anxiety causes us to wring our hands and create incredible spirographs of "what ifs" in our heads. "What if they think I'm not enjoying myself?" "What if they think I'm being rude?" "What if they're all out there whispering about what a gd freak I am?" "What if they don't want to be friends with me anymore?" OMG you guys- I legit just made myself nervous simply by writing this fantasy what if scenario. If only I could harness this power and use it for good.

The last completely insane vexation? Wardrobe. It's going to be hot, in general, while I'm there. We're spending one night/half a day in a beach house (see, you think I was kidding about what kind of giant hearted friend Kathy is??) where it will be cool but the avg. temp for this time of year is about 90 degrees. I am not a hot weather lover. I do what I can to avoid being outside when it's warm here in Minnesota. Listen- I won't sit on the patio at a restaurant if it's over 70 degrees outside. Kathy assures me that the heat there is a different breed than the humid and oppressive kind we experience here. But still...I don't wear shorts. I don't bare my arms. I wear cropped leggings and big swingy tanks and lightweight sweaters or long sleeved jacket thingies- picture clothes from Gymboree if they carried women's XXL and everything was black, white or grey. I've treated myself to a few linen items, thinking of all the Eileen Fisher clad ladies I see at Costco and how they look presentable and not like toddlers who dressed themselves while hangry. This worry isn't so big, though. Worst case scenario is that I sweat and rest assured I will have my natural deodorant with me so what could go wrong there, amirite?

I was puttering about the kitchen this morning, and mentioned to one of my sons how this consternation of mine was really putting a damper on things. He looked at me, with what was either gentleness or pity and placed a strong, reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Ma" he said, "this is how you get before you do anything that involves a change in your routine. When you get back, I guarantee you'll be standing in this exact same spot laughing over how you were tweaking."

He's right, of course. Somehow I'll wedge my rear end into that seat, my friends and I will help our dear Kathy ring in her fiftieth year and we'll laugh and since I'm there we'll weep a little and then when it's over I'll be so glad it happened. Just like the wise young man in my kitchen predicted.

Kathy, if you're reading this, please know: I am beyond humbled by your kindness. I cannot wait to be with you while we ring in the fifth decade of an incredible life. It's an honor to be one of four people you chose to surround yourself with on this most notable of occasions.

It is imperative that you understand this rambling, self-deprecating internal dialogue happens constantly...whether I am steeling myself for the walk from my car into Target or for a five day trip with good friends. The monkey on my back is called anxiety and trust me when I say this is no Marcel-from-Friends type monkey. This King Kong is big and pernicious and knows exactly where to poke and prod in order to cause the most damage. It causes me to doubt myself, to question my very worth. It makes me see myself through the most critical filter.

And perhaps the most damaging, most injurious thing it does is suck the joy out of what should be the tingly anticipation of a good time. Where most people would be giddily ticking items off their pre-travel to-do list, I am in knots over what could and what most likely will, go wrong.

I am not just looking a gift horse in the mouth, I am going over that damn equine with a fine-toothed comb of worst case scenarios.

Writing about it has helped. Going out for cocktails with one of my fellow travelers last night also calmed the raging chaos in my mind. We laughed about it and clinked glasses "TO NEUROSES!" and just being around someone who understands was therapeutic.

Deep breathing, walking, reading, loving on my kids and my dog...these are all things I can do to alleviate it as well.

And time. Time marches on like a determined mother effer and as we all know, heals most wounds. Even the self inflicted ones.

NAMASTE, readers.


Sex and the Single Mom

My talented and fierce friend, Shannon Lell, wrote a short, sweet and lovely essay about what she's learned about sex since becoming a single mom. Her writing, as always, elicited smiles from me and again, as always, made me think.

We hear a lot about sex and the single ladies (by the way, hello my name is Miranda according to every SATC online quiz ever). It's long been a safe topic of conversation, of speculation and of course, inspiration. Think of all the t.v. shows, books and movies we've been blessed with, all revolving around the escapades of the single gals.

Sex and the single/divorced moms? Hmm. Not so much. Oh, there are tales, for sure. Single moms are kind of, sort of well-represented onscreen and in writing. But the focus is almost always on the MOM part, and if the SINGLE aspect is addressed it's usually pointed out as an obstacle for her to overcome or a symbol of her plucky perseverance.

When single/divorced moms and sex are discussed, it's often in a negative light. Society tends to focus on how sex has been the cause of our single-motherhood: we had too much sex with way too many men and had too many of their babies (my favorite commentary on this one is "shoulda kept your legs closed!" 🙄). Or perhaps we didn't have enough sex with our partners...raise your hand if you've heard this little ditty before: "If he's not getting it at home, he's gonna get it somewhere else!"

The difference between single dads and single moms, as viewed by the world at large, is startlingly different. Whereas single dads are seen as sweet, somewhat hapless saviors doing it all on their own (omg! he learned how to braid his daughter's hair. I can't even with this cuteness!), single moms are often seen as mooches, a drain on our already stretched-too-thin-resources (omg! don't tell me my tax dollars are paying for her poor choices!). 

In the cases where the light shined on us is bright and positive, it is almost exclusively due to our badassery as mothers. Which is wonderful, don't get me wrong! It's refreshing and validating to be acknowledged. We still have work to do, though, when it comes to recognizing that single/divorced moms are also women...women who have libidos and urges and sometimes, have sex.

Single and divorced moms face two prevalent stereotypes. The first is that of the horny, wanton Jezebel in search of, nay...IN NEED OF a man. Any man will do, people, so guard your menfolk when the cougars are on the prowl! Then the pendulum swings way over for the second single mom caricature: the saintly martyr who has put herself and her wants on the back burner in order to do what's right by the children she brought into this world.

