My original intent was to just write- write my thoughts on life, the running inner dialogue where I philosophize and preach lessons to myself, to grandchildren, to women… but then I always edit the words off of the page before I share them. I suffer from the fear that people will cringe and run from the real version of RJ. 

March 31, 2020- I write constantly in my head. These words, these poems, these stories visit me while I teach, while I shower, while I drive… I decided to share a few of them, for myself mostly. I love food, drink (epicurean lifestyle, baby), travel, old things, new things, present things and people, sunsets and horizons, mostly cats (Stan the Man aka Asscat rules) but dogs are pretty alright (Boomer was the best!), books that suck my soul into the pages, friends who tolerate my weirdness, music that knows me, long stretches of highway asking for road trips, tv shows and movies that waste time with me, a good cry when I need one, learning, and time alone (but not as much as I thought because quarantine is tapping into my crazy)– and, my superwonderfultheygotitfromtheirmomma sons, badass daughter(in-law), and baby grands, Bug 1 and Bug 2.

But here I sit in 2022, a little worse for the wear in these past pandemic years, and I think– eh, this is who I am.  So- let the stories flow. Some are fiction. Some are real.  Some are from guest writers.  Perhaps you’ll find yourself somewhere in here. 

2025, cusp of 2026, and I didn’t let the words out. Just two posts in all of this time? So much life happens off of the page, crippling, demanding, stifling, and the words stayed in the head. Always the running commentary, the thoughts I want to share, must share, feeling as if they will explode to plaster all of my friends, family, the people around me with…what? the truth as I see it? who wants to hear/read that, feel that explosion, released in one pent up rant from a crazy (not-middle-aged anymore, you stupid twat) older woman who’s always struggled to be heard? I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. 

59.5 years. Some wisdom. A divorce. A marriage. Two new grands: 2 + 2 = 4. A loss. A death. Grief that dwells in the basement but comes up for a visit of indeterminate time. Purposeful challenges. A reset.

Ordinary Things can still seem Extraordinary. And maybe these here words will finally have a say.