I'll start this post out by expressing gratitude that I am not in nearly as bad a crisis as I have been other times of my life... my house didn't burn down like before, I'm not in jail and/or prison, (One day I'll explain the difference for those of you who don't know.), and nobody that I know personally has died recently.
Having said that, I have nonetheless been dealing with a form of devastation that makes it feel as though all three things have happened. To fully understand, I will need to bore you with the details of my daily struggle with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and Anxiety Disorder (which are Siamese twins in the mental health world, joined at the hip, heart, and brain).
My father was a severe obsessive-compulsive, and anyone who knew him well can verify that. However, those who know me well and have observed my struggle will tell you (as they have me) that mine is worse than my father's.
In many ways, I hide it well. It's my instinct to hide my weaknesses, so most do not realize that I have such a severe case unless they spend a lot of time with me. Otherwise, they may simply think that I am "fussy" and/or a "control freak".
I've had this problem since I was a child, the need to start over when making a spelling list if even the first stroke of the letter "A" in spelling my name was microscopically crooked. I would go through 20 sheets of paper to make a ten word spelling list, and it took me forever. Perhaps that is why my grades did not always reflect my true mastery of any subject - getting my work done on time - or at all - was very difficult for me.
I wasn't always as afflicted as I am now. It has gotten worse over the years with each passing trauma, including the illness and subsequent death of my father when I was 15, witnessing something terrible in my early 20's, a near-deadly house fire that destroyed everything merely hours after I had moved to a new city (no insurance) when I was 26, the untimely deaths of several co-workers I became close to over a ten-year span, the VERY stressful failure of my business more than five years ago, and the subsequent imprisonment for same.
Since then there have been some other, minor things that have aggravated the problem... my roommate almost dying of a subdural hematoma and reliving my father's illness while trying to save my roommate's life, getting robbed at gunpoint on Valentine's Day while delivering pizza, things like that.
To keep this post from being too awfully long, I will discuss some things in other posts that have occurred. Anyone in the mental health field would probably find this all very interesting. The rest of you may be bored by it, so I don't expect everyone to read all of this.
Anyway, keeping in mind the aforementioned things: a couple of weeks ago, after returning from Atlanta, I was updating some software for a database that I have been working on for a client for the past year. I had my data backed up, of course, so when the entire database got wiped out by a glitch in the software, I thought I was okay.
Unfortunately, the same glitch that wiped out the original database, corrupting the files beyond repair, also wiped out the backup. It is a very unusual situation, and the developer and I spent the entire day trying to get it back. He apologized to me profusely as I sat in tears on the phone. I know he felt awful, and I almost felt bad for him for feeling so terrible, but mainly I was just trying to keep on breathing.
A situation like this is bad if it happens to anyone. For me, it is $3,000 in bonus money that I won't get because I won't have the project finished on time, money I was counting on. What's worse, I have to start over COMPLETELY from scratch (which I already have), and work my way back up to the almost-completed stage before I can continue and finish the project and get even my basic completion fee for the project, which I have only half-collected. It will take me until the end of the year to finish.
What's worse, the feeling of shock and devastation brought a flood of feelings and memories into my mind of past disasters. I actually had the same feeling of panic for about a week after this happened that I had after almost dying in a house fire. The feeling of total devastation and losing everything was right there with me again, as though I had just lost everything I owned, even though I haven't.
I cried for two days, didn't go anywhere, didn't eat, didn't sleep, just felt sick. I didn't Tweet much or do much of anything. I was despondent and just felt dead inside.
I still find myself not believing that I really have to start all over and do this again, this year's worth of work. However, I found myself in a conversation with a Walmart clerk who said something to me that brightened my outlook: "Well, hopefully, in the process of doing all of that work this year, you've learned some things that may help you do things more efficiently this time around. Maybe it won't take you nearly as long to re-do it as it did to do it the first time around."
You know, she's right. What took nine months to do the first time will only take about three months to re-do. What amazed me, though, is to have such insight from such a random stranger, a Walmart employee no less! Most people paint Walmart employees as caricatures of southern, uneducated dingbats. I have found that, like most stereotypes, NOT to be the case, especially after that comment that was made to me a couple of weeks ago.
In fact, after doing most of my shopping at Walmart over the years, I can say that the Walmart employees around here are some of the most helpful, intelligent folks I've ever met. (Yes, I know many who think it is politically incorrect to shop at Walmart, but I don't have the financial luxury of being politically correct when it comes to my shopping habits, so there will be no boycotts of Walmart in my household.)
Still, it's been a terrible thing to deal with, and I'm still struggling to stay out of a major depressive funk. I don't get this depressed often - it takes something major, like a house fire or a death or incarceration - to get me like this, and this feels worse than many other things that have happened that were far worse than just losing a database. Maybe it's because I'm older at 41 and feel that I don't have time to waste. Maybe it's because I'm tired of having to start over all the time. Maybe it's because I am disgusted by the fact that I can drop my iPhone into the toilet and have it survive, only to lose an entire year's worth of work due to a software upgrade.
Oy, vey. And I'm not even Jewish.
A.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Catching Up...
I'm going to try to summarize the past few weeks before I talk about what has put me into a seriously deep depression. My birthday was last month, and I went to Atlanta to see my mother a couple of days later. I hadn't spent more than a few hours with her in about 15 years, so we had a lot of catching up to do. Somehow, though, it seemed as though we hadn't had a long space at all between visits, as is usually the case with both her and my brother and most other family members whenever we do manage to get together.
I think part of it is that, when you go through horrendous things together, you develop a bond that transcends most things, including long spaces of time between being physically in one another's presence and/or even speaking.
It was a nice visit, and we went through some old boxes of mementos that I didn't even know my mother still had! One of them was a box that I only vaguely remember sending her back around 1993 for safekeeping. Some of the things it contained I don't even remember why I wanted to keep them or where they came from, but there were some things in there that I didn't realize still existed. I thought they had burned in the fire from the mid-90's when I lost everything I owned at the time.. I'm so glad they didn't! I guess it was a good thing I forgot about them for a while so they could stay safely where they were.
One of the items was a sugar egg my father bought for me in Nashville, TN when we visited there just a couple of years before he died. I couldn't believe that thing had been sitting in a box at the bottom of a closet, still wrapped in plastic, all those years. It is even more amazing to me that it is still in great shape!
