I wish…

I could just call my Mom. Just once more. Just to say hi. And to tell her how much I still need her.

I do. So very much.

There seems to be no break in this hurt. No chance to get out of the pressure cooker and just try to forget. Nobody is giving me that. I’m supposed to “stay strong”.

I’m not strong. I’m not even sleeping at a Holiday Inn Express every night so I can’t fake it very well. I’m sorry, but I’m just not.

I’m just human. A girl. Scared. Hurt. And I really want my Mom. I need her. She was my entire emotional support system. I have trouble being as real as I was with her with anybody else.


Real, right now, is hurt. Tears I cry alone. Because I have to be strong. Because I have to stand up.


I just wish she would call. Would tell me that it’s going to be okay. Even if it isn’t.

I’m not sure.

I just know I hurt. And she is the one person who could always change that. Make it all better.

A cold washcloth on my forehead when I had a fever. A hug and a stern talking to when I came home from school crying because once again I had been bullied for being different. A popsicle when my throat was sore.

She was all those things and more. And now she’s not. Nobody will ever do those things for me again. Nobody.

I’m the adult now. And I have to be strong. For everybody. But I’m not.

I’m still hurting, but now I have to fix it myself.

PS I’m not sure how to do that. I just know I hurt. And it feels awfully bad when I think about it. So I’m trying to be strong. I’m trying not to think about it.

It hurts.


And it probably always will.

Your eyes give you away…

Every time… seriously.  No matter what it is that goes wrong, your eyes give you away.  And this story I’m living right now?  It’s written on my eyes.  And that’s where you can see how bad the story is, because I think my eyes have aged a decade in less than two weeks.

10 years. Wow.

I’m surviving, barely, but only because I’ve gotten so far behind on schoolwork and I’m having to scramble in order to rescue this semester.  Yes, my Professors have all been very understanding.  More so than I expected.  But nothing makes two papers and finals in less than a week any more palatable.  Nothing makes it more manageable.  And right now I’m just trying to keep it together.

PS I still haven’t returned to work, that’s tomorrow.  That’s where I heard this terrible news.  I’m actually afraid of a place now.  And I’m not alone, since my Sister and I had this exact discussion yesterday and she too shares that dread with me.  I know, it’s a place, and she didn’t die there, but I’m positive my screams of terror are still going to ring in my ears when I pull back into the parking lot.

But back to my eyes… my tired, sad eyes.  They look so old.  Like they’ve seen too much.  Like they know too much.  They do.  They know I hurt.  Deep inside.  But I’m pulling up my socks and I’m moving forward.  I have to.  Life is for the living.  Apparently that is me.

Although I’m not entirely sure that is correct.  Not all the time anyway.

But my eyes are giving me away.  They are still mourning.  They keep leaking at unexpected times, when I think of something else Mom is going to miss.  When I think of something she won’t be with us for.  There is just so much.

So much.

And my eyes are missing her.  They want to see her.  Alive.  Not like they saw her last.  Dead.  I need the same thing.  My eyes know me so well.  They read my heart.  They see.  Too much.  And that’s why they look so old.

I’m sure none of you will be surprised that in the midst of all the disaster management I was performing last week, one of my biggest concerns was how my eyes looked.  Seriously, I was focusing on vanity, as my life fell apart.  Because I needed to try to control at least one small thing, even if I couldn’t control anything else.  It didn’t work.  I bought three different magic potions, applied all of them, and then promptly cried them off.  Nothing can withstand tears.  Nothing.  Tears are Kryptonite.  So I’ve given up.  My eyes look old now.  They’re creased, and tired, and likely to stay that way.

There’s nothing I can do.

I can’t unsee this.  I can’t go back.  I’ve tried.  I’ve bargained, and yelled, and begged.  And I’m still here, with my eyes still seeing her, and she’s no longer alive.  That’s hard.  Harder than wrinkles.  Harder than aging.  Harder than just about anything.  And my eyes know that better than me.

Look for the beauty today.  See the good. And hope for healing.  For my eyes, and my heart.

