The Beginning of the End, Part 26

I wasn't sure how I felt when we left the police station. I was glad to have ID'd my attacker, but my meeting with Nancy Lewis left me shaken. I wasn't a bad person, but the questions she implied the defense would be asking could certainly make me out to LOOK like one. Kevin picked up on my apprehension, and when we got in the cab to return home, he turned to me.

"You don't have to go through with this, you know," he said quietly.

I shrugged, then sighed. "I know. But if I don't, he'll walk."

Kevin's jaw clenched, and he stared straight ahead. "I can take care of it."

My heart skipped a beat. The last thing I wanted was for Kevin to get himself in trouble. "No," I said firmly, as Kevin continued not to face me. "Kev, look at me!" He turned his head slowly, and I could see the pain and anger in his eyes. "We'll do this the right way. I can deal with it. As long as you're here with me. This is not your battle, it's mine."

"Like hell it's not!" he replied, his voice low with fury. "You're my girlfriend. I love you. I should've been there. I wasn't. And he... He..."

I hugged him tightly. "It's not your fault. Just like it's not mine. We'll just do as Nancy says, and we'll get through this. We'll put him away, and we'll get through this."

The cab pulled up to our motel, and I saw Marc sitting on the curb outside our room smoking a cigarette. "Don't tell him, Kev," I said, slightly panicked. "I don't want him to know yet."

Kevin was paying the cab driver. "Why not?" he asked. "He's our friend. Plus, he going to want to know where we were."

"We can tell him we went out to a friend's house last night, and just came home today. That they picked us up then, but we took a cab home."

Kevin looked at me skeptically. "Please," I implored. "I'll tell him, just not yet."

"Fine," he said. "Damn, I need to get our car fixed."

When Kevin slammed the cab door, Marc looked up. He grinned and started walking toward us. "Hey guys! Where were you?"

I looked at Kevin, who shrugged. "Went out to one of her friend's houses last night and just crashed."

Marc sidled up to us. "Oh, party time last night, then? Guess I'll be on my way. I mean, I'm sure you're not up for more partying," he said mockingly.

After everything that had happened, all I wanted to do at that moment was forget. Forget everything. Just get high, feel that rush, and forget. More than ever before.

"Oh, I think we are," I said, trying to flash a convincing smile. I opened the door to the room and caught a glimpse of Schmauser's tail as he dove under the bed.

Marc laughed and walked in after me. Kevin came in last and shut the door. I tossed the room key on the dresser and watched Marc pull out his stash. The familiar feeling overcame me, the anticipation of the high. I went to the nightstand and got out our supplies. Kevin was already sitting in his "cooking chair," and Marc was preparing his fix.

As wrong as I knew it was, it was comforting in a strange way to be a part of our partying ritual. It was what I knew, what I was familiar with, and I also knew that as soon as I took that first hit, I would be ok. Temporarily, at least. I knew the demons I had to face wouldn't go away quietly, but for now I wanted to just ignore them.

"Ready?" Kevin asked. I nodded as he passed me a nice sized rock and I put it into the pipe. The sizzling of the crack was a welcome sound, and as the smoke filled my lungs I became someone else. Someone who wasn't a victim, someone who wasn't broken. I closed my eyes and allowed the feeling to swallow me.

The sound of the front door opening and closing snapped my eyes open. Marc, I thought.

"You ok, babe?" Kevin asked.

"Never better," I replied. "Got another?"

"Just so happens, I do. Marc came well prepared tonight. We're gonna owe him big time."

"Yeah, whatever," I muttered. The future wasn't a concern at that moment. But I knew it would be when I came back down. So I had decided to stay as high as I could for as long as I could - thank God for Marc. I didn't have to worry about work for a while, but I knew I would have to go back eventually. I also knew that I had to meet with Nancy again in two weeks. But the knowledge was becoming gloriously fuzzy as I took another hit.

Tomorrow, I thought. I'll think things through tomorrow.

Welcome to My Party

Ohhh, yes, it was a bad day yesterday. Thanks for all the helpful comments. I think what I really need is a vacation - a ME vacation (no offense darling daughter who doesn't read this blog anyway). But that probably won't happen any time soon. Well, possibly in September - but I need it NOW. I'm tired of trying to keep everyone happy and pretending like I am just peachy-keen. I'm tired of resenting the people I work with even though I DO like them. I'm tired of not saying how I am REALLY feeling and letting people walk all over me. Basically, I am just plain TIRED.

Even though I am better today, I still have all those feelings. They don't really go away. I just repress them better on most days. Which is what I am pretty darn good at. Yesterday while I was driving back to work, after I had dropped Lexie off at home, I found myself practically in tears. From frustration, from anger, from anxiety - you name it. But what struck me at that moment, REALLY struck me, was that I WANTED to just cry. I wanted to cry my eyes out like a baby and whine and complain and have someone be there for me to just listen and not judge, give me the pity I wanted at that moment, and just let me get it all out of my system. And the sucky thing? I don't have ANYONE I can do that with. And I started wondering when I lost all my friends. Which made me even more depressed.

Ok, the truth is, I HAVE friends, but I don't have a friend who I can TOTALLY be myself with. Who won't freak out if I cry, or tell me to snap out of it, or tell me how I am such a great person when I feel like shit, or a strong person when I feel totally weak. Well, I have one person like that, but she is in Michigan, and I really don't feel like driving 3 1/2 hours when I need a good cry. So one person who is like forever away. Yay me. All my life I have had "best friends," the kind you can completely trust and lean on. All. My. Life. But for some reason, I really don't anymore. I think my downfall was dating Kevin, although even during my druggie years I had a best friend. She and I used to talk about getting straightened out (while we were high, of course), and about cute guys, and about the old days and sometimes go out just the two of us. We lost touch while I got clean, then got back in touch after SHE got clean, but then there was an "issue" that pretty much ended things for good involving our kids. Long story, another time. Anyway, I would have to say she was my last "best friend."

I have to wonder if the reason I don't have a best friend is similar to the reason I don't have a boyfriend: fear. It's not easy when you have as much baggage as I do to just open up. Well, ok, it's easy on the computer, we've established that. But to let your guard down in front of another human being and expose your vulnerabilities and trust that they won't turn and run screaming into the night is a different story entirely. Yet I used to be able to do just that. And my best friend wouldn't run. Ann didn't run in grammar school, Marilee didn't run in high school, Amy didn't run in college, Angie didn't run after college, Julie didn't run in the "lost years..." Diane never ran - but again, SHE'S IN MICHIGAN, DAMMIT.

I love my mom to death, but she's my mom, and she loves me too much to do anything but BE a mom. Which means when I try to talk to her, it doesn't work out too well. Nobody's fault, it's just that mom tries too hard to make everything ok or takes things too personally and sometimes things get even worse. Even my closest friends who live nearby are wonderful to have, but still... there's just something missing that won't let me turn into a blubbering mess around them - BIG prerequisite for being a best friend. Plus, I usually feel like my feelings don't really matter much anyway. Everyone else has their own lives and their own problems, who am I to complain, right?

Ahhh, the pity pot. My ass fits so well on it sometimes. Like now. Poor me. (Not.) Sorry for this self-indulgent post. I promise to get back to more interesting reading tomorrow. And put a stop to the pity-party. Honest.

RANT

Can I just say how much it REALLY SUCKS when you TRY to plan a nice day for yourself and your daughter, and though things don't quite go according to plan you still consider it a pretty good day all in all, UNTIL your bratty daughter cops an attitude over something REALLY STUPID and doesn't even say THANK YOU for the day out and then you call in to work to say that things didn't pan out so you might stop back in, but then M tells you Satan already called in so you tell her you probably won't then, since it is already almost the end of the day, until SHE cops an attitude and tells you you PROBABLY SHOULD since nice attorney has a BUNCH OF STUFF THAT HAS TO GO OUT TODAY and SHE has been taking ALL the potential calls so you say Fine, I'll be in, even though you are SO DAMN PISSED OFF because M is acting like she is so frickin put out because you took some time off even though SHE has not shown up for work ONE DAY this week earlier than ELEVEN O'CLOCK and STILL takes a two hour lunch and nice attorney didn't bother to show up AT ALL yesterday and when he called in and you told him you really NEED him to talk to a problem client he makes you handle it because he doesn't want to yet the day YOU plan on not coming in which he knew about by the way he suddenly transfers ELEVEN FRICKIN MESSAGES to your voice mail that HE doesn't feel like handling that need to be returned TODAY (but what if you didn't COME IN like you were PLANNING? Who knows??) so you have to call ALL THE STUPID PEOPLE BACK for him and you are pissed off at your daughter and you are pissed off at your coworkers and you just want to CRY because all you wanted to do was have a NICE DAMN DAY.

Thank you for indulging me.

DIVORCE DIVORCE DIVORCE

Ok, so I realize that this is the second day in a row I am writing my opinion on something written by someone else rather than being original and witty myself, but after you read this article, I think you will let my unoriginal posts slide.

NEW DELHI - A Muslim couple in India has been told by local Islamic leaders to separate after the husband “divorced” his wife in his sleep, the Press Trust of India reported.

Sohela Ansari told friends that her husband, Aftab, had uttered the word “talaq,” or divorce, three times in his sleep, according to the report published in newspapers on Monday.

When local Islamic leaders heard of the sleep talking, they said Aftab’s words constituted a divorce under an Islamic procedure known as “triple talaq.” The couple, married for 11 years with three children, were told they had to split.

The religious leaders ruled that if the couple wanted to remarry they would have to wait at least 100 days. Sohela would also have to spend a night with another man and be divorced by him in turn.

The couple, who live in the eastern state of West Bengal, have refused to obey the order and the issue has been referred to a local family counseling center.