Another item was a stuffed animal - a mouse - that my father had kissed and held when tucking me into bed one night. Yet another stuffed animal was a rabbit that my father had been given while in the hospital dying of brain cancer. There was a small wooden box that had belonged to him, along with a mint that was still in the package that had been placed on his pillow at a hotel where he had stayed at some point. Little things here and there, bits and pieces of the past that make me feel closer to him.
There was a box full of hundreds of slides, perhaps a thousand or so, that had belonged to Daddy, and I didn't think I would ever be able to see them since I don't know anyone who has a projector. Amazingly, a week later I was at Walmart cruising through the clearance aisle and found a machine that will convert slides to digital images on your computer. It had been $89 and was on clearance for $15! Of course, I bought it.
While in the suburbs of Atlanta where my mother lives, we drove around, running errands and shopping for groceries and supplies. The place doesn't even resemble what it was when my mother moved there 22 years ago. It has turned into another Mexican-American city. On every corner is a 24-hour check cashing joint, stores I used to recognize are now stores with Spanish names catering to the Mexican folks who have taken over the entire area. I have nothing against the fact that these people have come here in order to work and earn a living and support their families, but there truly is a lot more crime there now, and the majority of them throw trash in my mother's yard as they walk through it to go to the convenience store down the road. That is trashy, and it breeds resentment against them as a people. Even though I'm sure there are white people who do the same thing, that's not the kind of people who used to live in the subdivision.
There are many Spanish-speaking folks in this country who come here and conduct their lives with decency and common courtesy. Those are not the kind of people who have taken over my mother's neighborhood.
One night, we went to Steak and Shake and went through the drive -through, which is spelled "drive-thru" most places it seems. As we pulled forward to wait for our order, we witnessed a huge group of drunk folks who had convened in the parking lot. There was a Mexican couple getting physical in an argument on the sidewalk at the entrance, and a black dude vomiting to the side. Then, a couldn't-be-more-white girl came out and said to the fighting Mexicans "Take your shit home. This is the SUBURBS! We don't do this here!" It couldn't have been more stereotypical in all the negative ways. That's just how reality is sometimes.
Shortly after all of this began, about 7-10 cop cars showed up. Funny, "Cops" just came on television as I began this paragraph, and it was like watching an episode of "Cops" as we sat there at the Steak and Shake. We felt as though we had a ringside seat at a circus while we waited for our food, and that was our entertainment for the evening.
While in Atlanta, I managed to drop my iPhone in the toilet (after flushing, thankfully) and my life flashed before my eyes as I began to wonder if I had killed it. I did all of the things everyone told me not to do after I had already done them, but somehow it survived.
It was a somewhat depressing trip, seeing that the area is pretty trashed when it used to be so nice. I had a nasty slip and fall at a Walmart, and was very sore for a few days, but thankfully I wasn't hurt badly and didn't even bruise as badly as I thought I would.
Several witnesses to the incident encouraged me to tell customer service what had happened, because there was water on the floor that caused the fall, but there was no way anyone could have seen it - including any employees - with the new brighter-than-the sun lighting in the renovated store and the whiter-than-snow floor. An employee wiped up the water immediately after this happened, and seemed concerned - kept asking if I was okay.
It was clear that a couple of people thought I was throwing away an opportunity to rake in some dough by not making a big deal about my "injury", but when you've been TRULY injured in the past and deal with constant, chronic pain as I do, you're just really fucking grateful that you aren't seriously hurt and you don't try to exploit a nuisance injury. Yeah, I know, it's rare.
So that's what went on before something much worse happened the day after I returned home. More on that later.
A.
Friday, October 1, 2010
And another bomb of disillusionment hits its target...
I haven't written much lately. There has been much to write about, but I simply haven't had the emotional energy to do so. I'll discuss some of what has caused this in another post, but what I'm about to share with you now is so much more interesting to me that it just can't wait.
Now that I'm blogging this, I realize that it is this kind of disgust that I needed, perhaps, to get me back to my blog. Still, I wish there had been something different that had catapulted me into my desk chair. I guess I should just be glad something did.
First, I'll tell you the background story:
Years ago, I had a very interesting career as a research analyst and think-tanker. I was in demand partially because of my I.Q. test scores, (between 155 and 180, depending on the test) but mainly because the Meyers-Briggs personality test results show that I am an I.N.F.J. Less than 1 percent of the population is an I.N.F.J. and we tend to be quite useful in evaluating and analyzing situations and coming up with realistic solutions. (Except, in my case, I am not so good at coming up with solutions to my own problems. How ironic.)
Anyway, throughout my career in this field, I rubbed elbows with many interesting people. Some of these people I really looked up to, and some became very good friends. Over the past several months, I have begun to reconnect with some of these people with whom I lost touch over the course of my imprisonment and subsequent period of supervised release. Altogether, that's five years.
Five years is a long time for people to wonder what happened to you. Those who know me well know that I have always had a habit of disappearing for extended periods. Sometimes that's just what I have to do in order to get to a place where I can focus on whatever project I'm working on. Think tanks are very mentally taxing, and for me, it became a need to isolate myself from everything other than the project to which I was assigned, and I would actually become immersed in the project to the exclusion of everything else.
Those whom I consider to be true friends have expressed complete shock after learning what happened over the past 5 1/2 years of my life. They had assumed I was deeply immersed in several projects or had perhaps lost my mind and become a hermit living in a cave somewhere, writing theories on the walls, growing a beard and talking to soccer balls with seaweed for hair. Oops, never-mind. That was Tom Hanks in Cast Away...
I've taken my time reconnecting with people, because it's very emotionally taxing to relive everything by explaining where I've been and how I got there, why I wasn't able to communicate, etc. Regardless of whether one believes a convict deserved to be incarcerated or not, or whether or not it was "their own fault" for making the mistakes that put them there, the experience is no different to the person experiencing it than that of being kidnapped and isolated from the world for an extended period of time. The fear of being judged as a result of someone else thinking they have some moral high ground over you because you've been to prison and they haven't, and the fact that most people suffer from the delusion that you wouldn't have been sent to prison unless what you did was far worse than anything they have ever done, requires much courage to reintroduce yourself into their lives and "come out" to them.
So, it was with great disappointment that I learned recently about some things that went down with a group I was once loosely associated with. I say "loosely" associated with, because I never really cared for the nucleus of this group as much as I did the outer circle of the group. I considered these to be very cool people, misfits much like myself just trying to survive with whatever burdens had attached themselves to their backs, be it physical disability, mental or emotional idiosyncrasies, or whatever.
