Sunny Days in DC

Jack of All Trades, Master of 3-ish.

It’s 6:45 AM

It’s 6:45AM and I’m blogging, because there’s only three things you should be doing this early on a saturday morning: blogging, sleeping, or making sweet, sweet lurve. My mom is awake in her bedroom, watching QVC. I’m in Brooklyn visiting for Passover/why not? So, in addition to being exhausted, I’m trying to blog with a QVC salesman screaming about “that deep, rich forest green” of some Russian stone ring, which, bee-tee-dubs, is a great companion to the pendant. TELL ME MORE! I WANT TO BE ON THE NEXT EPISODE OF HOARDERS!!

It’s been over a week since I blogged, in part because I’ve been super busy, but also because, honestly, I’ve had a lot to think about and I wasn’t sure how to write it out. At first I was like, “maybe I should just poll the audience!” because I have a question, and I want your input. But the flip side is, what if you say something that I don’t want to hear? What if the answer isn’t what I want? What I want to do is sit here, have you stroke my hair (not too much! it’s curly, and I don’t need the frizz!), and tell me it’ll all be ok. But…. that might not be true.

The hubs and I had a fight. Not a little squabble like all couples have, but if you’ve read this blog, you may know that we’ve had a couple of fights that have brought us very, very, dangerously close to divorce. We pull ourselves back every time so far, but there are some fights that we both get close to throwing in the towel; this was one of those weeks. Wait, keep reading (if you want) because I do still need advice…

We went back to therapy because we value our marriage and we feel it’s worth the work. We went in, and my husband finally admitted it: he resents me. He resents me because I suggested we buy our house four years ago, and we made some mistakes, and then I lost my job, and we went from having a savings to being in debt. So, he resents me. I “didn’t do [my] due diligence.” And yes, sometimes, he “punishes” me for it. Not physically, but he says things he knows can be hurtful… I don’t know how to describe it. But until he openly admitted it, I had wondered, I had suspected.

The thing is, if you pick apart a marriage, or any relationship, there are dozens, maybe hundreds of things that you can find to resent your partner over. But you have to work together, or on your own, to move past it, to forgive, because otherwise you lose the relationship. Are there things I can resent my guy over? Yeah… let’s not even start listing that.

And, by the fucking way, two things: 1) You can make mistakes in life, and still expect your partner to forgive/understand. I’m not talking about cheating, that’s a whole different sack of potatoes. But I’m sorry, you should be able to say, “Wow, if I had it to do all over again, maybe I would do it differently, but here’s where we are now…” and 2) What’s a different word to describe “punishing” your partner?….

…I’ve started to think another word for this is “abuse.” Does he call me names? Does he call me “stupid” or “ugly”? No, of course not. Does he hit me? No, he’s never put a hand on me, and I know he never would. But….. you can’t, in one breath, tell me I have anxiety and I should get it treated, but then in another breath tell me you resent me for “forcing” you to get a house (really? how fucking old are you that you were FORCED to do anything?!)?

So, here’s my question: is this abuse? Am I in an abusive relationship? And, if I am, do I stay after eight years and try to work this out with him in therapy, or do I put myself and my son first, and say that I don’t want this as an example for him? I’m inclined to draw a line in the sand, and say that if he doesn’t get his act together in another year, I’m cutting my losses. But could I do it? Could I walk away from the man I love because his baggage has started to drown us both?

 

And why the fuck isn’t there ice cream in my mom’s house?! THIS IS AN ICE CREAM MOMENT IF EVER THERE WAS ONE!! Fuck Passover…. I need a pizza……

41 Comments »

POST SCROTUM

OMG YOU GUYS! I’M GONNA BE RICH!!! Yeah, I’ll remember all the little people… NOT!!! (Is yelling “not!” still a thing? I want that to be a thing.) Anyway, my ship finally came in, when I got the following letter:

Dear friend,

Forgive my indignation if this message comes to you as a surprise. I got your contact When i was searching for a foreign reliable partner

