You had me at special snowflake.


In today’s post I would like to channel my Inner Jim. That’s my dad.

And I would also like to talk about alcoholism.

So, YAY, this post is going to be INTENSE!

Why, you ask?

1. My dad is kinda intense. He likes to grip you by the elbow, in that way that makes the entire side of your body go kinda limp and numb, and he looks you in the eye and says things like, “How are you, REALLY?” and if you lie at all you feel like God might smite you, because God and Jim are *crosses fingers* like THIS.

2. Alcoholism. Nobody attempts that subject without a bit of intensity. I mean, we don’t just say things like, “Hmmmm, I think I might be coming down with a bit of alcoholism today. But, it’s just a tickle at the back of my throat. I’ll just get some rest and I’ll be fine!”

3. I’m in a really weird mood so there’s that.

I am also linking up with my favorite end of the week people: Five Minute Friday! and today’s theme??


Ok, here’s what I know:

  1. My dad would tell me (as would all the other addicts in recovery) that I am not a special snowflake. I’m no different than anyone else. I have no special backstory that makes my sad issues any more special or sad.
  2. This kinda is a bummer because ever since I was knee-high to a very special grasshopper I KNEW I WAS SO VERY DIFFERENT FROM EVERYONE. This explains so much.
  3. And, I am. But also, I’m not. So you know, not confusing at all.
  4. This does not have to be figured out. Really, the only answer to all this is understanding who Jesus is and trucking with him.
  5. Different is good. It means I can wear socks that don’t match and I tend to always (nearly always) break into dance whenever I visit my kids’ school and they stop me at the door with the camera thing. Because the office administrators really need to see me doing the Running Man.
  6. Different, in terms of alcoholism? Not good. I am not different. My addiction and recovery trucks along fine with the men and women, young, old, black, white, green, pink, tall, short, big, small, cat lover, cat hater, educated, street smart, rich, poor, faith-filled, faith-poor, lost, found, tattooed, pierced, pristine, married, single, somewhere in between, person who walks in the doors with the coffee pot on the door.
  7. Everyone should be so lucky as to have an Inner Jim. Just FYI.

I am reminded of this every time I attend a meeting, and I remember the words of one of my favorite old-timers there, “Mo.” He would say, “I’m no better than anyone else. And I’m no worse.”

He was right. And here is the thing – doesn’t this also apply to our faith? Doesn’t it also sound a little bit like how Jesus wants us to live?

I mean, we are all in recovery from something. Or we should be. Right?

Right. galatians-3-28.jpg



I’m Mad.

I found out yesterday that a friend in recovery died. He relapsed, and was found in his car, covered in vomit, in the fetal position. Dead.

I know this is not how you start a blog post. I guess. But I don’t really care.

He was young, and he had boys, and he had a smile that lit up the room.

And he’s dead.

Last Sunday I was helping in the yard, and it was hot. I had been working with the hubs and the boys for hours. The sound of the lawnmower hummed in the background as I pruned and weeded and raked. It was a glorious spring day.

And I was mad. I was mad at the grass and the fact that it made me itchy and that we had run out of bags and that my rose bushes had the audacity to have thorns.

I was mad at our blackberry vine because it needed to be cut back and I was mad at it for that. I was mad at my boys for giggling.

I was mad at the sun for being so hot.

As it happens, others around me felt the madness. This is always the way. Mad doesn’t like to be quiet or sit by itself, so, logically, I got mad at Brian.

I think it was because of the way he asked me about lunch. His tone was wrong and I got mad about that. And he blinked at me a bit which also made me mad and then I stomped inside because I was also mad, it seems, at the ground.

And then I did this:

I said, through gritted teeth: “God I don’t know why, but I am TICKED OFF. Please. Help. Grant me the serenity, Ok? Oh, I don’t even WANT to say the rest of it! I’m SO MAD.”

And then I stood there and waited for some sort of God miracle of goodness and light to come fix it. No such miracle. My dog circled my feet a few times but I felt no better. Still mad.

“Fine. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Courage to change the things I can. And the wisdom to know the FREAKING DIFFERENCE I AM STILL MAD.”

And, as usually happens after the serenity prayer, I stood still with my feelings, and turned them over in my hands, just for a moment. And as I turned them, I saw what I was mad about.

I wanted to take my husband a beer.

Back in the olden days, when I drank, on hot summer days I used to always take the hard working yard husband a beer. This meant, I was a good wife.

