The Unaccompanied Chapter

A while back I got this great idea that I could write a novel, become a famous author, and never worry about finding a job again...so I started writing. The following is not an excerpt, it's the whole shebang. I forgot about it until today, and since I'll probably never end up doing anything with it, I've decided to turn it into a blog post. I hope you enjoy it. Re-reading it made me realize that I should leave novel writing to others. I'll just keep reading them.


“Why is it that in books and movies, even the people with crappy jobs, no skills and a serious lack of cash live in apartments that in the real world would cost approximately $1500 a month?” Hanna asked her best friend Jade; fully expecting Jade would simply roll her eyes and act as if Hanna had asked a rhetorical question.

“Because a movie that takes place in a complete shit hole isn’t entertainment” was Jade’s flippant response.

“Yeah, but doesn’t it tick you off? I mean don’t people want some reality in the story, a dose of camaraderie?”

“No, people want to be entertained, and to imagine that the life they see in the movies is one they can attain. They don’t want to pay $8 to see someone living their life. They want glamour, glitz, a dream, and all that happy horseshit.”

Jade always had a colorful way of viewing things. Her carefully placed expletives made even the most mundane conversations more engaging. These were some of the reasons Hanna had dragged Jade to their favorite coffee shop for some lattes, or coffee flavored milk syrup as Hanna’s dad referred to them. She hadn’t been feeling like herself for several months now, and knew that if she continued to sit in her drab apartment longing for summer weather and a million dollars to fall into her lap she may never make it into the light of day again. Trivial conversations with Jade had seemed just the thing she needed to climb out of her funk, if even just for a couple of hours.

“You know what else bothers me? The fact that stories are always about beginnings and endings. You know what I mean? The beginning of a romance, the end of a marriage and beginning of a life in some romantic land, why doesn’t anyone write a story about the middle years? The part where you’re working your butt off, and can’t pay any bills, and your debt is slowly strangling you, and the light at the end of the tunnel is so far away that you can’t even see it-it’s just a long dark pathway. And who gives a crap about Mr. Right, who the hell has the time?”

“Are you okay?” Jade seemed finally to be catching on that Hanna was not in the best of moods, and the latte didn’t seem to be helping as much as usual.

“No…yes… I have no idea.” Hanna really didn’t. She didn’t know what to attribute her awful mood to, and nothing she had attempted so far had any effect. She had stopped listening to any music that wasn’t upbeat, she limited her movie viewing to anything with a happy ending and her casual reading was reduced to chick lit, or any book that was written for pure enjoyment-no biographies, and anything political was entirely off limits. She did however, refuse to give up sugar. If nothing else made her happy, chocolate was the one friend she had that would never let her down. Each bite was like ambrosia, and it lasted until the very last morsel had been consumed. It was a wonder she didn’t weigh 300 pounds.

“What’s eating you?”

“Good Question. Wish I new the answer.”

Wisdom of a Starry Night-Take 2

For what are you grateful?

I can't possibly list everything. I have a whole lot to be grateful for; like the fact that I live in this country (which in turn comes with lots of specific thanks), I'm healthy, I'm happy, I'm surrounded by loving and supportive friends and family, I have a roof over my head (and always have), I have food on the table, someone once upon a time discovered the magical substance we call chocolate...but I digress.

The other day The Good Guy and I attended an event (the details are irrelevant) where his daughter took the stage. She stood in front of a room full of people (many of them family and friends) and as she stood there and I watched her glowing with comfort in the love of her family, my heart grew ten sizes. Is this what it's like to be a parent? Does being a parent mean that your heart swells inside of your chest and you feel like it is going to explode inside of you with love for this little person? I was teary, it was like an epiphany...not that I love this little girl (because that's nothing new), but that its so damn powerful. I had to stop looking at her because I would have been blubbering in front of lots of people (who would have thought it was for totally different reasons).

