A Butterfly Stuck In A Car Grill

Theme Week # 15 (2)

2006-12-12T12:54:00.000-08:00

That’s called, A Charge to Keep, based upon a religious hymn. The hymn talks about serving God. The president’s job is never to promote a religion.”

America stands for liberty, for the pursuit of happiness and for the unalienable right for life. This right to life cannot be granted or denied by government because it does not come from government, it comes from the creator of life.

Faith crosses every border and touches every heart in every nation.

Every nation in every region now has a decision to make. Either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists.

America has never been united by blood or birth or soil. We are bound by ideals that move us beyond our backgrounds, lift us above our interests and teach us what it means to be citizens. Every child must be taught these principles. Every citizen must uphold them, and every immigrant, by embracing these ideal, makes our country more, not less, American.

Our nation is somewhat sad, but we’re angry. There’s a certain level of blood lust, but we won’t let it drive our reaction. We’re steady, clear-eyed and patient, but pretty soon we’ll have to start displaying scalps.

Use power to help people. For we are given power not to advance our own purposes nor to make a great show in the world, nor a name. There is but one just use of power and it is to serve the people.

Bring them on.

America, at its best, matches a commitment to principle with a concern for civility. A civil society demands from each of us good will, and respect, fair dealing and forgiveness.

I think you can judge from somebody’s actions a kind of stability and sense of purpose perhaps created by strong religious roots. I mean, there’s certain patience, a certain discipline, I think, that religion helps you achieve.

I am the decider. I decide what is best.

The only way we can win is to leave before the job is done.

Theme Week # 15 (1)

2006-12-10T16:25:00.000-08:00

December 10, 2006...

Slept in late...
Forty bodies shot and tortured found across Baghdad

Ate bowl of Fruity Cheerios...
Mortar round kills 2 in Baghdad's Kadhimiya district

Drank two cups of coffee...
Bodies of 2 policeman received at Mosul Hospital with gunshot wounds

Took long, hot shower...
Gunmen attack hairdressers shop in Kirkuk killing the owner

Walked dogs in the snow...
Gunmen attack 2 Shiite homes killing 10 people

Did homework...
Clashes erupt between Sunni and Shiite militants in Baghdad. One Shiite militiaman killed, 6 wounded (5 Sunnis, 1 Shiite)

Finished knitting scarf...
Sunni families march for help saying gunmen from Shiite Militia forced them from their homes at gunpoint

Made supper...
Staff Sgt Henry W. Link, 23 died of injuries suffered when an improvised explosive device detonated

Spoke to Grandmother on phone...
Staff Sgt. Kristofer R. Ciraso 26, of Bangor Maine died of injuries when and improvised explosive device detonated

Ate bowl of coffee ice cream...
Bodies of 60 apparent victims of sectarian killings found across Baghdad

Brushed teeth...
Gunmen attacked homes of 2 Shiite families killing 9

Went to bed...
3 iraqui soldiers killed by US friendly fire

Prayed...

Theme Week # 16

2006-12-10T14:27:00.000-08:00

“People say a word dies when it is written by the pen, but for me that word’s life is just about to begin.”
Emily Dickinson

My friend has a bumper sticker that reads, “Don’t believe everything you think.” For years I thought I could write. That’s what my family told me. Why would I want to think any different?

I remember the first time John complimented me on an assignment. “Slick”, “Can I use this as an example in my class?” See, my family was right. I do know how to write. The next papers comment; “It just doesn’t do it for me. Nahh…Nope! Not it” Having a type A personality, my first thought was, Shit! I failed. Soon my insecurity kicked in…He just doesn’t like my writing. Finally…Well, if he would just tell me in plain English what the hell I’m doing wrong!

Paper after paper, the anxiety grew. I spent hours sitting with my head back staring at the ceiling. I’d hold my breath with every reader response. “Too many adjectives. Too many adverbs. Not enough detail. Too much detail.” My pen became a prisoner of his instructions. My husband asked more than once, “Why do you care so much what he thinks?” Seemed like a pretty obvious answer.

One evening, my dreads were completely washed away. I was helping my niece with her homework. She became frustrated with me because she didn’t know how to put into words what she was trying to say. “Honey, I’m here to help you. I don’t expect you to know everything. You don’t go to school to get all the answers right. You go to school to learn the answers.” That was my ton of bricks.

I didn’t take this class for a repeated pat on the back. (I came to the wrong place if that was what I was looking for.) I signed up for this class to learn something. In doing so, my brain was kicked, twisted, yanked, and picked completely apart. In other words, it wasn’t just nestled in believing everything tucked inside of it. With every constructive word of criticism, I found another pathway. With every “There are risky topics, risky ways of writing about non-risky topics, and risky ways of writing about risky topics.” I learned a different way to write, a different way to think. Granted, I felt like I circled the barn a few times before I found the door but I really think I found it! Does that mean I’m now a writer? Nope! It just means there’s a way in, and for me "word's life is just about to begin." What more could I have asked for?

Theme Week # 14

2006-12-03T13:01:00.000-08:00

A cure for cancer, aids, the common cold, the perfect man, or woman, car keys, the "other" sock, reading glasses, and happy endings; we spend a good majority of our lives looking for things. Much of what we search for is either lost or unattainable.

I'm beginning to think I may never find what I am looking. No, it's not the perfect man. Even I know the improbability of that. I'm just looking for the perfect pair of underwear; a pair that don't bunch, twist, ride, or cut me in half. Yes, I've tried the thong somehow believing that intentionally placing the underwear between my cheeks would take away from the frustration I feel when they creep up there on their own. A few hours of "balancing on that tightrope" was all I could take.

Unlike the three styles men have, there are as many women's styles of underwear as Baskin Robbins has flavors. Yesterday, I broke down and bought six of them. Surely with so many to choose from I would find one I liked.

I put a pair on and went Christmas shopping. By 10am, I was in a bathroom stall at JC Penney's holding a pair of scissors with my underwear pulled down around my thighs trying desperately to remove whatever was poking me in the crotch. I snipped at a piece of elastic and went on my merry way. Before three minutes passed, I was back in the bathroom with more fervor than ever, scissors in hand. Clip, clip, clip...That should do it. By noon, my new panties found their way into the bathroom trashcan. It was at that point, I considered scratching the underwear search altogether. How bad could it be? Yeah, well that question was answered rather quickly as I was leaving the bathroom and passed two giggling girls in the hallway, then I felt the draft. Needless to say, the search continues.

Theme Week # 13

2006-11-26T18:43:00.000-08:00

Two feet between them should have been a mile for the distance years of silence created.

