Total Overwhelm

I am truly a pinhead when it comes to social networking.

With my last blog and a basic Facebook page, I was able to Write. Publish. Automatically post on FB. View.

It took me about a year and half to figure out all of that. Thing is, I wasn’t trying to keep anything secret, so my friends were my blog audience and faithful readers and I could contact anyone I wanted through the blog or Facebook because there was no masking my identity. My print by-line even gave the web address.

And look at where that got me… Divorce and Custody Court.

It also almost got me fired because I mentioned that talking to a certain client got me wet.

So, there is definitely an upside to anonymity.

The downside all revolves around reaching readers.

At first I thought that if I just built it they would come.

That didn’t happen.

Then I thought that if High Desert Darlin’ had her own Facebook page, that people would stumble across it and congratulate themselves on their discovery.

Didn’t happen either.

Also had to come up with another name because I couldn’t figure out how to get around the fake name filter.

So then someone  suggested a secret group on Facebook through my real Facebook page, which I have created.

I only included a few folks who I can totally totally trust. A couple of them seemed thrilled, others haven’t even acknowledged their special status.

But beyond sending out invitations, I can’t figure out anything else. My biggest struggle is how to get my posts from here to show up for the secret group without showing up for all the world to see.

Part of the problem is that I have terrible ADD and once something gets even the tiniest bit frustrating, I move on.

So, to be quite honest, I have 4 Facebook pages, 3 separate blogs and 2 twitter accounts. I spend a lot of time signing into Facebook as one person so that I can see what shows up on another identity’s public page.  Yesterday I friended and unfriended myself 7 times and logged in and out at least 22 times.

This is fucking ridiculous.

The Bee across the street seems to be able to help – if I can only find the time to get over there.

I want so badly to figure this out and feel like a totally hipster writer. I also want, so badly, to be able to write as just little ol’ me without having to worry about the repercussions.

I really just want to twitch my nose and fix all of this.





My marriage was horribly abusive – mentally, emotionally, verbally.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I was plenty guilty or dishing it out.

Now, in the current we’re-getting-very-serious-and-moving-in-together, relationship, I want everything to be different. I have absolutely no need to be treated like shit or to treat anyone else that way.

So here’s this great man, with whom I am totally in love, who wants to “Be present,” “Receive (me and my) feelings,” “Hold space,” “Nurture (my) independence,” and “Deal with arising issues with integrity, love and compassion.”

And what do I want to do?

Whack him with a fucking (metaphorical) two-by-four.

We were talking today about something that came up  – he asked me to tell him what was going on for me, listened while looking me in the eyes and then apologized for his piece that had caused me to feel the way that I did.

Perfect, right?

Right, except it takes so much work, so much energy.  It’s so much easier to just say, “You were an asshole and need to apologize.”

Self righteous anger can be very agreeable, after all.

And yes, lashing out is cruel and dishonest and lazy and abusive and pointless and messy, but actually dealing with emotions and trying to listen to someone else share their struggles, especially their struggles with you, can just wear a gal down.

Talk about messy.

At least being nasty is familiar. It really comes quite naturally.

Which, totally sucks.

I’ve never been one to shirk work in a relationship – dear god – I did nothing but work for my entire marriage. But I look this lovely man in the eyes which provide a direct line into his heart and my inclination is to be shallow and self-serving and lazy.

Of course I am not going to be.  I really don’t want to be that person and I certainly don’t want to be that person to him, and most of all, I don’t want to lose him.

Bottom line, I want to be a good person and a good person in a relationship.

But taking the easy way out and being a bitch is awfully tempting sometimes.





Moving In


I think that I, we, are moving in with my boyfriend.

I swore that I would never, ever get married again and often finished that declaration with, “Probably won’t even consider living with someone again.”

I LOVE to sleep alone.

I love to masturbate.

I love to eat Cheetos (out of the secret stash in my shoe closet) in bed at 2 in the morning.

I love having my very own shoe closet.

I love to have total control over where I hang paintings, what paintings I hang, and how long I leave the Christmas lights hanging.

I love to not listen to music in the house and when I do, I love listening to the same CD 52 gazillion times.

I love being the center of my children’s world and not sharing the spotlight with another adult.

I love having the excuse, “I’m a single mom, I can’t do it all,” to not scrub the tub and just sit on my ass watching The Good Wife.

So what happened?

Honestly, I’m not quite sure. One day we were breaking up. Then we were back together and using the L-word, then he spent the night when my kids were home, then we went on a family mini break, then we looked at a house to rent and now we are signing a lease – seems like all in a week.

I kept saying “This has to move very slowly. VERY,” and then, without consciously changing my mind, I asked him to look at a house.

That was yesterday and today we are taking the children over there to pick out their bedrooms.

Oh God, I think I’m having an anxiety attack.


Mother of the Goddamn Year

(And this is why I write anonymously; if I didn’t, I’d be in the midst of an “Unfit Parent” defensive in divorce court.)

