Author of the novel WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL

My #debutnovel is out today!! It's available from #Amazon in #Kindle and #paperback.  When You Lose Control https://a.co/d/6n9VNMR 1,028 days from start to publication. Lots of tears. Soo many tears. Lots of support from a few people. Endless editing. What a relief. If you check out #mybook, please enjoy it, and I'll return to my blog in 2024.  Have a lovely rest of the year. Melissa 

This blog will take a brief hiatus for the holiday. 

There's not a lot of autistic female representation. Finally, having someone to look up to, someone who went through eerily similar things to you is so strangely and wonderfully freeing. I wouldn't want anyone to go through what I did as a kid, but having some solidarity and understanding is incredible. I feel so seen and validated.  I'm so thrilled and grateful that, due to my splendid boyfriend and his lovely daughter, I had the pleasure of seeing and meeting Fern Brady. She was hilarious on stage (obviously) and kind enough to chat with fans after the show. She signed my book, and I teared up as I thanked her for writing it. Thank you for being you, Fern. Thank you for what needed to be said. 

Not this vile, nasty thing again. Make it go away.  Rusty, crunchy leaves splitter across the road, looking like chipmunks. 

https://mysoulbalm.blog/2022/01/11/autistic-shutdowns-guide-for-neurodivergent-adults/

"On November 13, Felix Unger was asked to remove himself from his place of residence. That request came from his wife. Deep down, he knew she was right, but he also knew that someday, he would return to her. With nowhere else to go, he appeared at the home of his childhood friend, Oscar Madison. Several years earlier, Madison's wife had thrown him out, requesting that he never return. Can two divorced men share an apartment without driving each other crazy?" -The Odd Couple 

"I don't know what it is like to not have deep emotions. Even when I feel nothing, I feel it completely."  -Sylvia Plath.

The entitled driving in these postcode-envy towns is vile. The pricier the car, the worse the overprivileged driver is.  You do not have special driving privileges because you're overpaid. 

Please read Strong Female Character by the amazing Fern Brady, especially if you're a woman diagnosed late in life with ASD. I'm only 109 pages in, and I have never felt so seen or so understood. She grew up in Scotland, I grew up in America, but we had almost identical issues and went through very similar things. This book is powerful, and I hope it comforts others the way it's comforting me. Thank you, Fern! 

In 51 days, Christmas will be over, and we'll be safe from the hideous red and green decorations, garishly awful songs, pretend charity, and all-around bullshittery for about ten months. It's the most annoying and fake time of year. And the coldest. I don't understand why people crave this saccharine stupidity. 

With anxiety, hiding in a bathroom can be the norm.  How many white pills will it take to feel okay? Anxious is the monkey on my back, fixture for life.

Yes, I'm sure. I've never been more sure of anything.  I clean the boxes, but kitty doesn't prefer my petting.  Almost everything and everyone I love is within one block.  

Rip, Matthew Perry. You will be so missed. Your openness about your struggles were so honest and I'm sure helpful to many with the same demons. Your comedic coming was unmatched and Chandler Bing is one of the best TV characters of all time. You are gone too soon. 

Now, they will have the daughter they have always wanted.  The attic was cramped, overstuffed, with belongings scattered all over. 

"It's leafing! Woah, it's leafing out," yelled the kids as crinkly brown leaves rained down on their heads. The sun was bright but low, and the air smelled of rusty pine needles. Soon, the sky would be dark at this time of day, and we'd be around the fireplace, looking out. 

...at this time, so many things were happening. Big things. Big changes. Flutterings. Dreams coming true. There was so much hoping and wishing and pining. Lots of sadness regarding what I didn't think could ever happen. But it did. Oh, did it happen. It opened up everything and turned the world right side up. Joy. 

It's the hand on my lap And the cuddles at night It's a beautiful gap And how our laughter's like sunlight  It's the unwavering support  And everything you are each day It's the flutter you make me feel, in short And the love that I'm blessed to have come my way

I am published in two different books within two months! My latest poem is in the Quabbin Quills Anthology called Our Wild Winds (page 126), and my first novel comes out on December 7! Feeling pretty good about my writing endeavors these days. 

Today marks one year of writers' group. One year of a life-changing gathering. One year of community, creating, discussion, and love. So blessed to have this in my life. 

Power-hungry douchebags who want to harm rather than help are the worst kind of woman. Fuck you so, so much, evil __________. Thank the universe for best friends who are the best kind of woman, with unconditional love and support. Truly angels. 

October, you can really suck ass sometimes. Like, a lot.  Happy birthday was written on the window, not in reality. 

The thick black eyeliner makes her feel pretty and powerful.  It was the ugliest lamp she'd ever seen. Bump. Shatter.

My cat Loki passed away this morning. He got sick toward the end. He's the third cat I've had to say goodbye to, and the second to die in my arms. I'm thankful we got eight days with him and for the unwavering support and love, I'm receiving. Rest well, my dear little gentleman.  

A stack of books to read. An iced coffee on the windowsill.  Laying my head on a lap. 

Ooh, that's ugly. Not a fan. Next, please. Next. Next. ADHD and anxiety make for a special kind of tiredness.  You are the crossroads of warmth, and happiness, and love. 

If Janis had lived, she would've been 80 this year. It taints so much, this permanent stain, popping up again. Hiding in the dust and shadows, what does it mean? 

Rackets are for tennis balls only; it's not a sword.  Those overpriced cars aren't the flex you think they are.  The 'problems' of the privileged are certainly a different perspective. 

I've loved Barry Williams since I was about five, watching returns of The Brady Bunch. He's meant a lot to me, especially as Greg Brady, and a few years ago via Cameo, he wished my novel well. That novel is due out in December, and so I would like to say thank you to a dear celebrity. 