I am (Toure Ibrahim) the Head of file Department in African development bank (A.D.B). In my department we discovered an abandoned sum of $15 million U.S.A dollars. In an account that belongs to one of our foreign customer who died along with all his family in the Asia Earth Quake Disaster (TSUNAMI DISASTER INDONESIA / INDIA.
Since we got information about his death, unfortunately i learn that all his supposed next of kin or relation died along side leaving nobody behind for the claim. In respect to the provision of a foreign account ($6 million dollars) for you and ($9 million dollars) for me. There after i will visit your country for disbursement according to the percentages indicated.
(FILL THIS FORM BELLOW PLEASE AND RESEND IT TO ME).
1) Your Full Name
2) Your Age
3) Marital Status
4) Your Cell Phone Number
5) Your Fax Number
6) Your Country
7) Your Occupation
8) Sex
9) Your Religion

POST SCROTUM: You have to keep everything secret as to enable the transfer to move very smoothly in to the account you will prove to the bank. I am waiting for your immediate response as you receive this mail. Extend my sincere greetings to your entire family. God bless you and bye for now.
Yours faithfully,

Toure Ibrahim.

Well, Mr. Ibrahim, you will be HAPPY to know that I fully intend to answer this note (also, your indignation has been excused, in case that was a lingering concern). I would very much like to be the recipient of this vast fortune, and as such, I will endeavor to work with you.

……however, what you do with your scrotum needs to be on your own time. I don’t want to hear about that nasty shit.  

 

 

 

16 Comments »

Hannah Has a Haiku

So many other people on here write poetry. Here’s my try tonight. Hope you enjoy:

 

The ice cream, looking

Questionable, but fuck it

Ate it anyway.

 

I’m a national treasure, people.

Image

*”Hannah, I think there was something wrong with that ice cream.” “DAMMIT, STFU! I’M FUCKING EMOTING over here!!!”*

15 Comments »

In which I blog by eating hotdogs and sitting on the floor…

So, I continue to beat on death’s door. However, I have committed to this blogging business, so I will persevere! Because I am brave. And noble.

And shockingly humble.

Anyway, in preparation for Passover, when Jews commemorate the Exodus by cleaning our house out of bread because something-something-something-Jesus-hates-carbs, my husband and I are eating all the bread in our entire house… the combinations can get weird. Tonight was just hotdogs though, cuz we had leftover buns. Ha ha ha…. buns. I’M HERE ALL WEEK, FOLKS! So, I’m sitting on the floor of my living room, eating a hotdog (I didn’t  have the bun, which, in retrospect… WTF Hannah?), and I realized what a super shitty geek I am.

Maybe someone else can relate: I LOVE Star Trek. I mean, LOVE. Like, did you know Patrick Stewart is engaged (“ENGAGE!” ha ha ha…) to a 35 year old woman? He’s 75. Guess what? I’d tap that shit, too. GET SOME GERIATRIC STAR TREKKING ASS, GIRL! I get it. And I LOVED the Sci Fi station the DAY it came on my basic cable box. I hearted that shit so. hard. And this morning, I turned to my coworker and was all, “DO YOU WATCH GAME OF THRONES?! BECAUSE IT’S COMING BACK, AND I NEED SOMEONE TO GEEK OUT WITH!” and he looked at me like I had started frothing at the mouth (nope! not this time!), and backed slowly away.

But, and I can’t emphasize this enough: I hate Dr. Who. OMG BEFORE YOU START SCREAMING!!! Look, I know, ok? I know. Dr. Who is amazing and wonderful and blah blah blah…. but I just can’t get into it. So, I’m putting it out there: are there Super Fans on here who know which episode I need to watch in order to become instantly addicted? Because there’s something about Daleks wanting to exterminate, and then there’s some gay cowboy who has his own spinoff who just sorta fucks EVERYTHING because penis.

Image

*And what’s with the scarf? Is he perpetually cold? Is it a fashion statement? You’re making me feel under dressed!*

But, maybe one day, you can learn to love me for who I am, and you can watch Dr. Who, and just tell me how awesome it is while we sit in my living room watching GoT together, and eating carbs all night.

34 Comments »

You’re Making Me Uncomfy in My Uh-Oh Place, and Other Workplace Tales

First off, I’ve been sick. So to all the lovely people who have commented and not had a response/ stalked me and didn’t think my heart was in it this time when I turned the sprinklers on you: my apologies. I have, what I can only surmise to be, Ebola-Strep-Plague-Cold-Influenzitis. It is very rare. I blame Max.

