Disappointed in Myself

“He kissed me. One Christmas Eve. And for one special moment my own little life was…as big as I could ever want it to be. To have someone so close to you, they’re inside you, when you’re feeling small, and scared, and just so…disappointed in yourself.” – Aunt Gladys, Home for the Holidays

Anxiety and Trichotillomania

This quote came into my head two nights ago, while I lay in bed with tears running down my cheeks, feeling small, and scared, and so disappointed in myself. I was unemployed and not getting any offers for work. I was tired of waiting, and tired of feeling so unappreciated. I mean, I know that I am talented and have a lot to offer, but no one was paying any attention to that. And no one was kissing me either.


I was working as a freelance writer, barely making ends meet, racking up the debt on my one credit card and hoping for no major emergencies. I didn’t have any health insurance and hadn’t been to a doctor in almost two years. I needed new contact lenses, and was scared about some new health symptoms that had popped up. I was shaky, I had no appetite, and I had a mysterious bump on my lady parts that appeared and disappeared.


And I so desperately wanted an hour-long hug, someone to tell me that they loved me, some pot, some peace of mind, and some life security. I didn’t even know if I’d have a place to stay in the near future because my roommate was going to sell her house. I couldn’t even smoke the pot that I had because I had to be able to test clean for a job. How did single people even handle this emotional loneliness? When would I feel safe and loved again?


I had only been single for about two months and I was already dating, but I didn’t feel like I was getting my emotional needs met. And the shittiest part of that was that I knew that I alone had to be the one to fulfill my own damn emotional needs so I could stop being so dependent on others to fill my emotional bucket. But I was feeling like my emotional bucket had a hole in it.


I was crying, and shaking, well, bawling is more like it. And even though I was staying with my sister at the time, and she clearly cared about me, and I had just talked to a friend yesterday who clearly cared about me, and my dad had sent a wonderfully inspiring text message to me that he was proud of me, I felt just so damn disappointed in myself. I was 44 and unemployed. I was 44 and unmarried. I was 44 and unhealthy. I was 44 and unhappy.


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This felt like the start of a depression. It felt like a hole that I wasn’t sure that I could climb out of. But I knew that it was part of a healing process too. I had to be able to comfort myself in order to be able to be a self-reliant adult. I was seeing a therapist and it was the one health care product that I felt like I needed more than anything. I was self-diagnosed as having PTSD, generalized anxiety disorder, trichotillomania, and dependent personality disorder. My mother was a narcissist, my ex boyfriend was a narcissist, and I was trying not to be a dependent child. My therapist calls it “Lost child syndrome” because I never got my emotional needs met as a child, so I keep trying to get them met by someone else, rather than doing it for myself.


What I came up with for self-love is a lot of things that I can do to give myself the care that I need for when I feel like my emotional needs are not being met. Like eating good food, getting exercise, being outdoors, expressing myself creatively by writing, having faith in myself and in God, practicing mindfulness, and a desire to continuously learn and improve. But I felt like I was doing all of these things and so why as I crying like a child who was lost?


Another reason for the tears is that I am also an empath. I tend to take on the stress and problems of others, even if they never ask me for help. I feel their pain across the divide. I could tell that a person I have never met was suffering, so I reached out to him, and yes, in fact, he was dealing with a horrible emotional experience. And someone who I am growing to love was also suffering, but suffering silently, and still I tried to reach out to comfort him.


I not only feel my own pain, I feel that of others. I absorb emotions like a sponge. I try to help where I can, but I also try to help, even when I shouldn’t, because I need to tend to my own emotional needs first. Before I can give of myself, I need to be whole. I am not whole, and yet I am trying to give of myself. Hence, the hole in my bucket.


My therapist told me about a book called The Wizard of OZ and Other Narcissists, and I have always loved the story of the Wizard of OZ. It makes for such wonderful metaphors. For example, neither Glinda, nor the Wizard were able to help Dorothy when she needed it most. It was Dorothy who had the power to go home all along, she only needed to realize her power and act on her desire.


So, being the Dorothy type that I am, I took control. I tried some quick eye movements looking at the trees (EMDR). I went outside, and I did some tapping (EFT) for my feelings of disappointment. That plus a face washing from the emotional therapy dog Edith, and writing all of this down, put me in a much better mood.


I may never be whole hearted, but I’m trying. I may never be healed completely, but I can stop the bleeding with some first aid. I may never stop being empathetic, even when I should take care of myself first, but I can recognize that I am digging a hole and stop going any deeper until I backfill a little first.

Di. Mond.


I’m bad with expressing my feelings and I stuff them away, which makes me then hurt myself in numerous ways. So in an attempt to break that shitty pattern of self-harm, I want to attempt to say how I feel.


