My hands were clammy and my mouth was dry. I was so focused on the road and trying to listen to the voice spewing directions, so yeah, I was silent for the first couple of rides. I wasn’t sure if I should say something after greeting them, or just go. I headed for the destination we were both wanting, dropped them at their door step, and went on my own way.

My first ride was a couple from the building next to me, and my third ride was a sweat girl from own building I live in. She was headed for a blind date, so cute. She said the app name, I new what she talking about, but I have never heard of this app! I’m forty-something. I told her I was new in Denver and so to forgive me for not knowing exactly where I was going. She laughed and said, “You’re doing fine…I’m so nervous.”

I told her she will do fine, “Walk like you own the place.” We said goodbye.

I don’t know how many times I circled the same block looking for a group of people. They were fun, my age, and one guy was commenting that his pants weren’t skinny enough to be going to the neighborhood they were about to enter. I laughed. I immediately imagined a kid with cigarette pants, sleek shoes, a beard, and wearing a knit sweater. When they exited the car I told them to have fun, the two ladies yelled out, “We’re already having fun.” Then I heard them say how cute I was.

The drunk girls were my favorite. I couldn’t help but keep thinking back to the days when I would get shit-faced drunk, and falling from the car. Yes, three girls swung themselves into the vehicle like it was their bedroom, they hit the seats like it was a bed. Chatty next to me was hilarious and I told her she could be a stand-up. Of course she replied, “I’ve heard that, I’m from New York, Stanton Island to be exact.” She had the most beautiful natural red, curly hair. Her eye makeup was perfect, not a smudge–however, her friend who had passed in the backseat was a different case. When we arrived at her apartment she rolled out of the car and dropped to the ground. Her friends jumped and squealed, scrambled to get out of the car and to her side. She fell again behind the car, and again in her front yard.

Her friends propped her up against a tree, she leaned in and hugged it like a bear. One girl got the keys, the other went for the tree-hugger. Well, tree-hugger fell back taking out her friend, both girls splayed out on the front yard while New Yorker stood there beautiful holding the door, yelling at them to get up. I wasn’t sure if I should help, and thought twice real fast. I couldn’t stop laughing. I drove away wondering how they were going to get her up that flight of stairs to her apartment.

My last two rides were fabulous and left me smiling. I get another couple, they’re from Chicago, but had just moved here from Utah. She was going to medical school out there. She had to leave because of the culture. She said, “They have this matrimonial medical exam to make sure you’re still virgin and then they use some device that is supposed to stretch out your vagina, so the woman can be more comfortable when she is conceiving.”

My jaw dropped. I could only imagine what that device looked like, and unless it’s for kink play, why would any woman want to stretch out their love maker. I was happy that she moved here, and will not have to perform that medial exam, ever. But, I did want to tell her to look up some kink sites and she’d find out what that device looks like–and that masochists use it during play. I refrained.

My last ride was the best. Two guys, drunk and taking shit about their good friend’s girlfriend. Guy 1 said, “Dude, you’ll see, you’ll see I’m right. Even my wife doesn’t like her, she is so crazy that she named her Cray-Rae.” These guys made me laugh. “No, listen Guy 2, you will see, I bet money you will come back and tell me how right I was. She is so crazy. She talks  to you like you’re stupid. She has to know everything, be right all the time–”

Guy 2 cut him off, “Yeah, we’re having a party and she was like ‘You’re inviting those people.’ When did we become Those People?” 

“I’m telling you, this wedding is going to be a disaster, I mean the bride hates her and Cray-Rae is going to the bachelorette party. I bet Bride kills Cray-Rae before anyone can even get over the border.” He broke his conversation and directed it to me, “I’m sorry M’am, I don’t mean to offend you, I just, she is just super crazy, and sorry, but she is a bitch, she is full of herself, and I know I am not the smartest person, but I’m smart enough to know she isn’t either, and its so annoying.”

I told him not to stop, I had a comedy show happening in my backseat.

A Poem



Ok, my little something life

exists in a hyperbaric chamber

‘Over The Rainbow’ beckons your pure

love, the crazy and the mortifying. Truly it

is gratingly mindedness, unlike passion,

I fill my boat with ice; I cut out the inanimate obsession

but I light a cigarette and wait

for the Quaaludes.

Betty Crocker destroyed Mary’s truth

when traveling to Luxembourgian.


A magnificent cocoon glittering one evening,

connected, hung from the sky, desperate


OK, an hour or more deprived of maturity, a

rag doll is transported and this is

my little something life.

Magic hair is wrapping everything

to sleep

listening to the martyred feel happiness.

A diamond under the water

makes life better, embodies suicide.

My little something life hanged

and blackened in the wind. My

armor continued to erode and unriddle

my existence.

Somewhere time progresses and tracing

the night by travelers.


Mixed optimism I grow faint, prone to

an empty beachfront wishing well.

What’s It Going To Take To Kill Me

I was reading something the other day, the only thing that stuck out and lingered with me was the relayed message, and not verbatim, What is it in your life which you love so much that you’re willing to let it kill you. The article was a basic run down on jobs, work, hobbies and living one’s life under the regard of love. After reading this, even days later, I wondered what in this world do I like doing so much that it transfers to love — I love it so much that it will kill me. Not literally stick a knife through my heart, but what is it in this world that I will do no-matter-what because I love it so much, I will die happy doing it???? Never minding rejection, time, payment, etc.