Writers group means so much to me, and not only getting to feature my favorite poet the other night but to have the pleasure of introducing him was fantastic. I feel very fortunate to have found such lovely people in such a small town. When I cofounded WG, I wanted a writing community; I didn't know I was getting a life-change and upgrade. 

She had a large vein cut out of her leg.  She did it for love and not for any compensation.  She dearly missed her favorite cat each and every day. 

How much of my life have I spent in traffic?  I really feel like I belong on the West Coast.  Harsh, dreaded winter looms in the not-so-distant future. 

Tomorrow, I get to see Billy Joel in concert for the 14th time! I'm a little bummed I have to sit through Stevie Knicks; I've never liked her voice or music, but it's a small price to pay to enjoy another Billy show. It's strange to think this might be the last time I see him in person. I've been going to see him in concert since I was a sophomore in college. I don't want this era to end! 

I looked up at the thirty-foot tree where I once launched a ball into its lowest branches. 'My' kids had asked me to kick the ball across the driveway to them, so they could catch it and return it. They rolled me the ball, I tried to kick it into the air, but instead, due to my ghastly lack of coordination, somehow managed to get the ball nestled itself in a little thicket, about fifteen feet up. The kids laughed at my 'joke' and kept saying how funny I was. When the novelty of their assumption wore off, they asked me to end my silliness and get the ball down. I was torn between pretending I had the athletic ability to intentionally launch a ball like I just had, and the truth. The truth won, and we stared at that silly rubber egg, cozy in its nest, for the next day and a half. 

The world ended, and I was suspended from a zipline.  While driving, I broke the last of that bird's bones. At work again, selling hours of my life. For what?  

You're but my servant. Clean out my litter box- now. Fetch me some water. You cannot move me,  for this is my bed, not yours. The audacity! A killing machine  Many razors in their paws. Yet so squeezable. 

The Brady Bunch house in Studio City sold this week, and now Eve Plumb is auctioning off a bunch of Brady memorabilia from her personal collection. I'd love for the house to be moved (for practical reasons) to somewhere like Vegas so it could be turned into a museum. I'd pay A LOT to visit the inside of the Brady house, especially Greg's attic, which is in the basement in the 'real' home. And I would love to see the scripts and things Eve Plumb is selling, some with her annotations. What a great for us super fans. I guess if these silly dreams can't come true, we can hope for one more Brady reunion special? 

I notice I have an abundance of urgency I want final decisions and to move on from past things I need to care for you when you are sick I shoulder the cruelty that comes and shove it away I fill tires and unclog sinks I am undaunted by my masculinity  I don't know how to reckon with my lack of feminity I am always an extreme I notice there is so much to notice 

I wish I could reciprocate the warm, kind family who are inviting and lovely. I wish I came from a place to show off. I wish I could give you so much more, but all I can offer is me.

I'm tired of commuting a ridiculously long way to a job with no next to no hours. I'm tired of having to either ask for my check or correct it. I'm tired of inconsistency and now gaslighting in regard to the ends of shifts. I'm tired of not having a good and higher-paying job with perks and benefits, a job to feel proud of. I have a degree, and I'm essentially a laundress. Everyone I know seems to have no commute or an amazing, important job. I drive an hour to wash other people's clothes and sort of babysit. I'm tired. 

I finished a Buddy Holly bio I started reading last December (ADHD much?), and tomorrow would have been Buddy's 87th birthday. I've loved his music all my life, and I still marvel at how young he was when he died. His life and career were so incredibly short, and I'm perpetually astonished at what he was able to achieve and how talented he was. How many songs from the late 50s still have such an impact on current life? How many other 50s stars could people today still name? I suppose I haven't brought anything new to the table; all of this is quite obvious, and I'm sure the masses share these opinions, but anyway, RIP, Buddy. I'll be listening to That'll Be The Day tomorrow. 

I've applied for a writer-in-residency to take place for one week this March. I'd be paid to sit and sip coffee and write for an entire week. I desperately hope I get a slot, there are three, because I could really use a confidence boost regarding my writing. I'll find out in eleven weeks; let the waiting begin! 

I always struggle with what to put here since I have to save my best work to submit in case the entity insists on work that hasn't been published absolutely anywhere else. It's challenging to weed through my work due to self-esteem and confidence issues, but I guess any writer must sit and decide what's 'best.' Anyway, I've written a couple of short, silly, lighthearted poems about nanny life recently that I thought were somewhat cute. I didn't think either was my most extraordinary work, but I thought they were okay enough to share, and if nothing else, they were cheerful, and I thought they'd perhaps receive some small chuckles. This poem did not and rather bombed when I read it aloud. But, for the one (maybe two these days??) people and or bots who read this, enjoy.  Nanny Runaround  Arriving at work, the children yell This day will be fun; I can tell Why did I get an English degree Would law have better suited me? "We want to go to the library,

I watched an Instagram clip today that said women often go, on average, ten years longer than men (the video was gendered; apologies for the lack of non-binary inclusivity) do to get their ADHD diagnosis. I wish I were surprised, but I'm not. I was 34 when I got my diagnosis, and that came about 30 years too late. It's so sad and exhausting to constantly hear stories of women being overlooked, ignored, or dismissed by doctors. How is this the norm? But I suppose the better question is why. 

swoop·​stake ˈswüp-ˌstāk. obsolete. : in an indiscriminate manner.

Anxiety grasps the throat And twists and tangles the stomach It's ceaseless, panoptic The blinding black cloud Pounding Grabbing Trashing the brain Utter panic

Frizzy tangled mane Brown waves of chaos Bangs in a half sunburst The elves have been busy

You're an always Not a for now You're my favorite  Not going to change  You're my future  Not just my now

Saw GNR at Fenway with great company. 26 song setlist in the heavy rain. The big three were, of course, absolutely amazing. By far my favorite band. 