I feel angry at the words that Louis says to me. They are deliberately hurtful, like when he says in a text that I have deaf ears, a cold heart, and that he made a mistake “in expecting you to behave like you had the practicing principals (sic) of a Christian Woman.” But I told him off and said that his negative words would not be tolerated. But the anger still lingers with me.


I feel not just anger, but hurt. In fact, I hate to say it but I cried. Why on Earth would he want to say these mean things to me? What kind of person does that to another person? I know the answer; an angry, hurting, selfish, narcissistic, manipulative person does that to another person whom they supposedly love or loved for over 6 years, or 5 and a half happy years as he has now diminished our relationship to and said so in a text.


And I am angry that he says, “I would do that differently if ever given the chance again.” He WAS given a second chance, when I left for two days and then came back to him and said that he needed to change. But that wasn’t reason enough for him to change then, so he definitely won’t try to change for me now, and even if he did, I can’t trust him to not hurt me and he can’t trust me to not hurt him so it’s pointless.


I should block his phone # but I haven’t. Do I really think I can be friends with a narcissist? I have hopes, but I am also bad at setting boundaries, which is why I put up with that for 6 long, wasted years. Not all wasted. Not all bad, but the end was a travesty of me being a doormat for someone who couldn’t see that they were walking all over a rug woven of pure silken gold strands and that if they had bothered to pick up the rug, dust it off, and shake it out in the sunlight, they would have discovered that it was really just a flattened, fallen angel that they had been trampling on the whole time.


And when I am scared, angry, or depressed, I engage in risky and self-harmful behavior, which is why I reactivated my adultfriendfinder account and started talking to random men online, just like I did when my marriage was falling apart. And I am scared to post this, because the truth will be hurtful for him to hear, and I fear his reaction. But fear is limiting me.


I pulled my eyebrow hairs out after I read and reread Louis’ hurtful words, which is my stupid Trichotillomania response to internalized hurt. I internalized that anger and sadness and turned it against myself rather than directing it back at the person who had hurt me. I cower in the face of negativity because I think I deserve it. I have been trained to believe that I deserve it.


And I never give it back, because not only do I hate negativity in others, but I fear that same negativity in myself. I want only to love others, not treat them like I have been treated. A LONG history of abuse has been heaped upon me, and that, plus my inability to reject it, has trained me too well in how to hurt myself, how to feel less than, how to accept abuse like a sponge.


I have become one of those pathetic girls with low self-esteem, craving a kind word from anyone, but especially from men. I need help with this and I hope that a counselor can help, but maybe not. Maybe drugs can help, but maybe not.


The last counselor who, after she learned that my boyfriend was a narcissist and had already told me that my mother, also a narcissist, would never change, agreed to see both of us in a laughable couples counseling session that didn’t even begin to change a thing. Not only that, but she also tried to continue to solicit money from me by offering to counsel me on the phone, even after I made the right decision to leave the relationship and move away rather than struggle to repair something that could not be fixed. She didn’t help me.


And the first counselor didn’t help me, but in fact hurt me more by telling me that after I disclosed my date rape to her that I probably would have had sex with him anyway, which continued to hurt my ability to say “No” and stand up for myself because it diminished my saying “No” in that one, very important instance. I was a virgin. On my period with a maxi pad in my underwear. Forced into a boy’s bathroom stall with the lights off before classes started at high school. For the love of God and all that is holy, THAT WAS STILL RAPE. Fortunately, I now know that she was an idiot.


I am SO vulnerable and fragile right now and I have to remember that. I have to remember to treat myself with the same loving care that the rug that was an angel should have been treated with. Fragile. Handle with care. I have to remember my worth. My shiny, glowing, radiant worth. I forget, and then it gets tarnished from my neglect.


I am tarnished. I have let myself slide into poor habits, poor health, and the poorhouse. But, I also know that I am a Di. Mond. Ain. Gel. Brush this fucking dirt off me and watch me blind you when the sun strikes me. Filth directed at me will be rejected.


God, grant this fallen angel a fifth chance to get things right. Let me shine with your inner Glory. Let me walk the bright and glorious path to my destiny in Your humble service. Let me love those who need it, especially myself. Let me heal those who need it, especially myself. Let me be armored in titanium and filled with the bravery, faith, and skills to defend myself against harm. Let me fight the battles that frighten me the most and that give You the most Glory.


Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth. – Matthew 5:5


For the Lord your God is the one who goes with you to fight for you against your enemies to give you victory. – Deuteronomy 20:4

Boat life isn’t for everyone.


piratestale.com Jesus Saves
After the Storm Jesus Saves

“Boat life isn’t for everyone.” – Becky Chavez-Clark

She speaks the truth; it’s not for everyone. Some things can make or break you when you live in the small space of a sailboat. To be quite honest, there were many reasons that I decided to leave the Merlion and move back to being a land-dwelling mermaid.

Here are 8 reasons why I no longer want to live on a sailboat in Texas:


The sailboat never went anywhere for almost 12 months that I lived there.

The sailboat was not enough space for a man with workbench needs and his woman who has companionship needs.

The sailboat has only one Captain, and what he says goes.

The marina was full of unfriendly people.

The sailboat is a money pit that drained $10,000 from my bank account in less than a year.

Texans are intolerant of others who are not like themselves.

There was no joy in the act of outfitting the sailboat for cruising.

Texas is too far from my support system of friends and family.


I could say more, but I want to be honest without being unkind, and to air our private relationship matters in a public forum is unkind. For now, suffice it to say that I am single, the Merlion is still tied to a pier in Texas, and I have my own dreams that I will be voraciously pursuing.


But I will say that I was unhappy and I will tell you that I am not normally unhappy. Anxiety is normally there for me as a constant in my life, but it doesn’t keep me from smiling. I normally live my life in a state of constant smiling, happy just to breathe and witness the Glory of nature all around me.


My heart was bruised, my mind was ill, my body was unhealthy, and my spirit needed to be free from the small cage that it was in. I am still waiting for the feeling of the shackles to fall away from me, but sometimes now it is easier to breathe.


With the love and support of my glorious flock of girlfriend angels, without whom I would be homeless, hungry, and hopeless, I have courage to be on my own, even though I’m not on my own, because they are with me.


Dealing with this major life change while also dealing with healing myself from my anxiety and PTSD is a challenge that I know I am capable of, but even typing that brings a tear to my eye. I have not trusted in myself for too long. I need to remember my power and reclaim it. I can fight this emotional, physical, and mental battle and win. I know it. But I have to remind myself of that all the time.


All the time.


Say it with me:


I am worthy of love and support.

I am worth more. I deserve more.

I deserve frickin’ miracles.

I deserve a team of cheerleaders, angels, and fairies screaming, “You can do it!”

I have a never-failing spring of love, joy, and inner beauty that pours forth from me and I want to make that spring into a geyser that sprays the world.

God is inside me and inside every living being.

God is that geyser of love, and he wants you all to get wet.

I’m gonna soak the world, baby.

Let’s do this shit!


(Land-dwelling mermaid mic drop)

Today I Went To Therapy To Learn To Ask For Help So I Can Get Help

Today I went to therapy for the first time in just over a year. When I went about a year ago, I only did about 5 sessions. Before that, I had gone once to a counselor around 20 years ago.


After my first visit to a counselor, it took me a long time to admit that I might not have all of the answers, and that even though my first counselor was an asshole who made a wrong judgment about my date rape, that didn’t mean that another counselor couldn’t help me.


And the last time I went to counseling, I thought I was healing myself and doing all the right things. But I was hiding part of my painful past, so I couldn’t really heal.


This time will be different. I want to be my best self. The truest, most loved version of me that I can be. And I’m doing it for me. I am committed to healing myself mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I am committed to truth.


I am shaking as I type this because it is difficult to admit that I need help. I love being capable of handling things on my own. To admit that I need help somehow makes me feel helpless, which feels bad. Or sometimes I think that I feel like asking for help makes me seem manipulative. Which is why I need help.


You see, my thoughts are twisted up. I know when I write these things that they are wrong, false, and that the fact that I have convinced myself that they are right for so long is proof that I need help.


There is nothing wrong with asking for help when you need it. In fact, part of my recovery process will be to recognize when I need help and ask for it.


My therapist asked me how I would feel if I had to ask my dad for help financially and I started crying. Why would that hurt me so much to admit to my father that I might need his help?


Once, my ex asked my father for help, meaning that we needed money, and we never paid him back for, even though it was supposed to be a loan. I feel guilty about that. I want my parents to be proud of me, which I believe them to be. At least I know that from one parent. The other is less forthcoming with praise.


But I shouldn’t need approval from either parent as a whole-minded adult person. So I feel the need for help to work on that.


I think I also fear the response from someone if I ask for help and they say no. I fear that rejection and what I believe that it says about me.


I was afraid to ask my therapist for medication for my many fears. If I take medication, does that mean I’m really crazy? Does that mean that I can’t do this on my own? Am I giving up on my own ability to help myself?


I also fear my own abilities. But I am becoming more confident in myself all the time because really, I kick ass and am capable of more than I know, but I still need to remind myself of that all the time.