It also meant I was ok with beer- it was a harbinger of good will and slaking thirst after hard work in the sun. It was like all those Bud Light commercials with hikers enjoying a beer at the summit because beer is the next thing to Gatorade. It’s got wheat in it. IT’S GOOD FOR YOU.

And that beer that I brought to the husband also meant, evidently this past Sunday, that I was still very much an alcoholic. Because? It had taken up a whole lot of head space and had drug along with it a whole lot of negativity and emotions that don’t really belong anywhere near me anymore.

So, I realized all that in the kitchen on a hot Sunday. And I had to smile because every once in a while I try to tell myself that I am really ok. That surely I’m not an alcoholic. That I’m probably just fine… And that memory of that beer made it all very clear.

I walked out to the husband who was now trying to fix something broken in the garage. I stood in front of him, and said, “I’m sorry.”

He tilted his head to side, all labrador retriever-ish, and said, “Why? What did you break?” And I thought, he doesn’t even realize I was being a putz earlier. I should leave now.

But instead I said this:

I wanted to bring you a beer. I remember how I used to do that. And a part of me wishes I could still do it. We used to do fun things like that.

And he said,

Well,  I miss it too, a little. But not all that much. And we do lots of other fun things now, that we never could have done before. So that’s better.

I totally don’t deserve him. Also, he will make me mad again and he won’t nearly be as cool about it as he was in this post, I promise you. But for now, he said the perfect thing.

I hugged him, and spoke into his sweaty tshirt that smelled like cut grass, “I am so an alcoholic.”

He didn’t answer because I think he was realizing this was one of those Dana moments where it is very very much about my self-therapy, but I’m pretty sure he was thinking,


So there was all that therapy last Sunday. Because of the sound of a lawn mower and some sun rays.

And then my friend, Jesse dies.

And I guess? I am still mad. Not mad anymore at the wrong people or the memories of long ago, or my own tangled brain.

I know who I’m mad at now. And today my anger feels like a loaded gun.

I hate you, alcohol.

That’s all. Thanks for listening.

Resolutions are not useless and here’s why:


Ok, so I write for a fabulous magazine called The Cov. It’s a good gig. I get to talk about Jesus and often, they allow funny.  At the same time. I have a good relationship with the editors. I know this because I can send them kitty memes about procrastination and they seem to appreciate them.



And this one, which neatly sums up the process of trying to edit:


And this one:


Which really has nothing to do with writing but it cracks me up. Also this:


I know. I need to stop. So, the other day we were talking about a January column and I was all:


And my editor, who I shall call Larry, said,
“Resolutions are hokey.”

Oh, it was on.

Actually, no. It was not on. I was all, “Oh, sure… right Larry, I totally agree.” I didn’t argue because he is kind of my boss, but NOT without muttering under my breath, all passive aggressive:

“You will rue the day, Larry.”

Not really sure where we’re going here, but I made MY OWN RESOLUTIONS ANYHOW ON MY BLOG! WHO’S THE BOSS NOW LARRY? HUH?

I know. I have to assert control somewhere.


  1. Maintain a good working relationship with Larry.
  2. Stop putting my coffee in the microwave, zapping it for twenty seconds, and then leaving it there to ponder its uselessness until forty-eight hours later.
  3. I’m going to use this book on my children. 51MF3u-JPAL._SX348_BO1,204,203,200_-1.jpgI will hold them each in my hands, ponder them for a minute, and ask them, “Tell me, small Red who has once again left a swath jelly behind in the kitchen like its own sticky Exxon Valdez oil slick, DO YOU SPARK JOY? DO YA, PUNK? DO YOU FEEL LUCKY?
  4. I will figure out how to number things on my blog.
  1. I will not actually donate my children, I promise. But you gotta know, MARIE KONDO DOES NOT HAVE CHILDREN. One day, if she does, she will grab some sort of useless plastic toy in her hands and start pondering it, and ask, “Small useless piece of plastic from The McDonalds, do you spar-” and her wee child will start crying and Kondo will just roll her eyes and toss it at the baby. You know she will.
  2. I will brush and floss every day.
  3. Freaked you out with that one, didn’t I? You were wondering… “Wait. She DOESN’T brush every day? Why am I even reading this?
  4. I will stop overusing “skin fixing illuminating age defying serum that costs shackamillion dollars.” I figured since the packaging said it erases fine lines I should just, you know, slather it all over. And now I head out for my day every morning looking like I’m J Lo.maxresdefault.jpg
  5. Actually? Scratch that. If I want to look like J Lo I can. Say hello to my glowy little friend:


10. I will also try to get a handle on this:6a7c885b9a3b9476370d6de5a1b7c0ebd4d3d0359d90b8c1d9693788f25a6482_1.jpg

Betcha can’t guess what type of personality I am? I’ll give you a hint: I often have slanty eyebrows and I rhyme with “SLAY.