Tyromancy [TIE-roh-man-see] (n.) - A form of fortune-telling by way of observation of the fermentation & coagulation of cheese. From Greek “tyros” (cheese) + “-mancy” (divination by means of)” from Old French “-mancie" from Late Latin “-mantia" from Greek “manteia” (oracle, divination) from “mantis mantis” (one who divines, a seer, prophet; one touched by divine madness) from “mainesthai” (be inspired). Used in a sentence: “Who could have guessed that your lovely wedding gift, that antique fondue pot once owned by the famous Madame d’Esperance, would have led me to the lucrative avocation of tyromancy.” ________

gri·mal·kin / ɡrəˈmalkən / noun ARCHAIC noun :  grimalkin ;  plural noun :  grimalkins a cat (used especially in reference to its  characteristically   feline  qualities).

It's July 20, 2016, and I'm at Gillette Stadium, in Foxboro, Massachusetts, for the Guns N' Roses concert, part of the Not In This Lifetime tour, which is their first tour with most of the original members since 1993, and I am seated in section 223 and quite convinced that this concert is too good to be true and will somehow get canceled  "Did you see that!?" I screamed at my brother  as I punched his arm

Kid in a Candy Store / Prisoner My dad looked at the Hoover Dam And though forty, he seemed like he was ten I was in eighth grade And this 'wall' was hellishly boring 

I have a hard enough time reading direct social interactions and an impossible time reading written ones. I almost always assume the tone is angry unless it's a trusted friend/loved one. It's been a hard enough road with certain things, without 'jokes' and hinted cruelty. I am autistic. I mask at work. I have depression and anxiety. I don't appreciate such rudeness. 

Cactus can be really tall  I was thirteen (Northern) when I learned this I guess I knew their spikes could touch heaven And strangely, I wanted to hug them  I wrote this poem in a few minutes yesterday when I had the privilege of attending an excellent poetry workshop. I might rework it or try to expand upon it. 

Sincerely regretting letting anxiety get the better of me. Yes, I had some stress, but no, it is not an excuse to act like an asshole. I hope that I can remember not to let my emotions get the better of me. I'm disappointed I let some late HS/early college destructive patterns slip through. When I look around, I have everything I've wanted, and it's better than what I wanted. May this serve as a reminder to me should I ever let the bad slip through. 

Grey and large and hovering humid The rainiest of summers The sky is full and always dark Large, pelting drops

When I was a junior in college, I spent a large chunk of my time with my then (emotionally abusive) boyfriend. We were going to stay with my parents for a couple of nights around Christmastime. My brother, who had failed out of his freshman year of college, had received a video game system for his present. When I sat down with my boyfriend to open gifts, he got a large book on samurai, and I got some toothpicks. They had pictures of small pumpkins on the top, and as my mother insisted, "You like Halloween!" my boyfriend, an absolute prick who treated me like trash, was appalled. We packed up and drove the forty minutes to his place in the cold. 

God, I hate driving. My commute is long and endless. Massachusetts. The utmost in luxury would be to have a driver. And to no longer stare at tail lights.  Illinois. I wonder how many hours of my life I've spent on Rt 2? Jesus, the potholes.  New York. What's it like on other little highways? Drives to nowhere towns. California. Oh, that's a good one. I want to live there, to drive there right now. Florida. Gross, no, wrong coast. I want democracy, sunshine, dog beaches, and coffee dates. Connecticut.  For the wannabe New Yorkers who think they have postcode envy. The least liked New England state. Rhode Island.  Yuck, Long John donuts, and Pawtucket. Well, Newports become alright.  Missouri. I really want to tear up my license and never drive again. I think, though, that I'll always look for license plates. 

Keep trying to get blood from a stone. While exhausted, burnt out, and overwhelmed. While you have lost all objectivity or vision or sense of what is good and what sucks.  What part of autistic meltdown and burnout isn't clear? This thing is seeping into all aspects of life, slowly choking. I can't seem to write anything else; it's killing my creativity. Who am I if not a writer? Please let this end. 

This is round four of, 'Hey, am I really done? Please let it be so. I have actually literally nothing left in me. I have worked on this and am now bled dry. UGH!

I am completely unsure of my writing ability anymore. I used to do; I think, an okay job editing my work and figuring out what was good/what to keep and what wasn't. Now, I'm writing lost. I can't tell anything apart, good or bad, I'm absolutely lost. I have a whole early 2000s novel series I want to work on, and I've managed to spend about five minutes on it all summer. I can't believe how devastating writing can be. 

I fail to see how any of this new bullshit is my problem. I'm tired of this absolutely offensive and absurdly nightmarish bush-league nonsense. How is any of this STILL on me when I've done nothing but wait- for months at a time, done everything and more I've been told to do, and always in a timely fashion. I am tired of swallowing my rage and pride when I'd love to back out. This is a fucking joke, and I'm done settling for bargain basement fuckery. What a load crap. I cannot see how this is worth it. 

"I'm an optimistic realist. I kind of expect the worst but prepare for the best." -Trixie Mattel

My best friend and I went to see Bruce Springsteen for the first time 18 years ago today. We were at the Harbor Yard in Bridgeport, CT. Bruce played 27 songs, 5 of which were in the encore. It was a unique, unforgettable experience. It was just Bruce, no E Street, but it didn't matter; he was that good. My friend and I still reference this concert all the time. There's nothing like your first time seeing Bruce, he exudes a jolly yet approachable confidence, and you feel like he's singing solely to you, not thousands. I can't wait to see him for a third time this summer. 