A friend said to me “You can do it” yesterday and I almost cried. I’m crying now remembering it. Why don’t I believe that about myself? Why did that mean so much to me?


PiratesTale.com Love Pinch  jesus saves
PiratesTale.com Love Pinch jesus saves


Today, I want to make a plea to you to ask someone for help. You will not regret it. Even if they say no, you will have learned something about yourself by asking.


Are you afraid to ask for help?

Do you feel negatively about others who ask for help?

Why do you think that others will see you asking for help as a negative?

Why do we believe that those who need to ask for help are helpless?


Think about our social attitudes toward people who subsist on government help programs. Why do we believe these people to be less than, to be the ball and chain on the ankle of the American Way of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and soldiering on?


When someone you know has to ask you for help, know that they are aware of this internal struggle with how they will be perceived by others, how they feel about themselves for having to admit that they can’t do it all for themselves, and how they also fear being rejected by you.


Asking for help from a therapist is a perfect place to start if you aren’t comfortable asking for help. It is the best place to start when you aren’t sure what to do, who to talk to, or what to think, because a therapist can help you sort it all out, without judgment.


I need help sometimes.

I probably need help right now but I don’t know how to ask for it.

Probably other people need help and are afraid to ask too.

I need to convince myself that it is okay to say that I need help.

I need help.

I need your help right now.

I am able to ask for help when I need it and I am asking.

I am asking for your help right now.

Yes you.

I need your help.

I need your help right now.

I need help accepting your help.

Help me to gracefully accept your help by making it easy for me.

Help me to accept help by saying, “Please let me help you.”


Thank you in advance for your help, because clearly, I need it.

Let Joy Be My Being

My blinding star has been burning the faces off of my foes for years here under this dusty outer layer. How can I hide God’s given glory any longer when I have to be my best self in order to fulfill his purpose here for me?

I am opening the door to this new possibility. Let us see what it is like to challenge my being into being more.


A spell for harmony with Jesus


For this written prayer,
may Your hand guide me


Fear shall leave my body.

And with it Anger and Sadness.

Let Joy be my being and let Self-Love shield me.

Let my mind be open

My body be whole

My heart be whole

Let Joy Be My Being piratestale.com
Let Joy Be My Being

Let me listen to my heart-gut

Let me see only truth

Let me smell the nature of my soul
Let me taste the lives of others as their Joy meets mine

Let my words be your Words


Bless me, my Lord with as many miracles

as my body will let me fulfill in Your service.


Let me be strong enough to slay the demons

that need slaying in Your service.


Let this spell for healing be done for all people,
all suffering, all hidden pain, all literal pain, all hate,

all confusion, frustration, and bottled, unseen emotion


May there be harmony

May there be You in us
May We Become You


I cast this prayer in Jesus name


Hair loss remedy from Cleopatra

Cleopatra's hair loss remedy from piratestale.com
Cleopatra’s hair loss remedy from piratestale.com

I recently had to write an article about Cleopatra’s beauty secrets and as a sufferer of trichotillomania, I was intrigued by her historic actual recipes for hair loss treatment. Here’s the excerpt from the article that was published on powerofpositivity.com.

“Recipes.hypotheses.org says that Cleopatra suggested that those suffering from baldness shave daily and rub the bald area with a linen cloth, and then anoint the area with a mixture of reed canary grass, (arundinis) an ounce of potassium nitrate (spuma nitri or saltpeter) and a solution of picis liquida (tar water).”

10 Ancient Beauty Rituals Used By Cleopatra

And, of course, I also wrote an article about avoiding cancer-causing ingredients in beauty products. One of these ingredients was tar. This beauty product ingredient article I wrote before the Cleopatra one. So tar is bad I said to myself and believed. Research even shows that it can cause cancerous cell changes in animal tests.

And yet they use tar as an ingredient in beauty and hair products (this many) centuries after Cleopatra’s day. Still, I felt so strongly against tar that I told someone on a Trich support page to look for another ingredient besides tar as a more natural remedy even though everyone said that products containing tar had worked for them for dandruff and eczema.

But people know themselves better than anyone else possibly could and they know what works for them. I’m glad that there are places to share what does and does not work. However, there are also some people who don’t believe that trichotillomania is curable. They believe that we just have to learn to cope with this mental illness. I don’t agree.

Agreeing that a cure is not possible means that all mental illness is also incurable, which I don’t believe is true. I believe that learning to change our beliefs and emotional labels is a key to recovery from any mental illness, including Trich.

But I also believed that tar harmed people more than it helped, which was wrong about and I take it back. If Cleopatra says tar is OK by her, then tar is OK by me.