But just as the crew of ladies on Sex and the City taught us, Sex and the Single Mom isn't a one-size-fits-all deal (insert any of a trillion possible SATC jokes here, you guys...puns totes intended and I am not sorry at all). Sex post-divorce and peri-parenthood can be many things: exhilarating, daunting and god help us, sporadic. For many it's an afterthought, when all of the mothering, working and stressing about both of those things are addressed and taken care of. For others it's a challenge to heal from traumatic splits and the very thought of exposing oneself to even the mere chance of more hurt is enough to shut down any burgeoning lustful hankerings.

Time is also quite literally of the essence when it comes to sex and the single mom: when do we have it? Give me a room full of single/divorced moms and I will give you a room full of varied schedules. Some of us have every other weekend to try and get busy, some a week on/week off to get on/get off, others are in the trenches 24/7 with nary a break in sight.

And let us not forget the mental and physical calisthenics which are commonly necessary to find a safe, willing and available partner for all of this sex we're trying to have. I can only speak for myself here, and as an official Single Mom™ I'm going to go on record to say IT'S A JUNGLE OUT THERE. Or so I hear. Dating when you're a mom is a whole different ball game compared to dating before you became a mom. Simply put, it's not just you out there on the line; it's your family, too. Not everyone seeks a life partner when they swipe right but for those who do crave something a little more on the serious side, our children are part of the package we present to others (eventually...it is never a good idea to introduce kids to someone in the early stages of dating. Never.)

The exception to this "family dating" thing is, of course, the time honored tradition of having a FWB with a side of NSA. Friend with benefits, no strings attached, and before you pop a knuckle clutching those pearls please know that this is not only okay, many times it's the healthiest of all options for the harried and horny single mom. The trick to this option is finding the right person to fill these shoes. Sometimes it's a fellow single parent, sometimes it's not. The beauty of these relationships are their simplicity: both parties are on the same page, both agree to be safe and both (hopefully) walk away satisfied. Many single moms who have sole/full custody of their children and aren't ready for a full-blown relationship find this to be the ideal, if temporary, solution to the "what's a girl gotta do to get some loving" problem.

Now, I do realize that not every single/divorced mom is chomping at the bit to copulate. Some of us don't, and don't want to, for a myriad of reasons. Whether they're religious beliefs, a need to take a nice long break from it or just because THEY DON'T WANT TO RIGHT NOW OR MAYBE NEVER AGAIN, it doesn't matter. One of the best elements of the whole sexual freedom thing is the freedom to not do it. A lot of women take that time to work on themselves: mentally, physically, spiritually. Learning to love the skin you're in is truly one of the greatest love stories of all time.

We can't forget to mention those who do go on all those first dates, who get winked at and nudged and who bravely meet potential beaus at coffee shops all over this great land of ours. Some of us really do enjoy the dating game, and we persevere...sometimes finding Mr Right, sometimes finding several Mr Maybes.

The point is, there are millions of single/divorced moms out here, and while we have quite a bit in common, we also have a million different ideas of how to navigate the tricky, fun and sometimes-intimidating world of sex. Whether you are the one swinging from the chandeliers with your lovah while the kids are away or the mama who is content with Netflix and chips, the most important thing in all of this is that you are doing what works best for you. ❤


The Awesome Divorce Mix Volume 1: Songs To Help Get You Through It

They say music has charms to soothe the savage beast. Apparently those charms also work wonders on the freshly divorced.

One of my ex-husband's parting gifts to me was a shiny new pink iPod Shuffle. He'd been on a "business trip" and upon his return tossed the crisp white box from Apple onto the kitchen counter. He said all of the conference attendees had been given a little swag bag and he thought I'd enjoy this new toy.

At that point, I was swamped with parenting. The kids were little and we were always on the run...my downtime was practically non-existent and when I did get it, listening to music wasn't high on my list of things to do.

Cut to a few months after he left. I'd turned to exercise to cope with the cyclone of mixed feelings and remembered the shuffle. With the help of my tech-savvy kid, before long I had an iTunes account and it was filled to the brim with music.

Looking back at it now, that account reads like rings on a felled redwood tree. All of the phases of divorce are represented: the anger, the "how can I fix us" panic, the celebration of newfound freedom, the thrill of discovering sex again, that moment when you catch yourself smiling for the first time in ages. Divorce isn't the most fun you'll ever have, but everything is better with a kick ass soundtrack.

So, I asked the people on the Hausfrau Facebook page what helped them deal with the breakup/divorce drama. Was it a book that comforted? A tv show or a movie you binged on? Or was it a song that had just the right lyrics and felt as if the performer was speaking directly to you?

Turns out there are as many ways to get through divorce as there are people going through them. For the people on Facebook, however, the overwhelming response was MUSIC. Be it raging metal, Christian rock, country, bouncy pop, rap, whatever- music helped these strong survivors not only muddle through the murky fog of divorce but bust through the other side of it, spirits replenished, wounds dressed and hearts still beating.

Someone suggested that I create a Spotify playlist with the responses, and after I asked one of my kids to help me figure it out, that's exactly what I did. This list is HUGE, y'all, and there are songs on it I would have never dreamed of listening to...but damn. You people have the most eclectic and inspiring taste in tunes. From Roy Freaking Clark to Justin Bieber, from Eminem to Brooks and Dunn, from our beloved spokeswoman Gloria Gaynor to George Michael...it's all here and it's wonderful.

With so many selections, there are bound to be a few you don't like. I get it! Please also note that some of the songs are "explicit", if you can't decipher that from the titles (a few F-bombs) there will also be the little capital E next to them.

One of these sweary songs was my focal point for several months, during the really tough stuff. I'd discovered the affair, he had stopped paying child support and my world was disintegrating beneath my feet. He was, however, still taking the kids on his weekends, which left me alone with my thoughts...not as peaceful as it sounds, loves.

It behooved me to have something, anything to look at when the kids were gone. The temptation to get online and keep digging at the moldering corpse of my marriage was great...coupled with the margaritas and wine I'd taken a liking to on those kid-free weekends it was a recipe for disaster and regret.