The NFL turns 103 this year. We get seventeen contests, and that means every single game really counts. Eighteen weeks of gridiron chess matches with a boring bye week to get to the playoffs. A round of do-or-die games for weeks, bringing us to the Superbowl. An epic day to hang out with friends, family, and food. " Football is the only sport that can grab your attention for every waking moment, no matter what." Cheers to a fun season.  Works quoted and consulted: Bleacher Report

" Heaven is a place on earth with you"           -Trixie Mattel 

Baldwinville When I was six or so, a bat flew into my room at night. My parents didn't believe me and told me to go back to bed. I awoke in the early morning to their screams when the bat flew into their room.  Leominster When I was about twenty-six, I was in the basement of my house when a massive brown bat flew by my face. I screamed, flew up the stairs, and called animal control, who said, "Yeah, good luck with that. Bats are protected; we can't do anything; bye." Sudbury  When I was thirty-six and nannying, I went to grab the iPad off the living room coffee table for the child, when about a foot away was a small brown bat, sleeping on the hearth. I can now only assume that this is my life and my curse is attracting bats. 

Writing prompt from Writers Group. I can't pick just one. Going to the theater is one of my all-time favorite things. I've been fortunate enough to see a lot of shows. Some of my favorite experiences are as follows; Rent - Boston Amazing performance. I had only seen the movie. I cried a lot, especially about Angel. I met Anthony Rapp after the show. He was genuine and friendly.  The Book of Mormon - Boston Crying I was laughing so hard. A spectacular show. An absolute triumph and once-in-a-lifetime kind of story/production. Completely fabulous and incredibly clever.  Little Women - Concord  Probably my happiest theater experience ever. Seeing my favorite book performed in the hometown of one of my favorite authors with my favorite person. Bliss.  All The Way - NYC A genuinely moving show. It takes place throughout LBJ's presidency and right at the heart of the civil rights movement—a gorgeous performance by all actors. I met Bryan Cranston before the show, and he was very c

My friends came from storybooks  And were the crayons in my yellow box They were the characters on TV And the imagined companions in my head I had my aunt, sometimes, when I could visit But it was a long five years  Before I had people my age

The best ice cream in the world with the two best people makes for a perfect afternoon. Mini rainstorms and cats and dogs round out a lovely summer day. 

I've always taught the kids I nanny/babysit that differences are okay. That prejudice is never okay. That racism is vile. But nowadays, I feel like I have to actively, at all times, be hyper-aware that they're getting the messages. Don't get me wrong- I'm not complaining, and I think these values should be taught at all times, regardless of what's happening. But I'm scared sometimes that I'm coming off, well, scared. I don't want kids to be colorblind like I was taught, and I want them to know that we can celebrate difference as a good thing.  The seven-year-old I nanny is particularly intelligent and has asked about racism, among other things. We go there, we answer the tough questions about history, and I am desperate to make sure that this child, and all the others, never become intolerant bigots.  "You know that ALL skin colors are beautiful, right!?" I practically scream. "Yes," they answer, in a tone that suggests, 'Duh, why

I panicked. My hands were sweating and shaking. I felt like I was going to throw up. I was instantly convinced Mrs. Edwards would deem me too stupid to move up to second grade. I tried not to cry as I stared down in terror at my grey paper.  I snapped to attention when Mrs. Edwards said to put our pencils down. She explained that we'd now go over the worksheets. My panic grew. I looked up from my desk, hoping I wouldn't throw up. "Haha, these were all tricks. Draw a line? It didn't have to stay in the maze; you could just draw a line from the girl to the orange!" Most of the class laughed while I was trapped in a neurodivergent hell. Never in a million years would I have thought it was acceptable just to draw a line anywhere on the paper. We were taught to be so rigid and rule-abiding; how was this okay? We couldn't even walk down the hall unless we were in a perfectly straight, quiet line and usually had to have our hands folded in front of us. What gave this

Mrs. Edwards came to our class and introduced herself. She said she was one of eleven kids, and she liked logic puzzles. Then, she handed us worksheets to complete.  There was a maze underneath a picture. The instructions said to draw a line from the girl to the orange. Okay, a maze, easy. I started my quest but couldn't get anywhere.  I must have attempted that fucking maze fifteen times and nearly rubbed a hole in the paper from erasing. No matter what I did, I couldn't get through the maze. To be continued...

At Sacred Heart, we were taught to obey. The cruel and frumpy teachers loved to remind us of the fifth commandment, honor thy mother and thy father. They told us frequently that this extended to teachers as well. If we wanted to really be godly, this fact should apply to all adults. What could ever possibly go wrong giving that advice to children? When we walked down the hallways, it was to be in a silent and impeccably straight line. When we were told to be quiet, we were to silence ourselves immediately. When teachers told us to do something, we were to do it. Or else.  One afternoon towards the end of first grade, we had a special afternoon planned; the teacher we would have next year for second grade, Mrs. Edwards, was going to come and get to know us for a class period. To be continued... 

So much work for one strawberry milkshake. A drive in the rain, elbowing past multiple Door Dash people, and then the wait. The wait of epic proportions.  In a small and sleepy city ('city') in a mostly empty restaurant in the middle of the week, you'd think walking up to the ice cream window and grabbing a milkshake would take, like, five minutes, tops. Nope. There was no one at the window. A DD called out to an employee, asking if an order was ready. The DD was met with a barking, "HUH!?" and not much else.  A bunch of employees lingered in the background, sweeping in pointless tandem. There was no one at the window. More DDs arrived. The claw machine game let out a somewhat dismal calliope every few minutes. More Door Dashers. More wait time. A pink sea lion wearing a Pier 39 sweatshirt nestled in the middle of the claw machine, peeking out and looking like it, too, wanted to escape.  No customer service. More rain. An employee came over and promised to be with

Things once tedious,  getting caught in the rain,  grocery shopping,  making meals,  could be fun or happy. 