As I continue to ponder this killing love, I can’t help but think, “Duh Corrie, Writing.” But is that what I really want, I don’t know, because lately I have not been writing. In fact the more I focus on My Love, the more I can’t write. Nothing comes to mind, and I feel like, “Who would want to read it anyways.” Perhaps this is my problem. I don’t feel it, I don’t feel that what I have to say or write about would matter to anyone but me — when did that start to weigh in.

At this point in my life my writing is all I have to work with, it’s the only thing I can think about, and it’s not just a thought any more. It has manifested and taken over my brain. My mind space feels so small.

I keep saying over and over again, “Write Corrie, write. Write something, anything.”  I am almost sure that I am not the only writer in this world who comes to this point in their journey. However, others keep going, get published and make a career out of it.

Am I scared? Do I not have the confidence I thought I did? Am I changing, or dying inside? Why do I not take the bull by the horns and go for it, give it my all. In the past I lived life by the seat of my pants and wrote about it. Why is it different now? If I love writing so much why am I ignoring it, running away from it? And what is it going to take to let it kill me?

I suppose if I am going to let it kill me, I should stop running from it — easier said than done I’m sure, however, I must not be too far away. The daunting thoughts about practicing and exercising my muscle (writing) are grabbing at my heels. I am realizing that running away is slowing me down, weighing me down, making me more still and lifeless. What do I want, the writing to kill me or the thought of it. When presented in those terms, seems like the choice I will make is obvious. Right?

I’m at my crossroads, let the caterpillar turn into the butterfly.

Potatoes with Honey, What!!??


I am getting creative in the kitchen these days, I guess. I have stopped using recipes and started going by smell, taste and looks. I can’t say I have completely stopped with the recipe book, I sometimes need reminders for temperatures and cook times. This summer my boyfriends kids are here and I have cooked more food than ever before. We have a growing 16 yr. old boy—holy moly can he pack it in. I am trying to stay as healthy as possible for him and his sisters.

Tonight I have decided on roasted veggies and potatoes with some couscous and fresh cut watermelon on the side.


I separated the potatoes from the veggies for the purpose of space—with so much food I use two casserole dishes. Basically using all the veggies in my fridge creates an array of color.

1. Green and Orange Peppers
2. Whole, Peeled Garlic Cloves
3. Zucchini
4. Squash
5. Snow peas
6. Asparagus

Olive oil and spices makes a great coating. (Depending on my mood I sometimes coat them with coconut oil, oh so good.) This time around I used cumin and chili powder, pepper, thyme and parsley—I think I’m feeling feisty!

A little whiff of sweetness came crawling up my nose as I squared the potatoes, I looked to my side and saw the honey, hmmmmm–I’m adding this. 


There you have it! I hope it turns out well. I added onions and mushrooms to the mix for a little caramelized candy action.

I love to cook. The best thing about these dishes is the fact there is no recipe to follow. You can easily obtain a healthy, balanced meal by color. I love the feel of water running over my hands while I clean the veggies. Peppers are my favorite. The texture is simultaneously soft and hard. They add color, flavor, and consistency. Whole roasted garlic cloves are delicious. You can add them to anything or roast them alone for a knock out spread. My mouth is watering thinking about the wonderful treat my taste buds are receiving tonight.


(Meat lovers—adding little bits of bacon creates a zesty boost for the couscous. The kids love it!)

What is for desert?

A Thought

images-35 (picture credit goes to pencil revolution) I wrote this last night for my friends and family on my Facebook. I wanted to share it and then expand a little.

“Time doesn’t stop, or stand still. Moments are pockets of time captured forever in your memory. Others will be involved without knowing, not remembering the same moment. Perceptions based upon these moments distorts reality, it’s the in-between where people believe the truth.

Truth–such a funny word. Yet it holds the holds of all one’s events and thoughts, a very serious action. Is it an action, truth? A noun, a thing?? Truth is one’s perception of what they want to hear, see, smell, touch… It is what one is willing to accept. Regardless if what you believe is true or not, by steering away from one’s own truth creates an unbalance of events. Life will become out-of-control, like an LSD trip. Unraveling like a ball of yarn and in the middle will escape a smaller version of yourself, rolling around waiting for the end–where will it dump you?

These are the elements Jim Morrison may have tripped about. Maybe not.”

  I am certainly feeling the need to write. I just don’t know where to start. I have so many thoughts and feelings streaming through me, they are too fast–my fingers just can’t keep up. It’s exhausting. But, this is why I must write. I have found myself in a new zone, but my mode is staying strong–it is not budging. However it’s molding so as to fit into the new space. Super difficult. I am finding myself having to stand up to or be against my own actions–hypocrite. I have to hide because of someone else–or rather I won’t change. And we’re not just talking about habits, it’s so much more, everything, how I see the world. All the ingredients to which the reason for the event to happen in the first place. I don’t feel like myself anymore, and I want to scream. Where is my looking mirror? I need The Voice to steer me back. How do I stand tall and express who I am without tainting the young in some way. What can I change without losing who I am? It’s Not that I am a bad human, but how do my actions and my morals, my perceptions stay in check as to not influence those around me–who are still growing, learning, becoming their own under someone else’s understanding. How do I love the man who sees the world differently than I do. Not even, how do I afford his mask that he wears during certain moments, at certain times, for certain reasons. Too many limitations for me I say–in the meantime I can’t help but feel his constraints. Yogi breaths, Yogi breaths…