So. I turned to an old love. Television. Having four kids in six years meant there was very little t.v. time, at least, t.v. that was made for grownups. There I was, with 48 hours of peace and cable. The show Weeds was one of my first binges, and oh did it help. I laughed and cried and loved Nancy Botwin with all my heart. I lusted after Andy and Conrad and yeah I'm going to admit it, Silas (but not until way later on the series, you guys. Don't judge me.). But even better than all of that? THE SOUNDTRACK. It was porn for my ears after so many years of momming and wifing and then divorcing.

The song, though, that stopped me in my tracks (okay, more likely it stopped me mid-fork-full-of-Chinese-food) was by Jenny Owens Young and is titled, oh so appropriately, F*ck Was I. As in, "what the f*ck was I thinking?" which is something I think most of us asked ourselves at some point in this wicked journey. The lyrics called out to me and patted the seat next to them and invited me to croon along, which I did after immediately downloading the song onto my now-beloved pink iPod shuffle. It's a simple song, quiet and unassuming. The lyrics, though...gutted me. Jenny sang exactly what I was feeling. This part, in particular:

Love tears me up like a demon
Opens the wounds and then fills them with lead
And I'm having some trouble just breathing
If we weren't such good friends I think that I'd hate you
If we weren't such good friends I'd wish you were dead

You mean, I wasn't the only one who couldn't breathe? Who felt torn up and heavy and conflicted? Oh man. This song was played ad nauseam and to this day I still love it.

I'm posting the links to the playlist below. If they don't work (which is highly likely given my non-existent internet skills) just search for Jenny Ball and/or "Awesome Divorce Mix Vol. 1"

Click below to discover the songs that helped a bunch of divorced people survive their dark days:


I hope you find something you love on this playlist. If you are new to all of this, and struggling to make it, please put in some earbuds and listen to these songs knowing an amazing, strong and powerful bunch of people found solace in them. We are all here for you: you are not alone. You are NEVER alone.

To those of you who contributed via the Facebook page, THANK YOU. I have several new songs on my own personal playlist now, and I never would have found them without you. I love you all to the moon and back.

AND: if you have a song or ten to add, please do so. Either here or on the facebook page.

Happy listening, my friends.


Type Casting

A coworker and I were gabbing about what attracts us to potential lovahs. He said "small and Latino is my go-to" and I, of course, said "I like them over six feet tall and thick. Basically I want an oak tree who likes kids and dogs." We laughed at how mired in predictability we both are and then got real quiet thinking of how single we both are.

Our conversation reminded me of this meme I'd seen a while back and of course saved on my phone because I'm that friend who enjoys memes way too much. The message in the meme is that some of us are willing to overlook several *ahem* red flags in order to fill that little box on our Must Have list.

We overlook other things, too, in our quest to find that special someone who fits the bill, don't we? I've mused before how it's quite possible that in my years of looking up trying to find Mr Right, several Mr Maybes passed by right under my nose. Or just a few inches north of it.

It's not that I haven't dabbled in other "types". I have. The last guy I spent longer than a single date with was low to the ground and more Michelin Man than Marlboro Man. Unfortunately he wasn't even Mr. That'll Do For Now, and my love life since then has consisted of REM stage dates with Jon Hamm and waking up with my dog.

For the record, no. I am not actively trying to find love. Not even close. In fact, one could say I am very actively avoiding it. The thought of doing the online thing chills me to my very bones, and it's not like I'm going to meet the man of my dreams at my usual haunts (work, Costco, Target, YMCA and the occasional night out with my ladies). I vowed, years ago, to put that stuff on hold while I still had kids to raise. That vow is now nearing its expiration date, however, and like a young man's fancy in the spring, my thoughts are cautiously and ever-so-slowly turning to love.

When I read a book, it never fails: I will mentally cast the movie/tv version. And almost always, I am disappointed (and funnily, for some reason, offended) when the movie/series does come out and it's tragically miscast. Until I get into it, and at the end of said movie/show I'm the one doing a standing ovation and wondering how in the world I ever thought anyone else but Reese Witherspoon could have played Madeline in "Big Little Lies". *however I still stand by my assertion that "The Girl on the Train" was cast entirely wrong*

Maybe someday I will find my leading man and just like I rolled my eyes when I heard Matt Damon was going to play my beloved Mark Watney in "The Martian" maybe I will be dubious as to whether or not he can fit the bill. Maybe he won't look like Rob Delaney from "Catastrophe", with thick thighs and a hedge-like five o'clock shadow. Maybe he'll be short or bald or conservative. 

Maybe he won't be my type at all. And maybe...it will be just what I need.


Letter From A Monster

It's been five months since my mom died. I had a remarkably difficult time with it, which is weird because of the whole estrangement thing. You'd think two years of zero communication would have made it easier to handle but oh no. Quite the contrary. Looking back now, with days and weeks and a few months worth of perspective, I see what a complete psycho I was. Like, I now kind of want to go around apologizing to the people who had to interact with me on a daily basis during that time. My poor family! My aunt who had to endure ranting, grief-struck texts. My kids who wondered when their mom turned into Jabba the couch-sitting Hut. And oh criminy: my co-workers. I can't believe I still have a job. I was prone to crying at my desk, used up gobs of sick days because I just couldn't function and was a paranoid, sniveling wretch. I'M SORRY YOU GUYS.

Anyway. The lowest point was over winter break, when I was home for two solid weeks and did absolutely nothing. I pulled off another Christmas wherein I played the part of Loving Mother but other than that it was basically me sitting around growing new chins, watching every British show on Netflix and discovering just how long one can go without showering before people driving by your house can catch a whiff of your sad stench. (side note here: how is it possible that I am still single? 😂)

Things began changing after that. The new year truly did bring in a new me, and I haven't looked back. My teenager's unflagging attempts to actually get me to join him at the gym* instead of just dropping him off finally paid off, and on January 13th I steeled myself for a moment before walking into the workout room of the YMCA. It was almost as hard as walking into the food shelf for the first time, you guys. I tugged at the giant shirt which was, despite its size, uncomfortably tight around my belly. Certainly everyone was looking at the frizzy haired giantess approaching the weight machines, right? But guess what...nobody cared. Not one person pointed and laughed at me as I did arm curls and leg presses and there wasn't a crowd of people snapchatting fat shaming pictures of me as I got on the treadmill.

