Emptiness

The phone call, so unexpected. "My daughter's pregnant. Would you and your husband be interested in adopting the baby?"

I think I stammered out that we'd talk it over and call her back. I hung up the phone and turned to my husband. I'd barely gotten the words out of my mouth when he was saying, "Yes! Yes!"

In a curious little twist of fate, we were in the car, on our way to Carrabbas, where we were to meet family. It was Father's Day. We barely gave Dad time to sit down before we asked if he wanted to be a grandfather. It was one of those "duh" questions, even though he and the Monster expressed their concerns about the situation.

By the time I went to bed on Sunday night, I knew it was a girl, had picked out her name (Sophie Helene), and had begun thinking about how to decorate her room. By noon on Monday I'd allowed myself to blissfully browse the baby sections at several online stores. By the time I left work that afternoon, I'd decided on the theme (Secret Garden) and had a general idea of what we needed to pull together for the adoption.

Tuesday night Joe was panicking because we still have so much work to do on the house to get it presentable, we're still so much in debt, how can we possibly manage to pull off this adoption in three months--and do we even know she's pregnant?

Well, no, but all indications point to her being about 5 months along, and I couldn't live with myself if we didn't at least try.

I cried myself to sleep that night, praying that if we were going to be unable to make this miracle happen, that we'd find out right away.

Wednesday I was trying to breathe amidst the worries that Joe had brought up the night before. I called my sister. "I need you." She took a long lunch and drove out from Arlington and we went to Don Pablos and talked about babies and adoption over cheese enchiladas and hot sauce.

About half an hour after I returned to the office from that lunch break, my phone rang again. The pregnancy test was negative, and there's no baby.

I was surprisingly upbeat as I notified the few people I'd talked to about it. It's better this way; we're older, set in our ways, have too much debt and too many things to pull together to try to adopt right now.

And that night I cried myself to sleep. And the next day any time anyone looked at me, I cried. And every time I saw the books on adoption that I'd optimistically checked out from the library on Tuesday, I cried.

Sophie was only in my head the whole time, but she was so real, and now she's gone. Every day as I wander through my office, passing out credit reports to the collectors, I see the pictures of their children taped up in their cubes and I feel so empty. The only pictures I have of my twins are photocopied photos of the fertilized embryos that were transferred to my womb a few days before they died. And the only picture I have of Sophie is a mental image of a misty green bedroom with pink and green bedding, white lattice around the walls with ivy and flowers woven in, and quaint Kate Greenaway pictures on the wall, and a tiny brown-skinned girl with enormous brown eyes and her small brown fingers tightly clasping my finger.

The Scheherazade Project

This week's assignment was to write about someone who stole something she didn't need. I wandered off into the melodramatic here. Bear in mind that writing short stories is not my forte, and be merciful!

Jana looked furtively around her, checking to be sure no one was watching as she slipped the can of formula into the Winnie-the-Pooh diaper bag she was carrying. She meandered slowly down the aisle of the grocery store, ostentatiously checking the prices of the various baby bottles and binkies or reading the list of ingredients in the jarred baby food. Every now and then her hand would surreptitiously slide another item into the capacious diaper bag while Jana checked her grocery list.

After leaving the baby aisle, Jana briskly completed the rest of her grocery shopping, crossing the dog food, ground round, eggplant, and Swiss cheese off her list. She stood in line, tapped her foot in time with the music, and blushed whenever anyone smiled at her when she was caught singing along to the song.

The cashier wore a bright red name tag that proclaimed her to be Maria. She chatted cheerfully with Jana about the brand of detergent she preferred (All) and the outrageous cost of bottled water ($6.98 for a 12-pack). She hit the button to get the total, and asked if Jana had her frequent shopper card with her.

Jana shook her head, and forked over $78.64 cash for her groceries. Casting one last bright smile at Maria, she thanked the bagger and then headed out the front door. Just as she was about to go down the curbside ramp that led to the parking lot, she was stopped.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but I'm afraid I have to ask you to come with me."

Jana looked quizzically at the speaker. "I don't understand."

"I will explain inside. Please come with me."

"But I have to get home." Jana appeared to be calm, but her voice rose slightly.

"Ma'am, you don't want to do this on the curb. Please. Come inside."

She yielded, and allowed the burly man to usher her back into the store past dozens of curious faces with a few knowing glances interspersed among them.

The man opened a door, and showed Jana to a chair.

She sank into the chair, and looked up at him. "Now will you please tell me what this is all about?"

"May I see that diaper bag, please, ma'am?"

She handed it to him. "There's nothing in it but my baby's things."

He nodded. "Now may I see your receipt, please?"

She handed him the receipt.

He carefully compared the receipt with the items in her grocery bags. "You didn't pay for the items in the diaper bag."

"Well, of course not, silly!" Her brittle laugh tinkled and then smashed on the floor. "Those things were already in my diaper bag. Why would I pay for them again?"

"Where is your baby?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Where is your baby? Why did you bring the diaper bag to the store with you when you don't have the baby with you."