They both need it.

Hard Decisions… I can haz?

And I can make too.  But for the record, we’re not talking thin vs. thick crust.  Although thin always wins out, always.  And in boxers vs briefs, after a whole first marriage of boxers now the second time around it’s briefs FTW.  Likewise, in the battle over paper vs. plastic, it’s plastic, although I’d feel less guilt if I went with paper but those plastic bags get recycled for several lifetimes so maybe that balances out?  And in the most important decision – Godzilla vs. Mothra – everybody with two braincells knows it’s Godzilla.  Because, really, what other choice is there?  It has to be Giant Radioactive Lizard FTW!!!  But these aren’t the decisions I’m making.  Sadly enough.  Although I wish so much they were.

So. Much.

No, this decision is much harder.  With an additional six month commitment attached.  And I’m struggling.  Boy am I struggling.  Like a fat kid in the Kitchen, with a slice of cake on one side, and a pile of vegetables on the other.  And although that might not seem like a tough decision, the missing fact is that the fat kid’s Mom told him right before she left that she raised him to make good decisions… oh, and that the cake might or might not have been accidentally sprayed with bug spray.

Just like that.

But the decision for me isn’t cake.  Or vegetables.  Or boxers.  Or briefs.  It’s far harder.  It’s school.  You see I am currently 30 hours away from Graduation.  30 hours.  10 classes.  And the original plan was for me to finish in two semesters, Summer and Fall, going full-out 15 hours each.  Ambitious? Yes.  Aggressive?  Yes.  Doable?  Yes… that is if having a life wasn’t a real priority, and it’s not really so yes, it was doable.


Until last week.  Until my world fell apart.  Until the other reason why I embarked on this crazy midlife education adventure left me for good.


And now I’m really struggling with focus and I’m really worrying about the idea of 15 hours of classes.  I’m no longer feeling invincible.  I’m feeling very human.  And I’m feeling stuck in a decision I didn’t want to make.  You see, I know the vegetables are best for me.  And I know I should eat them fast, get it over with, and move forward.  But I don’t know whether I can.

I just don’t know.

So right now I’m going to eat the vegetables, not the cake, but I’m going to eat them slower.  Stretch them out.  And that makes me hate vegetables even worse than before.  Have you ever eaten the same Rutabaga – one bite at a time – over the space of a year?


I just want the vegetables gone.  That’s what’s in my head and my heart.  I just want this school thing to end.  Give me the paper, tell me I did good, then let’s forget I was ever here.  That’s what I’m feeling.  But I’m also pragmatic enough to think that if I start the original plan and then fall apart I’ll have to retake those classes that I bombed in.  And my GPA is sacred… I’ve worked so hard to repair it… I will be eaten up with teh failures if I don’t finish with a 3.5.  Go ahead, laugh at me, but I am literally having nightmares at the thought of getting a C.


So with that thought looming in my head, I’m likely going to scale back and slow down a little bit this summer.  In order to allow myself to deal with what has happened.  Because if I don’t it will not turn out well.  Not well at all.  I need time.  Time is my best friend.  But I have to be patient enough to allow time to pass.

Newsflash: I am not a patient person.

And that slow down means that I’ll be adding on a full Semester in the Spring.  And I won’t graduate until May, 2013.  Can I just say that here, honestly, that I really don’t want that.  But I don’t see many choices.

I need choices.

But I don’t see them.  I see this.  Loss.  Failure.  Missing her all of the time.  Psst… these are not good choices.  These are far worse than those vegetables.  These are the cake.  Frosted with buttercream and the possible hint of DDT.  Oh so attractive on the outside.  But it will kill you.


So please hold my hand as I make this decision.  Because there’s no way to go backward once it’s made.  I hope I choose correctly.  But I’ve learned in the last ten days that there are no sure bets.  No way other than the passage of time to know you’re doing the right thing.  It’s all guesswork.  All part of a celestial game of Darts, where you’re blindfolded and you pitch the dart, but only after you’ve been spun around about a million times.  All you can do is hope for the best.

