On a roll with the entries 8/25/2005

First and foremost, happy belated birthday to a WOD writer, reader, and broad, Shelley. I'm sorry this is a day late, but I hope your birthday turned out to be a good one, despite how your day started:) Also, to one of my rant page readers and email friends, Richard... happy engagement!! Richard has been a loyal reader from way back when I wrote the crappiest of all fanfics ever written;) Thanks for your support, Rick, and I am so happy for you! I'll try to put happy birthday wishes on my site from now on for all the folks I know. I'm sorry I haven't done that before! It's about time I started to include at least some positive thoughts on this page.

Speaking of this page, I was thinking about it, and about the things I write, thinking about how what I write sometimes may not be what people want to hear. I think about times that I've really wanted to completely remove an entry, not to mention many, because of how absolutely awful some of these thoughts can make me look sometimes. I wonder just how many out there think I'm this borderline demonic soul who does nothing but see the worst in things. But then, I realized... this is my rant page. It has that name for a reason. This is my therapy, my place to let out those parts of me I don't normally let anyone else see. It provides me with a place in which it is okay to be trivial, silly, bitchy, or any number of adjectives so many of us hate to admit may describe parts of us. I get the majority of the whirlwind of discontent out here so that in my real life, there's more room for the goodness in me, I guess. And when I read back on my journal entries, it helps me to see my strengths and weaknesses more clearly. Most of the time, just putting these thoughts down into text form is enough to start to filter the method out of the madness, so this journal stays, and I will rarely edit or remove an entry, no matter how unflattering it may make me or anyone else look. In other words, I guess it's here for me more than anyone else.

Another topic-I've noticed quite a few of the aspiring writers I know are falling into these online publishing traps lately. Basic rule, ladies... if you believe in yourself, and in your stories, then please, don't buy the promises of online publishers who seem too good to be true. Odds are, if they want money from you in order to look at your work, turn and high-tail it out of there. Research these companies thoroughly, and if it walks like a duck, well, you know the rest. There are a million people out there who will use your dreams to their advantage. Just make sure you're dealing with a company that'll let you use your dreams to your advantage, too. If you're going to pursue your writing, try shooting for the top before working your way down. End of lecture;)

Yet another note-I am having major problems logging in to some ezboards, so I just wanted to put a comment here that I can't post on an ez board I used to regularly frequent. A friend of mine posted a storyline recently (the beginnings of one), and I just wanted to say that I liked it:) To be able to have so many ideas and stories going through my own head would be a blessing and a half to me. I can barely remember what really happened to me in my real world one day, much less create and keep up with several worlds. Anyway, wanted to make note of that, 'cause I think it's note-worthy:)

Final note... I was cleaning out my file cabinet, and I found an email that I literally had never read, never seen before. It was from another WOD gal, Eva, and in it, she sent pictures of her son. I don't even know if Eva goes to WOD anymore, how she's doing, etc., this email was so old, but I just wanted to say on the record here that I am beyond sorry that I didn't see the email until now, and that I can't believe what a gorgeous young man Eva has. Cutest little boy with the largest brown doe eyes!!! Just precious!!

It makes me wonder how many important emails I've missed. See, between my catbroads, writer friends, fanfiction friends, people asking cat questions, family, real life friends, Baker Hotel people, and others, my mailbox will literally fill up and not allow more emails unless I check it twice a day and clear things out. Hard to believe, but it's true. It takes a 1000 emails to close my mailbox, and that's literally happened more than once. There are 722 emails I have to go through as I write this. Trust me, it's not that I'm popular. I'm far from it. I just know alot of people in alot of different groups, that's all. Anyway, it makes me think of all the emails I should answer, but don't, and who might feel slighted because I didn't answer something I should've. I think most who know me, though, understand, and I'm grateful to all you broads who do:)

I am so unusually friendly today, ain't I? I'll do my best to put a stop to it, I promise!;)

Just a Bunch of Updates 8/24/2005

One-the ex who thought he'd try to spark an old flame into fire wrote back, saying basically that he would back off, that he's happy I'm now happy, and is sorry for all he'd done, but will always love me. I honestly wondered if he just cut and pasted words from this page into his email...ugh.

