Just a girl, just a girl

It's Hard / The Who











Recent conversations with some of you reading this blog, and others have eerily raised similar questions and thoughts. What is true and what is fiction? Hard question in some ways. Some of this is 100% truth as I experienced or remember it. Most has some reference to some “real” experience or observation, and some has only a marginal connection.

Ironically, that which is the truest is hardest to write. And, that which is the most fictionalized is the character that began as intentionally the most like me and is the easiest to write.

If you’ve been reading this blog, you’ve met Sam. My first character writing role play was Vanessa. Some of you know her. She started online in a story that died within a month. The players of that game were alll good though, and one invited us to his game: life in high school…

No way, I thought. Wasn’t it bad enough once?? Write it again, I don’t think so. But finding a contemporary, active game to write in with a fearless suicidal character (Nessa at that time) was not easy. So, I thought maybe a Peggy Sue Got Married adventure might be okay… conditionally.

I wanted to write me – over, better. A do-over, perhaps. Wouldn’t it be fun to go back, knowing what you know now, and with no fear of consequence? The me I wished I had been. One who would not make the same mistakes I did.

Like Athena, Samantha Halley Dessen was created. Samantha after my favorite witch: Samantha Stevens. Halley, like the comet, the name of a character from my favorite YA author, Sarah Dessen. To explain Sam’s confidence, opinions, etc. I spent a lot of time thinking about her first 17 years and created an extensive back story to make her plausible. The story was purely fiction, but shaped a lot of the character as it turned out.

As a result, by the time I wrote the first sentence, I knew this young woman. She, like me, is independent and opinionated, socially conscious and stubborn. She was, and is, as real to me as anyone I’ve ever met. And she isn’t me by a long shot. Not that I would mind being Sam, but I was never, am not now and never will be her (or she me, she'd be horrified!)

Sam was created over 5 years ago. I’ve written her probably almost everyday since. She’s grown, changed, gone through good times and bad. I can say, in this time, Sam has not made the same mistakes I did… she’s made others. Some I even saw coming and couldn’t stop her. She has done things that I find appalling. She wears clothing that I think should not even be used for cleaning rags.

And while I would probably ground her for the rest of her life for several of her…stunts, I can also say, she’s taught me things, she’s made me see the world differently and through her interactions with others allowed me to change. I’d be proud to have her as a daughter.

What is odd about Sam and I, is that she just is. There is no conscious thought with Sam. Give me a setting and I can see her there. I know what she’d wear. What she’d say. How she’d stand. I know what book she has in her bag. I know what song’s on the ipod, and I don’t even like it. I know what she would say in response to anything I see, hear, dream up. It’s kinda weird. Like arguing with yourself.

Of course, she is my creation. I know this. But it is still weird to have a character who is so… independent. At times, her response comes to me, and I have to pause. Sometimes I actually argue with myself – ‘you can’t do/say/type that!’ And more than once have I written Sam online and thought ohmygod.

As a writer, I like Sam. Not simply because she is reliably there for me, but because at those “ohmygod” moments, I am forced to ask myself : Would this character really do/say this? What are my issues that are preventing the keystrokes? And how is it that this totally other creature, who was supposed to be me, can be this way?

The monkey on your back is the latest trend

Juno / Soundtrack











The party was in full swing now. Loud and irritating. It wasn’t that Sam didn’t like parties, in fact quite the contrary. It was she didn’t like Frat parties, and she really didn’t like parties that were contrived to make you have fun and manipulate you, which was exactly what she thought was happening.


She supposed it worked. She had little doubt most of those tipsy in side from the illegal jello shots that would later be denied would think they had a wonderful time. They would arrive home Sunday evening to tell parents and friends was a great place U.U. was and they were ready to sign. For a second she wondered why the military didn’t use this tactic too. It might make selective service much easier.

“So… you don’t like music or parties?” Scobby’s hobbit friend,G. asked, bringing her back to present.

“I don’t like sales.”

“So, you’re not going to be a marketing major.”

“Pre-law.” Sam answered. He nodded.

“I didn’t think U.U. had a strong pre-law program.”

“It doesn’t and that’s what I’m going to say, right after I tell the ‘rents that I had a wonderful weekend, but am not choosing to come here.” Sam smiled and shifted slightly on the step, a non verbal offer that he could sit with her. He accepted.

“I see… You want to help me with my reason, now?” He asked with a side long glance.

“Not pre-law I take it.”

“Undecided… about some things.”

“You don’t like parties?”

“I don’t like frat houses. They perpetuate the ruling elites worst social networking discrimination and capitalistic tendencies.” G. respond, then added after a pause. “Sorry. I mean…”

“I can read. It’s okay.” She interrupted with a grin. Sam’s opinion of the boy rising significantly.

“So why ARE you here?”

“Here at a frat party or here at U.U.’s weekend fun fest?” He asked dryly.

“Ah, yeah.”

“I’m at the Frat party because Ms. Mauve Team Leader super girl’s super power was finding me hidden in the closet. I’m here this weekend for the same reason you are. I just don’t have my reason yet.”

“You were hiding in the closet?”

“I thought I could get away with it.” He shrugged with a scowl as Sam laughed.

Unfinished Business (Part 2)

FAITH / Faith Hill






She visited his grave for the first time her sophomore year in college. It was the first time she drew the nerve to enter the cemetery. However, doing it once, made it easier. After that, she visited each time she came to town. Some times it was simply a brief check in. Other times she would sit for hours, talking to the headstone or reading aloud. A couple of times, she came to town just to sit next to his grave and think. Often she wondered if she was the only one to visit, but dismissed the thought. Surely if she did, others did also.



The Bridgewater Congregational Church stood proud on the town green, the cemetery orderly in the next lot. With a glance, one could see the tiny town library and the multiple buildings that served as the high school. This is home. This will always be home. It didn’t matter if her parents were leaving town, finally seeking the greater conveniences of a more urban lifestyles.


It was a beautiful June day, warm, but with a breeze rustling the new leaves, and the smell of fresh turned dirt and cut grass in the air. Having spent the day assisting with packing and cleaning, the waning sun seemed appropriate to her mood. She settled herself next to David’s marker as she did in the past, but this time sitting silently. I will still come to visit.


“Hi.”


The voice startled her. She never heard anyone approach.


“Hi.” She answered tentatively, turning to see a tall, thin young man looking down at her. He appeared a bit overdressed for the location, wearing cotton dress pants, button shirt and jacket, a tie, loosened around his neck. He seemed vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t place him. That he stood studying her unabashedly, made her too uncomfortable to ask.


