spending money

I love buying things. I get a thrill from a new shirt or lipstick or even getting a peppermint mocha from Starbucks.

However, I never seem to have the good ideas when it comes to selling things. Ebay has become a goldmine for some folks. My brother made $1200 off of a $7 yard sale purchase of an obsolete video game player and several out of production games ( I can't remember the name right now, but I know one of the game cartridges was for Frogger. The original one). A lipgloss shaped like a penny from Avon went for $120 on Ebay a couple of years ago. It was used, but it was a collectible. It was from the 70's. I had one when I was twelve.

Just today, a person told me she sold a $12 sparkling edible body powder for $70. Who the hell spends that kind of money for something like that?

And here is the greatest scam of all; used flip flops. All her auctions are for the same kind of thing. $25 already with three days to go for a used pair of $1.99 flip flops. It's got to be some weird foot fetish thing. Dirty flip flops? I guess pervs pay a lot for what they want. I have used flip flops. I have used undies too (although I don't think they let you sell them without washing them).

I'm not proud. If someone wants my gross icky stuff, great. Live it up.

Where's that digital camera?

Harriet-Sitting

Harriet is my friend's lovely, sweet YAPPY dog. She's part Chihuahua and part Jack Russell Terrier. My friend is moving today, and so I am taking care of Harriet until tomorrow when they finish up. Charlie loves her, and we went to the beach today for a long walk. I washed both of 'em, and then the three of us watched TV and napped. I did some laundry, which is still in the dryer, but which I am not going to go retrieve now because it's pitch black outside (no street lights), and the laundry room is around the back of the main house.

It's pitch black because it is now 10:13pm. I'd like to go to bed, but our house guest keeps finding things to bark at. She's trying to sound oh-so-vicious, but when I pick her up and put her on my lap (the only way to shut her up), she's shaking. She growls almost under her breath; it would be cute except I'd like it to be quiet. I always say how lucky I am to have Charlie, but here's one more reason why. He doesn't bark much. He will bark, especially at freaky Fred next door (yes, I've changed his name for privacy purposes), but stops immediately when I tell him to. Harriet... not so much.

I am typing this now with her in my lap, resting her head on my left forearm, which is no easy feat. Just as I wrote that she snuggled her head under my arm and is now prone.

Awww...

I don't get it

!

Birthdays

Today is my dear friend Rick's Birthday. His 40th to be exact. My friend Carol's partner, Wanda is also turning 40. And, one of my oldest friends (we met in Indian Maidens when we were 7 years old) is turning 41 today.

I need to make some calls.

Running late

Going to Etta James tonight at the Hollywood Bowl. Too much to do today to say much.

Ant Invasion

Oh god. They're here. The heat from the last few days has driven them indoors. I got home this afternoon, and they were everywhere. All over my printer, my computer table, my box of wrapping paper on the floor. In the kitchen, in the sink... I'm scared to look in my bedroom now.

And, even earlier, they were in my car. Coming out of the dashboard near the radio.

Every time I feel an itch now, I'm sure it's one of the little critters lighting upon my face.

I can't even figure out where they're coming in.

Excuse me, I have some murdering to do.

I forgot the cookies

Well, I got the cookies put into a tupperware yesterday, put them next to my purse, and left them on the table.

I swear, I'm getting forgetful in my old age.

I am almost done reading Middlesex, this great book I can't put down. I stayed up too late last night reading it.

Took Charlie to the beach early this morning, and have tons of tar on the soles of my feet. Nail polish remover gets most of it off, but now I smell like the acetone in the remover.

I have to get in the shower and get ready for Writer's camp.

A query

To the God damn mother fucking little fly who won't let me nap.

Why must you, when given my entire household to fly around in, and my entire body to alight upon, fly as close as possible to my exposed right ear? Why? Does your buzzing and my subsequent flailing give you a power trip? If you aren't careful I will get one of these.

I know your little insignificant life will be over soon. It's the only thought that gives me comfort right now.

Captain Bess Bonney

That's my pirate name.

"Even though there's no legal rank on a pirate ship, everyone recognizes you're the one in charge. You can be a little bit unpredictable, but a pirate's life is far from full of certainties, so that fits in pretty well. Arr!"

I like it. Go here to find your own pirate name.

I've just made 48 tiny little chocolate chip cookies for the campers today. I should say I just baked the 47 (I ate one before I put it in the oven) pre-formed, refrigerated, packaged cookies I bought at Von's last week. See, they were on sale for $2.50, plus there was a dollar off sticker on the package, plus Von's doubles your coupons. So really, I only spent 50 cents for something that will make them smile.

