A Hitchin’


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In six (five?) days, on Christmas Day, I will be doing something I’ve never done before.

I will be performing a wedding ceremony.

Yep. Wow.

What started out as a joke ( originally involving sloth and unicorn masks) and entirely my fault soon snowballed into me becoming ordained online and legit agreeing to marry my co-workers.

(I’d also like to add that they couldn’t find anyone willing to marry them on Christmas Day)

And I’m low-key freaking out.

I keep asking her if there’s something special she wants said or done, and all she’s given me is “no opportunities to object”.

I get it. She just wants to get married, legally. I completely understand. But when I do something… I overthink and over complicate to the point of making it harder than it should be.

But I really want to do a good job, and leave them with good memories of the day. Not just an exchange of rings.

So I’m trying to write out something sweet and heartfelt to say, and find the proper vows to make it beautiful.

I’m also extremely nervous about speaking in front of people I don’t know. Lol

Wish me luck!

Love you Haley and Nick!



Valid Photo Identification


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Things I’ve Learned in Customer Service

  1. Everyone has their own definition of what a “valid photo ID” is
  2. People’s moods vary based on season
  3. Everyone is entitled
  4. Situations can go differently than you assumed.
  5. You learn to know which customers will give you crap, and you avoid arguments.
  6. Sometimes people learn
  7. Sometimes people refuse to learn
  8. There actually are still people who don’t know our return policy
  9. People send a lot of money
  10. There are customers you look forward to seeing!


Music Monday


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Where I take the last song played on my iPod and explain why it’s there.

I’m trying to get back into blogging. I’m doing this, somewhat poorly, by trying to come up with daily features, giving me something anything to post.

Today’s post is “Music Monday”. The last song played on my iPod was, as you can see, P!nk’s “What About Us”.

I have long been a fan of P!nk. The first album of hers I ever bought was “Missundaztood” (I had to look at that three times to spell it as it appears on the cd art). It was also the first CD I owned with explicit content. I pretty well kept it on repeat for ages.

P!nk has an amazing voice, a voice like no one else’s. She can do with that voice literally anything she wants. If I had the power to borrow anyone’s voice, it would be hers, if only to sound amazing while singing in the shower.

When I learned that she had a new album out it was immediately on my “must buy” list. I hadn’t bought one of her albums in a while, and I needed this one, I knew that simply by listening to snippets of one or two songs.

I did however purchase “Rose Ave”, the album she put together with Dallas Green, under the name You+Me. In fact I preordered it. I highly recommend it as well. It was also on repeat, my kid liked it while I was pregnant. Serious (might have been because I sang along, and I’m TERRIBLE).

So basically, the reason “What About Us” is on my iPod is because P!nk made it and it’s amazing. Every song on that album is well done, from the title track “Beautiful Trama” (have you seen the video with Channing Tatum? No? Well, You Need To) to the one we can all agree with, “Barbies”.

I like to play “What About Us” when I’m driving alone, mostly so I can belt it out with full power, and not destroy anyone else’s ear drums.

If you haven’t heard “What About Us” (video Here) or the rest of P!nk’s “Beautiful Trauma” album, it’s available on iTunes.


Death and Life


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My aunt passed away yesterday.

My daughter’s 3rd birthday party was today.

The funeral is the same day as my child’s birthday.

My aunt never got to meet my daughter. The last time I saw or spoke to her was at my grandmother’s (her mom) funeral. It was 2 years before I got pregnant.

The distance wasn’t because of any disagreement, disappointment, or dislike. It was Life.

Life gets in the way of everything.

As a child, I went to see family when my mom took me. Now that I’m an adult and a parent, I work, and it’s hard to take time off to see family. And I hate it.

I love my aunt. She was the oldest of six children, my mom being the second oldest. Their father, my grandfather, passed away twenty years ago, my grandmother, five.

My aunt lost her husband, who’d she’d been with for many many years, to lung cancer two years ago. She was never the same.

Now they’re all together. My grandparents, my aunt, and my uncle.

I like to imagine all the people I’ve lost, from my grandpa (the first death to shake me) to my aunt today, all up there, where ever there is, greeting each other with friendly hugs and bright smiles, happy to see each other again. Because they aren’t sad, sick, suffering anymore. Whatever anyone believes, THIS I’m sure of.