“I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I’m sorry. I guess that was thoughtless of me.” He shifted his gaze from her to the headstone she was sitting next to.


“It’s okay.” She answered more out of social conditioning, than truth. Was it ok? Perhaps she should say she preferred to be alone? “I was … visiting an old friend.” She smiled up at the man, although clearly around her age, he must not be someone whom she went to school with, she decided, or he would have acknowledged either her or David.


He smiled back at her, easily. “25 next month.” He read the headstone. “July birthdays are always hard. Schools out, people away on vacation. Not a good time for a party.”


She nodded politely, figuring he would make his comment and leave. But he didn’t. Instead, she watched with curiosity as he ambled to the opposite side of the grave from where she sat, and slid himself down to lean his back against the headstone, facing away from her.


He studied the church before him, his long slender fingers playing off each other nervously. She always sat like that, cross-legged. “Last year, that church rebuilt their steeple.” He tossed his chin toward the towering white edifice.


She glanced between him and the structure. She remembered a visit when the church appeared to be caged like an animal in a zoo.


“It took them forever. The scaffolding set up all wrong. It’s a wonder it stayed standing. You know how it used to look? That left side had a little entrance?” He looked at her, hunting her face for recognition. She nodded. “Looks better now, they took that part off, but I guess the church doesn’t seat as many now, but that doesn’t make any sense to me.” He looked at her and smiled. She shrugged, unsure. His gaze was relentless.


“I’ve never been in that church.” She finally spoke, looking down to rip nervously at the grass before her, but not before seeing him glance between her and the grave.


She regretted never going to David’s funeral. But it was summer and she was away. The more time passed the more she felt badly about that.


“Everyone goes to weddings and funerals; it’s who comes to visit later that really matters.” She came. She stayed. ‘Visiting a friend,’ he smiled, remembering her words.


“I don’t know.” She glanced up looking into his blue eyes. Eyes that she felt she knew.


“I do.” He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling.


“The school’s changed a lot too, over the last few years.” He spun around to sit cross-legged across the grave from her, facing the high school.


“Yeah. It looks very different from when I went.” She glanced back over her shoulder. This was odd. Should she know this guy? Was he hitting on her in a grave yard or just trying to be nice?


“Yeah. I remember when ‘the white building’ was white.” His voice softened, his attention now focused on the ground. She laughed, the sound like music to his ears. “And when the gym was new. Dances in the old Hall gym.” He stole a glance.


“Yeah I remember that.” She was frowning at him. Who was he? If he remembered these things, they must have gone to school together. She started to ask.


“So, tell me about, David.” He grinned mischievously, interrupting her.


“He was a really nice guy.” She was looking at him skeptically.


“Hmm… ‘really nice guy,’ that’s just what you want a pretty girl saying about you. So, what you’re telling me was the guy’s a geek.” He laughed.


“I didn’t say that.” She was defensive.


“Next you’re going to be saying he was really smart.” He laughed again.


“He was…. and he had a great sense of humor and was very … sweet.” Her eyes were now close to hostile.


“Is that why you’re here?”


“I…” she stumbled over her words, tensing. Her eyes darted to the parking area for her car.


Well, that was the wrong thing to say, he thought.


“Wait.” He spoke quickly, before she could rise. “I mean most people who come to sit grave side, have things they want to say. Feel they have ‘unfinished business’ all that sort of thing. That’s what my mother does… and my brother. What about you? Unfinished business with Dave?” He shifted position again, reclining in the grass so that he could see her.


She felt no animosity. He seemed simply curious. There was something she felt about him, something that she could not place, something that she did not feel often… comfortable.


“Not unfinished business, exactly…”


“What would you say to him, if he were here? If you could?” He interrupted. She blinked at him. How odd a question to seem so sincere from a stranger. How odd that she knew, even before she spoke that she would tell him.


“I would say that I was sorry. I am sorry to have never gone to the funeral. Sorry that I never got to know him better. That I think of him… all the time.” She did. She hesitated. “It’s funny, how things later, when you look back on them take on such different meanings.” Her eyes drifted to the headstone, avoiding the man before her, uncomfortable with the ease of sharing her thoughts.


“And if you could go back? Back to when you were both seventeen? What then?”


“With the perspective I have now?” She asked, and he nodded.


“I’d ask him out.” She laughed, embarrassed. “I remember something he said once, that I didn’t understand till much later and I wish I had.” She shook her head, and glanced up to find him staring at her intently. She smiled and shook her head again, but went on. “I had this insane crush on this guy, and there were a bunch of us sitting around and they were teasing me about it, and I remember Dave turning to this other guy and saying that Justin, the guy I liked, was … lucky….” She smiled at memory, but shrugged. “I never got it, at the time.”


“Really?” His surprise was genuine. “You were pretty dense.” He teased.


“Thanks.” She quipped back, but there was no animosity. “I wish I had.” She added softly. A moment of silence stretched between them.


“So, what happened to you and Justin? Married with children?” He watched her from the corner of his eye.


“Hardly,” she laughed. “Nothing. Nothing ever happened between me and Justin, a silly school girl’s tale of unrequited love.”


“Sorry.” He said quietly and paused. “Though, I’m sure you’ve found love else where, clearly his loss.” She wears no ring. The thought to scan her hands, coming to him late.


So, he was hitting on her, she thought her eyes following his. In a graveyard, no less, that was a first.


“I mean…” he stammered, “I didn’t mean…” He looked frantically around, his fingers twitching. “Hey look is that an ostrich there on the library’s lawn?” He pointed and laughed. “I think I read once, they’re good to eat. Maybe there’s a barbeque.” She laughed as he hoped. “What do you do? I mean, when you’re not visiting old friends.” Ask her questions, keep her talking, keep her distracted.


“Um, I work in Human Resources.” She sighed. “It’s rather boring. And you?”


“Didn’t you want to be a lawyer?” His eyes met hers. “I always thought you would.” The lack of consideration of his words became visible immediately in the look upon her face. He looked away quickly.


“Do we know each other?” It was the nicest way she thought she could ask. So familiar. Who was he?


“We… did.” He met her eyes slowly, watching recognition come to her slowly as she struggled with disbelief.


“Do you remember, when I asked you to dance?” He asked softly, meeting her eyes directly. “We were in the Hall gym, it was a slow dance,” he dropped his eyes; he couldn’t bear to see horror and certainly couldn’t blame her if that was her response. He continued, “Stair Way to Heaven, I requested it, because it was long.” Fearfully, he lifted his gaze to meet hers, hoping he would see recognition and not terror. Never a disappointment.