India’s minority Muslim population is governed by Islamic personal laws on issues such as marriage, divorce and property inheritance.

“This is a totally unnecessary controversy and the local ‘community leaders’ or whosoever has said it are totally ignorant of Islamic law,” said Zafarul-Islam Khan, an Islamic scholar and editor of the Milli Gazette, a popular Muslim newspaper.

“The law clearly says any action under compulsion or in a state of intoxication has no effect. The case of someone uttering something while asleep falls under this category and will have no impact whatsoever,” Khan told Reuters.

Ok, all together now: WTF??? Can you imagine the divorce rate in the US if that was all you had to do? "You SOB!! You left the toilet seat up again!! DIVORCE DIVORCE DIVORCE!! Now get the hell out!!"

It would be a pretty big blow to divorce attorneys, as well. And also, it could open the door to guilt-free adultery. Because did you notice? The divorce-ee has to sleep with someone else before they could marry their ex again, if they wanted to, that is, but they would still have to wait 100 days before the remarriage. Which means, technically, 100 days of freedom.

Heck, I would seriously consider doing the whole "triple talaq" thing at least once a year. Just to keep things interesting. Think about it - no lawyer fees, no court dates, and no punishment for acting on your fantasy about the hot person you see every day on the train... then after 100 days, just go back to your ex. "Sorry, hon. I'm back. Next time I'LL say it and YOU can sleep around."

Man, I think this would be the ideal for commitment-phobes. Like me. Maybe I should convert. I'll have to check with my downstairs neighbors on this subject. Wait - I forgot - I hate curry. Damn, I wonder if you have to like curry to convert and be allowed to do the whole "triple talaq" thing? And I wonder if I would have to marry a fellow Muslim? Things to ponder, I guess...

Unwritten

Lexie has a new favorite song. Which means I am forced to listen to it at every waking moment. Initially, I enjoyed the music. Then it started to get on my nerves. UNTIL, for the first time, I really listened to the lyrics. Which are as follows:

I am unwritten,
Can't read my mind
I'm undefined
I'm just beginning
The pen's in my hand
Ending unplanned

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your INHIBITIONS

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten

I break tradition
Sometimes my tries
Are outside the lines
We've been conditioned
To not make mistakes
But I can't live that way

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your INHIBITIONS

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
To the years where your book begins

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
That you could not find

Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your INHIBITIONS

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins

~Natasha Bedingfield

Absolutely beautiful. And brilliant, as far as I'm concerned. Especially from a writer's point of view. We're all writing the pages of our lives, in a sense. Authoring our own autobiography every day. And unless we pay attention to the world around us and appreciate what we have, it won't be a very good "book." Also? It has to have conflict, problems, imperfections. Because nobody is perfect. Be open to making mistakes, open to new experiences, open to LIFE. Enjoy what you have today, plan for tomorrow - because the rest is still unwritten.

I hope Lexie never gets sick of that song.

Never Enough

So Howie Mandel was on Ellen the other day. And he is STILL frickin hysterical. Even though somewhere between “Bobby” and “Deal or No Deal” he shaved his head and became a germophobe. Anyway, he was obviously on the show to promote “Deal or No Deal,” which is a fascinating study in human greed.

I’ll admit, I have been suckered in. Which isn’t really saying much, since I pretty much watch anything on the neat little box they call tv. Watching those people is fun. Although to be honest, there are times that Lexie and I hit the fast forward button on the tivo to get past the small talk. Anyway, if you aren’t familiar with the show, you can check out the synopsis here. When you’re sure you understand, you can proceed.

So Ellen is talking to Howie and he is being his usual insane self, cracking Ellen and her studio audience (and Lexie and me) up. But then she asks him the following question about the show:

“So, Howie, what’s the hardest part about hosting ‘Deal or No Deal?’”

And his answer was so honest and funny, even Ellen initially couldn’t respond because she was laughing so much. He said this:

“Well, Ellen, I’ve had contestants who are like deep in debt, never owned their own home, have to put three kids through college, have sick parents… and I’ll say we’ll give you a QUARTER OF A MILLION DOLLARS… and they’re all like, NO DEAL!!”

He shook his head in amazement and continued.

“I want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them and say ARE YOU NUTS???”

Which is exactly how I feel. I mean, watching these people passing up the amounts of money they do is so damn FRUSTRATING!! But then, when they wind up with only like $1,000, I have to laugh. Because THEY DESERVE IT. Morons. Wait, make that GREEDY morons.

The reason this show is so successful is because the network knows that people are by nature greedy SOB’s. That if given the opportunity, they will want more and more and more – even at the risk of losing it all. Now, I am not saying that they should take the first offer, or even the second, but when they are getting up there and the offers are in the six figures – TAKE IT!!! Look at the odds. If you honestly think the odds are in your favor to continue and maybe get a little more money, well, go for it. But don’t be stupid. As far as I’m concerned, if I am standing on that stage, I am doing good. If I walk out with $200,000 I’m THRILLED. Even if I walk out with that $200K and Howie tells me my case held the mil, I’d be ok. Know why? Because technically I never had the mil to begin with. I had NOTHING. I walked in with a fiver in my purse and am walking out with $200K. To me, that is pretty darn good. And because I know in my heart of hearts that even though Howie showed me that mil in my case, that if I had continued, somehow that number would’ve morphed into a penny when I opened it. That’s just how life goes.

There have been a couple of people who walked at smart times. Some of them could’ve won more, some left at the peak opportunity. But usually they keep going and going and going Energizer Bunny style until they realize just how badly they’ve f***ed up and look longingly at the previous banker’s offers. Morons. Happens to even the seemingly nicest people, though. I just don’t get it. We’re never happy with what we’ve got, are we?

Reminds me of a story I wrote when I was in second grade (yes, I was a writer from a very early age). I recently found it while going through some old things, and this seems like a good time to share. Paraphrased, it went something like this:

“There once were two worms who came upon an apple. One worm got very excited and started eating it as fast as he could, while the other worm ate very slowly, enjoying every bite. Pretty soon, the first worm had eaten so much of the apple that he started to split open. ‘Help me!’ he cried. But the second worm did nothing. ‘If you weren’t so greedy, you wouldn’t have split open,’ he said. ‘Now maybe you learned your lesson not to be greedy.’ And the first worm died.”

Ok, so maybe I was a bit morbid as a child, but the message is clear. Greed is bad. But if you want to find out just how greedy YOU are – you can play “Deal or No Deal” yourself. Let me know how much you wind up with.

Who's the Cutest?

I called my grandparents the other day, and had a lively conversation about my nephew (who, by the way, I haven’t seen for ONE WHOLE MONTH). My dad drove Grandma and Poppops out to Bob & Sarah’s on Saturday, and apparently they had a really nice visit. Four generations, now, since Erik is the only son of an only son of an only son – Poppops is very happy that our strong German name will carry on, and Bob is relieved that the pressure is finally off HIM.

Anyway, when I called them yesterday, Grandma was all full of gab about her new great-grandchild and how cute he is. Obviously, I agreed with her wholeheartedly. The funny thing is, Grandma suffers from macular degeneration, which is some kind of disease involving her eyes. Well, that’s not funny, but what is funny is that even though supposedly she is now legally blind and can’t really see, SHE STILL DOES. Come to think of it, that’s not really funny, either – it’s kind of scary. But I’m dead serious about it. She was telling me about the cute outfit Erik had on (describing it, no less) and how the picture of Poppops, my dad, Bob and Erik will probably look so nice, they were posed so well together. She does that a lot. I can’t say for sure, but I think she has a magical eye or something that lets her see things she REALLY wants to see. Seriously. Because sometimes her vision deficiency is pretty obvious, and other times she can describe things down to the smallest detail – usually when they involve her great-grandchildren.

So, Grandma is going on and on about Erik, and then we were discussing my cousin Joanne’s upcoming new arrival that is due in April. And my cousin Rich and his wife are in the process of adopting a little boy. And Erik was preceded by my cousin Karyn’s little girl Naomi at the end of January. So, there have been a lot of babies around here lately. I commented on how cute all the babies are, and Grandma replied, “Yep, they sure are! I keep saying every baby is cuter than the last one. Nineteen great-grandchildren, and every one is cuter than the last one.” I replied with the obvious, “They sure are!” But then I started thinking.

Lexie is like number six in the great-grandchild lineup. So although she was cute as a baby, according to Grandma, there are now thirteen babies cuter than her. And before you try telling me that she didn’t mean it, let me assure you, she did. For clarification – I would like to begin by telling you that the very first great-grandchildren were my cousin Donna’s triplets (yes, triplets, three girls, who are like 14 now). Because the rest of our conversation went something like this:

“Yep, all my great-grandchildren keep getting cuter. That Erik is REALLY cute. And you know, the triplets weren’t really that cute when they were born.”

“GRAM!”

“Well, you know, it was probably because they were so little. They were cute, but not that cute.”

“They were cute.”

“Well, but NOW! My goodness! I saw them the other day and they are BEAUTIFUL! So tall! And so BEAUTIFUL!”

“Yeah, they’re getting older.”

“Lexie’s getting tall too.”

“Yeah, I can’t believe she is already ten, Gram.”

“Oh, believe it! They are all getting older. And taller! But the BABIES! They are so CUTE!”

“Yup, every one cuter than the last one, right, Gram?”

“Well, they just KEEP GETTING CUTER!”

So I guess basically my daughter was cuter than five of my cousin’s kids, which is still pretty good. Joanne’s baby will probably cause Gram’s Cute-O-Meter to go off kilter. Great-grandchild number twenty. That’s got to add some extra cute points too, being number twenty. But the poor triplets! They were cuter than no one. Cute, definitely, but not cute-er. No superlatives for them. At least now they are BEAUTIFUL. And that’s just how Gram says it too, BEAUTIFUL. All capital letters, you can tell by her voice.