Rest In Peace, aunt Portia. You are missed.


Official Announcement


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Also yes. I am back.

I’d like to officially announce my candidacy for president.

Haha. No. Seriously you couldn’t pay me enough…

As you might be able to tell, I am (actually) officially announcing the long awaited sequel to Black Friday: A Zombie Story!

Due to a recent surge in interest, mostly by the people around me, I have decided to ride the newfound popularity like it’s the cow jumping over the moon. Also people have been asking.

I think I’ve been avoiding it all these long years because I didn’t think it would ever get as much attention as the original, or that I could please people they way I didn’t with BF:AZS.

But the recent attention as brought the story, and how it ended back into my mind and my heart. And I want to make people happy.

The only problem is figuring out the logistics! With the plot and ending of the first one, how in Bob’s name are gonna open up a new chapter?!

But I’m sure gonna try!

Stay tuned for updates, you can find most here:

Crashdlanding: The Facebook Page


Death Defying


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Following is a short preview of something I’ve been working on for a short while.

Chapter One

Death Comes in Many Forms

One year, three months, two weeks, and two days since they left me. No. since they were taken from me. The bitterly cold, unforgiving hand of Death stole them from me, that rainy night down a dark highway. That was the night He took my life, but didn’t end it. And He still refuses to end it. He’s a spiteful son of a gun. But so am I.

When I’d told people I thought I’d seen Death, they laughed at me, thought I was joking. I had a habit of saying and doing things to make people laugh. Especially her.

But we were at the park, one evening. The sun was starting to set, and shadows were growing long as she played. Her name was Lucy.

My husband and her father, Dan, pushed her on the swing as I watched and smiled. I loved to see them play, it was one of my happiest places. I checked the time and stood up from the bench. It was getting late and I knew she was tired. Heck, I was tired.

I began to walk in their direction, when I saw movement from the corner of my eye. Darn peripheral vision, it’s not perfect and can play tricks on you. I remember a vague blackness with no concrete shape. I turned my head to see it better, a quick glance to my right. All I saw in the direction I looked was a figure slowly walking away. “Huh,” I said aloud.

“What is it?” Dan called out as gleeful Lucy smiled in the swing.

“I thought I saw something.” I told him. “Must be going blind.” I laughed. I felt a cold chill raise goosebumps on my upper arms, and turned again. The person had stopped, was looking over their shoulder, they had a hood up, and no face.

I must have turned ghostly white. “Honey are you okay?” Dan asked, he’d stopped the swing and Lucy was staring at us.

I swallowed hard, shoving down the sudden fear so I could speak. “Yeah,” I whispered. I cleared my throat. “Yes. I uh I’m just tired.”

We silently agreed to go, and he pulled Lucy out of her swing and held her. She didn’t throw her usual “but I wanna play forever” fit. She reached for me instead, opting to be carried instead of walk. Without protest we got her in the car and buckled in her car seat. I kissed her on the head and before I pulled away, she put her hands in my face. “You okay, mom?” She asked.

“Yeah, baby,” I smiled. “Mommy’s okay.” And she made me okay.

I climbed into my seat, front passenger, and buckled up. I tried not to look up. I looked at my phone, my feet, my hands. But I still felt it. A coldness that was not from the air conditioner. It was inside me.

And there it was. The figure in a yellow hoodie and jeans. Walking with its back to us. We drove toward it, then passed. I stared at it hoping as we passed it would not look it would not see me, see us.

The figure moved off to the side as we approached. We drove slowly past down the narrow road. It looked right in the car. And it had a face. A man’s face. I sighed in relief and Dan put his hand on mine. I looked at him and smiled.

Then I made a mistake.

I glanced in the side mirror. And there it stood. In the center of the road, yellow hoodie and jeans. Blackness surrounding it. And blackness for a face.

That evening went by as normal: dinner, television. I bathed Lucy, helped her brush her teeth, brushed her hair, told her a story as she got sleepier and sleepier. All the while the figure was there. In the back of my mind, black and cold.

I did not sleep. I’ve never rested well. A toddler’s kicks make it even more difficult to rest. But I didn’t sleep at all that night. Every time I closed my eyes, blackness in a yellow hoodie was there. The image was burned into my brain, and no matter how hard I tried it would not leave me. Neither would the chill.

