A list of random things about me:

1. I discovered what my  calling was late night, in a parking lot, talking to someone I thought I didn’t like.
2. Cooking usually ends up making me sob, but I can make the best banana bread.
3. I think there are other ways to contribute to the raising of children, besides birthing them.
4. I have a really diverse family but they still drive me crazy.
5. Other people can usually make me feel better about myself than I can.
6. I don’t enjoy quiet.
7. I love to sleep and I can sleep just about anywhere (i.e. sitting up in a chair in an airport).
8. I love the rush of excitement that comes to me when I visit a new place.
9. My favorite thing in the world is when my dog Rufus, can tell that I am upset and just lets me hug him until I feel better.
10. I love to look at those corny posters that offer positive remarks about self image and self worth.
11. The older I get the less I think Marilyn Monroe is someone to be worshiped.
12. Someone made me a mix tape once and even though I don’t have it anymore (because I threw it out the window) I still remember the order of every song.
13. I dream therefore I suffer.
14. Deep down I’m a negative, self loathing, pessimist; but I don’t allow myself to get there anymore.
15. I used to lie, steal, and cheat. Now the consequences are too big for me to deal with, so I stopped.
16. I love being able to take care of myself, which sometimes I do a good job of.
17. I hope I don’t develop Diabetes like my dad but I have a terrible sweet tooth.
18. I can’t believe that I have friends that think that being 24 means you have to settle down and start a 401 K. So ridiculous.
19. I don’t know why I communicate with my parents, especially my mom, because of how she butchered my credit score. It’s not easy to get a school loan with such a bad credit score; but she wouldn’t know anything about that.
20. The mind set of “Tomorrow will be better”, saves me frequently.                   
21. I don’t know why there has to be a “heaven” or “hell” to ultimately be condemned to, when we all make mistakes.
22. I love my New England roots. I like that I have roots at all.
23. I have learned to appreciate time to myself.
24. I never take enough pictures and I wish I still could develop film.
25. I wish my teachers in high school knew how much of an impact they made to my troubled little adolescent life; but I’m too scared to talk to them.

Subtotals

Number of times I wish I was back home: none. Number of days I had off work this week: thankfully they allowed me a day off. Number of times I kissed my puppy today: lost count. Number of concerts to look forward to: 2. Number of step siblings I had during a two year period: 5. Number of step sibilings I have now: 0. Number of times I’ve been to the city of sin: 3. Number of times I have been out of the country: once, to the country directly below ours. Number of places I want to visit: innumerable. Number of languages I can speak: technically one, the other language I learned is “dead”; but now I’m learning Spanish. That should count as a half point. Number of guitars I have owned: 3. Number of times I have cried over guys, in general, in the past: infinite. Number of tattoos I have: 2 with one pending the end of the semester. Number of piercings (which are much easier to commit to): 4. Number of years I had on braces: 6. Number of times my boyfriend has come to the rescue: innumerable. Number of songs I have stuck in my head: one, The Microphones “I lost my wind”. Number of times I miss my best friend today: twice. Number of times I have been to the beach since I moved to California: 3. Number of times I felt empowered: once, right now.   

VignetteTheme

We turn the car into our parking space, our headlight (singular at the moment) illuminates the emptiness ahead.

“I thought you said you forgot to bring it?”

“I did forget to bring it.”

“So it’s not in the car?!”

I open the car door with a few swift motions, just to stand and stare blankly at the spot where it used to be. I walk over to the laundry room. Maybe someone saw it lying there and put it in a room for safer keeping? I take a gander, look under the table and even behind the door. Not there. I check the garbage area. Maybe someone thought I didn’t want it? I shine a light from an iPhone on the bins and I don’t see it in the mounds of trash. I search the other parking spaces as we walk by, heading to the lobby. My last hope is that maybe someone brought it upstairs and left it outside of our apartment; because each space has the apartment number listed on it. Once we reach the top floor and I don’t see it laying by the door, my heart sinks. Someone stole my sixty dollar (plus tax) bike rack.   