But I also believed that I was worthless, which is why I have impulse control problems and harm myself, but that belief was wrong and I didn’t need anyone to tell me that it wasn’t.

Then again, Cleopatra also had a recipe for hair loss that was simply the smashed heads of 5 flies applied to the affected area. You be the judge of what works best for your hair loss and every other thing in your life.

Change your beliefs, change your life.



Choose Joy: a Pot Smoker’s Guide to Fixing Racism and Political Apathy in ‘Merica, no, the World

Hey man.

Some of these voices are enacted by Cheech and Chong circa the 1970’s or so. Their voices just won’t leave my head right now, man. So bear with me.
So yeah. Racism and other-ism sucks, man. No, really it does. We can pretty much all agree on that except for those 35 truly hard-core, right-wing, us-or-die people left on the planet today who we all should have just killed already. They truly suck. So we all have that in common.


And occasionally, we all have to uncomfortably talk about race and racism like we are the neighborhood suburban middle-class black and white families brought together awkwardly by their interracial teen children’s unplanned pregnancy in a non-Tyler Perry production of Guess Who’s Coming to Babydaddyhood Now Too!


This awkward conversation usually happens after some black kid gets pummeled and embarrassingly enough for the rest of our race displayed repeatedly on the 24/7 news cycle, by a white cop, who should have stopped like 12 or 16 punches ago. Yeah. We can also all agree that THAT sucks, man!


So, when we all have to talk about race and racism again after one of these ridiculous fiascos of anger-management/prejudicial bias toward type/crime in progress/legal system bias events happens, let’s all pretend like we’re high, man.


Because people don’t give hippies and pot smokers enough credit, man. Like, we all could have solved frickin’ world peace by now, man. But you don’t think we’re legit because we smoke pot. Now who’s a biased-thinking bastard, huh? You are, man.


So here’s how this solving rascism and political apathy conversation goes when Cheech and Chong first meet up (you know, I accidentally wrote Cheech and Ching, which, now that I think about it, makes me think of an even weirder racial mixup here) after one of these horrid judicial/legal pummeling thingies has happened.


Black Cheech: (to White Ching) Hey man.


White Ching: (I didn’t say he’s Asian, you freakin’ racsist assholes. That was YOU that did that. Fuckers. Can’t trust you for a second to be unbiased.) Hey man. Did you see that thing on the TV about that guy, man? (long pause with head nodding from both, looking at ground) And that cop, man? (long silent, nodding stoner pause of respect for the fallen levels of racial peace as a result of the incident. The pause feels way too long if you aren’t stoned.) That was pretty fucked up, man.


Black Cheech: Yeah man, that was pretty fucked up, man.


White Ching: Yeah man. They should do somethin’ about that, man. You know? To like, keep it from happening again, man.


Black Cheech: (shorter, but still excruciatingly long pause for the non-stoned) What do you mean ‘they,’ man? You mean WE. WE gotta do something about that, man.


White Ching: Yeaaaah. Yeah, man. Yeah. We. Wait. What do we do? (White Ching really has taken too many hits off the bong at this point and should really learn his limits, but whatever. That’s his choice. He’s helping to save the planet from racism and political apathy. That’s right. The planet, not just ‘Merica.)


Black Cheech: You gotta write your Congressman and veto the corrupt judges, man. (OK, Black Cheech is done with the bong too. And so am I. Hey, man I’m legal, man. Like as I already wrote about, man. So back off, judgmental asshat. But what I meant was that I just got paranoid over hearing 3 knocks at the door. But I’m a woman alone in a house. Okay so it’s in a retirement community and it’s daytime and yes, that means that I’m THAT paranoid but I’m alone so I freaked for a sec and got my phone and got up and pre-dialed 911 on my touchpad. Yep. Paranoid. Just hit the green phone button thingy and…no one at the fucking door. So I check the windows. Neighbor. Next door. A non-attached wall. I heard a knock on a non-attached door next door. These walls must be thinner than the fiberglass on the boat or maybe my supersensory pot-smoker Spidey sense hearing is kicking in now.)


White Ching: Vote, not veto, man. You gotta vote out the corrupt judges that aren’t appointed by them corrupt governors that you gotta vote for. Are you registered to vote, man?


Black Cheech: Yes. I register every election, man. (Black Cheech and I both snort-laughed at that.)


White Ching: Come on, man, now you’re just playin’ with me, man. (White Ching isn’t pissed, he’s just callin’ Black Cheech on acting dumb when it’s like a shitty racial sterotype already, man.)