I let Grandma gush a little more about how her neighbors were jealous of her nineteen great-grandchildren and were getting sick of hearing about them, and then the conversation ended. Because that’s how phone calls end with Gram. When she’s done, that’s it. You could be in mid-sentence, and all of a sudden you hear “Well, ok, then, bye bye!” and CLICK! She’s gone. Gotta love Gram.

I guess when you’re pushing 90 you can pretty much do and say whatever you want. And her and Poppops definitely do. But I love it. And I love them. Even if they only consider my daughter the sixth cutest baby, I let it slide.

Ok, then, bye bye!

The Beginning of the End, Part 25

Kevin and I walked next door to the casino to get a cab. We sat in silence, and even the cab driver seemed to sense the tension. I could feel my stomach churning in anxious anticipation with every block that we drove. What if I couldn’t ID the guy? What if my memory wasn’t as clear about his appearance as I thought? What if he got away with what he had done?

When the cab came to a stop, I got out almost too fast, anxious to get inside. Kevin paid the driver, and then took my hand as I stood staring at the official-looking building, trying to catch my breath.

“It’s ok,” he assured me.

I bit my lip and nodded. Then we made our way inside.

The station wasn’t what I had expected, it was relatively quiet, with not many people around. We approached the desk, and the sergeant looked up. “We’re here to see Detective Jones,” I said, trying to be calm.

He nodded at us to take a seat as he reached for his phone. Almost before he hung up, the Detective came walking through a metal door in the rear of the building. His eyes were kind, and he flashed a welcoming smile our way. He held out his hand to me and then Kevin as we stood.

“Thanks for making the trip down here. There aren’t many women who bother, believe it or not,” he said, looking at me pointedly.

I shook my head. “I won’t let him walk,” I said flatly. “No way.”

“Good,” he replied. “If you’ll follow me, I need you to look at some photographs and then I think the State’s Attorney would like to speak to you.”

“Photographs?” Kevin questioned. “What about a lineup? Wouldn’t that be better?”

Detective Jones hesitated. “Unfortunately, Mr. B, that isn’t possible.”

“Why?” I asked. “I can handle it, really.”

He opened the door to a medium sized room with a large table in the center. On the table was a notepad, a pen, and several manila folders. He held out a chair for me to sit in, and Kevin sat next to me. Then he walked around the table and sat across from us both. He folded his hands in front of him on the table and looked me directly in the eye.

“Although I’m sure you can handle it, Ms. S, it’s not possible because the suspect has been released on bail this morning.”

My heart froze in my chest. Kevin exploded. “What? Why? How can you release him before she’s even ID’d him? If this is the guy, HOW COULD YOU HAVE LET HIM WALK?”

“Calm down, Mr. B,” the detective said with a look. “As I mentioned before, the legal system is complicated. We can’t hold anyone indefinitely, they are given the right to bond out until their hearing date. Even if this is the perp, we couldn’t hold him if he can afford to bail out. The only charges we were able to bring him up on initially were for disturbing the peace, since we couldn’t legally hold him for an assault until he has been identified. Once he is, though, we can go back and arrest him a second time. But again, he can bail out if he has the money.”

He looked down at the files on the table and opened one up. While reading one of the reports, he continued.

“It looks like he definitely is our guy, though, based on some interviews we were able to take at the scene. He told us nothing himself, and wasn’t very cooperative, which is how he wound up with the other charges. But several other people there gave us pretty good insight - the party, the people, certain events you described…” He broke off and looked up at me. “Tell me, is this the man who assaulted you?”

I squeezed Kevin’s hand as I looked down at the picture in front of me. I felt the blood drain from my face as the memories attacked me all over again. Shut up, bitch! Shut up, bitch! I looked down to see the name of the person who had hurt me, a name I would never forget. Morcos Magana. Even the name sounded evil to my ears. I nodded at the detective and turned my head so he wouldn’t see the tears that threatened to spill.

I heard him pick up the picture and put it back into the file. “That’s all we need.” He picked up the file and stood. “If you have a few minutes, I think the State’s Attorney should be right in,” he said.

“Yeah, we’ll wait,” Kevin said gruffly, rubbing my shoulder absently.

I regained my composure and looked up at Detective Jones. “You’ll arrest him again, now, right?”

He gave a curt nod. “You’d better believe it,” he replied. “You’re a brave woman, Ms. S. People like this guy need to be put away.”

I laughed slightly. I didn’t feel brave, just angry. And scared. And hurt. I didn’t want this monster to hurt anyone else the way he hurt me.

The door shut quietly behind the detective and Kevin and I were alone. “So, they’re going to get him,” he said.

“I know,” I replied.

“And if they don’t, I will,” he said with defiance.

I smiled at his bravado. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

The door opened again, and a young woman in her late twenties walked in. She was dressed smartly in a gray pinstripe suit and carried a briefcase. She reminded me of all the DA’s you see on tv, except this was for real.

“I’m Nancy Lewis,” she said, extending her hand.

I shook it with a tentative smile, not feeling the need to introduce myself. Her voice was warm, but strong. I could sense that she was a good person to have on my side.

Rather than sitting across the table like Detective Jones, Nancy Lewis sat in the chair next to me. She turned her chair and leaned toward me. “First of all, call me Nancy,” she said.

“Ok,” I agreed. “And you can call me Dasi.”

She smiled. “Fine. Dasi.” She took a deep breath and her smile disappeared. I suddenly became very nervous, because her demeanor was so serious.

“I need to tell you, I am on your side. I will do everything I can to put this bastard away. But it is going to be a difficult process, especially for you.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you?” she asked. “Dasi, when we go to the preliminary hearing, the defense attorney is going to basically assault you all over again. He is going to do everything in his power to make you look like a drunken, drugged out slut who was asking for it.”

I blinked, feeling sick to my stomach and too shocked to say anything. But Kevin wasn’t.

“Wait just a minute!” he yelled. “You’re supposed to be HELPING her! How dare you imply that this was her fault? How dare you?”

Nancy looked at him calmly, in stark contrast to his rage. “First of all, if that is how you are going to react in the courtroom, I suggest you not come. Secondly, I never implied anything. I am simply telling you how the defense is going to build its case.”

Kevin didn’t respond.

She reached out and took both my hands in hers. “Dasi, I know what you have been through has been the worst kind of nightmare. But I am here to tell you that you may have to relive that nightmare over and over again, and you may have to subject yourself to personal questions that attack your morality, that question your honesty and your role as a victim. Sexual assault trials are never easy. But once we get past the preliminary hearing, and go to trial, it won’t be as bad. If we can prove that the assault occurred in the preliminary hearing, and it gets held over for trial, we may even be able to avoid that trial altogether with a plea bargain.”

Shut up, bitch! Shut up, bitch!

The anger swelled up inside me and my heart pounded. “I want him put away,” I whispered. “I'll do whatever it takes.”

It's A-MAZE-ing

Thank you all for your patience and kind words. I honestly don’t know why I haven’t been in a writing frame of mind, but I think I’m back. For now. I hesitate to say that I am once again ready to write my little heart out every weekday no matter what, because the truth is I can’t be sure of that. I mean, right now I think I am, but tomorrow may be another story. I think the change of seasons may have something to do with it. Or maybe just spring in general. See, unlike most people, who get all caught up in the glories of SPRING, I tend to get even moodier. Spring doesn’t have the best memories for me. Which is why I am up and down like a frickin roller coaster from mid-March until the end of May. So in advance, I apologize AGAIN for any lapses during this time, or posts that make absolutely no sense or are overly angst-ridden, depressing, or pissy. But now that I have gotten THAT out of the way, I would like to proceed with what is on my mind right now.

Mealworms. Yes, mealworms. Icky, little bugs that my precious daughter has to care for in school. Now, to be honest, when she first told me about the project they were going to be doing involving becoming a “parent” to a mealworm, and then observing it through its pupa stage until it developed into a beetle (yuk), I was like “Oh, yay, sounds like fun. Just DON’T bring it home.” And that was the end of it. Until she brought home a letter from the teacher on Friday. Apparently, she has to build a maze for her mealworm. Oh, and not just ANY maze. This maze MUST have a 1” high shelf, doors, at least one wall with a hole in it, a bridge, and a mini-mall. Ok, so it doesn’t say to build a mini-mall, but it may as well. Because I am sooooo not creative when it comes to building things. Now, buying things I am good at. But somehow I doubt there is a store I can walk into and say “Yes, I would like to buy a mealworm maze, please” and actually get anything more than a perplexed look from the clerk.

So I brought home an envelope box from work which seems to be good, sturdy cardboard. And I figured we could cut up the lid to make the innards of this “maze.” But of course, we were busy this weekend and didn’t even get a chance to plan out our (well, ok, her) project. So that leaves tonight and tomorrow night, since she has a Choral Concert on Wednesday night (and no, she can’t sing, but it’s one of those “everyone in the fifth grade” things). Two nights to figure out how to make a damn mealworm maze. See, it’s times like this that I miss having my brother closer to home. Because I could call him and say “Booooooooob! Your niece has to make a mealworm maze and I soooooo don’t know how to do it… can you please help??” And he would. But now he is too far, plus, you know, the whole wife and son thing takes up a bit more of his free time nowadays. So I have to step up.