The nucleus of this group consists of a small handful of what could be considered B-list (or C or D-list) celebrities. (No, Kathy Griffin is NOT one of them. She's actually A-List in my book.) Those B-D-listers are not nearly as interesting as the people on the outer edges of their group, but they apparently hold themselves in very high esteem, as I have experienced first-hand the consequences of their over-inflated sense of self-importance.
It all started when I received a letter from a friend while I was in jail awaiting a court date. This friend was letting me know that there were some folks within our circle who had decided that I was someone to be ostracized and shunned, and that perhaps it was because they knew that I was aware of some things about their lives that they would rather not become public knowledge.
My response was that it made no sense for them to shun me out of fear or for any other reason, specifically because they were not perfect themselves, and I pointed out that the people in question had actually done things that, while perhaps devoid of ill-intent, could very well land them in prison if they were discovered.
I was making a point, not a threat. Yet somehow, my letter became the catalyst for a series of events that leaves me shaking my head in both disappointment and disgust.
When I was released more than 3 1/2 years ago, I paid a visit to the federal building, where not only was I required to visit periodically throughout my period of supervised release, but where I also enjoyed speaking with some people who work there who were sympathetic to what they considered to be an overly-harsh sentence as they watched what took place with my case. (No doubt, these would be considered infidels to others who work with them.)
It was then that I learned that, while I was "locked up", there had been phone calls made to the prosecutor's office and/or probation office (which are essentially the same thing) by people claiming that I had "made threats" to "write nasty things about them in my blog". REALLY???
After I shared a good laugh with the person who told me this, my response was "Wow! That's awesome! Somebody really thinks my blog is extremely important and very powerful! Wish I had known!"
It was then made clear to me that even the folks receiving these calls at the federal building thought it was ridiculous. "Who cares? It's the internet! So what if someone writes mean things about you?" I suppose the idea that there were people campaigning to silence my freedom of speech at a time when I didn't even have access to a computer only made some of these federal employees even more sympathetic to my plight. They had seen me betrayed and badmouthed by people who had previously been close to me, and now they were listening to them attack my right to express myself by lying about me (which is itself, a crime, when lying to a federal officer of the court) and some imaginary threat to talk about their secrets on my blog. (Again, I'm flattered that my blog is perceived by my enemies/friend-emies as being so important, so influential and powerful as to even matter who or what I discuss.)
To make this even more absurd, many of the people in this "group" (for lack of a better term) are people who claim libertarian views, some of whom have been quoted as saying that nobody should go to prison for anything unless it involves physical harm or death, (I agree), all who claim to value freedom of speech and the Bill of Rights, (except for other people's rights when it inconveniences them, clearly), and at least one of whom used to keep a blog and was, herself, bullied into "not discussing anything to do with" the all-important nucleus of "the group". Oh, and let's not forget that one of these people was once heavily into recreational drugs.
Ok. So that was bad enough. But wait! There's more!
Last night, someone I hadn't spoken to in years contacted me and filled my ears with interesting tidbits, or rather, huge bombs of information so disturbing I couldn't believe it, even in light of what I already knew they had done several years ago by calling the feds about my alleged plan to take over the world with my blog.
Apparently, he had been paid/requested/strongly encouraged to insert himself into the personal lives of several people perceived to be "threats" to the nucleus of this group and their lifestyle and the secrecy of it all, posing as a friend while actually there to "keep tabs" on these people. Can you say CREEPY boys and girls?
Why he decided to tell me this, I'm not sure. Perhaps he's as fed up with their delusional sense of self-importance as others apparently have become. Maybe he feels guilty. He certainly has reason to be ashamed of feeding such a despicable group of hypocrites with such trust-betraying information. (Sorry, but you know you do.)
Just for the record, I'll be taking so many secrets I've kept for so many people to the grave with me that there won't be room for me in the casket. I'll have to be cremated. And, if I ever found myself in a position where I felt compelled to reveal a confidence with which I have been trusted, to a certainty it would have to be something of monumental importance. Sorry, but the insignificant details of your personal lives, your "secret activities", and indeed, you yourselves as human beings, just aren't important enough for this blogger to bother with.
Fortunately, in ironing out details of some upcoming public speaking and broadcasting endeavors, I've met some far more respectable people whom I'm sure are worthy of the upward-gaze they receive from someone of such insignificant stature as myself. Let's just hope I never end up in jail again, lest I discover that they too, have secrets of which they are afraid I'll blog about.
A.
Anyway, throughout my career in this field, I rubbed elbows with many interesting people. Some of these people I really looked up to, and some became very good friends. Over the past several months, I have begun to reconnect with some of these people with whom I lost touch over the course of my imprisonment and subsequent period of supervised release. Altogether, that's five years.
Five years is a long time for people to wonder what happened to you. Those who know me well know that I have always had a habit of disappearing for extended periods. Sometimes that's just what I have to do in order to get to a place where I can focus on whatever project I'm working on. Think tanks are very mentally taxing, and for me, it became a need to isolate myself from everything other than the project to which I was assigned, and I would actually become immersed in the project to the exclusion of everything else.
Those whom I consider to be true friends have expressed complete shock after learning what happened over the past 5 1/2 years of my life. They had assumed I was deeply immersed in several projects or had perhaps lost my mind and become a hermit living in a cave somewhere, writing theories on the walls, growing a beard and talking to soccer balls with seaweed for hair. Oops, never-mind. That was Tom Hanks in Cast Away...
I've taken my time reconnecting with people, because it's very emotionally taxing to relive everything by explaining where I've been and how I got there, why I wasn't able to communicate, etc. Regardless of whether one believes a convict deserved to be incarcerated or not, or whether or not it was "their own fault" for making the mistakes that put them there, the experience is no different to the person experiencing it than that of being kidnapped and isolated from the world for an extended period of time. The fear of being judged as a result of someone else thinking they have some moral high ground over you because you've been to prison and they haven't, and the fact that most people suffer from the delusion that you wouldn't have been sent to prison unless what you did was far worse than anything they have ever done, requires much courage to reintroduce yourself into their lives and "come out" to them.
So, it was with great disappointment that I learned recently about some things that went down with a group I was once loosely associated with. I say "loosely" associated with, because I never really cared for the nucleus of this group as much as I did the outer circle of the group. I considered these to be very cool people, misfits much like myself just trying to survive with whatever burdens had attached themselves to their backs, be it physical disability, mental or emotional idiosyncrasies, or whatever.