Jana stared at him. "I brought the diaper bag because my wallet is in it. Now may I please leave?"

"No, ma'am. A store employee saw you put these things into your bag, and they do not appear on your receipt. I'm afraid we have no choice but to call the police."

"There must be some mistake," Jana said. "I already told you, I always carry a spare can of formula, a package of diapers, some bottles, and some baby food with me. I don't understand what the problem is."

He picked up the phone. "Send Ted in, please. Thank you."

A moment later a knock sounded on the door. "Come in."

A gawky teenage boy opened the door. His acne-scarred face was hot with embarrassment, and he carefully avoided looking at Jana.

"This is Ted. Ted, tell this woman what you saw."

Ted snuck a look at Jana. "She put some formula, some diapers, bottles, and baby food in that diaper bag."

"Are you sure it was this woman?"

Ted looked at Jana again and then nodded awkwardly.

"Thank you. You may go back to work." Ted exited the room, and the man leaned back in his chair and looked appraisingly at Jana. "Ma'am, I hate to call the police. You seem like a nice lady and all, but unless you open up with me and tell me what's going on, you leave me with no choice."

"How many times do I have to tell you? I didn't steal anything, and there's nothing going on. Call the police. And call my husband, too. He'll straighten things out. His number is—aren't you going to write it down?—817-555-5283. Tell him what you told me. He'll explain everything. You'll see. It's okay."

The man sighed heavily. "Fine. I'll call your husband. And then I'm calling the police. You stay here." He got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Jana put the items back into her diaper bag, and loaded her groceries back into the cart. Humming a lullaby, she opened the door and began walking toward the front door.

"Lady, where the hell do you think you're going!"

"I have to go home and feed my baby!" she insisted, twisting away from him. "Let me go!"

"Your baby's home, alone?"

"It was only going to be for a minute. Please! I have to go!"

"I'm calling the cops," he warned.

"Fine. Just let me go now, okay?"

"Let me see your driver's license first."

She took her wallet out of the diaper bag, and slipped her license out of its protective plastic sleeve and handed it to him.

He scribbled down her name and address, and then handed her license back. "Let me tell you, lady, if it weren't for your kid being home by itself, you would be sitting back in that office in handcuffs! And don't think you're out of this thing!"

"I know, I know, but I have to go now." She shoved her license into the bag and turned to go.

"One last thing, lady. What's your baby's name?"

She stared at him mutely.

"Your baby? The one that's home by itself? What's its name?"

"Her name—" she faltered.

"What is her name?" he asked again.

"Her name was Stella," she said as she began sobbing hysterically. "Her name was Stella."

Message in a Bottle

If you’ve found this, probably the first thing you’ll want to know is why I resorted to sending a message in this fashion. The people around me don’t see me, don’t hear me, don’t notice me. I get a passing hello from people I see every day. I get lectures on finances over the phone from my husband. I check my e-mail 30 times a day to see if there is anything real there; usually there are only e-mails from people I’ve never met before asking for tips on housebreaking a dog or spam from people like Delicious Activation, who want to sell me V!@gra or V@l!um. So in a sense, it makes just as much sense to write this note, stuff it into a bottle that I will then seal and toss into the river. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. Just like Delicious Activation and the friendish person who’s trying to housebreak her new dachshund.

And maybe the next thing you want to know about me is who I am. That’s a good question. I’m not really sure how to answer it. I can tell you what I am—a wife, a sister, a daughter, a pianist, a writer, a reader, an observer. I can tell you how I feel—sleepy, headachy, depressed, lonely, empty, hungry, despairing. I think, though, that the only way you can know who I am is to study me. Watch me, observe me, hear me, listen to me, ask me, capture me.

James Barrie, in Peter Pan, wrote of the secret kiss that lay in one corner of Mrs. Darling’s mouth, the kiss that no one could claim, the kiss that maddeningly remained aloof. That kiss was there for only one person, and if he did not claim it, it would remain unclaimed. Mr. Darling kissed his wife. Wendy, Michael, and John kissed their mother. There were kisses aplenty, and she gave them liberally to those she loved. But there was always that one kiss that remained untouched. There is something deep within me, like unto that kiss, that no one has touched yet. No one has discovered it. I cannot name it—only when it is filled can I understand and define it. And it’s that thing within me that impels me to write this letter, to make this desperate attempt to touch one other person. Perhaps you have such a place deep within your soul that is calling out for contact. Maybe you are the one person who can fill my emptiness; maybe I am the one person who can fill your emptiness; maybe somehow the randomness of our meeting will actually help make us whole.

But how will you know me? I can describe myself—round, pale-skinned, heavy dark hair, round green eyes and a too-small full-lipped mouth. Has that told you anything? I could tell you where I live, and how to find me, but that still tells you nothing. Unless you know me, you cannot know me.

I suppose I am, then, sending this message into the world with as much vain hope as a shipwrecked man. Hope is everything, because it is hope that keeps me alive, keeps me moving, keeps the blood running through my longing body, keeps the dreams filling my nights and haunting my days, keeps the guilt from destroying me, keeps the emptiness from consuming me. When the hope is gone then I am gone and there is nothing left. All there is is hope.

