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Ok, here's goes.
I'm journal moving.
I'm jumping off the blogspot Cruise ship and have purchased a sleek little yacht to claim as my own.
My new location is here.....
I know it's not as easy as the little 'follow me' button we use in these parts to keep track of a blog out there in open waters (Internet space) but there is a feed button and an email update feature I think is fairly easy to use.
I explained the 'why I moved' in my latest entry over at Provocation and honestly, I think it's something everyone should think about.
And my last note, if you see a second picture of me, in you're 'follow me box' (on your journal) , it's just me reorganizing my system of following your journal on a new account of mine.
So this isn't goodbye, so I'm not saying it.
I'm just driving across the street.
I really hope you'll come over and drop me a hello.
Rebecca Anne
*edit, for the love of all things journal holy. I can't take it when blogspot compresses my entries into a mushed sandwich and tiny font*

Code is Poetry.

Those words have been mocking me for well over a week now from the (add your cuss word of choice)… Wordpress help site. Every page turn, every seek and destroy mission, has been met with those taunting words on the screen. ~~~Code is Poetry~~~

In my humble opinion, some wise ass programmer added those illustrious words to a help site to taunt the individuals that don’t know their //:o( –!php/B.S., from two sticks on the ground surrounded by shredded newspaper. I would assume that if someone comes crawling to a help site, more then likely they are in ‘error hell’ and experiencing an Internet crisis. A person in panic can’t embrace mutual appreciation or opinion, that “code is poetry”.

I would also venture, based on sheer volume visits, I’m an authority on help sites and this topic (now). So I will speak for the mere humans, us people. We the people, who need help that is, think code was created to toy with a persons rational thought process, patience and mental stability. Meaning, it can reduce the most civilized and patient person into a rabid swearing psycho. Doubts? Just ask my family………..

Oh, for the love of all things Google. I shouldn’t just blame Wordpress. I’ve just come to abhor the expression, “Code is Poetry”.

Over the last week, it’s been all about setting up 4…yes four..different websites. Three for work, and a new personal one. Despite my infantile abilities, I decided, or perhaps, arrogantly thought, I could handle it. At this point in time, I think my ambition far exceeded my capabilities. The time it takes to look foreign geek squad words up in google, then cross reference them between help sites, to piece together one sentence of advice in a thread that may, or may not even fix the error…..oh, and I can’t neglect to mention resorting to YouTube in the most dire of moments. Play, pause, go to website, play, rewind, pause, back to website….repeat 20 times.

I can now claim that I have crawled around in the bowels of computer coded swamps, and survived. (So did my websites) I can also claim that now that I’ve been to hell and back, I’ve got it down, no problem. I could do it again and again in 1/3 the time it took this last week. Woot.Woot. Me
I should say Thank You I suppose. To the help sites of Wordpress, 1&1, Wise FTP, Google, Yahoo, Youtube, Aweber, and all the other random sites I crawled through. You’ve all helped me test my patience to the far extreme and I didn’t punch my computer, commit murder or even leave any nasty comments anywhere.

Code is poetry. Ha.
Rebecca Anne

I randomly plucked dusty books from various locations around my house. I decided proof positive evidence of my book guilt was in order.

<~~~all those books, over there, are unread.

A fraudulent book impression sprinkled within my bookshelves.

And although no one has asked for a confession of any sort, the burden of my counterfeit book behavior is making me come clean to some degree. For the record, since I'm making this official and all, that's just a small example of my non-read, yet remains on the bookshelf like a satisfied read book.

I didn't start off as a guilty poser. Every book I've purchased was above board, laced with reading intention and consumption hope. I've never bought a book based on a shallow notion it would look good on my bookshelf. Or thought, that just by a books mere presence, my overall book stock would go up.

However, I probably have bought a book or two, to read, just in case someone smart and whip brilliant (read literary snob) found me fascinating enough to say, "Oh Rebecca, you sound so book knowledgeable, pray tell, what was your interpretation of Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina?"

Hey, just when you think it won't would.....

With all that being said, I can claim to having cracked open the spine on every one of those abandoned books. A valiant effort certainly commenced. Each book had it's fair shake to wrap it's arms around me and take me to a new place. Everyone of those book bored me to tears until I simply tossed them aside for something a bit more interesting, a bit more entertaining and a lot less monotonous.

This might be a good moment to mention, the classics I'm really referring to are mainly pre-1940's style of writing and living. I'm not entirely immune to anything that made it on the classic list and can claim reading, front to back, a few.

Sigh. I feel such shame in my lack of enthusiasm for the majority of classics. I'd like to adhere to the notion that it takes a certain sort of mind frame, or a unique personality to bask in the pleasure of swimming though them. For those that do, bravo, I am jealous, because evidently I don't fall into that category.

So much for my ambitions of joining a Jane Austen Club.

I do thank everyone for the comments to my question. Although the impact and dynamics of having a Blog will always evolve, one thing I doubt will ever change is the fact a single comment can validate a feeling that felt so individual.

My aversion to classics no longer feels like a one woman show of literary guilt~

I made the process of picking a name really easy on myself. I enlisted the help of one of my kids to do the heavy lifting. When Kaitlyn returned with the little bag full of names she had a great big grin. One of those triumphant, accomplished something important today, sort of smiles on her face.

Excited, she said, "It's Heather."

And then she looked at me a bit crosswise and said, "Who the heck is Heather and why did I just pull her name out of a bag?"

Heather, for those of you that may be missing the hypothetical blog boat, is located here..... . I've personally read her words for a long time now and consider her blog a must read. Very well written. Intimate. Emotion and experience that touches one's interior. Witty. Authentic. A portal into the thoughts of an extraordinary life. It doesn't get much better then that.

And Heather darling, I think you're pretty amazing and consider myself privileged to witness your journey through life. I'll send out the book on Monday and it's my wish the words will only enhance your world. Lets email the details........

Now, beyond that piece of excitement, I don't really have much more to say.

However, I do have a question.

And I'd like people to be honest to your literary core. Who out there likes, enjoys and intentionally reads classic books......for pleasure (key word) ? I ask, because I'm currently trying to swallow down "Wuthering Heights" by Emily Bronte and well......if I read that someone has ejaculated their thoughts again I shall wither and jump from a great height.

I'm just a curious soul and evidently, I am missing the hypothetical boat when it comes enjoying the brilliance of a time before me. I can't be the only one who forces themselves to read them?? Am I??

Or perhaps I should pen.........Pleading for absolution, I ejaculate in a vain churlish manner, pardon my insolence and abstain from bleeding my perilous condition.

Or something to that nature.

Ok. Ok. If I'm ever going to achieve world domination, I've resigned to the fact I'll have to crawl out from my nice cozy little rock and socialize more. Despite my growling, whining and protesting a few entries down, I've been coerced into going public-ish. Blog, Facebook, Twitter. Domain Name complete with programmer to geek me up. I've even figured out how to put the little buttons for those places in my sidebar here. One small technical victory. Go Me.

Next stop, the White House where I'm sure President Obama will assign me chief something writer. Since my friend Marc already called dibs on being his personal friend, I'll have to settle for second hand information via Marc, but that's ok, I'll be out from under my rock.