12. And finally, as God is my witness, I will stop buying the bargain toilet paper. Life is just too short, people.

Here’s the thing (YOU KNOW I can’t write a post without some sort of “Here’s the moral to the story” moment? Right? Larry tells me I do this. It’s my thing. Alas, I often have no idea what I’m talking about in terms of morals, but I WILL CARRY ON.)

Anyhow, here’s the thing. I think this year I want to stop trying to lose things. I want to not try to lose weight or lose wrinkles or lose the clutter or lose my mind or whatevs.

I want more. I want enough piled on enough.

More, please!

More: Jesus. Family. Special Locked Door Husband time (yes, that’s code for nookie). Laughter. Small children who have impossibly long lashes and a total inability to eat without making the kitchen look like a crime scene.

More cuddling with this huge fat furry fluff of goodness:IMG_6138.jpg

This picture illustrates that Steve is two things:

  •      A bit of a risk taker.
  •      Really doesn’t mind pencils. EduCATed. Har har har.

I will take more naps:IMG_6131.jpg

I don’t have a picture of ME napping so these are stand-in, blurry nappers. Look carefully for the dog, he’s at the end of the couch and is basically really really hurt because Steve has his spot.

Also, we’re so healthy! V-8!

I will take my kids sledding, even when there’s only about 2 inches of snow. We will still attempt it. IMG_6222 3.jpg

I will stay up a little later, act a little sillier, and hug even tighter.

Also, I’ll listen to the Xanadu soundtrack more often.

Oh, and I won’t drink. There’s always that. That’s one minus I will happily keep adding to my life.


And, I will write. I’ll even pen some resolutions. I will always, always love the re-set button that is January 1.

Happy New Year to you. May God richly bless you. You have been a HUGE blessing to me.

Even you, Larry.


That’s not actually Larry. Love you, Larry!

While Dreams of Martinis Danced in My Head.

Y’all. Christmas used to mean drinking.

It meant Bailey’s Irish Cream. And mulled wine (totally gross, and it involves the extra step of actually heating up the alcohol, which, if you think about it… why not just throw that stuff in the microwave if you must, but without the cinnamon sticks). It meant eggnog and rum. I think this is perhaps the most heinous of Christmassy drinks, but it was all “’tis the season” this and “let’s raise our glasses” that and I usually had my one cup of tricked-out eggnog and then just headed for the wine, like normal people do.


I forget if I have told you…. have we had that whole uncomfortable, hey, did you know this little tidbit about me thing where I unload my personal history and tragedy, but in a totally “it’s all cool” kind of way – like if you came bopping up to me and said “Hey! Hi! Cute shoes! Did you know I used to steal cars?”

What I’m trying to say is: My name is Dana, and I’m an alcoholic.

I don’t drink anymore. But Christmas? Christmas is a time that I really remember it all. The insanity. The lying. The situation that somehow I had gotten myself into, me, an intelligent, “had it together” mom of two. Me. Hiding vodka in my closet, tucked away amongst all those cute shoes.

Christmas is for a lot of things. But for me, drinking is no longer one of them. Tonight, Christmas is for sneaking around with wrapping and tape and a La Croix, and lots of whispering and staying up way too late. It’s for eating yummy things and crying while I watch It’s a Wonderful Life. I always cry. It’s the law.

Christmas is all about second chances, after all. George Bailey understands that, I think. So does Christ. It’s his birthday and He is so happy celebrate it with all of us. Christmas is for playing endless board games and making candy and hoping the roads aren’t icy and splurging at the store to buy your kid a ridiculous Pikachu shirt because that odd yellow creature speaks my kid’s love language. I dunno. I don’t get it. But when I was a kid I went nutball for the Superfriends, so perhaps we’re just repeating ourselves.


Christmas is for seeing how a baby gave us the colossal reset. It’s for taking a breath and realizing goodness and right is still in charge. Still good. Still right.

And still right here.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Mine will be spent playing bingo and eating cookies and probably forty thousand other things, all with family. For those with family far away or an empty chair at the table, I know. And I know for some, hanging up that one thing that plagues you so is still not part of the plan for Christmas. Do yourself a favor. Give yourself the gift of freedom. Set down the glass or the pill or the shopping or the comparing of the gambling or whatever it is that keeps you stuck.