I thought I'd take the kids to the pool. "Haha," said the rain, "You are a fool!" "We want the trampoline park or arcade!" screeched little voices.  Oh, good god, such noisy choices. We made our way to Fun and Games down the street. Oh, the headache I was to meet. For after Space Invaders and Dino Blaster, was the hurdle I was not to master.  I cannot say this too profounder,  there's the beast, the friggen cash-in counter.  Heaps of prizes to delight each child; but with low ticket numbers, you can't go wild. "Jackson, you have forty-five tickets."  No understanding, only crickets. "What about the giant bear?" he asked, pointing toward it. "Jackson, no, you can't afford it." "Okay," he said, not understanding.  "I'll take that toy boat," was his demanding. "Forty-five tickets is all you have; maybe pick some candy." Oh, how I wished I had Tylenol handy! What felt like hours la

Most people call my grandmother Miss Pat. I call her Cranky P. She's been miserable as long as I've known her. No one can huff the way she does.  She sighs at a losing lottery ticket. She grunts when she climbs the attic stairs. She groans when she walks down her creaky hallway. When the Red Sox lose, they earn a gruff "UH -huh ," and her tiny remote slams to the coffee table. When things don't go her way, she sputters, "WELL!" and tightens her folded arms. She pronounces the word days as deez, and her stories always begin, "So I sez to Lynda..." Cranky P is a myriad of unsmiling sounds, but none are family legend like her resounding, wall-shaking,  "RIGHT, RALPH!" Which was directed a hundred times a day at her husband.  She was married to Ralph for over fifty years, And I think she hated him as long as I've known her.

It's so simple, really.  I took the kids that I nanny to the library to sign them up for the summer reading program, thrilled that both have a love of reading and honored to foster the joy of reading.  The way their program works is the child gets rewarded for time spent reading. To mark this, you get to put different beads onto a necklace. The beads represent units of time, and each bead gets bigger and better with each increment. The 15-minute beads are small and basic; the 4-hour beads are large and animal shaped, etc.  I took this to mean, for example, you could choose 4, 15-minute beads or 1, 1-hour bead, and that was that. However, the librarian explained to the kids that if they decided they wanted to trade in, say, 4 small beads for the one-hour bead, that was fine. All summer long, they could trade beads as their minds and tastes changed.  As this trivial information hit me, I reflexively flinched, thinking about how this whole scenario would have gone in my childhood.  My

Due to some epic traveling, this blog will be suspended for about two weeks. 

Your left shoulder  Is my favorite place to be  Nestled in your arms  Oh, the way you love me  Melting into your chest Call me your baby or honeybee  My heart is yours, always  I wear it on my sleeve for the world to see

Regarding you, I am the most sure I have ever been.  Being with you makes me happier than anything ever has.  Life with you feels like a fairy tale.  I am sure, always. 

It was the first hot day of spring, and I was at the at playground with the two kids I nanny. As they've grown older, they need me less and less, and often in times like this, I sit back and watch as they snack or run around or make friends. This was the case as the youngest finished their snack and went to throw the wrapper away. Instead of pushing the trash through the little flap and moving on, I watched in horror as the trash went through the flap, followed by the child's arms, head, neck, and part of their shoulders. I jumped up in horror, no sound coming out as I helplessly watched that little body get utterly doused in billions of germs. As soon as they were close, I asked why they had done that, as I began spraying them down with hand sanitizer. My answer was a mellow, "Because I fit, and I wanted to see where the trash went."  

I went from feeling like,  "you ain't a beauty, but hey, you're alright."  to,  "and when we danced, she held me tight when I walked her home that night we stood beneath the moon so bright and she kissed me The first time I saw her, I knew I had to see her again I knew we was gonna be so much more than just friends I didn't know just what to do, so I whispered I love you She said that she loved me too and she kissed me She kissed me in a way I've never been kissed before She kissed me in a way I wanna be kissed forevermore I knew that she was mine, so I gave her all the love that I had" Lyrics from Thunder Road and Then She Kissed Me, respectively. Thanks, Bruce.

Redacted :)

Poor memory and misspeaking begets inadequacy. 

Redacted 😇

On a trip yesterday, at two different times, a pale yellow butterfly flew in front of the car. Much later, on the return trip, a fox (safely) crossed in front of the car. I don't believe in anything supernatural or the like, but I thought it could be fun to see if these three little events 'meant' anything symbolically.  In regards to the butterflies,  Spiritual Desk says, " Butterflies are often associated with love and romance, and a pair of butterflies can signify a deep connection between two souls." And  Uniguide.com says, "When you see a yellow butterfly, it is a positive sign of hope and happiness for your life. Yellow butterflies can also represent...someone with whom you feel a  soul connection . You might have an immediate feeling like you’ve known this person your whole life. Indeed, you will likely feel comfortable with them right away. These types of soul connections are rare, but when you have one, it’s a  profound and life-changing experience .

I feel very lucky to be included. Not just as an afterthought but warmly and genuinely. I've always felt like I was outside of every circle.  My mother never wanted me. In catholic school, I wasn't a believer. In middle school, I was the new kid. In high school, my friends and I didn't like the same clothes or music. A lot of my family are conservative republicans. All my friends have kids. I'd glom on to other kids' families for a chance to feel that bond that I'd only read about or seen on TV. Now, I think I'm actually in the circle. I feel like it's okay to be me, and I feel wanted- like I belong. 