The nucleus of this group consists of a small handful of what could be considered B-list (or C or D-list) celebrities. (No, Kathy Griffin is NOT one of them. She's actually A-List in my book.) Those B-D-listers are not nearly as interesting as the people on the outer edges of their group, but they apparently hold themselves in very high esteem, as I have experienced first-hand the consequences of their over-inflated sense of self-importance.
It all started when I received a letter from a friend while I was in jail awaiting a court date. This friend was letting me know that there were some folks within our circle who had decided that I was someone to be ostracized and shunned, and that perhaps it was because they knew that I was aware of some things about their lives that they would rather not become public knowledge.
My response was that it made no sense for them to shun me out of fear or for any other reason, specifically because they were not perfect themselves, and I pointed out that the people in question had actually done things that, while perhaps devoid of ill-intent, could very well land them in prison if they were discovered.
I was making a point, not a threat. Yet somehow, my letter became the catalyst for a series of events that leaves me shaking my head in both disappointment and disgust.
When I was released more than 3 1/2 years ago, I paid a visit to the federal building, where not only was I required to visit periodically throughout my period of supervised release, but where I also enjoyed speaking with some people who work there who were sympathetic to what they considered to be an overly-harsh sentence as they watched what took place with my case. (No doubt, these would be considered infidels to others who work with them.)
It was then that I learned that, while I was "locked up", there had been phone calls made to the prosecutor's office and/or probation office (which are essentially the same thing) by people claiming that I had "made threats" to "write nasty things about them in my blog". REALLY???
After I shared a good laugh with the person who told me this, my response was "Wow! That's awesome! Somebody really thinks my blog is extremely important and very powerful! Wish I had known!"
It was then made clear to me that even the folks receiving these calls at the federal building thought it was ridiculous. "Who cares? It's the internet! So what if someone writes mean things about you?" I suppose the idea that there were people campaigning to silence my freedom of speech at a time when I didn't even have access to a computer only made some of these federal employees even more sympathetic to my plight. They had seen me betrayed and badmouthed by people who had previously been close to me, and now they were listening to them attack my right to express myself by lying about me (which is itself, a crime, when lying to a federal officer of the court) and some imaginary threat to talk about their secrets on my blog. (Again, I'm flattered that my blog is perceived by my enemies/friend-emies as being so important, so influential and powerful as to even matter who or what I discuss.)
To make this even more absurd, many of the people in this "group" (for lack of a better term) are people who claim libertarian views, some of whom have been quoted as saying that nobody should go to prison for anything unless it involves physical harm or death, (I agree), all who claim to value freedom of speech and the Bill of Rights, (except for other people's rights when it inconveniences them, clearly), and at least one of whom used to keep a blog and was, herself, bullied into "not discussing anything to do with" the all-important nucleus of "the group". Oh, and let's not forget that one of these people was once heavily into recreational drugs.
Ok. So that was bad enough. But wait! There's more!
Last night, someone I hadn't spoken to in years contacted me and filled my ears with interesting tidbits, or rather, huge bombs of information so disturbing I couldn't believe it, even in light of what I already knew they had done several years ago by calling the feds about my alleged plan to take over the world with my blog.
Apparently, he had been paid/requested/strongly encouraged to insert himself into the personal lives of several people perceived to be "threats" to the nucleus of this group and their lifestyle and the secrecy of it all, posing as a friend while actually there to "keep tabs" on these people. Can you say CREEPY boys and girls?
Why he decided to tell me this, I'm not sure. Perhaps he's as fed up with their delusional sense of self-importance as others apparently have become. Maybe he feels guilty. He certainly has reason to be ashamed of feeding such a despicable group of hypocrites with such trust-betraying information. (Sorry, but you know you do.)
Just for the record, I'll be taking so many secrets I've kept for so many people to the grave with me that there won't be room for me in the casket. I'll have to be cremated. And, if I ever found myself in a position where I felt compelled to reveal a confidence with which I have been trusted, to a certainty it would have to be something of monumental importance. Sorry, but the insignificant details of your personal lives, your "secret activities", and indeed, you yourselves as human beings, just aren't important enough for this blogger to bother with.
Fortunately, in ironing out details of some upcoming public speaking and broadcasting endeavors, I've met some far more respectable people whom I'm sure are worthy of the upward-gaze they receive from someone of such insignificant stature as myself. Let's just hope I never end up in jail again, lest I discover that they too, have secrets of which they are afraid I'll blog about.
A.
Monday, September 13, 2010
My Favorite Birthday Memory Of All Time
Today marks yet another 365 days that the earth has rotated on its axis since I have been alive. I am 41 years old. My body often feels 90, while my mind sometimes behaves as if it is 12. People tell me I am an old soul. Other people tell me I look younger than my years. Clearly, I have an ongoing age identity crisis.
When my birthday rolls around, I usually think back to past birthdays and reflect on where my life is going. Usually I'm quite optimistic about my future, but lately, I've been depressed (which is unusual for me) and I'm not feeling so optimistic. Maybe I'm having a mid-life crisis. Maybe I'm just under too much stress. I'm sure it will pass.
One thing I'm happy about is that I have had a very full life, rich in experiences. Some of them have been horrific, others have been wonderful, and still others have been just downright bizarre with some clearly a mixture of all three.
My favorite birthday memory of all time happens to be one of such combinations of horrific, wonderful, and bizarre.
Horrific: because I was in a county jail with my life on hold, waiting for the feds distorted idea of justice to play out in the case they had brought against me before I was sent to prison.
And now, let me explain the wonderful and bizarre aspects of this cherished memory...
September 13, 2005, my cell-mate was a bankruptcy attorney who was serving a short federal sentence for bankruptcy fraud. Her sentence was less than six months, so she didn't get sent to a prison, but was to serve out her sentence in a federally contracted detention center, in this case, a county jail.
She had three young children, (including a set of twins) and one of them was a "special needs" child with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and other issues. Since she was a single mother, she was allowed to break up her sentence over two summers so that her sister could keep her kids while she was locked up and then she could be there to take care of them when school was back in session.
She and I became very close as we got to know one another. Like many who feel the walls of despair closing in on them while confined in a drab environment, she tortured herself with despairing thoughts, including that she was a bad mother (very few who have that fear are ever actually bad mothers) and I did my best to keep her focused on the positive things she had going for her.