She definitely recognized him now. He was older, no more glasses. Impossible, but… She nodded. She remembered the dance as if it were yesterday.


“I’m… glad you come to visit me, Sarah.” His voice was barely a whisper. “It’s meant a great deal to me.”


“You’re…” Her voice matched his. He nodded sadly. “Oh…” her breath caught in her throat, not in fear, but embarrassment. Her face flushed.


“It’s ok…” He laughed. “You could still ask me out.” He teased.


“Would you say yes?”


“In a heartbeat, if I had one.” He laughed.


“How…”


“I can’t tell you.” He fell back to lie on his back and look up at the clouds for a second, another resigned sigh escaping his lips. “I’m sorry.” He turned to her, with a weak smile.


She crawled the step closer to him, the irony of kneeling on his grave not lost to her. Tentatively, she reached a small hand toward his arm to touch him. He felt solid; real.


“Dangerous ground.” He laughed nervously, pulling away from her to sit up.


“So, what else is new? It’s been a while since we’ve spoke,” his grin now playful.


“I’ve missed you.” She said seriously. “So…you’ve not heard…” Her face flushed again, wondering what she had said aloud and what she said silently in that spot over the years.


“I’ve not heard anything, before today… But I’ve seen you.”


“Why didn’t you…speak to me sooner?”


“I…couldn’t.” His eyes glanced to his headstone, she followed his gaze.


The date struck her for the first time. Today. She reached for him again, but he pulled away.


“I am glad you come. It’s … nice to know…” He shook his head. “There’s a lot more traffic on this road these days too. Especially early mornings.” He changed the subject, glancing at her. This was a mistake. He should never have talked to her and if he talked to her, he should have never told her. Was he hoping for disbelief? That she would think him a lunatic, leaving to never return.


“So, I was right… you did…care for me?” The question was awkward and bittersweet.


“Very much.” He whispered. Another mistake.


“Let’s dance.” She stood quickly, holding out her hand for him.


“So you want to dance on my grave?” He teased.


“Definitely.” She teased back.


“We can’t.”


She raised an eyebrow.


“There is no music.”


She tilted her head.


“What will people think if they see you?”


She rolled her eyes.


This was against his better judgment. He didn’t expect this from her. Yet as she stood, offering her hand, there was no way he could refuse.


He took it, allowing her to help him stand.


“I was never very good at this.” He stood, staring at the ground, his hand in hers. His hand, in hers.


“That’s not what I remember.” She smiled slipping her hands up to encircle his neck.


They moved in a slow, swaying circle to the music of summer. For a moment, time was meaningless. They were seventeen in a darkened gym. They were seventy in a well lit hall.


“Sarah…” He swallowed, reaching to remove her arms. “You should go.”


"Why?"


Hurt, confusion, and anger danced past her eyes. They stung, like darts thrown into his soul.


“It is dangerous… I should never have spoken to you…”


“How dare you.” Her anger spilt forth. “How dare you die. How dare you have wheedled your way into my heart. How dare you have let me come all this time, never to say… How dare you speak to me now.”


“You don’t understand.” His heat was breaking for the first time in life and death.


“Then explain it.” Small hands grasped his collar.


“I…”


“You can’t.” She took the words from his mouth. She released him, wrapping her arms around her self as if suddenly cold and turning from him. “Did you love me?”


The words hung in the air between them, fluttering like a butterfly. It was not what she meant to say, but what she needed to know.


“I love you still.”


She turned to him, then, taking a step closer. Her eyes bright with unshed tears.


“You should go Sarah. I’m sorry….” He whispered.


“I love you too.” She had loved him for years.


“You need to know. … One kiss and … you can’t go back.”


“Would that be so bad?” She asked looking up at him.


“Not for me.” He smiled, “but…”


Her lips met his before he finished his sentence.

Unfinished Business (Part 1)

Cousteau



It seems that in every high school, someone dies. In cities death seems to prefer to work in the hands of gangs or drugs, in suburbia flowered shrines commemorate youthful drivers and their rides, but in the country the options are often more insidious. Violent deaths can strike fear or anger, but when a teenager dies of an illness, the effects flit through the community like the fluff of dandelions, floating past some, and taking deep root in others.



When David Thompson died, he was seventeen and everyone believed headed to an Ivy. His friends were clapping as he won the science award in June and crying at a funeral in July. Some said the disease came upon him suddenly. Others said his parents knew for years, but kept it secret. Either way, the summer David died, Bridgewater changed.


The changes were subtle. It wasn’t like he was the quarterback for the football team, his death leaving a gapping hole that needed to be filled. But he was known, and liked. His absence was quiet, and people missed him in the way that they miss a misplaced glove in winter. Some stopped memorizing the bus schedule out of town. Some studied harder to assure they would leave. Some spoke of him often, setting up scholarship funds and assuring the yearbook was dedicated to his memory. Others, like Sarah, didn’t seem extremely bothered, but they were.


The summer David died, Sarah was at the Cape. It was only a couple of weeks, but a world can end or begin in two weeks. In the middle of her vacation, she sat on the beach. In the surf and the sand, she thought about entering her senior year. She thought about what was important to her: friendship, laughter, getting into a good school. She thought about Justin. Justin. Would he ever ask for a date? She thought she was crazy about him, and then thought about how often he did not even treat her like a friend, let alone any thing more. Her mind wandered to David, as she sat on the beach, watching happy frolicking couples. When she thought about David, she wasn’t lonely. When she thought about school or the school sponsored trip the summer previous, it was David’s jokes that prompted her laugh. It was David’s sympathy that offered her comfort. It was David who offered to share his lunch and David who helped her pass chemistry. Staring out at an endless horizon, she watched scenes take on new meaning in her mind’s eye.


Christina called her that night. David’s funeral was the next day.


Sarah never shared her revelations of that summer. Her life in the sleepy little town went on. Her senior year was busy with classes, college fairs, and applications. Justin never did ask her out. She came home to find Linda at the Jiffy Mart, wearing his motorcycle helmet, and ready to perch herself on the back of his bike. But by then it didn’t matter. On a hot day in August, with a car loaded with clothes, bedding and small appliances, she left.


She didn’t come back to town often. There was little to comeback for. More cows than people. Most of her friends when they went off to college, stayed. Some even transferred and traveled further away. For seven years, she came home once or twice a year. The first couple of years, she visited with her mother then met up with her old clique to eat pizza or rent a movie.


