Go Away, Albatros

Well, guys, it’s official. My condo will be on the market starting on January 11th. The realtor that I chose came over yesterday morning and he was really great. He spent almost 90 minutes with me. He answered all of my questions, he was well-organized and extremely professional.

I decided to go for it without any hesitation, which is an ultra-rare thing for me to do. I mean, I usually question every little damn thing that flutters through my mind, which is so annoying. I’m constantly ticking my own self off. Oy.

But this decision felt right.

After he left, I felt like an albatross had been lifted from my shoulders.


Well, I didn’t like being on your fucking shoulders anyway.

Now my daughter and I have some major work ahead of us. I ordered a lightweight vacuum on Amazon which should be delivered today so I can do the floors with more ease since my regular vacuum is like pushing a boulder around. Keeping my house as clean as a whistle isn’t an easy task whilst suffering from fibromyalgia, so this purchase was rather necessary.

We need to tidy up and declutter for the open houses that’ll be planned for every Saturday morning between 10 am and 12 pm. I like this plan because I can just put my dogs in the car and get the hell out of the house for two hours easily enough.

While the condo begins its journey to a new owner, I’ll begin to start looking for a new place to live. The realtor, I must say, seems to know his stuff. He said that not even taking the mental health and emotional issues into consideration, the layout of the condo just doesn’t work for me anymore.

He nailed the pin on the donkey or whatever that saying is.

I have 3 “must-haves” for my next abode.

  1. No Stairs.
  2. Preferably a fenced-in backyard (or how about even just a backyard?) where my dogs can have some freedom and maybe some fucking exercise.
  3. No Condos!

I don’t think it’s too much to ask for.

I had an emotional chat about putting the condo up for sale with my mom yesterday and although I realize that she’s deceased (I haven’t lost my crackers yet, I swear), I feel as though she was listening.

From what I’ve read on the afterlife, the spirits of our dearly departed no longer hold grudges or experience anger once they’ve passed away. Whatever fears that plagued my sweet mama are now replaced with nothing but love. I do believe this with all of my heart. I keep trying to picture her up in heaven rooting for me no matter what I do in my life.

I asked her to stay close by, to help guide me in the right direction.

I’m thankful for finally feeling really good about something for a change. It’s been far too long since that’s happened and it’s about fucking time.

That She Is Now Me

I have a few goals for the year 2020 (which I am saddened isn’t anything like The Jetson’s as I had imagined it would be as a kid. )


No robot maids or tiny spaceships replacing cars. I have a dog named Maya, not Astro. But that’s okay, perhaps 2040 will see all of that come to fruition and if God is willing, then I’ll be 65 and taking my used space-mobile to the doctors instead of my used Toyota.

I like things simple anyway.

Oh yes, my goals.

  1. I’m going to try to write (honestly again) more often simply because I miss it and it’s good for my mental health.
  2. I’m going to be a bit more selfish but in the nicest way possible because that’s just the way I roll.
  3. I am going to finally live my own life and do what I want to do. (Nude beach here I come!) Kidding!
  4. I am putting my condo on the market and moving, no matter what others think or say. I need to wipe the slate clean and start over somewhere new. A place that doesn’t hold any memories of asshat and where the condo association can’t bully me anymore.
  5. I’m going to take therapy as seriously as a gout attack. I have some major healing to do, yo.

As an aside with the condo and putting it up for sale:

Once the lien was removed back in March (after a long ass 5-year payment plan to get caught up from when I first got sick and couldn’t work) I was all pumped because that meant that nothing could stop me anymore from getting the hell outta here.

Well, unless you count an extremely ill mother who wasn’t so nice to me when I told her about my plans.

It’s taken me months of anguish and questioning myself to make my final decision, although the condo association sort of made the process easier for me by threatening to take away my beloved Maya back in November.


Look at the love in her eyes.

Um, no. She isn’t vicious, you fucking assholes. She barks. Also, she is not a Pit Bull as the letter said, she’s an American Bulldog. She is my baby girl and it’ll be over my dead body that they’ll remove her from me.