Since I'm rolling uphill on the super technology highway, I'm upgrading my cell phone as well. This seems to be a pressing matter. I will no longer be known as the "last remaining human without a picture phone and the second to the last person without Internet capabilities" (a friend accused me of that stone age implication)

In this complete makeover (I should be featured on Oprah's makeover edition) , I abandoned AOL since they are no longer of use to me (journal deleting bastards) so for those of you that occasionally email me, my new handle is: (I know, I know, but it has to be better then Justaname4me2 and all it's creative originality)

All of this may not lead to world domination and thats ok as long as I can maintain that status in a certain room. But it's am ambitious thought.

And lastly.

I like to give things away. Specifically. I like to send things in the mail. I won't call this a contest per say, but there's a book I frequently read, and I scribble in it my own thoughts, and then I always give it away. A few people online have already received this book from me complete with scribbles...."The Prophet" by Kahlil Gibran. So yes, I'm giving away something 'used' and defaced, but I believe there is still value to be had.........

I buy the book.
Then read it and write in it.
And then give it away.
And buy another.

I'm done with my current book and want to send it out to someone. Being that I'm on my way to world domination, I'll be diplomatic. Names in a hat from the comments (don't let that make you shy now) on this entry get auto entry. Drawing on Friday. Just be prepared if you get drawn to hand over address, mothers maiden name, social security number and bank account numbers (I need to bankroll my world domination aspirations).

Now, comment.
Go forth, prosper.
Find me on Twitter and Facebook cause supposedly thats what the cool people are doing.

Divine 5

Journals/Blogs. I believe I started this 5 or 6 years ago because I saw a button on AOL that said "journals" and pressed it. Presto, 5 minutes later I was an official blogger. At that point in time I had never even visited another persons blog online. I was a journal virgin who went straight for home plate on her first experience.

It didn't take long to discover I hadn't actually landed on Journal rock and discovered the holy grail of free public writing all on my own. Much to my amazement, other people were writing their thoughts and words all over the place. (remember, I'm typically behind the curve ball in all things tech by at least 2 years, see below entry)

So for me, online journals was an unexpected surprise. For one, I got to write whatever I felt like shoving into a public arena without regard to content. I've never regarded my writing here as motive driven or held expectations to my personal writing. To me, this is a house of free thinking, random writing and play time. The interaction I've received from others throughout these years has been nothing short of extraordinary. Input, Output, Insight, Encouragement, Friendship. Sharing..........

And then....... the reason I felt like writing tonight. When I go swimming in the super blogosphere pond, usually link jumping like a fat frog from lily pad to lily pad, I find myself pulling up short on a sentence someone wrote, a paragraph, an entire entry. Words expressed in a way that make me swallow hard, or smile or simply bask in the beauty of word expression.

The thing is, and this may come across as a strange obsession. I love words. I adore them. I pay attention to them, observe them, honor them. So when I come across a play of words that were layered by the writer in a way that knocks me off my lily pad, I feel like I just caught a juicy fly unexpectedly.

I savor a well written emotion or applaud a string of words written with wit and humor. I love to come across something so fantastic I'm jealous I didn't write it myself. I appreciate when someone writes a paragraph that arouses a memory or emotion of my own, or if someone writes a sentence that makes me, smile, laugh out loud. For someone like me, this journal world can be a smorgasbord of words to satisfy my constant need for word gluttony.

I haven't notified the authors of the journals I pilfered for this entry. Hopefully they will understand it's midnight, I'm impatient and it's easier to ask for forgiveness then wait for permission sometimes. (I can always edit) Simple intention. I wanted to share some fantastic writing with anyone that happens by my journal. The pilfered examples of their writing are just tiny slices of a delicious pie. For the full meal deal and the rest of the story, please visit each of their websites (link is their name in purple)

To the five people I selected to highlight for this entry. I appreciate the attention, talent and individual style of your writing. Well done and I look forward to enjoying more..........

Marc "We had certainly not cornered the market on originality. I was just one of those kids who needed to think of us as "different." Though I supposed I wanted to be different the way the rich are different than the poor. I wanted to be somehow "better." If not more monied, certainly culturally superior. After all, we had napkin rings and ate artichokes. My mother received letters written on light paper in blue envelopes marked "par avion." My brother and sister had been born in Chile, where my Dad worked in the 50s. Somehow or another, I knew God's secretary was writing all of this down, that we were in the running for some kind of award for extreme specialness to be given at some indeterminate time in future, with consequential if vague benefits."

Dan "I bought some apples at the store, and they were a complete disaster. Oh sure. They looked absolutely perfect, but after getting home and biting into one, my teeth sunk up to the gums in something that had all the crunch of mashed potatoes that had been beaten within an inch of their lives. Indeed, this was an apple that had simply given up. Unfortunately, that one bad apple seemed to have influenced all the other apples. They were all the same: flavorless, mushy and sad. I suppose I only have myself to blame. I mean, what kind of dope buys apples in the middle of January?"

Mary "Revelation is so inherently seductive. Because all the layers of defenses I use to guard my sanity-Get boring. Pierce your jugular vein boring. But, of course, true stories, long after the fact, are really just creative renderings of the past. Static images I've tried to fill anew with motion, emotion. Colored by an innate, or Catholic based? , sense of shame. But everyone has a beyond mere rhetoric story deep inside; we are just too easily discouraged by difficult enterprises. Caught between fear & longing. But whatever you do, or is done to you, in the unflinching honesty of the dark, eventually comes to light. It might as well be my light. ~Mary"

MissAlaineus "although my hate for proper capitalization and use of the apostrophe is well know here, i dislike any form of intentional misspelling, although i dont mind abbreviations. so anyone who uses words like boi in their profile i think is just asking for my next potential ex-boifriend had a snap of him hugging up on a big pink fuzzy pillow. i could not waste the thought 'is that a pillow you are holding or did you kill one of the muppets?'he deleted the message but changed his profile pic. HA a small victory for the wit and wonder that is miss alaineus."

ScottEnnis"This curve of flesh conceals a hidden lake
where water bends the earth to seek its rest,
a liquid soul the body won’t forsake,
although the body flows at its request.
With gentleness the water laps the shore;
the shore responds to each progressive wave,
as if another soul knows what’s in store,
conforming to the life the soul will save......."

I feel akin to a 5 year old refusing to learn her ABC's in kindergarten while everyone around me (same age) is reading on a 5th grade level when it comes to all the technological hoopla closing in around me.

Until this point I really haven't cared enough about the bells and whistles to join the crowd in the advanced revolution that includes, but is not limited to the following:

  • Myspace-Facebook-Twitter-Gather
  • Gadgets, Widgets, Javascript, HTML, anything that hints or smells of "code"
  • (I find myself entirely impressed with myself that I'm using the bullet point feature here)
  • A zillion forums to join
  • Blogs, Logs, Virtual communities, Glogs (I discovered that's a blog with multiple authors)(I also consider myself a basic if not marginal level participant here)
  • Feeds, readers, feed blitzes
  • Picture phones, text messaging, Internet capabilities, bar code scans decoded by phone
  • YouTube, Flat screen TV, HDTV, Blueray, Red Box, Pay per View
  • Webinars, teleseminar, Webcam, online college degree in 10 days, 20 for the PhD, Intrameeting
  • Email, blurbs, alerts, messaging, Instant messages and private messages (IM's & PM's for the advanced user)
  • Onstar, Sirius, GPS and DVD players in the car
  • And on and on and on and on and on and on.................