Nope. Not one person cared except for me, and after a few minutes my worries melted away as the endorphins rushed in like rainwater after a drought. That was the first night of many that my kid and I loaded into the car and made our way to the gym in the dark, when I used to be finishing the dinner dishes and deciding which show to watch before falling asleep in front of the t.v.

In the days since that first anxiety-ridden gym trip, so much has changed. My mood is a thousand times better. I am losing weight, although this time around I refuse to step on a scale (the fact that my boobs now resemble freckly deflated footballs is really all the proof I need). One of my favorite work friends commented the other day, "You have a really beautiful glow around you lately" and I replied, "I've never felt better" and it's the truth: I have never felt this happy or this healthy or this hopeful.

Hope was hard for me to find after mom's death. Add to that the insane election and the aftermath and it felt as though it would never come back (I know we steer clear of politics here but come on, friends- I'm a low income single mom who works for a public school district...it's not hard to figure out why I'm scared shitless). Since I started exercising again, though, I'm finding it easier to see the good. I'm laughing again, smiling real smiles and even the old writing urge is slowly coming back to life.

I lost all of that for a little bit earlier this week. All thanks to a letter. A letter from someone I was done with, or so I thought.

When my mom died there was one silver lining: it meant that I'd never have to see her husband, the man who terrorized me as a child and teenager, again. It was a relief to hear he'd hightailed it out of Minnesota just a few weeks after her memorial service, leaving for the warmth and golf courses of Arizona. He was the main reason for the degradation of the relationship between me and my mom. Seeing him, hearing his voice brought me back to those dark, nightmarish years of abuse. Walking into their house sent me spiraling down a funky rabbit hole of despair: the stench of cigarettes in my hair and on my clothes, the cobwebs of awful memories clinging to my face and limbs.

Her dying freed me of him. Apparently, he didn't get that memo.

His letter stunned me. It also made me laugh. Not because it was funny (although it is kind of hilarious) but due to the absolute absurdity of it. The gall! The huge font! The "over" at the bottom of the page just in case I'd been reading it and couldn't figure out I had to turn the paper over to find his closing remarks.

His narcissism has never been more obvious. Actually, I think someone teaching a class on personality disorders could take this letter and use it as a teaching tool. "Class, let's dissect this one: first, let's count how many times the writer of the letter uses the words I, me, and my."

For a while his words stuck to me like those icky memories. I composed a reply in my head...the first one was simply "Fuck you." The second one was wordier.

Here's the letter. I blocked out his information because even assholes deserve some modicum of privacy. But the rest of it? Fair game.

Yes, it was addressed to both my brother and me. He sent one to my brother, too.

Bottom lines:

  • You are the enemy.
  • My kids are not your grandchildren. They never were.
  • Maybe you should have let mom move to California to be with you. Just saying.
  • You were 22 and you entered into a relationship with a married, 35 year old woman who had two kids. Cry me an effing river, dickhead.
  • Your parents failed miserably. 
  • There is no line a 9 year old kid can cross that would make it okay to hit them. Or kick them, slap them, throw ceramic coffee mugs at their heads and chase them through a house while they scream for help. 
  • The only thing I'll give you credit for are 40 years worth of nightmares and trust issues. Also, the fun way I flinch when someone near me raises their voice. Thanks!
  • You'll get our social security numbers right about the same time we invite you over for Sunday dinner. In other words, don't hold your breath. (or, do hold it? For a long time? Please?)
In the end, I decided to not respond. A friend of mine burned the letter for me, in my kitchen sink. I worried about starting a fire so it didn't finish burning completely, but my daughter put the charred pieces in the recycling bin. It's over.

What distressed me the most about this letter was how it made me mad at my mom all over again. Five months have passed and while there are still tough moments, for the most part I have come to a kind of peace with all of it. After reading this letter I felt the resentment, felt the betrayal, felt the impotent rage. It has taken a few days, several miles walking the dog and some good late nights at the gym to get rid of it, but it's gone.

We now return to our regularly scheduled happiness.

* an explanation of the gym, since there are a few people out there who like to keep track of how I spend my money: we have the pauper's scholarship at the YMCA. For $60 a month all five of us can use the gym to workout, take classes or just go play basketball. We use our membership, on average, four days a week. The health insurance I get through work has an incentive group that I participate in...aside from getting Amazon gift cards for simply exercising, they also offer a gym rebate of $350 a year. So, our membership ends up being about $30 a month. Less than two therapy co-pays! #winning


Ex-ual Healing

One would assume that ten years post-divorce every wound would be healed. Each hurt feeling would be long-tended and recovered. All those damages wrought by the jagged shards of shattered trust, imploding self esteem and broken vows...nothing but scars and memories now.

One would assume that, yes. And one would be kind of-sort of right. At least in my case.

As alike as our divorces and the series of unfortunate events that led up to them may be, we are still all unique. That goes for how we recover from our divorces, as well. Some of us are truly able to shed that skin like a snake, leave the husk behind and get on with gettin on. Some of us simply patched up as best we could, enough to blend in, enough to get through the days without sticking out too much. Regardless of our rate of healing, I think we all do it eventually but just like any other trauma, it does leave a mark. Maybe that mark is the self-doubt you feel when you look in the mirror. Maybe it's the "what if" game you play every once in a while.

For me, the mark is my gut. No, not the front-butt that has hung out on my belly since all those c-sections...like the divorce, I've come to terms with that too. The gut thing for me is that "pang". Are you familiar with it? It's the invisible fist that gets you right in the stomach, when faced with reminders of your past. At first, those fists are huge and powerful. The pang can take your breath away then, can bring tears to your eyes and cause you to recoil in physical pain.