And it's not so hot right now, so the 10 minutes it took to bake them wasn't painful at all.

I wonder how many of these tiny, cute cookies will actually make it to Writer's Camp today.

Movies on my own

Go now. Go and see Mad Hot Ballroom as fast as you can. Oh my goodness.

I couldn't take the heat in my house. I hosed Charlie down, left the fan on high, and went to the sweet coolness of the movie theatre. I've wanted to see this movie for a while, but every time I wait to see a movie with one of my friends, it's usually gone before we can get our act together to see it.

I snuck in an ice cold diet pepsi, and paid three dollars for a box of Dots. I love those things. Like gumdrops without the granulated sugar. I feel a bit sick from eating too many though, but that's okay. Live a little I say.

I love going to movies, and don't mind going alone. No worrying about waiting around, anyone being late, someone who has to sit on the aisle... by myself, I just go, and watch. No one talking to me or climbing over me to go pee. I get popcorn, I don't have to keep offering it to the person sitting next to me.

Don't get my wrong, it's fun to go with a friend too, but it's the one thing I can do alone completely without self-consciousness.

I digress.

Go see this movie. It's great. I cried while laughing at the same time. Several times. These kids are wonderful. Almost teenagers, but not quite. Charming and still young. Most are sixth graders I think.

Oh, and Charlie survived while I was gone. Now that the sun has gone down, it's a bit better.

I'm melting

Is it possible that my house was constructed to not only hold heat but become at least 10 degrees hotter than whatever the outside temperature is? According to my outdoor thermometer, which is in the shade, it is 90 degrees. Inside, I believe it's closer to 100. Why, do you ask? Well, the heat is emanating from the walls. I can feel it against my right bare shoulder and ear, coming at my body like a wave. No, a wave retreats at some point. This is horrific.

Okay, not horrific. I'm not going to die. Charlie is not going to die.

This is yucky.

I tried something new, suggested to me by Chella's significant other; I opened up all the windows and kept the fan on last night and early this morning. Then, before noon, I closed everything up. windows, curtains, blinds all closed. Supposedly this was to "keep the coolness in" because I have a mostly cinderblock house. I left the house for about three hours.

Closing up the house doesn't work. It's foul. I'm going to have to go to the movies, but that means leaving my little dog here. I don't think that's fair. Of course, I'm the human, but he's covered in fur. He can't be comfortable.

He's under the dining room table now, tongue out, on his side, looking rather comatose.

Then again, why should we both suffer?

Good Morning

So far, so good today. It's going to be hot later. Africa hot here at the base of the San Marcos Pass, but right now it's nice.

Charlie and I got up early and went to the beach. It's major low tide right now, and it was nice and cool. We walked for about an hour and a half; would've kept going except I didn't have any H2O for the wonder dog, and he was eyeballing the ocean water*. He knows it won't be good, he knows there will be foul consequences, but his thoughts are transparent to me,

"Maybe this time it'll be different. It's water, I'm thirsty... maybe just a little taste... Huh? No, not me. I wasn't drinking it. Nope, just looking at the pretty swirls in the tide... don't worry Becky, you are such a worrier. Do you have a cookie for me?"

Right now, as you know, Charles is eating only Duck. Dry duck dog food and wet duck dog food. I think there might be some oatmeal mixed in as well. I have not found duck dog treats just yet, so I've just been using his dry food as the treat. He caught on today. The fifth or sixth time I yelled for him to come, as usual, he raced toward me like Lassie toward home when Timmy fell in the well. I held out his "cookie" and he stuck his nose in the air. Sniffed in disgust. I swear! Wouldn't have it. Turned his head away like a toddler who doesn't want to eat his carrots.

I think my dog is turning into a snob.


*To solve the water problem, I now must have this, from the Harriet Carter catalog. I love flipping through it when it comes in the mail. No matter how many times I move, it finds me at my new address. It amuses me, some of the things in there. There's actually a flying pig hat. Who spends money on that?

A simple thing

Okay, so I've just spent the past two hours trying to find a good deal on DSL. I have the worst dial up service (okay, the second worst; I don't have AOL), and the slowest. Wasn't a big deal when I had an archaic computer, but now I have a new spiffy one, and getting bumped in the middle of an IM conversation with Tornwordo, or taking 1/2 an hour to down load a game is ridiculous.

So first, I go to Verizon. Plug in my phone number to see if I can get it. I get back:
"Verizon Online DSL Is Not Available for your phone number."