It’s been on my mind all day. I had biked to work Friday morning and for the rest of the weekend I followed my ususal routine of driving my car in. My bike has been rusting in the rain for three days straight. Now it’s Monday and I have run out of excuses as to why I can’t collect my bicycle, the Knight Rider. There’s no traffic, its no longer raining and I was already in the area. Some Mondays I’ll treat myself to a trivia at a local ale house. I was meeting some friends and my boyfriend was on his way to meet up; but not before he came to the house to walk the dog. I has asked him to bring my bike rack, that had been sitting in our gated parking space. Only he forgot today, the day that one of my neighbors decided that they needed a bike rack more than I did.

I feel betrayed by the people that I live with. I try to entertain the thought that maybe it was a guest of one of the neighbors, that stole it; but that doesn’t offer me much comfort. Then I start to panic as I run by some scenarios in my mind. What if I forget to lock up my bike one night and someone takes my primary mode of transportation? I’m trying so hard to find the positive but my anger clouds it’s way. I can replace what was stolen but now I’ve lost trust in my neighbors.

Down in the boondocks.

As a kid, we lived in a rural New Hampshire neighborhood, which we often thought was boring. What we didn’t know was that our tame surroundings provided us freedom to romp around town, without supervision. Our mother would urge us to get out and explore, completely certain that the town was safe enough without a guardian. During our summer vacation, my brother and I would rally together the other kids in the neighborhood, to ride our bikes to adventure.

A five minute bike ride would get us a few streets away, to a dirt road, without a street sign. At the end of this unpaved road was a rock quarry that we would frequent. My brother and is destructive friends would climb the rocky hillside to throw rocks and watch them smash against each other. I would break away with the other girls, to scour the area for beautiful rock treasures to bring home to my collection. It wouldn’t be a trip to the quarry if someone didn’t come home with a scrape on their knee or arm, from tripping over one of the rocks.

A twenty minute bike ride would bring us to Calef’s Country Store, home of the famous “snappy old cheese”. Although I was not at the age where I could appreciate exotic cheeses, the store had other delicacies. A corner of the store was devoted to showcasing a plethora candy, which we would buy by the brown- paper-bag. For a penny each we could fill our bags with Tootsie rolls and their fruit flavored counterparts.  

A little further down the “main” street was the local, seasonal ice cream parlor. Jenny’s was only a quarter of a mile away from the country store. The owners new us all by name and what flavor of ice cream we would regularly indulge in. After our cold treats were devoured and the brain freeze from eating so fast diminished, we would head back home.

The Boondocks of my neighborhood and all of its wonder, was a safe place for children to grow up. As I grew older and moved far away, I became able to appreciate my boring hometown of Barrington, New Hampshire.  

A city street--

It’s cold, cold enough to see you breath, which has only happened a handful of times this “winter”. It’s close to the California last call; but we wrapped up our bitching about boys before the bar tender announced that its time to get the hell out. I should have asked my friend to stay before I let her drive off. What an afterthought.

Now I’m back in my apartment, struggling to get two dogs out the door at once. I’m appreciative of the cocktails I had earlier, making the task seem less stressful and more funny. I’m dog sitting my co-worker’s 50 pound Catahoula, Mia. Per my apartment lease, I am only allowed to have one dog in my apartment at a time; so I’m supposed to be sneaking the three of us quietly and inconspicuously into the elevator. Instead I’m barking, pun intended, orders to the unruly dogs and I’m think that trying to walk them myself is impossible.

Once we get in the elevator, my stomach sinks, as I realize that I am about to carry out the errand I have been dreading all day. My boyfriend is on a camping trip for the night and I knew I was going to have to walk the dogs by myself. The task was difficult; but I’m really scared to be walking on the street so late at night.

So I give the dogs a pep talk. As the elevator reaches the lobby, I tell them that they are no longer dogs of leisure. They are canine warriors and their job is to protect me.

