Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

 Exploiting yourself in the name of writing (I like the ring to that): not as satisfying as you’d think. As a woman (didn’t think I’d ever use that phrase), I should keep my age and my secrets to moi, but I’m so hopelessly boring that I have to dig up dirt on myself (in lieu of my own psychoanalysis. As my friend Ray would say, “this is going nowhere”).  My mother called me to ask “you’re not quitting writing, are you?” with the same tone as if she’d asked if I was drinking again (how did my past and present become this diametrically opposed? (Hemingway operated a typewriter and held his liquor quite well)). I hadn’t planned such, but what are plans (? In regard to goals); if you produce no work people may as well assume you’ve hit the bottle again (except in infancy, I never really drank from a bottle per se)…I don’t like being stereotyped, but my little square peg does fit in the little square hole (can a hole be square?), however unique and original I think I am (the traile...

 I wasn’t born on the bayou, but I do live on the water (and my sobriety is kind of a rebirth) and I have taken advantage of the river’s splendors: fishing, boating, watching the sunrise from the dock (the ocean is east). But not anymore. The boating was tied up with drinking,  and the fishing was a boredom killer and probably some act to impress guys (I do not relish taking a fish off a hook. Especially big ones. And the river is full of fat squirmy catfish). So the river is there, but I pretty much ignore it. So I had to travel to greener pastures and try fishing on the ocean.  We booked a half day with Sea Spirit charter fishing in Ponce Inlet, me, John, and my brother. Really it was my brothers idea (thank you!), and John seconded that, and I was curious (always looking for an antidote to my chronic boredom). The sucky part is that you have to get up really early to be there by 6:15 am, and I am not a morning person anymore (hence no more sunrises). But we managed, an...

 I just wanna write. That’s all I really wanna do. Cause my other addictions don’t seem to be working for me. My mother is a bit worried about all the coffee I drink: “Do you know what all that coffee will do to you? (Major exclamation point).” She acts as if I was mixing ammonia and bleach, and assumes I’m pounding Red Bulls on top of the Joe. Nooo,  but I’m an addict, and everybody knows we lie (and since I’m a woman I am inherently diabolical). I think as a recovering alcoholic it’s my right to consume as many cups of coffee as I so desire (and my right as a writer to make you read this shit), because to me AA actually condones that kind of caffeine abuse, and because what else can I do? …and that mindset is the problem. As a drunk, the only logical thing to do was drink, even though there are other worthwhile activities, which are not fun if you’re not a little more than buzzed (a semi sloppy energetic kind of drunk)…talk about tunnel vision with drunk goggles and Double V...

 It is Monday March 16, and it is officially one year since I started this blog (Hooray (for me)) with a post called Rainy Days and Sundays, which looking back I’m not sure what that was about, other than at that time I was reading a funny book by Jerry Stahl about the holocaust (yeah. Don’t judge me or him) and trying to be romantic and funny, and it was a rainy Sunday, but I was trying to reference a certain Karen Carpenter song.  Are you already thinking, is this going to be long? (Maybe).  Because “I’ve been thinking too much” (twenty one pilots). About writing, and about my place in this world (and this trailer park. Got the trailer park blues), and why I practice this art that I’m not sure anybody reads (while you’re here you should browse our great selection!). Yeah, I just have that much integrity (maybe just the “grit” part). Sure. At Rehab we had to dissect the song Dog Days Are Over by Florence and the Machine. I’m not sure what that was about (my own dog days...

 We went to the Turn tonight to see the band, something we sometimes do on the weekend, cause we get bored and we like loud music and it’s right across the street. If you know Allendale, then you know that there are several bars in the area, two of which are in walking distance (I wrote a post about the Boat), and this bar used to be called the First Turn, then it changed hands and became the Turn, a name I like; John doesn’t (he says it’s unoriginal. If you’re going to buy a bar at least come up with a new name. I think it’s a nice homage). However, it’s a good music venue and the food is pretty good, and it’s outside…so we can smoke (I had to say it). We usually get cokes (I always wonder if John ever gets the hankering for a hard beverage, but he seems content with soda; but we used to get Long Island iced teas over there). Anyways, I am a coffee freak, and I’ve never ordered one there because I assumed they didn’t have it, and thought it would be a bother, and thought it would ...

 I am passionate about pancakes. It’s true. My dad jokes that I eat with my eyes (like I could read a cookbook and I’d be full), but I truly enjoy food. Especially now that I’m sober; might as well be fat and happy (but not too fat. I’ll settle for a big Spanish butt). I grew up eating pancakes. My old babysitter would make them with food colored smiley faces. Small children enjoy things like that (I wish I could go back to those days when a pancake smiley really made me smile). The flavor of a pancake was heavenly to me. I know it’s all syrup anyways (the more the merrier).  Hence I grew to like any bready breakfast food with syrup, like French toast and waffles, and learned to make them when I got older. At the bed and breakfast I worked at straight out of college, the manager made waffles literally every day. She had her own secret recipe that made them extra crispy and fluffy (I’m going to divulge: bisquik, ice water, and heavy cream. I tried making them at home…didn’t wor...