I love my ipod!!

My sweet husband bought me an iPod shuffle last night. I've been wanting one for when I go work out--my old CD player is so clunky. So today after work, I got it all hooked up, and put some music on it. I've been totally jamming out ever since!

I love those commercials of the shadow dancing zanily down the street while the person is tamely walking along. I've been dancing up and down the halls of my house, and singing at the top of my lungs, probably freaking my dog out. It's a pretty painless way to get active.

I hope Joe doesn't end up regretting this. He won't regret it from the standpoint that more activity is good, and helps me lose weight. He will regret it from the standpoint of having to listen to me sing when he can't hear the music. Let's just say that I make William Hung sound good!

Interview

I agreed to be interviewed by Trista. Here you go:


1) How long did it take you to write your first book?

My sister and I wrote it together. We actually came up with the idea of a book about two sisters who had gotten married about the same time shortly after we were both married. We talked a little about it, but didn't do much on it. About a year before my sister and her husband divorced, our characters told us that they wanted us to start their story before they got married. So we tried moving it to their college years. But they said, "No, you need to go back further." We finally ended up setting it in their high school years. Once we figured out which story they wanted us to tell, the actual writing went reasonably quickly. I'd say it took us about 2 or 3 years (not actively working on it) to get to where we knew what story to tell and make an outline. Then it only took about 3 months to do the rest of the writing.

2) "Wonder is what sets us apart from other life forms. No other species wonders about the meaning of existence or the complexity of the universe or themselves."--Herbert W. Boyer. What do you find yourself wondering about on a consistent basis? Do you ever wonder if, when animals seemingly stare into nothing, they are really wondering about these things, too, but just can't tell us?

I wonder what my dog would say if she could talk to me. I mean, she does talk to me, but I mean the kind of talking where we would sit down and have a conversation. I wonder what the people in portraits would tell me about things they've seen since their portrait was captured. I wonder about all kinds of things.

3) You mentioned once that Faith is your chosen name. How did you choose it, when and why?

My husband and I got married in 1991. Much to my shock, I didn't immediately get pregnant. Well, I did once, but miscarried early on. Months, and then years went by, without children coming. I had severe pain with my periods for years and years and years, and heard all kinds of stupid crap when I went to the doctors about it. Finally I got Joe to agree to go to an infertility specialist in late '99. I had laparoscopy done in March of '99 to clean out the adhesions the other doctors swore were all in my head. Much to my horror and dismay, the endometriosis had gotten to such a severe stage that they couldn't clean out the adhesions without doing a hysterectomy. So we did IVF with ICSI. I never had any doubt that the IVF would work. I had perfect faith. But it didn't work.

A few months after that, I was sitting in church one Sunday, idly not paying attention to the speaker. I had spent much of the morning looking enviously at the mothers with their hordes of children, and wondering if it would ever happen for me. Then I had this surge of inspiration that I should quit worrying about something that was out of my control. I remember frantically pulling a pen and paper out of my purse and writing down a list of the things that I had always wanted to do, but had put off "because I'm going to get pregnant and won't be able to finish." The list included such things as go back to school, go to Egypt, travel, etc. When I got home from church that morning, I looked at my whole house with a different perspective. I started realizing that for years I had been trying to mold myself into the perfect Mormon woman, and in so doing had crushed what made me the unique person I am.

Over the next several months, I got rid of all kinds of stuff. All the crafty cutesy things I had spent hours laboring over or money I didn't really have to buy went out the door. I sold my scroll saw (that I never even used) and all the paints and brushes and glue and everything. It dawned on me as I was making some Christmas gifts that if I really enjoyed tole painting, I wouldn't put it off until the last minute and then complain the whole time I was doing it. I bought a Picasso print and hung it in my bathroom. I changed my wardrobe. I changed every artificial thing about myself, and tried to strip down to the essence of myself.

My mother came to visit that year just after Christmas. While she was here, she and I had the usual conversation about my name. I have always hated my birth name. Virginia. Yes, objectively I know that it is a beautiful name. But when I got to the teen years, I heard all the bad jokes you can imagine. And I tried every nickname that could possibly logically be extracted fVirginiagina. For a long time I went by Ginny. No one ever spelled it correctly, even if I were standing there spelling it out loud. And there were some people from church that I had once longingly wanted to be like who said my name with what I can only describe as a painfully condescending tone of voice. So I just had all kinds of negative associations with my name. My mother airily told me to just change it.

Wow! I was floored. It had honestly never occurred to me to just change my name. I tried out a name I had liked since girlhood, but it didn't fit me. So while Joe and I were driving home from visiting some friends, I asked him what he would name me if the choice were his. He said, "Faith." And I tried it out, and it fit, and I like it. His family still don't know, and they all call me Ginny. I haven't told them because they already think I'm a freak, and I don't want to give them more ammunition. Half of my family faithfully call me by my chosen name, and the others still call me Ginny. I don't get offended by that; I realize that changing one's name at the age of 37 can be hard for people to get used to. But I like it, and that's what I go by. I haven't changed it legally, and probably won't. I don't have to. I know who I am.