She pulled at the lint on her skirt, crossed and uncrossed her legs several times, wiped the scuff on her shoe and sighed at the inconvenience of this day.

He sat with his hands in his lap twisting his wedding band, staring at the tan tiles beneathe his feet holding it all in just as she said he'd done the past twelve years.

"Mr and Mrs. Clough. Right this way."

Theme Week # 12 (2)

2006-11-26T17:32:00.000-08:00

He walked on the tip of one toe and dragged the other foot behind. He was born with cerebral palsy which challenged his mind, slowed his thoughts and delayed his words; words he found in spite of. Physically, he couldn't run far or fast, but he ran anyway. He'd fall then get up, and fall again. He was born cross eyed. Even after surgery one eye wondered doctors said he would never walk normal or be like other children.
His biggest challenge wasn't the instability of his gait. His biggest challenge were the children who didn't understand why it took him so long to get on the bus, why he couldn't run the bases faster, why he read slow, or wrote messy. This challenge became his families challenge. The challenge to let him hurt, fall, feel sadness, to let him find his way, and he did.
The doctors gave him a 30% chance to survive. He played baseball, football, accepted his diploma to a standing ovation, got a job, moved into his own apartment, and later married. They were wrong and he knew.

Theme Week #12 (1)

2006-11-19T19:00:00.000-08:00

"Today, everything will be done opposite of....
Toothpaste squeezed in the middle. Just the beginning.
Legs not shaven. "Laugh while you rub your cold feet on those."
Thong underwear. Never got that. Thong underwear removed.
Husbands toast crumbs left in place. Slight seizure.
Makes his own lunch. Grown men do cry.
Don't kiss husband goodbye. Don't get kissed.
No coffee. Road rage worse?
Suppress road rage. Need coffee.
Drive slow. Go to class late.
Husband home first. Gives her blank stare.
"What's for dinner?" Blank stare back.
Husband makes own dinner. (already covered)
Skip homework. Large seizure.
Don't kiss husband goodnight. Don't get kissed.
Crumbs still on the counter. ZZZZZ

Theme Week # 11

2006-11-18T10:25:00.000-08:00

Holding it in my hand, I imagine it on his wrist.

The first thing he did when he came into the kitchen was put that cheap watch on. I tried many times over the years to get him to wear a different one but those "attempts" sat in cases on the shelf below his snack bar.

The cracks of the band are dirty with crumbs.

He sat in his recliner, and I on the fold out couch. I can still see his hand buried in the bottom of that cereal box; tossing back Cinnamon Life and only half making it in his mouth. Loud crunching, Andy Rooney in the background, and the pages of my Readers Digest turning were common sounds of our evenings together.

Sliding the watch over my digits and down to my wrist I remember how strange it was to seem him put it on.

"It fell off from sucking it too much." We believed him until we grew up and discovered his thumb was really shot off in the war.

Familiar as his three piece suit, tilted hat, and London Fog jackets; he was never without his Timex.

It was hard to let him go that day. I stared at him, afraid to blink. People walked around me but I didn't care. I knew when I walked away, he would be gone forever. His hands were crossed just above his waist. The way he held them when he walked to the alter to accept communinion. He was wearing his Timex. Apologizing,I took it from his wrist. The same watch I hated to see him wear was all I had left of him.

I kissed the face of the watch, put it back in the box, and placed it on the shelf just below the island in my kitchen.

Theme Week # 10

2006-11-06T16:34:00.000-08:00

What would a small town be without the local mart where old biddies catch up on yesterdays gossip, or the meat market where men talk about their last hunt, and of course the potluck suppers benefiting so and so's "father's third cousin"?

Last night I attended a benefit supper for my brother-in-laws sister Laurel. She suffered a brain aneurysm six weeks ago. Laurel's your typical hearty Maine woman. She lacks a manicure, wears nothing but LL Bean clothes, and cooks a mean pot of fish chowder. She's at every family function but rarely says anything. She darts from room to room wiping crumbs, filling plates, and picking up empty beer bottles. If not for her devilish laugh and big smile, she'd live permanently in the background, and with no complaints.

Over two hundred people attended the supper. My sisters and their friends served spaghetti while I kept track of their children. Laurel's mother walked around showing of the newest great grandchild while the grandsons kept the pasta, and meatballs filled. In the far corner of the hall, wearing dickies and a red and black, checkered, wool coat sat Laurel's 79 year old father. Being a quiet man, it wasn't unusual for him to be hidden from the hustle and bustle. I watched as he looked at the serving line grow and the people buying tickets for the raffle. His eyes began to well with tears. Instinct was to run over and give him a big hug but then I thought of Laurel and how that moment was with her.

There's much to be said about small towns but at the end of the night, $8,000 was raised for a quiet woman with a big smile that few of those people really even knew.

Theme Week # 9

2006-10-26T13:04:00.000-07:00

I sat across the table from him listening to his voice trying to remember something about him, something I must have loved. The harder I tried, the more of a stranger he became.

Nothing in his hands, his eyes, or his face; nothing was me. Fifteen years of "Who am I?" replaced with the reality of not knowing who he was and not wanting to yet, I sat and listened. I listened to him talk about his life, and family sounding as though he were rehearsing an interview for a job he knew he'd never get...and never really wanted. The careful placement of words and the avoidance of others, kept the distance between all of us. A distance comfortable with excuses.

He lifted his mug to his lips and I watched my mother's face. As he tilted it back, I remembered. I remembered not who he was but who he wasn't, and why. She looked at me the way she used to believing somehow her eyes were erasers but I always knew.

We left the restaurant and walked to our cars. The moment of goodbye was awkward. My brother and sisters stumbled for their words while he dug deep for the right ones to say. I did what he wanted to and what I remembered most about him; I walked away.

Theme Week # 8

2006-10-22T13:07:00.000-07:00

"Washing up." That's what they called it before running water and bathtubs existed. A pitcher of hot water, a sponge, and a bar of soap. In ten minutes, the offensive areas were semi-cleaned then back to baking bread, canning vegetables, and chopping wood for the long winter.

Washing was just that; removing dirt and odor with soap and water. Whether it was bathing in a cold creek or sitting in a metal tub with heated water poured over you, the only purpose was getting clean.

Nothing is what it used to be. Grocery shopping isn't about putting food on the table for your family. It's biology in a box or can of low fat, sugar free, high grain, processed, low cholesterol, hydrogenated, organic contents, not food.

School isn't about reading, writing, and arithmetic. Get past the emotional stability, sexual harassment, separation of church and state, and you might get an essay that doesn't involve killing a family.