I'll never forget the irony of the rage that flashed across my father's face when I flinched. His temper was red on his ears and cheeks, his eyes narrowed, prepared for battle. He was screaming his deafening yell, the kind that would still ring in your ears minutes later. He was lashing out like a vicious caged animal, so instinctively, I flinched. Suddenly I wasn't a twenty-something adult; I was five again, the whipping boy—a cowering thing, his child , to scream at. I had flinched then, and I flinched now. A stinging slap across the back of the head was expected, then. Was that the case now? Would he dare hit an adult?  My thoughts raced around and around. I didn't want to think about being a child again; it was bad enough the first time.  My father flushed a darker red and raised his maroon hand above his head. I couldn't help but wonder if he was on the verge of a third heart attack, as the cartoonish colors he was changing couldn't be healthy.  "What

Redacted :)

"Musicians want to be the loud voice for so many quiet hearts." -Billy Joel  I didn't know how to speak up for myself until I was in my thirties. I was shy and scared, and full of panic for most of my life. Billy Joel was the voice for my quiet heart. Happy 74th!

One of my favorite books of all time is Little Women. I've read many adaptations and seen most of the movies. I was fortunate enough to see the story performed last night as a musical in Concord. It was a gorgeous adaptation that left me crying more than once. Though many minor charters were left out, and some plot lines were slightly rushed, the musical is a beautiful iteration of a beloved story. I'm so thankful this tale lives on and that I was able to enjoy such a lovely performance with fabulous company. 

From a writer's group prompt: write a memoir in six words or less.  Anxiety ruled for decades. No longer. 

It's clarity, that relief I feel. Until my mid-twenties, I was deeply enveloped in survival mode. As I slowly emerged from that darkness, I moved into a haze. It was partially the aftermath of decades of fear and exhaustion, and some of it was waiting. I had to wait and help both melt away. I couldn't wait for the haze to clear. I couldn't wait to see. Eventually, I knew what had to be done, but I wasn't strong enough. I didn't have clarity yet. But it came. It came, and I could see and feel and want. Oh, did I want. I never thought I would get what I so dearly craved, but I did. I did, and it's better than imagined and better every day. I want to be better, brighter, stronger. I want to make up for lost time and make up for decades of not seeing, not believing, not feeling. I believe in myself now. I'm done with survival mode, autopilot, haziness, doubt, oblivion, and I'm here to feel and flourish and fly. I'm here to see.

Farewell, Patrice, if this is the end. For twenty years, you left everything on the ice and truly were a big, bad Bruin in every sense of the word. I'm so happy you got to win the Stanley Cup; no one deserved it more than you. You mentored newcomers and played playoff hockey with a hole in your lung; the fans could never ask more of you. It sucks if this is how it ends, but Boston will never forget the good times, the wins, the cup, and the historic 2023 season. May your future bring you as much happiness as you have brought us. 

The corner Dunkin Donuts every Saturday And grape Bazooka Joe bubblegum on Sundays  Drives past Maki's and Nichols and Stone  Afternoons at the bank with the metal minute man That tiny yellow library with Memphis Design chairs  A hundred-year-old chocolate store  The pond where I learned to swim  And the theater where I saw my first movie  The Cumbys is gone, and so is Pleasant House of Pizza The chair remains, once the largest in existence Sometimes this little city felt like the entire world

"Holy shit, why is one of my grandfather's mugs missing!?" "What do you mean?" "I mounted my dead grandfather's irreplaceable, Giovanni DeSimone original, very-valuable,  and deeply sentimental mugs to the kitchen wall, and one is gone!" "Oh, I used it." "You fucking what!?" "Jesus, it's a mug that was in the kitchen, so yeah, I used it. And before you get pissier, it's in the dishwasher." "Those are not dishwasher safe, you fuckwad! And those mugs are wired to the hooks they're on! I spent like an hour mounting them so they couldn't be moved or used; what the shit?"  "Well, sorr-y."  "Oh yeah, you fucking sound it."  "Christ. Guess I can't make a mistake or use a mug in my house?" "As always, you're missing the goddamn point! And all your grandparents are alive, and fuck you! You don't understand!"  "It's a cup, so fuck you." 

How do you not see the breadth of what you are?  That would be like music not knowing why it needs a lead guitar. Or the sun not understanding its importance in the sky. You are everything and more; how can you not see why?  The totality of you leaves me in tremendous awe and wonder. Your eyes, your poems, your being, oh, the spell you have me under!  Your strength and kindness, your humble, gentle ways,  I have not one doubt you are my love, my companion, my always for all my days.

I often think about my grandmother's sun-drenched living room curtains. They were sheer and white and fluttered outwards in the summer when the breeze would float in through her second-story window. Gram washed the curtains regularly, but somehow, they always smelled of dust. In the summer, they'd absorb the smell of the window screen, and linen, dust, and thin metal would create a strange, light, aroma. I liked to sit in the sunbeams that would pop up on the cheap cornflower blue rug in that living room. Those little rectangles were perfect for a warm nap. The big desk between the windows would be my pillow, my knees would be against my chest, and the curtains would slowly dance across my side, wafting that scent, the one that became the smell I associate most with summer. Those sunbeams never felt as good in the spring, and I can't imagine napping on Gram's floor now.

