And the Kitchen Sink

Kitchen Sink shakes for me and the birthday boy today. 

Happy birthday to the best husband ever!


Happy Flowers

Thank you to my handsome husband for the lovely flowers he hid in my office. 


Daffodils are my favorite. 


Untitled 1: Reflections of Oneself

And now for something completely different: today we have a guest post from my handsome husband. 

Hands shaking
tears pooling
heart racing
violence is never the answer
until it is
fight of fly
take a swing
or breakdown and cry

clenched fists
muscles burn
one tear rolls
the rest soon follow
knees weak
sobbing

violence is never the answer
even when it’s the best one


Blue Randolph 33

Today’s Daily Prompt:

Interview someone — a friend, another blogger, your mother, the mailman — and write a post based on their responses.

A man in a red shirt has agreed to be interviewed; we’ll call him Ian.

I begin with some easy warmup questions, such as his favorite color: it depends on the day, but most of the time blue.

What else can I ask? Favorite number: 33, because I like saying it. 

He’s curious as I take notes: what are you doing? I didn’t say that much.

I explain that I’ve been having some problems with autocorrect, and that it takes me twice as long as it should to type anything on my phone anymore.

I move on to another question. If you could do anything for the rest of the day what would you do: hike. Where? Red River Wildlife Refuge. There are still plenty of trails we haven’t seen.

Who’s your favorite celebrity: T Swift. Why?  Because she don’t need no man.

I laugh and beg to differ; she needs plenty, in succession. Cause she’s so dreamy, and I like her music.

I ask if he’ll ever shave again: probably not. Why not? Lazy. But I will if you want me to. 

I would never ask someone else to remove their hair; depilation is my Achilles heel. I unfortunately spend enough hours a week on it to be diagnosed with an obsessive disorder. But I keep this information to myself so as not to interrupt the interview.

He’s on to me, though: you’re just making these questions up as you go.

I admit the truth of that statement and move on.

What would you ask me? What’s your favorite position?

I apologize to him; I’m sorry I didn’t catch that. He repeats his query with slightly more vulgarity. I sidestep.

That’s a great question. 

He is amused.

My next question seems to be a tad inflammatory; he becomes visibly agitated. What do you think of Donald Trump? Fuck Donald Trump. I’ve unfriended people on Facebook because they support him. I can’t really argue this answer, but then I notice something.

Did you just check out my boobs? Yes. Well, I looked at your necklace, and then worked my way down. I don’t remember that necklace. He bought it, so I remind him of that.

You bought it. Yard sale? Yup.

What’s your dream job? He puts some thought into this one before answering. Mechanic. Even though I know I can’t do it anymore.

He counters with a question of his own. What’s yours? I could be the queen of England. 

I believe he enjoys this answer.

I’d love that. I’d pee off Big Ben every day; just open a window and go.

I’m not sure how my British readers will take that question and answer set. With a grain of salt, I hope.

I raise my phone to take a picture of him.

Did you take a picture? Yes. Why? To go with your interview.

He is not happy with the picture I took. I took another, later. 


 If you could have any animal for a pet what would it be? A pygmy hippo. No hesitation.

What would you name it? Randolph. Also no hesitation.

Where would he live? I’d potty train him and he’d live in the house.

Where would he sleep? Our bed. He says this very matter-of-factly.

You’re gonna pick up s hippo every night? No, I was gonna build him a ramp. I wonder to myself where a hippo ramp would go in our bedroom.

How big do they get? I don’t know; I’ll go look. He googles. Oh. Six hundred pounds. Never mind, I thought they were pot bellied pig size.

We laughed together, and watched a video about a pygmy hippo.


Censoring Myself

I started this blog so I could write freely, about everything I needed to write about, about all the things that make me feel sad or angry or lost. And while mostly I have been able to do that, after reading Izzy’s post, I know that I haven’t. Especially after reading that post, since that is the subject I censor myself most on, but also because there have been several others in my inbox and reader this week relating in some way to self-censorship, whether it be on a blog or in real life.

I know everything I publish is going straight to Ian’s inbox, and that’s good and bad. Sometimes I post while he’s at work or asleep, and I wait for the response that never comes. Ian, I’m not criticizing, because I know I’m not asking for a response. But I’m asking now. You know when I need to hear what you think about a post. And you know the parts that I need to know your perception of when I ramble. They’re mostly the parts that you never bring up.

Other times, well, nobody gets to read, because I don’t want to upset Ian. I do say some of the things that I know will upset him, and maybe even more now that I know no one’s going to stumble across them, but there’s a lot I still just keep inside.

I know I censored a lot on Where Do We Go From Here? because it wasn’t private. I never publicized to my real life friends that I had a new blog, but if someone had asked I would have told them. I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about it since I don’t seem to associate with too many people who use twitter. Well, I have a whole post written up about my feelings on the whole ‘April has a blog’ concern.

I always had the thought in the back of my mind, ‘would this be okay in court?’ and yeah, if someone wants to read those 203 posts aloud in open court, let them have at it. It’s because of all the things I wanted to say and didn’t that I’d be okay with that.

But I do want to say now. I want to say all the things that I keep to myself until I’m blue in the face. And yet…I don’t. I want to move all those posts here when we’re done and open myself back up to a whole Internet of criticism. And yet…I don’t.

I wouldn’t dare, of course. That would be like eating boogers in public. I’ve started saying more of what I need to get out, but that doesn’t mean that’s the face I want to put on to show the world every day. Maybe it’s more like what Mo said about being a train wreck. This isn’t all there is to me, and I don’t want to be measured as if it were.