Nothing is simple. A metal tub is now a four person, eight jet, porcelain "wash room" with music, candles, bubbles and a pillow. Getting clean is now only an excuse to get away from the things we somehow manage to always "unsimplify".

Theme Week # 7

2006-10-16T08:01:00.000-07:00

Mayberry had Barney Fife, Blue Hill, Maine had Allen Mello. He was as much a fixture at Merrill and Hinkley, the local market, as the uneven wooden floors and the jingle bell hanging from the door. Like a back alley in New York, you smelled him long before you saw him only close up it was much worse. He wore a World War II hat cocked slightly to the side. When he wasn't having the best day, which he never failed to share, he wore the hat high on his forehead revealing the few greasy strands of hair he still had left. Based on the smell, and stain patterns, it was obvious he only had one outfit; a blue dickie shirt and pair of pants. Another may have existed but neither ever came in contact with the inside of a washing machine.

The clerks always found something else to do when Allen walked towards the counter, suddenly shelves needed to be stocked. It was an unspoken game of who could get away the fastest. Call it dumb luck or a subconscious pity but I was usually the one left behind.

"Mornin sweet cheeks!" "Hello, Allen." "Give me a couple of those scratch tickets." His hands were beyond filthy. Layer upon layer of dirt. Just watching him scratch his head made my skin crawl. Needless to say, exchanging money caused its own anxiety. Not only had he held the money in his hands, it lived in his pocket for a period of time. "My kitties need their food." If he ate, he didn't buy the food from that market. The rumor was he had no cats.

Regardless of his appearance, he seemed genuinely kind. He kept stuffed teddy bears in his truck and never failed to offer one to a little kid passing by. They either took the bear with great hesitation, or ran in fear clinging to their parents legs. Though some felt his Teddy bears were a perverse lure for kids to gain his trust, I saw it to be a sincere joy it gave him to make a kid smile.

I can't lie, I dreaded seeing Allen walk through the door. His unkept appearance and offensive smell were unwelcome to the senses but somehow, the day didn't feel right when he didn't.

Theme Week # 5

2006-10-14T16:37:00.000-07:00

(John, for the record, I dreaded writing this narrative that's why you're getting it now.)

I didn't think it would ever stop raining so I was surprised to wake to the sun in my face. My nightshirt was stuck to my back and the room felt like a sauna. The plans for going hiking in the Blue Ridge Mountains dissipated the moment I stepped outside. The sky was hazy and the air was thick. There was no way I was doing anything that didn't involve water. Especially anything that required physical exertion.

I called my friend Joey, a true southern boy with a deep voice and a long drawl. "Hey girl, what's gooiin on?" "Change of plans. Call the guys. I'll get Rene and Beth. Screw sweltering ten miles up a mountain and jumping over snakes every few hundred feet. We're going tubing!" Joey never cared what we did as long as we did something. "You got it honey. See ya'll in thirty."

In Johnson City, Tennessee, tubing is as common as putting gas in your car. You somehow even learned not to fear the water moccasins. We'd been enough times and everyone knew the score; Joey got the tubes, I got the beer, Rene packed the cooler, and everyone met at the Watauga river.

I pulled my car behind Joey's truck. We left mine at the ending point so we had a way back to the truck. Kev, John, and Van were in the back pushing the hot tubes away with their feet. Ten minutes is all it takes to turn that black rubber into steam burn.

I squeezed in the front seat, next to Joey who was already sweating profusely wearing only a pair of cut off jeans. Rene sat on Beth's lap in the passengers seat. She whined the entire twenty minute trip because Beth's sweaty skin was sticking to her; being a former beauty queen, it couldn't be her sweaty skin sticking to Beth.

We pulled along side the river which was also a rafting site so I was surprised we found a parking spot so close. We peeled our legs off the front seat and headed down the bank to the water. Joey and the guys kicked the tubes out of the truck, rolled them into the water then flipped them several times until they cool enough to sit on. We stripped off our clothes down to our bathing suits and dove in the water. We noticed the majority of the rafters were coming out of the water. Crews changed every two hours so we didn't think much about it.

The three-day rain made the water colder than usual but anything was better than the heat bouncing off the pavement. We loaded the cooler on Joey's tube, which is more a raft, and got ourselves situated before pushing off. A man sitting on the bank yelled, "Hey, ya'll better be careful. The rivers pretty rough. You might want life jackets." "Thanks, we'll be Ok, Joey said as he pulled my tube towards him. Joey and I had a unique friendship. We weren't a couple but we did everything couples do so we always found a way to be ten feet behind everyone.

The cliffs along side the river made it look deeper and never-ending. Enjoying the solitude of having the river to ourselves; I closed my eyes, leaned my head back on the tube and kicked my feet in the water while Joey played with my hair. John cracked a beer and toasted the heavens. "Here's to the poor souls sweating their asses off on the mountain!" Van, being the youngest of the group; a former football player turned bouncer, thought it would be funny to flip Rene's tube. Needless to say, we cringed as she came up for air. Getting her hair wet was never a part of her plan. "You son of a bitch!" Her voice echoed against the cliffs. "Shhh", I said. "You shh. You aren't the one with water up her nose!" "No, be quiet. I hear something." It was a sound I will never forget. The bone crushing sound of a force so powerful, I couldn't speak. No one said anything. We just looked at each other, hoping someone would say we weren't hearing what we heard.

The water started to pick up. Rene's tube floated away from her and she was being pulled down river. The closer we got to the bend, the louder the sound. "Everyone off their tubes. Swim! Swim!", Joey screamed. Joey and I looked at each other for a split second then jumped in.

The tubes floated past us. Within seconds, they whipped around the bend. Sucked into the bowels of hell. I knew if I saw what was around the corner, it would be too late. I swam with every bit of strength I had.

Just before the bend, to the left of the river; there was a strip of land. Ten feet off that stood a herd of cows. A strange site for another state. Rene was almost to the bank. Van and John were a few feet behind her. Joey was about ten feet away. I was last. Seeing him in front of me made me swim harder. I didn't want to die, not alone, not without him.

The roaring was so loud and so close; I could barely hear Van yelling, "Swim faster. You've got to swim faster." I wish I could say his cheering helped but all I could picture was getting sucked into the water and being crushed against the jagged rocks. I saw Joey get to the bank. I definitely couldn't die now. I swam so hard, I couldn't feel my arms. When I made it to the bank, everyone collapsed. Joey put his arms around me and cried like a baby. No one cared that we were sitting in piles of cow shit, not even Rene. Once we caught our breaths, we got up and headed down river. The roaring got louder and then we saw it. No one said anything. We didn't have to. The river said it for us.