Set it down and enjoy the best gift. Life.

Love you and Merry Sober Christmas.



Introversion, Alcohol, and Door to Door Sales.



Here’s a fun topic: Let me tell you about a two childhood memories that have scarred me for life:

  1. I sat on the steps that go down to the family room, and listened to the movie, The Exorcist, while my dad watched it downstairs. Ok, well, I sat there for just the first ten minutes, so nothing really scary had happened, but the POTENTIAL was there. Scary was coming. She will have bad skin and a really limber upper torso, and I. Was. Scarred.
    (Disclaimer: My friend Mary Westlin’s older sister had seen it, and told Mary the ENTIRE MOVIE and so, of course, Mary told me. I never should have trusted that girl. I mean, her sister listened to Meatloaf and smoked a LOT of pot, so I think Mary’s version was probably even more awful than the movie. After Mary had given me all the details, I sat on the jungle gym in silence. And then, I told my future self: Don’t ever watch that movie. Sit on the steps and listen for ten minutes, I guess, if you must, but then, girl, go put on some ABBA 45’s and relax.  You will live a full and wonderful life without that movie taking up space in your head.)*

2.      Also there was that one time I had to sell Girl Scout cookies.

Most people, when I tell them, “I’m a bit of an introvert,” don’t buy it. I know. You’re sick of hearing it. It’s become this whole thing on facebook now, all these “You know you’re an introvert when” lists. We’re getting organized and, like, vocal.

Well, vocal, yes, but in a soft-spoken sort of way. We don’t want to annoy. Anytime we annoy someone we softly implode. And then we clean ourselves up because we are so embarrassed about the mess.

Anyhow, a few years back I experienced this whole slamming up against reality fest called I’m Getting Sober. It was a rather busy time. A whole lot of stuff happened.

Stuff like: I actually got sober which meant I did not drink anymore.  MIND BLOWN on that one.

Also: I learned stuff about myself. Stuff that I had pretty much neatly folded up and put away (wrapped with tissue paper and maybe a few sachets) in the top closet of my soul for over twenty YEARS. Some of that stuff was moldy and old when I finally unwrapped it so I threw that crap OUT.

But, some of the stuff just needed to be aired and have a little sun on it.

Stuff like: Self-realization. Introversion can be really weird, when you also live a totally extroverted life (teaching, speaking, writing). Because then you go home and collapse into a glass or six of wine and OH MY GOODNESS SO THAT’S WHY I DID THAT.

Well, it’s not the only reason I drank. Also, I wanted everyone to love me no matter what and all the time, like everyone EVERYWHERE and FOREVER. That too. Also, I drank because I watched a lot of Lifetime television and Holy Tori Spelling, that crap will get to you.

Also, I drank because I’m an alcoholic. So there’s that.

Anyhow, so now that all this really life changing stuff has happened and I am all enlightened, which is awful and wonderful at the same time.

It’s awful because in a way it’s like finding out that there is no Santa.

But at the same time? Finally, the PRESSURE IS OFF. You no longer have to be perfect and suck your tummy in all the time – Santa is not watching! I repeat: HE IS NOT WATCHING. You can breathe. You can tell the Elf on the Shelf to suck it. It’s glorious!

In fact, NO ONE is watching, except you, and your God, and you can count yourself out of the watching part because you are practicing this whole new thing called self-forgiveness and moving forward, not back. So that means you don’t watch yourself, you just keep your eyes on the path ahead and do the next right thing. Easy peasy. And God? Yep, He’s watching for sure, but with a lot of love behind His eyes and BUCKETS of forgiveness (thank you, Jesus) and healing, all ordered up for you. Like a Christmas miracle.

Which, as you know, it is.

Anyhow. I digress. This post was somehow supposed to be about my plans for tomorrow afternoon. These are plans that involve me and my boys, and really, in the great scope of things, these plans should be filed under:

This is Not a Big Deal. Back Off, Momsie.

Actually, now that I mention it, about 99.756% of my life should be filed under this heading. This makes me smile. It’s liberating. It’s like I have my own little Braveheart dude in his kilt, riding up and down in my brain, all the time, shouting “They cannae take our FREEEEEDOM!!!” I kind of have his hair.

