Papa's Keys

Ever been driving and a thought just hit you. You don't know where it comes from or why it choses the particular moment to stream into your mind. Some times they are happy thoughts and other times they reduce you to tears. Today it was both.

I had taken Callie (the baby dog) to get a bath and was coming home when it rushed in and sat down beside me, begging me to remember. There was no reason or rhyme. Papa's keys.

When I was little, I didn't see them hanging up very often. They were always in his pocket. A small set of keys considering everything that they opened. I don't remember him giving them to anyone. If you needed into something with his keys, he would unlock it for you. They were his keys.

After he got sick, didn't drive anymore, or get around anymore, they hung on a hook by the door. That's the first time I remember being able to hold them. They were smooth and almost soft from years of use, his fingers working them. They were the keys to everything he had built in his life. The store and house. Gates on the farm. Garages of stuff, important things. Then there are the mysterious keys that he only knew what they belonged to.

There is power in those keys. Papa's power. Power that isn't merely given because you hold the keys. It has to be earned, like Papa earned it. If only I knew how to.

So they hang on the wall and ever so often I touch them. Papa's keys.

Counting Change

One of the ways that I save some extra money for my Disney trips (stop rolling your eyes... yes I'm talking about Disney again) is to put any change I have in a cookie jar. So I got the cookie jar down the other night and started sorting, counting, and stacking.

Now you're probably saying "Why not take it to the machine at the bank or the green machine at the grocery." Well when I see those machines I think about a Vegas slot machine... you put ten dollars in and get a dollar back. Not that I think that "they" have set the machine to take money...no...no conspiracy theory here. First of all I don't like the machines because they are so loud...counting by hand is quiet. Also the machine doesn't tell you how much you have until they are done. If you count by hand, you know as you go and there's a satisfaction there.

So I got done and have a tidy little sum to supplement my Disney money. That saving your change thing does work. Now I'm starting on next year's cookie jar.

Countdown

The weather has change. Cooler. Shorter days. Colorful leaves. That means.....DISNEYWORLD. 27 days and counting until I am in the World. There is no way I can explain how much I need this vacation and how much I need to have a recharge. I can't wait to walk under the train station and see the castle again. It's always like the first time.

I want to ride the new Pirates with Capt. Jack. I have refused to watch videos online because I wanted to experience it first hand. Same for the new haunted mansion.

My only sadness is that Spaceship Earth will not be open. Disney has delayed the opening until after the first of the year. I guess that will give me an extra special reason to go back next year. Like I really need a reason...shezz.

So 27 days and report to follow soon.

Ancient proverb say...

...so get ready for some deep thoughts with life changing wisdom. Not really.

So I'm watching t.v. (I can hear you...yes I watch a lot of television, but just specific shows, thank you very much) and the character mentioned a ancient proverb of two monks who were walking down the road. They came across a woman who needed help crossing a stream. The first monk picked the woman up and carried her across the stream and she thanked him. The monks continued on their journey, but the second monk was very angry. Soon he told the first monk his thoughts. "You broke the rules of the order when you carried that woman across the stream." The first monk simply looked at the second one and said. "I only carried the woman for the short distance across the stream. You have been carrying her ever since."

I carry grudges and tend to put expectations on people. I think this little story talks to me more than I care to admit. I'm the second monk. Using all my energy to be angry. I have been angry for several years now and couldn't tell you what the hell I'm angry about and don't even know who I would tell. That's one of the problems of carrying around anger. Every bit of your energy is used in keeping the anger going and you don't have any energy to remember what you are angry about.

I getting tired of carrying this "old woman" around.

Ode to the Pedestal

I was watching television the other night (actually it was the same night, so stop sighing) and the character on the show was talking about how hard it is when you discover your parents aren't what you perceived them to be. I have some connection to this observation.

I would like to tell myself that I had no illusions about my parents, but that wouldn't be true. I guess that I'm lucky in a way. I didn't have my illusions burst until I was much older. I have worked with many children who found out the unfortunate truth that their parent aren't perfect all to early in life. I would have hated to have my ideas about my parents blow to pieces at such a young age.