Journal Entry #14

2006-10-12T17:05:00.000-07:00

I try, I swear I do. I even changed my alarm clock. No more loud honking buzzes to annoy me awake just the steady chirping of birds. I make a conscious effort every morning to leave my house with a positive attitude. Good karma is supposed to return to you. Well so far, it hasn't.

I don't know what it is about Dunkin Donuts on the Odlin road but I meet every rude person on the planet there. A week ago a woman cut me off. Instead of getting mad or tailgating (which is always my first instinct), I took a deep breath and before I could blow the damn think out, she was blocking the entrance to Dunkin Donuts so I couldn't drive in. There are two lines going in, one for the drive through (which is where her lazy ass was supposed to be) and one to enter. Pull it together, I thought. Then I saw it; she was laughing at me in her side view mirror. No, that can't be. She wouldn't cut me off then block me out and actually laugh about it. Sure enough, she was! OK, kiss that karma shit goodbye. Like a kid whose sand castle had just been knocked down, I pulled over the curb along side of her, rolled down my window and through up the "fuck you" gesture. She stopped laughing. I guess I probably scared her taking it a little over the edge.

Fast forward to this morning...I decided to go through the drive through and avoid the downpours. Turning left into Dunkin Donuts, sometimes you have to wait because the drive through goes to the end of the lot. Common courtesy for the people who are pulling up and have the advantage of turning right would be to allow us (the lefties) since we had been waiting longer to go ahead. Hell no! Some woman in a big Suburban doesn't just turn right, she sneaks her bumper up before the line moves so we can't get in front of her. She looked at me as I slumped forward on my steering wheel in frustration. I looked at her and mouthed that she was rude (no, I held the swearing.)and she turned away. Another person pulled behind her. I admit it. I have a serious problem with road rage and rude people but I was tired, hungry, and my jeans were completely soaked from the ass down. Well, it wasn't all bad. The car behind her let me go in front of him so when I pulled up to pay, I paid for his breakfast and drove away. At least his karma came back to him!

Theme Week # 6

2006-10-08T17:56:00.000-07:00

I knew something was wrong when they handed us the keys with a map...

When my husband and I got engaged, we decided to elope in Vegas. Spending thousands of dollars on a wedding dress worn once, a reception, and flowers that would be thrown away after the ceremony seemed like a waste.

I booked the wedding at the Little White Chapel and the room at Circus Circus. My sister, Cathy and her husband, Steve came as our witnesses.

We flew in after one in the morning. The streets were lit up and people were everywhere. The city was hopping but our asses were dragging. All we could think about was getting to our rooms and passing out in our beds.

The lobby looked like the inside of a circus tent. The ceilings were pink, blue, green, and yellow striped. A large clown statue with big floppy feelt stood in the entrance. Everything was trimmed in gold. It was bright, cheerful, and tastefully decorated.

We stood in line 45 minutes before checking in. We took our keys and map and headed to our rooms. "This place is bigger than I thought." We followed the directions which took us away from the bright colors of the tent and into a dark parking lot. I asked the security bikers if we were going the right way. Dragging our bags over speed bumps, we saw our room numbers. "Tell me this isn't right!" The buildings just old. I'm sure the rooms are beautiful.

Cathy is the princess of the family. Her white sneakers stay white, her coasters are always neatly stacked, and a dirty house to her are a couple dishes in the sink. Opening the door to our rooms, I wasn't surprised to see her face go pale. Sleazy was too nice of a description. The furniture hadn't been updated since the early seventies. The dresser drawers were off their hinges and not able to close. The dark carpte was specked with white pieces of trash. The bathroom tiles were broken and the shower curtain was wripped. Trying to calm the situation, I suggested Cathy and Steve stay in the other bed in our room. Somehow, our room didn't seem as dirty as theres. "Just don't use the comforter", I warned. "We'll change rooms in the morning."

I had almost convinced them until Cathy pulled back the comforter. There it was. The dread of dreads. "I', not sleeping in this room!" I was right there with her.

My husband called the front desk and was told nothing could be done until the morning. He hung up the phone and Cathy's face got whiter. "There is no way I am staying in this room with a bunch of bed bugs the night before my wedding!"

We grabbed our bags and rolled them down the hallway into the elevator. The ride down was quiet but Cathy's eyes were screaming.

Speed bumps, security bikers, dark parking lots, and 15 minutes later, we were greeted by the clown statue.

At this point, the tired, passive, newlywed to be was now the ravenous pitbull frothing at the mouth. "Who do I talk to about our rooms?" The receptionist pointed me to the managers desk. The claws were ready. Once false word and the jugular was mine!

A chinese man about 5'2" tall greeted me. "How may I help you?"

"I came here to get married. I realize I bought the package deal but I don't think it warrants me sleeping in a room even a hooker would have a hard time with.

With a sweet smile and soft voice, "You're getting married? Had we known that, we would have arranged for the honeymoon suite." Nails retracted, I thanked the manager and gave my sister her key. We took the elevator to our rooms...no speed bumps, just a king size bed with fluffy pillows, and a very happy sister.

2006-10-03T02:17:00.000-07:00

Understood and hopefully you will.

I may be a lot of things but I take your class seriously. I struggle with the assignments which makes me a little slow. (I have the narrative due) It's definitely me. I completely understand what you say but putting it to paper isn't as easy.

I'll leave you with one last thought then I'll go back to being the student.

Three years ago a teacher of mine tried to dissuade me from writing a paper because it was too intense of a subject. Being the boring conformist that I am, I should have agreed but decided instead to write it. Maybe it wasn't the greatest writing but it changed the way I viewed my life. You can't imagine how much. I know that wasn't his intent but I appreciated his willingness to let my try.

I should have grown up fighting with the world. Instead, I chose the quiet route. It fits me.

Different

2006-10-02T07:06:00.000-07:00

John,
I think it is pretty clear that I am not entirely private about my emotions. The great thing about blogging is being able to put thoughts somewhere that you may not otherwise. I'm a pretty shy person most of the time so expressing my feelings here gives me a bit of release.

I don't think it is an unfair assumption that you are uncomfortable with "mushy" emotions. Whether it is about someone dying or not. It appears, much like my husband, that you appreciate the hard core rebel approach. I'm not the best at roping that emotion in once it's out.

I learned in English Lit. and from you that one form of good writing is not telling everything. I don't think it would surprise you to know how much I have been cutting out of my writing. It doesn't mean I will always know when to say when.

FYI

2006-10-01T15:53:00.000-07:00

This is my class site but it is also viewed by my friends and sister so if you see something that seems personal, I don't expect a response. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can label as such!