Once on the street the dogs walk quickly, which makes me feel like they sensed that I was nervous. The cement is covered in a layer of water. We turn the corner and I am feeling relieved that there are no other humans in sight. Mia and Rufus select areas to do their business and we head back. As we approach our apartment’s front steps, the dogs and I run up the stairs.

We are home. Safe. And hopefully I will never have to walk two dogs, late night, by myself ever again. Knock on wood.

The things I see as I walk along the street, that's heaven to me.

It’s February. I leave my jacket sulking on the coat rack. Traffic flows lazily beside me as I coast on by a row of apartments. The warmth from the sun seeps in through the barred openings in the walls. I swing the door open, plunge down the steps and wait for a bus to pass so I can tread across the street.

A magnificent cherry blossom tree, inhabiting neighbor’s landscape, is in full bloom. The pink and white petals dance in the air as they make their way to the ground below. The perfume-like fragerence emitting from the tree fills my lungs. Nature’s joys fill up my heart.

Imagine someone you know is taking this course and has decided to write about you. Write their piece for them!

On a rainy day, a girl dressed in pajamas, with an extreme case of bed head, sits with a cup of coffee and starts looking for some motivation. Music helps her get going unlike anything else, so she employs an internet radio station and then chugs the remainder of her coffee like a beer. Its her day off, so she can completely focus on school work, without the usual, impending deadline of work. 

She beings to type fiercely on her chrome laptop. Its a great day to be inside, as it’s pouring cats and dogs; but a half an hour into her work she will have to take her dog outside. When it rains, she has to take out an oversized polka dotted umbrella to hover over the dog. The idea is that by getting covered from the rain, that he so vehemently loathes, he will allow nature to call outside, as opposed to inside her apartment. Once the little divo has been walked, she takes a breakfast break and then sits back down with her computer.

Hours pass her by and she takes breaks by doing her daily chores, singing loudly around the house and making her dog dance with her. Around 2:00PM she receives a phone call from one of her friends, asking her for a favor. She agrees and starts getting presentable enough to meet her friend’s family, as she is going to pick them up from the subway. She determines that if she is going to go out in this kind of weather, she’ll do it only in her hot pink rain boots. 

She showers, takes her dog out and eats lunch all within an impressive forty minutes. Taking the elevator down, she waits in the lobby for her friend to swing by to get her. Even though she’s a scared driver, her friend trusts her enough with her car. As minutes pass and her friend is running a little bit late (which shouldn’t be a surprise to her), all she can think about is how much work is sitting at home waiting for her. Serendipitously, once she decides not to stress over it, her friend’s silver car arrives. She hops in the car and knows its only a matter of time until she can return home and get back to work. She always tries to do a good deed every day and she can put a check mark next to this one.  

Take a look at a photo of a person. What do you see?

I was having a bit of trouble, trying not to write too literally about a picture of something. First I looked through some photos of mine, but nothing sparked any magic lightening bolts of creativity. So instead, I tried an internet search. I just plugged in one word after another until, I found some material. When I did a google search for the word “woman” 7 out of 28 pictures were pictures of Wonder Woman.

Not all of Wonder Women were the same actresses. Some I don’t think have ever played her character in any film or television program. It made me think, though, about all of her qualities. Why would she appear as many times as she does? 

Maybe its because some people think she is the epitome of a woman. She’s incredibly strong, she could lift up a car or even her invisible jet. She can also fly through the air. Her outfit is stylish and well put together. She certainly doesn’t lack in the intelligence department. In the day time, to blend in with humans, she works as a government official. 

I see her traits in a lot of real live women too. Incredible, super human strength especially. 

Theme: Character

Note: Again I changed the name for the purpose of this exercise.