4) Have you ever thought of something you wanted to change in your life, something that could be changed, and then did so?

All the time. All the time. I was painfully shy as I was growing up, and learned when I was in my early 20's that people mistook my shyness for snobbery. So I forced myself to be less shy. I've already mentioned a major change I did in the question above. And right now I am learning to cope with my fear of large crowds. I have missed events that I desperately wanted to see because I am afraid of crowds. I won free tickets to see one of my favorite bands (Barenaked Ladies), and at the last minute chickened out. I sent my husband with his best friend. So now when my husband wants me to go to a concert with him, I go. It's uncomfortable, but I hope that eventually I'll get used to it.

5) If you had a grody wound on your wrist, one that you had given yourself in an act of supreme stupidity, would you show it to everyone and tell them how stupid you are, or would you keep it discretely hidden and/or make up a story that showed your intelligence and valor to explain how you got it?

I'd probably show it to everyone and tell them how stupid I am. I went through a brief episode of cutting myself when I was living in Minneapolis (long ugly painful story). I didn't go out of my way to hide it, but didn't go out of my way to show anyone either. But now I'm a lot more comfortable with myself, and also more judgmental of myself, at the same time. So I'd be comfortable enough to show it around, and pissed enough to tell everyone what an idiot I am.

It's been hard. Part of the depression involves frequent suicidal thoughts. There are times when I feel so completely worthless that I think I should not exist. But I think of what it would do to the people I would leave behind. In the times when I don't love myself enough, thank heavens that I love them enough to refrain from doing it. The antidepressants I'm taking now have really reduced those feelings, and I'm glad. I hate feeling that way and knowing there's nothing I can do about it.

My Favorite Flowers

(In case you're wondering why the bombardment of favorites lists--I'm cleaning out my e-mail, and want to delete some things from e-mail, but want to keep them for myself!)

I love roses, and I noticed yesterday that I have two roses on the bush by my front door. The flowers are a lovely yellow, with a pinkish tinge along the fringes of the petals.

And I love iris--they remind me of my Grannie, who had a huge garden full of iris.

I love daffodils, because they're so yellow and cheerful.

I love tulips, because they're so graceful and lovely.

I love lilies, because they are so graceful and beautiful. They remind me of the Savior.

I like to see lilacs blooming, with their drooping heads laden with purple flowers. And they smell so sweet.

I love lavender, for the color and the aroma.

We have a catalpa tree in our front yard, and it has huge leaves as big as dinner plates. In the spring, it blooms with these beautiful delicate flowers that look a little like orchids. They smell so sweet, and our front yard smells divine while the tree is in bloom.

I love to see magnolia blooms on the trees. The huge waxy flowers against the dark green leaves is exquisite to behold.

I love the trees that bloom with the pinky flowers. I know what they are, but I am having total brain cramps this morning, and can't remember their names. But I love to see them!

And here in Texas, I especially enjoy the wildflowers that grow along the roadways. Bluebonnets (the state flower), Indian paintbrush, and buttercups--they are so beautiful!!!

My Favorite Smells

I love the smell of cinnamon, pine, holly--those wonderful Christmas scents--probably because I love Christmas so.

I like the smell of onions and garlic sizzling in hot olive oil. So many of the main dishes I cook start out that way, and it's such a savory odor.

I like the smell of clean laundry. It's like the reward for my labors, after I've spent the time to wash, dry, and put the laundry away.

I love the smell of bread baking. And it's not as good when I use a bread machine instead of making it myself, so I know part of it is the reward for my labors.

I love the smell of rain. It's so tantalizing, particularly when it's the first rain in a long while.

I love the way my husband smells. When we were first dating, he used to wear Stetson cologne, and it smelled so good on him. He went out of town for a week, and I bought a small bottle of Stetson so I could keep smelling him. Now he uses more expensive colognes, but they just smell wonderful on him.

I love the way a new book smells, one that has never before been opened or read. And I love the way an old book smells.

I like the way herbs smell--particularly sage and mint.

Back spasms

Did I mention nearly slipping in the bathtub a few weeks ago? I was taking a shower and suddenly felt my feet sliding backwards. The way I was headed, I would have cracked my skull wide open on the tile. I was terrified, although I didn't quite see my life flashing before me, and somehow managed to save myself from falling. In the process, I twisted my back pretty badly. It hurt for a few days, and then let up.

Well, it started hurting again Friday or Saturday. Today it was bad enough that I took off work a few hours early and went to the doctor. He said that I pulled some muscles back there, and gave me some anti inflammatories and some muscle relaxers. I'm about to drowse off now, as they're kicking in.

And may I just say, I won! I don't have to take Molly to the vet after all! I've got to reschedule it for Saturday morning, and Joe gets to take her!!!

