Mr. Yuck says NO to snorting condoms

I am soooo having a day.  My freezer, having emotional issues related to the icemaker, filled itself up with three inches of ice and defrosted all my food.  MMhhmm. Awesome.  Thus, I am cooking all the things, right now, before they go bad.  Fabulous.  Pick me, pick me.  On top of that, the Hilton keeps calling me (I can’t make this stuff up, people) and baseball season has begun.  I’m sure there are parents who are thrilled and excited for this sport or that one. Miss Shannon is not one of them. I hate sports with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.  My kid doesn’t know that, however.  I would pretty much rather have a fork in my own eye than sit through another sporting event.

 

Not one of my little humans wants to cook, they’d rather not read and no, they do not want to use the sewing machine, please and thank you.  Mostly, they want to wack balls with sticks or jump off of things there is no earthly reason to flee.  This is not a trait they get from their mother.  I want to play Suzy Homemaker and ride motorcycles and own a tanning bed.  Goals, people.  At the end of the day, none of my brats are eating tide pods, snorting condoms or advocating for the decimation of the constitution.  Just for the record, people who think it’s a good idea to put these things in their body should not be dictating legalities to anyone.  I’m not entirely sure they should be allowed access to sharp objects like forks.

The safety and well being of kids is absolutely my life’s work.  I give a damn if they live or die, even if I think they are acting like douche nozzles.  I just don’t think that banning weapons will actually solve the problem and make them safe.  Someone just suggested that maybe medical professionals ought to have a little box they can check that would raise a red flag.  Me and my pretty pink and purple gun can take down an elephant, we can certainly take down a human being, but we are not very likely to do so unless you give us a really good reason to.  I bought that gun on account of a fellow who didn’t quite want to go away, who knew the whereabouts of my children and I for a very long time.  Make no mistake, I can and will defend myself and my children.

Just as an FYI… there is no such thing as an assault rifle, unless we are considering all rifles to be assault rifles.  AR-15 stands for ArmaLite rifle, which is a brand name, it does NOT mean assault rifle or automatic rifle.  If you want a reason for this sudden epidemic of school shootings, please point yourself in the direction of defunding mental health care and deinstitutionalization.  Take a peek at dead beat dads and ask yourself if GMOs in our food supply sounds like a good idea.  Legal gun owners are not the problem.  There are so many factors that are contributing, please stop giving away our rights because you are scared.  I understand your fear and share it…

In the meantime, please give these dumb ass kids the Darwin Awards they deserve (On account of taking themselves out of the gene pool.)  May your Tide Pods be tasty and your snorted condoms scented.  Just fyi – 80% of retardation is caused by a lack of stimulation and adequate protein in the first three years of life.  Play with your kids and buy the whole milk, maybe we won’t have to put Mr. Yuck on everything under the sun.

Naming Names and Killing Spider Plants

For the last couple of years, I have inexplicably yearned for a green thumb.  What I actually have are blackened little nubs because plants don’t commonly scream for food like animals and kids.  This is totally on Mother Nature, people, she should have given those little buggers squeakers or something.  Failing that, she gave me Tugs who likes to water plants and remembers to.  My poor little spider plant initially did well but started looking sickly, probably because I forgot to water it.  Dozer felt strongly that it was getting too much sun, so I repotted it and placed the planter on the counter, a little less in the sun.  Enter my elderly, beloved kitty, Elliot, who thought that spider plant looked like a cozy snuggle spot.  Esmeralda, the spider plant (Yes, Dozer, I name everything, including plants and salt shakers.  Hey, Geronimo) has once again been rehoused and is adorning the freaking window that has a hook.

I feel that Plant Lady is probably glaring at my house.  I’m a little concerned that she might enter my home to rescue the plant…I’ve met her, it could totally happen.  I wonder if she can be appeased by Serendipity, Siobhan, and Serenity, (Pictured below) who are doing very well.  I call the basil Basil because we don’t name food.  Someday, when I get my little farm, it will have little bacon seeds, goats and chickens, (which alarm me, but I have to make concessions, too) Their names will be things like Bacon and Ham, Billy and Nanny, and Henney-Penney.  I might name one Mergatroid in honor of my best girlfriend’s oldest child, who was called that while gestating.  On second thought, maybe that’s creepy.   Names matter.