It was in the middle of winter and the sun setting, as several of us hung out on the front steps of the High School. Chelsey, (who used to employ an “i” instead of an “ey”), and I were waiting to audition for the school’s production of the musical “Grease”. I had seen her around and undoubtedly she had seen me; but this was the first official time that we met. Her hair was mostly black, with some bright green and yellow streaks towards the front. Since we met (almost nine years ago), she has had the same hair style, which she has perfected over the years. She would keep all of her hair pin straight and tease the hell back of it, as if she were in an 80’s hair metal band. Whenever we would drive around in her Toyota Camery, you could hear the “clink clink” sound from her bottles of hair spray, rolling around on the floor of the car, bashing together. 

I recall that she and I were not wearing jackets, which would have only covered up our outfits; and with all of the time and effort it took us to get ready, that was the absolute last thing we would want to do. Back then, we used our clothes as a way of self expression. After that day I would spend hours upon hours of my life, waiting for Chels to get ready. We had a similar taste of fashion: everyday-wear meets scissors and safety pins; but she took it to the next level. Anyone can go out and buy spike studded belts, bracelets, ect.; but what I didn’t know, before I met her that fateful day, was that she made all of her own things. From the multicolored tulle tu tu skirt, down to her hand painted Doc Martens. She took it to the next level. 

Of course, if you know anything about vocal performance, it is that preparation is essential. The last thing you would want to do before an audition is smoke, drink soda and stand out in the cold. Even though she was doing all three of those things, especially heavy on the smoking part, she made it into the second round of auditions.  Chelsey had one of the most soulful voices I had ever had the pleasure of hearing. Her pitch was perfect and her range was vast. You would never think such an angelic noise could come out of such a tough lookin’ punk. I was grouped in with the second class of performers, in the chorus, which I thought I was too good for. So I skipped out on the whole play thing but I met my partner in crime in the process. 

Carolyn See Locator of Lost Person Exercise.

Note: I did change a few names, just in case.

Myra 

You and I are one of the only two, from our old group, that are STILL in school. Although, you’re working on your graduate degree. We were more than acquaintances, but I wonder why we were never close to call each  other. Do you remember that highly awkward situation when we accidentally ran into each other in Boston? I spotted you and Mark, as Sam and I were walking to the Garden. Sam admitted that he spotted Mark but he didn’t recognize the girl that he was with, so he hesitated to come say hello. He told Mark that he thought your boyfriend was with another girl and they laughed about it. They didn’t get how embarrassing that situation was; because they didn’t understand that you had no make up on at the time (which was why Sam didn’t recognize you). Again, I’m really sorry about that. 

Josh

So many memories. I know you’re still in Chicago; but its been so long. I’ve really missed hearing your most recent poems, hearing about which girl is now your muse and laughing all night. When I do talk to you, I hope that I am in the position to buy a plane ticket to visit you. A scrabble game and a sing-a-long is completely in order. You were even a bigger dreamer than I am/ was and I hope you haven't lost that. 

Kristen

Remember freshman year, when we were both having a tough time and we hung out in the halls and just talked it through. I remember feeling so alone, without a friend in the world and you kindly said that “You have me?”. I will never forget that moment, where I discovered a true friend in you. Working with you after we graduated was not the best idea we've ever have; but we weathered that one too. Please don’t take classes this summer so I can come visit you in Amsterdam.

Week 6 Theme: Place

We headed north, on a typical rainy February day, to the one place my grandfather badly wanted to see on his trip out here. We certainly wouldn’t let the rain stop us entirely; but because I am such a nervous driver, I was hoping to wait until it let up a little bit. However, my Pop Pop was so excited about going, especially because we just watched the remake of Planet of the Apes (where there’s a scene in a make believe Muir Woods), so I couldn’t expect to make him wait. He even brewed coffee for us before I was awake, so when I got up there was a pot waiting for me.

The drive over the Richmond Bridge was a little scary. There was so much fog surrounding us I had to paint a picture of what we would normally see for him, as we drove over. Once off the bridge we got off the 101 and started a dangerous trek. Even on a nice day the way to our destination is a tricky drive. The road, lined with trees that you initially think are tall, is very windy, as you ascend up an enormous hill. There are no guardrails to protect you from a hundred foot fall into a valley, which is also mighty terrifying. I drove slowly and carefully enough to get us to our destination. 