"Are you mad at me?" came the ludicrous text from my mother. I had just replied to her with answers to her questions, and she took that as anger. Of course she did; everything was negative with her. Her job was too hard, her nights too short, and life was miserable, even when it wasn't. No one can play the victim like my mother. Well, anyway, Mom, let's see. Am I mad at you? I was mad at you when you laughed at my drawing, in front of my teacher, in first grade.  I was mad when you told me I could have a kitten and then weaseled out of that promise.  I was mad when you got mad at me, an eight-year-old, to the point that when we ate dinner that night, you sat as far away from me as possible and wouldn't even look at me. Wasn't I the child?  I was mad when you ignored me, called me a bitch, and openly, obviously, favored my younger brother, taking every chance to tell me I was a bad kid and horrible big sister.  I was mad that you were my mother, that I got stu

The house I grew up in was cold in every sense of the word. My discount quilt was polyester and itchy and somehow provided no warmth. It was a hideous beige, trimmed with a solitary pink stripe and bow. It had been picked out by my mother, who didn't care that I craved comfort or that I hated pink.  When I'd cry out that I was freezing or needed a different blanket or just more blankets, for fucks sake, I was told, in an annoyed voice, "Just stick your hands between your knees or under your armpits." We moved to a colder apartment in a two-family house with frigid grandparents years later. The grungy dwelling was like an ice box, and my mother, now in menopause, really didn't care about the inhumane temperature. "You're old enough to put on a second sweatshirt."  After college, when the economy was trying its best to emulate the great depression, I eventually found work at a condo management company, working for two misogynists. They were such big, t

In the 11th hour, my publisher (correctly) suggested that I rewrite my novel in the present tense. I am 18+ hours into this project. I have 25 pages to go. I unintentionally put myself to sleep while working on this edit this morning. It's the right direction to go in, but oh my god, this is the third time I've written this book. Well, third complete time, anyway. There's been quite a bit of editing and rewriting in the last 26 months. As I grow closer to finishing this (hopefully) final rewrite, I keep singing these Weird Al lyrics in my head; "Then tonight we're going to party like it's 1699!" I will have this done by tonight, and I will party like it's 1699! Loopily, Melissa 

  I am not graceful.  I like to think that if there was an Olympics for people who walk into walls and chairs or fall upstairs, that I would be more decorated than Simone Biles. If there is something accident-prone or clumsy, I've done it.  I do not like attention.  I wish I did; I've always envied people who could make eye contact without desperately trying to or talk in front of people without constantly misspeaking.  When my lack of coordination and fear of attention collide, my stomach churns like a washing machine of anxiety.  When I was in college, I had just finished a quick, in-between work and classes lunch by myself. I placed the empty cup, bowl, plate, knife, fork, and spoon on my plastic tray. I threw my purse on my shoulder and stood up, planning to drop my dishes on the conveyer belt and leave.  As I walked away from my table, I noticed two of my professors were sitting together in the cafeteria. One taught history of the 60s, and the other taught philosophy of sp

Isn't it strange to be happy all the time? To have the comfort of knowing that, for once, everything is right. Anxiety isn't as anxious; lonely commutes aren't as dreadful. When everything is right, everything is  right.  How foreign to feel as if the best of you is constantly being brought out, not even intentionally; it just happens. Smiles aren't being faked; they're genuine. The lie of telling yourself that you're fine has become the truth. In fact, your ions past fine and well into bliss.  Wishes, dreams on paper, can come to life. Somehow, they can manifest into a reality you never thought was possible. But this doesn't seem possible. Everything that's ever been 'too good' before has crashed, burned, and ended. Happiness has been fleeting, if at all.  The how of it all may never be answered. Wondering how you could possibly be so lucky may never be answered. You have only now, only everything you've ever wanted. Life has become awe, has

The man with the long, bushy ponytail that stretched down his back walked into the common room where we sat reading. He was dressed in shorts, an old t-shirt, and hiking shoes. He had that look of someone who probably spent his weekends camping and talked about the woods like they were palaces.  "What a gorgeous day!" he boomed. "Guys, yah gotta get outside!" "No," we replied in unison, neither of us looking up from our books.  The man let out a little 'hah' and followed it with, "But it's beautiful out! Yah wait all wintah fah this!" "I don't," you deadpanned, nestling your bookmark in place. "Me either," I agreed, rolling my eyes and shutting my novel. "Well, I love the warmth, but not going outside. I hate it." "Come ahhhhn," he insisted. "It's practically summah. It's days like these that were the BEST, back in school, yah know, when the teachahs would let yah have lessons o

  I was little. I was scared of the dark. And dogs. I was terrified of the screams from my father, the drugs my mother consumed like water, being yelled at by teachers, monsters under my bed, and monsters in the garage.  I was afraid 'to stop breathing,' which were the only words I had to try and describe a panic attack. I was five. I feared time with my grandfathers. One pinched my hip as hard as he could and constantly walked around wearing too-tight white underwear. He made me go outside and walk on a decrepit bridge over a running stream with sharp rocks. The other babysat by means of sitting me in the smoke cloud of the VFW while he gambled and got plastered. He would drive me home after.  I didn't know how to speak up.  I was little. 

Her grandfather's name was Ralph. Just the name sent shivers up her spine. Who would give such a name to their child?  To make herself feel better and distance herself from the memory of that man, she'd replay Ally Sheedy's line from The Breakfast Club when the Allison character tries to make the Brian character think she's psychic- "Your middle name is Ralph, as in puke." Of course, Allison had no powers; she had simply stolen Brian's wallet.  Ralph wasn't just her grandfather; he was her tormentor as well.  Everyone thought of Ralph as funny and adventurous, but he was cruel and sexist. (And many other things, truth be told.) Apparently, only she could see these traits since her aunts made Ralph out to be a real-life Ward Cleaver.  But they hadn't been there the day she and Ralph walked to the pond.  Ralph loved the outdoors. She hated it. Whenever he babysat, she'd dread venturing outside and, inevitably, playing the game of which is worse-