Okay, I'd rather NOT have the back spasms and have to take her to the vet, but still, one looks for the silver lining, right?

It always works out this way

No matter how hard I try to plan it so that Joe takes Molly to the vet at least every other visit, I keep end up getting stuck with the task. I think he's taken her a total of twice, and we've had her for 6 years now! She gets to go tomorrow afternoon for her yearly shots, as well as her rabies shot. She's sitting by my knee giving me kisses. She's not going to be so happy with me at 5 p.m. tomorrow afternoon when she realizes we're on our way to the vet. Yes, she knows the way to the vet, and as soon as I start heading that direction, she starts crying. She cries all the way to the vet. Once we're in the waiting room, she tries to sniff all the other dogs and eat the cats. And when we're in the little patient room, she cowers under my knees and pees on the floor. Poor baby. Last time she went she peed on the scale as well.

I got some more writing done on my Chaucer book today. I've got to do some more research, so I'll try to remember to take the pertinent books to work tomorrow.

Other than that, not much happening around here.

Let There Be Rain

We've needed rain so desperately. We've been told that we're in for a long, hot summer. When we get long, hot summers, we need lots o' water. And we weren't getting it.

But we have been having awesome storms this week! Our grass is growing like weeds--oops, wait, that green stuff is weeds! My dog's spent many hours hiding under the bed. I have been awakened at unbelievable hours of night by spectacular lightning shows and loud rumbling thunder. And it has rained. I hope the rain continues.

On other subjects, I have finally decided what I'm doing career-wise. I'm staying at my office job. I've been having so many nightmares about CPS, and I've been truly concerned that teaching would take over my life as much as CPS did. Plus, it is working out at my office job for me to basically work those two hours a day and then spend the rest of the day writing. They are trying to get me as much money as possible; the problem is that the salary range for the job classification is pretty pathetic. However, the VP in our office is going to approach the corporate office about reclassifying my job so they can pay me more money. Believe me, I'm worth it. And they are able to recognize that.

I have started working on my Chaucer book, and it is going so well!!! Have I mentioned it here before? Well, as you could guess by my screenname, I am a Chaucer freak. I have long dreamed of writing a book relating to some of Chaucer's works. I'm not going to say anything else about it here and now, just that it's underway and is going to be an incredible book.

I had already decided that after we get out of debt, I'm starting grad school. Another benefit of getting paid to sit in an office for 8 hours a day with only 2 hours of work is that I will also have time to study and read and write papers. Joe called me last night (he was working late) to tell me that he really thinks I need to get my Ph.D. I was happy to tell him that once again we are on the same page, as I had already come to that same decision. I'm having an insane fantasy of finding a way to afford to go to SMU for my master's degree--they have a master's program in Medieval Studies. Hey--if my Chaucer book is as successful as I confidently tell myself it will be, that may not even be an issue. SMU could come knocking at my door. I like feeling this way. I like being confident and stopping just short of arrogant. I like working on projects that bring me joy. I like it when Joe and I are in harmony.

Changing tacks now: Since my sister was killed back in January, I have not watched the news. I tried to once, and there were two or three stories about homicides and police chases that ended up in shootouts. So I gave up. The other secretary in my office (yes, not only do they pay me to sit there 8 hours a day for 2 hours of work; corporate has decreed that they need 2 clerks in the office, so they keep getting temps in until they can find one who's willing to stay. I like this one. I want her to stay. She's intelligent and hard-working. Not, of course, that we have much work. But I digress.) told me yesterday about a 19-year-old man who had been sexually abused by his stepfather from ages 7 until 11. He ended up getting HIV, and in anger sodomized his younger half-brother (the son of his stepfather and his mother). That little boy now is HIV positive, and the man is in prison. His stepfather is also in prison. I started crying when she told me that. WTF are people thinking when they mistreat their children?

From that point on yesterday, I found that I was just very tender-hearted. She started asking me about the beliefs of my religion. I had hard work to keep from tearing up as I told her. Our office had won the first quarter's competition, and as the collectors were being recognized for their accomplishments and people were winning prizes, yeah, I found myself tearing up. I watched the movie "Bewitched" last night, and outright sobbed. Not because the movie was bad--I actually liked it a lot--but I just wasn't able to regain my self-composure after hearing about that news.

Faith and the Beast

If any of you are interested in my weight loss blog, you might want to check it out. I've chucked the OA stuff (although I didn't delete the previous entries), and am taking a much more sane approach.

I like it. I like it a lot.

Fear

Trista asked for scary stories for the trial run of the Scheherazade Project.

My grandparents' house in LaMarque was haunted. The downstairs portion of the house was innocuous. The way the house was laid out, when you walked in the front door, there was a room to the left, a room to the right, and a staircase right in the middle. If you walked up the stairs, you found a landing with a bathroom directly in front of you, and a bedroom to the left and a bedroom to the right. The bedroom to the right (as you faced the bathroom) was mostly innocuous. The bedroom to the left was bad. The closets in both of those bedrooms wrapped around, so that you could walk into the closet of one room and crawl through to the closet of the other room. The closets were horrible.