While parking was no trouble at all, because there were hardly any other people out, the rain was getting heavier and colder. We grabbed some sweatshirts we had packed in the backseat and put them on under our raincoats. Now, with several layers on, we head towards the forrest. You do have to buy tickets to get in; but the price of admission is hardly ever thought about again, as you get a sneak peak of these massive trees as you approach the ticket taker. After you pay you walk directly into the woods. 

Upon entering, we immediately are greeted by some enormous trees, some more than a hundred feet tall.  I take out the map that we were given; but after a few seconds of having it out in the open, the rain gets to it; and the ink from the paper starts to run down my hand. Luckily as we keep walking on the wooden plank path of the main trail, there are signs loaded with information about the types of trees were are viewing.  A wooden sign, with a plastic covering protecting the information from the moist conditions, teaches us that we are looking at Seuqia and Redwood trees. As we keep walking we see a gushing river. Water flowed rapidly underneath us, as we walk across a bridge to get to the next path. The trees seem to get taller as you walk deeper into the woods. The trees are so massive, no pictures do them justice. The main trail is bordered completely by these Giant Sequoia and Redwood trees. There are fern groves and smaller moss covered trees that lay underneath them. On our walk we saw a couple of trees that had fallen over, their ten to twenty feet wide trunks exposed. 

After a half an hour our necks start to hurt from spending so much time looking up at the forestry. I was officially soaked to the bone, complete with drenched sneakers, when my grandfather said that he was ready to head back. As we approached the entrance and headed to the parking lot, we noticed the sun peeking out through the clouds. I even dared to take my hood off, which was foolish because some water fell directly on my head, the moment I removed it. We laughed as I joked that it was as a parting gift from one of the Redwood trees. 

If the tourists ever got past the obvious, they'd see what you see....

It is the symbol of this city. You can buy anything in its likeness, from chocolates to figurines. The magnificent structure is heavy all kinds of traffic, from drivers, bikers and tourists walking its mile long length. The brilliant red orange color is famous just because this well known bridge is painted in this fashion. There is no experience quite like passing under its overwhelming and gigantic arches, as the “International Orange” bridge towers over you. The fact is, its an experience that no tourist should go without, when visiting San Francisco; but what most people don’t know (or don’t choose to talk about) is that there is another reason why people are drawn here. When I look at the bridge, in all of its glory, I can only see one thing; and while people are marveling in its appearance, all I can think about are the people that come here to jump off. 

When walking on the bridge (in day time only, as foot traffic is no longer allowed at night), while the powerful wind whips across your body, you may notice little telephone stations. They’re not there to dial family as you cross, to let them hear how wonderful of a time you are having in the city by the bay; but for those that are struggling with the decision to jump, so they may be  connected to the suicide hotline. The Golden Gate bridge is the most popular place in the world to kill yourself.  There are even blue uniformed police officers that are there to make sure no one is thinking about offing themselves, as more people come here to die more than anywhere else in the world. This incredibly morbid thought has now marred my image of the symbol of San Francisco.

The safest place in the world....

Once the day is through and we have done all of our catching up (and eating), I retire to the guest bedroom/living room. The town house itself has only two bedrooms, both of which are occupied, so my sleeping arrangement is on the first floor.

The floors in the living room and dining room area are carpeted, but there’s a burgundy floral rug that spans the entirety of this space. There are two pieces of furniture, a love seat and a couch that sit at the edge of the rug, helping to separate this room from the dining area. Recently, the walls have been painted a soft, comforting yellow color. A painting of an angel hangs on the left wall, painted with only minerals, so the red and gold hues seem to pop out of their copper frame. Under the painting is a wooden shelf where books and relics are placed. Everything in this room seems to make sense together, all but the monstrous sixty inch flat screen television that bombards this little room. However, it does the job of drowning out the dead silence that a rural town can have in the night time.  