After a while, the pang mellows. Oh, it's still there but over the days and months and years it becomes less fisty- more like a poke than a punch.

These are the divorce healing pangs, my friends. And they never end. They just get quieter, harder to feel and see. But I think it's important that we still acknowledge them, and give ourselves credit where it's due.

My latest milestone? It was something so silly I'm almost embarrassed to share it with you. I'm going to, of course, but still...it's with a little hesitation.

So, my ex mother in law. I LOVE HER. This isn't a bash against her, not one bit. I miss her and other family members so much. Way more than I ever missed her stepson. Yes, she's his step mom. His "real" mom, meh. She was great while we were married, afterwards, not so much. It's become a running joke in our house that she's still trying to kill me by sending chocolate chip cookies loaded with walnuts home with the kids at Christmastime every year.

The other mom, though? To quote Tupac, "nothin but love". To this day she continues to keep in touch, along with some sisters-in-law. They have been an integral part of my healing and I am forever grateful to them. When you've been rejected, wholly and completely by someone, it can be a lifesaver to know you're still worth enough to keep the lines of communication open.

Every year, right before Christmas, they have a big brunch at their country club. A holiday/December birthday celebration. I used to attend back in the olden days, and my kids continue to do so. This year, apparently, there was a photographer there to capture the fun. My mother in law sent me a link to the pics, because that's what kind people do. "Hey, your babies are in these pictures...thought you'd like to see them!" is what I imagine she was thinking.

I clicked on the link. And there she was. The woman who decided, a decade or so ago, that she wanted to get herself a man and set her sights on the one I happened to be married to at the time. There she was, smiling and holding her children. They were the first photos in the lineup, you guys. It's not as if I searched for them. Click and BOOM.

Here's the good news, though. It wasn't the gut punch. It wasn't even much of a pang, honestly. I did look because I'm human. Wouldn't you?? I looked at the kids and felt relief that they don't look anything like mine. I looked at her and for a flicker of a second thought "well she looks pretty pleased with herself". 

And then I kept on clickin'. Found pics of my brood and looked at them, thought how cute they were and how proud I am of them and then glanced at a few more and then closed the link. Not a slamming, close, either...just a run of the mill "click".

It gets better: I didn't think much about it, not really at all until a friend and I were discussing exes last night. I wanted to show her one of the pics but decided against it because holy Doritos, I might actually be a grown up. Well...we may want to hold onto that proclamation for a sec because I did also consider, for more than a few seconds, meme-ing the crap out of one of the pictures. "INSPIRATION TO SIDE CHICKS EVERYWHERE". Or, "I USED TO BE THE OTHER WOMAN, NOW I WORRY ABOUT HER" (don't worry, I didn't) (oh but we could have some fun with this one...😂)

If this had happened ten years ago, it would have immobilized me. It would have pushed me down a dark and cobwebby rabbit hole of anxiety and self-loathing and grief. I realize by writing about this, how proud I am of myself for not losing my shit after seeing a picture of my ex-husband's wife, that I'm inviting some of the "get over it already!" and "cripes, loser, it's been a decade!" comments. That's okay.

Because I know there are others out there who go through this. Whether it's been a month, a year or twenty years since your world was shaken down to its molten core, there are always going to be these reminders, these tests, if you will.

Pangs. Pangs and gut punches and pokes, oh my. They may hurt, but don't worry, my dears. They aren't fatal.


Winter Break Down

Not enough Febreze in the world.

In an unprecedented and spectacular calendar event, this year our school district's winter break included two four-day weekends thanks to Christmas and New Year falling on Saturday/Sunday. Normally, I work even on non-school days, but this year I decided that mama needed a break. So I took those four beautiful paid holidays, a couple personal days and thanks to a migraine, one sick day, a couple days of just straight up no pay and I carved out the longest stretch of days off I've had in years.

Last night, whilst sitting in the nest I made on the couch (see photo above), I started to feel kind of crappy about what I'd done with it. Like, this chunk of free time was a glorious, hopeful bundle of hours and days full of potential. Not unlike a newborn baby, really. So many wishes and dreams and plans!

Oh the plans! I was going to tackle the mess in the laundry room. One of my children had a bed with drawers underneath it. What are those called?? CAPTAIN'S BEDS! Yes. They had one of those and got a different one and decided to plop the drawers- still full of clothes- in the laundry room. This was over a year ago.

I was going to clean my own room. Right now it looks like my dresser, my closet AND my clothes chair* are suffering from a violent bout of the stomach flu. *clothes chair: a chair that exists to hold the clothes that are neither dirty nor clean. And which are eventually forgotten until the owner of said clothes suddenly can't find that one black top. You know, the black one? 

I was going to work out and clean and read a book and have a slumber party with a friend. The Christmas tree was going to get taken down and dragged outside. At least one of the three four junk drawers in the kitchen were going to get gone through and organized.

Naps were going to be taken. The dog was going to be walked every single day. IT WAS GOING TO BE LIKE A MILLION WEEKENDS PACKED INTO TWO WEEKS.

I made a nest.

And I sat/layed/lied in that nest for many hours. I napped in that nest. I did read a little, I wrote a little and corresponded with friends. All from the comfort of the nest.

I watched approximately a shit-ton of televison. Movies! Shows! Netflix! Hulu! A couple DVDs!

So many pretend boyfriends, some old and some new. Here's a sampling:

Kal Penn and Kiefer Sutherland, both in "Designated Survivor"
Chandler in the first season of Friends (I love all of them in the first season, they're still hungry actors hoping to make it big, plus I love smoking Chandler)
Young Dennis Quaid as the a-hole in "Postcards from the Edge"
Several random slurring guys who seemed vaguely familiar on "Drunk History"
Jack Black in "The Holiday"
Tea Leoni in "Deep Impact" (lady, yes, but come on! She was the epitome of angular preppy cool chick...like the J Crew catalog took up acting)
and everyone on The West Wing

Nothing super constructive was accomplished.