Only one word came to mind when I tried to think of what it was, this terrible vision, this waking nightmare.


Lucky & Unlucky


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My daughter is very lucky.

She has two parents who love her very much, who love each other, and live under the same roof. And if, god forbid, her parents ever stop living together, they never stop wanting her happiness above all else.

Some children aren’t quite as lucky. Some children only live with one parent, some children live with grandparents. Some children have no parents at all. Some children’s parents fight with each other over who gets more time.

Some parents just want to love their children. I am very lucky. I get to move my daughter, daily, under the same roof as her and her father. I love them both and their happiness will never stop being important to me.

Sometimes children are better off when parents are separated. Because happier parents make for happy children. Some adults simply cannot get along. It happens. For whatever reason, two people who were together long enough to make a child cannot or should not be together. That happens.

But sadly the children can suffer. And sometimes a parent suffers. Step-parents suffer. Because sometimes those parents cannot be with their child as much as they used to, as much as they’d like to.

My daughter is very lucky, so am I and her father. I will always be grateful I found someone I love, and with that love we were able to create a life we will cherish.

Some families aren’t so lucky.

I hope sincerely that a permanent solution can come about that can be equally beneficial to all parties. Because no one likes a broken heart. But maybe we can live with scars, if we can find a way for everyone to be happy.

I truly hope that one person involved is doing what they’re doing for the right reasons. Because if not, in the long run, it’s the innocent that’s gonna get hurt.

New Favorite Things


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I’m back!

So, I recently subscribed to a monthly subscription “box” called ScribeDelievery. It basically delivers to me a monthly fix of stationary!

Last month was one large notebook, one medium notebook, a pencil, a pen, and a three pack of all weather notebooks. While I haven’t gotten to try it all out yet, I did enjoy each item, and they’re just waiting for me to leave my mark!

July was Fountain Pen Month with SCRIBEDelivery! I am now the proud owner of a Noodler’ Ink fountain pen! And let me tell you, writing with it on this awesome notepad from Rhodia is amazing! I kinda don’t want to stop!

Literally I’m laying in bed, my husband is snoring next to me (I really do love him anyway) and my 2.5 year old tiny human is asleep in her bed. And all I can think about is reaching over and tiring in the lamp and scribbling away!

Only problem is I have nothing special to write!

I am, however, gearing up for another round of Very Short Fictions! I posted the image above to my Facebook page and got all the likes I needed! Awesomely, I got one like from someone I never met! This will be a challenge!

Each person will be getting their own short story! I hope it have story one finished by July 14th!

You can like my page to be prepared for the next round! Here’s the LINK!

And next month I’ll review August’s SCRIBEDelivery!

Until then!


ReTales: “Harry Harrison: The Chemical Isle Ghost


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Harry Harrison: The Chemical Isle Ghost

There’s something they never tell new hires during orientation. With good reason, of course. I mean, would you work in a haunted store? I do. But still.

I watched as the most recent batch of new employees—they’d have to be here a while before I learned their names—got the store tour. I was standing a few feet away, and watched as the assistant with the privilege of tour guide avoided “the isle”. I laughed a little, and walked away, knowing the newbies would find out soon enough.

I’d probably be the one to tell them anyway. I like to tell the story. It amuses me to see their faces. There’s always a mix of terror, shock, disbelief, and unsurprisingly smugness. The smug ones never last.

It wasn’t long before I got my opportunity.

New employees tend to hang out together. Orientation is a bonding experience, it’s like finding friends in a new class; you’re drawn to each other. I was sitting in the break room, minding my own business watching Dr Pimple Popper videos on silent, listening as the newbies talked quietly.

“To be such a big store, there’s a lot of bulbs out over this one isle.” One of them said.

“Well,” another began, “those are high ceilings, probably hard to change.”

“Dude, have you seen some of the ladders?” A third said. “They say “team lift” and you could probably use them to get over Trump’s border wall!” He laughed, “Probably harder to carry the ladder than change the bulb!”

I neglected to mention the scissor lift, but the image of some clumsy oaf, probably this new guy, climbing our tallest ladder with a four foot long florescent bulb made me snort out my diet green tea.