I melt into the dark brown leather couch, as I pull a maroon velvet blanket on top of me. The cushions are padded to the perfect thickness, making using a pillow seem preposterous. It’s far too easy to fall asleep in this den of comfort. Even as an adult, with my parents sleeping above me, this is is where I feel the most safe. 

You haven't been there since you were little. Now you go back....

I needed some time to pass and to heal emotionally after the trauma I had previously endured. Its been almost five years, which is five too many; but who could blame me for not wanting to go back. I’ve had practically every orthodontic procedure and devise implemented on me as a kid, from retainers, to pallet expanders and (worst of all) braces. However, with the pain I am experiencing  from one of my wisdom teeth, its time to see the dreaded dentist yet again. 

I looked up this one practice that was close by and came with high patient recommendations. The office looked well decorated, with its tranquil baby blue walls, and stained, dark brown wooden floors. If I was going to get punished, reprimanded or embarrassed anywhere, I would want to do it in a modern styled atmosphere; and I booked an appointment that day. 

A week later, I hopped on my bike and petaled to my impending dental visit. After climbing innumerable concrete block steps, I reached their third floor location. There’s a three by four foot white sign, to the left of the jail cell gray colored door, displaying the name of the practice in bright green lettering. The green adds the only color to the cement wall and concrete colored atmosphere.  I took a deep breath, turned the door’s silver handle and opened the door. 

As I walked in, I heard an Alanis Morissette song playing (and not one of her angsty tunes).  The wooden floor squeaked under my feet as I approached the receptionist’s desk. The friendly secretary gave me some forms to fill out and I took a seat on one of the indigo chairs that lined either side of the lobby’s walls. I fill in all of my hygienic patterns, note a little of my misdeeds and sprinkle in a white lie here or there about how much I floss. I hand over the clip board with my manipulated patient history and I sit back down on the padded plastic chair to wait. The sun was beating down on my back, through a window behind me, offering me some comfort as I anxiously wait. The wall across from me has an nice impressionistic painting of a bouquet of pastel flowers. 

Ten minutes later a woman, who was wearing scrubs in the likeness of the blue walls, called my name. We stroll passed two rows of dentist chairs, with two on each side and she ushers me to my designated torture chamber. I’m enthralled to see each area has cubicle style wall dividers, for privacy. As I lay down in the chair, the plastic covering makes noises as I try and get comfortable.  Once settled in, I take notice to the ceiling tile directly above me. Most of the tiles are white, but above each chair, in each patient section, there is a colorful plastic tile. Some tiles are pictures of butterflies, some are balloons but mine is a technicolored hot air balloon. My torture chamber also comes with a rectangular window, with a scenic view of the parking lot and a thirty inch LCD screen television (hopefully to play a movie but most likely to display my ex-rays). After having a good ten minutes to soak all this in, my dentist comes in and he begins his work.

I squirm in the chair as my worst fears are coming true. After an hour of poking and prodding I find out that I have to get my wisdom teeth removed. The reviewers were correct, the dentist was very professional but compassionate. Even with the uncomfortable things done that day I won’t be waiting another five years to get my teeth cleaned. 

Narrative a.k.a. story

“Don’t find them, let them find you” is one of my favorite pieces of advice, that I got from a family member, when we began to think about adopting a dog. I was surfing the web one day and I came across a post on a social networking site, from an acquaintance of mine. Abby, a coworker of my friend Kat, posted this: “Anyone interested in a 1 yr. old French Bulldog crate trained and house broken? He's not getting along with one of his fellow dog-mates in a house. His name is Rufus.” I contacted Abby immediately. I told her that we were currently looking for a place that was dog friendly and that we were looking to adopt a smaller dog. She gave me the owners name and number; and to my pleasant surprise I met the owner already.