I’m partly on names right now because Dozer’s oldest is having baby number two soon and can’t settle on a name. I’m not criticizing, she’ll know who he is when he’s in her arms.  One of the rules are that the first and middle initials need to be the same, which makes the song John Jacob Jingle-Heimer-Smith play on a fairly perpetual loop in my brain. I like Jesse James and Billy Bonnie.  It’s probably good that Miss Shannon does not get a vote. She is very aware that she currently has a weird position in these kids’ lives, even though she wants to eat them up just like Aiden Michael and Raelynn.  These are people who don’t even have weird grandparent names… everyone is Grandma Suzette and Grandpa Elmer.  In my family, we have Gigis and Rowrows and Paws and Pop-pops.  Is Step-Gigi even a thing?  Who knows?  Now, my oldest daughter is about to marry a man who has a child.  Technically, I am not that child’s grandmother. Life isn’t fair, but not one those little boys are not going to learn that from me.  Gigi can love ALL the little children, biology doesn’t enter the equation.

Being forty one, most of my friends are still raising their kids.  I started early, and being my hippy-dippy, free love self, I told my kids that sex is great and every blessed one of them believed me.  I also talked about safety and condoms and offered rides to Planned Parenthood, but I don’t think their listening ears were as tuned in then.  Miss Shannon supports your right to choose, but she really thinks babies are always a blessing… how can such a cute little snuggle buggle be anything else??  Sweet Neptune, I hope she doesn’t name the kid Jamie Johnson, which is what Dozer is shooting for.  As ever, my advice when naming a child is this:  Go to a crowded kid location and scream the entire name, first middle and last, at the top of your lungs.  If you feel really stupid or people look at you oddly, pick a different name.  Life ain’t easy for a boy named Sue…. How do you do??

 

 

Marbles, Buggies and Misty Mountains

Thanks to global warming, (which Dozer says is only climate change, which is somehow, inexplicably less problematic) we took our first bike ride of 2018 on February 21st  in Upstate New York.  For reasons best known to God and Tugga, there was about a pound and a half of marbles in my jacket.  Dozer thought it might be an attempt to not lose my marbles, but that ship has sailed.  I think it probably has something to do with a certain small boy who seems to always have marbles or slime or some undesirable-makes-the-other-moms-glare-at-me kind of item on hand.  This is the easy part, he’s little.   I like to think I kind of have a handle on what I’m doing with the young humans I have in captivity, but that’s just a story I tell myself.  This is my current advice:  You’re going to break them. You will not always understand, you will wish them on themselves and actually forget their names.  That might only be true if they come in a pack, like my kids. As long as you love them, they’ll find their way.

Miss Shannon is embarking on another arduous journey that began a couple of weeks ago.   Its name is physical fitness and Dozer is dragging me along for the ride.  I even bought a scale, because clearly, I hate myself and I need a torture device to hop on every single day in order to further my feelings of personal inadequacy.  Elliptical every damn day, hikes while pushing my bye bye buggie filled with wee beasties when it doesn’t rain, arms one day, core exercise the next.  I’m not really dieting because I like food too much, but I am trying to make better choices in the nutrition department.  I feel like the little old lady from Pasadena (Go, Gigi, go, Gigi, go Gigi, Go!)  I call myself a “Sexy Grandma” and time marches on…Remember, we are not aging on this side of the room.

This minutia is how I keep my world a lovely shade of misty mountain mauve.  Muscles I forgot I had are saying, “Bitch… step away from the elliptical.”  I have lost five pounds and my fat jeans are moving around my waist.  My health will be much improved and blah, blah, blah.  My squeaky wheel kid is still squeaking. Someone who matters to me is still laying in a hospital bed, fighting to survive. (She’s wearing a trach and asking for beer. That’s my girl.) At the end of the day, a whole lot less matters than you think.  It’s your people… the folks who have seen you lose all your charm… that’s what matters.  It’s kinda like my realization that I’d rather spend the next fifty years with Dozer than without him, even though that means I’m picking up dirty socks for all eternity. Of which there were 17 the other day.  Number 18 was sucked into the sock vortex along with my silverware.

I’ll pray for you…that your brakes go out

Hello, darkness, my old friend…. I’m in the laundry room again…. One of these days, I will fully teach my offspring the process of cleaning clothes from start to finish.  Today is not that day.  Today, I want Mount Washmore to stop haunting my dreams, so I am doing it my damn self.  This is following a fairly ugh day filled with really LOUD alarms that I am too stupid to know how to turn off, one tiny little hassle after another and a high blood pressure head ache to beat the band.  These visit me after I give a psycho-mom impression to one of my teenagers in order to get them to attend school.  One of the tricky things about being a single parent – really flying solo, 100% only you are making the executive decisions, is that you take all the blame.  No one ever says… hey, didn’t they have another biologically imperative parent?  That lives a block away and is the biggest waste of oxygen to ever walk the earth??