The comment section is for Goldfine!

Thanks,
D

Journal Entry # 13

2006-09-29T18:06:00.000-07:00

My Grandmother is amazing!

My uncle Joe is a nurse. He said she should have died two days ago. I did my shift this evening and when I got there she was propped up in bed. She even managed to eat some scrambled eggs this morning. She's lost 14 pounds in two weeks but she's tough as nails. She was awake and talkative.

My aunt Katie brought her three things to make her more comfortable. When she was done explaining what they were, my Grandmother said in her dry tone, "Well, what else Katie? I love her!

Journal Entry # 12

2006-09-28T04:22:00.000-07:00

I know I'll get through it but it won't be easy. She's my best friend.

I've only lost one person in my life I was close to, my Grandfather. I wouldn't have guessed four years ago I would be saying this about my Grandmother. We had a strained relationship for over 15 years due in part to her being prejudice. I never really got the chance to know her as a person because I was too immature.

One of my biggest flaws was my inability to forgive people. I felt that I created part of the negative energy that always seemed to find me so I decided to change my life by forgiving those people that I held resentment for.

In doing so, what I discovered about my Grandmother will change my life forever.
I learned that part of her prejudice came from my stepfather. He was stabbed by two black men and almost died. She received the call in the middle of the night. The anger stayed for decades until she got cancer and had to be hospitalized. She met a black nurse that in her words, "Took the best care of me of anyone." She told me that she started to see things differently from that point forward. I see the change and I admire her for it.

I have people I'm close to. I have an amazing sister who wants the best for me, always. I have a best friend that comes to visit me from Tennessee every year just to laugh with me. I have a husband that loves me and thinks I walk on water. What I have when I'm with my Grandmother is something I know I'll never have again. For whatever reason, I'm sure I could find lots, I've always felt an imbalance in my life. It's like I'm one click away from feeling peace but that click is a million miles away. Our relationship, her ability to understand me, her honest opinions; it's put me in touch with it. She's strong, funny, independent, and the most influential person in my life. Selfishly, I'm not ready to let go of her but soon I will have no choice.

She was told 3 years ago this coming February that she only had 3 months to live. Her determination, stubbornness, and will to live gave me time to know her. I'm a better person for it. I know I have to deal with what is going to happen in the next two weeks but I don't even know where to begin.

Theme Week # 4 Part 3

2006-09-24T16:01:00.000-07:00

Completely exhausted from 7 classes, 4 kids, two dogs, and a full time job, I couldn't have picked up a toothpick let alone a frying pan so when my husband asked "What's for dinner?", I threw a package of raw hamburger at him and said, "You're looking at it!" "What the hells your problem?" I slammed the front door and sat on the steps staring at the sky. A few minutes later, pretending I hadn't been a complete bitch, he came out and asked if I wanted to go get something to eat.

Driving to the restaurant, he looked for deer while I abused his ears with all the reasons my life sucked.

We waited for twenty minutes before the hostess showed us to the table and sat there another fifteen minutes before the waitress would come take our order. "I'm Stella." She weighed all of 250lbs. She had long, greasy brown hair and was missing one of her eye teeth. "Whad'ya want to drink?" "Hello to you too", my husband said. "We'll both have a Heinekin." Without acknowledging, she put her pen behind her ear and walked away. "Yeah, she gives me an appetite."

The waitress came back with our drinks. She put my husbands down on the table so hard it foamed over the neck of the bottle. "Figure out what ya want?" "I'd like to start with a new waitress." Unamused, she ignored my husband and turned to me. "I'll have a club sandwich." My husband, ever the wise ass said, "I'll have the ribs, and hold the hair." "Will that do it?" With a smirk, my husband nodded and she walked away.

While waiting for our meals, one of my husbands friends came over to the table to say hello. Not wanting to hear the "Great White Hunter's" sixth version of last night's deer kill, I excused myself and went to the lady's room.

I washed my hands, turned the dryer on and waited for the heater to kick in. Out of the stall walked Stella. Before I could force a smile, she left the bathroom...Never washing her hands. That's just great. Of all the waitresses. We get stuck with Ms Ecoli! I walked back to the table and sat down.

Stella brought us our food. I stared with disgust at her hands. "Anything else?" Before we could finish shaking our heads, she was gone.

Famished, I wrapped my fingers around the sandwich, took a huge bite and pulled the sandwich away from my mouth, only it wouldn't separate.."Oh my God!" I spit my bite onto the plate and started to gag. "What's the matter" my husband asked nervously? I pointed to the piece of hair holding the sandwich together. My husbands face turned white. He waved the waitress over. "What do you need?" "I need you to change your attitude, the goddamn tone of your voice, and get your manager!"

The manager came to the table apologized and asked if I wanted something else to eat. "Oh yeah, why don't I make it easier on your cook and lick the toilet seat before you serve me!" Again, I apologize. I'll deduct the meal from your check." "The meal? Are you fucking serious", my husband asked. Do you honestly think I'm going to eat these ribs let alone pay for any of this meal!" My husband lifted both plates in the air and turned them upside down on the table..."Deduct that" he said and we walked out.

Theme Week # 4 Part 2

2006-09-24T14:19:00.000-07:00

Completely exhausted from multiple shifts caring for my terminally ill Grandmother, five classes, and a part time job, I couldn't have picked up a toothpick let alone a frying pan so when my husband asked "What's for dinner?", with disdain I replied "Applebees."

We drove to the restaurant in silence. I unloaded the week in my mind while he scanned the fields for deer.

Resting my head on his shoulder while waiting for a table he asked, "You Ok Babe?" "Yeah, I'm fine, just tired."

The waitress wasn't exactly friendly but then I wasn't in the mood for rehearsed chit-chat. I ordered a club sandwich, and my husband, a rack of ribs. "Anything to drink?" In unison we replied, "A Heineken."

Happy to think of something else, I listened for thirty minutes to an over-dramatized depiction of "last nights hunt" Several beers later, the waitress brought us our food. "Anything else?" Before we could finish shaking our heads, she was gone.

Tricked by a beer buzz, I felt famished. I wrapped my fingers around the sandwich, brought it an inch from my mouth, and saw it...Inside my sandwich between a tomato and a thick layer of mayonnaise was a black curly hair!

Repulsed, I dropped my sandwich and said, "I think I am going to puke!" My husband called the waitress over. Annoyed by his gesture, she flipped around and with heavy feet, walked to our table.

"What do you need?" "I need you to take this sandwich out of my face before you have to clean up a little more than some spilled salt and used napkins." "What's the matter with it?" I pointed to the hair. She grabbed the plate and said she would send the manager over.