She was a beautiful woman, very attractive, kind-hearted, intelligent... she was within a year of my age, and it was hard to imagine how she could end up in this situation. Of course, many people have said the same thing about me. I assure you, it can happen to anyone.
One thing I knew was that she would be fine once she got out. She took over the jail within a few weeks, teaching everyone from accused murderers to crack addicts new card games and making it clear to them that she wasn't going to be bullied. She always had the upper hand, and I was sure she would somehow maintain it throughout the rest of her life. (I should get in touch with her and verify that she has, though there is no doubt in my mind.)
The week before my birthday, she, knowing that I didn't have a steady source of funding with which to purchase items like shampoo and lotion from the commissary, had me make a list of items I wanted for my birthday. I was thrilled!
She was going to be going home in a couple of weeks, so she was planning a farewell party and also ordered about 35 Hostess cupcakes, one for every inmate in our pod. (This never happens. Ever. Nobody does this. Except Shannon.)
So, on my birthday, we were all released from our cells for breakfast. I went about my usual routine of taking my shower afterwards and returned to one of about ten four-person tables where several of us normally played cards until it was time to be locked back down. When I got to my usual spot at the table, I got the surprise of my life. Not only was there a Hostess cupcake waiting there for me, but there was also a birthday card, (you could purchase those from the commissary list to send to loved ones) signed by everyone, and a "candle" she had somehow managed to fashion out of paper. (Keep in mind, inmates have no access to scissors.)
Before I even had a chance to react, the pod of about 35 women who had just been going about their business were suddenly all turned in my direction and the room swelled with the sound of everyone singing "Happy Birthday". That's when I realized that I was experiencing my first-ever surprise birthday party. In jail.
Growing up, I had enjoyed throwing my father a surprise birthday party just a couple of years before he got sick and died. Many surprise parties had been thrown in my family, and I was always enamored with the idea of sneaking around in order to bombard someone with expressions of love and happiness. The fact that someone would go to that kind of trouble seemed to me to be the ultimate validation of the fact that the person being honored at such a party was deserving of love.
Like many who are in the black sheep role in their family, I struggled with feelings of unworthiness. I never thought anyone would go to that kind of trouble for me unless it was a matter of necessity, but there I was, turning 36 in jail, and experiencing the most amazing (and unexpected) surprise birthday party anyone could ever imagine, in the most unlikely of circumstances.
My brother and I always had nice birthdays growing up. My parents went out of their way to make it special with what little resources they had, and they always succeeded. I cherish those memories, but, as birthday surprises go, nothing, not even winning the lottery on my birthday, could ever compare to what Shannon, a friend I had known for only a brief time, did for me.
So there you have it, horrific, wonderful, and bizarre all rolled into one bittersweet, delicious experience with a paper candle on top. I challenge you to beat that combination in a true story. I just don't think it can be done.
A.
When my birthday rolls around, I usually think back to past birthdays and reflect on where my life is going. Usually I'm quite optimistic about my future, but lately, I've been depressed (which is unusual for me) and I'm not feeling so optimistic. Maybe I'm having a mid-life crisis. Maybe I'm just under too much stress. I'm sure it will pass.
One thing I'm happy about is that I have had a very full life, rich in experiences. Some of them have been horrific, others have been wonderful, and still others have been just downright bizarre with some clearly a mixture of all three.
My favorite birthday memory of all time happens to be one of such combinations of horrific, wonderful, and bizarre.
Horrific: because I was in a county jail with my life on hold, waiting for the feds distorted idea of justice to play out in the case they had brought against me before I was sent to prison.
And now, let me explain the wonderful and bizarre aspects of this cherished memory...
September 13, 2005, my cell-mate was a bankruptcy attorney who was serving a short federal sentence for bankruptcy fraud. Her sentence was less than six months, so she didn't get sent to a prison, but was to serve out her sentence in a federally contracted detention center, in this case, a county jail.
She had three young children, (including a set of twins) and one of them was a "special needs" child with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and other issues. Since she was a single mother, she was allowed to break up her sentence over two summers so that her sister could keep her kids while she was locked up and then she could be there to take care of them when school was back in session.
She and I became very close as we got to know one another. Like many who feel the walls of despair closing in on them while confined in a drab environment, she tortured herself with despairing thoughts, including that she was a bad mother (very few who have that fear are ever actually bad mothers) and I did my best to keep her focused on the positive things she had going for her.
She was a beautiful woman, very attractive, kind-hearted, intelligent... she was within a year of my age, and it was hard to imagine how she could end up in this situation. Of course, many people have said the same thing about me. I assure you, it can happen to anyone.
One thing I knew was that she would be fine once she got out. She took over the jail within a few weeks, teaching everyone from accused murderers to crack addicts new card games and making it clear to them that she wasn't going to be bullied. She always had the upper hand, and I was sure she would somehow maintain it throughout the rest of her life. (I should get in touch with her and verify that she has, though there is no doubt in my mind.)
The week before my birthday, she, knowing that I didn't have a steady source of funding with which to purchase items like shampoo and lotion from the commissary, had me make a list of items I wanted for my birthday. I was thrilled!
She was going to be going home in a couple of weeks, so she was planning a farewell party and also ordered about 35 Hostess cupcakes, one for every inmate in our pod. (This never happens. Ever. Nobody does this. Except Shannon.)
So, on my birthday, we were all released from our cells for breakfast. I went about my usual routine of taking my shower afterwards and returned to one of about ten four-person tables where several of us normally played cards until it was time to be locked back down. When I got to my usual spot at the table, I got the surprise of my life. Not only was there a Hostess cupcake waiting there for me, but there was also a birthday card, (you could purchase those from the commissary list to send to loved ones) signed by everyone, and a "candle" she had somehow managed to fashion out of paper. (Keep in mind, inmates have no access to scissors.)
Before I even had a chance to react, the pod of about 35 women who had just been going about their business were suddenly all turned in my direction and the room swelled with the sound of everyone singing "Happy Birthday". That's when I realized that I was experiencing my first-ever surprise birthday party. In jail.
Growing up, I had enjoyed throwing my father a surprise birthday party just a couple of years before he got sick and died. Many surprise parties had been thrown in my family, and I was always enamored with the idea of sneaking around in order to bombard someone with expressions of love and happiness. The fact that someone would go to that kind of trouble seemed to me to be the ultimate validation of the fact that the person being honored at such a party was deserving of love.