Black Cheech: Man, let’s go check to see if we can change our party to Independent before the primary so we can vote for whichever candidate is the best for the job, no matter the party here in AZ. (OK so you got me, Black Cheech would NEVER say that. But, fuck it, man, I’m a white, middle-aged, over-educated, hippie gurl who can’t imagine how a stoned black guy might say all that in a funny way but who just solved the problems of racism and political apathy all at once, so you’ve got to give it to the stoners, man.)


You’ve got to give it to the stoners, man. Let the herb heal the planet. Ooh now I need like some daisies in my hair and Age of Aquarius in the background and a long gauzy white dress and some hairy guys with bell bottoms…Choose joy, man.

A fu(king important open letter to Hillary Clinton

Dear Madame Secretary and future Mrs. Clinton,

Seriously. Did you read that?

Your campaign does not yet inspire me to call you the future Madame President, and that makes me sad.

I am a voter and I WILL VOTE — I have voted in every election since I turned 18 — and I’m likely (yes, for sure) to tell my friends to vote for MY candidate, and I’m also likely (well, less so, but yes) to give either time or money support for my candidate’s campaign… but right now I want to like you, but I don’t yet.

It’s fixable though. And I’m going to tell you the secret to winning a lot of votes. And it’s actually a hidden superpower that you have that’s been there all along. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of OZ, you have the power to click your heels and go straight to the white house.

Your superpower is this: you are a fu(king intuitive, emotional, intelligent female. That’s it. Now please don’t dismiss this as unimportant. Being emotional is so often seen as weak when women are working to climb the corporate ladder and smash the glass ceilings of this world, but I am a strong believer in the power of emotion to motivate people to do great things.

Use your feminine gift and find the emotion. The authentic emotion behind every issue that you embrace will help you to win the hearts of voters. And I believe that we make decisions with our hearts more than we do with our minds.

You’re not a good actress. Neither am I. Acting happy and enthusiastic is not the same as being genuinely awestruck at the millions of people who are themselves uncertain about a candidate but who take time out of their busy, hectic lives to come forth and be near you for just a moment.

I want to see you look into their eyes and drop the plastic smile. Hear them with the ears of Jesus as he heard the concerns of his flock. Find a way to remember the details of their words to you and imprint them on your heart. Respond with not what you promise to do, but what you actually have the power in you now to begin fixing for them. Then tell them how you think we can make it better for them. And follow through.

Because for every one person who comes to you who says something that they need from you or that they wish for this country, there are hundreds or thousands more who feel the same but who are unable to come, or too tired to attend your speeches, or who really wanted to say something to you but were too anxious to do so.

And maybe they aren’t the best stories, but find your inner mom as you speak to them, and listen with non-patronizing patience and hear the sadness, the anger and the frustration. Feel for them as you would for your children.

Because we all want to see you as the President Mother of the United States, who will clean off our dirty boo-boos and kiss them before you put a bandaid on it and make it all better. And everyone knows that mothers have magical kisses and that the bandaid is just for show.

I want to hear these people’s names as you speak about the country and your plan for action. I want to hear about them but not as political tools, but as your Children of these United States. As our Mother President, you are to us our hope for what we can achieve as a nation of Children in our formative years.

For America is so young. We are just learning about the big world and our place in it. We have yet to see how we can grown up like other countries that have such a rich culture and antiquated history.

How can we learn from their history and ours and take only the best to heart? How can we see the wrong in our world and turn away from it? What does wrong look like? How will we know it when it faces us as an enemy? How do we make smart decisions and choose better?

As President Mother, you will be able to show your United Children how to handle tough situations like being bullied by other countries on the world’s playground, how to stand up for ourselves while respecting the rights of others, how to heal our emotional wounds, and the path to empowered, United Adulthood.

Mom, show me your emotion. It is not weakness to weep; it is empathy. It is not weakness to show pain; it is empathy. It is not weakness to show fear; it is truly a scary world for your Children. Now please show me some fucking empathy, President and First Mother of the United States!

I love you President Mom!


One of your Children

P.S. My husband hasn’t made up his mind to vote for you yet. I’ll get his vote for you too, you know how we women can make that happen.

P.P.S. Make Bill show some genuine emotion toward you too. I want to see him put his arm around you and show that he is proud, and honored, and still in love with you too. Don’t worry, he won’t need to act.

P.P.P.S. You need a better stylist. The red silk suit and dark blue ensemble looked fucking INNAUGURAL! Grey mumu fleecey blocked pockets and sleeves outfit? Disastrous finish to Trump. Fill in those lines with a good primer, look into Facial Magic exercises by Cynthia Rowland and lay on the youthfull exuberance for your children, Mom.