I’m hoping… as I make this decision.

I hope.

Counting the rings…

Because apparently I’ve become a tree?  Or I’m no longer honest about my age and you need to check?  Or because I’m adding onto them faster than we thought?  Well, it’s one of these answers… I’ll let you guess which… and then I’ll do something awful to you if you guess the wrong one.

Choose carefully… just sayin’.

No, regardless of the title, this post has nothing to do with trees, or Arbor Day, or Johnny Appleseed.  But it does have everything to do with growing older.  Because with the loss of Mom, I’ve gained something very precious.  Something that is beyond price.  Something that I too will pass on one day to young Kay-Bug when I finally “cast off this mortal coil”.

My Mother’s Pearls.

Yes, I’ve added something to the jewelry collection that I never ever thought I would want.  More Pearls.  Because three strands wasn’t quite enough.  And for those of you who know me well… that’s what? 3 of you?  Well you three already know that Pearls are not my Go-To adornment.  My sparkles are of a different variety, beautiful all, but very different.  But on the day of her funeral for some reason as I finished dressing I felt that I needed some part of her with me.  Something to remind me that she was there as I spoke my words about her and tried to tell everyone what she meant to me and what losing her was doing to me as well.  And so I went to her Jewelry Box, opened it up, and for the first time since I was a small girl took out her Pearls and put them on as my own.  And as I hooked the very old clasp, and added them to the three strands that I already own, I knew instantly that they belonged exactly there.  Because they fit perfectly with the other strands and together they most clearly represent the story of my life.  Together all of those beautiful strands encircle my neck and alternately caress and choke me with the weight of their history and the weight of my past.

First there is the delicate choker-like strand that Eddie gave to me on our Wedding Day way back in 1995.  They are smaller than the others, and I still remember her smile of pride that day as she hooked the clasp, sealed it with a kiss, and said “now you can get married”.  Then there is the slightly larger and longer strand given to me by Bob, also on our Wedding Day, not so long ago in 2007.  I wore them up the aisle as a wiser and more experienced Bride, after having put them on myself because I was no longer in need of her help.  And finally there is the longer, older, more ivory-toned strand that my Mother bought for me to wear as my Sister’s Maid of Honor, as I stood beside her and supported her in her first steps as a true Adult.  But now, in clasping her own strand around my neck, I’ve added the longest, the prettiest, the most creamy, and the most dignified strand of all.  And by closing that clasp, I guess I’ve finally assumed the role she groomed me for all of my life.

I am her.

Or, really, I guess I’ve been her all along, but now I’m able to see that as a good thing.  Because I’ve finished growing up, becoming an adult, and I have taken on her role.  Together with my sister, we are now all that she left behind.  All the many parts of her, good and bad, and both as different as all those many Pearls, tied together with love and faith that we will live on for her.

We are.  We will.

But when I look at that strand, at the creaminess, I know they didn’t start out that way.  Back in the beginning they looked like my own strands.  Polished, perfect, pure and white.

No longer.

Today they carry the burnishing that life has given them, just like me.  Today they glow, instead of shine, because when you are young you do shine, with hope and dreams and plans, but when you grow older you glow with the life experiences that you encountered as you were achieving (or not) those things you reached for when you were young.

Experience polishes you, strengthens you, changes you.

And today I can tell you that I will wear that creamy strand with pride, as a badge of honor, and a sign that I belong. That I am an adult.  That I am ready to lead.  That I can do this.  Her love, her pride, and her faith were all three instilled in me from birth.  I was her first.  I was the one she expected so much from.  And I was her biggest failure and her hardest heartache for a very long time.

I was her.  And that was the part that bothered her the most.

And now I am her, in full, and I hope she is proud.  I hope she knows that I did listen.  I hope she knows I understand.  And I hope she knows that the next time I reach for my Pearls, she is there.  The weight of her love is draped around me, and in that weight I feel the love of her hand, pushing me on, telling me that I can do this.

I can.