Anywho, if you haven’t been following me on twitter because, for some reason, you actually WORK during normal business hours, allow me to catch you up on all the glory you have missed…

Dear Workplace Colleagues,

I get it. When working in a high-stress, faced-paced environment, we tend to make close friends, have inside jokes, and sometimes say things that seem a bit off-color, until you know the reference (then they REALLY get inappropriate!). That’s cool. It’s all in good fun! But I think it’s time we put together a list of things you can and cannot say to me while I’m being paid to spend time with you. I really didn’t think this had to be spelled out, but okee dokee, here we go!:

1) STFU about your hysterectomy. I’m sorry (maybe?) that you had one. Yes, that DOES suck. But I don’t know you that well, and I DON’T want to hear the details. Are you buying me drinks? I amend this rule: You are allowed to discuss the removal/ black market sale of your internal organs ONLY when purchasing me copious quantities of alcohol. Like Bailey’s. I love that stuff.

2) You are never, EVER allowed to say “We work hard, and we play hard” to me EVER again, unless by “work hard” you mean you put in over 18 hours a day, and by “play hard” you mean you run marathons in Mongolia. I’m from New York, I know Wall Street people. Your two-Cosmo evening doesn’t impress me. Keep it pushing, playa. 

3) “I’m not a micro-manager” – Every micro-manager, EVER. 

4) “You know what’s so funny, Hannah?”

“No?”

“I have the HARDEST time not getting a little spray on the toilet seat when I sit down to pee.”

“…………………………”

That sounds like A) a medical condition; get your junk checked, and B) None of my business! I don’t want to look at you during a meeting and think, “I wonder if she managed to hit the target today!” No. Just…. just NO!

5) “Last night, my girlfriend/boyfriend/favorite farm animal…” if the rest of that sentence isn’t “tried this FABULOUS restaurant that you’re going to love. Here, let me give you the info!” then so help me, titty-fucking jesus, I will cough on you. Right. On. Your. Face. Which brings us to…

6) “Ew. Are you *sick*?! Why don’t you go home?!” No, I sneeze because periodically, during the day, my nose gets bored and I like for her to do some serious cardio. And I’m WORKING because if I try working from home, you’ll cut my hours. I get PAID by the hour. Mama isn’t nearly as cute when she’s POOR. Then, she ends up starting crazy ass blogs and shit, and forcing people to be her friends. WHO WANTS THAT, I ASK YOU?!?!

And now, onto the lighter side. Here is a list of things you absolutely CAN say to me at any point in the day:

1) You’re getting a raise.

2) I’m going to get you your favorite drink.

3) We’re going to toast to your raise with your favorite drink.

4) You look *so* pretty today.

5) Yes of COURSE you should blog at work! I can’t believe you even asked me that!

…I think you see where this is going, workplace colleagues. You have your guidance. Go forth and do great things!

 

28 Comments »

Little Treasures

This weekend, as with the previous one, we drove up to NYC. We packed baby, mommy, and daddy into the car, tossed in whatever crap we thought we could possibly need for the next three days, and headed off into the sunset.

And as with last weekend, my mom bid us a tearful farewell, her parting words: “Take. Your. Shit.”

See, my mom is the worst kind of hoarder; the kind who buys shit FOR OTHER PEOPLE. Did you want that hand-knit sweater that reads “Liam”? Because it’s YOURS, even if you named your son “Max.” Long white dress with ruffles at the bottom? Well, guess your son will be one kick-ass drag queen in day care, n’est pas?

My guy and I shake our heads, but we take each item and thank her, because her feelings are easily hurt…. and because no matter how many times we tell her to PLEASE don’t buy us silly crap we don’t need, we’re always greeted at the door with more bags.

Bags and bags and bags and bags….

Hoarder.

But this weekend, hidden deep inside one paper bag with a handle that threatened to rip and toss contents all over the street, deep in this bag was a small box. It’s not one of those cigar boxes that used to be so popular. Honestly, I’m not sure where I got it from, but that’s kind of ok, too.

After seven hours of driving, I had forgotten all about it until we got home and that stupid bag finally ripped. Out fell the little wooden box, with one hinge holding on for dear life. We put Max to bed, I checked on my work email, and I sat down to look through the contents of a childhood treasure chest.