She thought of David often. She would find herself in a class, wanting to ask his opinion or seeing a poster she wanted to show him. One night after a drunken revelry, she cried at David’s loss, presuming he never experienced the joyous abandonment of intoxication or sex.


(to be continued - tomorrow)

So give me Novacaine

american idiot / Green Day











There was two hours of ‘get to know you games’, a lecture about the freedoms of being on your own, an hour of team competition in community building games, a nauseating picnic dinner in which hockey pucks were passed off as hamburgers and now a party sponsored by ‘the Greeks.’

The only thing Sam liked less than Frat boys were Sorority girls. She was sitting alone on the front step of some Victorian house labeled with letters. The music poured fourth and she was wishing that the kool aid punch in her red plastic cup could be ‘enhanced.’

So what color are you supposed to be?” It was Scooby’s tall Hobbit friend. He tossed his chin at the pinned ribbon on her shoulder. She’d forgotten about it.

“Tiffany Blue. I see you found Mauve.”

The young man nodded.

"I can’t call you Tiffany, it makes my brain hurt.”

Sam smiled.

“That’s a shame, that IS my name, and I was looking forward to saying I met Mauve.” She looked up at him, then cringed as some giggling girls went bouncing up the steps next to her.

The girl was half way in the house, when she stepped back out and Sam recognized the matching ribbon on her shoulder. “Heya Sam, coming?”

“I’m good.” Sam gave a fake cheery grin and glanced at the young man. Her new friend, glanced to the guy, looked skeptical but she nodded and went on.

“Tiffany Sam. Very unique.” He gave a small smile and leaned against the porch post.

“Just Sam.” She rolled her eyes and looked to the front yard. It was twilight. She wondered if she should walk back to the rooms before it got dark. She definitely didn’t want to wait for the others. She probably should find mouse and drag her back.

“You can call me G.” The young man interrupted her thoughts.

“G?”

“I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

A surge of noise came from the house, followed by an increase in stereo volume.

“Promise?” She asked looking up at him with a half smile herself, which he returned. “Did you have M&M’s that color?”

“Ah…yeah.” He answered, the tone saying exactly how he felt about that.

Elizabeth 1.1

Hot / Squirrel Nut Zippers











I keep nodding and smiling, because that’s what you do with crazy people you are stuck next too. In the two minutes since I have sat down, the woman next to me on the plane has not been quiet. As she started her conversation in the middle of it, I have no idea what she is talking about.



“Oh, my name’s Andy.” This is the first coherent thing she’s said, though it was said into her oversized bag as she dug out a mirrored compact. “I look pretty today.” She announces as she bobs so she can see in the inch square mirror.


Her hair is an unnatural orange red which matches her lipstick. It is styled in a manner that we used to call “big hair.” Her hair is matched only by her chest that appears like a fold out tray coming from her body. This might be a good thing as there would be no room for the one attached on the seat in front of her. I think she is close to my age, which means past retirement. I’m still smiling and nodding like a puppet, as she goes on, relieved she has not left time for me to offer my name.

“Does this plane go through the Bermuda Triangle? I’ve always wanted to see that. Maybe we’ll get lost. Wouldn’t that be a hoot.”

Please God no, I think, but I keep smiling and nodding.


“You know, you get a Senior discount on the headphones.” She is now silent waiting for a reply.

“Oh? I didn’t know. I don’t travel often.” I suppose I cannot be offended since my own hair is a pure white and has been for years.

“Oh I do. I love to travel. So are you by yourself? No partner? What made you decide to take this trip then?”


Though I don’t want to, I decide to answer the last question in hopes of avoiding the others. Never be rude; it’s my fatal flaw.


“Oh, the grandkids decided it would be a good idea to send me off for a vacation. It was a holiday present.” I laugh and pull out my book, hoping it will be a polite hint.


“Oh how many?”

“Excuse me?”

“How many kids?”


“Two sons, five grandchildren, three girls and two boys.” I smile and open the book.


“You have pictures?”


“No. Sorry.” Never rude, but little white lies are okay.


With a resigned sigh, that I am sure relfects that I am not entertaining enough, Andy takes to trying to talk to the person who is trying to sit in the seat in front of her. I am saved, though I wonder for how long.


Thankfully somewhere over Long Island I drift off to sleep and am blissfully unaware for the remainder of our flight, until Andy has nudged my side and told me we are heading in for a landing.

There are worse things I could do

Grease / Original Broadway Cast












“No Xing, Please.” I begged, between the chorus of "It's Raining On Prom Night."


It's February. We are driving up NY Interstate 88 and are currently two exits past the middle of nowhere. The weather is threatening snow, as always, and we still have to cross the Berkshires. I’m two hours later leaving than planned.  I've driven at least 30 miles with all the windows open, so the cold air will rush in and keep her comfortable and we are singing showtunes.  I am inserting the cat's name whenever appropriate.  She is howling.  

Resigned, I pull off to the shoulder of the road as my travel companion is starting to heave.  I knew this was coming, the timber of howl had shifted and she was lining up for maximum projectile potential.

We have a system though. We've done this a lot.

On the side of the road, first the leash is put on. We want no escaping. Then the travel kit is taken out. Like traveling with an infant: paper towel, wet wipes, trash bag, bottled water, newspaper… Except with the cat, I also carried rabies information because I didn’t want some dumb cop thinking there was a problem because she was frothing at the mouth. “No, really Officer, she’s just car sick…”


Next, I get the small black and white cat, now looking green out on the side of the road off the passenger's side. We pause as she shakes and I heave. I get settled, I clean her up. I heave again and get settled. All the while the leash is wrapped tight around my wrist and one hand is trying to grasp the cat (usually around the neck) at all times, because we ARE on the side of a highway.  And I want to run off into the woods, but I know it's not a feasible option.  I'm not sure if she does. At least she was tolerant of this.  I'd like to think she knew it was out of concern and love and not simply that she felt too bad to fight about it.

Then the cat carry is cleaned and the paper is replaced along with the cat. No easy task doing this one handed, because letting go of the cat for even a moment is out of the question.  The leash is a back up plan only.  The trash is picked up and we have the conversation:

“Xing, please, please, please, just hold off for a few hours. Please. You can do it. I believe in you.  Your mama can’t do this. If you will just not spew any more, I will give you chopped liver, tuna, ice cream, whatever you want when we get there, okay? Please kitty?”