We put our parents, grandparents, etc., on pedestals that they can't stay on and then get upset with them when they fall off. Notice I said "we", meaning me. I so often want our parents to be superhuman and cry when they turn out to be simply human.

I thought I had stopped having expectations of people, stopped putting them on pedestals, but I haven't. I think it's human nature to want people to be perfect as much as it's human nature to be imperfect. The purpose should not be to put people on pedestal, but to encourage them to climb up themselves.

First Disney Visit

When I was between four and five years old, I went to Disneyland. My family lived in California at the time, my father was stationed there and we lived in El Centro.

I remember snapshots of this visit. I remember walking up to the castle. It was bigger then. I remember riding in a golf cart to the hotel room. I remember the dancing waters show. I remember the jungle cruise and the coconut purse afterward. I remember the 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea ride...before it was closed and was Nemo. I remember the stuffed Lady dog that I lost on the trip back.

I remember happy times. No worries. Fun. I want to go back. I miss the real submarines.

Today, August 25, 2007

Today is Saturday. I have been at home most of the day. I took a side trip to the grocery and to church to clean. The rest of the time I've been at home. What have I done. Well, I read some in my book and on the internet. Watched a couple of television shows. Unloaded and loaded the dishwasher. Feed the dogs and gave them their medicine. Took a nap.

Life's boring huh? Well, to be honest I have throughly enjoyed the quiet and the nothing. Time to be by myself with no demands or at least only the demands that I make.

So today is Saturday.

Ineffectual

I've been feeling a little ineffectual lately, meaning there are things going on around me that I can't seem to get an handle on. Clients whose lives have been irrevocably changed and the system has failed them and there's nothing I can do, but say "I sorry. This is how the system works and sometimes it doesn't work well." Can you imagine how crappy that is.

I have some friends who have basically been attacked for doing their job. There's noting I can do except to let them know I believe in them and that they do a great job. It just doesn't feel like enough.

I thought I had gotten over the "responsible for the world" crap, but I guess that when it is close to you and you can't help that feeling comes crashing back. And I'm left feeling ineffectual. So I guess I'll get over it.

My life in five years....

I'm visiting a Disney board and there is a 20 question thread and one of the questions is where do you see yourself in 5 years. I really don't plan that far ahead, but here's my best guess.

I may be the director of the program I work for. Well, I'll put it this way. My current boss is retiring and I will probably apply for the job...from there who really knows. If I'm not, I will still be working somewhere with state retirement, because in 5 years, I plan to be five years closer to retirement.

I may be in or building a new house...it's according to if a politician who has lost touch with reality gets his "interstate to no where". I've started looking at house plans just in case.

I know one thing, I will be five years closer to being able to go to Disney World and being a cast member. I want to spend a few years of my life helping people experience the magic.

So come back in five years and we'll check out how good my powers of predictions are.

Technical Difficulties

A co-worker pointed out that I hadn't been writing/posting lately. Well that's true as you can tell. Things have kinda gotten out of control lately. Life's been a little like a barrel of flying monkeys with baseball bats. If you understand that metaphor, I hope your life gets better too.

One of the reasons I started this was to provide an outlet and to help keep my sanity and what do I go and do...stop and start going insane again.

So thanks to my co-worker for the kick in the butt and please stand by...more to come.

At World’s End

I saw the third installment of the Pirates series this weekend.

I had already heard some reviews and spoilers on some podcasts that I listen to. I must say that I agree and respectfully disagree with some of what was said. Since it seems that everyone needs a star out of star or point rating of some sort, I will give it 3 skulls out of 5.

I did have trouble following at times, but I think that could have been remedied if I had re-watched the second movie before hand. I also heard a suggestion this morning (from a pod cast) that seeing it a second time helps. I don’t think that I will need to do that right now, but I will definitely own the DVD and I’m not averse to watching it again.