I worked late, helping other parents over some of their deepest fears, came home, folded laundry, cleaned out the fridge, packed for our family mini break (at a hotel with an indoor water park that has surfing) – it’s an “Urban Resort,” – made a yummy dinner for Bobby who was exhausted from stacking wood all day, talked to my mom, got to talk to Peter, in Costa Rica, for the first time in 21 days and he’s really, really, happy which makes me really, really, happy, and I can’t wait to see him tomorrow (the impetus for the family mini-break), and then had my mom tell me (because I had to call her back to tell her that I’d spoken to Peter) “You are such a good mom,” which of course made me smile,  then Greg came home and I hung out with him until he left for his friend’s, at which point I said, “If there is going to be alcohol around, I want you to tell me,” and really put Greg to the test, so he passed with flying colors, because he did call, which I am sure scared the shit out of him, and I then passed his test with flying colors because I asked the requisite questions like, “Do the parents know?” and “You’re not getting into a car, right?” and then said, “Please don’t drink a stupid amount – throwing up is not fun, don’t think it is,” and he suddenly trusts me, and I suddenly trust him and we passed each others’ tests and life just got so much better for this mom and these 3 boys and tomorrow night Greg, Peter, and Bobby will all be together again, and I can’t think of anything better in the entire world, which, I believe, makes me Mother of the Year, at least in my home.

Peter is coming home!


Three weeks ago, I put Peter on a plane to go to Costa Rica with a group of kids through the program where I work.

We do summer adventure and community service trips for teens – Costa Rica is the coveted one.

It was totally last-minute – a space opened up for him exactly 22 days before the trip began. He applied for his passport that day and was told it would take 21 days to get it back. Days 22 was a weekender so it absolutely had to come within those 21 days…

…which it didn’t, because my ex sent some of the wrong paperwork, which sent me into a total tailspin Tuesday before the Saturday scheduled departure, which forced me into taking a day off work to fix it and a lot of money to get something to New Hampshire by 10 the next morning, after which I then had to have faith that the passport turn-around would happen, so I asked my ex if he had paid for it to be returned overnight, a question to which he did not respond because for some reason he refused to believe me that there were any issues with the application, so I ended up hounding the federal agency, all the while trying to imagine how I could possibly tell my precious son that he would not be able to go to Costa Rica for the adventure of a lifetime.

Passport came on Friday. I collapsed on the floor out of sheer relief.

So Peter and I drove the 5 hours to the nearest airport and spent the night in a hotel to be in position to put him on a 6:00 am flight to San Jose.

10:00 pm, “Mom, I don’t have my contact lenses.”


Next morning, I put my nearly-blind child on an airplane to leave his homeland and all I could think was, “How’s he going to change planes when he can’t read the monitors to find his gate?”

And then, “He’s so excited to see the monkeys but he’s not going to be able to see them – his entire trip just got ruined and he’s going to be miserable and sad and miss out on the adventure of a lifetime.”

I got home, pulled some strings, and got a prescription filled for him, for his eyes, in San Jose, for Thursday, which meant only a few days of blur, which unfortunately were in the rainforest where the monkeys live.

I also happen to owe people beer everywhere from here to said rainforest.

Except for hearing that he got his contacts and a generic email from the leaders saying the trip and group are great, I have heard nothing from or about this precious child.

If something had gone terribly wrong I would have heard – I do work there, you know. But if he’s not fitting in or everyone hates him because he’s younger and too smart for his own good or the leaders can’t stand him because he thinks he’s better than everyone else, then I wouldn’t hear about that.

So I am left to wonder, to stew, to fret.

And now, it’s Thursday and he flies home (or to the 5-hour away airport) on Saturday.

I’m so excited that I could bust, but I am also so nervous that he is going to get off the plane and say, “Mom, it totally sucked.”

Well, at least if it sucked he could see that it did.

Morning Stress

In two minutes, my 16-year-old son will be standing in front of a judge explaining why he left the scene of an accident; the accident in which he rolled and totaled his father’s truck which also contained his two brothers.

I am a wreck and here’s why:

It was his father’s idea to leave the scene and not call the police.  The only reason they were notified (the next day) is because they landed on private property and couldn’t get towed without a police report. When the State Trooper asked Greg why he didn’t call the cops the night before, Greg responded, “My Dad told me not to.”

I’m not sure whose jaw hit the ground harder, mine or the Trooper’s.

Do we not all know that when you have an accident you call the police?  Especially when three kids total a car?

You might be wondering why I wasn’t more influential in this scenario. Let me tell you…

I was away for the weekend – out of town, out of cell range, no computer. It was already the next day by the time I found out. To my own credit, one of the first 5 questions that I asked, “Are the police involved?”

I received no response from Greg’s father.

And now I understand why.

So the reason that this is so stressful to me is that the same person who guided him in the brilliant decision to leave the scene has also been coaching him on how to handle court today.  His advice includes pleading “Not Guilty.”

But he did leave, right?

So wouldn’t that be lying to a judge?

Wouldn’t it make more sense to say, “Yes I left, and the reason I did was….”

(…because my father is a big, fat, lying, douchebag who has no qualms about twisting the truth (lying) to suit his needs.)

I’ve tried to encourage Greg to tell the truth and then humbly beg for mercy.  His father thinks that’s weak.

So as I write this, my son is either trying to wiggle his way out of something or actually doing the right thing.

I would like to trust him – he’s a great kid.  But he’s also a scared kid who wrecked a car and almost killed himself and his brothers. Who knows what he will do in a panic.

I’m expecting a call any second now. My anxiety is through the roof. I feel as if  the actual accident was punishment enough – I really don’t want him to lose his license and/or commit perjury because of some misguided advice.

Keeping fingers crossed.