Rainy autumn Saturdays are the best

I could write a blog post today. Or, rather, I could enjoy the bottle of whiskey I just bought and take a chance to enjoy the season that's settled in around us.

Choices, choices....

Young adult (a.k.a, 'Because, whiskey')

I was trying, desperately, to think of a blog post topic without just resorting to a photo montage of my cats (but that would be, OK right?).

There are plenty of topics on which I want to write--Bill Cosby, President Obama's action on immigration for starters--but it is Friday night and it is has been such a long week and my head hurts and Cory is sick with a horrible cold and asleep on the couch and...well, you get the idea. My brain is not particularly ready for any heavy lifting at this point.

On a whim, I ventured over to the Bluest Muse blog for inspiration. Happily, she did not disappoint.

A recent blog post titled It's okay to hate squash and other things I like about adulthood got me thinking.

Here, Shawna mulled how she  "realized how much I enjoy certain facets of adulthood. Bills suck. Buying tires sucks. Dealing with death, and drama, and endless taxes sucks." (YES. I just had to buy four new tires and found it the worst possible way to drop $350 on a Saturday afternoon).

Still, being an adult, she continued, meant many good things, including but not limited to eating brownies for breakfast, openly hating squash and grocery shopping. I LOVE grocery shopping. Maybe it's just because I love food. Or maybe it's just that those are the kinds of decisions I like to make and that's the kind of money I like to spend (as opposed to, say, tires).

In March I wrote a blog post about why I don't really feel like an adult, (I've never hosted a family holiday get-together, for starters) but truth is I am and as such I get to take advantage of some liberties.

  • Not only can I stay up as late as I want, I can hit the snooze button repeatedly. This is such a welcome contrast from those high school days when my mother (rightfully) policed my sleep
  • Popcorn or oatmeal for dinner. Or pizza for breakfast (actually, my mother schooled me on that one). I can eat whatever the hell I want when I want it. Freedom!
  • I can plan important things with friends such as impromptu trips to Joshua Tree at 10 p.m. on  a Tuesday night, entirely via text. That's why God created SMS messaging and credit cards, after all.
  • I can buy as much Hello Kitty shit as I want. AS MUCH AS I WANT,  do you hear me?
  • I can gorge myself on young adult fiction because, other than my book group, I have no required reading list with which to contend. Or book reports. Holla.
  • Whiskey.
  • And beer.
  • And a Bloody Mary at brunch or whenever I fly.
  • And red wine, obvs.
  • I can use "words" such as "obvs" both seriously and with irony, just because.
  • Good friends. The older you get the less time you have for needless drama, rudeness, cluelessness, etc. Strip that all away and you're left with good friends. Great friends, actually.
  • I can hate lima beans, thank you very fucking much. And fucking okra. Screw okra.
  • I can swear as much as I want, when appropriate
  • I'm grown up enough to know not to swear at family gatherings in front of the grandparents.
  • Except for that one time I told my future cousin-in-law "fuck you" because he wore a tie to the Christmas Eve dinner table, which in turn made the rest of us look bad (Sorry Kale, I love you, but really--a tie?)
  • I can have three cats. Or four. I can spend a huge chunk of my income on those adorable creatures because they bring me so much joy. And I do.
  • I can be married for 15-plus years and muddle through arguments and hard times because I realize that marriage is hard and you work at it and you're really goddamned lucky to have someone that you not only love and trust so much but who also makes you laugh like no one else
  • Did I mention Hello Kitty? My mother hardly bought me any when I was kid. I have a lot of making up to do. Don't judge.

We interrupt this regularly scheduled blogging...

...to bring you some self promotion. Earlier this year (July, I think), I was interviewed for a Blogger Beat podcast episode.

Trisha Lynn Fawver and I chatted about all things personal blogging--but most specifically about "writing boundaries" and breaking through creative blocks.

I haven't listented to the finished episode yet but it was a fun conversation, so give it a whirl if you have time.

And, in other self promotional news, I'll be reading tonight at Luna's Cafe ( 8 p.m., 1414 16th Street)  as part of the quarterly series. A couple of poems including, maybe, this one:


Words do what they do”


You will not escape unpunished; this will

find you like a dog trained for blood;

the scent brutal, cold, metallic.


Hunt you, push you deep into piss-puddled streets and coffee cup gutters,

until you’re coated with taxi-choked exhaust;

fighting sad-eyed ghosts with toothless smiles.

You must run, run, run;

never look back; even if you think

you’ve outpaced revenge.


You’re not lucky. No.

You must fall into a heart-sized abyss of fear;

you must pour a thimble-full of regret;

you must grieve a sense of loss, bigger than Texas.


You can retell the story a million times.

Change the ending, repaint the truth.

Forget the names; shift the blame.

But this will not carry into dust.


Words do what they do.

You will not escape unpunished.

You cannot burn bridges.

Ashes always flutter—float the sky, smother everything.


Now, crime scene evidence: letters shoved into drawers, buried beneath layered silk.

Hidden photographs, even with their scratched-out faces—

become proof of wanting. Waiting. Willing a return.


You will not escape unpunished.

Your face will fold into itself, crease into ugliness.

Hair will pale to gray; fall out. Fall away.


You did it. You wanted it. You made it so.

You will not escape unpunished.


Even as you build altars of apology:

Tiny dolls, made-up whore faces.


Small offerings mean nothing.

You stupid, stupid girl.