Damn Vibes

My realtor irks the shit outta me and I cannot wait until all of this is over so the only interaction I have with him is a Christmas card every year.

I’m supposed to be moving “on or around March 5th.”

We’re basically all packed up and ready to go, except for the last minute stuff. I emailed him on Saturday and he said that he’d be reaching out to everyone on Monday. Here’s a snippet from the actual email:

Everyone’s contract says “on or about March 5th.” 

I will not know for sure until we are closer. I will reach out to all Monday and see where we are with schedules.

I replied and said, okie dokie.

Well, it’s fucking Tuesday.

He gets all irritated, huffy and puffy with me and I swear that it’s not paranoia creeping into my cranium.

The guy just doesn’t like me. I can tell, I have special powers that are able to read the vibes that radiate from people.


Mutha fucka, I need a Xanax!

I have awful anxiety issues, as you guys are quite aware of. I think this makes him uncomfortable or something, like, oh shit, why did I take this in need of a major rehab, small commission, condo job? The owner is a certified nutcase.

I have papers to prove it.

Also, it’s because I’m a divorced woman. If I had a husband, things would be different. When he met with my brother, they shook hands and spoke man-talk. Look at how nice this hot water tank is!

And I’m all excited about the backsplash in the kitchen.

He also doesn’t care much for my daughter, she also has that special vibe catching power.

She knows it, I know it and he knows that we know it.

All we’re waiting for is for the buyer to pay up for my condo, so I can pay for the house. (I honestly have no clue how any of this works.)

What if the deal falls through?

I still can’t get myself to feel more excited because (insert anxiety here.)

We were told to be ready to vacate the condo by March 5th. We’ve done what we were told and now I wait, extremely impatiently, for him to fucking call me.

So I can call utility companies, hire the movers and start to count down the days.

I should probably call him and be like, what the fuck, man? What’s your major malfunction not communicating with me?

I mean, geez ass.

But my anxiety keeps me from picking up my phone. Honestly, you guys, I really miss my mom so damn bad. This Friday would’ve been her 75th birthday and I feel this heavy cloak of sadness draped across my shoulders.

I want to call her. I want her to tell me to just be patient and that it’ll all work out just fine.

My boyfriend took me to the cemetery this past Saturday. We go about once a month. I buy dollar store flowers because I hate to visit empty-handed. I talk to both of my parents, not just my mother. Steven also talks to them. Then we’re silent for a few minutes while we pray.

I’ll tell you, asshat would’ve never done that shit with me. He probably would’ve stayed in the car.

I absolutely hate having anxiety and the entire “vibe” thing. I’m getting better slowly when it comes to uncomfortable situations like this but damn it anyway.


There are four transactions for the deal to be done, waiting on a loan officer to get back into town tomorrow, he’s waiting on that, so we just need to be patient and shit. But he said that he’s working on it and once the final piece of the puzzle is in place, we are good to go.

Grief & Christmas Thoughts

The grief-stricken mind thinks the craziest thoughts…

As I look in the dryer for a clean pair of underwear and only see one left, well, it looks like I’ll be buying myself new underwear this Christmas instead of my mom.

Honey, what size do you wear this year?

Oh, I’d say an 8. I could maybe get away with a size 7, but I like them baggy. 

I’ll be the only person to buy myself new underthings from now on and this strikes me as pathetically, heartbreakingly hilarious.

I show my brother a photo of our tree this year.


It’s like a tree-shrine, he says.

Yes, I agree with him. It feels right to us, the kid and I couldn’t seem to manage more than this.

My brother cocks his eyebrow and takes a swig of his beer.

We’re all discussing what to eat on Christmas. Nobody wants to do the traditional meal of ham, potato salad and my mom’s sweet potatoes this year.

Well, she’s not here to make them, obviously. The meal doesn’t add up anymore. It just doesn’t work.

Appetizers! Yes, I say, how about that? We all bring an appetizer to share.

Everyone agrees. It’s a far cry from eating ham, that’s for sure.

It’s a holly, jolly appetizer Christmas.

I don’t feel much like celebrating this holiday and here it is, right under our nose already. All there is now is to get the fuck through it and try not to cry too much.


I keep an hourly vigil on the clock. Tick away, Mr. Clock. Let’s do this shit already so that I can go back to my every day normal grief.

My phone no longer rings at 8 am every morning and after 7 months, I’m sort of getting used to it. But I know that tomorrow morning will be the worst, maybe even as bad as having no birthday call back in August.

Everyone tells me that the 1st of everything is the worst and so, like the little squirrel who starts gathering nuts for the winter, I have been preparing myself for this surreal Christmas.