I really hope this isn’t like a big part of her grade or anything, because if it is, she’s screwed. Can you imagine? “I’m sorry, Lexie, Harvard is rejecting your application. It seems you flunked science in fifth grade due to an inadequate mealworm maze.” Oh, the pressure! Lexie, on the other hand, isn’t too stressed. She has entirely too much faith in me. She seems to think that since I am helping her with this, it will be the best maze ever. Boy, will she be surprised! All I know is that I truly think that sometimes teachers think of these things just to get back at the parents for making them put up with their rotten kids all day. Seriously. I really think the teachers are at home, inventing projects like this thinking, “I know! I’ll assign a MEALWORM MAZE!! That CAN’T be done during class time! And I’ll make sure there are impossible GUIDELINES to follow!” (evil laugh while typing out directions) “Yeah, that’s right, Mr. or Ms. Parent. Enjoy a little taste of the hell I go through with your child every day!!! MAKE THE MAZE!!!!”

Ok, so maybe not. But I can’t come up with another explanation for this project. It’s supposedly so the kids can observe the actions of their mealworm in the maze. But here’s my question – can a little worm even MANAGE to maneuver through any kind of maze? And, ok, if it’s like a BEETLE already, can’t it just CLIMB UP THE WALLS and escape the maze entirely?? WHAT IS THE REAL POINT HERE????

So I will be maze making tonight. I suppose. Oh, and? Just for good measure, “Family Living” starts for Lexie today. You know, the polite term for “sex ed.” So maybe we can have a heart-to-heart while building said mealworm maze. I’m telling you, Hallmark moments in the making for tonight. Wish me luck.

Ummm... No Catchy Title Today, Either

It's snowing here. A LOT. Which really sucks, because it is supposed to be spring. And guess what? I've got nothin'. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I had a whole bunch of free time this morning while Satan was in court, but I just couldn't bring myself to write. Why? Dunno. I guess I'm just feeling lazy and uncreative today. So I apologize, because even though I have absolutely no reason to feel guilty about not writing for one day, I do. Why? Because I am a people pleaser and I worry that if I do not do my "people pleasing job" I will be deserted and abandoned and no one will come to my blog anymore. So there you have it. What you get today is a whole lot of nothing, but it's still kind of something, so please don't desert me... ok?

Ahhh, the Memories!

There’s nothing better than going about your day, in just an average ho-hum kind of mood, and then seeing something that makes you smile. In that “HA! Does THAT bring back memories” kind of way. Really brightens things up, you know? That happened yesterday. I was standing in this restaurant waiting to pick up dinner, which wasn’t quite ready yet. So, like any normal person, I started just looking around, spacing out, checking my watch – the usual. Then I noticed that the front counter was decorated with those “Muscular Dystrophy” Shamrocks. You know – the ones you get to write your name on if you donate a buck? There were dozens of them. I started reading the names: “Annie,” “Bill & Sue,” “The Smith Family.” Then came the smile. Actually, it was more of a choked-back giggle. Because apparently “Abe Froman” had donated a buck.

(Ok, at this point, if you do NOT know who “Abe Froman” is, you might want to just stop reading. No offense, of course, but he’s kind of the gist of this whole post. Then again, if you don’t know yet have the DESIRE to find out, by all means, continue.)

Abe Froman, Sausage King of Chicago. Who knew that he even was still around after all these years? Actually, I’m not even 100% sure he was around when Ferris used his name to get himself, the lovely Sloane, and paranoid Cameron a seat at the swanky Chez Quis. We never did see him, after all. That name brought back some pretty good memories, though. Singing “Twist and Shout” on the parade float, catching a ball at Wrigley… ahh, the good old days.

As much as I enjoy the movies that are out today, there’s nothing like the classic 80’s flicks. They just don’t make them like they used to. I’ll bet if I throw out a few quotes there will be plenty of you who can name the movie – probably even the character. And I wouldn’t be surprised if some of you could even name the next line. That’s how much fun 80’s movies are. Let’s try it, shall we? I promise I’ll keep it simple.

“Screws fall out, the world’s an imperfect place.”

“What’s-a-happening, hotstuff?”

“That chick Julie, she’s truly dazzling.”

“I’ve been slimed.”

“I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen.”

“Nobody puts Baby in the corner.”

“I’ll have what she’s having.”

“ASSSSSSSHOLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEE!” (said while showing a car almost getting in an accident)

“Hello? McFly? Anyone home?”

“‘I thought only pansies wore ties.’ ‘See that? I thought only assholes used the word pansies.’”

Ok, that’s enough. I wish I could convince Lexie to watch more 80’s movies. She seems to think they are “old movies.” GAAAAAH!! Something must be done about that horrible way of thinking. I have, however, gotten her to watch plenty of 80’s and early 90’s sitcoms – she loves those. Gotta work on the movies, though. Come on, people, they’re CLASSICS!!

Sigh. I love nostalgia. I think I will go and listen to one of my 80’s compilation CDs. Oh – and on a somewhat related note – some jerk commented on Timmortal’s blog that my hairstyle was outdated… Please tell me that straight hair parted on the side isn’t outdated yet… I have very long, very thick hair, and no real “hairstyle,” so I’m at a loss for what exactly this moron thinks I’ve done to it. I guess maybe if you were an idiot, you might not realize that my head is tilted down, and therefore it may KIND OF look like I have poofy hair (as I admittedly did in above referenced 80’s), but I swear to you, it is just thick, long, and flat. Although if any of MY readers think the pic sucks or my hair looks freaky, please do tell and I will search for another. Ok. End of rant. Time for some Duran Duran. Later!

A Bizarre Moment of Clarity

So last night I had a moment of clarity. It was the strangest thing, considering the television show that brought this moment of clarity to light. Now, I have made no secret of the fact that I am a tv junkie, and watch everything from soaps, to talk shows, to dramas, to sitcoms, to reality tv. Some I have no problem admitting I watch, others have me sheepishly smiling if confronted about. This particular show is definitely a “sheepish smile” show. But even so, in order to explain my moment of clarity, I’ll have to name the show. So here it is.

“The Flavor of Love.”

Ok, you can all stop laughing right now, those of you who are familiar with the show, and for those of you who aren’t, here’s a synopsis: Take “The Bachelor” and replace the good looking, successful stud with Flavor Flav of Public Enemy. You know, the guy with the crunk teeth and the oversized clock around his neck who is usually wearing a viking helmet, too. Anyway, I started watching this show for the same reason people rubberneck at major car accidents: morbid curiosity. And then I just couldn’t stop. My coworker was just as bad, the two of us would make fun of the women, laugh at Flav and place odds on whose “time would be up” on the next episode. So basically, it was a guilty pleasure for about two months.

Then last night, I was minding my own business, watching the season finale, when it happened. Flav and one of the last girls standing, Hoopz, were laughing and having fun on the beach, then were playing in the water, then went to dinner and were so damn comfortable with each other. She gave him a goofy gift (an “ass-tray” – like an ashtray with a butt in it) and he loved it. The two of them were like big kids, neither one playing a role, both of them just enjoying the other’s company. Now, I realize I’m talking about Flavor Flav and some hot young girl half his age he really has no business being involved with, but even so, they just seemed so perfect together. Whether it was all a set-up by the producers (which for some strange reason, I really doubt) or the “real thing” (oh, if you could’ve seen their SMILES!), it really got me. Because you know what? THAT’S WHAT I’M LOOKING FOR.

Ok, just to clarify, I do NOT want an aging rapper with gold teeth, but I DO want someone who I can be relaxed with. Who I can be myself with. Someone who I can be with while ALL my walls are down. Watching Flav and Hoopz made me almost jealous. Because they seemed so natural (which is odd for any reality show, let alone this one). So often people ask me “Well, what exactly ARE you looking for?” and I never know how to answer. Well, now I do. I want someone who I can be me around. Someone who I don’t feel like I have to impress, because he already loves me for me. Someone who I can laugh with. Someone who can tell what I’m thinking without me even saying a word. Someone who I can hug spontaneously who will hug me back and smile. Someone who I can invite over even when I haven’t showered yet and am just lounging around in sweats with my hair in a ponytail and no makeup on. Someone who will let me cry during a sad tv show or movie, and not make fun of me. Someone who I can trust implicitly, who will listen to my feelings and not laugh. Someone who will know me enough to back off if I am feeling moody, but will also know me well enough to not let me wallow too long.

That is probably why I am still single. Because I haven’t found anyone like that yet. Well, actually, I did, once, but it fell apart for bigger reasons. I honestly think Kevin was the only guy I ever dated that I was 100% comfortable with. At least, in the beginning. It’s hard to feel comfortable with ANYONE in the situation we wound up in together. It’s a shame, really, because I miss that closeness. I started to tear down my walls with Andy back in 2000, until he referred to “There’s Something About Mary” as a vulgar, disgusting movie. You never saw ANYONE mortar bricks faster after that comment. Hypothetically speaking, of course. And Mr. South Side? Come on! I may have “hung out” with him on several occasions, but I never did anything more than peek over the wall now and then.

It’s not an easy thing for someone like me to open up so completely. And I’m not talking about on this blog, either. This is easy – usually. Writing to people I know but don’t know, who don’t have the ability to hurt me – that’s easy. Putting my heart on the line and exposing the real me in person is a lot harder. I have a lot of apprehension about being “not good enough,” or “too SOMETHING.” I seem to forget the fact that if it is “right,” neither of those will matter, because I will be loved unconditionally.

Wow. Unconditional romantic love is something I haven’t really even bothered to hope for lately. But thanks to my bizarre television habits, I have come to realize that it is something I really, really want. As complacent as I have become in my life, I don’t want to give up the dream of finding my soulmate. I don’t think I will do anything extreme to find that person, but I think I will start being a bit more open. And maybe taking down one brick at a time will help, too.

So thanks, Flav.

Ignorance is (NOT) Bliss

Over the past several days, I found myself shaking my head in amazement. First while reading the comments on a fellow blogger’s post, then while watching the pilot episode of Black. White. on FX that I had tivo’d. I guess I am just extremely naïve, because I had no idea that ignorance is still such a problem in today’s society.