First of all, much of that tech crap costs a lot of money. Gone are the days when a person had a single phone line in a house and paid 20 bucks a month for 30 cable channels. I added it up. For the simple implied requirements of staying with the century, I get the pleasure of paying for almost a handful of cells phones, a land line for fax and DSL, digital cable and several tech inspired/required items for my work. Cost=the monthly price of a damn nice new car payment or supporting a village in a third world country.

But beyond the cost, on a personal level, I can barely embrace the impersonal aspect of it all. These days a person could go an entire day mixing and mingling, socially engaging without actually talking to a soul. No physical contact, zero facial expressions unless one wants to count :o) and :( and the entire range of emoticons available on computer and phone. Why call when you can text? Why write with pen and paper if you have computer? Why present a contract in person when you can fax the little sucker.

Is it a social revolution of laziness or efficiency? I think today I'm just agitated because:

  • I'm barely figuring out Facebook ( I think I may like Facebook, jury is still out)
  • Someone told me I also needed Twitter, so I signed up for it last night and immediately thought "Seriously? This is a popular idea of social interaction? WTF" Count me out.
  • In an actual face to face business meeting yesterday I was informed we will now be adding bar code (found typically in your supermarket) to all marketing so people "can take a picture of it with their cell phones which in turn the cell phone will decode it and display all pertinent information to the viewer" China is already all over this technology.
  • Chinese Translation: Rebecca needs to buy a phone that will actually take a picture and add all the Internet requirements to service plan (cha-ching)
  • I really don't enjoy spending hours and hours on the Internet
  • I can't go or do anything without the pressing obligation of answering or texting on the cell phone
  • If you miss a call from someone, they ask, "Are you screening me?" To which I'd like to reply, "Well yes, yes I was, I was going to the bathroom and although you are under the belief that since I have a cell phone that entitles you to instant gratification and access, I'd like to hold fast to personal time."

I also get the feeling everyone else is loving, embracing and enjoying (learning) all the tech hoopla and I'm like the old, old, cynical Grannie protesting it all saying things like "Back in the old days......"

And then the old cynical lady becomes a hypocrite and posts her thoughts online. That truth is my rock and the soft squishy place.

I feel like Houdini when it comes to writing in this blog and visiting other establishments of word fare. There she is, and there she goes...... My Mother would say I have the attention span of a two year old who can't focus on one shiny object for more then two minutes before she gets awed by another shiny object across the room. Mom's have a way with truth, so I won't feign denial.

Now, I could write that shortly before Christmas I overdosed on eggnog at a Xmas party and wandered outside to find a suitable place to privately vomit. After I had purged my body of the offending alcohol and was meandering around the neighborhood looking for the house I was supposed to be in, a Santa suited man pulled up on a rip roaring loud Harley. He offered me a ride to the North Pole and I took him up on the offer. No? Not likely? You never know...........

I held no expectations on the taking side of Christmas this year. When anyone asked me what I'd like from Santa, my pat response was to shrug my shoulders and say 'nothing'. When I got the standard 'oh B.S., what do you want', I'd retort back, 'if you do anything, make sure it's book size or smaller'........(I'm getting on in years and the less things I have, the easier things will go when I make a break for it in a few years)

I received 5 priceless gifts that I now treasure.

!) My parents gave me the overnight( lovingly refurbished by them) carry case my Grandmother who passed away last May, always took with her everywhere. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven to receive such a treasure. (bigger then a book, but absolutely fits my general escape plan)

@) A picture frame from my girls, of my girls. But the frame itself is almost like a shadow box, that they had painted and personalized all around the picture. I adore it.

#) A letter in the mail that carried volume and voice from afar I never dreamed I would hear. Who would have thought technology and snail mail would mix so beautifully. I was beyond smiling. (Thank You so much)

$) Words and connection. Two things I dared not dream I'd get again. That gift came, and I felt peace within once again. (In case you are indeed checking in, Thank You)

%) A package from afar. Two books, both appreciated, but one exceeded any book expectation I'd ever conjured. A 109 year old book, so old that the leather feels like the smoothest suede I've ever touched. The pages heavy, thick and boldly typeset. I never dreamed I'd possess such a book by Ralph Waldo Emerson, Natvre (Not misspelled, it's a version of Nature) Words cannot express my gratitude. (Thank You, for such a priceless gift, now don't hold out the mystery to long)

I went from the 'don't want a damn thing' sort of lady, to a proud Queen reigning her kingdom with priceless treasures. Rich indeed.

2009 came toppling in on the coat tails of my Christmas euphoria. I didn't mind. 2008 isn't exactly a year I'm fond or proud of. First, I lost two people I loved, to death and that casts a dark shadow. Second, the only significant things I did, I'd like to choke the shit out of myself for and I have nothing outstanding good to slug my own shoulder and say well done 2008 Rebecca for. That fact, to put it bluntly, sucks and irritates the hell out of me.

I have some serious catch up in these parts to engage in. Until then, I hope everyone had a fabulous holiday season and if you see Harley man in a Santa suit, give him a wink for me.


It isn't often that I wish I were younger. In fact, the older I get, the more I exhale a sigh of relief that I made it past another time era. The one exception is Christmas. This holiday makes my heart feel innocent again, my mind kicks into a high observation gear, ready to notice the finer details in the good around me and like a little kid, I still can't fall asleep on Christmas Eve and wake at ungodly hours. (I've always woke before my own kids)

Growing up, Jesus had staked a rather large claim as the overall culprit for the reason, for the season. As a child I appreciated the story behind his big day. My Mom had a manger scene that I could play with and I'd station the baby Jesus in his hay, or have him ride the camel, but mostly, I'd pack him around in my pocket until my Mom discovered his disappearance, and demanded his reappearance. I had no idea what a Virgin Mary meant, but I knew an injustice when I heard one and never thought the lady got enough kudos for being the Mother of the kid that created Christmas.

The thing I could never figure out as a child and I admit, I was one of those kids...a million and one questions all starting with "Why" followed quickly with another "BUT WHY"...(I could drive my parents kaaarraaazzzyyy)..... If Christmas was the big day for Jesus, and he was the son of God, how did fatty Santa Claus manage to snake a piece of the action as well?

The things that plagued my young mind............

One thing I knew for certain. I didn't want to land on the bad list of any power yielding, potentially tyrant (present snatching) Men. Be it God, Jesus, or the fat old guy in red, Santa Claus.

As a child I'm pretty certain that during the month of December I was thinking more about Santa's yearly judgement over my behavior (he had the naughty or nice list) more then my permanent lifetime record with God.