It didn’t seem as long as everyone has complained. The time passed well for me and I didn’t have a “when is this going to end” thought in my mind. I did think there were some sections that could be taken out or limited. For example, during the maelstrom, Jack has fought Davy Jones on the mast of the Flying Dutchman and he starts “tarzan’ing’ around the ships, kicking bad guys and generally killing time and little else. I do remember thinking “What is he doing. Get down already.” Bits such as that weren’t really needed. I did like the bit when Jack was in Davy Jones’ locker and in the brig of the Dutchman…talking to him selves.

The bit about Calypso has been panned as not really needed. I haven’t made up my mind on that. Some ways yes it was needed to clear up the Davy Jones thing and then what happens to Will. The problem is that they don’t fully explain it. From what I understand, they cut out an explaination that would tie that all together. It seems that the reason that Davy Jones had to be on the Dutchman forever and turned into such a hideous creature was the after his 10 years as captain of the Dutchman he returned to shore for his one day and his true love Calypso wasn’t waiting for him and he was doomed to the Dutchman forever. Now they do talk about it when Davy comes to see Calypso in the brig of the Pearl, but it is a little disjointed. Of course we know that this would not happen to our fearless Will Turner.

I loved the references to the attraction. I jabbed my sister several times during the movie when something would come up. Keith Richard as Jack’s father was a small but great bit.

The first Pirates is still my favorite, but parts of all three are great.

Hell found me

Hell found me. Again. It wasn’t like I was looking for it. It just seems to show up. The Bible people seem to think that hell is a place that you go when you die. If you have done bad things and haven’t asked for forgiveness, this is the corner you get put in for eternity. Trouble is that I have lived long enough to know that hell isn’t a place that you have to wait till you’re dead to visit. I don’t even think it’s necessarily a place. I think that hell is everyday, in my line of work anyway.

I wake up every morning, swing my legs over the edge of the bed and think to myself “Are you sure about this. Do you really want to get up and face this today. Stay in bed. Stay at home. Someone else can fill in for you today.” It would be nice to listen to myself now and again, especially when I know that hell will be visiting me.

There are other days that hell creeps up on me. I expect to sit in my office all day and do paper work or research on the computer. But no, here it comes, smacking me in the back of the head like the bully from grade school. A telephone call, an e-mail, a request from a co-worker is all it takes.

I was doing well until hell came home with me. I used to be able to go home and hide, but it decided that I didn’t get enough at work. Hell just walked right in and sat down on the couch. Made itself right at home. I have managed to kick it out for a little while, but it still drives up and down the road, honking its horn at me. Stalking me. I think I will buy a baseball bat.

I think I have resigned myself that hell is going to be around till I die. Or someone dies anyway. If I’m lucky the Bible people will be right and there is another place I can go to get away from hell. I just wish I could find that place here on earth for a little while. Just a few minutes of heaven once in a while. I think I could deal with hell a little better when it finds me. Again.

A poem

The writer's challenge for this week was to write about your first memory. I must have been 2 1/2 or 3. We were living in N. Dakota. This is what I came up with.

Not The Last

The room is huge,

like the rooms in a castle.

The ceilings hover

near the sky.

It’s dark.

There is a dim light

from somewhere,

but I can’t see where it is.

And there are flashes.

Bright, blinding, filling the room.

Then a rumble that moves through the room,

shaking everything as it runs.

I curl up

the tightest, smallest ball I can become,

hiding behind a wall and

under a cascade of fabric.

My mother’s legs and couch pillows.

“Daddy?”

Light blinds again and then darkness.

Utter and complete.

No more memory.

But not the last.

8 Track memories

Yes. I am old enough to remember 8 track tapes. Never you mind how old I am. Like I haven't told you in the side bar. But that is not the purpose of this entry.

Music has always been a big part of my life. Bigger than I thought or remembered. I remember getting a small record player and a set of Disney records both of which I wore out. I then getting my first stereo and portable stereo. As long as I can remember, there was usually music going.