Let me be frank. I am not totally nuts. I do realize I have packed this post with just about every metaphor possible (It’s like Pandora’s box, just FULL of – oh just stop it.) I do realize with the Braveheart guy that I just get to have the hairstyle and freedom part and NOT the following battle scene where this is a lot of thwacking and blood and guts all over.

Ok. This post ended up being about a whole other thing, sobriety and the whole dance of the seven veils, unloading of my soul thing (in a totally non-seductive and much more therapeutic way, perhaps to the tune of “I am, I said” by Neil Diamond). Yep, another metaphor.


Whew! Aren’t you glad you went on this post with me? I feel great! Therapy while writing! And I don’t even have to pay anyone. We’re fine. We’re all fine here now. How are you?

Anyhow, the Really Not a Big Deal thing? that’s happening tomorrow?

I’ll tell you more about it, tomorrow.

(Hey! That’s another thing I learned about Dana! It’s that I really DON’T like suspense and cliffhangers all that much! Like, REALLY don’t like ’em! But you guys? You are my people. I know you’re totally invested in this blog and this is some good stuff. Binge-worthy. So, you will stay with me. Right? Right??

*taps mic*

Hello? )

*I was gonna try and find a funny meme for The Exorcist to share with you and you know what? No. Nope nope nopetty nope. Nah. Not gonna do it. Life is too short.

Unlike this post.






Pass the Glitter and My Messy Beautiful



There is glitter in my biscuits. I realize this sounds like Southern code for some sort of personality disorder, but actually, there really IS speckles of glitter in my biscuit dough. There is also glitter on the cat, and I am pretty sure I spotted some in the commode earlier.  I didn’t investigate too closely on that one.

My life is messy. But, if one is going to for mess, at least glitter is festive-messy. Mess with flair.

There was a time when this glitter incident would have sent me spinning. I think we could safely say that time was yesterday, sometime around 5 pm.

But I have evolved a lot since then.
Glennon Melton,  author of Carry on Warrior, wants me to tell my story. Glennon is a kindred spirit (I am pretty sure every woman who has read her book has decided that she is a BESTIE of BESTEST qualifications because the woman knows how to speak to our hearts.  And she has serious spunk.  We love moms with spunk, because we can latch on to the spunky.  Spunk spreads.)

Anyhow, when I was asked to add a post to her “My Messy Beautiful Project” about my story, my initial response was, “Well, that should be easy!  That’s what all my posts are – a bit of my life for all to see.”
And then I tried to write this post.
And then I realized I haven’t really shared my story with anyone.

Here’s why:  My story?  It’s not 100% solid funny.  It’s like when you get a chocolate Easter bunny and take a gnaw at it just to find it’s mostly air.  Major bunny letdown.

However, I promised Glennon and … she is really sweet and all, but you never know.  She could be a lunatic about broken promises.

Plus she’s all about us being brave and courageous.

Even when we’re not.

So here goes.

  My Hollow Bunny, Not All Funny, Story:

My brother died. It’s been over two months now, but still, I am saying this to myself because I forget. Or I remember all day. This might be some sort of party foul – the dead brother card can only be used for one month and then it expires, and then you are politely asked to sit on the bench and think about unicorns and bunnies. And perhaps, glitter.

But, you see, I miss him. I miss that he doesn’t answer the phone when I call my dad’s office. I miss his voice. I miss how he would call me “Snagglepuss” and how he seemed so Big and Big Brotherish. In a good, non-1984 way.

And I just miss him.

He died because he couldn’t stop drinking.  He took his liver past its point of “I’ll heal if you will please stop.”   He just kept going from there. And I can’t for the life of me understand how he could do it.

Except,  every day at  about 5 pm.
Because there is catch.

I am an alcoholic.

No – I don’t drink too much sometimes, or have a problem with drinking, or need to cut back, or have issues, or sometimes seem to party just a little too hard. 
I am a straight up, no chaser, strong and no ice, please, alcoholic.
Just like my brother.

That is the story I have not given you, for all these posts for all these months. It’s the hollow part. I am working on filling it.

When I first stopped drinking, I filled it with prayer about every 20 seconds, and a lot of tears, and non stop whining, and numerous meetings with other people like me, and endless bags of Reese’s Peanut Butter cups.

Just so you know, those peanut butter cups have completely restorative powers.  Eat one, read the 23rd psalm, and you will have a spiritual experience, I promise. Jesus would totally approve.  In fact, I am pretty sure He was in charge of creating them.  I would totally contact Reese’s and tell ’em they should sponsor all alcoholics everywhere,  but for some reason I am thinking they might not embrace that as a new advertising platform.:


In my case, no bar. Ha ha ha.  Just a little recovery humor for you.