The Good Guy and I have discussed on many occasions what my role is in the lives of his children. He refers to me as a parent, and I have been uncomfortable with that term. I have always treaded lightly in that arena, as I don't want anyone to get the impression that I am trying to replace the children's mother. Though I'm not a big fan of many of her choices, I respect that the she does indeed love her children very much, and I don't want anyone to feel that I have a desire to threaten that bond-I truly do not. When Mother's Day rolled around this year, J (who is a mother of 2) sent me a text message wishing me a happy Mother's Day. When I responded that I'm not a mother, she said that there isn't a day honoring "daddy's girlfriend who holds my hair when I'm throwing up, and loves me and takes great care of me" so Mother's day is for me too. (Isn't she great? Talk about supportive friends and family!)

As I sat in that room, holding back tears, wanting to run up and wrap that beautiful little girl in my arms, tell her how much I love and support her, I made a decision...The Good Guy can call me a parent. My being termed 'parent' to that little girl (and her brother) threatens nobody. I am one more person who loves and cares about both of those kids unconditionally, and that shouldn't be threatening to anyone. They come to me when they're upset and need comfort, they share with me when they're excited, they learn ways to annoy their sibling from me, I hold hair and rub backs when stomach bugs attack, I know how they like their waffles, they want me to attend their important events, they give me random hugs and kisses, they know I'll do my darndest to make them happy...if that's not parenting, then what is?

I am grateful for the opportunity to share in the lives of those kids. I am grateful that I am capable of giving and receiving so much love. I am grateful that I have been influenced by a variety of people who have demonstrated how to love by loving me.

I am grateful that angry and venomous anonymous comments have no bearing in reality, and simply validate the lunacy and irrelevance of the person writing them ;-) yes, I know you stop by, and it matters not.

Creative Minds Unite!

Ok, not a lot of people read my blog, but I am familiar with the written work of the few who do, and I know that you all have exceptionally imaginative and poetic minds...I need your creative help.

This is a pencil drawing that I'm working on. The image of the girl is my rendition of a beautiful photograph I found on a greeting card. However, the background on the greeting card isn't something I want to recreate.

The problem: My creative juices seem to have run dry. I can't for the life of me decide what this little girl in her nightgown is witnessing/heading towards/gawking at. I considered laundry hung to dry and raspberry bushes, but both seemed so...dull.

So, my request of my loyal and ever helpful readers, is: "What is this little girl standing in front of?" Be creative! Have fun with it! Help me PLEASE!

The Wisdom of a Starry Night-Take 1

With whom would you like to reconnect?

Several Posts ago I mentioned purchasing a book entitled, "The Wisdom of a Starry Night", a book that combines works of art with introspective questions. This is the painting shown with the question, it is titled, "Postcard" and the artist's name is Fernand Leger.

The answer to the above question is the first I would like to unearth.

My father's second wife was the woman I called step-mother for the majority of my childhood. Her name was/is Michele, but she always went by the nickname Mickey. My father is currently on his third marriage (and I hope for him that the third time's a charm).

My relationship with Mickey was complex. My mother is a good woman, but she was bitter for many years towards both my father and my step-mother. It was no secret to me that my mother loathed them both. I loved and respected both of my parents, but I suffered the same struggle that I believe many children with step-parents experience; I didn't know how to love someone that my parent despised without feeling as though I was betraying my loyalty.

Mickey was an interesting woman, and very unlike my mother. My current capacity as pseudo-parent (possibly future step-parent) to The Good Guy's children has left me on many occasions ruminating about my relationship with Mickey. I've considered what she offered me, I wonder where she is now, and I regret that she isn't around any longer. I am remorseful that when she and my father divorced I wasn't receptive to her attempts at maintaining a relationship with me. I can't change the past, but perhaps I can pay homage to a woman who had a significant influence in my becoming the person I am today. Only now, as an adult, can I fully appreciate all that she offered, how hard she tried, and the difficult road she traveled prior to becoming my step-mother.