Sometimes this worked; of course after the first few experiences we stopped feeding her before travel if we could. This helped marginally.  But it was never pretty.

Xingu never liked travel. When she was a kitten we took her for a ride for ice cream. She heaved. We took her to the vet, she heaved. We moved, she heaved; all six moves before D.C.... she heaved.

When we moved from Connecticut to D.C. I was concerned. This was a long ride....   I consulted vets, they offered no real solution. We could knock her out, but if it were true motion sickness, we’d have a limp car sick cat. That didn’t sound good and if we got the dose wrong a dead cat. That was unacceptable. We could try things to settle one’s stomach, such as peanut butter, but if it didn’t work… Well, we won’t go there.

Personally, at that point I thought she was ‘faking it.’  She was a very pissy cat.  In fact, she was the only cat I've ever known who could flip you off with her tail.  So a month before the move we got her a pretty pink cat caddy. We showed it to her. She thought it was cool. We put a blanket it in and she was good with that. She’d even hang out in it.

Then, with her in it we brought her to the car. She. Was. Pissed. That was the end of the cool factor. Such a teenager. But still we persisted. Every day for over a month, first it was a few days all of us sitting in the car. Then a few days of driving around the block. Then two blocks. Then 20 minutes, then thirty… The neighbors I’m sure were finding it hilarious. And Xingu spewed, every time.

We moved to D.C. 4th of July weekend.  Imagine the Jersey Turnpike, 4th of July weekend...with a car sick cat....  Of course, that year, due to various circumstances, we drove that Connecticut - D.C. I-95 route literally 25 times.  And she frothed and heaved and did other unmentionalble things on every single one of those trips.

Two moves and a couple of years later, she and I traveled back and forth from rural NY to Connecticut every other week for a school year.  Each trip played out like above, (except sometimes we sang  different showtunes or I made up songs as we went.)

I do feel bad about this.  That poor cat suffered through more car rides than I can count. But she did like showtunes, especially Grease, the original (not Olivia Newton John).

Xingu

1989- 2006

 

"I like the universe. But she messes with my words."

Commit this to memory / Motion City Soundtrack






Sam didn’t know why she was nervous. It wasn’t like it was the first time she was off on her own. Hardly. And it wasn’t like there was any kind of …danger. She snorted at that thought. She was at a college orientation visit. What could happen? Well, what could happen to her, who had brain and had been around a few blocks, even if she was only 18?



Still, she scanned the campus as it spread out before her. So…rural, even the thought dripped with distaste The buildings were actually, like far enough apart from each other that you could drive between them. Sam wrinkled her noise. Why was she there? She was going to NYU. She knew that, there was no reason to come this place.


She sighed audibly. She was there because if she didn’t at least appear to be keeping an "open mind" and ‘considering her options’ there would be hell to pay and it just wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do, anyway.


She turned the volume up on the Ipod, hiked her backpack a little higher on her shoulder and started following the cutesy signs directing potential victims. Only a weekend. Two nights, a day and two halves. Easy.


Some bubbly cheer-leader type was waving hello and directing people on.


“Last name.” Bouncy girl asked with a perky smile.


“Dessen. D E S S E N Samantha.”


"Welcome to U.U! You’re team Blue. Hey that rhymes!” She giggled. “Just follow the Blue!”


“Yeah!” Sam answered with the same bouncy tone and fake grin, it fading as she took the step away. Okay, maybe she was wrong. This might not be easy. What the hell was team blue? She was sure not going to ask Little Miss Sunshine.


Sam gazed around and noted a rainbow leading her toward what looked like it should be a gym. “This is going to suck.” She muttered, her fears confirmed as she stepped into a large gym with several dozen tables all color coded.


How was she supposed to tell Blue from Aqua? Well, at least she could rule out the reds, yellow, oranges, purples and green. That left three possibilities based on her eye sight. What if someone were color blind?


“This is going to suck.” A deep, bass voice muttered about a foot off to her left.


Glancing at the voice there appeared to be someone even more out of place than she felt. The sentiment had been communicated by a tall, angular, scruffy young man who looked like a cross between Scooby’s friend and the guy who played the hobbit.


“Hey, you know what ‘mauve’ is?” The guy asked looking pathetic.


“Purple – red… kinda pink.” The last made her smile as the young man looked pained.


“You wouldn’t possibly be joking would you?” He asked, though he clearly was resigned.


"Sorry.” She shrugged and started toward one the possible blue tables. One glance back showed the young man being told ‘no’ at the pink table, looking relieved and being directed on.


It was two tables and a color Sam would be told was “Tiffany Blue” before she found her destination. It was twenty minutes later when she realized Tiffany referred to the store, not the girl handing out name tags.


It took an hour for all Team Tiffany Blue to assemble, get their name tags and troupe off like kindergartners on parade to a suite of dorm rooms, decorated with the same blue color streamers, signs and of course balloons. On the hand, there were also big bowls of appropriately colored M&M's.


Ditsy girl no. 47 was team leader. She was a sophomore and loved U.U. ‘Because if you love U. You love everybody.” After a few more inspirational words, she told everyone to find a room. Boys to the left, girls to the right. They’d have twenty minutes to pick, get to know each other and then meet back in the den.


Sam glanced around, there were four boys and four girls to Team Tif and as far as she could see, two rooms other than the ‘den’ they all stood in.  Finding the room didn't seem a Herculean task.


“Ready, ooohkay…” Sam muttered in fake cheeriness as she followed another into the girl’s room. There were two bunk beds separated by a window with one desk, a closet that was way too small, even for one male dwarf and a door that lead to a bath shared by another girl’s room. She already missed her room back home. A room she didn’t share, unless of course it was an invited guest.


A girl with a hair-do that resembled a poodle, squealed and called a top bunk, jumping up into it like the puppy she looked like. Another, that looked like she should be in a girl’s version of a boy band, pushed passed Sam and announced she wanted a lower bunk, SHE didn’t climb.


Sam gave another exasperated sigh and took another step in looking up at the free bunk and down at the free cave. Neither held much appeal. She looked around for the fourth girl. A shy thing that was chewing a corner of her hair.


“Your call. I don’t care.” Sam said to the mouse, who looked terrified and answered by repeating Sam’s words.


“I’ll take the top.” Sam decided, thinking it would be better to climb than risk having some one or some thing fall on her.

Quality Shoes

The Ragpicker's Dream / Mark Knopfler












Annie was reading the Grapes of Wrath, ambling through it in the summer heat. The sun baking her from above, while the hot sand of the beach reflected it back, making it seem twice as hot as the temperature at the bank had claimed when she’d walked past. Annie was sure she was having an authentic desert experience.