Watching my husband gnaw on his ribs I asked, "How in the hell can you sit there and eat?" His Neanderthal response, "I'm hungry."

The manager came to the table and asked if I wanted a different meal. "No just the check." He came back, said he deducted my meal (how big of him!), and handed me a $5 coupon for my next visit.

"Unless I can use this at some other restaurant, you can keep your coupon. There's hair sir, and then there's ,hair. One is forgivable, one is not!"

I stared at my husband while he finished his meal, irritated that he would eat when I hadn't. I walked to the car ahead of him....it's a quiet ride home.

Theme Week # 4 Part 1

2006-09-24T14:12:00.000-07:00

I had a busy week so the last thing I wanted to do was cook dinner. My husband and I went to Applebees instead.

Thirty minutes and two beers later, the waitress brought my club sandwich and Gary's ribs to the table. I picked up the sandwich to take a bite and saw a hair in it. I put the sandwich down and waved the waitress over. She apologized and asked if I wanted another meal. I said no but asked for another beer.

The manager brought me the beer and a check with the sandwich deducted. He apologized and handed me a $5 coupon for my next meal. "Unless I can use the coupon at another restaurant, you can keep it." My husband finished his meal and we left.

Best Sister In The World

2006-09-23T15:06:00.000-07:00

Well, she's no nun...not even close!

I have another sister I call the demon. She lives for my unhappiness.

Sparing you all the mushy details, Cathy is simply a ray of sunshine in my life.

Journal Entry # 11

2006-09-23T06:15:00.000-07:00

John, I posted a response to lecture 4.

When I was little, I had these wide cupboards over the closet in my bedroom. I used claw my skinny legs around the closet doors and haul myself into them. I kept a pillow, flashlight, and all my girly private things up there. I used to spend hours writing in that confined space. I'd write stories, poems, thoughts or just anything in my diary.

The saying "Writing is an escape" has a little more meaning to me. I can't say that I enjoyed my reason for writing, but it let me be somewhere else. (The friend you hate)

I like the set ups you give. It lets me see it in another way and that's a good thing. I just can't wrap my head around it as quickly as I could my closet doors;}

Theme Week # 3

2006-09-20T16:12:00.000-07:00

The suns starting to fall into the earth. My hair's matted to my head from sweat. I'm sitting on the front steps in my cut off Levis and pink shit kickers covered in grass, and engrossed in the serenity of the moment...

"Hey, watcha doin?"
screeetch. End of that moment!

"Just resting."

"Yeah, I saw you from the kitchen window. Thought I'd come bug ya."

Reeeally, you watching from your kitchen window? What a surprise!

"I'm just mowing the lawn so Gary doesn't have to think about it when he goes golfing."

Who am I trying to kid?

"I wish my wife would mow the lawn."

"She'll probably surprise you some day."

"I always see you out here working. Do you ever slow down."

Let me guess, from the kitchen window?

"That's what I'm doing sitting here."

"Hot day isn't it?"

"Yep." I jump off the step with the energy of a goat, and kick the grass off my boots hoping he sees my ambition to be somewhere else.

"Gary left early this morning. I saw his lights pull out of the driveway."

Man, you don't miss anything!

"Yeah, he was meeting friends for breakfast then doing a little golf."

"He left you here all by yourself?"

Until now.

"I don't mind. I like to be alone sometimes. If you can't be alone with yourself and enjoy it then you should start thinking about a prison career. Minus the whole solitary confinement thing."

He laughs out loud, plops his ass on the step, and leans back.

Real smart Darlene. Entertain him so he wants to stay longer!

"I was thinkin' you probably get bored so I thought I'd keep you company."

"I'm truly never bored. I can find a hundred things to do in a day." (Hint. Hint.)

The sun is setting now. I swear I hear the crickets singing "take him home country roads, take him home."

"I have to go in and start dinner. I'm gonna have to say goodnight."

"Yeah, it was great talking to you."

"You too."

He gets up from the steps and says, "I'm going to go home and play with the box my children came in."

I'm going to go stock up on sugar!

" Repulsed, I say, "Good luck with that." He turns to leave and says, "Goodnight neighbor."

"Yeah, night."

Journal Entry # 10

2006-09-20T06:56:00.000-07:00

It's such a pitiful site. Hunter sitting at the end of his dog ramp waiting. I wonder what goes through his head. Did she forget me? Is she coming back?

It's been said that dogs don't have a sense of time. I don't believe it. Hunter, without fail, sits by the door to his gate at 6am every morning. He watches through the patio glass anticipating. When I don't come right out, he paces and when I'm really behind, he does the ramp thing. Duke, on the other hand, he plays it cool but the second he hears "Good morning my boys!" he's a bowl of jello.

I bring them in the house on occasion but it's like having a toddler over, there are all kinds of things I need move out of the way, put up high and close. These are not lap dogs. They aren't even foot dogs. They are like horses on crack. I'm to blame. When they were puppies, I loved to watch them chase each other. The first time they flipped my coffee table, I realized where I had failed.

People give me the raised eyebrow when I tell them they live outside. Lower it... I spent $1000.00 on a insulated dog house with a window, human, and doggy door. The roof is pitched and shingled, and it's bedded with hay in the winter. Do you think that matters to the dogs? Nope! They prefer lounging in the two $75.00 igloo houses. Then there's the $600.00 fence. They aren't living in squalor by any means.

I took a break in this entry to do my parental duty. Hunter's back in the igloo tired, but happy.

Journal Entry # 9

2006-09-19T11:13:00.000-07:00

Kraft macaroni and cheese! If someone told me that I had to pick one thing to eat for the rest of my life, it would be Kraft mac and cheese.

Most foods I grew up on, I wouldn't dream of eating. Hamburger Helper for instance. What cruel punishment for children! I would literally cringe when I heard my mother speak it.

Biscuits, what really is the purpose? My mother thought putting different toppings on them would somehow disguise that it was just another biscuit. I think she was proud of her biscuits. Glad someone was.

I'm fully aware of the lack of nutrients in a box of mac and cheese, that the pasta stays in my stomach hours after I've eaten it, and there are 780 calories in one box. When I'm shoveling in that creamy mixture of butter, milk, noodles, and cheese I can't even hear myself think. I'm just a kid with her mac!

Journal Entry #8

2006-09-18T04:24:00.000-07:00

How do people do it? How can a person just say "I'm going to bed." crawl under the covers and fall off to la la land? I have to jump through all kinds of hoops just to consider it. A glass of wine, Excedrin PM, a banana; none of them work but then there's always the chance...