Let’s begin with the blog.

I’m pretty sure that most people are aware that a blog is supposed to be the writer’s way of expressing their own thoughts and feelings. No two blogs are ever going to be identical, just as no two people are. A blog takes on the personality of the author, because in essence, it IS the author. There is no censorship in the world of blogging, and comments are welcomed on most of them. For the most part, I find that commenters are very productive. They give support, encouragement, kudos. Sometimes they offer constructive criticism. On occasion, they will disagree with the writer’s opinion, and a friendly debate may ensue. But on Timmortal’s recent blog, he was slammed and criticized for the use of the word “fuck.”

Because he dared to use a four-letter word in the telling of a gritty, personal story, he was judged. Because, apparently, there are some people who are offended by nasty little swear words. Give me a break. In all three segments of an extremely well-written story, the use of the word totaled an astounding SIX TIMES. Six times in exactly 1,717 words that were written in all three segments. That comes to, what, not even a ½% of the story. But instead of focusing on what Tim was trying to express, they chose to focus on a miniscule part of it and blow it all out of proportion. Tim responded appropriately by suggesting that maybe they ought to find new reading material, but they continued on. And on. And on.

What these people fail to realize is that the world is not a perfect place. The word “fuck” does indeed exist, and whether or not it is offensive to some people is irrelevant. It is a strong, vulgar word that when used is done so to express a feeling so beyond what you are feeling that no other word could possibly fit. It is hate, and anger, and grit, and despair, and frustration. Not necessarily good things, but human emotions – and strong ones. Now, obviously you don’t want your five year old walking around saying “fuck fuck fuck,” but five year olds are usually not reading these blogs. Nor should they be. I don’t think Tim makes “fuck” an integral part of his vocabulary around his daughters, but if he wants to use it in his writing, no one has the right to condemn him for it.

Almost the entire rap and hip hop industry is well acquainted with the word “fuck.” For that matter, lots of rock and alternative musicians enjoy using it as well. Because sometimes there just isn’t any other word that does the job. If you don’t like it, don’t listen, or don’t read. But please stop flaunting your ignorance by suggesting that someone is “bad” or “immature” or “vulgar” for expressing themselves in a way you would prefer not to. Everyone has the right to make their own choices, and not everyone makes the same ones. Choose to use the word “fuck,” or choose not to. Choose to read people’s work, or choose not to. If you are offended, by all means, stop reading whenever you see that word. And leave. Other people may choose not to give a damn what you think.

The second thing that made me see red was the new tv show Black. White. (Ha – pun intended on the color reference!) I sat down to watch this self-proclaimed “experiment” with Lexie, and not even a quarter of the way into it I was pissed. First of all, I was expecting a legitimate “experiment.” One where both families were open to discovering about racism and acceptance and how it was to walk in someone else’s shoes. What it turned out to be was a display of the most sickening arrogance and ignorance on the part of the white couple that I had ever seen. I seriously think the producers went out looking for the most obnoxious “oh, we’re SO TOTALLY not prejudiced!” white couple they could find. People who really were so ignorant that the father actually told the black family that he was “just waiting for someone to walk up and call me nigger” while he was in his black makeup. UGH! Even typing that word bothers me, yet this moron continued on, telling the openmouthed black family that all they need to do is “not let it affect them” and then “the word would lose its power.” Even my DAUGHTER looked at me and said, “Is he SERIOUS?”

The show continued on, with the black family in their white makeup discovering that things definitely were different on “the other side.” But rather than get angry about it, they were more philosophical. They tried to get down to the core of the experiment, which was why? Why are things still happening this way, even in the 21st century, when people are supposedly so big on equality? Then we’d go back to the moron white family. With Mr. White walking around as a back man and trying to prove that it was all about your attitude, not your color. So he basically became Johnny Mathis and freaked out real black people and made white people nervous as well. The only person in the white family I think has any clue is the daughter. She is genuinely sincere in her effort to learn something, even though she went to a slam poetry reading and told the group of young black poets that her favorite artist “would have to be The Cranberries.” This was met with dead silence, but to her credit, she made fun of herself in a voiceover immediately after her remark. And saved herself with the group by commenting on “diversity.” Ha! Good for her.

Apparently this show only gets worse, as the previews for the next episode show Mrs. White Lady crying because Mrs. Black Lady got offended when she called her a certain word. Mrs. White Lady was whining “but I thought it was a word you people used affectionately!” The word? “Bitch.” I kid you not. This crazy white woman thought that all black women called each other “bitch.” I almost hope she goes into Ice Cube’s ‘hood and tries that. STUPID!!!! But it would make for good tv, no? Heh.

You know, as a writer (or as an aspiring one, at least) it really burns me to see intolerance and ignorance on ANY level. I try to teach my daughter to be open to people of all colors, sexual preferences, religions – whatever. I also try to teach her not to be afraid to express herself. To talk to me about ANYTHING. And yes, if my daughter walked up to me and said “fuck you” right now, I would probably ground her until she was eligible for social security, but when she is an adult she can say whatever she wants. It is her right.

Hmmm. I just realized that there are a lot of nasty words in this post. So if this offends anyone – don’t read it. Believe me, I won’t be offended if you choose not to. In fact, if you are that bothered by it, I probably don’t want you reading anyway.

The Beginning of the End, Part 24

I spent the night in the hospital with Kevin never leaving my side. In the morning, we were visited by a detective from the Reno PD.

“Based on the information you provided, we were able to do a door-to-door at the apartment complex you remembered being at,” he began.

I could feel my heart racing as Kevin squeezed my hand.

“We think we got the guy.”

“Who is he?” Kevin asked through a clenched jaw.

The officer looked at Kevin, and then back at me, as though trying to decide the best way to continue. “At this point, I can’t really divulge that information.”

Kevin stood up angrily. “Why not? I mean, he’s in custody, right?”

“Yes, he is in custody. For now. But bail is going to be set, and he could be out as soon as tomorrow.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. He could be out tomorrow? That couldn’t be right.

“But he raped me,” I said feebly, feeling sick to my stomach.

The officer looked at me sympathetically. “I wish I could tell you what you want to hear. But the simple fact of the matter is that it’s up to the DA to decide whether or not to even prosecute. We can’t hold him indefinitely, and bail will be set and he will remain free until there is a hearing. If there is a hearing.”

“There will be a hearing,” I said, anger making me feel stronger.

“In any case,” he continued, “once you feel up to it, we’ll need to you come to the station to give a positive ID.” He handed me a business card. “Just ask for me.”

Kevin and I each shook hands with him, and then he was gone.

“That son of a bitch. When I find out who he is, I’ll kill him,” Kevin ranted.

“Kev, calm down. He will not get away with this. He’s going to jail. For a long time. I’m not going to be a victim for the rest of my life.”

Kevin looked at me, worry and concern in his blue eyes. “It shouldn’t have happened. I should’ve been there.”

I shrugged, acting tougher than I actually felt. “Whatever. It’s over. All I want to do now is go home. Did you bring me clothes?”

He reached over for a plastic grocery bag sitting next to his chair. “Here, I wasn’t sure what you’d want to wear…”

When I took the bag from him and looked inside, a small smile pulled at my lips and my eyes teared up.

“I thought, maybe, I don’t know… Maybe you’d want to cover up, or stay warm, or something…”

Kevin had brought the most unflattering clothes I owned. Right down to the underwear and bra. Shapeless sweatpants that had become two sizes too big but that had a drawstring waist, a heavy turtleneck sweater, a sports bra and old granny brief underwear that I hadn’t even realized I had. I realized that he was trying his best to protect me, to make me feel safe again in the baggy nondescript clothes. At that moment, in the hospital with Kevin, I really did feel safe. And I knew as long as he was with me, I didn’t have to be afraid.

I changed clothes and came out of the bathroom looking like a bag lady. I giggled in spite of myself, and Kevin hugged me. Then he quickly pulled away.

“What?” I asked, startled.

Kevin looked uncomfortable. “I don’t want to do anything wrong. I mean, I was talking to some lady last night, and she mentioned you may not want to be touched.”

“The Lady” was a rape crisis counselor who worked at the hospital. She had talked to me briefly, given me some pamphlets to take home, and left. I wasn’t aware she had talked to Kevin as well.

“I definitely want to be touched by you,” I assured him. “In fact, I think all I want to do when we get home is lay in bed and hold each other, if that’s ok.”

He nodded and put his arm around me, leading me out of the hospital room.

We took a cab home, and Kevin told me that he had already called the restaurant from the hospital to tell them what had happened, and that I wouldn’t be in for a while.

“You didn’t!” I blurted, not wanting people to know.

He spoke to me gently. “Dasi, they had to know. I only told Gregg. He said you can come back whenever you’re ready. He won’t tell anyone else.”

But later that day, there was a knock on the door, and when Kevin answered it, Shelley spilled into the room with wide questioning eyes.

I felt humiliated, and wondered what she thought of me now. I shrank back into the pillows propping me up in bed, and hot tears filled my eyes.

Shelley let out a moan, and suddenly she was crying too. She came up to me in the bed and hugged me tightly. “Oh, Dasi! I shouldn’t have left you there! My God, I am so sorry!”

We both cried for a little while, and Kevin slipped out of the room to give us some time. Finally, I looked at her and whispered, “Everyone is going to hate me.”

Shelley looked at me in shock. “Are you serious? Dasi, this was not your fault! Don’t you ever think that it was! No one is going to hate you. And the monster that did this is going to rot.”

I nodded my head, and wiped away a stray tear. “I have to go to the station to ID the guy. Probably tomorrow.”

“Is Kevin going with you?” she asked.