She’d been deep in the ride to California by the point Ma announced Grandma’s death and she let out a small sickened cry, tossing the book aside as if it had bitten her fingers. It didn’t matter that the others around her had looked over with a cross between concern and fright themselves.


That was a horrible book, she thought. No wonder people reported hating it and it was required reading. She scanned the blue horizon and watched the muddy, army green of the waves, but she couldn’t shake the unease the story had caused her.

Still trying to shake the horror of the book’s images from her mind’s eye, she packed up her stuff, including the wretched book in to her large orange bag. Not bothering to fully shake out her towel, she stuffed that down into the bag, too and with an unsettled sigh, set off toward the boardwalk. That always cheered.


Her mind was still lost in the Depression, so her eyes were cast down, watching the sand, rocks and occasional trash that framed each footfall. She glanced up only momentarily when she stepped up on to the edge of the weathered wooden sidewalk.

Another girl stood there, leaning against the side post, gazing out at the water. She was a little older than Annie, but not by much and didn’t seem to be paying the least bit of attention. She was pretty. Beautiful even, and so Annie didn’t bother to speak, but simply made to keep walking.

“Those flip flops will kill you. You need quality shoes.” The girl spoke. Annie paused, glancing around. No one else was around. She was wearing her orange flower flip flops. Annie nodded noncommittally, in case the girl wasn’t speaking to her, she wouldn’t look like a complete jerk and tentatively started to walk on.

“I’m serious, you know. You should wear sneakers or something.” The girl finally tore her eyes from the horizon to stare at Annie.

"Yeah. I’ve heard that.” Annie smiled, now thinking, weirdo. A very beautiful weirdo, though.


“No one believes. It’s okay.” The girl smiled sadly with a shrug, pushing a stray piece of wispy blonde hair back behind her ears. With a final glance at Annie, she walked away from the boardwalk down towards the water.

Annie watched her a moment, she looked like a picture from one of her old fairytale books. Her wispy blonde hair blew gently in the breeze and she wore a flowery sundress that made it seem like it was a cool spring day. “Very strange,” Annie muttered to herself before walking on to her favorite spots.


It was three days later when Annie was back on the beach. She hadn’t thought about the weird girl in that time, but now, she thought she saw her. Ambling a bit closer, it was clearly her, leaning against the sign post on the edge of the walk way again. Annie thought it might be prudent to walk away, but again she had quite enough of Steinbeck and so decided to simply casually walk by again and see if the other spoke.


“Shoes all over the world were identical until the nineteenth century, when left- and right-footed shoes were first made in Philadelphia.” The girl called after Annie after she’d passed a few steps.


Annie paused. There was odd and there was this girl.


“Excuse me?”

“Shoes all over the world were identical until the nineteenth century, when left- and right-footed shoes were first made in Philadelphia.”


“Okay. Thanks.” Annie answered and kept walking.


The next day Weird Shoe Girl was still at her post and Annie couldn’t help herself but walk by.


"In Europe in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, heels on shoes were always colored red.” The girl didn’t disappoint.


This time Annie stopped in front of the girl and studied her with a frown. The girl looked blankly back.


“You know a lot about shoes.” Annie tried to make it sound like a mere statement of fact, rather than the oddity she was thinking it was.


“Yes. I do.” The other nodded.


It occurred to Annie for the first time to look down. Weird shoe girl was indeed wearing shoes, though there was something odd about them Annie couldn’t quite place.

I’ve still got sand in my shoes

Life for rent / Dido











Texas Waitress Syndrome, that’s what my friend Bon calls it. It’s apt. It refers to that point in time when one is sick and tired of all things. They’ve worked too much, feel like they’ve gotten nowhere. All things have gone wrong in one way or another. Their brain hurts and they can’t really string three coherent thoughts together. One is weary, such that sleep is not the answer. They need a break.


It is the point in time when one thinks: I just want to run away. And the thought of getting into the car and driving, West (because we’ve always lived in the East) sounds actually nice. Some times the fantasy involves getting on a train, but then you have to deal with people, so a car is better. People do this, we tell ourselves. Women who up and leave and can always get a job as a waitress somewhere…


Yeeeah.

Bon and I know this is an illusion. For one thing, neither of us can waitress. But that aside, we don’t like Texas and we’ve seen Thelma and Louise. It didn’t end well.

Perhaps this is why the term “syndrome” is tacked on to the end, like a disease. But still, we know immediately, say: “I’ve got Texas Waitress Syndrome.” It’s very clear where one is at.


Having just finished my fourth six day work week, I’m feeling this way. I’ve wondered about other places… What about Mexico? Some place with a beach. I used to think the Gulf Coast, but that’s a bit problematic at the moment. Still, it would solve the Texas problem. The waitress issue is a bit more difficult, as there are not a lot of jobs one can just get… and all of them that come to mind worse than waiting tables.


I don’t want to run away from home and never come back, I just want to go for a little while. It occurs to me that some people might call this “a vacation.” This is still a relatively new concept for me. So, today, I shall schedule time off.

My father says I punched a goat

South Pacific / Soundtrack










One of my father’s favorite albums is South Pacific. While I think he would agree, ‘there is nothing like a dame,’ especially if she is blonde (or red headed), I think really he identifies with the sailors. Although, he, himself, was in the Air Force.


My dad and I are actually proof of genetics. He did not raise me, was around for very little, if any ‘formative years’ and in fact, for most of my young life after age 2 or 3,  we had nothing to do with each other. Meeting up when I was twenty-something, it is truly frightening to see similar mannerisms, personality issues, etc. I am his daughter, there is absolutely no question.


The time we did spend together when I was two or so, I have no memory of. Though these:

 

are my favorite pictures.  I'm about 15 months old on the left and I've no idea what we were doing. I'm a tad older on the right and that one is my  favorite, aside from one small (no pun intended) issue. My dad is about 5’2” 5”3” maybe? So, in that picture I’m what… 10 inches tall? Scary.


My dad has three favorite stories he likes to tell about us from that time. And he tells them to everyone…every waitress, store clerk, Shriner…


The first story claims I went running after the neighbor’s collie shouting “Doggie, Doggie Doggie.” As the dog was rumored to be unfriendly, he, went running after me. Only to catch up to me as I looked up at the dog and asked, “Horsy?” I find this story suspect. I mean, I think I would know the difference. On the other hand… I look at the size of me in that picture… I dunno.