And when I see those Pearls I will always be reminded that she’s with me.  Forever.  And in the creamy glow of those strings encircling my neck, if you look closely you can see the rings of love that I will always wear with pride.

Counting the rings.  It’s like counting the love.  There is no end.  Can you count that high?

I can.

All things change…

Thank you life for that observation…  because you are absolutely correct.  Change is inevitable, mostly unwelcome, and frequently the hardest thing we have to cope with.  Especially when it comes to changes in or with the people in our life.   That doesn’t mean we don’t do it.  Remember, it’s inevitable.  But we do handle change, especially when it comes to the people we love, reluctantly.

Well, yeah, that applies to the ones we love.  The others?  The ones we don’t?  Well, usually they’re the ones who we’d like to ride out of town on a rail but we end up stuck with them forever.  Like gum on the bottom of your shoe.  Or that annoying stain on your favorite white teeshirt that Ann Taylor isn’t making anymore.  You know the one.  And yeah, if you’re reading this and you think I’m talking about you, you’re right.  Sorry. Okay, not so much. Just sayin.

But anyway, as so many have written before, all things change.  And as I contemplate those words all I can think of is the reality that just two weeks ago my Mother was at my house, and we were doing the ordinary things we did when she was there.  Nothing special.  A trip to Goodwill, the usual errands, some busywork around my house.  Nothing monumental.

On a side note, wow are we boring or what?

But, yes, nothing big.  Just stuff we liked to do.  Just stuff.  Which is why today, just two weeks later, knowing that all things for us have changed is so hard to deal with.  So. Hard.

We won’t ever do those mundane, ridiculously ordinary things together again.  Because things changed.  She won’t see me finally earn my degree that she wanted probably more than me.  Because things changed.  We won’t ever get to enjoy the full changeover in life roles for parent and child.  Because things changed.

And I’m so angry about that.  And for the first time in my life, I hate change.  I never have before.  But now I do.  Although it really doesn’t matter.  Because like it or not, things change.  And I don’t get to choose whether to live those changes or not.  I just have to deal with them the best way I can.

PS I’m not doing very good at that.

I just want everything to be the same again.  I want everything to be mundane.  I just want to know that the most interesting thing I’ll be doing with Mom is going to Coldwater Creek and watching her touch ALL OF THE THINGS!  Yes, she did that, and I moaned about it every time, and now I’m heartbroken that we’ll never do that again.  I’d let her touch all of those things twice, or even three times, if I could just get one more chance to do that with her.  Really.  But I can’t…

Because things change.

But there’s one thing that never will change.  My love for her.  I will always love her.  Just as much as I did when I was 8 and she sent me to school for the all-important Picture Day in a Bouffant hairdo.  Just like I did when I was 13 and she came home and pulled all of the phones out of our house and took them back to work with her because I didn’t call to check in when I got home from school.  Just like I did when I was 17 and she willfully and purposefully interfered with everything good and fun (and possibly illegal and immoral, but we’re not debating that point) that I wanted to do with my friends.  At these times, much like the shopping trips to Coldwater Creek, I didn’t think I loved her all that much.  Now I know how much she loved me… and today I love her that much, and more.

And that, all two of you and my Dad who are still reading this thing, is something that will never change.  That love is forever.  Eternal.  Unchanging.


So today, if you still have your Mother in your life, or your Dad, pick up the phone and call them, thank them for being a pain in the ass.  Thank them for annoying you.  Thank them for never changing.  And know that all things change.  Quickly.  And if you miss that moment you may never get it back.

Everything is change.

Don’t lose it.

Words I wrote while crying my eyes out…

And yes, I did and I was, and I still am occasionally.  Because nobody told me this would hurt so bad.  Nobody told me how to do this.  And I still don’t think I can.  Not entirely.  Not completely.  Not all the way.

Not forever.

But because my gift is words, I wrote this to tell her how I feel about her being gone.  Because she left me.  She left us.  And I am not ready to be without her.  None of us are.  But we have to get there.  We have to do this.  I have to do this.  Because she left me no choice.  But I still had to tell her, and everyone, that I didn’t think I could.  Even as I’ve done this.  Even as I move forward.  Even as I go on.

