… and here I am.

... here I am. Ahhh yes... how smooth it is to have a direct flight but then... something always goes wonky.

First, lemme establish that OF COURSE life can always be worse and that being stuck in an airport is not the most catastrophic of events that could happen. I know this, but I am gonna complain, anyway.

Second, my butt hurts. Even buttocks as colossal as mine cannot withstand the form of a carry-on suitcase for too long.

Third, oh why oh why must it take forever for a pair of Bluetooth headphones to charge? Furthermore, with the advent of such extreme technology, why for won't the headphones play while they are charging?

Fourth of all, I would like for the food shops to deliver food to me. I do not want to stand up and lose my outlet... I have prime seating here behind the trash and recycle bins. I have two outlets and a huge pillar to lean back against! If I am stuck in an airport, I could not ask for a whole lot more...

Fifth, it would be grand to be back in the 80's and still a smoker. I would sit right here while writing this post and smoke a cigarette. I no longer smoke and I won't ever again until I am diagnosed to die, but man now would be a good time to puff on a Marlboro Menthol Light!!

SIXTH and finally. How appropriate that I am currently reading a national bestseller titled Station Eleven, a novel by Emily St. John Mandel.


Just read it, if you have time... and maybe you'll get why I find it "ironic" to be stuck in an airport itching to finish this novel. How blessed I am to be waiting for a replacement aircraft to arrive. I actually have time to read for fun!


So here I sit… procrastinating.

Yeah. So why not get something out of my procrastination, like... a blog post. This, too, shall serve as preparation for the tasks I do not wish to complete today...

Today is the day I must start my Integrated Literature Review paper. Oh yeah, a paper, not a biggie, but recall (if you will or can [busted?] my front page and how I say:

Woo-Hoo! It's my bloggie and I can blog how I want to! I feel FREE not having to abide by the rules of formal writing and APA.

So much work! And so many rules and criteria and formalities and commas and parenthesis and periods and semicolons and colons and capitalizations and dates and authors and citations. Oh sure, it's my literature review paper but I cannot write how I want to! 

So I should suck it up, of course, because let's be real; it's damn paper. It's not the removal of one of my limbs or revocation of my birthday or mother status. I've not been given terminal cancer and told to shut up and deal, it's nothing more than a stupid paper. And still, my butt hurts just thinking about all that damn sitting... (insert cry-baby emoji here, RIGHT THERE [that was from DB #3, for those who caught it]).

So let's do this. Let's go for a quick walk, get the tanning salon out of the way (yes, of course I know it's bad for me, just like smokers and crack-heads know smoking and crack is bad for them), shower, eat, and get that paper going. Just do it.

Finally, was there a point to this post? Absolutely not. I simply wanted to snuggle up in a space that makes me feel cozy and spend constructive time with my procrastination.

Please, let's spread the misery!

Comment and share with me your procrastination story... No judgments, really!

Boggie Darkin’

There are many things I would like to never forget. My heart hurts many times when one of my kids tells a story and I can not remember it. I totally fear dementia. It is one of the ugliest human afflictions. I hope that myself and my loved ones will never have to deal with it first hand, especially early on-set. Tragic.

I like making a record of things that have fixated on my brain... I hope that I will never lose them, but just in case, I'm gonna write this shit down.

So this one time, a long time ago, when I was approximately 14 and my sister was not quite 3, I was babysitting. I did so much of that in those days, being 12 years older than her, living in the middle of mountainous no-where in the 80's and ultimately because that's what my dad and my step-mother desired, save money and let the bratty, disgruntled teen take care of the baby. So, one night, most likely in the summer, my sister and I were returning back from a walk or some such adventure. She was running up the deck stairs toward the door when, in the valley, (if you've ever lived in mountains that surround a valley, you KNOW that a dog barking 5 miles away sounds like a dog barking next door when the wind is just right) a dog started barking. Our dogs half-heartedly barked back, which caught my sister's attention. She stopped and listened as the valley-dog continued to bark. She turned to me, still on the steps with her little blond hair framing her face, of which was pulled into an expression of wonder, and said, "Do you hear that? Do you hear that? Do you hear the boggies darkin'?" She furrowed her brow slightly after this came out of her mouth, and tried again, "Do you hear the boggies darkin'??" I was starting to laugh inside as I approached her, mostly because she looked worried at this point, especially as she continued to attempt to make her speech match her thought. She tried again, a couple more times, but to no avail, it didn't come out right. I finally said, "Doggies barkin'?" And she looked relieved, and exclaimed that was it, repeating it over and over again, "Doggies barkin', doggies barkin'..."