Being the only other person in the room, they all turned toward the sound, as I wiped my nose of leakage. What finesse I have. “What?” I looked at ladder guy. “Safety first: don’t carry bulbs up ladders twice your height, I like bonuses and not cleaning up blood and broken bulbs.” I told him, then looked them each in the eye, shrugged, then said, “You wouldn’t want to be on a ladder of any size in that isle anyway. Definitely too dangerous.”

“Why?” One of the asked? “It’s just the isle with the cleaners.”

Yes! They’re intrigued! I always loved this part.

“Oh, right. You don’t know.” I faked. “It’s haunted.”

“Whaaaat?” Ladder dude said. Yep, he has a nickname now. “No way.”

“Way.” I confirmed.

“I’ll bite.” One of them said, curious female. “Why’s it haunted?”

“Don’t you mean who haunts it?” I asked. She rolled her eyes. I didn’t think she’d be the smug one. “A former employee.” I told them.

They all stared at me, waiting. I let them wonder, question, wait. Let the suspense build. This kind of torture should be against the Geneva Convention. I revel in it. “How much time ya got?” I asked. They all looked at their watches and groaned. Lunch was over.  

Later that week we were together again. Knowing they’d been waiting for the story, knowing they’d not said a word, for fear they’d be laughed at, I’d patiently waited for my opportunity. They came into the break room one by one, saying nothing too me.

I sat at my spot, as usual, playing a game on my phone. When I’d made them wait a bit, without looking up I said, “His name was Harry.”

I could hear them turn in their chairs to look at me, waiting. “Harry Harrison.” I said.

“Pfft” I heard. “Sounds fake!”

“I know right! That’s what I said! After I’d been told the story, I believed it to be fake, until…” I trailed off. “Anyway, it’s his real name. I heard he was a nice guy. Friendly. Absolutely scatterbrained and lazy, but a good guy otherwise.” I put my phone down and got myself comfortable. “He isn’t quite as nice now. You know, as a ghost.”

They were all enraptured, watching and waiting for the full story. Her Royal Smugness was still doubtful, but the rest were intrigued. She was just waiting for a flaw in my tale. “So what happened to him?” She asked.



It was getting close to end of his shift, and Harry was tired and impatient. It’s been a long day, and he had been busy. A lot of shoppers this time of the week, and he’s barely kept up.

He was a few feet away from finishing the isle with the dish soap, when he stepped back to look at his work so far. There wasn’t a thing that could make him happier than looking down the long isle, and see nicely straightened chemicals “as far as the eye could see”. He smiled happily to himself at the almost completely faced isle, and turned back to his work.

Glancing at the last four foot section, he looked down to see a spill in the floor. The dark blue liquid seemed to be oozing from the bottom shelf. “Dawn,” he grumbled aloud.

Somehow, in shipping, the caps on the bottles of Dawn Dish Liquid seemed to either loosen or come completely off! The night stockers seem to never check, and poor Harry was always left to clean up the mess.

“DARNIT!” He said, smelling the clean scent of the soap from where he stood. He turned to get some paper towels from the dispenser—mopping would just cause suds—so he could wipe up the inconvenient mess.

“Harry in chemicals to the front, please!” He heard his name paged, looked back in the direction of the spill, and thought, “it’s not busy right now, it’ll be fine!” He rushed up front, to answer the page.
When he returned to his isle, after having been asked to help a customer in foods find an item (that’s not my department, he thought) that the store actually didn’t even carry, he’d completely forgotten the spill, walking straight to his last place of work. At first pass, he’d narrowly missed stepping in the spill. Had he been just a half inch to the left, he’d felt the squish and slide caused by the slick substance and remembered.  

Harry got back to work, pulling forward and facing out. He reached back into the shelf, where a can of air freshener had been pushed, and his hand brushed something. He grasped it and pulled it out between the cans. Someone has shoved an open box of M&Ms in back of the shelf. He scoffed, and turned to take the box to the end of the isle, where he’d see it when he headed out.
It was then that it happened.  

Harry unknowing stepped dead center of the now much expanded puddle of dish liquid. His eyes widened in shock as his life flashed before his eyes. Sadly the one thing that stood out was when his pants fell down in front of his high school crush freshman year.

His treadless shoes, worn from years of use, glided perfectly on the surface of the viscus liquid. He windmilled his arms, slinging candy coated chocolate everywhere, in attempt to regain balance. His feet slid back and forth, as he tried to balance. His flailing arms slapped the shelves, which sent him sliding backward into the shelf behind him, banging the back of his head. Mops and brooms that had been hanging nearby clattered to the floor on impact.

