By age nine, I would delicately,
with my right hand, fold down the sharp fins of a Sunfish.
Why?
So I could use my left hand to insert the rusty pliars into the gasping mouth of my catch to retrieve the swallowed hook.
If I was lucky.
If I wasn’t lucky, I’d stare at my motionless bobber for hours.
*Some backstory: My older brother (third of eight) allowed me to fish with him if I did whatever he said, and didn’t cry. He was SERIOUS about fishing. I had glasses and greasy blonde hair.
**Some backstory about the backstory: My brother was born in September, and I was already a sprouted seed in our Mom’s belly by the next Summer.
I think I’ve used the bobber-watching metaphor before, but it is APT. Everyday, I wait for my agent to tell me to get the rusty pliars.
Why doesn’t he ever tell me to get the rusty pliars??
He just tells me to “hang in there.”
Oh, back to my Mom… She has 22 grandkids. This is her with the latest:
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!
Doesn’t Henry look ashamed?
Eight rejections so far… twelve still unresponsive. But don’t worry about me, I LOVE waiting, and see rejection as an opportunity to grow as a person.
They wouldn’t print it if it wasn’t true.
This card was also on the list, but I refused to pull it because I’m not afraid of her.
BUT MOST IMPORTANTLY, I sent 20 little book samples to 
So now he can go pitch them to 20 publishers.
ALSO, I wrote/designed a new cover for my book… Kara is busily drawing pictures while I bark directions at her. I’m sure she’s already made a voodoo doll of me.
And I am here because I love the smell of flooded basements. 
Is that asbestos tile??
Don’t hurry home guys!
And *I* know it’s summer for other, more important, reasons.
But I’m trying to be a better person/less into body-sculpting, so I decided to read a book. It was written by 
Chapter 25 was especially fun to read because Madge is so near and dear to my heart and I could relate to the notion of elder-abuse.
Except my mom has made it very clear that she wants to be euthanized via pillow-suffocation, pre-elder-abuse.
but I have never really studied it…
And again…
I KNEW IT.
And EMTs had to come to that same dingy bedroom, on that very same night, because we thought my chest-tube had fallen out?
Choosing paint color is just like choosing ink color. But with less Jen and more anxiety.
Dinah told me later that she was plotting my murder while I took this photo.
Who needs pants when you have legs like that? Amiright??
Broken femur?
SERIOUSLY???