TL Boehm - Writer

Written in my heart


Hand Me A Fork, Will You?

Posted by Tammy L Boehm on August 22, 2017 at 10:45 AM

It’s been awhile. It may be another while after this post. Hard to tell. Life is messy and complex and full of moments of uberadulting and it’s been this way for years. I can’t tell you why I stopped blogging regularly. I guess I just got tired of the same old same old. It was enough to live the bull excrement. Talking about it just added a maggoty layer I couldn’t stomach any more.


That being said, I was rabidly composing a guest spot for my associate at Rad Writing and I realized – I miss blogging. I miss the mulling, the snarkfest, and the idiocy that meanders from brain to cyberspace. I remember over a decade ago when I posted my first entry on Y360. I wanted to develop this persona, you know. The multifaceted, enigmatic, tragic poetess. Yup. It lasted about five posts and then I launched into some inane tirade about something as mundane as soap scum tub rings and viola. I never looked back. Except for now.


So here I am. There are so many things on my mind of which I could blather incessantly – from the fact that once again two of my family members are gorging their lousey hides on take out pizza whilst I had to choke down quinoa and veggies because well….two hundred pounds is mortifying. Or perhaps the fact that I’ve been here two years now on the third coast and my career is officially in retrograde. Then there’s the mother in law with Alzheimers, the interminable facebook firestorms about our POTUS, (tis like the great red spot on Saturn. It’s always there, the way cool book I’m editing (wait, I’d need permission for that) or the simple fact that my husband is sitting less than a foot away from me, flipping through Youtube while stretched out on the bed because the only spot I have in the house is in the bedroom near the wifi box where my PC resides – you see, when we gave up our home to come live with the MIL – my “office” is now a desk sized spot at the foot of the bed, and our old livingroom TV is mounted right above it. There is no peace, no privacy, no opportunity for a clear thought – so they are jammed in like so much debris right behind my eyeballs.


So I guess I’ll just rattle about the last thing – besides the iphone scrollin’ jazz listenin husband harshing my immediate attempt at creative – the MIL and take out pizza. I work all day – I’ll refrain from details, but the MIL has been doing things the way she does things since before I was an egg and so immediately upon me getting home (oh yeah – I’m the only one working right now, because the MIL is approaching full time maintenance) we must all sit at the table and eat, and engage in pleasantries about the weather, and how good my bowl of gruel is, and we must all sit politely until everyone is finished eating. Have you ever seen the video of the porcupine eating a pumpkin? Google it please. I fear I cannot say anything else or I will devolve into a stream of Spanglish expletives. She’s a social butterfly. I’m a blood sucking arachnid. Caca pasa. So add pizza to the mix and it’s a lifesaver for my husband that the gruel requires a spoon because forks are sharp and eyeballs are soft. I must stop. Suffice it to say – dinner is problematic, and since we do it every single day there is ample opportunity for me to wish I had a roll of duct tape and a flamethrower.




And so it will probably go. I love my family. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. But what used to keep me sane was blogging about the whole mess of ‘em. So what if my content is no more lofty than Cheetos and cornflakes. Perhaps the flavor will be familiar to you. Maybe you’ll find comfort. Maybe you’ll send a box of forks my way. Peace. I think I need to pummel the husband with the remote now.

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