I can’t do this.

But I will.  I am.  I have to.  Because she’s gone.

So, with that, here are the words I wrote for Mother’s Eulogy, that I delivered far too soon in my life.  Far too soon.  And I hope she heard them.  And I hope she understands.

I hope.

I can’t do this… I just can’t do this. 

I think I’ve said these words at least a million times over the last few days.  In fact I think I said them about 5 min. ago.  And again, 2 min. ago.  And, oh yeah, right about now. 

I just can’t do this.

And yet I can.  I am.  With strength that I never even knew I had.  Strength I’m finding from places I never ever knew about.  The strength my Mother is giving me now.  The strength she lived her life with.  Every day, and in every way. 

My mother is dead.  But when she was alive, my mother was the strongest person I’ve ever known.  She was petite and feminine, and made of high tensile steel.  She could bend, but she didn’t break.  She could do anything.

But what she did best was love us – my sister and I – more than anything, more than life itself.  And that thought, that she loved us that very much, is what is allowing me to do this.  To tell you about our Mother.  And to tell you that we really aren’t sure whether we can do this without her.  You see she was as ubiquitous as air and water for us.  She was everything and everywhere.  And if she can be taken away so fast then we’re not entirely certain about the supply of those other necessities of life. 

She was our necessity.  She was our world. 

So many people have told us over the past several days of her kindness, her generosity, her loving nature.  And we knew those things about her.  But as her daughters it took many years for us to actually see that side of her.  Because she was our mother.  And a Mother’s love isn’t entirely free.  After all, they’re the ones who make us, and their expectations are large, because they want everything for us.  Everything.  And so it takes years for a Mother to become your friend.  Mom was that for us, so now we’ve lost not only our mother, we’ve lost our friend. 

We still needed her.  We still had so much to learn.

But now we’ll have to learn those lessons from other people.  And we’ll also have to pull those lessons from inside ourselves.  Where she lives now.  Because she’s there.  I know she is.  Probably better than anybody.  Because every time I’ve said I can’t do this, and every time I’ve broken down and cried, something makes me stand back up, dry my tears, and do whatever it is that needs to be done.

Just like she raised me to do.  Just like she would do.  Just like we’ve seen her do so many times before.

Just like now.

And that’s why although I say that I can’t do this, the next thing I do is do whatever it is that needs to be done. Because that was what she did.  That was her skill.  Doing what has to be done.  And we’ll do the same thing. 

But not yet.  Not now.  Because now we have to mourn her.  We have to say goodbye.  But saying goodbye to her is the one thing we cannot do. 

We can’t do this.

And that’s why we’re not.  This is not a goodbye.  This is not the end.  This is just the next step we’ve moved into in our lives together.  The stage where I’ll say things like “I have to call Mom” and then I’ll realize that I can’t.  The stage where I’ll think “I can’t do this” and then from somewhere her hand will push me forward to do whatever needs to be done.

Yes, she’s with us still.  Pushing us.  Helping us to go on.   Helping us to do this.  All of us.  Making us do this right.  And loving us just as fiercely in death as she ever did in life.  While we do this hard thing we have to do.    

But before we do this hard thing, I have to read these words.  And I have to try to explain how we feel.  But I can’t.  I just can’t.  So I will use someone else’s words, and thoughts, because for the first time I’m finding myself struggling for my own. 

I know, who thought that was even possible, right?  But regardless, I will allow Mr. W.H. Auden speak for me in his beautiful poem “Funeral Blues”.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message She Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was our North, our South, our East and West,

our working week and our Sunday rest,

Our noon, our midnight, our talk, our song;

We thought that she would last for ever: We were wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

And with those words, poured from my heart and my tear-filled eyes, I said goodbye to my Mother.  I know we all believe that she’s gone on to a better place.  That she’s better off.  But as I sit here, looking at dying flowers, looking at dying beauty, all I feel is loss.  Hurt.  Pain.  And emptiness.  This is her home, she’s supposed to be here, but she isn’t.  And she never will be again.  And now all there is left are things.  Things that remind us of her.  As she used to be.  Things that are as dead as she is.