Mickey and her two sisters spent their childhood being bounced around in foster care. I don't recall the circumstances that lead them to this fate, perhaps she never told me, as it was too awful to share with a child. She shared with me the following story and it haunted me for years. It gave me a sense of how far she had come, and how many obstacles she had conquered. I fear that this experience was one of many, and one of the few G-rated enough to share with a child. As she explained, there wasn't much regulation in place to protect foster kids when she was a child. Many foster parents took on their foster charges simply for the small monetary stipend. One such man allowed Mickey and her sisters to use one lone square of toilet paper each time they used the restroom. He would stand outside of the bathroom door, and they weren't permitted to flush until he determined that only one square had been consumed.

As an adult Mickey maintained a close relationship with one sister, the other I believe was lost to her within the child welfare system.

Mickey had a husband prior to marrying my father. She also had children, but her ex-husband gained custody of the children, and kept her from seeing them. My mother commented that a mother had to be REALLY bad to lose custody of her children in the day and age when Mickey did so. I was never privy to the particulars, but I can't help but wonder how on earth Mickey could have been a good parent, as she never truly experienced a loving dependable attachment to a parent.

Despite all of this, Mickey was a classy lady. She was creative, articulate, confident, and dependable. She was an excellent cook. To this day her twice-baked potatoes, macaroni salad, and blueberry pie have been unmatched by any others I have tasted. She loved to garden, and her backyard was always landscaped elegantly. Her Christmas wrapping and decorating were things of beauty, and to this day I strive to match her expertise. She kept a near immaculate home, and I don't ever recall hearing her complain about housework. I am well aware that she did the gift shopping for my birthdays and for Christmas. Though I hated her fashion sense (and the 'girly' clothes she insisted on purchasing for her tomboy step-daughter), I realized that she had done all of the work in choosing and wrapping the gifts labeled: From Dad and Mickey.

From Mickey I learned how to decorate a home, how to make a home homey, how to appreciate art, how to relax and enjoy a good book, that I like James Taylor, how to make faces in the sand at the beach, that a dog should be well trained, that confidence is attractive, and that a step-mother isn't always personified by Cinderella's step-monster.

I believe I was about fourteen years of age when my father sat down with his parents and myself to inform us that he and Mickey were divorcing. I remember being furious that he didn't tell me in private. I also recall that I couldn't name any single emotion amongst those whirling within the funnel cloud of confusion. I hadn't had the slightest indication that this had been coming, and was caught totally unaware.

Mickey tried to maintain communication with me, but I was a teenager and even my mother (with whom I resided) had a difficult time fitting into my social calendar. Splitting time between friends and two parents was tricky enough, so Mickey and I lost contact.

I am truly sorry for this. I could sure use her expertise in the step-parenting arena. Advice from someone who has been in the trenches would be extremely helpful on some days. However, I think the most resounding reason that I regret not maintaining contact is that I think she deserves thanks; a thanks she never received from me because I was too young to understand all that she offered. Now, I'm not delusional, or idealistic, the woman wasn't perfect (who is?) But at the very least, she should know that I now recognize all that she did, and all she attempted to do. I have no doubt that she cared about me, that she helped make my second home as important as my first, and that she made my childhood more full just by being around, and offering me a bit of herself.

Just.Don't.Think.About.It!

The weather in my little corner of the country has been total crap lately, but today we had a reprieve. The sun was out, and the temperature and humidity were both tolerable (a rarity this time of year in my neck of the woods) . It was a good day to be outside, which worked out well since I assisted my aunt in weeding and spreading mulch for several hours this morning and afternoon.

She has started her own gardening business, and I help out once in a while when she needs an extra pair of hands. I'll spare you the details, but the woman is ALWAYS late. The circumstances are unforseen every time, but you can count on 3 things in life, death, taxes, and my aunt will always be later than she counted on. Today we started a mere hour and a half later than originally planned.

Whatever...that's not the reason for this post, it simply had to be mentioned.