Worthless little knicknacks, Garbage Pail kids cards, foreign stamps, and a few folded letters tumbled out. I would be completely justified in throwing it all away. Who really wants this picture of me when I’m 9 years old? It’s blurry, and I look ridiculous in my poncho (seriously, mom? I know it was the late 1980’s, but you could have put SOME effort into styling me!). And this letter I kept from a friend’s mom who wrote to me when I was in summer camp? She died almost 10 years ago, and her son has since grown up and moved away. Why bother with it all? I hate little cluttery things, and I don’t need these…

…but, I have a horrible memory. I do. Sometimes, it’s so bad that I get a little scared. People seem to recall things that I’ve long forgotten. And even though this box doesn’t bring back any specific memories, it reminds me of being younger. When things were, at once, more simple and infinitely more complex. I had no agency, no control over my future. I had no real understanding of why my parents divorced, and I didn’t know how to manage my mom and her rage that followed. There’s a meticulously written letter from my father to me when I first went to camp at age 9. He talks about going to camp when he was a small boy. The trees and birds… and looking back, knowing what I know of his childhood and how hard it was, I think that it must have been bittersweet to write about a time in his life he would never relive. Just as it is for me to read it now, sitting in my living room, as my son falls asleep upstairs.

This was a time long before I was bullied in junior high, before high school where I met the kid whom I would still wonder about (he’s not on FB, or we all know I would totally stalk the SHIT out of him!), before college, where I would learn so much about who I am, and before 9/11 and the resonating echoes on my life. It’s good, and it’s hard, and I wish I could go back, and I’m so glad I’m not there. I miss my dog, and I don’t miss my hair (big, poofy, terrifying!).

I’ll keep the box of little treasures. I won’t toss it. I’ll let it collect dust, and I’ll open it again from time to time. It’s sitting next to me right now; my little time capsule, my window into my past. Maybe one day my son will open it. He’ll look through the unanswered letters from penpals that they made us write in school. He’ll wonder why I have old stamps, or who these kids are in these old pictures. Maybe he’ll toss them. He probably will. They’re just little knicknacks after all, and they really mean nothing. Or maybe he’ll have a box of his own. A little treasure chest to store all those precious childhood dreams and touchstones. I don’t know. This silly little thing. Not worth $5 to anyone.

So why am I sitting here, crying?

11 Comments »

I Will Devour Your Soul…. and make you clean it out of my diaper.

Max is teething. Hmmm… how do I explain what this is like to people who may not have children. Well, a baby, delightful, full of joy, is supposed to look like this:

Image

My Max looks more like this:

Image

*I will haunt your motherfucking DREAMS*

We, geniuses that my husband and I are, figured this out yesterday after Max spent an entire day screaming, sleeping, and then his fever spiked to 102. He wouldn’t eat, and as much as he wanted to play, all he could manage to do was nurse in between fitful bouts of sleeping in my arms.

It was really sad. My poor angel!

…and then, nighttime came.

On Thursday mornings, I have an 8:30am meeting, because the US government fucking HATES it when I sleep. So, naturally, last night Max was up until 3:30am SCREAMING. My husband tried to be the loving father and helpful husband, and took Max downstairs to soothe him, while I tried to get some rest.

I’ll give you a minute to ponder exactly how well that went.

And the WORST part is that you can’t even BITCH about it (that’s right… this isn’t even CLOSE to me in full-on bitch-mode!), because he’s SUFFERING…

Let me tell you a little something about suffering, ok? Sleep deprivation is a form of TORTURE; teething is NOT. Mama’s not cute when she’s a hot mess, all tired and can’t even fucking BLOG properly. And what kind of fucking evolution comes up with the idea of, “oh! I know! JUST as the baby starts sleeping through the night, JAGGED PIECES OF BONE WILL COME *BURSTING* THROUGH HIS GUMS! Yeah…. I’m so awesome right now…”

I hate you, evolution. Go fuck yourself.

So, he’s asleep now. I want to do some writing, I want to read other peoples’ blogs, and I want to eat the entire box of oreos my husband brought home as our “emergency supplies” prior to the Snow-Storm-We-Didn’t-Get.

………………………and in the middle of my meeting, I realized my sweater was on backwards.

Whatever. At least I had my pants on. 

29 Comments »

Fucking Blog Herpes

I was going to write a post about the time I had to be physically removed from the local animal shelter, because I flung my body onto a pile of cats, but then one of my favorite bloggers nominated me for The Liebster award, which, because it does not come with a cash prize, means nothing to me.

Legit. I tried to call American Express and tell them I won this award, so they should stop having bill collectors call me, and they pimp-slapped me through the phone and told me to stop crying, and bring them their cash-money. GANGSTAH!