There were those songs, either records or tapes, that I would play over and over and over and over... well you get the picture. Some of them were "Snoopy vs. the Red Baron" and other funny songs, a Carpenters album, Elton John and "One Tin Soldier". This songs represented a good time in my life. Not that there weren't problems, but the music made the times easier.

Now I'm finding I'm going back and trying to find those days. Less stress. Less conflict. Less crap. Since we haven't perfected time travel yet and I really don't want to end up in the Jurassic period, I'm using the music to return me to that time. To instill some peace in the chaos of today.

Thanks to i-tunes, I have been able to find some of those lost songs. Now if I could only get things (things being money) together enough to buy the i-pod I want.

Oh well, I listen on the computer while I write and soon I will be able to take the peace of mind with me soon...I hope. Contribution will be accepted...chuckle chuckle.

Of Book and Covers

I have always heard the saying "You can't judge a book by it's cover." or something along that lines. I have been a proponent of that thinking for a long time, both literally and figuratively.

Literally because I love to read. I am constantly scanning the selves looking for books. If the books are situated with their spines out, I look for a name that catches my eye. But if you notice, publishers have gotten smart and put small graphics of the cover art on the spine or printed the cover so the graphic art wraps around the book, drawing the potential buyer in. If the book is displayed with cover facing out, the graphic is always the first thing I look at. I am a very visual person so if there is a picture, I will look at it first...thus my fascination with National Geographic, television, movies, and pictures...but I digress.

Now I am ashamed to admit that if the cover doesn't appeal to me, I probably won't even pick up the book and read the synopsis or open it and read a page or two. I will sweep on by to the next book. I also readily admit that if the cover is to clichey (don't think that's really a word), such as a romance with the "bodice ripper" graphic of the hunky man and the swooning woman I won't be caught dead making that purchase (well, not usually) even though it may be a well written story.

The question, you may ask, is why would that even bother me. Well in the figurative application I have always thought I didn't do that, meaning judge a book by it's cover, because it has happened so often to me.

You see, I have always been overweight, quiet (most of the time), and a loner. So many people have instantaneously judged me and have not taken the time to get to know me or move past what they see on the surface. The outside graphic doesn't appeal to them, so they don't even read a couple of pages to see if it really is a good book. See where I'm going here. I still struggle with the effects of this.

I struggle every day to remind myself that I am more than many people think I am and in the converse I struggle to think that I am what people see in me...people who have taken the time and/or energy to get to know me. But the I try to remind myself not to make the same mistake with other people that has been made with me.

I sometimes don't know how often I fail at not judging people by what they look like, what they have done, who they have been until I am given a wake up call. One such event is the impetus for this post.

The other night I was working on my manuscript and I had the television on for background noise. I had flipped around and landed on "Inside the Actors Studio". I like this show generally so I just left it, although I wasn't very interested in the night's featured actor. Mark Wahlberg. My first reaction when I heard him introduced was MarkieMark, rapper, bad ass, yada yada yada and I proceeded to tune out...or at least try to.

Soon I stopped trying to write/type and just watched the television. I couldn't help but feel that I was listening to one of the most honest and real interviews that I had ever seen given by an actor. This was a man who had lived his life the only way he knew how. Did things that he seriously regrets but doesn't deny responsibility for. A man who is working to be a better person today.

I finished that television program and thought to myself that I had done what I didn't want people to do to me. I had judged a person by what I had seen only looking at him years ago and not who he was now. My perception of him wasn't based on who he is now. I was wrong.

Mark Wahlberg is a man I would like to know, not because he is a celebrity or rich, but because I believe he is a truly good person in the here and now, where it matters. I will probably never get to know or even meet him, but knowing there are people like him, who remind me daily that you shouldn't judge books or people by their covers, makes me a better person.

Happy Birthday H

Happy birthday H. Thank you for the job you do and the kind, wonderful person you are.

Rant away

While I steel myself for a new round of religious persecution, I would like to let it be known that I do believe in God. And I believe in sin. I also believe that everyone sins and that all sins are equal no matter what they are, so I'm no better or worse than any other person. I also believe that each person is responsible to set there own sin right with God, no one else can do that.