Bobby, Rufus’s owner was quite unforgettable, with impeccable sideburns and a thick southern accent. Months prior, my friend Kat took me to the restaurant where she works and introduced me to him. When I heard his voice on the phone I immediately knew it was him. Bobby and I talked for over an hour and he told me all about Rufus. What his mannerisms were like, what he looked like, why he needed a new home, ect. After I hung up the phone I felt so happy, I really liked what I heard. So I called my boyfriend when he was on his lunch break and we decided that we wanted to set up a time to meet Rufus.

One Thursday evening, Sam and drove over to San Francisco to meet our potential dog. We were both so excited but unsure of what to expect. What if the dog was mean? What if he didn’t like us? We serendipitously found parking in Bobby’s neighborhood, which was a good sign, as parking in this city is incredibly difficult. We walked up to the door and rang the apartment’s buzzer. A half a minute later Bobby came down the stairs and greeted us with a “Hey Ya’ll” and a great big hug. As he walked us up to his apartment we could already hear several dogs barking and scratching at the door.

We had to maneuver our way into the place, as to not let any of the dogs out, opening the door just far enough so we could get in. Once we were inside, we witnessed the chaos that was life with four adult French Bulldogs and one litter of French Bulldog puppies. Absolute adorable chaos. The four adult dogs were jumping all over us, leaving behind droll and paw prints all over the legs of our pants. They stuck to our side as Bobby gave us a tour of his home. Once he let out loud and stern “HEY” the four dogs settled down and Bobby picked up a darker colored brindled dog. “This is Rufus” he said as Rufus was squirming his hardest to get down out of his grip. It was love at first sight. He put Rufus back down on the ground and he walked us into the room where he had the puppies. Bobby gave us some information about the puppies, who were only four weeks old at the time. He even let us hold one of them. We told him, however charming these little ones were, that we were here for Rufus.

Bobby escorted us into his living room, where we sat on the couch and hung out with Rufus, while he let the other dogs play on his deck outside. Rufus climbed all over us, as we discussed further why he needed to be re-homed. While talking about him, he did a peculiar thing. He was sitting on my lap and as I was petting his head he turned around and just stared at me. He did this for over a minute, just sat on my lap looking directly into my eyes. It didn’t freak me out, I felt as if he was peering into my soul to see if I was a good person. He did the same thing to Sam, once he was on Sam’s lap. After twenty minutes Rufus got comfortable and nestled on the couch in between Sam and I. We could tell right away that he was a sweet little thing and after we Bobby’s place we wanted to make him ours.  

A few weeks later we found a great dog friendly place and we moved Rufus in with us for good. He’s been a great little guy to have around and we are so happy that he found us. 

We name the guilty man!

This is me, innocent, sweet, well-dressed me, in the first grade. I faintly remember wearing white tights with some kind of a pink, maybe floral pattern. No doubt I was wearing my favorite white and black saddle shoes. Those were practically the only shoes I wore until the third grade; because my mom taught me, early on, that white and black pretty much go with everything. 

I was sitting in Ms. Lindsey’s classroom, on the floor, with the rest of my classmates, while the teacher was reading a book. I remember we were all, about twenty of us, sitting on this darker colored carpet, with squares of different darker colors. Blues, greens, purples. Anyhow, here we all are, sitting and silent. All enchanted with the book Ms. Lindsey was reading, me especially. Suddenly an unladylike noise crept from underneath me. It was terrible how lovely a scene was spoiled with such an unpleasant noise, accompanied by a unpleasant smell. The noise was loud enough for everyone to hear. 

Luckily I was sitting next to the smelliest, grossest kid in my class, Cody. He was constantly doing disgusting things like picking his nose and eating paste. He was that kid. So instinctively I looked at him with an accusing eye, trying to make him my scape goat. Mind you, all of this is happening in the first grade world, on the rug, and the teacher never took her eyes off the book to stop reading. Unfortunately my glare at Cody didn’t work. After I took my eyes off him, I looked around to make sure that everyone’s eyes were focused on the habitually nasty kid, not the well dressed little lady that I was. Of course my plan didn’t work as I see that everyone is still looking straight at me. Innocent, sweet, completely embarrassed me. 