In December I'd harass my Mom and Dad with, "Well, come on, did you file a report with Santa? Did you tell him about this??? Or that??? I need to know what to expect and I'm ready to plead my case if you think that one incident might land me on the bad list" The threat of coal in my stocking and nothing else, was enough to encourage a proactive stance about the entire situation.
Over active imaginations don't take things for face value, we need extra assurance to ease the mind. I'd compose letters to Santa that were nothing short of masterpieces only an 7, 8, or 9 year old with a flair for dramatic tone could muster. I made sure the big guy knew all my good deeds for the year (and also assured him I would understand why my Brother should get the coal deal). I'd also throw in a prayer or two to the big guy in the sky, just in case he and Santa were in cohorts together.

I trusted nothing to fate or parental interpretation. I will say that once the jig was finally up and I started gathering indisputable pieces of evidence (I made lists) that Santa was a fraud and Jesus was debatable, I was left a bit disillusioned, but not disheartened. There was still a sense of magic swirling through the senses and I would never discredit that. For me, it simply became a search for a new and improved meaning for the season. Thankfully, I found my reasons.

I think I miss that fantastic month of anticipation and imagination now that I'm older. I took it all pretty literal when I was young. I am thankful that it's been replaced with another feeling, one I shall deem more rounded and mature. I appreciate these days how I can feel a sense of peace around most people. That the desire to do good by others, perhaps even land on that fanciful 'nice list' sticks with people long after the imaginative beliefs of childhood drift away. It seems, this time of the year people project out rather then focus on themselves. I adore that.

For that reason alone I'd say the season is worth appreciating. And no matter how my views change, I think I'll always have a hard time falling asleep Christmas Eve and wake up long before the rest of my family. I can't calm the kid still left in me..........and I won't try~~

I decided during a particularly rough spot of my misery late last night, that I've being going about Thanksgiving all wrong and will be implementing a new plan of attack for next year. I starved myself all day in anticipation of the bounty to come, so essentially I felt miserable until I finally sat down with my over indulgent plate of fanfare.

I enjoyed 8 minutes of blissful palate delights. Then, feeling slightly deprived of the things I couldn't fit on my plate the first go, went back for seconds...another 5 minutes of pleasure. Now add 2 minutes of heavenly pause...... and then the weight of my purge sank like a rock into my guts and I spent the remainder of the day, miserable, stretched out in a feeble attempt to give digestion room to work magic. 15 whole minutes of my day were spent in triumphant gluttony. The rest, I'll call it what it was, misery. Obviously I'm going about the day wrong~~~

At my Thanksgiving there is no such thing as matching silverware polished to a fine sheen. I've never seen coordinating place mats nor a candelabra centerpiece to hypnotize it's patrons. Fine china would never be brought out for such an occasion (far too dangerous) and I'm pretty sure mayhem would break out if someone got cocky and tried to use place cards. Food items are not revealed one at at time in pretty little serving dishes (I'm pretty sure that sort of slow progression would cause mutiny) and I've never witnessed a moment of pause, or silent thanks, or group prayer or anything that would try to hold back the tidal wave of people frothing at the mouth. Thanks, is the responsibility of individuals at large.

When my Mother, who reigns Queen on this day, (it's her house, and her turkey), says, "Time to eat." (and no one would dare touch so much as a deviled egg until she makes her official announcement) The swell of the crowd presses in on itself and it becomes a dog eat dog world. Every soul for themselves sort of deal. Survival of the fittest. Neanderthals with manners.

The thing is, if you don't dive in right away, something could run out (one year mashed potatoes ran out, that horror will go into family folklore) , and then there is a matter of Real Estate. One must find a good chair at various eating stations located all over the house. I've never seen anyone have to sit on the floor, but there is real estate at Mom's house that feel like a beach side resort, and there is what one might consider ,the low rent district. One must stake a claim quickly and then be prepared to protect it (show claws and sharp teeth).

I love it.

I think refined dinning, the picture of Martha Stewart perfection is geared toward little families, you know 20 or less type numbers. Mature affairs hold an air of mystery for someone like me that grew up, with potluck dishes and buffet expectations. I'm not sure of the count on yesterdays fiesta, but I can say, it swelled beyond 40 family members.

The house vibrates with the sounds. Children laughing and running. I watched one little 4th or 5th cousin ( it's humanly impossible to keep track anymore) of mine skating across my Mom's travertine floors with her 'built in skate shoes', back and forth, a big old grin on her face because no one seemed to care. There's the noise of plastic forks on paper plates. And conversations. So many conversations overlapping one another that I imagine an unskilled visitor would get a headache trying to follow everyone and everything going on.

It's easy to imagine what it would be like to be a mind reader in these gatherings. I just closed my eye's, and imagined myself in a library of quiet and listened. I realized yesterday that if I didn't focus on one specific voice, I could delight in a huge array of conversations all at once. Stories, detailed accounts of recent surgeries, or births. A shopping trip gone awry, a car that broke down. God. Atheism. Elections and hope. Sex. TV shows. Books. Gossip. Movies. Wolves. Future. Recipes, And the most important, memories of someone now gone.

I realized that story telling is the principle symbol of all my family gatherings. The people who capture the biggest slice of center stage have booming voices and can spin a tale or recall family history in a way that captures a good portion of the ears around. The story tellers are animated with hands, facial gestures and often stand up to encourage complete attention. There is little family glory in being shy or the quiet one, (there's very few of those anyway) so I'm right up there narrating my own memories and stories with the best of them.

It's all a little crazy, but I fully understand now how grateful I am for such a booming, procreating family. My family style Thanksgivings, paper plates and all, would never make the cover of Martha Stewart and the notion of cultured or refined is a foreign concept to my family posse.

And that's all right by me~~

7th Day

I'm feeling anxious today and typically the antidote to that feeling is writing. I've taken liberties this morning at all my normal writing stations and thus far still feel unsatisfied, so I'll dump here for a bit as well, lucky you.

I'm beginning to think nothing will help. I shall blame my current agitations on an extended bout of insomnia, lucky me.

I've been thinking about what Marc wrote in his comment from the below entry.

Marc from Le Trash Whisperer wrote, " I have a similar yearning for the hero's of Jane Austen novels. Of course, the question is, is what makes them so desirable the very fact of their unavailability, in that all-encompassing way?"

Yes. Yes. And *sigh* Probably.

I've been toying with your thought since you wrote it. I blame and credit writers.

A good writer understands that to reach in and toy with peoples emotions is a clear path to our hearts. Through the art of illusion that writers should participate in, it seems only natural to caress the senses of a readers most basic human condition.

~The need to be seen, cherished, protected and loved.~

A great writer will satisfy, usually after toying and teasing it out, all the needs of their fictional characters. Writers can't leave us readers hanging with the realities of life's little slices of loneliness. No one needs to taste that more then we already do.

Since I'm feeling like everyone is lucky today, I'll use myself as an example here for a moment. I'm 36, been married, been divorced, never really been single for more then a month and have had enough lovers to consider myself 'experienced' enough to blanket remark on my life's little realities.