Swell. So then I go to Extreme DSL. Something is goofy with the website, and no matter how many times I try to see a price list or availability, it just goes back to the home page.

I know people have DSL in my town. I know they do. So why is it so hard for me to even find a price? ARGH.

Then, my landlady, who will be returning in a week or so, asked me to compare DirectTV and Dish Network for her. I've been without Cable or any other TV for over a year now. She's going to switch to satellite, and will include me in the deal. Hooray, right?

Except it's very confusing, and everything is "get it now! This offer won't last!"

Calling the customer service number was a joke. See, my house is about 15 feet from the main house, but we want to make sure that she only has to pay one bill ("Get up to 4 extra rooms in your house free!"). The guy I talked to at Dish Network was very casual, "yeah, I think we could do that. It sounds like it wouldn't be a problem."

Well, could you fucking ask someone who knows for sure? I got almost the same response from the guy at Direct TV. ""We should be able to do that. I don't see why not."

Well, are these guys who are answering the phone actually installing the satellite? Because, you know, if they come and install the gal darn thing, and decide at that time that they can't hook it up to my place, I'm the one who's out of luck. My landlady will get her shows, and I'll still be Big Brotherless.

Not an interesting post at all today. Sorry. If anyone has any suggestions for a good DSL service, or which company, DirectTV or Dish Network they prefer, let me know.

Writer's Camp Anthology

For the Young Writer's Camp, each child picks one or two pieces he or she has been working on to publish in our end-of-camp anthology. It's a way for kids to see their work published, and feel like a real author. Problem is, camp is only 3 weeks long, and they have to have chosen their piece by today, Thursday of the second week. Frustrating, but that's how it goes with the printer and all.

The counselors have to choose a piece as well. It's hard for me, because most of what I write isn't exactly appropriate for 12-year-old eyes, or more importantly, the eyes of the parents of aforementioned 12-year-olds.

So, here's the version I will add to the camp anthology. Not profound, but clean and unoffensive:

Things I Have Lost

My favorite sweatshirt from Santa Cruz
Socks of many different hues

To my friend Cindy in the sixth grade,
The many games of Scrabble that we played

Keys, glasses, books and bills
Fear of falling out of windowsills

Money in a Las Vegas slot machine
Hours trying to make my house look clean

Paula, Lisa, Ted, all moved away
Addresses I no longer have today

Nana’s gold watch; no clue where that went
Most of the pencils to students I have lent

When I was little, my parents at the zoo
But I’ll never lose the love I have for you

Adding to my popularity

After we got back home that day, I got to sit in the red chair and watch TV and drink pepsi. Usually I was only allowed Kool-aid; the soda was for parents only, but it was a special day.

Mom told me that all the tests didn't exactly tell them what was wrong with me, but ruled some things out. What the doctor said to her was, "Well, at least we know what it isn't."

She told me that I had had a seizure. She explained it to me by comparing my brain to television signals.
"You know how the cable goes out sometimes honey? The TV station is sending out the signal, but something happens and our TV doesn't get it? And then we just have snow? That's a little like what happens when you have a seizure. Your brain sends signals to the rest of your body; to move, to smile, to think. When you have a seizure, your brain is still sending the signals, but they aren't connecting where they are supposed to. So, for a few moments you have "snow" and that creates a seizure."

She was using the tips of her fingers, connecting the left tips with her right tips to show when things were connecting properly, and then interlocking them to show when they didn't meet at the right place. My mom was always really good at explaining stuff.

Okay then. So why'd it happen? The tests had ruled out high fever, or a brain tumor, or cancer, all which can cause a seizure. What they did show was that I had Epilepsy. Something about my brain waves being out of whack. Mom said I had Grand Mal Epilepsy, which meant I was fully unconscious, when I had a seizure, and thrashed around. My lips had turned blue because I had stopped breathing briefly, and I had been drooling as well.

Oh boy. This didn't sound so great. She said I'd have to be very careful until they got the medication right, because I could really hurt myself if I had another seizure when I was swimming or up high or by myself. I had no idea what kind of changes were in store for me because of this.

Back to other folks. Remember that my whole neighborhood, which was full of kids, was awakened by my early morning adventure. Although I wasn't at school that day, everybody else was.
"Did you hear? Becky S _____'s heart stopped."
"I heard she had a heart attack."
"My mom said she stopped breathing."
"I live on her street, I know what happened. She took a drug overdose."

Ten year olds have very strong imaginations. The teachers in my grade had a meeting with the students to make sure that rumors didn't keep flying around. However, since they didn't really know what happened, they didn't help either.

