Author Archives: michellelongo

Ode to My Heater

Morning, Heater, my old friend.
You’re here to warm me up again.
Because winter’s slowly creeping,
It got cold while I was sleeping
And the warmness that I used to feel is gone.
It’s all wrong.
That’s why I love my heater.

It used to be warm when I woke.
Now it’s cold; there is no hope.
At four-thirty when I wake up,
I shiver and I put my hoodie on.
But the feeling in my fingers is all gone.
My toes are numb.
That’s why I need my heater.

And though it’s cold I have to work
With every part of me that’s hurt
From the shaking I’ve been doing,
All this involuntary shiv’ring,
But the glow of the heater says it’s on.
Soon I’ll be warm.
All ’cause of you, my heater.

There are some who like it cold
Although why I do not know.
When it’s warm I can get things done.
I use a heater when there’s no sun.
Outside it’s cold, but in here it’s 85.
I feel alive
When I turn on my heater.

Now it’s kinda hot in here.
I’ll hang my hoodie on my chair.
And my thigh is starting to burn
I’ll move the heater back before it’s worse.
But I’ll never, no, I’ll never turn it off.
At least ’til May.
Oh, yes, I love my heater.

Promises: On Five Years of Sobriety

At 10, I swore I’d never have a drink. My dad drank. I wasn’t going to do that. I knew better.

At 13, I ate some canned fruit salad that was marinating in vodka because older, cooler girls were doing it. There was no pressure. It was just something that happened. This was social and fun; not like my dad. It was okay.

In high school, having friends old enough to buy alcohol and a mother who was just done being a mother made it easy to indulge myself. I was just blowing off steam. I was practically an adult anyway. I wasn’t hurting anyone. I went to school every morning and worked my part-time jobs. I got excellent grades. It was all good. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what to do because I could take care of myself.

If it was at all cute that day I got drunk in the Dairy Queen where I worked on the vodka we had stashed in the front freezer when I was 18, it definitely wasn’t cute years later when I’d have too many margaritas at lunch and sway my way back to my cube and attempt to make insurance presentations. Still, I was handling it more often than I wasn’t, which was more than I could ever say about my father.

Once I got pregnant, I knew I would have to stop drinking. But I didn’t stay pregnant forever and moms deserve their wine; isn’t that what they tell us all now? Parenting is hard. Wash it down with a drink or three.

I told myself that the irresponsible behaviors of my youth were just that. I was mature now. I was in charge of another human so I must be able to make good decisions for myself.

After five drinks, I didn’t make good decisions. I could argue drinks number two through five were also not good decisions.

But I got up for work every morning and I wrote essays and I kept a clean house. My kid was smart as a whip and I got him to daycare on time. My dad screamed and yelled in drunken rages, passed out, and stumbled into things. I wasn’t my father. I was responsible.

Waking up in a hotel room at 36, the night’s events a total blur, I didn’t feel responsible. Meeting writers I admired and making an ass of myself as I drank and carried on didn’t feel responsible. Orchestrating an overnight adventure a few weeks later at yet another hotel, the one situated next to a bar so I could stumble back to pass out, didn’t feel responsible even if I said the reason for the hotel was to be responsible in the first place.

I saw through my own charade. I’m kidding myself if I think no one else did.

At 36, I didn’t swear I’d never have another drink. Instead, I swore I’d stay sober that day. It worked. I did.

I got up the next day, still 36, and swore the same. And so on. And so forth.

At 41, I’ve woken up every day since and made the same promise. Some days were harder than others, but so far, so good. Whenever I feel like I might break, I think of the days, 1,826 now, when I didn’t.

I don’t plan to break my promise. And as long as I get through today, I’ll make the same promise tomorrow.

Bye, 2016.

When I finished NaBloPoMo in 2015, I intended to take a week off and then resume blogging. Instead, I took that week, then more than 50 other weeks, and here I am. Plenty of times I thought about blogging, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I don’t even know what stopped me. Was my blogging moment in the sun over? Was I ever really in the sun to begin with? Was I just too uninspired? Busy? Lazy? The answer to all of these, except for whether I was ever really in the sun, is pretty much yes.

In case you’re wondering, here’s a rundown of what’s happened since I last wrote:

December: Holidays. Work.

January: Work. Snow.

February: Work. Snow. Sad.

March: Work. Probably didn’t snow. Still sad. I fear I will never see sunlight or be warm again.

April: Spring break in LA. Not sad! Warmer!

May: 40th birthday! I wore the fancy party dress. I did a ropes course. I felt strong. I went to Nashville with dear friends. I took over as editor in chief at yeah write.

June: Work. Yeah write.

July: Work. Yeah write. I got book edits back from beta readers and an editor. Yikes. Sinus infection.

August: Work. Yeah write. Book edits. Humidity.

September: Work. Yeah write. Book edits. Long Beach Comic Con (yay, LA!!). So much inspiration and zero time.

October: Work. Two new big freelance jobs. Work. Work. The sun is leaving. Work. Sad. Yeah write. So much stuff.

November: Thanksgiving in LA! Sun! Work. Work. Work. Work. Work. Cold. Yeah write. Work. Sad. Cold. Election.

December: Work. Yeah write. Sad. Work. Christmas. Work. Sad. Sinus infection. Work. Freezing to death. Blob-like.

As you can see, there wasn’t much time for storytelling and I wasn’t really in the mood for stories either. I’ve been so busy. At times, I was busier than any person should be. January looks like it could be moderately busy. I’m fine with that. I have big plans and they all take work.

What I think is most funny is that I think what inspired me to finally break my blog silence was that every year, around this time, I feel like I want to start cooking again (I pretty much haven’t cooked all year) and organizing my house, my life, my everything. Usually things start to get away from me in the fall but the fact is that last year I never got stuff back together so all of 2016 felt off. This is the first time I feel like I can get 2017 on track. I can set real goals rather than arbitrary ones with no target dates (I can’t explain that, you’ll have to accept my vagueness with the understanding that it will make sense later).

In some ways, while everyone else was having the worst 2016, I was having the best. So many things became clear. And in other ways it was the worst because clarity is an absolutely frightening thing sometimes when you don’t know what to do with what you now know to be true.

So, here I am. On the edge of a new year. I have some resolutions and goals, like any good overachiever would. You’ll hear about them in time since I’m not ready for the big reveal. And that’s how I know that this path I’m on is the truth: I need to guard it and protect it. I need to cultivate it. I can’t get bogged down talking about it. I have to push through until I’m there and then I can tell you what I did. I won’t feel like I owe you an update or I made you a promise that maybe I didn’t keep. I’m not making myself promises, other than to get up every day and do the work that needs to get done that day so that I can be where I need to be.

I do hope to blog more. I miss it. I don’t know that I have the time for it in any real way, but I’ll try. For now, I’m going to end the year with some work, the grocery store, getting my hair done, and a party with friends. It’s the right way to end it. I’m ready for something new.