Languorous, but sometimes brave

My daughter just texted me and asked me what languorous means.  I could tell by the root, etc., the gist of it, but since I was on the interweb I looked it up.

“Languorous refers to a certain kind of mood everyone gets in sometimes — when you’d rather lie around thinking than doing work or having fun. When you’re languorous, you’re tired and maybe a little depressed.”

That’s me!  That describes…

my whole aesthetic for…

my whole life.

Except for maybe not my WHOLE life, and I say that because before my daughter texed  me, I had a conversation with a co-worker.  She pointed out how brave I have been.  I told her I didn’t ever, even once, describe myself as brave.

She pointed out a lot of stuff that seemed pretty brave.

If I saw me from the vantage point of not being me, I would have to agree with her.

And, she should know.  She’s busted some brave moves herself.

I’ll give you an example from me:  I got off the floor and found, and moved into, an apartment I LOVE, that doesn’t remind me of the past 19 months of pain, and is a refuge for me and my kids when they come around.

Her:  She was so shy (and/or whatever’s going on inside her) that she hadn’t eaten in public in about 15 years, I think.  She broke that streak this summer to go to her son’s wedding.  She ate there.

Kids…they get their moms off their languorous asses!

BOOM!  Lionesses!


This is a picture my daughter took.  Isn’t it beautiful?  She really has an eye, I think.



Who gets the jewelry? Does that make me a dick?

My mind has really wandered all over the place this weekend, but one train of thought was about all the jewelry my ex mother-in-law told me she was going to pass on to me when she died.  Is there a rider that the brand new floosy ex-Mrs. “-” gets all that jewelry now?

Does that make me a dick?  It was just one of my many thoughts about how this has changed the whole family dynamic, not just ours.

Once “-” said, “I didn’t leave the family, I just left you.”  Ah…it doesn’t work that way.

Anyway, I don’t even wear jewelry.  I have the one ring with the stones representing me and my kids, a “mother’s” ring, and a necklace with a drop pearl, that I picked out, and that I put my dad’s baby baptism ring on after he passed away.

My ex mother-in-law’s taste isn’t mine, but it was nice to know she felt like leaving some of her valuables to me.  Since she can’t even acknowledge my birthday now, the mother of two of her grandchildren, I doubt that stash still has my name on it.

I am certain that my name is already scratched out and the third wife’s name is penciled in on the box. Oh hey…that makes me wonder if the first wife was promised the jewelry that I was then promised, that now goes to #3.

Shit, I am developing a case of “middle wife” syndrome!  Doesn’t having the kids count for something?  Neither one nor three bore his children.

I guess whoever sits in the wife chair when my mother-in-law passes away ends up with it.

Maybe my daughter should get it, but she isn’t into jewelry either.

I remember once “-“‘s mother was trying to give me her fur coat.  You know, it had gone out of vogue, and political correctness, and she had moved to Florida, but it was a nice fur and probably a lot of money was paid for it.

She had me try it on to entice me to take it.

“-” walked by, and she asked him how he thought I looked in it as I was checking myself out from different angles in a mirror.

“She looks like a hooker.”

…Good times…


History is a know-it-all. Oh, and dad got married today.

This was going to be a continuation of my daughter’s struggles and her way through them.

She just texted me that I would be proud of her — she had an appointment with a counselor at school to talk about her issues.

“Oh, and dad got married today.  He told me in an email.  Triple whammy.”

Forget her play audition, the singing group she was rejected from.  We worked that through, I thought.  I mentioned that plays are a big time suck and she’s already in a singing group.  No need to join another.  Each group wants to think you care most about theirs.

I am in shock about her dad getting married, although, as history has taught me, that’s his pattern:  get remarried right away (this is 3) so it proves to everyone that you were serious about the new woman.  She wasn’t just a rebound.  Everyone can go back to trusting him and letting him (and her) back into their lives.

But, I’m not hurt.  My daughter and ex had had a fight, and things were strained, but it hurt her that he told her after the fact.  By email.

My hope is that it wasn’t an “event” that excluded her.  Like, for instance, did her brother know, but she didn’t?  Was he invited?  Was their grandmother invited?

I hope not, but I hope a lot of things, like that history would not be such an infallible predictor.



She seems so happy…

…it almost breaks my heart.

Is that a shame?

She’s at school.  She’s auditioning for all her favorite things — choir, the play Legally Blonde that she got a callback for, her judicial board job has started, her roommate had a birthday.  Her room is starting to smell because no one has time to wash clothes, are you kidding?