"Becky has had some kind of accident, but we need to remember that she's another kid just like any of you. She might act differently when she gets back to school, but we have to all treat her the same as before today."

This wasn't necessarily the best advice, considering that I was picked on quite mercilessly before all this. I was a smart mouth, and a cry baby, and I didn't have too many friends to begin with.

Telling my Nana, my dad's mother, was also a challenge.

"Epilepsy? She seems like such a bright girl."

Because of course, if I had "spells" I must be retarded.

So, after switching from the top bunk to the bottom bunk (I might fall out if I had a seizure and was still up high), nothing else at home changed that much. I was taking Dialentin and Phenobarbital twice a day, and mom made a check chart for me so I wouldn't forget if I had taken it or not.

Back to school the next day. I was not allowed to be alone, ever, and I wasn't to do P.E. until they figured out what triggers, if any, caused the seizures. Kids made a wide berth around me, and the teachers were solicitous, but I doubt most of them understood what Epilepsy was. Some kids were cruel.

I wasn't allowed to even go to the girl's room alone, so I had to ask a teacher to go with me. A few days after I came back, I told Mrs. Moore I had to go. She was busy, and turned to Terri Brown, another girl in my class,

"Terri, could you go with Becky to the bathroom? She should have someone with her."

"What do you need me for? To pull down your pants?" I'm sure she was reprimanded, but all I recall are the peals of laughter from the rest of the kids in the room.

During recess, I wasn't allowed to play on the bars or the swings or even on the black top because I "might get hurt." I played jacks with Carly Little's sister Janie, most of the time. I didn't really like her, but I didn't have a lot of choices in the friends department.

One day, about a week later, I was inside coloring while everyone else was out doing P.E. The student teacher was inside too, but around the corner, working on something as well.

Next thing I knew, I was on the floor, looking up at Mrs. Moore. I turned to the window, and there I saw 23 ten-year-old faces crammed against it, staring in at me. Oh great. I'd had another one. The student teacher had freaked out, left me there, and gone running out on the field, "Mrs. Moore! Becky's had another one! She's having a seizure right now!"

That's the way to stay calm. Mr. Metcalf, the principal of our school carried me to his little VW Bug (remember, we didn't have a second car?) and drove me home. Usually I was scared of him, but he seemed the only adult at school that didn't care about my "special circumstances."

Someone else who didn't care was my younger sister, Amy. She insisted that right before I had my first seizure that morning with the Lego's, I had given her the miniature oriental rug I had been using for my dolls. She said that I forgot because of the seizure. She is now 39 years old and still claims that I did. I remembered everything else right up to the seizure, so I just as vehemently have denied this.

She and her friend Ellie were with me when I had my third seizure. We were walking to school in the morning, and they were a bit ahead of me. They heard me fall on the sidewalk, and Amy yelled for her friend to run to school to get someone. Amy stayed with me while I did my thing. Eight years old, and she had more presence of mind than the goofy student teacher days earlier. She did yell at Ellie to run faster though.

My principal came again, and got me into the car and drove me home. Amy was annoyed because after her heroics, she had to still go to school, while I got to stay home.

I hurt myself that time, because I had fallen on my head on the concrete. My shoulder, elbow and face were all bruised. I looked like I had been in a car accident. My mom must have been worried sick about me, but she never showed it. I don't remember her ever making a big deal about my seizures, although she was normally the most cautious mother around.

That was the last seizure. They got the medication right, and for the next five years I took pills, went in for quarterly EEG's, and by fifteen, I was "normal" again.

Whatever that means.

The hospital and beyond

Dad met us at the hospital. His face was damp and he seemed a bit out of breath as he teased me,
"Hi honey. Were you just upset I didn't say goodbye this morning? There are easier ways of getting my attention you know." He patted me on the head. I hated when he did that.

My first ride in a wheelchair was down the hallway, with Jim pushing me and my grandmother walking beside me.
"Everything's going to be fine, sweetie. They're just going to do some tests to see what happened."

It had been explained to me a bit, in the car ride over. I had fainted, but worse than that. I had been unconscious, but they didn't know why. We didn't know why my legs were so wobbly. All I cared about was if the tests were going to hurt.
"I don't think so. Don't worry."

Turned out that Dr. Caliene, our family doctor was working in the emergency room that day, and my mom rushed to him when he appeared. I caught something about "lips were blue" but couldn't get the rest.