Like many who are in the black sheep role in their family, I struggled with feelings of unworthiness. I never thought anyone would go to that kind of trouble for me unless it was a matter of necessity, but there I was, turning 36 in jail, and experiencing the most amazing (and unexpected) surprise birthday party anyone could ever imagine, in the most unlikely of circumstances.
My brother and I always had nice birthdays growing up. My parents went out of their way to make it special with what little resources they had, and they always succeeded. I cherish those memories, but, as birthday surprises go, nothing, not even winning the lottery on my birthday, could ever compare to what Shannon, a friend I had known for only a brief time, did for me.
So there you have it, horrific, wonderful, and bizarre all rolled into one bittersweet, delicious experience with a paper candle on top. I challenge you to beat that combination in a true story. I just don't think it can be done.
A.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Media Mayhem - Lies, A Dash of Truth, and More Lies
This post is long overdue, but my standard "better late than never" will have to do for now, as I have not found the time to get many things done in the past few weeks. I'm feeling a bit "off" lately, and don't seem to get but a fraction of the things on my "need to do" list done, much less anything on my "really want to do" list.
I also have many other things I'd rather write about right now, but this is something I must write about, because it demonstrates a point, although the means by which that point occurs is not something I'm particularly proud of...
I have always prided myself on questioning everything I hear. I try to live by the motto of "Believe none of what you hear, and only half of what you see.", and yet, even I can be completely fooled by repetitive lies.
Like everyone else, I've been hearing the story about the proposed mosque to be built in New York City. And, the way I've been hearing it referred to is "Proposed Mosque at Ground Zero". Not "Proposed Mosque Near Ground Zero", mind you, but AT Ground Zero.
After a couple of weeks of hearing this, I grew tired of everyone chanting "tolerance". I'm all for tolerance, but there comes a time when tolerance becomes denial of justified outrage. If we turn off our ability to become outraged at in-your-face disrespectful behavior by others in the name of tolerance, we can lose our identity. I will always maintain that position, and I am very skeptical when I hear the word tolerance, as I feel it has become more of a mindless chant and an escape from anger that should be acknowledged and expressed more often than an idealistic concept of acceptance.
Having said that, there are times when even I, a diligent skeptic, am fooled. A couple of weeks ago was one of those times.
I had grown tired of hearing everyone say that we were wrong for being upset at the prospect of a mosque AT Ground Zero, that somehow we were being racist and/or bigots for not wanting a mosque AT the location where religious zealots of the same religion represented by said mosque terrorized our country and murdered thousands of people.
I came up with what I considered to be some brilliant analogies... KKK headquarters on Martin Luther King Boulevard does not belong, a bar next to Mothers Against Drunk Driving (M.A.D.D.) does not belong, etc. And I was right... I was also right that a mosque AT Ground Zero does not belong. But then, I was also wrong...
I was wrong because there is NO mosque proposed AT Ground Zero, never has been. There is a proposed mosque that is considered "near" Ground Zero, but then, just about anywhere in New York City is going to be considered "near" Ground Zero. Does this mean no mosque should be allowed anywhere in New York City? How far away does it have to be? Keep in mind, a hundred yards in New York City is the equivalent of several MILES anywhere else, especially when you consider how small an area of land comprises the New York City area.
I was gently led in the direction of this truth by a couple of dear friends, @TomDark9 and @EdgarHopper, some very strong truth-seekers who are very active on Twitter. Edgar lives in New York City and was actually a clergy first-responder on September 11. If there was a reason to be offended by a proposed mosque, he would know. The fact that he isn't offended is reason enough for me to take a second look, but he also pointed out what anyone who paid close attention to the details by researching the story by means other than the mainstream media should have been able to clearly see: there is no mosque being proposed at the Ground Zero site, contrary to what many have been misled to believe.
What is significant about this incident is that when a skeptic exercises his or her skepticism, it is usually in the direction of the story itself. However, I learned from this most recent lapse in diligence on my part that it is every bit as important to focus on the TITLE of a news story as it is the story itself.
The lie wasn't just in the story, it was in the TITLE of the story. "Anger over proposed mosque AT Ground Zero." already puts the assumption in one's mind that the location being proposed is AT the Ground Zero site. Everything else is just a trip down a dead-end street that leads us all to be easily manipulated into a quick rage toward Islam, Islamic people, and, as was so astutely pointed out to me, leads us all to become primed for yet another war.
It is also worth considering that very few people actually hear the stories behind the headlines. The headline itself is repeated so often in news teasers and read so frequently when passing news stands that it BECOMES the entire story in the minds of those who don't have or take the time to listen to the details or read the entire story behind the headline, even if it IS accurate.
Whether you believe there is a motive towards planting acceptance of yet another war in the minds of the American people in such misleading story titles or not, it's bad enough that there is such inaccuracy to begin with. Misleading the public in such a way even for simple story selling purposes is unprofessional journalism at best, riot-inciting sabotage of any chance of peace at worst.
I studied broadcasting in college, and I remember getting lectured on many occasions about the importance of accuracy and professionalism in the industry. I took that advice to heart, but I don't see a lot of others who have done the same thing.
I sometimes allow myself to be misled, but I do try to correct my thinking when I see evidence to the contrary of my opinion. I have begun to FINALLY hear "proposed mosque NEAR Ground Zero" in news story teasers and have read the same in recent headlines, but it's too little too late when we have violent attacks by Americans against random people merely suspected of being Muslims and people all over the country upset over imaginary insults from terrorists who are actually just as upset over the mosque as anyone, since the extremists don't approve of the mosque themselves. (Too many non-head-cover-wearing females involved in the cause, apparently.)
Don't be upset at the imaginary insult you are being told is taking place. Be upset that your own citizens in the media of your own country are exploiting the victims of the September 11 attacks by creating the illusion of a proposed mosque "AT" Ground Zero, ripping off the slowly-healing scabs from that awful day by inciting such outrage.
'Nuff said.
A.
I also have many other things I'd rather write about right now, but this is something I must write about, because it demonstrates a point, although the means by which that point occurs is not something I'm particularly proud of...
I have always prided myself on questioning everything I hear. I try to live by the motto of "Believe none of what you hear, and only half of what you see.", and yet, even I can be completely fooled by repetitive lies.
Like everyone else, I've been hearing the story about the proposed mosque to be built in New York City. And, the way I've been hearing it referred to is "Proposed Mosque at Ground Zero". Not "Proposed Mosque Near Ground Zero", mind you, but AT Ground Zero.
