I started to write this on an airplane last week, dosed on Xanax and vodka, and some of it sounded pretty good at the time.  Scarily so, that I worried for a minute that I might have to become a drug addict or an alcoholic in order to be a good writer.  Naturally, I thought it was shit, so most of it didn’t make the cut, however.

I hate to fly. Really hate it.  Take offs, landing, turbulence – it all freaks me out.  I sit in the terminal and work myself up into a nervous wreck, and by the time I’m in my seat, I’m dosed on Xanax counting down the minutes till I can get my hands in that little bottle of swill they try to call vodka.  Not complaining about the swill, however, because when I’m flying a certain airline, I usually have free drink coupons that have been smuggled to me by someone who might be one of my sisters who also might be a flight attendant.  My favorite coupons are the ones with someone else’s name on them.  I just dare the flight attendant to question me on why my drink coupon says Jose Garcia.  Trust me, honey, my sister just made your job a hell of a lot easier.


You’d think I’d take the Xanax  on the way to the airport, right?  Nope.  I’m too distracted, because I’m on my way to the airport to get on a fucking airplane, and I’m already well on my way to becoming a hot mess.  You’d think that as often as I fly I’d get over it.  Nope.  As long as the plane is in the sky, and the flight is smooth, I do okay.  When the flight is bumpy, I’m downing more vodka, and praying to the God I otherwise neglect.

So why was I on the airplane?  I was coming home from vacation, my last bit of free time before my boys’ hockey season starts up, and my weekends become bogged down with games and traveling to not so fun places.  I had to get home somehow.  And yes, the flight there was just as harrowing.

While on vacation, the boys wanted to go zip lining.  It boggles my mind as to how my boys are all adrenaline junkies when I’m about as adventurous as a snail, but whatever, they’re boys.  So, the husband takes them zip lining, I go along to watch, and somehow get persuaded into trying it too.  There were five lines on this course, and the first line looked benign enough, so I thought, what the hell.  It was scary, but I lived.  Each line got longer and higher off the ground,  and when we got to the last line, which was like, I don’t know, five million feet off the ground, I said nope.


When I got home, I grabbed a beer, and went and sat on the balcony to escape the ostracism I was being subjected to.  I began scrolling through my notifications on my phone when one caught my eye, and I thought, NO.  FUCKING.  WAY.

As someone who is going to have to pimp herself out when her book is completed, you’d think I was all over social media, following people and getting people to follow me, but I’m not.  I’m introverted, shy, and pretty antisocial.  I couldn’t care any less how many followers I have on any site I’m on, because if people want to follow me they will, and if they don’t, I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.  Like, I would rather have one true fan than thousands of followers who have no idea who I am or what I write about.  So, I rarely follow people I don’t know.  And I almost never write on a stranger’s page.  Ever.  But I have a few times.  And someone responded to one of my comments on Instagram, thus, the NO FUCKNG WAY.

I told my favorite muse, okay, my only muse, that he was in the best city in California.  And he responded.  I stared at my phone for the longest fucking time, in a mixture of disbelief and denial, because no fucking way did the most really, really, really ridiculously good looking guy on the planet who goes by the name of George Alsford respond to something I wrote.  The man knows I exist.

He knows he’s my muse.

And he’s read my blog. 


I don’t know how much of it, but I panicked, and reread the post I had written about him because I couldn’t remember exactly what I had written.  I sighed in relief when I realized I only partly embarrassed myself, and that I didn’t come off as an asshole.  Or mental.  I was so fucking dosed, like in an I don’t fucking know this guy but he’s pretty awesome, and I must have been grinning like a fucking fool, because when the husband asked me what I was smiling about, I wanted to tell him I was looking at his replacement.

So, the hottest fucking guy on the planet totally made my day, and I think I may have fallen madly, and irrevocably, in like with him.  I told him I would send him a copy of my book when I finished it – the one he’s been a muse for. So now, I have to write a really good book, or I’m going to look like an asshole.


5 thoughts on “Dosed

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  1. P.S. being able to receive criticism without being a Little Bitch about it is one of the hallmarks of a great writer. But you wouldn’t know anything about that.


    1. Anna, honey, being condescending isn’t criticism. The kind of criticism I’m looking for is the constructive kind, you know, the kind that I can actually take something constructive from and apply it to improve my writing, not your opinions on how shitty my writing is, which by the way, I don’t need you to point out to me, as I am well aware of my writing skill. I’m having fun, I’m getting some practice, and I couldn’t care less about what you think. However, since you are clearly the expert on how to write well, feel free to share with me some of your work so I can see how it’s done.


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