Here's the reason for this post:

The house we worked on today is approximately 30 minutes away from my apartment. I had to depart earlier than my aunt so that I could drive home and shower the stink off in order to wait tables.

I drove the thirty minutes back to my town, stopped at the drug store, and then went home. When I got home I went into the bathroom. (I'm sure that at this point you're wondering why you're getting a blow-by-blow account of my day, but hang in there, I think it's worth it). I started taking my clothes off and putting them in a pile on the floor (they were filthy, I was going to take a shower, and no-this isn't going where you think it's going!).

As I was getting ready to hop into the shower I noticed something emerging out of the pile of clothes.

Something BIG.

It was a cricket! Not just a baby cricket, we're talking a full grown (freight train sized) adult cricket-came out of my clothes! I had a stow-away cricket in my drawers for at LEAST 40 minutes.

Just to re-cap: A CRICKET was in my pants and I was oblivious!

I hate bugs. I also hate to kill them (or anything for that matter). So I spent the next several minutes dancing around the bathroom (half naked) trying not to think about where the cricket had been for the last hour, and cogitating on how I was going to remove it from the bathroom. I was afraid that if I left the room, it would hide, and then I would never find it-ohmyGOD! So I ran to the kitchen, grabbed one of the kid's cups (it has a lid) and ran back to the bathroom. I caught the savage beast, but the top didn't fit (I grabbed the wrong lid), therefore, I couldn't set the cup down for fear I would lose my prey.

I then held the cup in one hand, contemplated my next move (I had the cricket but I was still half-naked), then proceeded to dress, one-handed (into CLEAN clothes), and went outside to set the cricket free into the wild.

Happy ending?

Yeah, as long as I don't spend too much time pondering where exactly that big-ass bug was hiding all that time. If I think about the fact that a HUMUNGOUS bug was on me for all that time, I can't help but wonder how many small insects (like SPIDERS AAARGH!) found their way into my clothing. If I think about that, I am left wondering...where are they NOW? What about the bugs I didn't notice crawling out of my clothes because I was focused on the cricket?! Are they in my BED now?

If I keep thinking like this...I will never leave the house again. It's a dangerous, bug infested world out there, and I don't have what it takes to stay sane while I am COVERED in insects.

So, I've resigned to just.not.think.about.it.

When This Expensive Education Pays Off.

Today I was grocery shopping, pinching pennies, counting the monetary value of items in my basket, going over my list and deciding which items I can do without this week in order to stay within my tight budget, when I walked by Regina Something-Or-Other. Regina and I graduated in the same high school class (class of 1995 *gasp*). I didn't really like her. She was somewhat snobby, clearly from a family that had money, and couldn't be bothered with classmates who didn't fit into her social and scholarly clique (the one with all of the wealthy honors students, the privileged few who could concentrate on their school work because they didn't have to work after school instead of concentrating on homework). However, in her defense, she wasn't ever awful either. She was just, well…snobby blah.

Neither of us acknowledged that we recognized the other, even when we ran into each other for the second time in the parking lot. Our cars were parked next to each other, and apparently we departed at the same time (what are the friggin' odds?).

Her car- A brand new black Volkswagen Jetta.

My car- A 1997 two door Toyota Tercel with a garbage bag on the driver's seat to catch the rain seeping through the leaky moon-roof (I've never had enough spare change to have it repaired). My car was sold long before keyless entry was standard (I have to use the KEY) and in order to get the window up or down one must use his or her arm muscles, not simply utilize a wussy finger push.

I was immediately embarrassed, and at the same time I was pissed off that I was embarrassed. Why the hell should I care about status? I'm happy damn it! I'm in love, I have a roof over my head, and overall I'm a very lucky human being. However, her shiny fancy car made me overly aware of the fact that I'm still pinching pennies. Financial woes have been at the forefront as of late, and it's a touchy subject.

