Littered with good intentions Creative Writing Take 1

Her name is Jodi.  She is middle ageish.  The gray roots were always prominent in her hairline minutes, it seemed, after she left her hair stylist's chair.  She was developing, what she'd like like to think were, laugh lines around her mouth.

Lately, there was perpetual sob caught in her throat and her eyes filled with tears at a increasingly and alarming rate over the silliest of provocations.  Her therapist tells her that this feeling will pass.  Eventually. After she does her "work" and deals with all her "stuff".

She had a weakness for hoop earrings, the color orange, and ornate antique looking picture frames.

She would like to think of herself as maternal--with her 4 teenage boys, husband, and cat--but she was fraught with the idea (late at night clutching her pillow) that maybe she wasn't.  Maternal that is.  She was only going through the motions rote and robotic.

Her house, her car, her mind were cluttered with random receipts, old empty bottles of Diet Pepsi, good intentions, and regret.  Her mind was always teetering on the what if's-I should have-and why didn't I.  Her coffee table was littered with magazines; articles she wanted to read about being a better housekeeper, wife, mother, and friend.

Jodi was a sum total of maybe's and someday's and untapped potential.