Of course, Christmas happened, and I did pull that off again. Somehow. Molly and I had a long shopping day together, one of the best times I've had with her in ages. My kids are old now, so the magical part of Christmas doesn't happen like it used to. I still do the stockings, the gifts from Santa (stockings taken from the mantel, filled up and the Santa presents, unwrapped, next to them). This time I woke up around 4:00 a.m. and did the stocking stuffing part. Made coffee, waited a while and then they all gathered to open presents. The kids went to Big Daddy's for their requisite 2-3 hour Christmas visit and then we ordered a million pounds of Chinese food as a nod to our wonderful Jewish friends.

Our Christmas was perfect.

In fact, the whole stretch of time was perfect. No, the laundry room didn't get taken care of. To be completely honest with you, I haven't been down in the laundry room for days. I've been going commando because I can't find any clean underwear.

Going commando on winter break? Sounds about right. If not then, when?

I'm going to stop beating myself up for not "accomplishing" anything because when you think about it, I accomplished everything.

I relaxed.
I hung out with my kids.
I spent some time with friends.
I napped with my dog.
I cooked some good food and some mediocre food and ate way too much of both kinds.

I also grew a new chin and what is starting to feel like a hump on my back.

The one thing I did kind of mess up was personal hygiene. The youngest kid and I were in the car last night. I said, "Sweet Jesus, what stinks?" and he replied, "Pretty sure that's you, Mom."

Winter Break: that's a wrap.


2016: Triple Berry Jam

(This was supposed to publish on New Year's Eve but I fell asleep. At ten. While watching Friends on Netflix. Sigh.)

Yes, we get it. This year was very similar to a dumpster fire: stinky, flaming and hard to look away from.

But come on. It wasn't all bad, was it?

I mean, yeah. Personally it was a tough one. I lost my mom and although it felt as though I'd lost her years ago her actual death gutted me in a way I didn't think possible. Loss is loss is loss and I'm still feeling it. My lifelong obsession with sci-fi and fantasy and ghost stories groomed me to be ready for otherworldly signs from her, apparitions or whatever. My aunts saw white feathers everywhere and were convinced it was Mom saying hi. I found nothing. I saw nothing. The one time I did truly feel her was when I found an old Joan Walsh Anglund book she'd given me for Valentine's Day in 1970. I read this page:

And I'll be damned if I didn't feel her right next to me. I can't explain how it felt, exactly- the air around me was thick and felt charged with something. There was a sensation of someone, of HER, and for a moment I felt truly at peace.

Speaking of death, many of our beloved celebrities flew the coop this year as well. It started off with Bowie and Snape and Prince and OMG as 2016 gasped her final raspy breaths she managed to hook both Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds in her gnarled, tear-stained talons. My daughter and I were discussing the almost simultaneous exodus of the mother/daughter duo...Molly laughed and said "I suppose that's how we'll go out!" I laughed for a second but then the absolute and utter sadness of her statement walloped me in the face and in my head I screamed "NO! I will go first and you will have many years of life before you cross over! HEAR ME, DAUGHTER...I WILL GO FIRST."

So the celebrity deaths were sad too but sweet gadzooks can you imagine the conversations happening up there now?

Also I want to put Louis CK, Jon Hamm, Hall and Oates, Molly Ringwald and Melissa McCarthy in protective bubble wrap and hide them until it's safe. Jon and Louis, there's room under my bed.

What else was there that made this year, out of all years we've lived through prior, so bad? Ahh. Yes. That election. Yeah yeah. I know! This is a relatively politics-free space because I know we are all different and I value each and every one of you for who you ARE, not who you vote for. That's true. Always has been and always will be. Therefore I expect it in return. Most of you who have read this blog for a while or know me in real life are aware that I am a democrat. I dated, and was married to, conservatives for the entirety of my adult life. Last year and for a very brief but regrettable chunk of time this year I had a gross and embarrassing roll in the hay with a liberal guy. Let me tell you what I took away from it, ladies: liberals can be a-holes, too. Thank God that's all I took away from that disaster, if you know what I mean.

Anyhoo. I'll refrain from going into my hand-wringing, knitted-brow mutterings about how the uncertainty of it all is giving me some anxiety. I will go on record, though, and say WTF.

But let's talk, for a moment, about good things. Although 2016 did have moments of sheer shittiness there was sheer beauty, too. Babies were born! People fell in love! Jokes were told and hugs were had and even in the darkest moments there were shafts of light...some very slim, yes, but light nonetheless. I have discovered, during my own trials, that it's not until you hit rock bottom (or get pretty darn close to it) that you find out how lucky you really are. It took me losing everything but my health and my kids to realize exactly what matters.

So I gave myself a task: go through the camera roll on your phone (I have a phone! It works and the bill is paid! How lucky am I???) and hit "select" on the pictures that brought you joy or happiness or made you laugh. Since I am not a deleter of anything, including photos on my phone, this took a while but guess what? There were at least a hundred pictures on there that at the very least made me smile...and many of them made me laugh, for real, out loud. And some that gave me the happy kind of tears, which while they aren't ever a surprise, are always welcome.

I had a grandiose vision of sharing some of them here and pinpointing exactly why said photo brought me joy but I realize that you all have lives and probably don't want to commit several hours of those lives to looking at pictures from your crazy blog friend's phone. So I pared it down to a few, and promise to keep the pinpointing to a minimum.


This creature, this smelly, shedding old boy- he has my heart. Walter the Divorce Dog. I think he should have his own book. He has no manners and thinks he's a cat. He also saved me. He cries when one of the kids comes home and howls at the door to the garage when I pull in from work. I can't sleep without him. He is as old as my divorce so that makes him a little over ten. One of the suckiest deals in life is how little time we get with our dogs. I try to not think about it but sometimes the fatalist in me comes out and *boom* I'm trying to imagine life without him. I don't want to know.

Also, artichoke dip from Costco. It's the best.