 The grandmother, who was known to everyone- grandkids or otherwise, as Baybay, was always baking, whether it was muffins, pies, or fancy French breads from boulangeries she could only imagine.  Baybay had been born in Gardner and never left but had often envisioned herself as an accomplished pastry chef with a Parisian storefront to fill. It was a comforting fantasy for her after raising seven boys and having those episodes with her heart. She always thought she'd get to Paris one day but instead had happily settled on baking, now primarily for her grandchildren. More often than not, Baybay added blueberries to her creations, and the smell of homemade treats would waft out of her second-story apartment and out to the street. Ramona, Baybay's oldest granddaughter, liked it best when the blueberries came from Baybay's backyard. As soon as the berries were plump and ready, usually the third week of July, Baybay would have a feast of blueberry muffins with sugared tops prepare

"I had to give a speech at my sister's wedding a--" "That sucks; I hate public speaking!" "Ugh, me too. It basically ruined the reception for me; I was afraid to eat or drink because I didn't want to be mid-bite or tipsy when they told me it was time to go." "Did it go alright, though?" "I completely sweated through my suit, but I managed to sound okay, I think."  "Nice." "Absolutely. So what's going on with you?"  "Same old. I've been working on my photography portfolio. I want to submit to some galleries this summer." "Good luck, Ruby."

A wealthy couple adopted my paternal grandmother in the late 1930s. I never thought to question this, as it seemed a rather straightforward narrative. However, this may not be the case. By way of accidental sleuthing, I noticed that Grammies 'adopted' father looked strikingly similar to her. They had the same face shape, the same smile, and positively identical eyes. I said so as I examined a picture of this man who died years before I was born. My father heard me and made the sort of face he often did when he didn't want to admit something. He told me later that it was likely the man in this photograph was Grammies biological father. From what could be discerned, this man had an affair, the woman got pregnant out of wedlock, and to hush everything up, my grandmother would be explained away as an adopted child. I was shocked to learn every bit of this (potential) story, and more so when, years later, a friend tried to trace her own grandmother's story, and it turned out

While I've never been one for inspirational posters or sayings, weary they're just toxic positivity, I came across something I think it's best I remember: "Don’t let past relationships ruin your future happiness. Scars remind us of where we’ve been, not where we are going."  -Unknown I try to remind myself that I am not that broken little girl anymore. That past hurt is in the past. It's easier said than done, but I hope I'm getting better. I have no place for an inner saboteur, especially when the invasive worries are baseless, and the future is bright with love. 

Very different sisters occupy a living room in a modest house on the West coast. The older is sitting in an armchair, deep in thought while preoccupied with her top-of-the-line iPhone. The younger is stretched out on the couch, absentmindedly braiding a small strand of hair. Sadie- I think you can tell a lot about someone by which Ninja Turtle they identify with.  Piper- What are you, seven? Sadie- What are you, a pompous ass? Piper- Haha. Sadie- I'm serious. Piper- Yeah, me too.  Sadie- Ugh, climb down off your high horse. Let loose a little. Stop acting so-- Piper- Don't say it! Sadie- Fucking old! Piper yanks the heavy pillow out from behind her back and throws it at Sadies face, and the two sisters dissolve into laughter.  Sadie- Don't hate me because I'm sixteen and a half years younger than you.  Piper- Sixteen and a half years. I had a great run being the only child. Sadie- Too bad it took Mom and Dad so long to realize you weren't adequate for them.  Piper-

Sleeping in, waking up in a sunbeam Cuddles and laughter Late breakfast, iced coffees  A breezy, happy day  Pleasure in the smallest of things  Orchard visits, circle desks  More coffee, much laughter  Dinner and kisses  As time speeds like lightning 

I started a novel about five or so years ago. This got cut, but I thought it was kind of cute. Character names have been changed in case I ever go back to writing this one.  I curled up on Parker's couch with my iced coffee and the oversized comforter he kept in the living room, waiting for him to wake up. I gazed out the white window frame, taking in the city morning. The crinkled leaves of early November swirled lazily around quick feet and street signs while a slight fog floated over the Charles river as the honking of car horns made a little song of impatience.  My city watch ended when I heard, "Bridget? You still here?"  "On the couch!" I replied.  I grabbed the TV remote off the end table and queued up the movie, then headed to the kitchen to pour Parker some coffee. I met him in his bedroom doorway. He had on thick socks and grey sweatpants, no shirt, and was fervently rubbing his eyes in an attempt to wake up. I grinned and kissed his cheek good morning

"Your life has been like a sitcom this week!" "I know. Believe me, I know." "How do you always find yourself in these kinds of situations?" She raised her eyebrow and smirked, "Really? Are you actually asking that?" "No, I'm not. But it was nice to see you smile." "I don't have time to smile." "Too busy saving the world?" "This community, anyway." I picked up my iced coffee in a toast, "I admire your perseverance. You're basically doing the work--" "Unpaid!" I nodded, "You're doing the unpaid work of about five people. And doing it well. You're very impressive."

The good guys have waited for so long; please let tomorrow be the day. I'm not necessarily holding my breath, but I can hope. Going to drink some orange alcohol to celebrate. Fingers crossed. 

 Reassurance. Comfort. Letting out a breath you've been holding for months. Precious gourds, acorns, pleas to the archangel Raphael. Looking to the future and making plans. Repose. 

(Blog title is a Paul Simon lyric from The Boy in the Bubble.) I usually jump at the chance to do any type of traveling. When work asked, almost a year ago, if I'd meet them down the coast to help them out with a family wedding, I said yes, but insisted I didn't want to stay longer than was necessary. Glad I made that choice. Not glad that I ever agreed to go. It's funny how priorities change, how everything changes, really. Giving up becomes rejuvenation. Apathy becomes bravery. Emptiness becomes unbridled joy and love. ...Today is exhaustion; yesterday was wonder. Maybe the coming days can be the miracle. After all, " Medicine is magical and magical is art," and "I believe..."