I was then wheeled into a room and didn't see my parents for two more hours. I don't remember much about the tests. I was alone for a long time, in a white room with a metal and plastic divider that kept me from seeing the machines I heard. I still had on my own nightie, but not the bathrobe anymore. I had a thin white blanket with small blue diamonds on it, but I was still cold. I did hear my dad's raised voice outside the room at one point, but I couldn't tell what he was saying. They gave me some medicine to make me sleep, and when I woke up, I was with my parents again. My dad carried me to the car, and let me lie down in the back seat.

Later, my mom filled in the blanks.

My sister and I had been up early playing with Lego's that morning. Amy and I were both making a house, but that's the last thing I remember. Amy said that I turned my head sharply to "look at the clock" and then fell over on the floor and started "kicking."

"Mo-om! Becky's breaking my Lego house!"
From her bedroom, "You girls are both supposed to be in bed. Don't make me come in there!"
"Mom! Now she's spitting!"
"Rebekah Blank Blank! You stop that right..." and she cut short. She was so angry that we weren't listening to her that she had come in our room to scold us. I wasn't spitting, I was drooling. And the kicking was a seizure. My lips were blue and my face was white. She told Amy to go into the dining room and she tried to wake me up.

I wouldn't wake up, and she called the emergency number (this was before 911). She told the person that her daughter wasn't responding. The emergency crew was on their way, and the person at the other end of the phone tried to calm mom down, and help her until they arrived.

Now. Next door were our neighbors, the Goodes. Aunt Kathy, as we called her, was the mom, and Uncle Bob was the dad. They had four kids whose names all had the same ending: Debbie, Jessie, Timmy, and Jody. Uncle Bob was a sheriff, and they had a police scanner at their house. Aunt Kathy had heard the call go out for our address. And, in Emergencyspeak, "not responding" means something other than "not waking up." So, she took it upon herself to call my father at work and tell him that one of his daughters had stopped breathing. Sweet neighbor, right? Of course, my dad couldn't get through to my mom when he called, because she was still on the phone with the dispatcher.

He was a bit frantic. He was the one who called my grammy, who lived about a mile away, and she got herself over to the house about the same time as the paramedics.

I've seen it all

Are these really necessary? Check out the website... only $125 for FLIP FLOPS!

And then read the reviews. Who are these people that buy crap like this?

(although, having said that, I'd buy 'em if they were 5 dollars.)

A Memory

Two huge men with yellow coats were leaning over me as I woke up. One had a bushy handlebar moustache, and the other was wearing something around his neck. I was on my back and couldn't see past them, although I heard other voices.

I began to cry.

My mother's voice was in the background, and I tried to turn to see where she was. The big men said to "lie still," which only frightened me more. I saw the corner of the braided rug on the floor in my room, so at least I knew where I was. The last thing I remembered was playing Lego's with my sister on that rug. It had been 6:30 in the morning, and we weren't supposed to get out of bed until 7, but we had been quiet.

I heard more voices, this time like on a tape recorder or a telephone, and the latching (or unlatching) of a box. My mother put her hand on my head and told me it was going to be okay. It seems like there were at least 25 people in the bedroom I normally just shared with my sister Amy. My grandmother was there too; she brought me the bright yellow bathrobe I had gotten from Sear's last Christmas.

All of a sudden, I knew what was going on. I watched Emergency! every Saturday night at 8:00 (Mom let us stay up an hour later on weekends). I had a big crush on Randolph Mantooth, who played Johnny, and I never missed the show. These guys were paramedics!

But why were they here? And why was I on the floor? And why was Mom and Grammy trying to help me sit up? Why couldn't I stand up? My legs just wouldn't hold me. I was trying, but they just weren't working.

At that point, the big men were telling my mom that I had to go to the hospital for tests. One of them asked me, "do you want to ride in the ambulance or in your grandmother's car?" And later regretting my choice, I mean, how often does a 10-year-old get to ride in an ambulance? I chose my grammy's car.

With my mother on one side, and a paramedic on the other, I half walked, and was half carried to the car. I was like a toddler in those swings; where the child can move her legs, but isn't actually moving her body? Everyone in the neighborhood of our cud-de-sac was outside watching. It was still pretty early in the morning, and most people still had their pajamas or bathrobes on. There was a fire truck, a paramedic truck. a sheriff's car and an ambulance all wedged into our small dead end.

As we made our way down the driveway, Carly Little across the street yelled, "Hi Becky!" as if I were going to a party.

One of the paramedics, Jim, rode with us. I was in the back with my mother, and he sat in the passenger seat of the burgundy colored Buick. He talked to my mother most of the time, but at one point asked me to squeeze his fingers. The three fingers I grabbed of his turned white at the tips, and all three adults laughed when I did it. It couldn't be that bad then, right?