I have news friends…If Child Protective Services opens a case against a family, it is in Momma’s name, even if she is dead, because the gestation process makes us matter more.  Hang your hat on that, girls, because even if you are fucking dead, it is still your fault.  It doesn’t matter if your seventy hour, kinda manageable workload just increased to ninety hours on account of somebody decided they are too delicate of a tulip to hold a job.  At the end of the day, mother is the name of God on the lips of little children.  Here’s my final word on dead beat dads…twenty years ago, one of mine beat me until I had a compression fracture in my spine. Some days, every step is an agony, and I wish for a morphine drip.  I get my ass up every day and go to work anyway because I had kids who need things like food, shelter and stupidly expensive sneakers.  What I don’t do is expect the universe to provide. But I’ll pray for you.

Tonight I say, save your sanctimonious fuckery for someone who still has fucks to give and that is not Miss Shannon, who does not give one fuck, two fucks, red fucks, blue fucks what you think.  I know that I am doing what’s possible for me, right now today.  I know that I love the squeaky wheel beyond all reasoning and he knows it, too.  I don’t give two shits if he digs ditches for a living, I care that he is happy.  If you think your job is your life, you don’t understand life, and I can’t help you.  But I’ll pray for you, too, cupcake.  I hope your momma is, too, because you are in very dire straits if I’m the one praying for you. Please know, I did all my best parenting before I had kids, too.  Back burner your judgment, because really, if you fuck up your kids, what the hell else is there?

Good Ride, Cowboy

Miss Shannon (who is routinely referred to by both adults and children as Miss Shannon in the regular course of her life and enjoys referring to herself in the third person) generally considers herself to be tough.  I’ve been married to Lucifer’s first cousin, lived to tell about it and he wasn’t even the worst one.  After a while, tenacity becomes a way of life and you just embrace the feeling of clawing your way through.  Bonus points if you never let them see you cry. If I have taught my kids anything at all, I hope it’s to not cry out loud.  There are few things that make me flat out helpless like a turtle on its back.  Sparking outlets. Marauding squirrels that trap me inside houses are on the list.  Mice, dead or alive, and freaking car trouble.

My car began spewing smoke and sounding alarms yesterday morning because if it weren’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any at all.  I was on Western Avenue, which means if my car wasn’t sick I’m about twenty minutes from home.  Learn how to drive, that’s how long it ought to take from Western to Mechanicville.  The speed limit is a suggestion, people.  You should pretty much always be going faster than the posted number otherwise, just stay home or at least all the way to the right, please and thank you.   Anyway, the smoke billowing out of my engine struck me as bad news so I parked the car.  Cue hysterical ten minutes making phone calls to staff daycare appropriately and then calling Dozer so he can come rescue me.   Initially, he tried to talk me through the difficulty.  No thank you, Dozer.  Miss Shannon remembers vividly the day she learned she was putting freaking power steering fluid in the brake line, multiple times, and admittedly at the advice of Lucifer’s cousin.  I put gas in the car and that’s as far as it goes.  Please know, if you hold a bottle of any type of engine fluid over an engine while looking confused at any service station on earth, a man will come and do it for you.  They’ll also put air in your tires, fyi.  No, playing dumb woman doesn’t trouble me even a little bit.

 

In my world, I was having a red, white or blue emergency.  This is the sort of crisis that is grounds for my kids waking me up… Red: blood or fire. White: smoke or choking to death.  Blue: po-po, an ambulance or someone is actually turning blue…  Now, if I call AJ and say there is smoke coming from the hood and alarms going off, he knows to just give me an ETA. Granted, I have been his defacto wife for about twenty years and he knows when I am losing my shit. (Poor bastard has three wives: me, my sister and Miss Melissa.  He has all the work of polygamy and none of the benefits, since he only gets conjugal visits with one of us.  I make him an apple pie for Thanksgiving)  I’m sure the mild hysteria in my voice when I said, you know you need to come here, right???  Clued our pal Dozer in that I am not qualified to deal with an automobile emergency so he jumped in his truck and rescued this damsel in distress. We parked my car safely and then he took me in and gave me breakfast.

