let freedom ring

Appropos to nothing, my first book of poetry is now available on Amazon.

As I write this, it is #170 for love poetry.  That’s not bad.

I will do the requisite amount of promotion over the weekend. This will include free downloads on some of my eBooks. So keep an eye out for that.

I like to listen to country music on the 4th of the July.  The twangier the better.

Being an Arizona girl, I listen to this album completely.  I remember my parents playing the LP and having me and a cousin sing along to “El Paso.”


I can even tolerate Toby Keith on the 4th of the July, although the other 364 I’m am a straight-up Dixie Chick chick.

Because disagreeing with politicians is what America is about.

Furthermore, I can’t imagine the blacklash they got from complaining about George W. Bush would have been so nasty if they weren’t a girl country group.

I also like listening to mariachi music while drinking tequila and letting out my inner Mexican and speaking broken Spanish, just to piss off the racists.

Because welcoming new people with open arms is also what America is about.

Anything else is us stupid Yanks losing our way and cannabilizing our own future.

None of this is what I wanted to talk about.  For that, I need to hop over to another Dixie Chick song.

The problems in my second marriage started around 2010.  There were a couple of factors that came to a head.

First, I was unhappy in my job at the time, and I had my suspicions that The Mako Gang (that’s what I’m going to call them) were making my professional life difficult just like they had (rightly or wrongly) since 2001.

I told my then-fiance about them, before we got married, but he dimissed my concerns.

In time, he would use my assertion of bullying to gaslight me.  And it wasn’t like I had any proof, just a hunch.  And I was a woman, so my hunches were worth nothing.

Then there was the fact that I wanted to try out a career as a writer.

I had started writing fanfiction for Twilight and Harry Potter in 2009 and it did not go over well with my husband.

I’m still not sure what exactly his beef was. Part of it was his insecurities about being a college dropout. Like, I can write too, bitch.  Then it was the fact that he claimed that I was neglecting my home life and our daughter.  Which is bullshit.

I mean, I hate cleaning. You never get to see the end result as a mom, just like you never see the bottom of the laundry hamper. It fucking never stops.

And then I would get distracted and offer up uninspired dinners.

He once said that the casserole I’d made looked like vomit.

Then got mad that I got hurt, and said that he had the right to voice his opinion.

Funny thing that I couldn’t voice my opinion without worrying about his temper.

Most husbands, according to my fanfiction friends, like it when their wives start writing steamy stuff because it means they got lucky more often.

Nope. Quite the opposite.

Still, writing made me happy, and I thought that counted for something.

Nope. It was a gut-punch to realize it didn’t count at all to him.

Then he started spending more and more time with his porn.  He would download it in the morning before he went to work. He would watch it at night after my latest failed attempt at cooking.  Later on, in marriage counseling, he agreed to watch at least an hour of TV each night with me before retreating to his porn cave.

I was nice. I didn’t make him watch, for example, The Big Bang Theory, which he hated. We watched South Park or Family Guy or Archer or Bob’s Burgers.

In fact, when I watched shows I liked and had the volume on over, say, 10 then he would stomp into the room from his porn cave and slam the bedroom door.

Sometimes my daughter would creep into my room and ask why her daddy was mad.

I could go on and on, and in retrospect, it sounds monstrous.

So why did I stay? Because I thought love could beat porn, alcohol, childhood abuse, childhood neglect, tight financial situations, etc. In short, because I am romantic.

But there is nothing romantic about having to drive three hours one way with an ice pack half-stuck to your face because your husband has fractured your cheekbone and sent blood dribbling down your neck into your shirt.

The first anniversary of my divorce is this month.  This is my first 4th of July when I didn’t have to worry about an abusive and drunk life partner, for either myself or for my daughter.  This realization has been sneaking up on me and going surprise!

It’s enough to make you want to get drunk, sing country karoake and take a cute hotshot fireman home (I have my eye on one who comes into my work and smiles at me).  Or a cowboy who doesn’t chew tobacco (so fucking gross!)  Sing it ladies!

Maybe next year.

For everything else that is happening in my life right now, there is this song.





Categories my inklings
Hours I own all of these ideas, but none of these images.
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