“Yes, he is. In fact, he has been wonderful.” I laughed at the irony of the situation. “It really sucks, though, that this had to happen to bring us closer together again.”

Shelley smiled at me. “Even if this didn’t happen, you both still love each other. But I’m glad he’s here for you. And I am too, if you need anything.”

I thanked her and assured her that I would be fine. I seemed to be saying that a lot lately, both out loud and in my head: I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. I wasn’t sure if it was actually true or if I was still trying to convince myself. She left as Kevin came back in.

Kevin crawled into the bed next to me and I rested my head on his shoulder. “She’s a good friend,” he said.

“Yes, she is,” I agreed. I looked up at him. “We have to go to the station tomorrow.”

He nodded without saying a word.

“I may even have to talk to the District Attorney or something,” I added.

Kevin remained silent. But I could feel the furious beating of his heart through his chest.

“I’m fine, Kev.” There was my mantra again.

He stroked the top of my head and kissed me gently. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again. I promise.”

We fell asleep that night in a paradox, both restless, but both comfortable and safe in each other’s arms. Tomorrow would be another stressful day, and my dreams were vivid but forgotten by morning. When I woke to the sun peeking through the cracks in the motel curtains, it took me a minute to remember what had happened. Although I was still safely wrapped in Kevin’s arms, a cold knot of fear gripped my insides. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine I reminded myself. It occurred to me that last night was one of the first that Kevin and I spent alone in the room without partying – or wanting to. I wondered if that was something that would continue… Probably not.

Kevin shifted, and opened his eyes. “Good morning, babe,” he whispered.

“Morning,” I replied with a sleepy smile.

“Are you ready for today?” he asked, watching me carefully.

I thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Yeah. I want him put away.”

Help Wanted (And No, I DIDN'T Quit)

I know, I know. TBOTE, right? You all are chomping at the bit to read the next installment. Tomorrow, ok? One way or another. I just need to be in a certain mindframe – and uninterrupted – to write those, and it’s been a bit difficult this week. Have to write posts a little at a time so as not to incur the wrath of Satan (i.e., “get caught not doing actual work”). Anyway, I figured I would use today’s post to hopefully get some help from my fellow bloggers.

Here’s the thing – as most of you know, it is my desire to eventually get TBOTE published. And since this little project has snowballed thanks to my loyal readers (and several new ones) who make sure I don’t just STOP writing mid-story (as I have tended to do when writing anything strictly for myself), I really think it could happen. So I have all these big dreams of telling off Satan and maybe not quitting work FOREVER, but possibly earning enough to take time off and find a new job – OR maybe even never “working” again and just writing as a REAL JOB. But to do that, I need to figure out just HOW this publishing game works.

So, I bought me a Writer’s Market, being the savvy author-wannabe that I am. But in looking through it, I find myself perplexed. The big publishing houses whose names I recognize do not accept unsolicited manuscripts. Also, they only deal with agents. Smaller publishing houses I have never heard of do accept unsolicited manuscripts – but is that the smart route to take? I have BIG DREAMS, people. And I wonder if my dreams can be achieved without someone big in the business backing me. If my only goal were to see my name in print, I would happily pawn my story off to anyone who asked. But see, I am too broke, too tired of struggling, and too determined to settle just for that. I want my hard work to pay off. Really, who doesn’t?

My father suggested I start submitting to publishers now – but I know that my story still has a ways to go. And if by some fluke a house says “Cool, we love this – send us the rest now” I’d be screwed. (Although I recall a show from several years ago with Tony Shaloub as a writer and Neil Patrick Harris as his editor – and boy, did Doogie help Monk get his writing done! And he made Monk’s books flow better, too. I think I may need a Doogie.)

So, do y’all get what I’m asking?? WHAT DO I DO?? Agent, publisher, nothing at all… Do I start looking before the finished product or after? How do I approach these people? Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated. In the meantime, I will reward you for reading about my dilemma with this little tease…

I spent the night in the hospital with Kevin never leaving my side. In the morning, we were visited by a detective from the Reno PD.

“Based on the information you provided, we were able to do a door-to-door at the apartment complex you remembered being at,” he began.

I could feel my heart racing as Kevin squeezed my hand.

“We think we got the guy.”

That’s it! For today, at least. You can read the next chapter in its entirety sometime tomorrow. See you then!

Title of Distinction

So last night I got a call from my favorite (well, only) brother. Seems he thought I may be interested in being a Godmother. HELLO?? Are you KIDDING me? OF COURSE!! I was totally shocked and thrilled, shocked because Sarah has a sister, who I naturally assumed would be the Godmother. So I wasn't expecting this honor at all. But as it turns out, they are having two Godmothers and no Godfather. Ha! I told him that seems to go along with tradition in our family, since Lexie really has only a Godfather (him) and no Godmother, since I no longer speak to the girl who originally had that privilege. So anyway, I am very happy and excited. Of course, this means I will have to attend CHURCH - which is not one of my favorite things, but for my GODSON I will do pretty much anything. Lexie's take on the whole Godparent thing is that if anything happens to the real parents, the Godparent steps in. So she asked who would take Erik if (God forbid) anything happened to Bob and Sarah. I told her that if he was a pleasant wonderful child, we would, of course, but if he was a brat then Katie and Luke could have him. She thought that was pretty funny. But I was totally serious. Although I can't see him EVER being a brat at this moment - just LOOK at him! Perfect, perfect perfect.
In the meantime, I thank you for all your support regarding the stupid ISATs. I passed on some of your wisdom to Lexie, and actually, she really took it in. She said that the test wasn't as bad as she thought it might be, hopefully that feeling will continue for the rest of the week. So the test wasn't high on her worry list - it seems she has a new worry. She called me when she got home from school (as usual) and informed me that our new neighbor got "a catalog" in the mail that she "couldn't HELP but notice." Yeah, so? "MOM, it was a VICTORIA'S SECRET catalog! What, is he a PERVERT or something??" I told her to stop looking at other people's mail, even if it was out in the open, and don't talk to me about perverts until after she starts her "Family Living" course at school. "Oh, yeah, mom - that starts Monday." Perfect. I bet next week I'll have plenty to blog about.

How about I leave you with what is without question the SWEETEST picture in the whole world? Just to clarify: this is my angelic daughter and my perfect GODSON. (Ha! I love saying that!!)

Above Average

Today starts the fun tradition of standardized testing at Lexie’s school. And she is terrified. The poor thing actually got herself physically sick yesterday, to the point where she couldn’t eat because her stomach was bothering her so much. And the whole thing drives me crazy.

I tried talking to her, explaining that these tests had no effect on her report card, and that she should just do her best and not worry so much. That she was a smart girl, and that she shouldn’t second-guess her intelligence or feel “not good enough” if she has trouble on any of them. Her pretty little face scrunched up in concertation when she asked me if they would hold her back a grade if she failed. I wanted to scream, not at her, but at the system… but instead I scoffed. “Absolutely not! These tests mean NOTHING.” I told her confidently. “Then why do they make us take them?” she asked sincerely. I thought for a minute. Good question, really. But then I came up with the answer.

“Because they need to see how well the school is doing.”

She looked at me quizzically.

“See, if you don’t do well, it means the teacher isn’t teaching you well enough. So it’s all HER fault, not yours.”

Ok, so it probably isn’t really true, but it made her feel better. And stop worrying so much.

But I hear where my girl is coming from. Those stupid tests never made any sense to me. Although I always seemed to ace them. But what, really, did they prove? I know plenty of really intelligent people who stress out completely at the thought of any form of “standardized test.” The fear of failure and inadequacy looms while the clock ticks mercilessly. Minds go blank, and paranoia replaces logic. The thought that my ten-year-old has to deal with these feelings, even for just a week, kills me.

It seems like lately Lexie has been much more aware of the grouping system present in most schools in the world. She informed me the other day that she knew she would be in no classes with any of her three best friends when they got to junior high. I told her that there was no way she could know that for sure, but that since the junior high was a much bigger school, she may well be right. But she shook her head sadly and said, “No, it’s because they will be in all the smart kid’s classes, and I won’t.”

Jump back. My daughter routinely came home with A’s and B’s, maybe the occasional C. And to me, THAT was smart. Her teachers praised her work, and her effort is exemplary. “Why would you say something like that?” I asked her. “YOU are VERY smart!”

“But I don’t get straight A’s,” she said matter-of-factly. “Alex told us that in junior high if you get straight A’s you take special classes. Kara, Rachel and Christina all do. I don’t.”

Honors classes. I should’ve known. The curse of upper education. Stressful whether you take them or not. As I well knew, if you were assigned to Honors classes, you were pressured that much more to do well, because you were EXPECTED to. No excuses. And as my Lexie was realizing, if you WEREN’T, you felt “not good enough.”

“I’m sure they don’t ALL get straight A’s,” I ventured.

“Yes, they do, I’ve seen their report cards.”

I sighed. “Look, Lex, that doesn’t mean anything. Straight A’s aren’t the most important thing. You’re grades are EXCELLENT. I am so proud of you! You work hard, and you do well, and that is what is important. You are a great student, and a smart girl, and none of them are any better than you just because of their grades.”

She shrugged noncommittally. “Whatever.”

I wanted to scream. Why does society have to put so much emphasis on people being “better than?” And who, really, decides how this hierarchy works? Although I can remember in grammar school being just as brainwashed as my daughter is now.

Back when I was in school, they system was much more cavalier about “the smart groups” and “the dumb groups.” They didn’t worry about kid’s feelings or self-esteem. They deliberately put kids in one of four different groups, going from most intelligent to least intelligent, based on (what else?) standardized testing and general grades. I was in Group One all eight years of grammar school – with the exception of one day that I will never forget.