Tonight I say… the fat lady has not yet sung.  Dozer and I still need to go to DC and Luckenbach, Texas. We haven’t ridden Route 66 or been to Daytona.  Hell, we still need to go to Jackson.  Tonight, I thank God for unanswered prayers, cowboys that ride steel horses, and the stars and stripes.  I’m grateful for Dozer, who spends half the day fixing a trailer so he can tow my car.  All I can say is Good ride, cowboy, good ride…

 

You keep on swimming

This week’s funny story is that with a little prodding, I decided to try consigning some of the jewelry I make at a spa in Guilderland.  Dozer, being his good helper self, says: text me some pictures.  Please know, Dozer hates every single artistic endeavor I undertake.  As in, actually says out loud, “That’s fuckin’ ugly!”  This is at least 50% because all his taste is in his mouth and 50% because he doesn’t understand women.  That is not how one gets to tag home base.   Miss Shannon’s delicate tulip self doesn’t respond well to harsh criticism of her newest medium. (YES, I AM A DELICATE FUCKING TULIP, CAPICE??)  So, I already don’t want to play this game.   After additional prompting, I text him the last four pieces I made while holding my breath and simultaneously praying I don’t want to stab him with a fork, largely because I don’t have any, by the time we’re done.

Style is subjective, people.  Friendly reminder, if you don’t look good, you don’t feel good.  Do your roots, add a sparkly, do something that makes you feel pretty.  Try not to ask Dozer what he thinks of your outfit, he will tell you.   Anyway, he picks this nifty tiger’s eye piece with these little metal beads that catch the light well.  He wants to sell it for $120, which is so far above my pay grade, it’s not even funny.  It’s the one he liked best, which means it’s the one that didn’t make him retch.  I am supposed to use this as to gauge how well my stuff will sell, except I would have priced it at $40.  Maybe $45, because I have shopped before and know what I would pay for something like that. Please know, I made my Ma a necklace for her birthday. She works in a nice jewelry store, also far above my pay grade.  One of her customers tried to buy it off her neck.  My stuff doesn’t suck and I know it.

Nary a nibble on the jewels, as expected.  Meanwhile, I have discovered the identity of the fork thief and she looks a lot like me.   When I was twenty-two, I was not stealing my mama’s forks, just mentioning.  I’m not even mad, it’s too funny.  On second thought, when I was twenty-two I was hauling two kids with one on the way and shacking up with a guy who liked unemployment better than pretty much anything on earth.  Keep stealing my forks, kid, you’re doing better than I was by a long shot.  Can you feel my love??  (Bombs away!!)  That song bite was brought to you by the letter F and my salt and pepper holder, Geronimo.

Miss Shannon is under an inordinate amount of pressure right at the moment.  Opening a second site, trying to finalize the tax year for my clients, the deeply felt loss of my forks, and there’s a kid in a Pikachu suit jumping on my furniture.  I’m actually spending the evening with Mount Washmore and wishing I had a full time cleaning person.  All those voices in my head, calling Gloria… They’re really saying Shannon, Shannon… I have a task for you!!!  This is part of why I look at Dozer like he has three heads when he blows up his kitchen and then wants me to clean it.  No thanks, I have enough for any three women to do, I’m overwhelmed, and I really want a woobie.  In less than two weeks I will turn 41, and I am no where I intended to be and that kills me.  I will prevail…it’s what I do but right now I have to just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.  That’s what you do, you keep on swimming.

 

A fork is a fork…

Recently,I decided I want to know all the great mysteries of life and I am starting with Casa Gypsy.  Where does the silverware go? Is there a vortex for spoons and forks, like the one that lives inside my dryer eating socks?  Are the children feeling a little anemic or maybe they just have the munchies?? Am I raising goats??  What happens to it? They aren’t tucked into any of the furniture, I know because I looked.   Please know that my youngest child is approaching double digits and the oldest is 22… these aren’t babies who don’t know better.  So where the hell are my forks?

I would also like to know why only I can detect wetness in clothing that are not yet ready to leave the dryer.  If it were a special sensation tracked by estrogen, I might understand… but much like my ovaries doubling as a tracking device, only a seasoned mother is able to recognize moisture in fabric.  It’s quite the same as the fact that the toilet paper roll is a magical device only I can operate and only I know the secret recipe for ice.  This is your superpower, Miss Shannon… the ability to see and eradicate dirt and buy new flatware.  There’s my claim to fame, everybody’s got one.  I consider myself to be multitalented (verbiage for a jack of all trades and a master of none) but this is ridiculous.  If the goal is to prepare our little humans for life, I have failed this city.