That’s permanent I hear.  Or so they tell me.  But I’m not entirely sure that I want to believe them.  I hope she knows how much she is missed.  I hope she knows that we want her back.

I hope.

How do you be half-orphaned?

This is hard y’all.  Oh, right, explanations.  Well, if you’ve been following along on Facebook or the Twitters then you already know, but for the two of you who haven’t…

My Mother is Dead.  Or to quote Charles Dickens, “as dead as a door-nail.”

Yes, I know, stark, blunt, to the point, but that’s how I am.  That’s how I roll.  And actually, you may or may not be surprised to learn that a variation of those exact words were the text message I sent my husband last Thursday after I got that call.  The call I never expected to get last Thursday.  The call telling me that my Mother was dead.  The call telling me that another part of my life had ended.  That a part of me had died as well.  And I guess I keep saying it like that in order to convince myself that it’s true.  Because apparently it is.  Since, you know, we did have a funeral and there’s enough food in this house right now to feed two armies.  Supplied by a veritable Army of Church Ladies who showed up every day, for five days, just like clockwork, to take care of us as we flailed about, confused, trying to make sense of a world that had almost instantaneously turned upside down.

And, BTW, I’d like to pause for a moment and apologize to the Chicken survivors of middle Georgia who are all now just as deep in mourning as we are today.  We’re sorry, it’s not personal, it’s just dinner.  Oh, and please pass along our condolences to the pigs.  Same thing.  And, if you’re wondering, I answered the question of “Which came first” this weekend.  For all of you who’ve been wondering, the Chicken and the Egg travel together and they show up at the same time, with one riding in a KFC bucket and the other sitting on a lovely heirloom Deviled Egg Tray.  Yeah.  There is no first.  Tell everyone, that particular question is now answered, and BTW you’re welcome.

But, back to the subject, my Mother is Dead.  Still.  And apparently that means forever.  Which, just so we’re clear, is a very long time, if the experts in that subject matter are to be believed.  But as I sit here at her Dining Room table typing this doggerel I see so much of her around me.  So very much.  Like, pretty much everything.  The Spring floral centerpiece she arranged before she left to come visit us two weeks ago.  Her cat- Dolly – who is wandering around here, pretty much lost.  And my Bonus Dad – Jimmy – who is so terribly heartbroken.  This is his second time in the Widower Club.  I know, twice?  Seriously?  Isn’t there some sort of Get Out of Death Free card after that happens to you once?  Apparently not, but let’s be clear here, there should be.  But you know, we’re all suffering, not just him.  We’re all lost.  And, despite all the rituals, I still keep half-expecting her to walk in, reaching for her first cup of Coffee, or singing “Wake up, Wake up Old Sleepy Head” like she did so annoyingly when I was growing up.

Yes, she did that, every morning, I know, WTF? I hated her for that back then.  Now I’d pay any amount of money to hear it again.  Really.  Even that.  I’d want that back too.  But it seems that my request to have her back, annoying habits and all, is not being honored in this particular arena.  It seems there are other, more powerful votes, that are preventing that from happening.  Something about it being “her time”, and “God’s Plan”.  And let me just state for the record that this is the second time where God and I have some serious disagreements regarding that Plan.  Although I’m sure he’s not the least bit worried about that.  But that plan?  Yeah, to quote Gaiman & Pratchett, it’s pretty much “inscrutable”, and for the record, it’s certainly not something he ran past me.  Of course, when it comes to that plan, it’s obvious that he didn’t check with any of us, now did he?  After all, we aren’t all Lottery Winners, and you know that’s what the thing would look like if we all had gotten an opportunity to vote.

Yeah, don’t deny it.  You’d put that in there.  Along with everlasting life.  And the ability to eat everything and gain no weight.  That would be a great addition too.  Especially because of that damned Carrot Cake that was delivered yesterday evening.  Evil cake!  Hate that cake.  And that gooey, delicious, yumminess.  Yeah, we’ve had an up-close meeting.  It went pretty well, for me, not so much for the cake.