A Word From the Head Cook and Cocksucker

www.piratestale.com a Word From the Head Cook and Cocksucker

Sometimes I want to write things that shouldn’t be published on my blog for the sake of propriety. But you know what? It’s MY website and if I want to write racy things then I’m going to! Yes, my mom probably reads this but whatever.

I love joking with the Cap’n and making racy comments. It’s one of the ways that we have such an amazing intimate life and can have stupid ridiculous amounts of fun with each other almost every day of our fantastic lives.

In joking with a sailing friend, he mentioned that I am the Head Cook on the boat; which is true because I handle 90% of the meal prep and cleanup.

And our friend said that the Head Cook was a very important job, because you have to keep the crew fed with good warm food to keep morale up on days of dreary, cold sailing.

I couldn’t agree more. But, we joked back, I am also the Head Giver on the boat, which is equally important for morale if not more so.

Yes, I am a cocksucker. Head Cook and Cocksucker, if you will.

Go ahead. Be offended or titillated or whatever. I like it. Making you squirm like that. Go on, squirm for me.

It’s an off-color, uncomfortable topic that makes you feel dirty or lewd or gross or appalled or like you need to go to confession or like you need to hide your screen from someone.

Peh. It’s sex. It’s anatomy. It’s fun. It’s my life. I enjoy it and so does my Cap’n and yes it’s none of your business what I do in my boat but I bet most of you do suck cock and you just don’t discuss it. Which is fine also.

I, on the other hand, am a writer. I write. About things that interest me and this topic is near and dear to my…lips.

Another female friend was telling me a private story involving looking at her husband nude and how she had absolutely no desire to see THAT.

I was somewhat taken aback. It’s your husband, after all. It’s his body, which you touch and love. But different strokes for different folks.

Me, I’m a fan. Dicks are great. I enjoy them. Especially the one attached to the person that I love. His is lovely. It’s fine. No, that was Fine with a capital F. It’s pleasant to all of my senses.

I don’t know that I could recognize it in a lineup of other dicks, honestly, but I do enjoy admiring it. And the act of the cocksucking too.

I think I’m an orally fixated person which probably is more than you need to know about me, seeing as you are not my therapist, but it accounts for some anxiety issues that I have, being overweight, and probably deeper psychological stuff.

And I’m kind of very into blatant honesty these days. Words as so powerful and I love them. I love them so much and I’m so happy to have them at my disposal to express and release what is inside of me.

I was so overwhelmingly happy to have the gift of words the other day that I thanked my mom for it being one of the greatest gifts that I have ever received. She helped teach me excellent language skills, and a love of reading and the written word.

But not to love cocksucking. I think I came to that naturally for me on my own. There’s no one to thank for that.

So yeah. I am the Head Cook and Cocksucker on the Merlion here. And the role suits me just fine. I’m also supposed to be scrubbing some things that I don’t like scrubbing.

Like moldy mildewy slime off of the boom sail cover. Which I think has some nautical name that I just tried to Google and couldn’t find. Oh well. You don’t know what it’s supposed to be called either. Don’t act all superior.

So Head Cook, Cocksucker and Swab. Swab the Dick! See? It’s just fun to use naughty language to make dirty jokes.

The Cap’n has a Knotty Nauticals shirt from the Arizona Renaissance Faire and it has Pirate Pickup Lines on the back. The silliness of that shirt is really what I think our whole outlook on this life is as a sailing couple.


Pirate Pick Up Lines

  1. Shiver me timbers!
  2. Prepare to be boarded!
  3. Can I bury me treasure?
  4. May I grab yar booty?
  5. Want to see my jolly roger?
  6. Blow the man down?
  7. Check out me piece of eight!
  8. Mind if me parrot watches?
  9. Wanna walk me plank?
  10. Care to wax me peg leg?


It’s fun, it’s sailory, it’s slightly risqué, it’s silly and adult humor. I love everything about it and it is really reflective of our life here on our boat.

We are about fun. Not the wild-and-crazy-drunk-with-your-friends-at-a-bar kind of fun, but kidding-around-with-a-friend-or-two-where-we-always-leave-early-and-head-boat-for-some-private-time kind of fun.

See, I said head boat instead of head home. Yes, silliness abounds here on the Merlion. It’s a pirate’s life for me.

That’s us in a nutshell. Ah yes, nuts, a topic for another time! I have a dirty mind, what can I say?






10 Things You Took for Granted Until You Lived on a Boat



All of your friends are jealous that you’re living on a boat. You’ve got sunny skies and the big blue ocean out your back porch! What could be better?

If they only knew. Once you’ve lived on a boat for a while, you start to realize that you may have taken a few things for granted.

