Therapy

"Try not to think of yourself as that other Allison," she said. "Think of yourself as the 47-year-old Allison who has her shit together."

Today's writing

The last time I was here, we’d just come from the Indian restaurant. We were barely speaking at that point. I’d just wanted some coffee. The boys probably wanted to throw me in the ocean. Looking back on it, I can’t blame them.

 

What led us to that? I think that and then I just really want to throttle myself. What indeed. Like I didn’t know? Like I wasn’t there? It was nothing dramatic and interesting like James or me cheating. Nothing too bad like Jax taking up shoplifting or beating the shit out of his fellow students. No, this was garden-variety daily bullshit that built up like plaque, a plague, upon us all. Mornings I woke up late and raging, hand to window, foot to wall. Broken glass and shattered stucco crowded and clouded at my feet; I was a regular at the ER. Each time I was there they asked me about the cuts. “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing.”

The day I found out

When I learned I was pregnant I was thinner than I'd ever been as an adult. I was a bike rider, and I was getting better with each push of the pedal. I was eyeing clothes in boutiques I'd never dared consider. I fit into Abercrombie dresses. Size medium.

When I learned I was pregnant I side-eyed the test. I didn't outwardly react. I might have raised an eyebrow. That was about it.

When I learned I was pregnant I shook. It wasn't fear. It was excitement.

Dream

I was cursing out my parents hard. I woke up chortling.

Plans

I'm taking time off teaching and coaching to promote the book. This isn't happening for a few months, but I've begun making arrangements. It feels real. It feels right.

Smiles

 

Baz's prose poem

Toy store. And bookstore. Target. CVS pharmacy. Toys. Tell me about the toy store. Good. Nice. Fun. Of the toy store. There was toys. There was fire trucks. Cars. At the pharmacy. Chevrolets. And SWATs. And new ones. Tankers. Farmland. Oil tanker. Farmland again. Oil tanker again. That’s all the words.

Today's writing

Saint Orres comes as a possibility, a promise. It’s a word whispered on a drifting wind, something delicate and dancing. Most of all, it’s a chance to get the fuck out of Hippie Dodge, to breathe air polluted solely by us. We’d gone years ago when Jax was just a baby. He was six months old the day that we pulled up to the Sea Pines cabin and placed him on the bed wearing his tuxedo onesie. We took pictures the way we always took pictures, phones waving through the air, entreating a smile from a kid who didn’t know the meaning of the word. But somehow it worked. He grinned and we flashed and memories were made. His first taste of ice cream was at Cowlicks in Fort Bragg. Mushroom ice cream. Because of course. I can still see that selfie we took of the three of us – yes, I have been known to use words like selfie – us looking at him, him looking at the cone as if it was the answer to all of life’s questions. Magic like that.

Today's writing

 When I get home James is sprawled out on the couch with a book in one hand and his iPad in the other. “Double duty?”

 

“I get bored easily,” he says.

 

“I’ve noticed. Care to help?” I’m juggling several canvas bags’ worth of groceries – no plastic bags here, no paper – and he hasn’t seen fit to shag his ass up to grab at least one of them. It’s not his fault, at least not the way that any of our natures are at fault. It’s not fault. It simply is, and at some point we either accept or continue to fight.

 

Too often I choose the latter. Maybe I shouldn’t say too often. I’m a fighter; it’s baked into my bones and boiled into my blood. Maybe it’s not my fault that makes me a pain in the ass.

As seen on Facebook

 

Recollections

I was interviewed yesterday. The guy who did it reminded me of someone else. It wasn't his fault. I didn't hate him. But I could have. 

Pay attention to ME!

 

Recent writing

Espola Road leads us to Interstate 15. The freeways of Southern California, so entangled in the landscape as to almost reach a quality of myth. People place their lives in these concrete-and-metal hands on daily commutes, road trips, jaunts to the beach where they lie in the sand and bitch about nothing.

We’re headed to La Jolla Cove. I’m sure we could get there without getting on the freeway itself, but Tom’s not quite convinced that the city streets are the way to go. “If you want to get there any time soon,” he said, “you’re going to have to deal with it.”

 

He’s not being cruel. Just matter of fact. I finger my seatbelt, adjust my sunglasses, turn the radio up slightly. “Radio Song,” he says. “REM.”

 

“Yup.” He’s getting better with the acronyms.

 

Tom and I met freshman year. We didn’t like each other at first. That should have been my first clue that I would eventually love him. I had yet to learn that my closest relationships would all start this way, with disdain. Something about someone would put me off. That something was the possibility of love.

I should listen to more of these people

Joni Mitchell
Cat Stevens
John Prine
Stevie Wonder 

By night

I watch Baz fall asleep, his eyes rolling back in his head. We stare at each other until he's out. 

Happy New Year!

I'm a little late to this party, but happy 2022! May your dreams serve you well and happiness be afoot more often than not.