Back to the religious persecution thing. When I say this, I am not referring to a religious group being persecuted. I am talking about religion persecuting someone or something else. Of course I'm talking about the inevitable protest and boycotts that will be instituted against the Disney Company because of the recent decision to allow homosexual couples participate in the Disney Wedding program.

Most people who know me, know that I'm not one to be dissuaded from something if I really want it. So any protest or call for boycott is not likely to change any of my travel plans. I still plan on going to Disneyworld this fall regardless. My personal mental health is more important to me at this point and Disneyworld makes me happy.

My problem is that I don't think that religious groups really think about the effect that this protest have on the not-religious people (the so-called lost people they are looking to save) or even some of there own, like me. It's kinda like the group from Kansas who is protesting at funerals of soldiers, ranting that this is the price of the U.S. inequity. This type of idiotic behavior simply turns people off and drives them away.

So when these groups announce their next boycott of all things Disney because a gay couple can have a committment ceremony (remember, gay marriage is still not legal like straight marriage) in a wedding pavilion instead of a conference room as before, I challenge them to think about what they are doing. Are they showing love and caring for all people who have sinned just as they have? Are they demostrating the forgiveness that God provided to all of us?

Finally. are they really, really boycotting Disney. Disney is a very large corporation. If you have time to track down everything that Disney is involved in to make sure you have no contact with them because of their position on homosexuals, you probably don't have time to read your Bible.

This is just my opinion... take it or leave it.

Mid Crisis of Life

I've thought for a while now that the term "mid-life crisis" was just a cop out for people to blame irresponsible, self indulgent behavior on. The man who hits his "crisis" leaves his family, runs off with the secretary, and buys a red sports car. The woman who falls in "love" with a man on the Internet, sets her kids on her mother's doorstep, and leaves without looking back. That's not a "mid life crisis". It's stupidity.

I do believe that there are crisis in life. Heck, I believe that life is a crisis. The fact that we have to be born and live here outside of whatever paradise you think exists, is enough to send someone over the edge of sanity. What I have come to understand more than anything though is that it's how you handle the crisis that matters.

So now, after all the pontificating that I have just done, you probably want to know if I have handled my mid crisis of life any better than the examples I've given above. I don't know for sure, but I think I have handled them better than I could have, but not a well as I should have.

I think my crucial crisis times began about six years ago and has continued to today, this very hour, this very minute. I sure didn't handle it like Mother Teresa, but I think I've handled it the best I've known how.

I think that I have grown...maybe matured more and maybe some people will attest to that. The sorrow with this is that I think I have lost some of the fun I used to have and I'm currently trying to figure out how to meld the two.

My eyes are wide open to the darkness in the world now. Darkness that surrounds all of us each day. I'm also keenly aware that this darkness can inhabit even the best and kindest of us. The sorrow here is that when the darkness does touch us, it leaves a mark on us we can't erase. The scary bit is that it has been in me more than I care to admit and the fact is I am more comfortable in the darkness sometimes than I am in the light.

But there is the light (at the end of the tunnel). I think I am seeing it more each day, at least I hope it's the light and not a train rushing head long into me. I'm doing more things for me while trying to do all the things for others as well. Others will still need me for a while, but there will be time for me alone, someday. Until then I will look at the each day as another mid crisis of life and attempt to solve it, the best way I can.

Purple Leaves

Remember when the trees

had purple leaves,

the grass was blue and the sky was green

songs were laughter raining down

and you were anything you imagined

Then the bough breaks,

the cradle falls, and

the colors fade to not even black and white

but blurry shades of sad grey

and tears are like river spilling over

Where did the rainbow go

and why do the songs hide

Shouldn’t life be fair and what we imagine

Find it again by closing your eyes

and remember when the trees

had purple leaves.

You have to be friggin' kidding!