Honestly, I don't feel like any of the men I've ever loved have actually 'seen' me. One I will grant, came close, but that book falls into the Greek tragedy genre. Seen, as in the way a writer can make their character see his leading lady. Truth is, they just never continued asking questions. They have all accepted me for what I gave on the surface, but didn't continue with a quest to know the all encompasssing. To this day I still find it remarkable only one man in my life has ever asked, "Hey, can I read what it is your writing all the damn time...." (Is it just me, or isn't that strange?)

Fictional hero's drag everything out of their ladies whether they want to spill the beans or not.

I don't blame the Men in my life for this oversight, or unrealized secondary pieces of me. The fact I don't believe I've ever felt anything that resembled all encompassing is because I remain in reality. I know love, in it's boundless glory and until I discover something different, I'll simply cherish that gift. It seems to me that people are generally happy and content with surface and sometimes the less they see the safer their own little world can remain. I understand that. Accept it. We all play off what we feel needs to be given or taken, a writer simply forces the issue and completes the whole package (i) deal.

If I was writing my own hero, for my own book of reality, I'd have my hero give me a music box that played Clair De Lune just because he thought that would make me smile. My hero would ask me endless questions and actually listen. He would ask me about what I was writing all the time. He wouldn't throw a letter or note I wrote him in the garbage. He would always put his hand on the small of my back when we were standing next to each other and every night when we slept he would let me rest my head on his chest so that even if I couldn't fall asleep, I could listen to the sound of his heartbeat.

I would think.....Such simplicity...............

Hence, Writers created unavailable Hero's on the seventh day.............

I have an admission.

I am 36 years old and I read tweenie books. YA= young adult, if we may.

I'm sure it has to do with the fact I have two teen daughters that I've raised to be book addicts. Like good little addicts, once they've had a good hit or high, they want to share the euphoria with another. I will label the next stage, (sh) (p) eer pressure.

They will chant things like, "Come on Mom, you'll like it" or "Mom, every one's reading this one" or even, "Mom, just read a few chapters, if you're not hooked, then put it down." They are accomplished little book dealers if I do say so myself.

Many Moons ago the daughters and I were having a read in. 'A read in' is the three of us snuggled up on my King sized bed enjoying our individual books, or writing, or drawing. Whatever appeals to the individual, as long as everyone is together collectively broadening our minds. During that particular read in I was reading an age appropriate book that had me so agitated and frustrated I actually chucked it against the wall in a fit of unparalleled book disgust.

Little did I know, that was the day I would join the cult of teenage obsession and become a Twilight addict. Shelby did it. I blame her. She shoved the paper pulp up my nose, I mean, she pressed the tweenie book into my hands and swore I'd fall in love a vampire. (Which I did) (Which is damn near embarrassing to admit at my age) (But I did) (Unless you've read the series, you cannot assign judgement here) (You just can't)

Now, with any book that creates a cult like following (it isn't just me, every single book in this series has been best seller knock out) they must make a movie. That movie came out Friday and you bet that like any good addicted little book readers, we wanted the visual to go with the words.

Twilight Fever. We all had it on Friday. Me. My daughters and three spare loyal teen worshippers I picked up along the way (with their parents permission of course). I cut work, the kids felt ill at school and got really sick with Twilight fever around 11:00 a.m, just in time for me to pick them all up and head to a hopefully less crowded theater--- The only antidote to our feverish delirium.

On the way to the theater the car was roaring loud with anticipation. Everyone was talking about their favorite parts of the book, wondering if it would be included in the movie. The girls were really nervous Rob Pattinson (the actor playing our hero) wouldn't live up to their standards of what Edward Cullen would act like or look like.

The character Edward Cullen, albiet a vampire in the book, is every females ultimate fantasy in a male. I've realized it doesn't matter if that female is 13 or 36, or even 56, we all want an Edward Cullen in our lives. (Sorry real life guys, your at a real disadvantage'll need super powers, an immortal soul, fangs, golden eyes, play the piano and possess an undying need to love and protect your lady at every second of the day to even compare. Edward would never need to be asked twice to take out the trash or find a remote control worthy of his time)

And then the movie.

And then back in the car. Devotion is now locked tight within all of our hearts.

At this point in time I'd knock over 20 teenies to have a go with a man that remotely emulates an Edward Cullen.

And that my friends is the power of a well written, well plotted and beautiful book.


I'm slacking. I promised myself throughout the hibernation season I would post here more often, with acceptable frequency and dare I say, even predictability. But, I'm one of those easily distracted people who focuses exclusively on whatever my mind has wandered off too. A bit of a compulsive disorder if I say so myself. My latest obsession is Ray Bradbury books and german glass glitter........both sparkly things I can't get enough of. I adore sparkly.

I do however feel the internal tugs of writing compulsion coming on and imagine this little space will be on the receiving end of that mood~~

Now, it came to my sparkly attention span as I was making my rounds visiting journals, that I was given one of the ~~Marie Antoinette, A Real Person, A Real Awards~~ This gave me a sparkly smile and I won't even assign a viral plague to Sheria like I did to my poor friend Indigo when she tagged me alittle bit ago.

I read the rules and regulations and fine print regarding this award, but damn, I cannot deny it. I am a rule breaker. I'd love to bestow this fun sparkly award on another, but to be honest, I struggle with that. Thats right, I'm a wuss and typically take the low road by ducking my duties.....

But, I'd like to say thank you to Sheria. If you aren't visiting her pages, let me tell you bluntly, your missing out. Here's a clear cut link to a fantastic writer, thinker and thought provoking journal..........>>...Sheria @ The Examined Life/....<<..........Go, visit, think, enjoy, and appreciate. She is the best sort of sparkly.

Oh, and question, is it just me and my quickly aging eyes, but when I post these things, is the font just tiny? Because when I use the next size font, it seems just HUGE. I cannot find a happy medium here............

A Prompt

Yesterday I was overcome with a writing attack while driving down the road. For those of you who don't know the mental signs & symptoms of such an attack, let me explain. It starts like a boulder sitting atop the Mountain of the Mind. Something triggers a rolling descent and the next thing a soul knows, that boulder is rolling down thy thoughts at a pace that is damn near critical emotion.

It makes the person (or maybe this is just my own little affliction) hold their breath, their eye's go dazed....... panicked. Their hand may wave blindly around seeking a writing utensil and if this person is driving, well, you may notice only one eyeball is actually watching the road, one hand could be on the steering wheel, or knee driving may be employed. If they couldn't find a pen, they could be writing in the dust on the dashboard and they may even sit through a green light oblivious to the world around them. Don't honk, they could be writing a masterpiece, you just don't know.

The only medication for relief is a pen and paper (laptop if ones lucky enough to have one with them.) Now, since I already have this mental condition, I know the only safe course of action is to pull over at the first cafe, coffee shop or parking lot and write until the urgency has passed.

My attack brought me tire screeching into a little grease cafe yesterday. It was that, or the Pizza Hut across the street, no contest.... This was the sort of cafe that hasn't been updated, nor painted in a zillion years. It had the complimentary orange vinyl seat covers and an overbearing smell of bacon. It was perfect for my moment of need. I read the "seat yourself" sign, glanced around, saw not another soul eating and dived into the nearest booth next to the window. A coordinated gesture had my pen and paper on the table the moment my ass squeaked across the vinyl.