Whatever was in there did not like girls. It didn't matter if they were five months, five years, or fifty years old. It did not like girls. I remember one night when my brother and sister and I were visiting my grandparents. One of my cousins--I'll call him 007 1/2--, who was a little younger than my brother, was living with my grandparents. The four of us kids were sleeping in the bad room. My sister and I kept feeling that malevolence pushing at us, and it was really, really unpleasant. The guys thought we were pulling their legs, but it was real.

Later on, after my grandmother had died, my parents were divorced, and I had grown up, my mother moved in with my grandfather. I later moved to LaMarque, and moved in with them for several months, until I got an apartment with a friend. The bad thing was still there. And, natch, that was the room I slept in. I learned to live with the thing that was there, but never did feel completely at ease in the room.

One night I got the insane idea to write a short story for the "Twilight Zone" magazine. It was an extremely unoriginal plot with a doll who came to life when no one was around. Despite the banal idea, it was actually a pretty good story. I got a few pages into it before I was through writing for the night. I put the notebook down and went to bed and tried in vain to go to sleep.

I could not sleep for anything. The malevolence of the thing in the room combined with the intensely evil story I had started writing just made the room unbearable. I had to get up, rip the story to shreds and throw it away. There was no chance I was going to be able to sleep in the bedroom that night, so I took a pillow downstairs and crashed on the couch.

I don't remember when we learned what the thing in the room was. A neighbor, who had lived there for years and years, told us that the people who owned the house before my grandparents bought it had a son who was mentally ill. His mother was apparently (reading between the lines of the neighbor's story) pretty abusive, and locked him into the room quite a bit. My personal guess is that she went a step further, and locked him into that closet area.

No wonder the poor guy hated women.

As I read back over this, it sounds pathetic and lame. Trust me--it wasn't. If the thing could have been made corporeal, it would have been hot oozing black tar bubbling with hate, and would have coated every surface in the room. It was real. And it was frightening.

I Love Sprint!

They fixed my phone!! So instead of spending $200 on a replacement phone, I spent $59 on a repair.

I herewith resolve to refrain from using my phone in the bathroom.

Doesn't that sound lame and pathetic? See, I tolerate boredom no better than I tolerate fools. I also have ADD. So I find it almost impossible to do only one thing at a time. Usually I'm doing 4-6 things simultaneously. That means sitting in the bathroom for long periods of time drives me batty. That's why when I'm home I try to pass the time by reading. But one can't exactly take a book into the bathroom at work. One can slip a cell phone into a pocket, and play solitaire.

But no more.

Maybe I should cut back on fiber. (joking)

Another Lesson I Wish I Hadn't Learned

If you drop your cell phone on a hard, tiled bathroom floor, it will bust.

I know, I know. What was I doing with my cell phone in the bathroom? Well, I had a stomach-ache, and didn't have a book in my purse. So I decided to play solitaire while I was otherwise occupied. One little slip of the hand, and bammo! Smash! It's in three pieces, and I will be amazed if they're able to fix it.

I'm really not happy about this. It's been just over a year since I bought this phone, so no chance of a rebate on a new phone. That means I've got to get a new phone. I could probably do without a cell phone, although it would be inconvenient, except that we don't have a home phone. So, no cell phone, no phone period.

Grumble grouch snarl.

Hairspray

My husband is just amazing. A month or so ago, he called me up, very excited, telling me that "Hairspray" was coming to town. He told me to find out if my sister wanted to go with me, and that he was buying us tickets. Well, of course my sister wanted to go with me! I got online to get the tickets, and found some about in the middle of the hall, and they were just fine tickets. But he was all up in arms--no, he wanted us to get the front-row tickets. Yes, the ones that cost about $175 for two tickets. Squee!

So last night was the night. It had been a difficult and frustrating day. Our Mom's in town, and our brother and his girlfriend were also coming to town. I was trying to arrange and rearrange everything so that no one would feel slighted. It wasn't easy, but we finally got everything planned out. So when Liz and I left to go to her apartment to get ready for the evening, we were both in a very grouchy mood. That mood dissipated as soon as we got to our seats. We were in the front row on the left side, about in the middle. We were able to look down into the orchestra pit and see the musicians.

The show was just fantastic. The guy who was playing Edna Turnblad was absolutely hysterical, and he was definitely playing to Liz and me. I know that sounds boastful (along the lines of, "Sting was singing to me!"), but it's the truth. I have a very loud laugh, something that can be embarrassing for me if I'm in a place where I need to be quiet, but something that actors really enjoy. And I don't know how anyone could sit still as they listened to that great music--I think I mostly managed to keep my upper body still, but my legs and feet were dancing throughout the whole show. So Edna looked our way quite often, winked at us a few times, and at the end of the show, when everyone was taking their bows, s/he blew us a kiss.

