The Procrastinator

I’m no good at making decisions. I don’t trust myself, I guess.

I swear that I hear my mom in my head telling me how to do this and that, the way that she would’ve done things. I often disagreed with her and we’d argue, but in the end I’d usually cave in.

She was always at me about my lifelong problem of procrastination.

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Oh man, I can procrastinate, my friends. And boy did it drive my poor mother batshit crazy.

Just this past August, when it came closer to my birthday and it was time to renew my drivers license, plus registration tags (at the tune of $85.50) I waited until the day before my birthday to get my procrastinating ass up to the DMV and do what needed done.

Sure, no worries, right? But as I waited in line, I could hear my mom inside my head.

“Why did you wait until the last minute again? You could have been done with this already!”

By the way, I’m almost certain that I am mostly sane.

I plunked my money down and had to take two photos for my new license because of the glare from my glasses. But anyway, as I walked outside on that summer morning, I looked up to heaven and smiled into the sun.

“See? Look mom, I’m putting the sticker on my plate! I did it!”

No reply, obviously.

Yes, I might have waited until the last minute like I’ve always been prone to do, but I did indeed get the deed done. Like I almost always do.

I am not good with deadlines, as you can imagine.

Every fall, my mom would tell me to have my furnace checked and every year I’d tell her that I would. But then, I just wouldn’t because I never really had…

  1. The money to do so.
  2. The desire to know if something was wrong with it.

This happened every year since 2009, when I bought this damn condo which has turned into the bane of my existence. (I know, I sound like such a whiny little twat!)

My self loathing is strong today.

Back in 2017, my furnace was acting shady, just like my ex husband was. A friend helped me out financially, but instead of fully replacing the old gal, I got somebody to fix it up some, because well, new furnaces are not fucking cheap.

It worked alright that winter and even last winter it was doing mostly fine until around April, when it started not to blow.

When the weather started to turn this year, I (haha) procrastinated and used my space heater. That was all fine and dandy. I even went out and bought another one a couple of weeks ago to help me not to have to turn my furnace on! 

Guess what happened last night, you guys?

It fucking snowed. I mean, I live in fucking Cleveland for fuck sake!! What did I expect?

I woke up to a bitterly cold bedroom and a frosty nose.

My thermostat said that it was 60 degrees.

I quickly turned on both of my space heaters to super duper mode (it’s 66 now.)

So I decided to see if maybe the furnace magically fixed itself these past few months, but now it’s blowing ice cold air, but only from two of the things. So I sighed in defeat, turned it off, had a quick panic attack and then went on Google to search for large room space heaters. After much research, I found one on Amazon Prime (my kid gets a discount due to being a college student, but she graduates next month) and ordered the best that I could afford to buy. It’ll be here tomorrow, so that will be our main heat source downstairs and the other two are for our bedrooms, one for her and one for me.

The procrastinator doesn’t like leg cramps.

It’ll be much like the summer with our fans running 24/7. They make these things now with so many safety features, but I still hear my mom saying to be careful because they could overheat and we’ll all die in a house fire.

I do my best to take care of my two dogs and my daughter, who might be getting ready to turn 23 soon, but is still a kid who looks to her mother (me) to take care of business. Even when I have no idea what the fuck I am doing.

Which is quite often.

I lost both of the people that I would turn to in times of crisis, my mom and asshat, although being a worthless lump of poo he was at least another adult.

I don’t want him back, hell no, it’s just that I was at least able to pretend that he was affected by the problem as well and it wasn’t only my dilemma to solve.

My boyfriend lives with his elderly mother and not to talk smack, but he doesn’t know how it feels not to have a warm house to live in and what to do when something breaks. He’s a great guy, but there are times when our differences stand out like a zit on an alabaster ass.

I am very tired of the bullshit that life throws. But, I guess that due to my inability to just face the bullshit instead of putting it off, I make it worse.

I can see my mom up in heaven doing a face palm.

That girl of mine will never change.


I usually spend about an hour editing my posts, but today I say fuck it. I’m leaving it as is. 

White Flag

My daughter and I decided to start our own jewelry business back at the end of August. She saw a package that I had ordered from Etsy and asked me if she could open it. Keep in mind that she’d had no interest before that day in my little hobby whatsoever.

I said sure, go ahead.

I’d gotten a mix of charms and as she looked through them, she found an S…L…and an ornate O.

Sandra Lee O’Leary. My mom’s initials.

She kept those for herself and asked me if I’d make her a car dangle thingy for her mirror. I obliged. It seemed like some sort of sign (gift?) from her dear grandmother.

That’s how it all started. We began to make stuff…bracelets, necklaces, shiny car dangles, key-chains and my daughter’s specialty, earrings.

It was just the two of us, usually late into the night. I taught her what I knew from watching videos. We laughed, talked and bonded, spending valuable time together.