When my sweet little itty bity teenie tiny white haired waitress came up I admit, I barely gave her a glance when I ordered my pathetic little ticket worth of barely justifiable items to take up vinyl real estate. Diet Coke and a muffin. I was writing! I was in a panic! I needed to be left alone!

An hour later, three diet coke refills and half a muffin nibbled off, I finally felt at ease. That's when I finally paid attention to my sweet teenie little white haired waitress. She came over and asked if I'd like a fourth refill, pausing, looking at my carnage of papers scattered on the table and asked, "Are you writing a novel there sweetie?" I told her I honestly had no idea what the purpose of my writing was for, it's just something I must do.

And we talked, and talked some more. I asked questions and she asked me questions. She reminded me of my Grandmother Mary that passed away this year and she told me I reminded her of a granddaughter she hasn't seen in a very long time. She told me that she worked as a waitress because, "It feeds me 2 times a day and the money helps pay for things a person just needs in life."

That sentence was and IS a humanity gut punch. Remember what I wrote about my big huge soft spot for elderly? It makes me nauseous that someone so far along in their years has to work at a grease pit to earn money. Life should not be that way. She was too sweet, too old and too precious for such a station.

So, this is what I did. I got my $2.39 cent ticket. I took a hundred dollar bill out of my purse and wrapped it with 3 one dollar bills. I wrote her a note and folded it all together with the ticket wrapped around the outside. I left it on the table and walked out. I got in my car and watched through the window as she came over and unraveled my surprise.

All I will say was that was the best diet coke and muffin I've had my entire year. Well worth it.

Please take care of our elderly. Anyone can do what I did, and have done in the past. If not me, and if not you, then who? Even better then money is the gift of Time......Please do something kind for them, now, today, tomorrow.


Truth is, I will pity the person who doesn't vote in this election. Frankly, that would be considered, in my humble opinion, irresponsible and a blatant waste of ones power to make a choice.

Remember, the ability to put a choice out there into the world is one of humanities greatest gifts.

We have choice, we have power, individually and collectively.

Rarely, if ever, has my journal spoken of politics, but do not assume that means it isn't important to me. My opinion is one of millions and today I'll let it speak loud and clear at the voting booth. I don't look at it as I'm just one little old vote. Instead I look at it as I'm part of a living evolution, a leaf on a tree that would be less beautiful if I wasn't part of it.

I do make one request, a moment of pause, a perspective to consider. Should you be in a state that has a Proposition proposed that would deny someone their civil rights based on your religious beliefs...think carefully before you cast your judgement. Because that is what it comes down to......acceptance, love thy neighbor, embracing all of humanity.......or casting judgement against individuals based on what you think or have been taught the bible suggests. The God I can appreciate would be ashamed people were casting stones in his name. We know better, or we's time to end that hypocrisy. Need more perspective? Visit Marc and read his post.....No on Prop 8, Yes to Love


If anyone ever wondered how a plague or virus can spread through humanity like wildfire, one need only observe the general phenomenon of 'journal meme'............

This is where I grumble and curse (as only an endearing friend would) Indigo over at Scream Quietly for intentionally infecting me, despite years of my careful hand washing. I really thought I was damn near invincible. Evidently my immune system has a weak spot because here I am getting ready to do the unthinkable........a meme........(oh and perhaps I should mention, my dear friend Indigo, and I say this with genuine love....... paybacks a bitch~~~grin~~~)

And the 'rules and regulations' are as follows............
* link to the person who tagged you * list 6 random things about yourself * tag 6 new people * let each tagged person know by posting a comment on their blog * link to the 6 people you've tagged * and let the person who tagged you know that you posted. Easy enough....*

1) The Rosy and fuzzy picture:::::I'm a tomboy at heart and can rough and tumble with the boys any day. I did learn how to embrace my feminine side which can be quite sexy and fun. I'm 36 years old, but don't feel a day over 36 years old. I can kick some one's ass if there's a reason to do so and a long time ago I got an assault charge on my record for doing just that. I would never slap or pull hair. I also accumulated 13 drinking tickets before the age of 21. I don't drink, I can, but I won' epilepsy doesn't play nice if I have a sweet glass of wine. Growing up people called me the nickname Becky, I am soooo not a Becky and it always bugged me. (don't try it) I collect art because it's much more meaningful then a TV and costs about the same. I am the eternal optimist, a hopeless romantic and hate the word poet. Oh, and I hate the dentist. I can keep a secret, my own or others and never ever feel the desire to tell anyone. And the truth is, I don't make a great full time friend, especially if someone is 'needy', my Best Friends understand my limitations and give me lots of room and turn I'm loyal to the core and would do anything in my power to give them whatever their hearts desire.

2) Head scratch admission:::::Lets see, I have broken just about every single bone in my body. From the top of my head (skull fracture) to my broken neck (I blame the horse), to ribs (horrible minute by breathing minute torture), arms, wrists, fingers, legs, ankles, toes, tail bone (long term torture, think about it, a person is sitting on their ass alot)......the only bone that remains unscathed is my hip and I imagine I'll finish off with that one sometime down the line.

The reason for all of these injuries is basic, I am reckless and devoid of a natural fear factor. I am an adrenaline junkie who pushes the envelope at every chance I get. The physical repercussions are just a possible consequence to a rather grand time. Meaning, I could really care less if I break a bone or two, which I consider collateral damage for doing what I want, rather then cowering and never experiencing something.

3) Another Random moment:::::My only natural enemy is worms (some of you know that and if you didn't, well, it's called phobia of the irrational nature, my one and only fear)......I typically only wear the colors black and white, with the exception of blue jeans. I barely wear makeup, if ever. I can get ready to leave the house, including shower, in 15 minutes...all natural is my motto. I can't stand the noise people make when eating and I for one could care less about food. For me, eating is just something I have to do, like going to the bathroom. I haven't weighed myself in years and don't own a scale. I've never been on a diet. All my friends are short shrimps and I feel like a tree lady next to them (I'm a 6 footer in 3 inch heels, do the math) I hated basketball, much to the school coaches dismay. I have 6 pets. 3 cats, 3 dogs. Random moment over:::::

4) What I dodge::::I don't handle compliments very well. Which probably goes back to I don't like to talk about myself. I prefer to keep any and all spotlights off of myself and a compliment is like shining a light directly in my eyes. Now, I am not one to negate, meaning, I won't put down something I did that someone compliments in order to make it less significant (I hate that twisted little circle)......but other then a possible thank you, I'll change subjects, shift the focus elsewhere, or ignore the compliment completely. I'm not sure why this is, other then my Momma raised me to take pride in what I do and never depend on others for validation. I think I sorta took that to the extreme...........