Anyway, gals.... if you live in or near Dallas, are single, and like muscular Chippendale dancer types (the whole long-yet-groomed hair and chiseled buttocks thing), and if you're the type who's up for being treated crappily by an extremely good looking bad boy type who may or may not hit you all of a sudden, let me know, and rather than give you his number, I'll drive over to your house and kick your ass myself;)

Two-my fanfiction women seem to be doing okay for the last few days. Both sides ended up meeting somewhat and coming to a head, though I don't have all the details, but all seems calmed down since then, and here's what I'm hoping... I am seriously hoping that side C, the side my friend is with, was able to come out and face side O, the side that used to be friends with my friend on side C, and the side that was practically begging side C to come forth with at least some direct explanation as to why everything suddenly went south.

I hope that side C was able to admit at least some blame in the conflict, since honestly, the only side I'd seen taking any blame thus far was side O, even though side C has their share of blame. I'm hoping that side C listened to side O, and that specifics were brought up and discussed.

I hope that any misconceptions on the part of side C or O were cleared up, because I've often found that in the world of fanfiction, misconceptions tend to take a really warped upward curve, often feedback-fed. I hope that side O listened to side C, and I hope that side O finally felt listened to, finally felt as if they'd properly defended themselves, because honestly, now that I've heard more information from both sides, side O had more of a side to this story than I'd ever originally given them credit for. And I also hope that side O got to defend themselves enough so as to never feel as if they have to fight back again... as in leaving comments on a side C member's fictionpress.com review page;)

More than anything, I hope that sides C and O let all of this go, and go on with their writing futures, both sides of which I personally guarantee you hold worth and promise. And as for me, what side I've played in this over the months? I'm side H, as in hypocrite, bitching about both at some point in time, then changing the bitch as I learn different. H as in trying to be honest, no matter how much I may or may not fail.

Three- I am a mechanical genius, self-proclaimed. I fixed my washing machine just minutes before the husband was going to go and buy a new one at Home Depot. I researched how my model works, how the water pump works, and I fixed it. Go me.

Four-my brother might have a job. My husband went to his company, told them about my brother and his experience, and they want him to come in and talk to them asap. They think they can use him. Now, if the whole family working with family thing doesn't end up in Jerry Springer hell, and if my brother will prove himself at the interview, then hopefully, on the job, my whole intense worry over my brother being able to keep his home and all he's worked for will be a thing of the past. I, being the eternal skeptic, however, am still trying to think up alternative gameplans B, C, D, E, and F.

I'd list a five, but I'm tired, and I'm also sick of checking my site stats and seeing how many idiots searching for 'Dog the Bounty Hunter Beth Boobs' are hitting the site.

Murphy's Law 8/21/2005

Crap on a wrapper, am I ever experiencing it. Today, my washing machine decided that it didn't want to stop washing cycle after cycle, but that it did want to stop draining the water. Then, my two female dogs, Hyanna Renee and T.C. Wagadoo decided that they'd like to try killing each other. T.C.'s roughly 25 pounds lighter than Hyanna, and Hyanna is naturally much more of a bitch, so by the time Eric and I got them separated, T.C. 's face and neck were full of puncture marks. Meanwhile, I have the two separated, and I have no idea why this happened, or how to keep it from happening again.

Oh, and to the ex-boyfriend who found me online and emailed me, I'd like to answer you here rather than in your email:

1. You weren't a very good boyfriend when I was with you, so the fact that you've emailed me such a suggestive message makes me cringe rather than be flattered. Sorry. I have no desire to meet up with you again. You sucked enough then for me to even be curious about how much you suck now.

2. Furthermore, if you'd really looked at my website, you'd see that I have a wonderful husband, and despite my thinking Napoleon Dynamite and Oded Fehr are sexy, I have no intentions of straying from the vows I took. Eric is my kindred spirit, and I have you in part to thank for that. Dealing with you made me realize just what I did and didn't want or deserve in a man.