Before I get into bed the window has to be open, and the shade pulled down just enough for me to see outside. Once the door is closed and I see that my rifle is still under the bed, I watch T.V for at least twenty minutes. Usually, I bore myself into a sleepy state by watching re-runs of The Jefferson's or Three's Company. When I start feeling groggy, comfort is essential because any amount of movement once the T.V. is off turns the lights back on in my head. It's really all for nothing. Often I wake because my husband is snoring or the dogs just saw a hurd of deer and think I want to know about it. At that point, it's psychological warfare.

There are the nights I look forward to when I'm so completely exhausted from lack of sleep that I'm wiping the drool from my mouth before the T.V is even off. Yep, those are the good nights.

Duke and Hunter

2006-09-17T14:26:00.000-07:00

Just as soon as I was finished spending close to two hours bathing, cutting nails, cleaning ears, and brushing...they rolled in the dirt! Got to love them!

Journal Entry #7

2006-09-14T15:20:00.000-07:00

I saw the most amazing thing yesterday morning. It was 6:30am. There was a light frost on the border of the lawn and dew clung to everything. I walked my dog Hunter first. We take the normal route around the yard so he can do his thing in the tall grass. For whatever reason, he felt the need to lift his leg on my peppers. Since my husband eats them, I wasn't too disgusted...we continued on.

The sun greeted us as we walked down the long driveway. I didn't notice until I turned to my left but there were literally hundreds of perfectly spun cobwebs clinging to the fields. The sun lit them up making them look like dusty circles. With the exception of a few, the majority appeared as if they were subdivided into military rows. I stood staring in amazement. There are so many things in the world to see but this was something I'd never heard anyone speak of.

I walked the dog back up the driveway still mesmerized by the site. Suddenly a nose pushed against my hip. Hunter was letting me know that I wasn't paying attention to him the way I did every morning. I scratched his ears, and gooed at him while walking with my neck cranked doing everything I could to sneak a few more looks of mother nature's art.

Journal entry #6

2006-09-11T15:34:00.000-07:00

"That's not what she meant!" I felt like screaming those words when I was called to my Grandmother's house yesterday. She is terminally ill and under hospice care but probably one of the toughest ladies you will ever meet. With the occasional bouts of fever, you can hardly tell that she has metastatic cancer.

I was met at the door by one of my uncles. We'll call him Hank. My grandmother calls Hank her "paper tiger". He's tall, dark, handsome and for fifty-five, built like a tank. He has a deep voice and a heart of a marshmallow. I asked how she was doing and he said "fine but a little loopy." I wiped the tears from my face and went to her room. My Aunt "Cindy" was in bed next to her. Cindy is the youngest daughter. There are six kids in all. I sat beside Gram with a brave front and told her I was just popping in to say hello. She looked pitiful. I visit her three to four times a week and stay the night quite often. I wasn't used to seeing her so weak. She was in and out of reality but still had her quick wit and dry sense of humor. During one of my Grandmother's "spells" my Aunt Cindy decided to pray over her. In the middle of her trembling from a high fever, my Grandmother jumped up and shouted "I'm healed!" Everyone laughed. She said she wasn't sure she had the strength to do it but couldn't pass it up.

My uncle "Dick" is her youngest and the favorite. To me, he's the most manipulative person I've ever met. My grandmother made him, not only the executor of her will, but the power of attorney. She has a decent amount of money, none of which I will inherit nor would want to. My uncle Dick however, just can't wait to get his hands on it. Knowing how close I am to her, he thought he would play on my emotions and manipulate me by saying "In good conscious, I cannot drive Mother to the hospital for treatment. It is against what I believe as a nurse and what she has requested in her living will." He's good but not that good. I read right through it. No matter what I feel, I respect that I am not her child and really have no say but he understood that I, in no way, felt she was close enough to death not to take her to be hydrated. That's not the intent of her living will.

My mother arrived to the same speech only my mother crumbles at any pressure. When he said she has every right to take her to the hospital but he will not do it, she folded. I told her that she had to do what she felt was in the best interest of Gram. I told her to not look too far ahead. Uncle Dick's reply, "Don't look too far behind either."

Because I am extremely close to my Grandmother and very protective of her, my mouth couldn't have stayed shut for much longer so l decided to leave. I called my mother that night and told her to stand on her own two feet and to go with her instincts.

Today, I drove to my Grandmother's. Not only had her fever broke but she was walking around and completely level headed. I sat beside her in bed. Without being obvious, I asked her what she thought her living will meant. She said it meant that she would not be put on a respirator or any machines to stay alive. I told her that was everyone's misconception so I prodded further. "So if it meant that you would live a few more months or weeks comfortably, you would consent to hydration, and antibiotic treatment. She said, "Of course, I want to be around as long as I can."

I know there is a fine line with this issue but seeing my Grandmother defy all the odds stacked against her, I hardly think being hydrated warrants a "drastic measure" of survival. She is reaching her three year survival mark. I'm not nieve. I know the cancer will eventually get her but her will to live is much stronger right now. I don't want her to suffer but I don't want her to be dismissed either. There isn't much I can do except respectfully speak my mind and love her while she is here. The latter is much easier.

Theme Week #2

2006-09-10T13:46:00.001-07:00

He has his hands. My husband has my stepfather's hands. The fingers are long and square at the end. The top of his palm is wide with a tint of reddish blond hair that fades towards the knuckles. Hands, to me, aren't just necessary appendages. We build with our hands, destroy with our hands, love, and even hate with our hands.

I was four when I met Ed, my stepfather. My brother, sisters and I were sitting in the back of a station wagon with my mother's friend Marsha. It was dark outside. The mist hung tight on the windows. I remember feeling very uneasy. The shadowed light we had, came from a street light beyond some pine trees. When my mother finally did come out of the club, Ed was with her. She tapped at the window for me to roll it down. Ed stuck his head in and said hello. I didn't like his looks. He had kinky hair, dark eyes and a scruffy face. He joked about taking her away from us. What was funny to him became a fear I carried for over a decade.

Ed was a violet man. When he wasn't drinking, he was the father I always wanted. He teased me a lot which brought me out of my shell and gave my shyness a much needed reprieve. I welcomed the feeling. He stood up for me when my siblings picked on me, listened to me when it felt like no one ever would, and on many occasions ate my meatloaf so I could leave the kitchen table. When he drank, he was an unimaginable monster. I was torn between a man I hated, and the only father I knew and loved.

When I was seven I woke, as I often did, to my mother screaming. I ran downstairs to see my stepfather on top of her with his hands clenched around her neck. I remember time moving in slow motion as I grabbed at his hands desperately trying to pry them away. His hands were all I could see. They became an ugly imprint in my mind.