The second story, unfortunately, I can believe 100%. Again, I have no memory of this, but allegedly we were out fishing. (I do remember fishing with him, so it’s possible.) A snake swam by us in the boat. My dad, reports being a little nervous, I’m the only one in the family who likes snakes. And I was pretty young and, obviously, small. I guess he was concerned that I’d freak and fall overboard and he’d have to deal with me and the snake. According to him, I DID get excited, shouting, “A snake, catch it daddy, kill it, we can eat it.”


Yeah, that’s very plausible.

But the all time favorite moment, told at every opportunity… my father says I punched a goat. This too, I have no memory of, and I don't believe it.  But the story goes...


We were at some amusement area. (A place I do remember, that no longer exists.) Baby billy goats roamed free for the petting and feeding. One could buy bags of popcorn for consumption or goat feeding. I had such a bag and one brave little goat wanted it. So, the goat came and butted me, knocking me to my rump to get the popcorn. I, not willing to give up my food by force, stood and hauled off and deck the goat, landing the goat on his rump.

My father says he bought another bag of popcorn so the goat and I would each have our own.  He says he was fearing a rumble, and he thought the goat would loose.

Time Makes You Bolder

                                                            Between The Covers

You might have noticed I like covers. I know just enough about music to hear the arrangement differences and not have the foggiest clue how it’s done. So the magic is there. And if I like the song or the artist, then the cover really becomes interesting (like on this album’s Madonna singing American Pie or Tori Amos’s rendition of Smells Like Teen Sprit).

I also like that the proceeds of this album went to medical research. I’ve recently come to realize that I am an activist. I suppose for most people this would not be something that surprised them. They would have figured that out pretty consciously. But for me, it’s not something I ever conceptualized in that way. But this was about covers.

Covers to me are about taking that great idea, giving it a bit of a twist and making something new out of something old. (Recycling!)

I have, what I am sure would be a great Broadway hit idea. I have tried for years. I’m talking YEARS to write this bloody script, and as you can see here, I am writing about the idea – the script is not here. I can’t do it. Sigh. I’ve tried to get someone to write it with me, thinking that was the problem and yet… here we are. So…

I’ve held these cards close in fear of some one taking the idea; because I am that convinced it would work. But, I have decided to unveil it here, and if there is some one who can realize it – go for it. The idea deserves a life.

Project title: Chat

Picture a set – with the stage basically divided into four boxes, two floors – two boxes on each side. The horizontal divider (floor for the top/ceiling for the bottom) houses two LED screens, one on each half of the stage.

Upper floor stage right is a female apartment. Lower box stage left is a male apartment. Décor is optional aside from some kind of computer set up.

Lower stage left and upper stage right are open and shift-able for other locations.

The premise is that two characters meet online chatting. The LED shows what’s typed, which can vary from the comments made aloud. The non-home boxes would be the street, work place, etc. where the characters talk to others (who do not have to be actual cast members) but simply provide context, subtext etc.

The plot has lots of possibilities. The two could be old lovers/friends (e.g. Love Letters), they could be strangers (e.g. You’ve got mail) or a long term relationship (e.g. Same Time Next Year).

The distinction here is that the viewer / audience / voyeur can see the relationship unfold both as a the receiver and as the subject, since they get to “read” the chat and they get to hear / see the responses of the chatters.

I am convinced that the tech aspect along with the simplicity of set, etc. would be appealing. I am also convinced that the key to success is to take something already done, safe and lauded by critic and public and twist it enough such that it is not something wholly unique – that scares people, but is different enough to be, well, different.

Just one thing… when you’re accepting your Tony, I’ll know!

Oh you're a hard one, but I know that you've got your reasons

American IV: The man comes around / Johnny Cash







I know Johnny Cash is not what you were expecting. Me either. This album has some great covers, though: Simon and Garfunkel, Beatles, Depeche Mode. Better than the originals in some cases. (I know this is considered sacrilegious, but I don’t like the Beatles. John Lennon, sure. The lyrics and music even, sure. The Beatles, McCarthy…no.)



But I do think Mr. Cash is a master and I just like him, though I’ll be damned if know why. I mean, he spent a lot of time not really being a nice guy. I guess one of the things I like about Mr. Cash is that despite his outlaw image, drug addiction and Folsom Prison Blues, he never actually served a prison sentence. Yet, he definitely understood it. I think he understood hope within hopelessness. Having visited prisons (note the visitor part), there is a particular … feel to a place of incarceration. I can feel that with some of Cash’s songs.

Regardless of the walls, the barb wire, etc., as not all have these things … the air is heavy. The weight of anger, frustration, restlessness, regret is tangible. They are places of contradiction. There is a lonesome silence in never ending noise, like white noise is quiet. It is a civilization of barbarianism. It’s the nicest people you’ve ever met, who would kill you in heart beat.

I have strong opinions about all such matters, of course.  I’ve never met any one who’s visited some kind of “correctional facility” or worked with anything in “the system” who didn’t. What I do know, regardless of one’s opinion, people don’t forget it. 

Cash is actually one that I don't want to write to.  Too dark, even for me.  Though at one point in the far past, I took to writing poetry about serial killers /victims.  (Now there's intrigue for you - I'm not explaining more about that here, but I will reprint one.)


Lost Soul


Four days.
No word, no clue.
Then found,
like a soda can
on the side of the highway.

I called your house
today, before remembering.
You told me you
weren't in, but
I left a message
anyway.

Changes are shifting outside the word

Medusa / Annie Lenox




The last file saved to the machine I am writing on is named: “A Wish Called Arnold.” Curious, I clicked the file. A short story opened, the first line:

Marguerite kept a wish in a brass egg and its name was Arnold.

Arnold? Arnold is the name of Charlotte’s pig. My wishes wouldn’t have names. And they wouldn’t be four legged animals. No pigs, horses or cows for beggers to ride. My wishes would be jellyfish, if they took form.

They would have color, like wisps of smoke, purples and mauves, silver and jade. I’d keep them in a yellow and orange ginger jar.


Late in the night, I would let them out, so we could dance. Dressed in cotton candy and spider webs, we could twirl in the moonlight. The ocean would sing, A Whiter Shade of Pale, while the fireflies would do synchronized dancing, a garden of light in the sky.

Dark wishes would dance slow and sinewy, staying low to slide along the hardwood. They would smell of cinnamon and cardamom. Fanciful wishes will float above my head like balloons on parade. They would smell of buttered popcorn. When the wish came true, it would flame like flash paper becoming part of the ether.