Anyway, now I have blog-herpes, and so I must pass it along. Here we go; shit just got real:

Image

The Liebster Blog Award.

The rules for the Liebster Award are very simple: You are required to thank the person who nominated you, answer the 11 question they have asked you, nominate 11 other people and ask them 11 questions in return. According to the guidelines the Liebster award should be sent to bloggers with less than 200 followers so that new bloggers can see how awesome they are!

So thank you, Project Soutsea. Despite giving me a writing assignment tonight, I will continue to read your blog and laugh at your drunken stories, because you make the funnies.

My 11 Answers:

1. What made you start blogging?: My friend who had a hook up for a potential writing gig, but I had no online materials, so she told me to blog. I still don’t have the gig, but this is cathartic for me, and much more legal than drinking heavily at my desk.

2. Honestly, how many other blogs do you read regularly?: Good question… regularly? Probably about 15. If someone comments on my blog, I make every effort to reciprocate, because it means so much to me.

3. Presently, what do you do for a living?: I’m a Project Manager. I know… SUPER exciting.

4. What is your dream career?: Ugh, it sounds so cliche, but yeah…. like everyone else up here, I’d love to be paid to be a writer.

5. If you could have dinner with any 3 people, living or dead, who would you choose?: My grandfather Max, who lived in Paris and traveled the world. Stephen King, because he should know that he once wrote this scene in a book that was so gruesome, I actually passed out in the NYC subway. And my step-father; I’d tell him we miss him, and even though I love him, I resent him for dying so early. Then I would show him pictures of my son for the rest of dinner.

6. When was the last time you tried something new, and what did you do?: So… does having a baby count? Because, 8 months ago. But before that, I don’t know… the hubs and I went to South America, and went swimming with dolphins. I was all fat and pregnant. It wasn’t pretty, honestly…

7. What is your favourite film of all time?: Seriously? Seriously. Look, I realize you’re British, but you misspelled “favorite.” I mean, it’s cool, cuz we’re friends and all… anyway, it’s a three-way tie: Star Wars, Shrek, and Serenity. Star Wars is AMAZING, but hella long. Shrek is HILARIOUS, and Serenity answered SOME of my questions left from Firefly, but not all.

8. You can punch one celebrity in face without reprisal. Who would it be?: They’re not really worth my time. There’s that 16 year old girl who married that old dude, and now she’s constantly half naked in photos or something… I’d beat the shit out of her parents, because WTF?! SERIOUSLY?! She’s SIXTEEN, guys! Whatever. Enjoy eternity in hell.

9. If you could go 10 years into the future and ask yourself one question only, what would it be?: Are you gonna eat that?

10. How much money would it take for you to kill a puppy with a sledgehammer?: First of all, I fucking LOVE that you asked a question like this. You’re insane. Secondly, and I’m being completely honest, I don’t think I could. MAYBE if our financial situation were so bad that we couldn’t afford food for our son…. but as it is, I would be a wreck. You’d know that if you had LET ME WRITE MY POST ABOUT KITTIES!!!

11. What is your favourite swear word?: You misspelled “favorite” again!! And this is tough… There’s “Jesus-titty fucking-Christ,” or “Holy cunting G-dfuck.” Because that last one turns cunt into a verb. Also, I hate the word cunt… I don’t know why.

Done? Are we done? Ugh, thank G-D!! Ok, here are my nominations:

It’s Ames – she’s where I go to feel normal and well balanced… and to talk about mutual stalking on FB.

Words for Worms – this is a bit of a cop out, because she’s BRILLIANT and hilarious and amazing, and the whole point of this is to find other bloggers with fewer than 200 followers, and she has 196…. SO SHE STILL COUNTS!! She’s awesome. Read her shizz.

Hoodwinked is raw, and sweet, and funny. Sometimes I laugh, and sometimes I almost get into car accidents, because I’m trying to read a post on my phone while sitting in my car at a stop light. Stop writing good stuff, and I’ll stop endangering other motorists in the DMV area!

errinspelling writes haikus, but I swear they’re funny as shit! I like to read them aloud to my cats… they pretend they don’t appreciate it, but I know they’re just lying assholes.

A Prayer Like Gravity – some people are so talented it makes you want to slap them, and then rub up against their leg like a cat and be their friend. This blog is one of them. In particular, I STRONGLY recommend you read Bone Soup, Standing, and Bone Dance. They’re dark, soft, and stirring. You know, if you like good writing, or whatever. 