5) Back to the perspective of the 3-D world::::This isn't a stellar thing to admit, but evidently from the perspective of others, I've been told on more then one occasion I scare people. Not in a boogie man sort of way, but my presence makes many people uneasy. I've been told I 'intimidate' people even when I'm being extremely nice. The problem, as has been explained to me, is that for one, I look people in the eye, sort of 'intensely' and that makes people nervous. And two, the way I move and carry myself....self assurance makes people leery. (I'm just not uneasy or unsure around people, new or known) Now, since I consider myself a nice person, this does bother me somewhat, but the good news is the same people who have told me that, consider me a good friend 'once they got to know I'm not so scary'..........Boo

6) Writing admission::::: I have a hate, sorta like, hate relationship with writing. 90% of the time I hate it. The thing is, I have to write, it's in my blood, oozing out of my brain and my hands are like possessed extensions of a bleeding tree. I would like to write because I want to and enjoy it, rather then this pressing need to eradicate the mind torture. See the difference? My only saving grace is every once in awhile I write something that someone else needed at the point in time and for a space, it feels like the torture finally achieved purpose. Oh, and like this meme, when I write I just can't pull off moderation.


Ok, I'm going the way of Alexander Fleming and injecting penicillin into this endeavor (translation, sorry Indigo, I just can't do it) and taking the low road by not tagging others. It's the contrary neurosis in me........

However, if anyone wants to cough and sputter out 6 (or random crazy like I did, damn the writer in me) masked/unknown things about themselves please feel free to do so and let me know. I'm all about snooping and voyeurism. It's the curious cat in me...................

Yes, about my trashsifter...I didn't mention one thing.

One vital and extremely important issue that prevents me from going all trash protective, cop calling, ranting and raving female on him.

He's old........and no, I don't know what 'old' is defined by, just old, as in the kind of old that were I a spry 65 years old today, I'd look at him and say, "Whoa, that dudes old..........."

He's got wild white, grey, silver and blue hair. All four color hues mixed into one array of certifiable crazy looking hair. His deep wrinkles stretch and pull sideways when he grins at me and well, damnit, he's just old................

I'm not exactly one to reveal my weaknesses, but today I shall offer up the kryptonite that turns me into jelly. Old people. Elderly.

For one, I respect them like deities. I think they are incredibly fascinating and they are wonderful to hang out with. I love that some, like my Grandmother who recently passed away, are so soft, sweet and full of life's lessons, compassion and heart. The type of old souls you still want to crawl into their laps and listen to bedtime stories with.

Or, some old folks are full of spit and shine. They are mischievous, sometimes crotchety/ grouchy (I figure they earned it) and very entertaining. They say exactly what they are thinking and apologize to no one...I adore that.

At the nursing home I volunteer at, the assortment of elderly that warm my heart, delight my senses and fill me up with entire lifetimes of information is priceless. I am a devout listener and observer of the ages.

Which brings me back to my trash of the biggest scary old guys I've ever seen....Although it gives me the heebie jeebies, and I'm not all together certain he's not a dirty ancient pervert with a pantie shrine, his wrinkles and especially the brilliant blue hair makes me wobbly at the knees and too limp hearted to call the city or authorities.

However........I don't like it, at all, and plan on implementing a few of the sassy smart idea's several of you left in my comment section below. I may not be willing to turn the old fart in, but I am willing to plant a few unexpected surprises for his sifting (eww surprise) pleasure.

I hope you all have a fantastic Halloween and don't forget to give AOL the middle finger salute tonight~~~~~~~~~
**Looks like AOL pulled one final fast one, journals are all ready gone this morning into the dark oblivion, hopefully this hasn't caught anyone by surprise, specifically those last minute people who thought they had until midnight tonight to save their words.................**

I have a neighbor, a great big man that could make a person walk the opposite direction just based on first impressions. He towers above the 6 foot fences. When I've sat in my backyard and watched him walk down the alley, I've often thought of him as the floating head man. Once in awhile I see him attached to his body while I'm taking my trash out to the alley. With an unobstructed full body appraisal, I notice he walks with a swagger that could export him right onto the pages of some dusty old western book.

He wears faded denim overalls, with one brown patch on the right knee. They earn the label of 'high waters' because they land a good 2 or 3 inches above the top of his boots. Clunky black combat boots that pound the dirt in the alley to the rhythm of his swagger. If I can't see him yet, I can usually hear him coming. His hair is always wildly sculpting his face, a piece flying this way, a chunk flying that away.....and if it wasn't for the fact he always grins at me from ear to ear when he meets me in the alley, or when he's peeking over the top of my fence, I'd probably call the cops and rant about a crazy man (although, I should anyway).

Here's my problem with my gigantic grinning neighbor. He goes through my trash. I believe he goes through every one's trash since the things we dispose of are cleverly taken out daily (we never have to worry about missing trash day) and hidden out of sight, out of mind, in the alley behind our homes. Seven day a week standby style.

So, if your a trash pickerthrougher, the alley is a smorgasbord of delights to be sifted through on a daily basis. And knowing he does this gives me a case of the heebie jeebies.

I know they say, "One Ladies trash is another Mans treasure." But seriously, there are certain things that go into a ladies trash that another man has no business discovering. I never buy white trash bags anymore, I'm all about 3m, black contractor bags now. But, he has a pocket knife and my bags are no match for a trash sifter with blade.

Perhaps I shouldn't care and look the other way, but these days every single thing I throw away I have to pause, and think, "Hmmm, will he keep my worn out undies as a souvenir if I throw them away?" If you think I'm being dramatic here, just think for a moment about what YOU throw away and if you had to bear the knowledge someone was going through your trash I promise it would give you pause............

And when he grins at me, my overactive imagination flares up and I think, oh shit, he must have saw....blank my trash last week. The man knows what I eat, what I read, when my period is, my shredded bills and discarded writing papers. He knows how many diet cokes I drink a week and when someones been sick. He goes through my discards and mayhem, he touches the wasted and used side of my life.

As for him, well I did my own 007 spy work, I walked the alleys until I figured out where he lives. Through the holes in his fence I could see the compilation of years of trash sifting. Piles and piles upon PILES of peoples discards. You name it, I could see it. Pack rat heaven. I could see MY old broken lamp, a blue tent that I had burned a big hole in.....and although I didn't see a shrine of discarded women's underwear, there certainly could have been in the layers and layers of stuff.

Pause, think about it, what would you do?? A curious mind wants to know~~~


Investigator, " If you knew he was hurting her, why didn't you call the police?"

Rebecca, looking at her feet, "She begged me not to. I didn't want to make it worse for her."

Investigator, "He was kicking her, hitting her, strangling her.......How much worse do you think it could have possibly been for her? You could have helped."

I will never, ever forget that police officers words to me. It sits in the pit of my stomach like a rotting burden of guilt. My reality.

For thoughts on what to do if you've found yourself in an abusive relationship, please visit Indigo's journal at Scream Quietly.

If you have found yourself in the position of loyal friend being a witness to such atrocities, please heed my words.

I was the first one to find bruises on my friend. I was the first one to confront her and I never let up, nor stopped begging her to leave him. I was the one she called at 3:00 a.m. bawling and injured, I comforted her and talked until I was blue in the face, I offered my house as a safe sleeping zone, only to watch her go back everytime.....I thought I was being the best friend I could be.....but I never once called the police.