Which brings me to the fishbowl… In many ways, this town has been good to me. In others… not so much.  People laugh when I say I keep to myself, but it’s how you survive here.  I have lived in the fishbowl off and on for the last twenty-five years.  I cannot go to any store in town without running into someone I know, which is apparently not true at the bike run hosted here.  Can you even believe the only people I knew there were Dozer’s people?  Yeah, me neither, but true story.  Bikers are usually good people… Sons of Anarchy is just a show, friends.  In real life, those folks show up with dinner and labor when you’re down and out, not blow torches they want to fry your flesh with.  They like babies and cream puffs and Miss Shannon’s pierogis.

We’re talking about forks (which are actually becoming a life crisis for me) and bikers because my privilege is showing.  I have to take a hiatus from politics because I’m a heartbeat away from accusing friends and loved ones of bludgeoning baby seal pups on account of their willful unwillingness to agree with me.  (How dare you?)  I’m actually fairly moderate… I can’t even imagine how people who are seriously left or right must feel.  For me… fiscal responsibility, two thumbs up!!  Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream he gave his very life for…respect it.  The American people do not starve our children, instead we feed them and provide them with a free public education. Please, please look for the trees in the forest.  There is so much more at stake than your tax bill… Maybe the kid in the Ghetto can cure cancer, diabetes or maybe he just deserves a shot to succeed.  Level the playing field, the kids (human beings) you think lack value will prove you’re wrong.  And who the fuck are you to decide who’s worthy?  Miss Shannon cannot even keep track of her forks, so cannot decide for you.

The music never really dies

Hail, Merry Christmas! I don’t know about you, but I’m not really sorry that’s over.  I managed to disappoint every single person I buy for, except for my sisters and Tuggy.   An excellent way to wrap up the Year of the Fire Rooster, which was fairly eventful at Casa Gypsy.   Go me, woohoo.  Next year, I’m buying gift cards.   For me, this year came in with a bang and out with a bump, but believe it or not, I’m having a record year that is bringing a a lot of change to my life… some good, some bad and some are just downright scary.

Last time I checked in here, I was generally opposing the institution of marriage for pretty much everybody.  Not weddings… weddings are fantastic. There are sparkly things, amazing cake structures, happy tears and dancing.   It’s the next sixty years that scare the hell out of me. I kind of want to talk about the guy who won’t bake wedding cakes for gay couples, because apparently you must fill out a social history to partake of his buttercream.   Since Mercury is no longer in retrograde… I’m deciding against too much detail but know this:  I will not feel sorry for that guy should his business fail.  I’m also going to continue to advise you to think very, very hard before you have a need to deal with jerks wielding icing bags.

For the onset of the Year of the Dog,  I am skipping resolutions (again,) with the proviso that the best revenge is living well.  In 2018, I will open my second site of daycare.   This is the thing I am doing afraid…. It’s the next logical step in my career, I am more than qualified, and I will succeed if it kills me.  Good luck usually looks a lot like hard work, which I can handle.  Days like today, I think about the guidance counselor who told me to marry a nice man and I think about the me who told a good friend that she had awfully high standards for such a short girl.  These days, she is someone I try to emulate and also happens to send me Gnomeland security statues, because she’s just that fantastic.     I also think of who I was and how far I have come…. Funny how experience changes your perspective.

As ever, I can only tell you what not to do.  Today’s thing not to do is undervaluing yourself.  We do it every day, we minimize our general fabulousness and downplay that things that make us so very amazing.  No one else writes your story, nobody decides whether or not you find happiness and fulfillment.  Just you.  Tonight, I’m talking to myself as much as anything else.  Some days are better than others…. I don’t even have a soundtrack; can you even believe that?  Maybe today’s the day the music died for me… Nope, there it is… Oh, no not I… I will survive.

Hope vs Experience

The grandma of one of my daycare kids and I were talking today… We’re in same age group, because people my age have grandkids, just like I do.   (TF…I’m forty.)  It IS a seriously cool gig, in case I haven’t been clear. I love those babies to bits and pieces, would literally throw myself in front of a train for either one, right after I feed them a lot of cookies and hand them back to their mothers.  Bliss.  Remember, we are not aging on this side of the room.  Anyway, we were talking about boys, of the man variety.   Our girls and their guys, as well as ourselves and our guys.  I remember when I was as young as my girl children, I did a whole lot of things looking for happily ever after that I regret.  I try to hold that in my heart while I watch the train wreck.   Fact is, I’d do it all over again because I have the best five little humans anyone could ever ask for.