In third grade, I was having difficulty with multiplication. I got the concept, but I had no discipline when it came to memorization. Therefore, on our first multiplication test, I failed. Seeing all the red checkmarks bloodying my paper was traumatic enough, but then I was informed I was to be moved to Group Two. The SECOND smartest kids. At the tender age of 8, I was being told that I was no longer as smart as I had thought, that I wasn’t “good enough.” So for the rest of that afternoon, I worked with Group Two. With teary eyes, I sat through the day, hating Group Two. Not because of the kids themselves, but because of what I was taught they represented: second best. That night, I sat in my parents’ bedroom for four hours and studied. Then next day, I aced the multiplication test and was put back in Group One – where I belonged.

Looking back, it makes my stomach churn. What kind of school system teaches kids that they belong in certain “groups?” That they can never improve? Because for the entire eight years, all the groups remained the same. And the funny thing is, being in Group One means nothing to me now. I’m a paralegal in a job I hate. But Group Two… The “second smartest” group showed us all. Out of the kids in Group Two, there are two highly successful attorneys, an ob/gyn and a pediatrician. Group One? I have no idea. But I doubt the status of “Group One” means as much nowadays to any of us.

I don’t want my daughter to feel “less than.” I don’t care if the system says she’s “average.” Because I don’t think she is. In fact, I think she is anything BUT average. I think my daughter has a good heart, and a loving nature, and a sense of humor, and more intelligence than even SHE realizes. I think she is a hard worker who gets frustrated at times, but who needs ENCOURAGEMENT, not disdain. I hope to God that my daughter listens to ME, and not “the system” when she feels inadequate. Because I know that someday she is going to show them all.

But for now, I just hope she makes it through the ISATs without throwing up.

Happy Monday

So today I just thought I would share a few random things with you. First of all, I found Tandy on Saturday night!! I was very excited, and told him that I had been looking for him forever. He laughed at me, and said he never went anywhere. I wasn't sure whether or not to tell him I put him on this blog, since I didn't know if he would appreciate it. But then I did, and he actually thought it was pretty funny. I told him I was so relieved to see him again, and kept thinking to myself how glad I was he wasn't really dead, like I had started to think. We chatted for a while, AND THEN I WOKE UP. Yes, folks, another realistic yet annoying as hell dream. I swear to God, if I ever DO really find him, in this life or in the afterlife, I am certainly going to tell him off for driving me so utterly insane.

I saw "Wicked" on Saturday with my mother - loved it, loved it, LOVED IT. Lexie would too, I thought, until she informed me she barely remembered "The Wizard of Oz." How can a child "barely remember" "The Wizard of Oz," I ask you? Pathetic! Then again, I guess kids today have other choices as far as tv goes. My generation saw that movie AT LEAST once a year, sometimes twice. Nowadays with VCRs and DVDs and tivo and cable, kids don't have to "settle," I guess. Which is actually kind of sad. But I tell you what, we sat down and watched it together on Sunday afternoon (I have the VHS tape) and it was really fun watching my daughter watching the movie. Even though she remembered bits and pieces, it was all pretty new to her again, and seeing the look on her ten-year-old face throughout the movie was awesome. So the next step is to try to find cheap "Wicked" tickets so I can take her to see that.

Last night we watched the Oscars, along with most of the world, I am assuming. Although there were some humorous parts during the award show, I think the funniest at OUR house was when Dolly Parton was singing her song and Lexie turned to me all wide eyed and innocent and asked, "Ok, so now what exactly is the difference between Dolly Parton and Dali Lama?" It took me a few minutes to compose myself and wipe the tears of laughter away before I told her that was a good question to ask her Uncle Bob. Which we did - and of course, his answer was dead-on: "Dolly Parton is only a goddess to the country music world." I knew my bro wouldn't let me down on that one! See, it's fun having kids. They can be very entertaining at times. Another recent question from Lexie to my mom also had me in hysterics: "Grandma, how old were you when the Titanic sank?" Of course, my mom didn't think that one was too funny.

Thank you all for your comments on "TBOTE," by the way. It's nice also to see some new commenters. I'm going to try my best to get more chapters done more often - because I still have a ways to go before I am anywhere NEAR finished, so I may even sometimes write a chapter AND a regular post. MAYBE. Don't hold me to that - right now, Satan isn't here, I'm alone in the office and I'm in a good mood, so I'm feeling more ambitious than usual at this precise moment. But that can change. Anyhoo, hope everyone else had a good weekend, and who knows? Maybe I'll even be back later.

(What? I said "MAYBE!")

The Beginning of the End, Part 23

When I finally came to, I groggily looked around. I was still in the same room – but I was now alone. Fear clutched at my heart as I realized that the “party” was still going on outside the door. There was still music and laughter, as if no one even cared what had happened. Was he out there? Or did he leave? Was he coming back? And the one question that would haunt me for the rest of my life: Why did Jesus leave me?

My head hurt and my eyes burned from the tears I had cried in panic and desperation and pain. I sat up, and felt the room spin. I had no idea what time it was, or for how long I had been left there. I felt dirty and used and more scared than I had ever felt in my life. My body ached and I wasn’t even sure my shaky legs would carry me out of this nightmare, but I knew I had to give it a try. The tears rolled again as I fixed my clothes with shaking hands and bile crept up into my throat. I swallowed it back, though, because there was no way I was going to get sick again now. I had to get out.

I didn’t have my coat, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was escape. I wanted to go home, back to Kevin, I wanted to cry and have him comfort me and I wanted to shower and sleep and forget. But somehow I knew I never would forget.

I slowly inched my way to the door of the room, crawling on all fours and wincing with every movement. The door wasn’t shut tightly, and through the crack I could see that there were still several people hanging around. I didn’t see Jesus, and I didn’t see him. What I did see was a door leading outside.

My heart pounded and I tried to take deep breaths as I prepared to bolt. It was only about fifty feet away, and if I played my cards right, the remaining people wouldn’t even see me. I carefully opened the door further and further until I was able to quietly slip through. Then, I ran.

I ran for the door that led to my salvation. I ran and with hands trembling violently I turned the lock and opened the door. It was light outside, and it caught me by surprise. I squinted against the sun and paused for only a second before finding my bearings. I still wasn’t sure who was still in the apartment, or if anyone would be coming after me. I realized I was on a second floor landing, and scurried down the stairs and as far from the apartment as I could get. I was disoriented, verging on hysteria, and ran down strange streets looking for something that looked familiar.

It was cold, and I had no coat, and I wanted to just collapse and cry and give up. But I also wanted to make that bastard pay. I frantically looked around for a phone, and finally saw one at a convenience store. I reached the phone, and punched in 911. When the operator answered, I started sobbing with relief. “Help me,” I cried. “I’ve been raped.”

The voice on the other end of the phone was professional, yet soothing. I was able to tell her the name of the convenience store I was near, as well as the street signs. She told me that help was on the way, and to stay on the phone until the police arrived. When the squad pulled up, and the officers exited and approached me, I passed the phone to one of the officers. I could only imagine how I must have looked, and I was embarrassed and ashamed and hung my head as the other officer wrapped me in a blanket and led me to the car.

It was warm inside, but I couldn’t stop shaking as he asked me questions and filled out his report. I tried as best I could to remember the details, but the truth was I was drunk, and scared, and probably still a little in shock. I could sense his frustration as I repeated more often than not “I don’t know.” When I was asked to show them where this had occurred, I tried as best I could to retrace my steps back to the scene of my nightmare. After a couple wrong turns, I located the right building, but I couldn’t remember the unit number. Hell, I didn’t even notice a number at the time, and told them as much. All I could say for sure was that it was on the second floor, but that still left about twenty different units.

Finally the questions stopped, and I was taken to the emergency room of the local hospital. The police had asked me who they could contact for me, and I told them in a sad whisper, “My boyfriend. Please find Kevin.” I explained that we were living in a motel with no phone, and tried to ignore their judgmental looks as they wrote down the name and room number. I watched them leave after talking to some of the nurses, and I only hoped that for once Kevin wasn’t partying.

The bright lights of the hospital exam room washed over me, and had apparently made the injuries to my face even more noticeable. I was brought a gown and a nurse helped me change, and my clothes were whisked away as evidence to the crime. Photographs were taken of my bruised cheeks and nose, my cut and swollen lip, my inner thighs. I made myself float away during the exam, and imagined it wasn’t even happening. I closed my eyes and did as I was told, but convinced myself it wasn’t me. I was fine. I was ok. I suddenly found myself strangely calm and was even able to doze off for a few minutes when the doctor left.

When I opened my eyes, I saw Kevin. He was standing over me anxiously, and I smiled at the sight of his familiar face. God, I was glad to see him.

“Are you ok?” he asked.

“I’m ok,” I assured him.

His eyes teared up. I had never seen him cry before. “Who did this?” he asked.

“I don’t know his name,” I replied with a sigh. “But Jesus wouldn’t even help me.”

His face contorted into a mixture of rage and despair. “Jesus was there? That little prick was there? Did he… Did he…?” he couldn’t seem to say the words.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “He didn’t. He walked in, I yelled to him… and he left. He just left.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I shouldn’t have let you go alone,” he said, and I saw real regret in his blue eyes. And I knew that it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t his fault. And it wasn’t mine, either. What did matter was that he was here now.

I smiled at him. “It’s ok, Kev. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said, and I knew without a doubt that he did.

Soooo Tired

It’s happening again. Satan has used his powers of evil to beat me down, to treat me like a f***ing six-year-old, to make my face flush hotly and the tears threaten to spill out of frustration and anger, to make me feel stupid. He’s very good at what he does, I have to give him that much. Never mind that I busted my ass making a spreadsheet to show exactly how a certain quack is defrauding our office and the insurance company (“Why would you do something like this? Next time, ASK me before just ASSUMING!”). Of course, he WANTED me to get all the info and give it to him. Which I did, and tried to make it simpler to understand by making the spreadsheet. But that is NOT what I am here do. Unless, of course, I DID just give him all the info, THEN I’m SURE he would’ve wanted the spreadsheet.