One hour from now

I will be meeting Katrina at the stairs at the beach. I will have Charlie with me, and two mochas from Starbuck's. Katrina's will be a grande, decaf, non -fat with whip, and mine will be a non-fat, no whip version. We trade off who gets the coffee when we walk in the mornings. She always gets the same thing, but if it's Coffee Bean and Tea leaf, I get an English Breakfast Latte. Yum.

Jett, Katrina's dog won't be joining us. He broke a toe (a compound fracture!) and then it got infected. She and her husband have spent over $2000 on this one small thing. I always thought pet insurance was silly; now I'm not so sure. I've spent about $200 myself on old Charlie boy over the last two weeks; all on his skin allergies.

See, he was scratching more than normal after I got back from my Vegas trip with Tornwordo. He already had antihistamines he was taking twice a day. Nope, didn't help. So I then upped them to three a day (after calling my vet first); still no change.

I took him in. New special shampoo, new special anti-itch lotion, I started him on fish oil capsules, and was told I could add Benydryl to his daily cocktail of pills. Still not much change, except that he was doped up and sleepy most of the time from the Benydryl. Then I found little scabs near his tail. Just what I didn't want to have happen.

We go back in. Yep, he has a staph infection now. Charming. He had a horrible one when he came into the shelter almost two years ago, and the one time he got fleas when he was with me (did I mention he's also seriously allergic to fleas?). Now he's on antibiotics, and special food. Get this, it's Duck. Yes folks, my dog is now eating the same thing I can't afford for myself. He has special dry food and special wet food. A Duck and oatmeal blend; a melange, if you will.

Supposedly, Duck has the lowest known allergens for the Canine population. We will see. He can't have anything else but his special food. No tidbits from my plate (not that I would ever do such a thing) and no little doggie treats for now. Although I do know there are Duck doggie treats, I just don't know where to find them.

Anyway, now there is only 1/2 hour until I meet Katrina, and I must get on my way.

That "Nobody likes me" feeling

How silly is this? I check the blog first thing every time I log on; when I don't have any comments at all, I feel let down. Like my writing wasn't good enough that day, like I'm not worthy of a remark.

This is what I call my "Nerd Complex" coming to the fore. No matter that my regular readers are or have been on vacation, no matter that what I write is rather boring and self-centered. Nope, it's a personal reflection of what people think of me.

I'll try harder tomorrow folks. I will try to write something political, controversial and thought provoking.

Maybe I'll just post another picture of Charlie.

First week of Writer's camp

This is my second year as a "counselor" at the Young Writer's Camp. It's a three-week, three-hour-a-day, four days a week day camp for... well, young writers. Seventh through ninth graders to be exact. It's a blast to teach writing without grades or standards determining the worth of the student's work.

Cindy is my partner, and we work together in the group of 22 kids. It's a great group too. Not any knuckleheads like last year.

Oh, we still have a few kids who really don't want to be there; their parents sent them to help them improve their writing skills. Bad idea. These kids don't look at creative writing as fun, they look at it as punishment. No matter how we try to present this as something for kids who already enjoy writing, we always get the two or three who act like they would rather have the Chicken Pox than keep coming.

I just got off the phone with the mom of one of them. Eddie has a sweet smile, and is basically a polite kid, but does NOT want to be in camp. He said he hates coming, but that his mom is making him. I feel bad for the kid. His older brother (in high school) gets to stay home, watch TV and play video games, while Eddie has to go to "school" (as far as he's concerned).

What's really too bad is that when he does participate in the writing activities, he does a good job! I'm worried that his mother forcing him to go will make him hate writing rather than enjoy it more. I tried to say as much to her, but I didn't want to offend her either. These parents pay around $300 for the three weeks. Maybe it's even more now, I don't know exactly. Is it a good idea to force kids to go when there are so many other opportunities for them?

In any case, we have already written pieces on being famous, a poem of address, a collaborative piece using all five senses, a memory piece, a "candy" story (using the names of candy, write a short story or letter... you know, " I hope you love me Now and Later, etc.), we've gone to the art museum and written about the exhibits there... it's been busy. I writer every day with the students, and maybe I'll post something I've written soon, but after I get home I'm so tired, I don't seem to have much blogging stuffing left inside me.

Maybe tomorrow. There's no camp on Fridays.

Expectations I shouldn't have

Some of you remember the post I wrote about the good things about my dad. It was hard to write, and I made myself cry doing it, but I knew it would be good for me. And it was.