So now I have her on a choke chain and a thick, expensive leash. Since I’m both of my pup’s main caretakers (the kid is rarely home) you can imagine how difficult this is for my chronic pain.

In and out. Stand there, watch them sniff the ground. It’s cold outside, hurry up. This happens every 2-3 hours and IT BLOWS.

I dream of having a fenced-in yard where they can run free and take a poo far away from my nostrils. I will happily cry when that day comes if God is willing.

My mom’s last say on the idea was that I’d be stupid to sell the condo and move. I had it made in the shade here.

Ouch. That really hurt but I was totally used to it, especially the last couple of years of her life.

Well, I suppose now I’m willing and not as scared to risk being a total dumbass. I don’t see why I should stay stuck in a place that feels constricting and where I’m not comfortable.

This isn’t my home. It was my prison for years and I loathe being here. I’m not being dramatic. It doesn’t even matter if I had the money to spruce the place up and bring it into the 21st century, fix my furnace and having a new central air unit installed.

Nor will any amount of sage or paint do the trick.


I’m sorry mom. I love and miss you terribly but I need to do this for my own well-being. If the whole enchilada blows up in my face, then so be it.

I own the condo, the deed is solely in my name. The ex-hubby signed off on it years ago after he got into a car accident, in which he ended up being sued for $20,000.00. Even so, he had no interest in fighting me for his cut at the divorce hearing. All he wanted was Maya and boy did that piss off the female judge.

Well, that and bringing his fiance with him, but that just shows his lack of class and morals.

She’s my dog, you pansy-ass bitch of a sad excuse for a man.

Anyway, I’m tired of listening to the voice in my head that whispers, no Mer, you can’t do that.

Everybody else can, but you’re the exception to the rule.

I’ve been practicing so hard, telling that low murmur to stifle itself.

I can start over, I can have a redo. I will never get better in the house where I got sick. Why should I have to continue to feel imprisoned and left with the residue of an abusive marriage when I have the opportunity for something brand new?

Because it’s the safest thing to do, that was my ma’s angle. She was always trying to protect me and often went overboard with it. I feel as though she viewed me as quite delicate and not able to make logical, adult decisions.

But I don’t want to play it safe anymore, at least not when it comes to this. Like the Dixie Chicks sang:

She needs wide open spaces
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes

That she is now me.

A Tad Off-Key

Freedom is an important thing to have, wouldn’t you agree?

It starts when we’re little. We realize that we can crawl, that we have the ability to move from one place to the next. We start off slow and awkward, but soon enough we’re on a roll and our parents get all excited.

Until we start to walk. Then we end up taking all of the pots, pans and whatnot out of the cupboards.


No more freedom for you, you drooling little turd.

The reason I bring this topic up isn’t just for shits and giggles. Among the many things that I’m finding myself having difficulty with recently is how to deal with having full freedom.

Freedom from my ex-husband but also from my mom’s unintentional hovering. It was something I don’t believe that she even realized she was doing.

It’s so hard for me to discuss how controlling she was when it came to the choices and decisions that I made because it makes me feel like I’m disrespecting her memory. I know that she never intended on doing me any sort of harm or damage. I feel a sense of prickly shame and a guilty conscience whenever I think to speak or write about it.

Let’s just say that I’ll have plenty to talk about in therapy and leave it at that.

I have this intense grief to carry around with me, trying to make sense of a world without my mother in it, who was always my refuge and main support system.

I also have this newfound freedom of living my life without her input for the first time. It’s both exciting and rather terrifying. To be perfectly honest, I’m so afraid that I’m gonna fuck it all up and make all the wrong choices…but then again, I suppose that’s what life is mostly all about.

I like to imagine that my mother would want me to just be as happy as possible. (Even if she’s up in heaven disagreeing with me and shaking her head.)

I know that it’s going to take me a while to feel comfortable following my own gut instincts or as my new therapist calls it “finding my voice.”

My tone and pitch might be a tad off-key but hey, at least it’s mine.