Yet nothing that I’ve done is helping, I feel like an empty pitcher of beer, I feel like the last bits of foam resting on the bottom.

I received a letter last night, two days before Christmas. It’s from my condo association wanting me to pay $389.32 in legal fees.

They knew about it way back in March of this year when they finally took the lien off of my house.

They are charging me for it, of course. But the timing is just like them, big bullies that they are and one of the main reasons why I am selling the place.

Merry Christmas. Ho ho ho, screw you Mer.

I reach for my phone to call my mom, then my hand stops mid-air.

This happens rather often, usually when something totally awful (or less often, something great) happens to me.

I get a sickening lump in my throat with the understanding that NOBODY ELSE IN THIS GIANT WORLD GIVES A FUCK.

My mom always gave a fuck, you see. Even if she couldn’t help me, at least she gave a fuck.

I shut the house down and went to bed at 6:30 pm. I didn’t wake up until this morning and now it’s Christmas Eve day.

I knew that this time in my life would arrive one day, I just didn’t think it would be so soon.

I know, that sentence doesn’t make a lick of sense, does it??

I fear that nothing will ever feel right again in my world. Being strong, well, if I wasn’t strong, I wouldn’t even be here writing all of these words.

A writer writes, not for other people, but for themselves.

My mom told me a few times that God gave me a talent, a gift and that she thought I was a good writer. Her opinion mattered more to me than anyone else’s.

That I could make her proud of me, even though I never went to college, I had shitty taste in men, major mental illnesses and that I ended up disabled by the age of 37.

But she told me that God gave me a gift.

Now He has her with Him this Christmas.

And I know that she was the biggest gift that I’ve ever had.

The Graduate

My beautiful daughter graduated yesterday and when it came time for photos, I stood next to her proudly as my SIL took the shot.

I’m not sure if it’s the winter weather, the grief and the fibromyalgia, or perhaps all three, but I’ve been feeling extra sickly lately.


Yes. I look that ghastly, my friends. I won’t put you through the trauma of laying your eyes upon my image.

But I will share a photo of the kid.

Isn’t she lovely?

It was a hard day that was filled with joy, but there was a layer of sorrow draped upon all of us, especially my daughter. My mom had vowed to make it long enough to watch Brooke graduate, but it wasn’t meant to be.

My aunt said as we sat next to each other in the auditorium that my mom was there, in the empty seat next to us.

I wish I could feel her, I replied.

The middle-aged man that had asked if he could sit alone at the end of the row would’ve irritated her because his cologne was too strong. She would have asked to move the seating arrangement and I mentioned that to my aunt, who smiled slightly and nodded in agreement.

After we were done taking photos, we dropped Brooke off at her parking garage and headed back to my aunt’s house. (I can’t get myself to say Mom and Aunt Debbie’s anymore.)

Brooke had somewhere she had to be before it became too dark and they closed for the day.


Looking at this photo hurts so much.

She wanted to go alone.

When she got back home, we were so exhausted that we both crashed. We’re officially celebrating this upcoming weekend.

I think about my dad, gone now these last 33 years and even though she never got to meet the man that was her grandfather, I know that he must be so proud of her.

I also think about her own father and a part of me feels sorry for him. If he hadn’t first been an abusive prick and then an absentee parent these last 11 years, he could’ve watched his child graduate from college, something that neither one of us accomplished ourselves.

I have no envy for her advanced education, only pride and a sense of amazement that my daughter, who started life as a premie (weighing in at only 5lbs 2 ounces at birth) turned out to be such a brilliantly beautiful, intelligent young woman.

I’d like to find the kindergarten teacher who’d claimed that she thought Brooke wasn’t the brightest bulb because she wouldn’t talk during testing, then agreed with a shrug to “give her a try…”

I want to smack her upside the head with the diploma that clearly says “Cleveland State University.”

Sorry lady, but just because the kid was shy and didn’t fit into your specific mold didn’t mean that she wasn’t smart.


Oops. Sorry.

For myself this holiday season, I am giving the gift of the No-Drama Llama.


This means that I am avoiding all things that create drama, without the guilt.

Fewer gifts.

Minimal decorations.

Keeping mostly to myself in order to save what energy and spirit that I have, which ain’t much, to begin with.

Allowing myself to feel all of my emotions and then observe as they quietly ebb and flow.

There are few people that I interact with because I just don’t have the stamina it takes and the recovery time is longer than it rightfully should be. Since people are so busy with their own lives, it doesn’t seem to bother them much anyway, so it’s a win-win situation.

Like I said at the beginning of this post, I’ve been feeling extra sickly lately. It worries me a little because I don’t know if I’ll get worse or better.

If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that there isn’t much that we can do but wait and see how it pans out.