Some times I wonder what the hell people are thinking. They do something so entirely stupid a self-absorbed you have to wonder if a zombie ate their brain or something.

For example...a local newspaper printed an article today that cause a Judge to postpone a trial because of jury taint. Now this wasn't a "if it bleeds, it leads" story. In fact it had been printed before. It only took up three inches on the first page. It was crap, but it was enough to cause a lot of people who had been working on this case for a long time, witnesses, and not to mention the victim and family a whole lot of grief.

Now I believe in free speech, but come on...get real. This was about like yelling 'fire' in a crowded theater just to watch people trample each other.

If this had been the only time this paper had done this, I might be more forgiving...but no... this isn't the first time. They have done this before, been told about it before, and asked to give consideration before. Guess it didn't work.

Enough ranting for the night.

Lost...and

I haven't written much lately. I have been so busy with work that I haven't had much time. What free time I do have, I have been working on a manuscript. Yes, a book. The ideas are coming and going and I'm trying to capture them.

I do have some good news though. I have been published! Yes, published. No, not in a book. No, not in a magazine. No, No, No to all the other things you're asking. I was published in a newsletter from Writer's Digest. My "Out of Office" post of March 8th was picked as a favorite by the editor of the newsletter. I about had a heart attack when I saw it. In fact I had just signed up for the newsletter a couple of days prior. Fate. Kismet. Destiny. The luck of the Irish. Whatever you want to call it, I was happy. Uber-happy.

So I have gotten lost for a while. But I am trying hard to read this darn map and get back. I am going to have to develop a rhythm so that I can fit everything in. Go to this site first. Cruise over to this site. Check in here. And hopefully at some point in this writing thing, I will pass go and collect $200.

Once I was lost...now I'm, well we'll just say I'm still here.

Out of office

This is the second writer's digest prompt that I have responded to. It was a request to write an out of the office reply for an e-mail box. Here's my submission.

You have reached the mail box of Kat. Being that this is March and I don't answer e-mails during odd numbered months or during months that contain the letter "a" or "e", I regret to inform you that I will not be able to respond to you at this time. Please feel free to re-send your e-mail during the appropriate month and I will be happy to reply promptly.

So what month do you think the e-mail should be resent? I surprised myself.

To Be or Not to Be

David Foster Wallace starts his short story "Good Old Neon" with, "My whole life I've been a fraud. I'm not exaggerating. Pretty much all I've ever done all the time is try to create a certain impression of me in other people. Mostly to be liked or admired. It's a little more complicated than that, maybe. But when you come right down to it it's to be liked, loved. Admired, approved of, applauded, whatever. You get the idea."

Sadly or just honestly, I would have to say that this has also been an accurate description of at least part of my life. But could one not say that this describes most people's lives. Our basic instinct is to be liked, loved, cared about.

Within recent years, it seems that I have grown less preoccupied with what impression others have of me. At least that is the self-talk that I have engaged in. Maybe it's my way of dealing with the fact that as I grow older I care even more about other's thoughts of me. It is indeed more complicated. Why else would my first post of this blog wonder if anyone would ever remember who I am or what I say.

As Walt Whitman said, "Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes." ("Song of Myself")

Compare and Contrast

First of all, you should know that I, as a rule, don’t talk about religion or spirituality with many people and especially not in the workplace. If someone wants to talk about it, I will listen, but I will generally not bring the subject up. But in the instance that brought about this post, I have no idea how the subject came up. I was talking with a colleague about a case and suddenly she’s talking about the movie “The Passion of the Christ” and the crucifixion sequence. I don’t know if I fell asleep or just how it happened but there it was. Thinking about that conversation lead me to this…

I did see the movie, “The Passion”, in the theater. I remember sitting there in the dark theater (with no popcorn…somehow it didn’t seem right to munch on popcorn in this movie…but I digress). I remember watching the beating and crucifixion scenes and listening to the people around me sniffing, sobbing, and outright weeping. The images of what Christ went through were physically graphic and bloody. I remember not being moved by these scenes at all, thinking people are this brutal to other people all the time, everyday…even worse. Now before you rise in protest and label me a heretic, read the next bit.