I was thirteen when my mother divorced Ed. She met a man named Butch. He was an
ex-professional boxer. He was a quiet, stout man with an odd tick in his face which caused me to stare a lot. When he twitched, he would take his stubby fingers and repeatedly rub them under his nose. His knuckles were scarred and calloused. He and my mother dated for a few months before he became physical with her and then made the mistake of threatening us. My mother had a distorted view of what it meant to keep us safe. She thought she was doing her job if she took the blows not knowing the pain it caused us to watch.

I moved out at fifteen and became a nanny. It was also when I met my first boyfriend, Chris. He was everything pure to me. He was a Catholic virgin that didn't drink, and attended church every Sunday. He was confident, strong, and held my hand wherever we went while I dutifully followed behind him. His hands were soft, clean and gentle. It was three years before I realized that I had a voice. Soon, it was apparent that my timid demeanor was the facade that was his strength. He lost control and his hands followed.

Over the years every man in and out of my life held in their hands my fears and disappointments. Looking at my husbands hands, the hands that hold me when I'm scared, wipe my tears when I cry; the very hands I held when I vowed to love him forever. They look like my stepfather's hands but seeing them as I do, they are nothing like his at all.

Journal Entry #5

2006-09-07T15:06:00.000-07:00

A traffic cop in a tin can, a half eaten egg salad sandwich, and the wretchedness that has been my afternoon!

After spending several hours in the lounge and losing two hours worth of work to an expired page, I decided to leave my frustrations there and try again tomorrow. Yeah right...

Due to my hectic schedule, and some crazy things going on in my life, eating has not been my usual priority. Two weeks and seven pounds lighter, I jumped at the feeling of hunger and headed to the deli across from the college.

Forgetting to bring my purse, an egg salad sandwich became my only choice. No big deal. My appetite was back! I unwrapped the sandwich, folded the paper neatly in my lap and took my first bite. Hoping to beat the five o'clock traffic, I put it between my legs and plunged my car into the sanity that bridge repair created. Twenty-five feet later, my car completely died. "SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!" I tried looking for my hazard lights but couldn't find them. Some genius Saab designer thought putting the key in the center console would prove fascinating so God only knew where the hazard lights were. I tossed the egg salad sandwich in the passenger seat and rolled down the window. Turning the key with my right hand, I waved cars past with my left. Anywhere else but in the center of hell! "Please start. Please start!" I repeated that in my head for what seemed like eternity. Finally it started and I layed on the gas peddle.

I pulled into Advance Auto and saw two young men sitting on their motorcycles. I didn't want to shut the car off so I slammed the door and offered them money if they could find someone to steal it. Needless to say, my chariot was still there waiting when I returned.

After calling my husband and leaving a loving message about him ignoring my concern about the car, I turned to the passenger seat and saw my sandwich fermenting in the sun. "Yep! I'm feeling hungry now."

Journal entry #4

2006-09-06T16:04:00.000-07:00

I slip off my tattered leopard print slippers, pull back the covers and slither gingerly between the sheets. Carefully, I fluff my pillows as not to disturb the comatose lump beside me. Shifting...I'm suddenly frozen in place. He moved! I stop breathing for a second...wait...he's snoring again. I continue shifting until I find a comfortable position. Hahhh that's it. I reach for the remote to discover it isn't near my glass of water. How could that be? I hesitantly look to the direction of my husbands table. Yep, damnit! The remote is on his side of the bed...

His mouth slightly open, eyes twitching, and tree chopping steady, I move myself closer. Turning on my side, in slow motion, I reach over his body. My hand touches the plastic. YES! Suddenly he rolls. My arm stretched in the air, I'm as still as mouse. I listen for his "melodic" rattle then return to my comfort zone. Suddenly it occurrs to me...he gets out of bed at 4am like a bucking bronco released from his holding gait. He flips on the light, grabs the door handle and swings it open without a thought in the world for me.

Click! TV's on. Time to make some popcorn.

Journal Entry #3

2006-09-06T14:32:00.000-07:00

"We're going in. Caareful...nice and slow. A little to the left. Now straighten it out. Squish! That's what I imagined happened when my sister had her invetro fertilization last week. Outside looking in it seems a little cold and calculated. Inside, I've seen their five year struggle to conceive.

I understand the theory behind "If it was mean't to be" but saying that to someone trying to get pregnant is like saying "It's possible you weren't mean't to be a mother." That's hardly consoling.

My sisters neighbor just found out his ex-girlfriend is four months pregnant. She's a heroine addict. How was that "meant to be?" Maybe it was meant to be that someone was born into this world with the ability to discover a procedure that would help women like my sister. I guess it's how you choose to look at it. I choose to believe the meaning behind what they are doing is more significant than how it's done.

Journal Entry #2

2006-09-05T16:38:00.000-07:00

Do you ever feel like you just want to reach out and slap someone for no reason at all? I'm not a violent person, at least not outside my head but today, for whatever reason, I wanted to take a bag of cheez its and shove them down a kids throat!
I was sitting in speech class going over in my mind how I would present my speech. The room was completely quiet except the wrattling of a bag and the smacking of little orange squares between the puffed cheeks of a kid who clearly didn't make the best food choices. I'd like to pretend that my nervousness about giving the speech was the reason I was so irritated. It wasn't. I'm one of those people who can't go to the movies because the sound of people digging into their popcorn bag and licking their fingers really just pisses me off. Believe it or not, my friends say I have the patience of a saint...Maybe they've just learned what not to eat in front of me!

Journal Entry #1

2006-09-03T09:35:00.000-07:00

I feel like I am living in the sitcom 'Everybody Loves Raymond'. My husband made the mistake of buying land from his best friend. The problem is, he lives next door and comes over whenever he feels like it. He wouldn't dream of calling ahead of time? Why should he? We don't have anything going on in our lives that we couldn't drop so we could listen to him talk incessantly about nothing.

The times I allow my ears to take in his ramblings, they are filled with everything that is going on from his kitchen window, which happens to be in direct line of our front door. "I saw Darlene walking the dogs. I saw Darlene taking a ladder out of her car. I saw you pick that gray and white rock with fossil imprints and throw it just over the stump 5 degrees southeast". Get a life!

He's a good friend of my husbands but most friends are that because they live a minimum of 10 miles away and visits are scarce.

Home is supposed to be where I can peel of my clothes, release myself from the constraints of my brassiere, and throw on a holey t-shirt without being concerned at what might pop out. It's where the world is closed out. Instead I feel closed in.