Here are 10 things that you totally took for granted before you lived on a boat:

  1. Water Pressure

Ah yes, the joy of running water. Never have you appreciated it more than now that you have to fill your two separate water tanks and flip a switch on the electrical panel before you can get running water. Once you do, your low water pressure means that it takes 4 full minutes to fill the largest pot that you own.

  1. Flushing Toilets

Not having to pump water into the bowl before you sit down was something you never considered a delight before. Now you have to hope that you remember what to do when you get up in the middle of the night to use the head.

  1. Clean Water

That “don’t drink the water in Mexico” saying is a saying for a reason. If you’re lucky, your marina has clean water for your use. Some people have reported that their water is foul tasting or reads a higher PPM on their water testing meter than they would feel comfortable drinking.

  1. (HVAC) Heating, Ventilation and Air Conditioning

All of these used to seem so easy. You had a thermostat and you set the temperature in a comfortable range and the machines do all the work for you. Now you’re opening and closing vents and portholes when the weather changes.

Is it too cold to have the hatch open but you need the ventilation to keep mold and mildew from growing? Time to put on a sweater and deal with the chilly breeze. Too hot to close the windows but it’s threatening rain? Time to get sweaty inside.

  1. Furniture

You used to be able to go choose your furniture at a store, move furniture around and design a pleasing yet functional arrangement. Now it’s all already picked out for you and attached to the boat.

If you’re lucky, your boat interior has style. If not, you’re stuck with functional pieces that you can hopefully accessorize with a pillow and a throw. Liveaboards aren’t going to show up on HGTV.

  1. Exercise

Before you lived on a boat, just walking from your bedroom to the kitchen in your house was not what you would call exercise. Now you think that short walk would have been more steps than you’ve taken walking around your boat in a week!

  1. Cooking

Do you think Dominos delivers to the pier? Whether you’re grilling or using your gimbaled stove, you have several extra steps in the preparation of a meal than you used to. Here are the extra steps to cooking when you liveaboard:

  • Turn on the propane from the propane locker. If it’s raining then put on your coat first or accept that you will be wet when you cook.
  • Turn on the stove switch on the electrical panel.
  • Put away the clean dishes that are drying on the counter so that you can get to the stove underneath them.
  • Slide the countertop off of the stovetop.
  • Look through all four kitchen drawers until you find the lighter.
  • Turn the knob on the stove and click the lighter over the burner.
  • Move the lighter around the burner to light the entire ring of fire.
  • Dig through the oven to find the right pan size.
  • Move the dish drying rack again since it was on top of the refrigerator access panel.
  • Move the dish drying rack yet again so you have counter space to chop.
  • Turn the water pressure switch on so that you can rinse the veggies.
  • Turn the water pressure switch off since it keeps making that annoying noise.
  • Adjust your flame, then realize that you turned the knob down too far and relight the thing.
  • Adjust your recipe to be a dump pan/one-pot recipe.
  • Find a flashlight to look in the pan see if your food is really cooked yet.
  1. Holidays

We are about to spend our first family holiday away from our loved ones since we have moved on to the boat. I’m not planning on cooking a roast turkey dinner for just the two of us in our tiny galley so we’ll either eat out or eat in with something semi-festive. Being together with family at the holidays would be nice but the expense of travel makes it unlikely this year.

Decorating for the holidays isn’t likely either. You could try some solar twinkle lights on a wreath hanging from the bow, but then when the season’s over there’s nowhere to store the thing!

7.  Storage Space

Speaking of storage…Oh the joy of having a normal sized closet again! You could use cardboard boxes and stack winter clothes until next season. But alas, you can’t use cardboard because it gets soggy and your winter clothes will have to fit in the same space as your summer clothes.

You’ve looked under the bed, in all the lazarettes and under the settee pondering where else to put things. You’re wondering if you really need that spare sail bag anyway.

  1. Privacy

How can you possibly have an interesting sex life without everyone else at the marina knowing it? Those fiberglass walls aren’t insulated that well anyway and for that matter the windows are almost always open. You’re pretty sure that you caught the guy in the trawler next to you looking down into your open hatch. Perv.

  1. Internet

The “free wifi” at your marina has led you to believe that you have to stand right next to the router in order for it to work. You thought your internet at the house was slow when the other family members were streaming video, but you know now that you took it for granted.

  1. Shopping

You used to stock up for the week and plan out all of your meals. You had a fridge and pantry full of meal options. Now you’re off to the store for something every other day.

Your tiny galley fridge can barely hold all of your beer, wine and mixers, let alone any food that you’d want to cook. And any liveaboard knows that alcohol takes priority over food for fridge space.

Two nymphomaniacally monogamous pirates liveaboard a sailboat and spread the good Word.