Where the hell have I been?
I remember when I first started blogging. Nora was about three, and after she would make her last insomniac toddler protest, I'd pour myself a generous glass of Chardonnay and type away in my bed, sipping and sorting the words.
Nora is almost 13 now, and she goes by Morti. He goes by Morti, I should say.
And next month marks year two of sobriety for me. Boring, laborious, sober sobriety. Necessary sobriety. Did I mention boring? As badly as I want to be one of those people who can have a glass of red with my steak or some sort of umbrella'd blender drink while sitting by the pool with her tanned friends, I'm not. I'm a "lose my purse and fall down the stairs" kind of drinker. A "just one more" after she's already had seven kind of drinker. I wish I were a polite drinker, someone who enjoyed the taste and didn't become obnoxious in the restaurant. It's not that I couldn't hold my liquor. Oh boy, could I hold liquor. A lot of it. Until I couldn't. But that's a story for another time.
For now, let's just say that my adventure picks up a long way in advance of where I last set it down, which was on a farm in Nebraska. Now Morti and I live in Colorado after following the gold rush. Go west, young(ish) woman! It wasn't really gold. Unless gold is a gig making 16' drone parachutes with your sister. If that's what the gold is, and it was supposed to be, then you sell your house in NE, pack up your ukulele and your heart and your daughter who is soon to become your son, and you hit I-80 just waiting for the first gray and serrated edges of the Rockies to slowly rise up between your windshield and some life you have yet to name.
What's the saying? Never look back? I may have sneaked enough peaks behind me to be about 15% salt, but for the most part, I've learned that the only way forward is forward, especially when you're running from the burning city of your own life. The one you keep setting on fire.
Well, glad to be back!
Nora is almost 13 now, and she goes by Morti. He goes by Morti, I should say.
And next month marks year two of sobriety for me. Boring, laborious, sober sobriety. Necessary sobriety. Did I mention boring? As badly as I want to be one of those people who can have a glass of red with my steak or some sort of umbrella'd blender drink while sitting by the pool with her tanned friends, I'm not. I'm a "lose my purse and fall down the stairs" kind of drinker. A "just one more" after she's already had seven kind of drinker. I wish I were a polite drinker, someone who enjoyed the taste and didn't become obnoxious in the restaurant. It's not that I couldn't hold my liquor. Oh boy, could I hold liquor. A lot of it. Until I couldn't. But that's a story for another time.
For now, let's just say that my adventure picks up a long way in advance of where I last set it down, which was on a farm in Nebraska. Now Morti and I live in Colorado after following the gold rush. Go west, young(ish) woman! It wasn't really gold. Unless gold is a gig making 16' drone parachutes with your sister. If that's what the gold is, and it was supposed to be, then you sell your house in NE, pack up your ukulele and your heart and your daughter who is soon to become your son, and you hit I-80 just waiting for the first gray and serrated edges of the Rockies to slowly rise up between your windshield and some life you have yet to name.
What's the saying? Never look back? I may have sneaked enough peaks behind me to be about 15% salt, but for the most part, I've learned that the only way forward is forward, especially when you're running from the burning city of your own life. The one you keep setting on fire.
Well, glad to be back!
I am SOOOOOO glad you're back. Everything working for you is in front of you. Who knows where it will take us, but I know we'll go there together. I love you, friend!
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