Dunno why, but that is one of those memories that has stuck vividly with me. I am so flattered to have witnessed my sister's first ever spoonerism!




a verbal error in which a speaker accidentally transposes the initial sounds or letters of two or more words, often to humorous effect, as in the sentence you have hissed the mystery lectures, accidentally spoken instead of the intended sentence you have missed the history lectures.

I have absolutely no idea where to begin.

So I sit here, and like a scene from so many literary movies, I watch my cursor blink within this blank space-box. I have no idea what to say or where to start. Additionally, I am not sure that I even possess the energy (or talent!) to post ANYTHING substantial. Ever.

So lemme just start with bitching. I am good at that. And reasoning. I am good at reasoning, too, especially as a by-standing witness to bullshit (BS). But one thing at a time.


When one refers to somebody as “bitching,” I visualize the bitcher as being a person who is inappropriate and not worthy. Like, I almost feel as though the very act of bitching is self-demeaning. Regardless of how much self-perceived self-dignity I try to maintain, I am a bitcher and a behind-the-scenes one at that. Do you see? I come to a BLOG to bitch, where I am safe behind my MacBook (judging? For a Macbook book? C’mon, world, deal already!) all snuggly in the confines of my cozy, little home.

So then I wonder if being a behind-the-scenes bitcher goes hand in hand with cowardice? *gasp* Collectively, as humans, we like to visualize ourselves as mighty, with brave, astounding integrity, and words of wisdom that change all who we come in contact with for the better… but do many of us question whether or not WE REALLY ARE ONLY COWARDS? How disappointing to have to consider that truth.

Yeah, it’s likely that I am cowardly, especially as a behind-the-scenes-bitcher. I’ll own that, especially because I prefer to deter conflict. I do not want to fight and I certainly don’t have time or energy to explain myself to another moronic human being. Blah.

So, I’ll blog-rant what I really want to say. Like so many others. I don’t expect to be special, either. However, I would like to reach somebody, at least SOMEBODY, and help them feel just a little LESS crazy, heartless or psychotic.


I am just tired. And I love Desperate Housewives.

Nothing more to say tonight than, I’m just tired. I am so tired. Work was hard and long and ridiculously busy. I have wondered often how, just HOW, are there are so many sick people in one small town!?

I also wonder what motivates patients to feel that certain ailments are worthy of an expensive healthcare visit. I don’t understand. I don’t understand the forces that drive healthcare to become what it has, especially in the U.S. (actually, I do, money, of course, and insurance companies). Additionally, I feel as though I am required to ensure that each patient has the best visit possible, like, 5-star rating quality. I understand offering compassion and advocating for patients, but really? I am not there to supply you with an endless stash of warm towels and crackers. *sigh* I am just tired.

Ugh. It’s connected to the mental health disparity, I believe. The U.S. has so many citizens who are mentally ill and are not, and will not ever be able to, receive proper treatment. It’s ugly, folks. Mental illness isn’t always about extreme cases (schizophrenia, mania, etc.), either. Depression and anxiety are enough to cripple a person, especially if they are not familiar with how to advocate for themselves OR advocate for a BETTER self.

Ugh. It’s nights like these where I am tapped out and completely empty that I turn to mindless tv, like Desperate Housewives. I have no idea why, but I can binge watch that series anytime, anywhere!