But anyway, it’s official apparently, with certificates and all, that my Mother is gone.  And there’s a hole inside of me that I can’t seem to fill right now.  An emptiness.  An aloneness that nobody else will ever be able to replace.  And I am now half-orphaned.  Mother-less.  And that just seems to be ridiculous.  Absurd.  Because she was so alive, just a week ago.  Literally.  She kissed me goodbye on my backsteps last Monday morning, smiling and still laughing at me for worrying about her, and she texted me that night to tell me she was home and she loved me.  And then she died.  And now she’s gone.


My Mother is Dead.

And I am not.


My Mother is not.

But I am.



Moving on…

And truly, sometimes it feels like I’ve become an expert at that…

PS- this is not of the good.

So, yeah, today is a day of transition… another transition… and the first step in my next career move.  And, not that it’s going to be at all surprising to any of you, I’m possessing some very mixed emotions about this decision.  Very mixed.  Okay, actually mixed so much that I’m trying to figure out if someone has covertly installed a Kitchenaid in my brain… not that this would be surprising either… right?

Yeah, right, I knew every one of you would agree on that.

But, regardless of my mixed feelings and emotions, today is my last day as IZEA’s Oldest Living Intern.  As of Monday AM I move back into the real world of permanent employment complete with TPS Reports, health benefits, a full-time schedule… oh, and a nifty red Stapler, but only if I’m really lucky.  And, according to my hubby, the added bonus of no commute to Orlando.

Yeah, no more commute to O-town… which also means no more lunches at cool places downtown like Pine Twenty 2, no more kind words from Milton down at Siegel’s, no more walks in the sunshine around Eola or happy hours at Lizzie’s… and no more hanging out and working with some of the most creative, brilliant, and extremely entertaining people in the world at IZEA.

Somehow the eastern ‘burbs of L-town aren’t the same… not even if you through in Lakeside Village.  There’s nothing in Lakeland other than LPR that even touches my favorite Burger on organic Lettuce with Gruyere and those amazing fries.  Oh… those fries.  I could write poetry to the ambrosial taste of the fries at Pine Twenty 2.  Really.  And their organic Pesto.  That too.


I’m really gonna’ miss all this.  You have no idea.  Here I felt like I was finally in my element.  Here I finally felt like I had found my space.  But being here just wasn’t practical.  Damn, I hate even typing that.  It’s, like, nearly the worst thing in the world.  Be practical.  Who in the sweet merciful hills of Hell wants to be that?  I’ve practically made a life skill of being impractical.  My avocation as it were.  And that’s why I am stating unequivocally that practicality is a bitch.  It’s just so… so… adult?  Yeah, I guess that’s the word… adult.  And being an adult?  Not my favoritest thing in the world.  Not at all.

Are you surprised?  Should you be?  No, and no.

But for now I’m being practical.  Inordinately so.  And I’m doing what’s best for us.  While I finish school.  But after that’s done?  I’m full-on chasing this dream.  I’m going back to excitement, cutting edge, amazing cool stuff… on a daily basis… this is what I do.  This is how I live.  This is me.  The pixilated, 140 character, oversharing, totally wired Me… the one I started moving into in 2006.  The one I like.

So thanks to IZEA for helping me realize that potential, for helping me to finish drawing up the blueprint for this dream of mine.  This backward move is how I think I’ll change myself from a Dreamer into a Doer… because this is my future.  I know that now.  But, because I can occasionally be practical, I’m going back to the past so I can better pave my road to the future.  Because this future is where I want to be.  So Social Media world, you better not forget me… because I’m not really gone… I’m just temporarily changing directions in order to be able to make a change in my life for the better.  It may not make sense right now, when I’m standing here holding the road map upside down, but it will eventually.  You’ll see.  Trust me.

The future’s just up ahead… life moves in a circle… I’m still here… and I’ll be back.