I was made an accessory to his beatings without even understanding and realizing it until almost the end.

I used every mind trick tactic filled with caring and love I could conjure up to shake reality, reasoning and hope through her despair for three long years.........but his mind tricks and fists were far more powerful. His power triumphed each time and each time I would try getting through her with a new revised plan...but I never once called the police.

Coffee. That's what I took her for. Coffee in a nice safe zone. Three years it took for that cup of coffee, but I was tired, worried beyond a worry I could explain in words but the core part of my role in this story...... I had realized the sick and twisted role I had been placed in.

I told her, "I love you, but I can no longer be a party to this. I love you, but if you end up dead tomorrow it will be partially my fault because I know whats going on and did nothing. I know what he's doing, yet every time I watch quietly while you go back. I love you, but you can no longer call me at 3:00 a.m. I love you, but if you end up dead, how will I ever be able to face your children, face myself. I've been doing this for 3 years and nothing I've done has helped. I no longer want to know details, I can't bear it. But, if you choose to leave him, I'll do everything in my power to help you."

I had made a choice, a hard line choice. Two months from that cup of coffee, to her day of freedom. A beating and an attempting drowning in the bath tub and she finally called the police. Finally, I was able to do what friends are supposed to do, help.

But, as with all things, we people must face our choices and actions, which is what I had to do with the investigators. Now, today, everyday, but especially on that day at the police station when I said, "I didn't want to make things worse for her." I could see and feel in every fiber of my being, the extreme ignorance in my innocence.

I was the friend who could see clearly but I didn't do the right thing and I should have. I assure you, the one in the abusive relationship can't see anything clearly. They are brainwashed, scared, embarrassed, humiliated, blinded, mortified and unsure of taking one single step without permission from the monster that controls them.

Call the police, despite your loved ones wishes. Don't enable a situation through caring ignorance. The police won't go storming in unless someone is in immediate danger. Make a plan with them. And just so everyone knows, and clearly understands, when it comes to trial and the law, everyone that knew anything will be on trial in one way or another. A defense attorney looks at a friends lack of action as damn near an admission that nothing was going on significant enough to call police.....think about that. Take notes, keep a log, establish a a solid witness for your friend.

My friend is lucky, I am lucky. My gracious and merciful reality is the top conversation, but it could have just as easily been this bottom friend should carry such a burden.

Investigator," If you knew he was hurting her, why didn't you call the police?"

Rebecca, sobbing and devastated, "She begged me not to. I didn't want to make it worse for her."

Investigator," She's dead now, whats worse then that?"


I grasp that I am not the only parent who has experienced the pure heart pounding terror of a teenager getting their drivers licence...I get that anyone who has a drivers licence, probably subjected their parents to hyperventilating moments that needed medical intervention......I understand it's all part of the job, but good gawd all mighty, I'm not sure how much more my heart, knuckles and car can take.

I felt in my gut the day my 16 year old daughter finished driving school would be about as much fun as the one day a year I go to the gynecologist. I was right, except now I get that feeling everyday. I had read the paper work, I knew my part in this whole terrifying deal. "Once your child has passed driving school, they must drive accompanied by an licenced adult for 6 MONTHS before applying for their drivers licence." Oh parental joy...

The first lip quivering pause was vehicle. I own two, a necessity for my lifestyle. One for the mountains, a big tough Dodge truck and the other, a sweet smart little BMW for the city.

I suggested the truck, figuring if we rammed into anything, a tree, a fence, parked cars, moving train, we would have a decent shot at living. But her mouth dropped open and she said, "That big thing, are you kidding? Mom, there's just no way, I'm used to a Subaru from class."

Which brought her eye's and mine (open huge and buggin) to the BMW. Double gulp. Shelby tentatively says, "Wow Mom, do you think I can handle the BMW?" Handle? The only words that came to my mind was smashed, scratched, dented, totaled with a capital T. There's a reason I drive a BMW, it isn't for name, or status, I could care less about such empty illusions. I drive one because they are fast, barely touch the gas peddle zippy fast, turn with the slightest touch, and ride like they are on air. The sort of things a 16 year old need not appreciate.

I make too much noise. That's right, turns out I'm the horror, according to my daughter, to drive with. I gasp audibly with terror etched throughout my face. I grab the dashboard to often, white knuckle style. I suck in air like a fish gasping and dying on the floor boards. I yelp and I whisper cuss words to often. Oh, and I give suggestions, criticism and directions far to much for her sensitive soul.

All that according to the kid I've made cry on more then one driving occasion.

I don't consider myself the sort of Mom who takes great joy in making the kid cry. And I even tried to explain, justify myself and my actions to her.

For Example:

Shelby, I gasped because you were hugging the right side of the road so bad that poor biker had to jump the curb to avoid being laid out flat under the wheels.

Darling, I grabbed the dashboard because you 'paused' ...your word, not the stop sign, and let us not forget stop sign means well...stop the damn car.... and you practically took out that mans utility trailer. By the way, if my hands weren't indented in the dashboard I would have flipped him off, for flipping you off.

Sweetheart, I sucked in air because despite your 'comfortable' speed, when you get on the freeway you must maintain a speed that flows with everyone else. Just because 45 mph feels better for you at that moment, that doesn't mean the Semi-truck coming up the ass-end of the car understands.

Daughter, I yelped and cussed under my breath because first you hit the gas too hard which shot us mock 5 around the corner, at which point in time you froze your turn in the steering wheel, shooting the low clearance BMW along side, into, and onto the sidewalk. At which point in time a show of emitting sparks, and the noise of scratching the entire side of the car will haunt me forever.

And none of us will forget scaring the shit out of 4 people who went flying for cover (now I know how people get run over innocently walking down a sidewalk) ...........and the worst thing about that disaster was your darling back seat driver sister blamed me. I had just answered my cell phone 2 seconds prior to this horror and was mid process of telling the caller I would need to call them back and guess what, that caller got to hear the very reason WHY. Every screech, scrap, scream, swear word....the whole enchilada. Answering my phone for that brief second was not the problem sweet Kaitlyn.

***By the way, I drove home from this experience with both daughters sobbing in the back seat. I think daughter number #2 thought I might murder and bury her sister in the mountains somewhere***

So my fault ehh.....if that's the story you two are sticking to, well then I'm telling my side, not to mention writing the check for the damage.

Honestly, I just want to live, or call a taxi, or hire someone who can contain their 'oh shits' and 'oh gawd we're gonna die's'.... I am not enjoying this entire experience, at all. The interesting thing is, when I got my drivers licence, I came home a spry 15 year old with my licence photo barely dry and my dad gave me a key to the car.

I was off and driving, just like that. Alone (well ok, I'd zoom down the street and pick up 2, or 3 or 4 friends)

There was none of this drive with parents for 6 months agony. I was a pro from day one, surely I was, right? My parents were the lucky ones, they trusted blindly, spared themselves the heart attacks and I suppose just prayed I'd make it home alive each time.

The good old days, when parents weren't legally bound to torture their children as much with suggestions, directions, ohhs and ahhs~~

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