But.

I emailed it to him just over two weeks ago, and I've heard nothing from him. Nothing.

It wasn't sent just to get a response, but gosh, it still hurts. Even when I do something nice, there's no acknowledgement at all.

Please, please don't say something like "your father is a jerk, and you just need to accept that." It may well be true, but it's not going to happen. I will always want my father to love me and respect me; it's how I'm wired.

Understanding that my dad is an A-1 asshole is easy for anyone to do. Moving on from there is the hard part for me.

A birthday party

Last night I went to a birthday party for Donald. You know, the nice guy that's completely head over heels for my friend Michelle? The one Michelle thinks would be a "good match" for me?

Anyway, a bunch of his friends met at a local bar/restaurant for drinks. Michelle had bought balloons, and flowers to decorate the table, and had told me earlier that she had bought a cake from a local bakery. To the tune of $32! For a cake! Now, tell me that she isn't interested in him.

I got gussied up, looked mighty fine I might add, and arrived a bit late. The only people I knew were the birthday boy and Michelle. I had to sit way at the end of the long table and try to have sparkling conversation with total strangers. I sat down with couples on either side of me, and a very handsome man who happened to be Donald's boss.

As is usual when faced with a good looking, apparently single man, I started talking to the woman on my left. Blah blah blah party talk. Everyone seemed very nice.

At the other end of a table was another man, tall, intelligent looking. For the first time in I don't know how long, I actually was doing the look-look away, flirty thing with him. I was surprised at myself. I don't do that anymore.

truly, I don't believe anyone finds me attractive enough, in this sea of beautiful women, to actually flirt with me or be interested in me. Intellectually, I know that's not true, but it's what I feel when I'm in a situation like this. Usually. And I certainly don't want to embarrass myself by flirting and then being rebuffed. I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable. I know how I feel when some goober thinks he's hot stuff and won't stop pouring it on. How come the amount of unwanted attention grows in direct proportion to how undesirable the giver of the attention is?

I never want to be that undesirable person, so I pretty much just avoid the whole thing.

But not last night. I don't know what it was that got into me. My new haircut? The tall guy at the other end of the table left fairly early, so I never spoke with him. However, the very handsome man closer to me happened to be good friends with the boyfriend of the woman on my left. So Keith and I started talking too. After the couple left, we kept talking. Dare I say... flirting as well. Oh boy. I haven't forgotten how to do this.

At one point he asked me if I had gone to "Plate" this new Asian French fusion restaurant... was he going to ask me out?

No. He was just talking about restaurants.

He left while I was in the ladies room. No good bye, nice to meet you, see you again.

But it doesn't matter.

I still felt pretty and charming for a while last night. It's nice to know that feeling is still there, available to me.

Lance Corporal Thomas Johnson

T.J. never had a pencil.
180 school days and not once did he come to class with a pencil.
Sometimes he had paper.

He was short, loved The Simpsons, The Laker’s, and Skittles.
I took candy away from him more than once.

He wrote about his dream house (on the beach), his future career (cartoon illustrator), and his worst fear (clowns). He rarely misspelled words.

When I think of him, he’s wearing a thick blue sweatshirt, with a hood. He must have worn other things, but that’s what I see.

He smiled most of the time. Called me “unfair” when I wouldn’t give him extra time for a test. His parents were divorced.

An eighth grader.

I haven’t thought about him in seven years.

Yesterday I saw his picture. He was grown up, muscular, still wearing blue.

But,
In my mind, it was the 13-year old boy

Blown up on the side of the road in a place I can’t pronounce.

It's one of those days

Took Charlie to self service groomers today (after his $96 vet appointment yesterday!) to wash him, cut his hair because he doesn't shed, and get his toenails clipped.

Well, the guy cut too close to the quick of his left front Dew Claw, and I didn't realize it until we got home. I suppose Charlie's yelp and attempt to bite the groomer at the time should have clued me in, but I thought my little guy was just scared.

When we got home, it was bleeding quite a bit, and Charlie was licking at it. I felt horrible. How could I have let someone hurt my dog? I know it was an accident, but still... I got out a washcloth and some first aid wash and tried to clean it up. However, Charlie just kept licking. Now I have to be careful that it doesn't get infected. Oh, the worry about such a little being.

Oh, and the vet told me yesterday that he's also overweight. By about a pound. Which I thought was pretty funny; I would be pleased as punch to be one pound overweight. But, when you only weigh 25 pounds ... and Charlie actually now weighs 26, it's a pretty big percentage.