Now compare this to the scenes in “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe”. C.S. Lewis’ novel has always been compared to the crucifixion. In the movie they show the death of Aslan. The movie shows Aslan trading his life for the life of Edmund, walking to the Stone Table with a heavy heart, willing turning himself over to the enemy, suffering the humiliation of being sheared, and being killed. This sequence brought me to tears and does every time I see it. There was no blood and gore to distract me from the truth of the sacrifice. This movie made it very personal…one innocent life for the life a one sinner. I need that personal context.

To me, the crucifixion of Christ is not about the brutality as shown in the “Passion”. It is about the emotional surrender and sacrifice that Christ made for each single person. This makes much more of an impact on me than showing the brutality that is replayed every day.

Valentine's Writing Challenge

This is my first post on Writer’s Digest. The assignment was to write a love letter. Here is my humble submission.

His hands began to shake when he saw the neat, even, and petite print. It could only be hers. The envelope popped open without effort, the glue having dried and yellowed with time. His heart slowed, to the point he wondered if he would live. He gently pulled the paper from inside. Unfolding it his hands began to tremble to the point that he couldn’t read what she had written. Or it may have been the tears that had crowded into his eyes.

February 14, 2004

My Beloved,

I didn’t know I could miss you this much. We have only been apart for a week, but it feels like it has been forever. How am I supposed to survive a year, maybe more. Even though you have called me and I hear the smile in your voice. I need to see it. Need to see you. I need to see the light in your eyes when you laugh. I need to feel the warmth of your breath when you take me in your arms. I need to lean into your body and feel the strength that sustains me. Please be safe and I will see you soon.

Forever yours,

Tears fell now, creating perfect circles on the words. He carefully folded the paper along the creases and slid the paper back in the envelope. Returning it to its place on top of her uniform, beside her dog tags and next to the medals, he replaced the lid to the box and wept.

My favorite fairy tale

If you hadn't noticed, I'm somewhat a Disney fan. So it wouldn't be a far fetched idea that my favorite fairy tale would also be a Disney movie. Take a guess...what do you think it is?

Cinderella....nope
Snow White....nah
Fantasia....(snicker-snicker) NO, not a fairy tale silly.

My favorite fairy tale is Beauty and the Beast. Now I will admit that this is a newer Disney movie, but Beauty and the Beast has always been my favorite tale from even before the movie. Something about the story appealed to me. An unlovable, ugly, angry creature who is transformed by the beauty of true love. It's a story of hope and redemption. That's what I want to hold on to for my life.

Tomorrow the TV series Beauty and the Beast season 1 will be released. I will bring the Beast home.

So what character am I? Read this poem that I wrote in '94.

He comes to my window
quietly seeking love and warmth
A creature from the outside
desiring only to belong
In fear I draw away
finding the window a mirror
And the beast my own

Show Stopper

Let me set the scene. My sister, Steph, and I are at friends' (Jeff and Becky) house playing cards. This particular weekend, Jeff's mother was visiting and had joined in on the game. During the game, Jeff's mother asked my sister where she worked. Steph told her about working at the local Sheriffs department. After 5 or 10 minutes of lively conversation, Jeff's mother turned to me and asked what I did for a living.

"I work with children who have been sexually abused." I replied without hesitation, not even looking up from my cards.

Now I will usually sensor myself and say "I'm a victim advocate" or "I work with kids" or something less striking, if you will. But not this night. As the sound of the words I had spoken dissipated into the atmosphere there was total, complete, and abject silence. Not even the obligatory cricket dared to chirp.

After a few longer than normal seconds, I looked up at Jeff's mother and simply stated "Well, I know how to shut the conversation up, huh." At that point everyone just kinda did the uncomfortable now-what-do-I- do chuckle and life continued.

Now it isn't like my sister, Jeff, and Becky don't know what I do for a living. We have talked about it before. But for some reason, this night, it was different, maybe because Jeff's mom was there.