And I had a helluva morning rushing around and trying to get an errand out of the way before work. To my dismay, the gods of the grocery store were NOT on my side, and I wound up running late for work. Which I never am. In fact, I am usually a good 15 minutes early. In stark contrast to my coworker M (who I love dearly and really don’t care what she does) who is routinely 10 to 20 minutes late every day. But you see, Satan usually comes in later in the morning – at the earliest around 9:00. We are supposed to be in at 8:30. So he has no idea of M’s indiscretions – or MY early bird tendencies, obviously, since when I practically ran in at 8:43 (and saw M sitting at her desk – on time for once), I was immediately summoned to the office from Hell. “You DO realize that you need to be ON TIME for work…?” Deep breaths. Deep breaths. “Yes, and I apologize for running late today. Which is not normal for me, since I am usually here by AT THE LATEST 8:15 every morning, you can ask the girls in reception.” And I walked out, back to my desk. Mini point for me, I guess, but I was still pissed.

Then I got to be the brunt of the old “Why are you sending this lien to so-and-so? Are we suing THEM?” game. I’m swamped with work, trying to organize myself, and to be honest, I was drawing a blank. “We sent the liens out to all the people on the sheet the last time,” I demurred, uncertain how to respond. Rolling of eyes. Disgusted lowering of arm holding offending lien. “Look, I KNOW you know this… When we SEND a LIEN to a CORPORATION, we send it to…” trailing off the sentence, talking to me like a f***ing second grader. I am 37 years old, thank you very much, and I don’t have time for your stupid demoralizing games. Just TELL me who you want it sent to, and I’ll send the damn thing. “The president of the company?” I venture a guess. SIGH. “NO, Dasi, we DON’T. Try again.” I am so busy trying to keep my head from exploding that I am afraid to open my mouth. “The registered AGENT…?” he says snidely, dropping the papers on my desk, shaking his head and walking away. Yes, dear readers, I am a complete and utter idiot. I am apparently too stupid to even do my job properly.

Here’s the thing – I am starting to believe his poison. I am really starting to think that I AM stupid, that I AM worthless, and that I deserve to be talked down to on a regular basis. I am struggling every day both at home and at work, and the self-esteem bashing is effecting my personal life too. I am yelling at my poor daughter for no reason other than frustration (albeit apologizing immediately after), I am stressing over finances yet keep on spending (but in my defense, mostly on necessities like oh, I don’t know, FOOD and UTILITIES and MORTGAGE…) while the Loser laughs away in Florida spending the $35K in back support he owes Lex, not to mention the current support he isn’t paying, and I am starting to seriously wonder what the point of life is, anyway… It’s the same old ugly routine day after day, work, sleep, work, sleep… even supposedly enjoyable things are no longer enjoyable, because all I can think about is the fact that soon the day will be over and I’ll have to go back to work.

The most pathetic thing about all of this? I brought it all on myself. Not to brag, but I KNOW I am a highly intelligent person. I have a near genius IQ and was an honor roll student in AP classes my whole life. But I made stupid (emphasis, again: STUPID) decisions that basically screwed up my whole life. The first was goofing off in a Big Ten college and not even finishing the first year. The rest are chronicled in TBOTE. In any case, I think the thing that pisses me off most is that I should be the damn LAWYER. Not the paralegal who is there to bow and scrape and kiss ass. I should be making ten times more money and have people working for ME. But I messed up – and I’ll be paying for it forever.

Three weeks and he leaves for vacation. To Paris – and I understand there are still a lot of bad things happening there. Now, I would NEVER wish harm on another human being, but in this case… No, I won’t even stoop to that level. I’ll be happy enough with him out of the country for two and a half weeks.

I apologize for the pity party, and if you got to this part, I thank you for letting me vent. I just… I don’t know. That’s the thing – I just don’t know anymore. About anything. I’m just sick and tired of being sick and tired. And I don’t even do drugs anymore – go figure. Hopefully this too shall pass – I’m just hoping that happens sooner rather than later.

The Nose Knows

When I quit smoking a little over two years ago, a strange phenomena occurred. My sense of smell gradually became as sharp as a bloodhound’s. Seriously. I honestly think I may very well be able to find someone strictly by sense of smell. Well, ok, maybe not REALLY, but sometimes that’s how sensitive my nose seems to me.

Initially, it wasn’t that big of a deal. I already had read that when you quit smoking, your senses of both taste and smell improve dramatically. So I actually started testing that theory by sniffing the air or the laundry or whatever was sniffable to see if that little tidbit of information was correct. Turns out, it was. I kind of thought it was pretty neat that I could smell things I didn’t notice before, like very subtle cologne or the hint of garlic from the restaurant I was passing.

Unfortunately, as time went on, I swear to God my olfactory drive went on OVERdrive. In doing a little additional research, I found out that most women have a better sense of smell than men. So now I had two contributing factors in this issue. Maybe if I was a MAN, my newfound smell-o-meter wouldn’t be as distracting.

Because it is DRIVING ME CRAZY. I have already regaled you with the tale of the curry neighbors. Bad enough. But I can ALSO smell what the NEW neighbor downstairs is cooking. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but it usually smells burnt. Which is really no surprise, since he is a young single guy and I am actually surprised he cooks at all. But like the curry, the burnt-cooking smell permeates into my condo. At least – I think so. My daughter, not so much. We go through this routine: “Do you smell that??” “What, mom?” “That SMELL! They’re COOKING again! Is the downstairs door open?? CAN’T YOU SMELL IT??” At which point, Lexie gets up and opens our front door, fully letting in the maliferous odor. “AAAARRRGGHHHH!! I TOLD YOU!” Then she dutifully goes downstairs and opens the outside door and props it open with the stuffed cow doorstop. (Don’t ask, it’s been there since we moved in.) Once the outside door is opened and Lexie slams our front door, the ritual begins. First, I spray air freshener. Which only masks the cooking smell, and sometimes just makes it worse. So, I proceed to light the eighteen (yes, EIGHTEEN) scented candles while refusing to breathe through my nose. After about ten minutes, I will carefully attempt to breathe again nasally, and usually the scent at this point is a pleasant one of lilac blossom candles, and Glade Spring Sensation candles, and Wal-mart rose candles and a big three wick blue candle Lexie thought was pretty and smells very nice. Our house then LOOKS very pretty too, with the not-so-subtle eighteen-candle-glow, and the only problem we have then is kitties walking around swishing their tails by the flames. We watch them very carefully, because I am pretty sure the smell of cats on fire would be worse than that of either burnt dinner OR curry.

I also am manic about having my Glade plug-ins. And my air-freshening toilet roll dispenser. And the Arm&Hammer litter box deodorizer that I add every day to the litter box, even when it APPEARS clean and odor-free. I won’t buy shampoo unless it smells pretty. Same for body wash. In fact, I prefer Bath & Body Works body washes because they smell so pretty. With matching body sprays.

I have been awakened in the middle of the night by the smell of a skunk somewhere outside when I keep my window open in the spring or summer. I kid you not. I WAKE UP TO BAD SMELLS. And then I have a HELL of a time getting back to sleep – partially because I need to freshen the air again before I even attempt it.

As I mentioned, all of this started happening when I quit smoking – so guess which smell now bothers me MOST?? TIME’S UP!! Yes, people, the smell of cigarette smoke can literally bring on waves of nausea. Which is a big problem since my mom still smokes. Now, I know from being an ex-smoker that when you smoke, you truly cannot smell any of the cigarette smoke lingering in your home, on your clothes, in your car, or even simply in the air around you as you puff away. You are blissfully ignorant of that God-awful smell. BUT I AM NOT. Every time I go to my mom’s, when I get home I literally change my clothes and make Lexie change clothes and throw the stinky cigarette clothes DIRECTLY into the wash. And spray a healthy dose of Febreeze on our coats. Oh, and? Shower. IMMEDIATELY. Because I have long, thick hair and I don’t think I have to tell you what it smells like then. I cannot believe I ever subjected people to that horrid smell and apologize PROFUSELY for all the years I did. My only defense is I honestly had no idea. I love my mom, obviously, therefore I can’t escape her habit, but I am really hoping the veiled threat my brother issued scares her into quitting. What threat, you ask? “We will not bring your new grandson into your home as long as you are smoking.” OOOOOOOOOOOH! Yes, I know, it is a cruel and drastic thing to do to your own mother, but hey, it’s THEIR kid, and I can see their point. They don’t want my precious little nephew to be a victim of secondhand smoke. Or the stinky-stink. Also? Last week at work, a client brought in a stack of like 200 papers he wanted copied and returned. This client was apparently a pretty heavy smoker, since the papers REEKED. To the point I seriously almost gagged. When I returned his originals I had to immediately wash my hands. And put on pretty smelling hand cream, of course.

On the upside of this whole thing, though is that there ARE plenty of good smells out there, too. Which I never really noticed too much before. Like the smell of rain. And that new baby smell on my nephew (which my mom probably doesn’t notice – sorry, mom!). And the cucumber-melon smell of Lexie – she is really into cucumber-melon now. And the smell of a good Italian restaurant. Or bacon – I LOVE bacon!! Oh, and? The smell of the chlorine in the pool in the summer. And the coconut smell of suntan lotion. See? There are things I LIKE to smell, too!

But as for the icky smells… well, I’ve got my candles and my sprays and worst case scenario I still have my mouth to breathe through. So – are YOU smellin’, Magellan?