My husband may have set a dangerous precedent. It was the first time I've been to a Broadway touring production and had seats so close that I didn't need opera glasses. I was able to see the actors' facial expressions. I was able to catch the things the peripheral characters were doing on stage; there was a hilarious bit where Penny Pingleton was playing with her gum. She had the most ecstatic look on her face as she stretched it to ghastly lengths before trying to dangle it into her mouth. And during the sock hop, there was one couple on our side of the stage who were dry humping each other--sounds gross, I know, but it was very funny.

The Bass Hall in Fort Worth is a fabulous place to see a show. Unlike the Dallas Fair Park Music Hall, they do not seat patrons once the show has started. Liz and I, several years ago, went to see "Aida" and "Kiss Me, Kate" at Dallas, and were astounded to see ushers seating patrons all through the show. I have never been to a theatre--amateur, college, or professional--that permitted people to come in after the show had started, and found it extremely distracting. And the Bass Hall is laid out so beautifully that I don't think there's a bad seat in the house.

The summer series includes "A Chorus Line" and "Oklahoma!". I will casually mention it to Joe, just in case he feels like being charitable! I'm joking here--I don't think I'd ask him to do that. That's what made it such an awesome experience. He thought of it himself, knowing how much we would enjoy it, and wanting us to have a great time. And we did, and we're grateful to him.

Uninspired Lately . . .

I haven't posted much lately--I've either been working too hard on my other blog, or else I've been too uninspired to write, or else I've been too busy writing to write in my blog! So I stole this meme from Trista.

1. Who was your first Prom date? I only went to one prom--my high school senior prom--and it was with Derek K. I knew him from Sea Cadets, and we went out sporadically. He drove his Dad's Corvette with the moon roof, and we tried in vain to make out after the prom. But long dresses and tiny Corvettes don't make for easy making out. We gave it up as a bad deal and he took me home. The prom itself was boring as all get-out. It was held at some ritzy hotel in Dallas, and the dance floor was the size of a postage stamp. Crinolines and hoops were in that year, so only about 5 couples could fit onto the dance floor at one time.

2. Who was your first roommate(s)? Her name was Gayla. She worked with a friend of mine, and I let her move in on my friend's recommendation. Bad move. I found out after she'd lived there for a few months that, whenever I gave her my share of the rent money, she was spending it instead of paying the rent on time. And I was too ignorant to know that I was supposed to get her added to the lease, so the manager was coming after me for the money. Bad, bad experience. I ended up hating her cordially.

3. What alcoholic beverage did you drink the first time you got drunk? Whiskey.

4. What was your first job? I got paid to babysit my brother and sister during the summers, so if you want to count that, you may. My first job other than that and other baby-sitting jobs was at the customer service/gift wrap department at Sears.

5. What was your first car? I bought my Dad's old red Toyota Corolla and named it Charlie. Charlie and I stuck together for quite a few years. He finally died in Austin, and I got about $100 for him.

6. When did you go to your first funeral? I honestly don't remember. I think it may have been my grandfather's funeral.

7. How old were you when you first moved away from your home town? Less than two years old, although I don't know specifically--probably much younger. My dad was in the Navy when I was born. My mother lived part of the time with her parents and part of the time with his, until we moved onto the base with him. And then after he got out of the Navy, he was in the habit of moving every two years. So I've lived in a lot of places, and don't really have a home town, per se.

8. Who was your first grade teacher? Mrs. Gibson. I adored her. She was an enormous woman, one of those huge square women, with marcelled black hair. She used to tell me that I was the best reader in her class, even though I was the youngest. I was teacher's pet even then--how pathetic!

9. Where did you go on your first ride on an airplane? Miami, Florida. My Dad was working on the phone systems for the national conventions for the 1972 presidential elections, and Mom and my brother and sister and I flew down there for a vacation. I was very impressed with the fact that we were riding on a 747! We had a delightful time. We all wore tee-shirts encouraging people to vote. I remember getting sand in every orifice at the beach. I also remember enjoying walking into the different orange juice shops and watching them squeeze fresh orange juice. It was a fun vacation.

10. When did you sneak out of your house for the first time, who was it with? It was with my next-door neighbor--Rhonda, I think her name was. I thought I was being all cool and sophisticated, sneaking out at night. I've written about this earlier, in the entry about the magical summer. I didn't know then that my parents knew full well I was sneaking out, and didn't have a problem with it. They probably would have been more concerned if they knew what I was doing, but even so I didn't get into serious trouble. Just a little necking with Philip the slobbery wonder. Ugh.

11. Who was your first Best Friend and are you still friends with them? Dawn H. I haven't seen her since she and her family moved to Dothan, Alabama.

12. Where did you live the first time you moved out of your parents house? With some friends in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

13. Whose wedding were you in the first time you were a bridesmaid/groomsmen? I never was in anyone's wedding.

14. What is the first thing you do in the morning? Depends. If I've set my alarm for 5:30, I re-set it for 6 and go back to sleep. If I've set it for 6, I grumble mightily and then go pee.

15. What is the first concert you ever went to? I think it was Jerry Lee Lewis--my parents took me when I was a kid. The first one I actually bought tickets to was Van Halen.