When all my wishes came true, my ginger jar will turn into a cat to purr on my lap and play in garden.

TMI? Perhaps...

Billy Idol  Greatest Hits







I really miss the arcade. They’ve all but gone from here, surpassed by Xboxes and other systems, no doubt. I’ve consider purchasing a system as a substitute, but it’s just not the same. I liked shooting games (no one’s surprised there): Lethal Enforcer and Area 51 in particular.


Though I usually find gendered items distasteful, there was something about the pink plastic Lethal Enforcer gun that I really liked. I liked too that I could beat the game for a dollar (this was back in the day when four lives only cost a quarter.) And I REALLY liked that given my height, stature and hair, most people seeing me at first glance thought I was about 14, so when these cocky young men would join in, thinking they could hit on and impress the little girl, they got a rude shock to find that the ‘little girl’ who’s name was always number one on the leader board was an …ahem, older woman.

Area 51 was shooting aliens and glass. So that could be done with good conscious. If you shot the right stuff to get the bonus screens, you got to shoot up the urinals in the men’s room. I greatly enjoyed this too. (And if you’re thinking this sounds frighteningly like a 12 year old male, sadly you are not the first to consider this, or vocalize it to me.  I know it's disturbing, and I don't want think about it.)

I know this is politically incorrect, and probably TMI, but I liked that in Lethal Enforcer when you shot the ‘bad guys’ not only was there a splat of red, but the sound effects when “thuwp-ahhhh”. It was very satisfying.

For many years of grad school, every other day (or more) I was at the arcade. We’d come home after a day and say, “I need to shoot things.”  The nice old couple who ran the arcade knew us by name, like the ladies at the Chinese food take out restaurant.

Grad school in fact is an exercise in perseverance and stress management, it has nothing to do with education. You are told by the alleged experts of your field that you are a worthless, no nothing idiot. At the same time, you are expected to do their job (teaching) but with three times the work load, no benefits and 1/18 of their salary. They will then tell you, you are taking too long to finish the bench marks, set by them. This is understandable, they say, because you are an idiot, but not excusable. However, when you reach the bench mark, they will then tell you that it’s impossible for you to have reached it so quickly, because, yes, you are an idiot, so you can’t possible pass.

Shooting things at the arcade was preferable to shooting faculty at the university. On the other hand, when that recent case came up in, Alabama was it? I understood perfectly. I bet she didn’t have an arcade there.

Today (you will read this tomorrow, so, yesterday) was one of those days. I really want to shoot things, hence the Billy Idol.  (Who was really great in the Wedding Singer, the movie, what a ridiculous idea to make it a stage show, but this is whole 'nother digression.)

 I really miss the arcade. I really miss that pink plastic gun.





Last night the damncat (Jack for those acquainted) was hungry. Two am til 5 am, he poked, prodded, licked, bit, tugged (yes, both paws around my arm and pulled). He meowed, he sniffed, he humphed in my ear… And if he wasn’t at me, he was at the plastic trash can which he likes to lick because he knows he shouldn’t and it’s annoying and goes bang bang when it rocks. I was too tired to move… I slept with the water spritzer in hand. No need for concern (for him) it was 4 hours, he’s a big cat, he wasn’t going to starve. There was food when I went to bed.

It should’ve been a sign. I drove to work a different way (Glastonbury) foolishly, I was running late and thought this would give me highway to drive, aside from a detour for a bagel… The lady cop was very nice when she pulled me over. No, not speeding, as you would expect.  Apparently my registration has been expired for a year and the bizzillion state troopers I’ve passed daily during this time hadn’t noticed either. She was nice enough not to tow the car but drive off in the other direction and tell me which way she was going.


So…I’m thinking DMV. Yes, those who know me, know that the only thing that creates more panic and anxiety in me than “DMV” is “Dentist” and maybe ticks. So, I wasn’t even upset about the 117$ ticket in hand because I knew I had to go to the DMV. ASAP.

My last LEO exchange and trip to the DMV was for an inspection. I got stopped for speeding.  And this time I was speeding, but he couldn't prove that. My car insurance was in that weird renewal month. It was up to date, I had the new card, but I was still carrying around the old card as there was still a few days in the month.  The cop, I think annoyed because he couldn't pull off a speeding ticket, gave me an inspection summons to prove the insurance.

So, rolling my eyes, I brought the new insurance card to DMV.  I knew this would be, I wasn't even hyperventiliating that trip. It took me five hours (Whethersfield).  Five hours to show the right person a 3 X 5 peice of paper...


I get to work, and log online to see what and where. Well, for an expired registration you have to call them. An hour and half on hold later, the nice lady tells me all I need is paper work and money and all will be fine. Okay. I have paper work. I can get money. Willimantic is open, I’m only 10 miles away if that, … I can do this….


DMV only had 1 person ahead of me. Amazing. I didn't even need to open the book. It only took two minutes and near hysteria for me to explain hub has had no other wife, please check the record of co-ownership and outstanding taxes again. Well, the clerk decides, that the person whose wife is named Joanne is not us, but we DO have an outstanding tax bill. Huh? In Manchester… I need to go to Manchester to fix it.


The last time we lived in Manchester is 1998… I go to Manchester… Yes, they have the right name, right address, worse the right obscure car (a 1988 blue Isuzu I-Marc how many of those could’ve been around?) and back taxes form 1997. How is this possible I ask? We’ve registered at least 8 cars that I can remember since then. We moved out of state and returned all the plates AND moved back INTO state and got new driver’s license since then!

Nobody knows. I pay them $200 to clear the account and drive back to Willimantic.


Ten minutes and another 100 dollars later, I have a bright new shiny yellow sticker and am good for a year. Cool. Now I can go back to work and maybe do what was on the do list for yesterday, since other stuff came up then... (We did buy a family of 6...they arrive at the end of the week: manniquins.)

Back to work… the air conditioner has broke, again. The meeting that was supposed to be an hour later, has moved, again, it’s now an hour earlier, oh guess what? That’s now! Cherry coke and cheese popcorn is not bad for lunch, better than the bagel I inhaled while the cop wrote the ticket.  And yesterday's do list, well, there's always tomorrow... again.


Okay, that’s okay I think, maybe I’ll get to leave on time?

HA.

The meeting – finance meeting – was 3 hours. I didn’t leave at 5, I left at 7….


I really miss the arcade. I really miss that pink plastic gun. "Thwump-ahh"... sigh.