Aha. Another two-fer! This photo illustrates two things that brought me great happiness in 2016. My sweet youngest child, William, and Snapchat. He was my last baby and therefore I forced myself to remember the little things about that pregnancy, about his babyhood and each milestone. Birth order dictates that he is the kid who got the most one-on-one time with mom, whether or not he wanted it. And lucky me: he still plays along. He is my standing movie date, the car-ride conversationalist and reluctant-but-willing Snapchat accomplice.

Snapchat gives me life many days. My best friend from high school and I use it, religiously, every day to at least say "Hi" and on good days we have entire dialogues through 10-second snaps and videos. I'm quite certain the smooth-faced babies who devised the whole concept of snaps/chats didn't have middle aged moms in mind but I am thankful that they did it. Please bring back the old man with the newspaper filter, guys.


These ladies. Again a picture that contains multiple reasons for joy: this was taken on the night of my 50th birthday. The silver-tressed goddess on the right pulled off a surprise party for me! My first one. And the hilarity of it all was only eclipsed by the love I felt. I'd been feeling sorry for myself the whole day...I mean, it was a MONDAY for cripes sake! Turning 50 on a Monday should be illegal. But I muddled through the day, with a bit of Eeyore in my heart because the entire day felt so anticlimactic. It didn't seem right for a woman who loves a party to let this major birthday pass without a bang but, dinner with my homie was going to be fun as it always is. So we walked into Yard House, "our" place, and what do you know. A room full of my friends and co-workers. Love, love, love. The one in the middle is my work wife. And yes I was sweating. I'M FIFTY YEARS OLD. That's what we do. I don't know how you thank someone for a gift like this? 

4.  video

Pardon my lack of centering. I not computer so good. This is a video of the tiny hands. They were a gift from my aforementioned high school friend and they truly are the gift that keeps on giving. I've had more fun with these little plastic hands than I have with my real ones. 


Pretend boyfriends. They're basically all I've got now and somehow that's okay. This one is Rob. And as you can see from the marked-up picture, which happened during a facebook exchange with my friend, he's tall AF. I like them tall and swarthy and preferably with a five o'clock shadow. Can someone find that for me in real life? Thanks. 


Boobs. Hahahaha! Just kidding. This shirt! One of my favorite co-workers had matching shirts made for us and we actually wore them out to dinner one night. It was hilarious. I love SATC in an almost-unnatural way, despite the fact that every quiz I take tells me I am Miranda. I don't want to be Miranda but Buzzfeed quizzes don't lie. 


There were no words for this one. Save for these: the person who sent this insanely generous gift hasn't met me, or my kids. She only knows us from this space. She knows we've seen some tough times and despite the fact that she has faced immeasurable loss this year she did this for us. I am still trying to think of an appropriate thank you. Because the mere words don't feel adequate. 

Oh my friends. You should have seen me at Target the week before Christmas. I still Cartwheeled, despite feeling really rich that day. I did two things with this card: shopped for my family and also shopped for someone else. I paid it forward, dear one. And there's still some left over ❤❤❤❤❤❤❤


If you've read this blog for a while you know way too much about me. One of those things is that I am frugal. As in, I hate spending money on things that aren't hard and fast "NEEDS" vs "WANTS". A week or so before Christmas, the hand-me-down coffee maker a friend had gifted me with years ago met its demise. I wept about it on the facebook, not to get another one but because that's the kind of crap I post there (you want to be friends? LOL). But of course another benevolent and generous friend stepped up with yet another gently used old timey coffee maker, which I used immediately. 

Unbeknownst to me, there was a child plotting something. A 16 year old kid who went onto Amazon, read umpteen reviews and used almost $100 of his hard-earned teenage money to buy his mom a brand new, not even slightly-used coffee maker. You know why?

"Because you deserve something new, Mom." 

Oh, sweet child of mine. I deserve something, that's for sure. But I don't know if I truly deserved any of the good fortune that rained down on me in 2016. I don't know.

This I do know: I know how lucky I am. Lucky to have healthy and kind kids. Lucky to have not just one but a handful of the best friends a woman could ask for. Lucky to have a good dog. Lucky to have a saintly landlord and a roof over my head and Netflix and a Costco membership. Lucky to have eyes that can still see, a heart that keeps on ticking and legs that, if I asked them to, could get my ass up off the couch. 

Oops...forgot the last photo.


There's a boy at my school who gifts the office ladies with homemade jam every year. I forget about it, every year, until his lovely mom walks in and deposits the small bags of deliciousness on my desk. This year, I remembered and made sure there were English muffins on hand at home and the first day of Winter Break this was breakfast. English muffins with triple berry jam. 

The boy is in 6th grade now so this was the last year for the treat. I will miss it, and him and his lovely mom.  

Happy New Year, my friends. May we all have some Triple Berry Jams in 2017. Love you!


How You Doin?

Please, please tell me you read the title of this post in your best Joey Tribbiani voice.

So. It's been a while since I've written here. Well over a month, I think (I'm too ashamed to look right now). There have been several nights where I spent all of my dreamtime writing on this very page. I can't remember exactly what the subject was but man, it felt good. And so real! I'd wake up and for a few seconds, truly believe that I'd woken up in the middle of the night and spent time writing.

Of course, it wasn't true. The poor neglected blog just sat here, gathering virtual cobwebs and so many spammy comments from love spell-casters it took me about half an hour to delete all of them.

I want to tell you, if there's anyone still reading here, I'm sorry. I wish I had an excuse. Of course, I do have some excuses. My mom died. We had a really insane presidential election. I have two teenagers and two adult "children", three of whom live under the same roof as yours truly and just between me and you, they're driving me batshit crazy. More on that later.

The mom thing? Oy. Thanks to all of you who reached out, sent messages, sent a card, sent good vibes. A very special thank you to my friends who made it to the memorial service. Losing my mom was tough. And I can't help but wonder if it was harder because of our twisty and knotted and complicated relationship? Would it have been somewhat less painful had we been super close? Or is it this difficult for everyone? Sweet Jesus. The pain. The guilt...augh. Time has helped and the sadness has abated. But that guilt. It's real.