He’d just begun to right himself, when he stepped on a broom handle, slid forward, tripped over a mop head and fell forward, arms outstretched to catch himself. This time, Harry’s forehead smacked the shelf as his weak wrists, unable to take his weight, snapped on impact.

Sadly, poor Harry Harrison laid prone, bleeding, and splayed on the floor, covered in dish soap, for some time before co-workers came to his aid.


“By then it was too late.” I sighed. “Poor Harry.”


“Yeah, Ladder Guy,” I said. “He died, remember?”

“Well, yeah. But that was the most cartoonish death!”

“Yeah, you made it up!”

“Nope, I did not.” I told them. “They thought someone had done it to him, it was so messy. They looked on the tapes, there were cops, investigations.” I looked at them. “I know what your thinking. But it happened. He died in the chemical isle, death by dish soap.” Technically bleeding out from two separate head injuries.
“Doesn’t prove there’s a ghost in the chemical isle.” Her royal smugness said.  

“Nope, but I’ve been down that isle for more than just air freshener.” I told them. “I’ve experienced his ghostly wrath.”

“Right.” Smugly rolled her eyes. “What happened?”



I was minding my own business, walking back to my post at the door, when I heard my name called. I was in my own little world, so it surprised the bejebus out of me., as usual I turned around, and there stood a manager.

“What are you doing right now?” He asked.

Knowing what that question entailed, I said slowly, “Uh… Going back to work?”

“Yeah, well,” he paused. “We uh, don’t have maintenance on tonight…”

Ugh. Please no bathrooms.

“Well, someone spilled some dish soap down in chemicals…”

“Oh thank god,” or so I thought.

“Would you mind getting a mop and bucket?”

“Nope, not at all.” I told him, knowing absorbent and a broom would be a better method.  

“Great!” He said. He looked relieved.

Mildly suspicious as to his relief, I grabbed the mop and bucket anyway, knowing the proper clean up method would be well within reach once I made it to the chemical isle. The store was eerily quiet as I pushed the yellow bucket toward my destination. The defective wheel squeaked and spun in all directions, the sound seeming to bounce off end caps as I passed.

I took a turn down the chemical isle, and looked down toward the dish soap section. There, in an ever expanding puddle, blue soap oozed. I rolled my eyes, remembering that were told to never leave a spill, and pushed the annoying yellow bucket down the isle. As I neared the spill, however, the temperature slowly dropped. I stopped and looked up, trying to see where the nearest air conditioner vent was located. Surely they wouldn’t turn the air on in January.  

When I looked up I saw not air vent, but blown fluorescent bulbs, and watched as one flickered and finally died. “Huh, they should probably change those. Can’t be regulation,” I thought. I shrugged and pushed on, slowly getting colder as I neared the spill.

That’s when I heard it. It was a low groan, angry and creepy. I stopped. I looked back and forth, up the isle and down it. Not a soul in sight. For a brief moment I thought it was the air conditioner. But instead of lingering on the thought, I continued, albeit slower, toward the dish soap.

An aggressive hiss suddenly seemed to come from the dishwasher tablets. “SSSSTOP!” I listened. My eyes widened in fear, hoping it was some annoying co-worker trying to freak me out, somehow knowing it was not.

“Who…whose there?” I whispered to the air. I hoped I’d imagined the vapor from my breath in the cold air.
The disembodied voice groaned. “Leave this isle. Go back the way you came!”  

I’m pretty sure I tinkled a little then. “Wuhwhuhwhy?” I stuttered.

“SSStop asking questions and go!” The voice shouted.

“But I, uh, have to clean the spill,”

The voice cut me off with an unnerving growl. The shelves began to shake, cans of furniture polish and bottles of bathroom cleaner shook and tumbled to the floor with a clank and clatter. 

From the depths of the the dish soap section, a semi-transparent form emerged. He turned to face me, congealed blood and blue dish soap on his face and head, hands bent at odd angles at the wrists.

“GO!” He bellowed.

He didn’t have to tell me twice, err uh four times. But instead of turning, I stared to back up, and in my clumsiness I tripped over my own feet and stumbled to the floor. On the way down I kicked the mop bucket, spilling its contents.