3. We were through, what... 15 years ago? Long time, and thank GOD, no see, other than that six month period where you stalked me after I dumped you. Speaking of that, do you even remember WHY I dumped you? Let me refresh your memory... you hit me, you sonofabitch, and you'd better be incredibly grateful that I walked away the second you did, rather than do what I could've easily done... stay and get even. I wonder how many other women you've hit since then... women who stayed and took it.

4. You were a horrible lover... and you had a baby dick. I could try to be more cruelly elaborate here, but do I really need to?

I think this is a good point at which to just go ahead and stop with the reasons. I've listed more than enough. I don't hate you now, but I do hate that you'd dare to track me down and confess some stupid, undying love for me when you know I'm married, that I am happily married, and that I don't intend not to be anytime soon. Your email didn't once say "I'm sorry I hit you", "I'm so happy you're finally happy", or anything even remotely like that. However, the entire body of your email did give me one loud and clear message... 'I'm sick, I'm obsessing on my past, and I need help'. I hope you get it, and I hope I don't ever hear from you again. You are the only ex I have bad feelings about, and it insults me, as well as blows my mind, that you'd have the nerve to try to come back into my life.

Do me a favor; go on down to the local flea market next weekend and troll the concession stands until you find that special, feather-banged food stamper trollop who'll actually buy your retarded come-on lines and go home with you. And if you dare to track me down physically, don't worry; I won't need Eric to come and defend me... I'll neuter you myself.

Brothers and Sistahs 8/20/05

Well, more than anything the last couple of days, I've been worrying about my brother. He quit his job this last week, and other than about 10 grand in his 401K, he's got a mortgage, car payment, tons of pets to take care of. He's 42, painfully shy, and worrying about just who is going to see his exemplary work history and give him the job and pay he deserves rather than how awkward he may seem at an interview has me biting my nails. I do not want to see him lose so much. And this entire time, I keep going back to being angry at my mother.

The woman is a genius, did so much right as a mother, but for some reason, she ended up making all of her children terrified of being successful. I don't even know why or how; I just know it's so. I've seemed to have conquered this more than my three half-siblings, but then again, my father raised me half of the time. Looking back, I think my brother walked out on his job because he was afraid of doing well at it (he started to freak out when the promotions started, as if it were a bad thing). Don't get me wrong... Albertson's, Inc., and their entire management philosophy I'm convinced is based on excerpts from The Satanic Verses. Still, he could've stayed and beaten them. I really think he could've.

Anyway, he's trying to get something else, and I'm helping him, but that fact that he thinks he needs my help tells me he doesn't see his true strengths. Still, I help. I talked with Eric last night, and I decided to sell two more stories I'd been holding onto... just in case my brother needs the money. I can write more, anyway, and it's not as if the stories I write are masterpieces. I sold two shorts not too long ago, for the money, so these two more will probably make me a hack. Oh, well;)

Fanfiction struggles continue, and I am sorta in the middle. On one side, I have a friend I grew really close to, still feel close to, sworn curses on her enemies with out of support, yet on the flip side, the friends she's having problems with have some valid points that I can't ignore. In other words, there are definite, legitimate, and worthy grievances on both sides. I hurt for my friend, but at the same time, there's alot of truth to what the other side says... alot! It is not a good place to be in, not completely supporting one side out of loyalty. I get that from my father... I can remember screwing up royally as a kid, and rather than have him defend me no matter what, he'd tell me what I'd done right, then ream me for what I'd done wrong. If I'd come to him with a problem, he'd see right through my version and ask me 'Ok, honestly, Paula... what's your fault in this?', and I'd tell him. That spills over now with me. With my brother, for instance. I am not blindly thinking he was completely vicitimized by corporate bullies, but I support him still. And now, with this huge breakup between a group of women I used to enjoy emailing with, I see a similar balance in responsibility. I have had problems with both sides in the past, some big, some little, so this middle position makes me feel like the world's biggest hypocrite. Oh, by the way, nobody's put me in the middle... that's a chair in the room I sat my fat asscheeks down in all by myself.