And now, almost two years later, I fill my hollow with prayer about every 39 seconds, and some tears, but tears that wash away pain and rough edges.   And yes,  I still snarf too many of those Reese’s cups.   The Easter egg ones are out, and if you eat one while you read Matthew 28, you WILL transcend a bit. I tell you. At least long enough before one of your toddlers comes and pushes his jelly-breath up against your face and bleats, “What eatin? Can I have sum?”

Share your Reese’s. It’s What Jesus Would Do.
I started drinking in the least imaginative way possible – in college. I partied, but I also loved school, did well, and had, I thought, a “handle” on the drinking. “I am smarter than this,” I thought. “I got straight A’s, even in chemistry. I got this.” And on it went.  Drinking gave me a kind of magic shell that I could wear that would frost over all the sharp edges I felt.

But there were red flags, hiccups on the way, about the booze. In my twenties, my sweet roommate once came home to me, a nearly empty bottle of wine, and the clacking T.V.  “Why are you drinking alone?” she asked amazed. “That’s not healthy.  You know that, don’t you?”

I don’t remember my answer, but I filed her comment away. And for twenty some years I would pull it out and think about what she said, then put it away, and continue working steadily on my relationship with alcohol.  Recently, I gave her a call and thanked her.  Long ago she spoke up and I listened.  I’m slow, but I finally listened.

My affair with alcohol  hit its lowest point when I had children. And this is a common story, I think, amongst moms. The monotony, the chaos, the mess – a glass of wine smoothed all that out and tucked my babies in just fine.
Until, of course, it didn’t anymore. And I was trapped.

So now, here I am. But I am no longer a hollow bunny. In fact, I am no longer a confection at all. I am a follower of Jesus. I am a wife. A mom. A daughter. A sister. A friend. I go to sleep at night and say, “Thank you for this day.” I wake up, and ask, “Please.”  I could try to tell you, in this one post, the hows and whys of why I drank too much and who I am now that I don’t drink at all, but it would be a book, ya’ll.  A HUGE book, like, Gone With the Wind huge, – a lot of drama, and a lot of petulant behavior, and a lot of hurt, without the foo-foo dresses.  I do think, at some point, I did shout, “As God is my witness, I will never drink boxed wine again!” There was real recovery there.   And hard truth.  But no southern accent.

In short, I drank too much because I had one hell of a civil war going on inside my own head.  I didn’t like me, but I also thought I was the most important person to breathe air.  That kind of crazy stuff.  I couldn’t ever get over wanting more of everything.  To fill up the less-ness that was my dried-out soul.  I didn’t want to walk around inside of me anymore.  Vodka fixed that.  For a while.  I had hooked myself up to an IV of constant numb.  And so I lived my coma-life, for years and years.

But mainly?  I drank too much because I am an alcoholic.

The broken things in me are mending.  Sometimes I have to sit with pain a lot longer than I think is nice.  But, I sit with it now.  Sometimes I feel other things like anger, or intense irritation, or even, joy.  I slowly click through feelings and I actually survive.  Even when I miss my brother.

The most when I miss my brother.

And so, now, when my life becomes messy and chaotic or there’s a glitter tsunami, and something inside me starts ticking, ticking, I can do two things:

1. Rage against the glitter.

2. Laugh. And use the cat as a duster.

For right now, I am having some tea and slathering some butter on my shiny biscuit.  I should start a rockabilly band called The Glitter Biscuits. I can thwack a mean tambourine, and I can sing really, really loud, with no concept of key.  It will be epic.

Why in the world I waited until I was 45 to face this, I don’t know.  But when I look back at the canyon of my past, I don’t feel sorry.  I take a deep breath and shout at it.  Know why?  I get an echo back, and the echo roars that I am here, on the other side, with a big fat voice.   When I look back at that sad and empty landscape, I can only shout and wait to hear back:




This is for my sons. They will read it one day and tell me sorry about the glitter. And I will tell them sorry about the drinking.



Today’s post and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — a project created by Glennon Doyle Melton to help us lean in, learn a little, lift each other, and even cherish the messes we make.   It’s an awesome responsibility, to embrace this”brutiful” life, and it is an honor to post as a part of this project.  I have learned a lot from Glennon’s writing, about courage and voice, no matter what the odds, and I thank her for that.

The New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life,  is just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!