16. First tattoo or piercing? No tattoos, and I got my ears pierced when I was 12. I had been begging my mother for at least a year or two, and she wouldn't let me do it before I turned 12.

17. First Celebrity crush? The kid in H.R. Pufinstuf. And then Donny Osmond after that.

18. Age of first kiss? 3. Donny. That's all I know about it. Don't really remember.

19. First crush? Donny. When I was 3. I have been told that he and I ran away from home and were caught walking down a busy street in Oceanside, California, on our way to the candy store.

20. First time you did drugs? Haven't. Won't. I have seen close-up how drugs mess up people's lives.

Horrible Dreams

I had the absolute worst dreams last night. The first involved a detailed scenario of my getting amnesia and wandering the world for 4 years. When I finally did regain my memory and go home, it was to find that my husband had had me declared legally dead and remarried. Compared to the second dream, the first was a joyride, trust me.

In the second dream I was working for CPS again. That's nightmare enough right there, but it kept going. I fell in love with a client and was leaving my husband for him. But then I changed my mind and stayed with my husband. Some friends/relatives of the guy I decided not to go with decided to punish me and Joe. So they tried killing us. I ended up with 4 or 5 gunshot wounds and nearly died, but didn't. Joe had 3 or 4. And while we were still in the hospital, those people told me they were going to keep trying until we were dead.

I woke up sobbing and wouldn't let go of Joe's neck for quite some time until I could manage to calm down. Logically I know that the second dream, at least, was related to A's death. Even that didn't lessen the pain, as I thought of my sister being shot to death by police. We had thought that she died at the scene, but learned a few weeks ago that she actually died at the hospital. The police weren't firing at her, but at AM, the guy she was with who was firing at the police. When they got to the car, they found AM dead and A lying with her head in his lap. When I found that out, I was devastated. I couldn't bear to think of it. It brought all that grief right back up to the surface.

So it doesn't surprise me that I dreamed about it in such a horrifying fashion.

New Blog!

I've started a new blog. That may seem like a bit much, when I'm not writing in this one very often. I'm working a 12-step program to lead me to sanity with my eating problems, and it's taking a lot of my time and attention. If you'd like to check it out, you can find it here: Virginia S./

I'm hoping to get back to writing here more regularly, and I do think that having two separate places to talk about the different things going on in my life will help in a weird sort of way.

Other than that, not much right now, but I'll update again soon, I promise!

Resolution Check

It's time to revisit the New Year's Resolutions, and see how I am doing so far!

1. When someone cuts me off in traffic, I'll say something rude.

Check. Although my rude comments are far less profane than they used to be.

2. I'm going to read at least one book per day.

Check. And some days I read three books!

3. I'm going to read Trista's and Krista's blogs every day.

Check. I also WOULD read Wendy's blog every day, but she doesn't update very often. And please keep her in your thoughts & prayers, as she's having some concerns with her pregnancy.

4. I'm going to go to the movies once or twice a month.

I haven't done this, but mainly because there has been a dearth of movies that I've been interested enough in to go watch.

5. I won't eat oatmeal for breakfast any more!!

Check! No more oatmeal!

6. I'll watch Rugrats whenever I can.

Check, and add Jimmy Neutron.

7. When it gets warm enough to wear sandals, I'll go get a pedicure every payday.

I've only gotten to wear sandals twice, and then we got a nasty cold snap. But I'm still hopeful this will happen.

8. I'll write for at least half an hour every day.

If you count the translation work I've been doing, check. Otherwise, no.

9. I'll take a 3-day trip to Galveston this summer with my sister.

I won't know about this one until this summer.

10. I'll kiss my husband and my dog every chance I get.

Check.

11. I'll go to the fantasy writers convention in Austin in November with Clover, Liz, and Mom.

I can't report on this one until November.

12. I'll dance when I'm at the grocery store and they're playing good music (or dorky music that I like anyway).

Oh, gosh, yes. I get the strangest looks in the grocery store, and I can't figure out why until Joe or Liz points out that I'm dancing.

13. I'll tap dance in the copy room when I'm making photocopies at work.

Check.

14. When there's good cake around, I'll eat a piece.

Check, and may I say that there have been far too few pieces of good cake around!

15. I'll buy the DVD of "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" the day it comes out, and watch it two or three times in a row, and watch all the extras.

Check!

See how much easier it is to keep your resolutions when you make them realistic? And can I also tell you how good it is that I didn't make a resolution to lose weight?

One more bit of progress

I had 3 library books due today. I'm not through with them and didn't really feel like going to the library today anyway. So guess what: I renewed them!

Okay, for most people it's probably not a big deal. For me, it is.

A. I knew they were due today.
B. I knew where they were!
C. I knew that I wasn't ready to turn them back in, as I still need them for reference material.
D. I knew where my library card was.
E. I knew that I could go online to renew them.
F. And I went online and renewed them.

No fines, no hassle, and a feeling of satisfaction.

Isn't it disgusting when you realize how easy some things are to accomplish, and you wonder why you never bothered to take care of them before?