After a couple of weeks of hearing this, I grew tired of everyone chanting "tolerance". I'm all for tolerance, but there comes a time when tolerance becomes denial of justified outrage. If we turn off our ability to become outraged at in-your-face disrespectful behavior by others in the name of tolerance, we can lose our identity. I will always maintain that position, and I am very skeptical when I hear the word tolerance, as I feel it has become more of a mindless chant and an escape from anger that should be acknowledged and expressed more often than an idealistic concept of acceptance.
Having said that, there are times when even I, a diligent skeptic, am fooled. A couple of weeks ago was one of those times.
I had grown tired of hearing everyone say that we were wrong for being upset at the prospect of a mosque AT Ground Zero, that somehow we were being racist and/or bigots for not wanting a mosque AT the location where religious zealots of the same religion represented by said mosque terrorized our country and murdered thousands of people.
I came up with what I considered to be some brilliant analogies... KKK headquarters on Martin Luther King Boulevard does not belong, a bar next to Mothers Against Drunk Driving (M.A.D.D.) does not belong, etc. And I was right... I was also right that a mosque AT Ground Zero does not belong. But then, I was also wrong...
I was wrong because there is NO mosque proposed AT Ground Zero, never has been. There is a proposed mosque that is considered "near" Ground Zero, but then, just about anywhere in New York City is going to be considered "near" Ground Zero. Does this mean no mosque should be allowed anywhere in New York City? How far away does it have to be? Keep in mind, a hundred yards in New York City is the equivalent of several MILES anywhere else, especially when you consider how small an area of land comprises the New York City area.
I was gently led in the direction of this truth by a couple of dear friends, @TomDark9 and @EdgarHopper, some very strong truth-seekers who are very active on Twitter. Edgar lives in New York City and was actually a clergy first-responder on September 11. If there was a reason to be offended by a proposed mosque, he would know. The fact that he isn't offended is reason enough for me to take a second look, but he also pointed out what anyone who paid close attention to the details by researching the story by means other than the mainstream media should have been able to clearly see: there is no mosque being proposed at the Ground Zero site, contrary to what many have been misled to believe.
What is significant about this incident is that when a skeptic exercises his or her skepticism, it is usually in the direction of the story itself. However, I learned from this most recent lapse in diligence on my part that it is every bit as important to focus on the TITLE of a news story as it is the story itself.
The lie wasn't just in the story, it was in the TITLE of the story. "Anger over proposed mosque AT Ground Zero." already puts the assumption in one's mind that the location being proposed is AT the Ground Zero site. Everything else is just a trip down a dead-end street that leads us all to be easily manipulated into a quick rage toward Islam, Islamic people, and, as was so astutely pointed out to me, leads us all to become primed for yet another war.
It is also worth considering that very few people actually hear the stories behind the headlines. The headline itself is repeated so often in news teasers and read so frequently when passing news stands that it BECOMES the entire story in the minds of those who don't have or take the time to listen to the details or read the entire story behind the headline, even if it IS accurate.
Whether you believe there is a motive towards planting acceptance of yet another war in the minds of the American people in such misleading story titles or not, it's bad enough that there is such inaccuracy to begin with. Misleading the public in such a way even for simple story selling purposes is unprofessional journalism at best, riot-inciting sabotage of any chance of peace at worst.
I studied broadcasting in college, and I remember getting lectured on many occasions about the importance of accuracy and professionalism in the industry. I took that advice to heart, but I don't see a lot of others who have done the same thing.
I sometimes allow myself to be misled, but I do try to correct my thinking when I see evidence to the contrary of my opinion. I have begun to FINALLY hear "proposed mosque NEAR Ground Zero" in news story teasers and have read the same in recent headlines, but it's too little too late when we have violent attacks by Americans against random people merely suspected of being Muslims and people all over the country upset over imaginary insults from terrorists who are actually just as upset over the mosque as anyone, since the extremists don't approve of the mosque themselves. (Too many non-head-cover-wearing females involved in the cause, apparently.)
Don't be upset at the imaginary insult you are being told is taking place. Be upset that your own citizens in the media of your own country are exploiting the victims of the September 11 attacks by creating the illusion of a proposed mosque "AT" Ground Zero, ripping off the slowly-healing scabs from that awful day by inciting such outrage.
'Nuff said.
A.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
A lot on my mind...
Ok, so it's 5:30 a.m. and I still haven't slept. I've got awful pain all over, but especially in my neck and shoulders. I'm tired, but the pain keeps me from sleeping.
I've been depressed lately, and that's not something that happens to me often. I don't like to talk about it much, because I try to stay positive, but I'm hoping that writing about it will help it move on. Except, well, I don't know what to write, because I don't know what's behind it.
I suppose part of it is just the antsy-ness of wanting fall to hurry up and get here, and part of it is possibly hormonal, and then there is the P.T.S.D. that I struggle with from time to time.
I have a lot of things going for me I suppose, and I feel that I have much to look forward to in life, yet I feel as though I've been kicked around so much sometimes that I just don't have much left in me. I'm overwhelmed in some ways, and that's adding to it I'm sure. Stress has built up and is probably expressing itself in the form of depression.
So, I think what I'll do is make a peanut butter sandwich and pour myself a glass of milk, watch some "Married, With Children" on TBS, and go to sleep for a couple of hours before I start my day. I'll let you know if it works!
I've been depressed lately, and that's not something that happens to me often. I don't like to talk about it much, because I try to stay positive, but I'm hoping that writing about it will help it move on. Except, well, I don't know what to write, because I don't know what's behind it.
I suppose part of it is just the antsy-ness of wanting fall to hurry up and get here, and part of it is possibly hormonal, and then there is the P.T.S.D. that I struggle with from time to time.
I have a lot of things going for me I suppose, and I feel that I have much to look forward to in life, yet I feel as though I've been kicked around so much sometimes that I just don't have much left in me. I'm overwhelmed in some ways, and that's adding to it I'm sure. Stress has built up and is probably expressing itself in the form of depression.
So, I think what I'll do is make a peanut butter sandwich and pour myself a glass of milk, watch some "Married, With Children" on TBS, and go to sleep for a couple of hours before I start my day. I'll let you know if it works!
After the Wedding - A Peaceful Sunday and a Hectic Monday
The day after the wedding, I slept in, and my grandfather and his new bride drove up to see me before I left. We had a nice visit, and they seemed just as happy after the wedding as they were before.