The battle begins!

The day is finally upon us. I wake and instantaneously spring into action. My first task is to set brew the biggest, darkest pot of coffee one could possibly make, as this magic potion is necessary for such an occasion. For it will not be long until it is time for battle. 

As the water surges through the filters to make my caffeinated liquid, I draw a shower in the water closet. I seize a clean towel and vigerously go through the motions. Finishing my tasks in record time, I swiftly grab ceramic goblet and fill it with my drink. Now it is time to apply my war paint. 

First go the under eye stripes, most commonly seen modernly in NFL players. Instead of using black I use a white a shade lighter than my face. I don’t just let it lay there like the players do, I blend my in like camouflage. Then I apply the same to the rest of my face. I warm up my damp hair, so to not catch cold when beginning my journey and I head back to the kitchen, for a breakfast of champions.

The house cook fixes me a hearty meal fit for a warrior: eggs and toast. I refill my ceramic goblet with more dark drink. After the meal is devoured I give my complements to the chef, the best in the land, and start to put on my combat wear. 

Once I am dressed I gather my weapons: pens, a notebook and a lighter for candles. I put them in my satchel and bid farewell to my canine beast, as it very well could be the last I see him. I walk with an air of confidence and mount my steel horse and make my way to the battle field. 

It is always a battle when you are returning to work after a vacation. 

You’ve done something terrible and know you will go to Hell.

It’s Saturday night and my brother Ryan and I have been home alone for a few chaotic hours. Its also about to be prime time on Nickelodeon and all I want to do is plop down, in from of our one television, and watch “All That” in peace. Of course Ryan’s choice of entertainment is conflicting with mine, as he wants to play Nintendo. This is usually how most our quarrels start; but this one is different. 

My little brother is being a brat, not listening to any compromise and mocking me all the while. Being a horribly impatient mediator, I dangle a toy of his over the staircase. “OOPS”, I yell as I watch his brand new, blue controller drop to the landing  below. Naturally, he throws something of value of mine down the stairs, as well. I forgot what it was but it was important to me; and I am now filled with rage, as I realize my program has already started. 

He and I run simultaneously to the staircase, to make our descent to the landing, to collect our tossed items. We are pushing each other into the bordering walls of the stairs, as we go down. He blocks my way with his arms, on one of the steps, but I push my scrawny little brother aside. We get down to the landing and he pushes me against the door. I push back hard, having had enough of this and hoping this will end it; but naturally my antagonistic brother pushes me one final time. 

When he pushes me, I fall in the direction of the second set of stairs. I lean further, making myself fall down the stairs and I descend to the bottom of the second floor. Ryan, feeling victorious, begins to march away. That is, until I stop him dead in his tracks, by starting the worst prank I have ever pulled or probably will ever pull in my life.

“Ryan! I can’t move my legs!” I scream out to him and he immediately rushes down to the second floor. I say again “I can’t move my legs” and I make a gesture as if I’m using all of my effort to move them, but I can’t.  I lie there and I watch him scrambled around, trying to figure out what to do. I am basking in glory, smiling, dreaming that maybe, once he discovers that I am okay, he will respect his older sister more. But my hopes are immediately squashed as I overhear the coversation he is having with my parents. I wasn’t planning on keeping up with the prank for much longer at all but it was already too late, as I hear Ryan say “Okay hurry home!”

 Hell hath no fury like the scorn of two angry parents. Upon their arrival I was in a world of trouble and was grounded for a very long time.  When I tell this story as an adult, people often say “Geeze you were a mean kid”; but I was pushed to this point. Ryan and I would fight all the time and it certainly did not stop after this; but I tried to put the fear of god in him. Only it was my parents that put the fear in me.