Her service was lovely. It was somewhere just east of WTF Egypt, because her husband "knew a guy who knew a guy who owned a funeral home" and gave him a sweet deal. My brother was here from Vegas, and I was able to get up at the end and say a few nice things about my mom and the years we had that were good. Her husband managed to paint himself as a saintly caregiver rather than the sponging, abusive load he really was. So be it, we are done with him. When my mother died, so did any obligation to acknowledge him as anything other than a wretched memory. Oh, but this happened:

After the memorial service, he had a gathering at their house. Now, I swore I wasn't going to set foot in that nightmare chamber ever again, and so my sweet aunt and my badass daughter went to gather the few things I wanted- her original wedding rings from my dad, an old painting she'd had in her bedroom and any old family photographs. My daughter, Molly, approached him and mentioned the wedding rings. She said he disappeared into a room for a bit, and finally emerged with a dusty jewelry box. He said to her, as he handed the box over, "The stuff in here can't be worth more than a couple hundred bucks. She can have it." I found the rings, an old locket that my grandmother had worn, and the rest went to the trash. My mom didn't wear a lot of jewelry and most of the rest were kitschy costume pieces that had no real meaning. I held each piece, studied it, tried to remember my mom wearing it. Nothing spoke to me other than the rings and the locket, and so that's what I kept.

He's selling their house and leaving Minnesota. As I used to say back in my flight attendant days, as the passengers filed off the plane..."Buh bye."

The election. Shall we discuss? Nah. I'm not going to get into it here. I've said my peace with like-minded friends and respectfully talked about the weather with my other friends. I am not one to bash others for their opinions and feelings and I'm not going to start now. I did kind of lose my freaking mind in some comment sections for a while there, and if any of you happened to stumble upon that, my apologies. I was grieving, dammit. I'm a divorced mom hovering at the poverty line in Minnesota who happens to work for a public school so I'll let you guess if I'm celebrating or shuddering.

My sweet old college boyfriend talked me off the ledge via facebook messenger one night. He sent me links and talked in short sentences and convinced me that I really won't lose my job and my house and end up in a van down by the river. So thank you, old college boyfriend. That was kind of you and you made me feel better.

We'll be okay. I mean, we have to be, right? As I am wont to say, my superpower is optimism. Naive as it may be, it's saved my butt in the past and it's basically all I have to cling to now so it's on.

Oh yeah. The kids. I kind of vowed to not talk smack about them here anymore. So let's just say that sometimes I worry about their skills as roommates and leave it at that. One of them is living in a dorm but comes home almost every weekend. Right now he's my favorite. Oh shush. They rotate.

There you have my apology and my excuses. I offer them to you along with my gratitude. I don't know how many of you check in on the hausfrau facebook page but a whole bunch of people there made this crabby old divorced lady feel very loved today. They also gave me that little itch to write something here and while I don't know if anyone else is glad about that, I sure am. Thirteen or so paragraphs and I'm starting to feel like the real Jenny again for the first time in many long, dusty ages.

You are my tribe. And I've missed you.



I hesitate to wax on about my mom any longer for fear of boring others. Isn't that crazy?

She is ashes now. Her memorial is later this week, a memorial I have had zero hand in planning...yes, I do realize that's of my own doing. Had I been a better daughter, a more caring one, my opinions and feelings would most likely have been taken into consideration. Or maybe not. 

Her husband wrote a lengthy tribute to her, wherein he revealed details such as how long she was married to my father (11 years), her teaching career, how they met and how much they loved each other and oh yeah...she loved frogs and sports. 

I guess most people will just assume that for some stretch of time she enjoyed being a mother and grandmother, and that her four living siblings are sad she's gone and we will all miss her very much. Will anyone know that she loved poppies? That she taught her daughter how to make Betty Crocker fruit-shaped marzipan cookies? That her favorite treat was calamari from a restaurant called Thanh Do? 

In the end, there weren't too many people still in touch with her. Only one of the aforementioned siblings will be able to attend the memorial service. Her son, my brother Jon, is flying in from Vegas. 

Since I work for the school district she labored for over the course of 4 decades, some of her old coworkers have been in contact with me. Most of them have smiled as they did so, mentioning first and foremost that she was funny. Not a bad way to be remembered, if you ask me. It's reminded me that for all the crappy times, there were golden ones as well. Thank you for the sense of humor, ma. I hope someday when people are telling my own kids what they liked best about me, the laughs will be right up there. 

Grief is lonely, especially when it's grief over someone you ignored for a couple of years. There are people, friends of hers and her husband, who shunned me prior to all of this "ending" stuff. They believed that what I did (and didn't do) was wrong. It was cruel and inhuman. A couple of them work in or around my school and they have made it abundantly clear that this is not my loss. I get that. And again, I hope someday I, too, will have supporters like that. Despite the facts, they are true and loyal friends. We should all be so lucky.

Even if this isn't my loss, it sure feels like one. I have never felt so alone. I found a voicemail from her, left this past summer. I vaguely remember receiving it, and in my usual bitchy cold callousness, not listening to it. Later. I'll listen to it later.

"Jenny? It's your mother. I just miss you so much."

For some reason I do most of my crying in the car. I do a great job of pretending I'm fine...but for some reason when that garage door goes down behind me, all pretenses go down as well. I listen to that voicemail, over and over again. And each time, I answer it. 

"I miss you too, mom."

I hope to be back to my old self one of these days. Or maybe, a better self. My old self wasn't the nicest me. Perhaps my mom had one more thing to teach me, one last lesson. 

Like some fool in a trippy book, I've been on the lookout for signs from her. Like what? I don't know. Maybe a frog on the front stoop or a flock of doves serenading me from the trees. A heart on the bathroom mirror revealed in the steam from a shower. 

Or maybe, a voicemail I was too busy, too hurt, too proud to hear before. 

I just miss you so much. 

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