As hard as I tried, the slick floor coupled with the soapy mop water kept me from regaining my balance. I slipped and slid as the frightening form slowly approached me, reaching for me with his broken wrists.


“Annnnnd that’s all I remember.” I told the newbies.

“Wait what?!”

“Yeah, I mean, I guess I hit my head?” I leaned back in my chair and sighed. “All I know is don’t go down that isle, if you have to, don’t go alone, and don’t linger. The CChemicalIsle Ghost is MEAN.”

“I still don’t believe you.” Little Miss Smuggly said.

“You don’t have too.” I told her. I shrugged. “Lunch is over though, isn’t it?”

They all stared at me for a minute, then it dawned on them that it was, in fact, time to go back. They all stood, saying nothing, not really making eye contact with each other or myself. But I watched them. I watched them gather their trash and belongings and file silently out the door.

“Heh. Newbies.” I smiled to myself as they walked away.


Sally Newton, for ironically that was her name, was still skeptical. Everything that chick said was just a tall tale. “Just trying to freak us newbies out.” She told herself. She couldn’t believe that the others even considered entertaining the idea.

She walked to her department—she was in Foods—still deep in thought, when she heard a noise. It was a screeching noise, the kind that grated on your nerves and stung the ears. It was coming from “the isle”. She squinted suspiciously, never admitting her nervousness, and slowed her pace. Inching toward the sound, she listened. It ground and screeched, like it needed oil. She looked down the chemical isle. It was a scissor lift.

There she saw an assistant manager, the safety manager, and some men shed never seen before. They were changing the bulbs. “Uh hey boss,” she said nervously. “What’s up?”

The assistant obviously had to check her name badge to remember her name. “Sally,” she said. “Not much, just changing these bulbs.”

“Oh, so, just now?” Sally asked. “They’ve been out a while, huh?”

“Yep, the lift has been down, had to rent a new one. Just hasn’t been a priority.”

“Yeah, at least this isle won’t look creepy and dark anymore!” Sally said, enthusiastically.

“Exactly.” The manager said, watching the bulb changing process.

“Maybe the ghost will leave, am I right?” Sally joked, watching for a reaction.

“Ugh, who ever keeps spreading that rumor needs a stern discussion!”

“I knew she was lying!” Sally unintentionally said aloud.

“Who lied about what? The manager asked. 

“Oh, that girl. The red head, she works, uh, I can’t remember. I can’t remember getting her name either. Or seeing her name badge.” Staring off into space, Sally tried to concentrate, to remember. After a moment she glanced around, but looked back so quickly she nearly broke her neck. She could have sworn she’d seen someone, standing by the dish soap.
Thanks for reading,


A Damp Spring Night and the Clutter of Life


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I hate driving in the rain. I also hate driving in the dark. Therefore driving in the rain at night is a perfect combo platter of awful for me. 

I’ve only been mobile a four years now. So, I feel like I am still inexperienced. I’ll probably always feel that way. But I gotta do it. 

Tonight I worked late so when I got off, it was dark and pouring rain. The route I take follows a river for most of the trip. On the way home it’s on the right. On nights like this–dark and damp–I cannot help but picture me and my Chevy Cobalt swerving uncontrollably, crashing through the guardrail, and sailing majestically RIGHT. INTO. THE. RIVER. 

I have a bit of a paranoia problem. I get it from my mother. 

So, during the trip tonight, I drove much slower than normal (luckily there weren’t any impatient drivers behind me) and listened to the sound of rain and wipe blades working overtime. I left my music off because concentration. 

In my “quiet time” of fear, thoughts ran uninhibited through my head. Visions of my demise on damp spring night in a cold raging river plagued me. 

The main concern was that my dear husband would be left with the aftermath. Just last year he had to deal with not only the loss of his father, but his brother as well. And since his brother had no children and his wife had passed several years previous, my hubs and his mother were left with sorting through the clutter that comes with life. 

He doesn’t need to have to do it again, anytime soon. So, I’ve decided to do it myself. I have an office/guest bedroom filled with clutter and useless items gathering dust. I plan on spending several days over the course of the summer purging the office of my lifetime of clutter. 

The fear of death by river brought out my need to organize. 

I never said I was normal.