There shouldn't be secrecy about what I do for a living...I work with kids who have been hurt, most of them by someone they know, love, and trust. I work with families who have been blown apart by the selfish, egotistical, and inexcusable actions of one person. I work with them, I cry for them, and I...

...I want it to stop. So I will talk about it more. I won't hesitate in telling people what I do... "I work with people who have been sexually abuse, raped, and hurt." If they stop talking, maybe they will think. If they keep talking, maybe the will ask questions and learn.

Rape is a problem. A problem we can talk about. (KASAP campaign)

About me... the early years

Have you ever had to write a biography of yourself...for a psych class or creative writing class? It is always hard to figure out where to start. Do you start with your earliest memory or like a classic novel..."It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

I was born in Bitburg, West Germany. For the first 4 1/2 years of my life I was an Air Force brat. We moved from W. Germany to North Dakota, to Illinois, then to California. I can remember a snapshot of all those places, except W. Germany.

I got my first dog in N. Dakota. His name was Tippy and he got to come into the house because it was so cold up there.

Tippy got killed on the highway when we moved to Illinois. I remember when my grandparents called to tell me it happened. I also remember being so afraid of this kid who had one of those retainer that was worn on your head...very scary...I ran home crying.

In California, we lived in a apartment complex across from a fire station. At the time there was a television show called Emergency One about a fire department in California. I was convinced that the fire station across the road was where my man, Gage, worked. That was also when I had my first trip to Disneyland.

All these experiences along with many others have shaped my life. I love my pets and grieve when they die. I still think that a lot of people are scary, but I don't tend to run away from them now. I'm a sucker for a man in uniform... not just any uniform (forget UPS...another story for another day), but a military man or law enforcement. And Disneyworld/land is my Never never land.

So where did your blog name come from?

I'm glad you asked. It's actually a funny story...I guess or maybe you had to be there.

During my last year of college, I shared an apartment off-campus with 3 other girls (and their boyfriends at times). The apartment was half of a two story house. 2 two girls had rooms upstairs. Me and the other had rooms downstairs. It was an old house with lots of rattles and squeaks. We always laughed and said that the place was haunted, especially when we would hear the couple next door "getting it on" (walls were thin to say the least).

One night we were all (all being the four of us girls and two of the boyfriends) studying in one of the rooms upstairs when we heard a noise downstairs. It sounded like someone walking around and moving chairs in the kitchen. Then there was a sound that was something like someone saying something we couldn't understand.

Now you have to understand, this was about 2 a.m. and we had been studying for almost six hours...non-stop. We all looked from one to another and were saying "Did you hear that?", "What was that?", "Did you lock the door?". The two males got up, macho men that they were, and headed down the stairs to take care of whatever was down there...mortal or not. A few minutes later they came back up, shaking there heads, and saying that there was nothing to be found. No human or ectoplasm in sight. I turned to the other girls and boldly stated "It must have been a fig newton of our imagration." We all just look at each other and started laughing, uncontrollably. We decided it was time to quit studying and go to Murrays (another story for another time).


So, that's how my catch phrase was created....not with alcohol...just brain drain from studying to much. "A fig newton of my imagration" is a fig newton of my imagration.

The First Time

So here I go. I have been thinking about doing this for over a year now. Creating a blog and writing with a purpose. So...now what. Thinking about doing it and doing it are two different things. Do I even have anything to say? Well, yes...I guess.

I have fancied myself an aspiring writer for some time...starting 3 stories that have yet to be finished and one short story, the manuscript of which is now lost. But I find that a lot of people fancy themselves to be something they aren't...just turn on American Idol. I guess the lesson to be learned is that you are what you think you are and if you think you're good enough, you will put it all on the line and let someone else judge you.

I often wonder "Will anyone ever remember anything I say?" and "Do I ever say anything that's important enough for anyone to remember?" Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm going to put it on the line and let you, whoever you are, judge. Then I will choose to accept or reject your judgement.

So here I go.