I have seen her down the dark hole of depression and she called me today with a litany of possibilities for this year — including her follow up on a new job for next summer — she said she was circling a tree on campus as she talked to me because she had so much energy to expend.

Image result for talking on the phone by a tree

It chokes me up.  Really.

She’s a good girl who stepped in some smelly shit the past few years.  I’m so happy she’s happy.  I hope shell be happy tomorrow.  I hope if things don’t work out she can take it in stride.

Around that tree.


New (additional) obsession: Shameless U.S.

I’m late to some of these parties, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

Image result for watching tv

Since my last child left the nest and she is tucked into her sophomore year at college — pretty far away — far enough to pause over an impromptu weekend trip home —

I have a lot of time to chat with the cat and surf Netflix.  The cat is very haughty about Netflix, but cats are haughty about everything, (except laser pointers), so I’m not going to feel demeaned by that.

I’ve always had a weird feeling about William H. Macy, husband to Felicity Huffman, and man with a name too similar to W.B. Mason, our office supplier.  Actors, am I right?  Bill?  Bill Macy?  I first paid attention to him in Fargo.

As is very often — too often — the case, my first impressions are usually wrong, or will change.  Macy is so good in Shameless, but despite being the drunk patriarch of the Gallagher family, he’s almost the straight man to all the other characters and their stories.

The thing I like about it is that it highlights the complicated relationships in families.  Sure, you can say you’re going to cut out this or that family member, but they are still going to be there, waving to you occasionally in your mind, quietly being cut out.  For decades, if need be.  They can wait.

I also love the way the kids seek circumstances or individuals to teach them lessons their family “should have” taught them — unconditional love, integrity, forgiveness, you know.

I’m scared and sad for them when they get “hustled” by someone.  It must seem so easy to hustlers.  Everyone wants so badly to feel like the person they just met is different, trustworthy, or changed for all time by one stint in rehab.  Where has this person been?  Well, statistically speaking, probably hustling someone who else who finally caught on.  That’s where.  We, the collective naivete, need to heed this saying more than all others, “If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.”

I told my therapist that at this point in the journey, I’m scared.  I’ve said many things to her, but never that.  She said, “I would imagine.  You’re walking through the scariest part of your movie right now.  The circumstance you tried so desperately to avoid is happening right now.”

Well, that’s great.  I’m a scaredy cat.  She did add that I’m doing fine.




Babe, there’s something tragic about you. Something so magic about you. Don’t you agree?

Image result for hozier

Yes.  And “yes” no matter who we’re talking about.

Obsessed with Hozier, especially the song, From Eden, that starts that way.

Not obsessed like a screaming fan,

more like in awe of the poetic brilliance of his lyrics.

Not to say his voice and looks aren’t…unique accompaniments.  Thank you for choosing a ponytail and not a man-bun.

I’m trying to think of this post from the eyes of my daughter, who is more in the vein of a screaming fan.

I creep me out, then, but an older woman should be able to express her admiration for a younger talented man.

What seems to make it creepier is that I want to know EVERYTHING about him.  She doesn’t.  She says it ruins her enjoyment if she knows too much about an artist.

Just so you know:  He’s Irish (turn of phrase goes to you guys), child of a blues musician, given name is Andrew Hozier-Byrne, very tall, and seems very sweet to fans.  So far.

Go listen if you haven’t yet…

My daughter has my permission to pursue a relationship with him.

See?  Yep, still creepy.  Sorry!



I’m not done… Signed, Cranky Pants

It’s fucking hot.

The too-tight clothes stick

to the squishy parts.

Is that a poem?

The hair I’m trying to grow (why?  why try to grown hair after a certain age?) is damp and frizzy and doesn’t look good in a ponytail (long-waisted AND weird shaped head) and the bangs are not quite long enough to be held back.  Bangs are a constant hassle…at least mine are…so I’m trying to get rid of them.  I know that won’t last long, however, because then my forehead wrinkles will be on display.

I have to go to an outdoor party this afternoon.

I know; boo hoo.  Yes, it’s a party – wine, good food, lake, people I work with, but OUTSIDE?

Did I mention that it’s FUCKING hot?  (That’s about 97 degrees to people without a potty mouth.)

My daughter is coming to stay the weekend in my tiny apartment…That’s good…but the bf is banished…he can’t help feeling jealous…and who knows what kind of mind fuckery her dad will have in store for her…and I will be on call to anticipate this interaction and pick up the pieces as best I can.  She deserves one reliable parent.

Do I need medication?

Is this what’s going on here?

Am I an ungrateful a-hole about my single lifestyle and party-going obligations?

Is that what’s going on here?

I just know one thing, whatever’s going on…

It’s FUCKING hot.