My reaction to Regina's car, and my (completely ridiculous and ludicrous) fear of what she'd think of me (which is totally irrelevant to anything) made me decide that I need to make several vows to myself.

If and when I ever have an income which is sufficient to be comfortable and I have money to spare (which is different than being wealthy, but the same rules apply-except, I'd donate more to worthy causes), I vow to do the following:

1. Donate annually to NPR

2. Continue driving cars that are economical and practical. Fuel economy is at the forefront (not just for money's sake, but for our environment's sake). For instance, if I could buy any car right now-I'd buy a Toyota Prius. (However, I can't speak for The Good Guy who has had his heart set on a BMW since I met him.)

3. Purchase only organic produce, and as many fair-trade and sweat-shop free products as I can get my hands on.

4. Live in a practical home, nothing monstrous with more room than we need. Something comfortable and homey, not a home whose purpose is to make others envious of all that we have.

5. Always, always, always tip well. (I do that now and I'm poor, no problem there).

6. Never-ever shop in big-box stores. I will frequent small independently owned shops.

7. Have a compost pile and use the soil in my garden, which I will use to grow my own herbs and vegetables.

8. Not spoil the kids. With that, teach the kids that wealth doesn't equate virtue or morality. As my friend J told her son, "Some good people are poor, and some rich people are not good people, it has nothing to do with money"

9. Not have cable television. (The Good Guy will not be happy about this one. Is there a way to not have cable, and still watch baseball?)

10. Treat family and friends to dinner out, and slip my mom a twenty now and then (which she currently does for me)

11. Wear cocktail gowns and go to galas.
~Drink good wine.
~Have elegant dinner parties in a dining room decorated with elaborate place settings and fresh flowers.
~Have a stocked liquor cabinet-plenty of Jamesons, Tequila, Bailey's, Frangelico, (and Malibu-also known as 'sunscreen with alcohol' for you J. *bleck*)
~Dress fashionably.
~Give the Good Guy all the kitchen gadgets he asks for.
~Never forget that once upon a time I couldn't do these things.

And, although this is petty, and I shouldn't even add the following sentiment, I must say: I'm skinnier than Regina Something-Or-Other. HA!

Hey-I'm only human, and sometimes I'm a little petty.

If you learn to speak correct English, whom are you going to speak it to? ~Clarence Darrow

Having been in school for the last 2 years, immersed in text book and peer reviewed article hell, I haven't had much time for leisurely reading.

This summer I have decided to make up for lost time. The library has become my new intimate niche. I began with several novels in the chick-lit genre. They were entertaining, and a good way to ease myself out of the purely informational written works I have been deciphering. I have now moved on to a memoir. I was reticent at first, afraid that the transition from the predictable and humorous to meaninful and tragic would be difficult.

It wasn't. The memoir is well written and I'm captivated. (For those of you interested, it is titled The Tender Bar, the author, J.R. Moehringer.)

All of this chain-reading is stimulating the deaply burried creative writer in me. (I'm fairly certain there is one in there, however, its level of ability is certainly in question). This memoir business got me pondering, What makes a memoir readable? How does one's life story become interesting to the masses? Would my memoir be marketable? Would I want to share my life story with just anyone? Then I decided that my childhood memories are extrememly disjointed and vague. Conveying them through an organized written work would be nearly impossible (and there is still the question of entertainment value).

Then I thought-I could write chick-lit! Although, I realized shortly after this epiphany that any chick-lit I write will be a variation of my memoir. Experience (I believe) is the best material.



I have also resolved to read more classics. I have never read "The Great Gatsby", nor Dante's "Inferno", never read any Tolstoy, nor any Sylvia Plath, and I have only seen movie versions of the Bronte sisters works (though my hopes are not high after seeing Wuthering Heights-sorry TN I'll read Jane Eyre first, okay?).

Who knows? Maybe one day I will sit down and begin writing something other than a thesis, or an article review, or a blog post. I think I'll just keep blogging and reading for the time being. You know, build up my writing momentum.