It's probably a good thing I don't have kids. I would just spend my days feeling guilty about everything.

Too Early

It's not yet 6 in the morning, and here I am. I drank too much wine last night, so not only do I feel a bit squashed, it also messed with my system. I woke up sweating (maybe it's the hot flashes already?) and to the sound of my dog scratching himself.

My brain is not functioning fully, so just skip reading this if you don't want to be bored.

I'm worried about Charlie. Ever since I picked him up Tuesday, he's been scratching and chewing like a crazy dog. I'm going to take him for a walk, because it's low tide, give him a good bath, and then take him to the vet. They don't open until 7:45am, and since I don't have an appointment, I'm going to have to leave him there for a while until someone can see him. I just don't want it to be a foxtail or something. He's got allergies (just like his owner), but this is bad. He's been doing that thing dogs do when they stretch out with their legs behind them, and rub their private bits on the rug. It's just lovely. Ew. He even made himself throw up with all the chewing and licking. And... the smell? Ick.

Great way to start the day, don't you think?

Hot and Sweaty

And not in a good way. I am madly trying to clean or disguise my messy house. My book club is coming over in two hours, and I still have to make food (Jambalaya with hot sausage and cornbread), and vacuum and finish cleaning the bathroom, and look as if I'm not beat.

This is after working with my writing camp partner for 4 hours this morning to plan out our activities.

A big change from the fun and relaxation with tornwordo yesterday.

In Las Vegas

I won't be blogging. Be back next Wednesday.

One of my stomach aches

Actually it should be called a torso ache, because the pain is up high in my chest and sides.

I get these about 3 times a year, and everytime I just want to go to sleep to get away from the pain. But I can't, because it hurts so much.

Let's see, they started about 14-15 years ago in Japan. I'd wake up in the middle of the night with it, and had no idea what was going on. I thought it was the food I was eating; I cut out alcohol, caffeine, dairy, nothing worked. It happened at least once a month, if not more. I convinced myself it was psychosomatic, that if I willed it not to hurt, it wouldn't. But, it still did. Hurt I mean. and a lot. Finally went to a doctor (going to the doctor in Japan is a whole new experience, but I'll write about that another time), and he said it was an ulcer.

I went home for a visit, no, the doctors here tell me, it's not an ulcer, it's just too much stomach acid. Charming. So I go on Zantac and Pepcid and all those other supposedly effective antacid. They don't work.

I keep getting these stomach aches that wake me up and make me walk bent over. No one can tell me what's going on. I think it's stress, but my family doctor poo-pooed that idea. I actually switched doctors after that.

It keeps happening, but not as often Finally, I took a Vicoden for it. I had the Vicoden from slamming my head on a cutting board one Thanksgiving (tell you later). It worked. It worked well. I thought " great, problem solved."

Except that I took my last half of one yesterday. I had the beginnings of one of the stomach aches lurking around all day. I thought it was just something I ate, but realized it wasn't going away. I took the pill at around 4:30, and felt much better. All excited about my trip with Tornwordo to Vegas today.

At 1am I woke up. Full on, full fledged, no holds barred, stomach ache. I curl up. I stretch out. I try visualizing a sunset (sometimes that works for me). I take a couple rolaid soft chews. I take some Zantac that's in my drawer and past it's expiration date. I drink some water. I try to go back to sleep. I worry about my trip. I don't want this to be going on when I'm supposed to have fun.

So I've been tossing and turning since then. Finally said "forget it" to myself about sleep, and here I am. Now, if I wasn't hunched over in pain, I might be able to talk about the need for it. Pain, I mean. How it tells us what is going on within these beautiful machines called our bodies. How it symbolizes emotional or mental pain. How the pain makes one appreciate those times without it.

However, I can't write about those things, because all I can think about it making it go away.

Please send happy tummy thoughts my way.

Thank you.

Small Comfort

I always said how I felt, never held anything back;
fear didn’t stop me from showing my true feelings.

It didn’t matter. He picked someone else. I wasn’t enough for him, he didn’t love me enough, I was too fat, too needy, too old…

Whatever.

It’s his loss.

I tell myself that, when he’s holding his two beautiful girls and sends me Christmas photos of them.

When he calls me on my 40th birthday, and tells me he and Claire are expecting their third in April.

When I’m alone in bed, wishing his voice was scratching me out of sleep to make love.

When I go to yet another wedding by myself, because the invitation was addressed only to me.

When I stay at home on Friday night, watching old episodes of Alias and drinking Vanilla Coke and vodka.

Yep.

He’s really missing out.