I saw a craft show that needed vendors at a local VFW hall. The cost to rent the spot was $35 and it came with a table and two chairs. We decided to give it a try, because why not? Maybe we’d make a profit. (We didn’t.) But what’s more important than money was the time that we both shared as a mother and a daughter, becoming closer and grieving together over our beloved person.

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My daughter and our amateur display of twinkly stuff.

We were supported by family. My best friend Cheryl made an appearance. A good friend of mine even printed out business cards and other things with a logo that she created especially for us. Bless her beautiful heart.

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My mom used to call me her sugar plum. The dreams part was added by my boyfriend. 

Speaking of him, my boyfriend helped me set up the night before, as I was having a major panic attack and had made myself physically ill due to the thought of failure. Thank God for that man. There’s nothing greater than having your arms folded across your chest and then being wrapped up in a giant, gentle hug.

It was more of a marketing event than a craft show. We would have had better luck selling Tupperware. In fact, only 3 or 4 other tables were selling handmade items. The rest were direct marketing sales. We were extremely disappointed, but still happy that we did something so out of our comfort zones together.

Yet the entire experience has exhausted me. I can never outdo fibromyalgia (you’d think that I’d have figured this out by now!) and thus I have put up my white flag. I need to stop running around pretending that I’m some kind of healthy person.

Working an 8 hour shift kicked my ass mentally and physically, although I spent most of it sitting down. There’s a real reason why I’m unable to work and on disability, yo.

My sister-in-law is going to try to help me set up some sort of online store to try and sell our jewelry, but I am no business woman. I mean, I couldn’t sell an igloo to an Eskimo. There’s an indoor flea market that runs once a month until March and we might look into that, but it means plunking down more money for a spot and table rental. My daughter and I are going to think about it.

The last two and a half years has finally caught up with me. I’ve lost so much. My sham of a marriage and my beautiful mother. But I’ve also gained many things as well, such as my dignity, self-respect, a better relationship with my kid and a loving, devoted boyfriend.

But I sure do miss my mommy. The holidays are going to suck major monkey balls.

Sunny Days Always Bring Me Down

I hate when the sun rises and illuminates my bedroom, indicating that it’s time for me to get out of bed.

My phone no longer rings at 8 am. My mom is gone and she called me every morning to help me with the difficult transition from sleeping to being awake. How I miss that daily call. I know that I’ve mentioned this before, but I can’t seem to shake the need to repeat myself.

I get this really icky feeling that I can’t seem to find words to explain, which started during the summer of 2015 and has recently made a comeback. It’s dread, fear and panic rolled into one nasty emotion.

Is it a form of existential dread, wonky brain chemicals or what, I haven’t the slightest clue.

Some mornings are better than others. I come downstairs and take care of my dogs first, food and water for them, then I let them outside to do their thing. I make my solo cup of coffee and then use the restroom myself. I take my morning medications and when my coffee is ready, I go sit in front of my laptop and turn it on.

Just do the next thing, the grief group book advises.

My boyfriend sends me a good morning text and I’ll respond, as soon as I can think straight enough to form words. He’s the main person that’s keeping me going right now, my lantern in the darkness.


Today would have been my 10th wedding anniversary. How things can change in just one decade. This date means absolutely nothing to me now, yet it brings back memories of how happy my mom was to finally marry me off to someone she trusted, that promised to love and care for me.

Well, we didn’t know.


There’s no way to guess how many years I have left. Only God knows the exact date, time and circumstances. He even knows if I’ll lose my battle with my own self and jump off of a cliff when I’m 51.

Fuck, I am morbid. Steven hates it when I think like that, but I’ve never hid it from him. It comes with the package.

Yes, I still often wish that I could pop off sooner than later, but this is a thought that I’m so accustomed to having, I barely take notice of it anymore. Just like the tide, it comes and goes.

I read something interesting the other day, on how to deal with anxiety and other unwelcome thoughts…face, accept, float, let time pass.

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This book is on my reading list, but I’ve watched a few videos and read some of Dr. Weekes advice. She even recommended that suicidal ideation be treated with that same mantra, unless there’s an active plan being put into place.

These are all thoughts of a tired mind.

Well, then I suppose that my mind is pretty damned fucking tired, doc.


I think that I might start sleeping on the couch at night. Maybe a change of scenery will help keep that icky doom thing from laying its ice fingers on me.

I could use a break from it.


I don’t get to see my new therapist until December 5th. The woman who did my intake interview told me that there’s so many people who need psychiatric help and only so many providers to offer that assistance.

I’ve been going to my grief support group at the church every Monday evening, although there’s only two other woman, besides the two lovely ladies who are in charge of it. But they are all extremely nice people and I’m glad to have met them.

It helps somewhat to know that I’m not the only one who feels the need to share my grief instead of keeping it all to myself.