Anyway… other grammy told me she needs a rest.  I feel her.  Sometimes, that picket fence is just not attainable. Stockade fences also rock out loud.   Hell, be a rebel and forgo fences altogether. Fact: you have to be able to sleep alone.  Now, I love Dozer, he’s one of the better things that have happened to me in my life.   He’s fond of telling me that I’m not a princess (because I am the Queen, of course, but I don’t think that’s what he means.) and this isn’t a fairy tale… and he’s right. Doze is happy to roll up on a Harley to let me ride behind him like the queen of the May.  He’s not a white knight.  Except when he is.  Me loving Dozer doesn’t change the fact that picket fences aren’t really my style.   Once upon a time, maybe… but I need to be able to sing along, do the project and make the executive decisions.  Other grammy needs the paperwork.  She is the second lady friend of mine in a month who’s ready to roll over a signature and I can’t decide if I’m broken or if they are.

Once upon a time, I thought it was so very important to be roped and tied… then sweet freedom whispered in my ear.   For myself, marriage is not an attainable goal because I lack the ability to acquiesce.  This works for the guy in my life because he just really wishes I’d still wash his dishes. Autonomy and commitment kind of cancel each other out…   which is very a sad state of affairs.  So…Dozer neither needs or wants my papers…I hope my lady friends get the papers they desire, even though I don’t understand the need, anymore.   I remember when I was a bit less jaded and I thought a happy ending included a trip to the alter…. Now I know that Happily Ever After is a town with Denial River running through it.   I think my saddle trained purple dragon is hanging out there.   Miss Shannon is going to keep driving her Chevy.

Don’t ask me why

Last week my son dumped about a half a gallon of paint in the hall closet.  The best way to clean that up is with a ripped up cereal box used as a scoop, FYI.  My fridge is freezing fruit, so I probably need a new one.  I had to barter with my oldest son for the use of my stereo.  My ex-husband is refusing to pay child support for reasons best known to himself.   Guess what, kids???  My life is still fantabulous.  That’s a word because I said so.   My 9yo is dancing in his sister’s wedges… I know Dozer would have a shit fit if he were here.  Tugs is also trying to teach me fight blocks in the wedge.  Shine on, my beautiful boy.  At Casa Gypsy, the Situation’s Normal, All Fucked Up.

Ever want something so bad you can actually taste it??  Miss Shannon has a business opportunity right now that is just shy of impossible.  I’m reminding myself that nothing is impossible in this wide world…. Let’s cliché for a hot second… Mind over matter, if there’s a will there’s a way, if you can think it, you can do it.   Please send me any extra faith, trust and pixie dust you have on hand.   I could really use it, just about now.  My sister says, “Start ticking.”   Which means, scratch your brain and make it happen.   I’m going to do my damnedest to make this work.  I’m scared of this step, so I’m going to do it afraid, and I will either succeed or fail.   Every hand’s a winner and every hand’s a loser… It’s not just the luck of the draw, it’s about what you’re willing to sacrifice and how well you wear your game face.

When I opened the daycare nine years ago, I was shaking in my boots.  Lots of things in life are just a gamble.   Lately, I’ve really felt like I’m out of aces… but I’m currently trying to open my heart and mind to more spirituality so I’m presently telling myself that The Powers That Be (Whatever you call that; Spirit, Gaia, Jesus or Allah… I rather suspect they are one and the same.)  Anyway… that entity closes doors, opens others and sometimes leaves nothing but a fox hole to crawl out of.  Miss Shannon can army crawl with the best, she has already been through several layers of hell and surely, it’s gotta be up from here.  Ha!  Don’t kid yourself, it can always be worse, just like it can always be better.   The trick is just to roll with the punches… and shoot for better.  Better is…well, better.

Now, as ever, if I want something done, I do it myself.    For whatever reason, the song I’m channeling is Billy Joel’s Don’t Ask Me Why.  Don’t ask for favors, don’t talk to strangers, don’t ask me why.  I kind of know why… I’m about to take a leap of faith in myself, without any real assurance about having a soft place to fall.   Newsflash… there isn’t really a soft place to fall when you’re a single mom entirely dependent on yourself.  If I fuck this up, there will be hell to pay at a level I can’t afford.  That’s why I’m going to do it afraid. I’m not waiting for answers, I’ll take my chances…don’t ask me why.  Don’t ask me why.