Once they left, I started packing - my flight was at 7 a.m. the next morning, leaving from Hartford, CT. To keep us from having to get up at 4 a.m. my uncle put me up in a nice hotel in CT so I could just take the shuttle from the hotel to the airport.
I had a lot of pictures and my grandmother's jewelry box full of costume jewelry and doo-dads, a couple of afghans, and some other what-nots, and Jim had an old Samsonite suitcase he thought it would all fit in. The problem: nobody knew the combination. Jim, overestimating my abilities, thought I might be able to get it open if he printed out directions from the internet on how to "crack" a luggage combination.
I followed the instructions, and when that didn't work, I followed the next set of instructions. I figured it wasn't going to work, but went on with the tedium of it for the sake of being able to say that I had done my best, and then, suddenly, it opened! Wow. Who knew?
I, never being one to read the instructions until AFTER I play with something, didn't realize they might actually serve a purpose! ;-)
So, feeling like a seasoned transit authority luggage-combination-cracking specialist, I opened and wiped the suitcase down and was amazed at how big it was inside. Not even Samsonite makes huge, durable suitcases like this anymore. What's better, it has wheels and a handle, something I didn't realize they were putting on suitcases when this one was probably made.
To our amazement, everything I needed to put in the suitcase fit, and after I got everything packed we moved my grandfather's old grandfather clock, which was going to be discarded, into their house where they will keep it until I drive up and take it back to TN along with some of my father's old things.
Afterwards, we headed to CT and I got checked in at the hotel. Then, we went to Union Street Tavern in Windsor, CT where they treated me to dinner (great food) and then back to the hotel, where my uncles dropped me off and drove back to MA.
I was up later than I should have been, simply because I love hotels... it always seems more permissible to linger in a nice bubble bath and goof off when you're in a hotel by yourself. When I'm at home, there's always something I feel I should be doing.
At 5 a.m. I got up and got to the lobby so I could catch my ride to the airport. It's a good thing I left early, because the security screening line was so long I had just the right amount of time to catch my flight at 7:20 a.m.
Of course, we sat on the tarmac for half an hour before we left, and another half an hour when we arrived in Detroit. At that point, many of us had to scramble to catch our connecting flight. I almost knocked over a couple of pilots, who looked askance at my rudeness, but I wasn't about to spend the entire day in an airport ala "The Terminal" just because the airport couldn't get its act together and get us off the plane in a reasonable amount of time.
When I got to my connecting flight, they had already closed the doors, but hadn't left yet, and the flight attendants let me on. This plane was even smaller than the other one I had been on. In fact, I think it was the first time I had been on a plane that had a row of two seats on one side and a row of only single seats on the other. I was in one of the single seats, so I had a window seat and an aisle seat all in one! LOL
I had an AMAZING view of the most beautiful, HUGE cloud formation I've ever seen, but I didn't get the picture in time. I did manage to get a picture that was still pretty, though.
When I arrived, I had a friend pick me up from the airport, and I was already feeling jet-lagged. (I'm always amazed that it doesn't matter whether you're traveling in the same time zone or not, it's the altitude that gets you, especially on smaller planes.)
I felt like I'd had two weeks of vacation in four days, and I really hated for it to end, but when I got home I was very happy to see my big Booger (70+ pound puppy, for those who don't know) waiting and wagging his tail happily. There's just something about being greeted by a happy dog that can't be beat!
~A~
Once they left, I started packing - my flight was at 7 a.m. the next morning, leaving from Hartford, CT. To keep us from having to get up at 4 a.m. my uncle put me up in a nice hotel in CT so I could just take the shuttle from the hotel to the airport.
I had a lot of pictures and my grandmother's jewelry box full of costume jewelry and doo-dads, a couple of afghans, and some other what-nots, and Jim had an old Samsonite suitcase he thought it would all fit in. The problem: nobody knew the combination. Jim, overestimating my abilities, thought I might be able to get it open if he printed out directions from the internet on how to "crack" a luggage combination.
I followed the instructions, and when that didn't work, I followed the next set of instructions. I figured it wasn't going to work, but went on with the tedium of it for the sake of being able to say that I had done my best, and then, suddenly, it opened! Wow. Who knew?
I, never being one to read the instructions until AFTER I play with something, didn't realize they might actually serve a purpose! ;-)
So, feeling like a seasoned transit authority luggage-combination-cracking specialist, I opened and wiped the suitcase down and was amazed at how big it was inside. Not even Samsonite makes huge, durable suitcases like this anymore. What's better, it has wheels and a handle, something I didn't realize they were putting on suitcases when this one was probably made.
To our amazement, everything I needed to put in the suitcase fit, and after I got everything packed we moved my grandfather's old grandfather clock, which was going to be discarded, into their house where they will keep it until I drive up and take it back to TN along with some of my father's old things.
Afterwards, we headed to CT and I got checked in at the hotel. Then, we went to Union Street Tavern in Windsor, CT where they treated me to dinner (great food) and then back to the hotel, where my uncles dropped me off and drove back to MA.
I was up later than I should have been, simply because I love hotels... it always seems more permissible to linger in a nice bubble bath and goof off when you're in a hotel by yourself. When I'm at home, there's always something I feel I should be doing.
At 5 a.m. I got up and got to the lobby so I could catch my ride to the airport. It's a good thing I left early, because the security screening line was so long I had just the right amount of time to catch my flight at 7:20 a.m.
Of course, we sat on the tarmac for half an hour before we left, and another half an hour when we arrived in Detroit. At that point, many of us had to scramble to catch our connecting flight. I almost knocked over a couple of pilots, who looked askance at my rudeness, but I wasn't about to spend the entire day in an airport ala "The Terminal" just because the airport couldn't get its act together and get us off the plane in a reasonable amount of time.
When I got to my connecting flight, they had already closed the doors, but hadn't left yet, and the flight attendants let me on. This plane was even smaller than the other one I had been on. In fact, I think it was the first time I had been on a plane that had a row of two seats on one side and a row of only single seats on the other. I was in one of the single seats, so I had a window seat and an aisle seat all in one! LOL
I had an AMAZING view of the most beautiful, HUGE cloud formation I've ever seen, but I didn't get the picture in time. I did manage to get a picture that was still pretty, though.
 |
| Head in the clouds! |
I felt like I'd had two weeks of vacation in four days, and I really hated for it to end, but when I got home I was very happy to see my big Booger (70+ pound puppy, for those who don't know) waiting and wagging his tail happily. There's just something about being greeted by a happy dog that can't be beat!
~A~
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