Blowing off Steam – do you cook? Me neither. Let’s all stare in wonder at people who know what the shit a crockpot does.

Shenrydafrankmann is funny, wistful, rude, and reserved. All at once, or maybe none of those at all. But I’m pretty sure he knows where I live, so read his blog, or he’ll post pictures of me eating ice-cream.

HOW does My Gay Mom not have more than 200 followers?! WHY ARE YOU NOT READING THIS HILARIOUSNESS?! You’re doing life wrong right now. Go read. I’ll wait.

Done? Ok. Let’s keep going. I don’t have all night for this shit.

Punky found me via The Bloggess. It may be mutual stalking, which I think is technically legal. Whatever… I’m like the ONE Jew who has no lawyer friends, so I can’t be entirely sure.

I have no idea what sort of silly fuckery is going on here, but suffice it to say: it’s a woman and her cow.

Read the trials and tribulations of a woman who gets married, has a family, realizes her partner is abusive, leaves said partner, has at least one awesome son who gets dressed up in a dress to make people laugh, and drinks lots of tea. The mom, not the son. Though, maybe he does, too? I’m not sure. Maybe if enough people follow her, she can take pix of her son drinking tea, if you’re into that. Anyway, she’s here.

And because I’m an asshole, more awesome people are here, and here.

 

But here is your bonus: I used to be on Tumblr…. I guess because I thought I was a 17 year old fitness blogger or something? I don’t know. I had just had a human cut from my loins. Anyway, I stumbled (TUMBLD?! Bah ha ha ha…. ok, sorry), across one of the most amazing writers I have ever seen. She’s working on getting published. She wrote a TINY piece that stuck in my brain, and will probably live there until I die. I’m not doing it justice, but it went something like:

“She was a Cancer, who didn’t know she didn’t have to be fatal.” – OMFG SOME PEOPLE ARE SO TALENTED I WANT TO SLAP THEM, THEN LOCK THEM IN MY BASEMENT AND MAKE THEM BE MY FRIEND. She’s here. Trust me, you need this.

OK! Now MY fun!!!

 

My 11 Questions:

1. What made you start blogging?:

2. You have one month, unlimited funds, and zero repercussions; what do you do?:

3. What is your Spirit Animal? (Hint: does not have to be a REAL animal. Second Hint: Cannot be me):

4. Remember that one thing you did that you hoped nobody would ever find out about? Go ahead and tell that story now, mkay?:

5. If you could have dinner with any 3 people, living or dead, who would you choose?:

6. When was the last time you tried something new, and what did you do?:

7. What is your favorite film of all time?:

8. Favorite book(s) of all time?:

9. If you could go 10 years into the past and tell yourself one thing, what would it be?:

10. I’m thinking of taking a vacation; where should I go?:

11. Best reason you called in sick to work, when you weren’t actually sick at all?:

 

Congrats to the nominees! I may or may not inform you you were nominated, because I am very sleepy, and I have already done a lot of work on this post. Meh, I’ll probably do it tomorrow.

43 Comments »

Humans Are Weird

colourful observations

rarasaur

frightfully wondrous things happen here.

1pointperspective

NOT just another WordPress.com site

AmyReeseWrites

Stories, poems, photos, and bumbles for the soul

Cinema Parrot Disco

Musings on Mainly Movies from a Table 9 Mutant

Skinny Jeans & Cupcakes

Fashionably Fit While Ballin' on a Budget

The Dirty Dame

Penny for your dirty thoughts?

Fiction Favorites

with John W. Howell

006.7 EKGO

a blogful of stories

mlewisredford

may the Supreme and Precious Jewel Bodhichitta take birth where it has not yet done so; where it has taken birth may it not decrease, but may it increase infinitely ...

Bain Waves

The world is hurting; laugh more.

Sweet Mother

Where my Old writing lives!

Free Range Cow

The adventures and roamings of a silly cow

bakingnotwriting

A site by a writer who is baking...or a baker who isn't writing

Pucker Up Buttercup

Wisdom and Nonsense. Mostly Nonsense ...

I Won't Take It

Life After an Emotionally Abusive Relationship

slimegreen

By Punky Coletta

Genext13

Bits and pieces of me. (not as gross as it sounds)