Anyway, I know it'll all work out. I just hope that not too many bones get broken in the process;)

Final note-any of you emailing furcoveredcatmom@aol.com... if you're from anywhere but the U.S., for some reason, I'm having problems getting your e's. So don't be offended I haven't answered... I'm still trying to figure out what's going on. I had an email pop up today that a Canadian friend sent five days ago!

- Note to the folks who emailed me about this entry... the two people referred to in this rant are two real life friends, friends who rarely even go online, so for the record, if you think you're one of the ones I'm talking about, you're not.  If you think you know who I'm talking about, I guarantee you you don't, LOL! 

More Paula Philosophy-8/18/2005

Inspired by a lifetime of events, recollections of those events, and constant analysis of those events, which tends to change as you learn the facts of life. 

1.  Family- The Walton's, The Cleaver's, the Brady's, and the Huxtables are NOT REAL, and the people who created them are long overdue for a serious bitchslapping!!!!!!  Family, and involvement with family guarantees you love most of the time, but it also usually guarantees you more mental anguish due to more dysfunction than you can throw one of Eddie Haskell's bats at.  But you know what?  That's normal. All families are screwed up in at least some sort of way, but they're supposed to be!!!!! How many times have you learned valuable life lessons from perfect people?  If you live down the street from the Johnsons, whose children are always smartly dressed, polite, dad smokes a pipe while mom wears an apron, goes to church, and is never seen without a feather duster or swiffer in her hands,  the lawn is perfect, the house is always quiet and exemplary in every way shape and form, then you can bet your ass that they're either extraterrestrials, or something so hideously wrong is being hidden under that roof that you'd better make sure you don't even smell the freshly baked cookies Mrs. Johnson brings you, for fear of contagion.  Does the 'functional' family even exist?  God, I hope not!  Don't obsess on why you're not 'functional'... just be grateful you're not.

2.  Friends-these guys are imperfect, too.  Once again, media, Hollywood, every mainstream influential body tends to feed us from the time we're old enough to be able to focus on a TV screen that friends never do their friends wrong.  Once again, schedule me for a mass bitchslapping.  Friends do wrong all the time.  Friends are human, humans are naturally imperfect, therefore via inverse theory, friends are imperfect.  What matters is why they do it, if they mean to do it, and if they try not to do it again. 

For example, I have a couple of friends I've known for a few years now.  They have no idea that I know as much as I do, but time after time, it's come back to me that they've said this thing or that thing about me.  Some of those things are minor, some moderate, some major enough to seriously sting me. Why are they still freinds?  Because I know that they say these things for one or two reasons...a.)  That's just their nature.  One in particular talks negatively about everyone to me. I have literally timed how long she could go before saying something nice about someone, her comments are usually so full of complaints.  Everyone from her husband to her closest friends, to her family, I know every single perceived fault they have, because she's told me... several times.  I would be a flippin' idiot to think I'm not the same topic of the same complaints over and over again, and by this point, you're probably wondering why I even consider them a friend.  I consider them a friend because, despite the constant pointing out of flaws in the people around her, she will also be there for you in a heartbeat.  She can be funny, talk about many other things without complaint, and hey, she's honest.  She's not trying to pretend to be someone she's not.  That gets major kudos in my book.

b.) When a friend bitches about you, maybe there's some truth to it.  I have a friend who I have known for awhile now, and who said some horrible things about me to another close friend of hers, regarding something I used to do for her, but don't do anymore.  This hurt tremendously when I first found out, but at the same time, if I didn't admit that there was some kind of truth to what she was saying, I'd be doing myself and her more harm than good.  This is a more 'iffy' kind of friendship thing to deal with than example a.  On one hand, if I'm screwing up in some way with a friend, then that friend has every right to confide in someone else when what I've done bothers her. But on the other hand, it still, for lack of better terminology, sucks to know that a friendship you had a certain idea about in your mind isn't really the accurate idea.  I still have to work on this, practice what I preach, especially with the latter friend.  I'm trying, though! 

Anyway, when it comes to friendship, you can't expect a friend to be perfect.  You can't expect he or she to never fail you, because they will, and you will fail them.  And when that inevitably occurs, you have to ask yourself a few questions... 'Why did they fail you?  Did they do it out of spite, imperfection, downright cruelty, or complete inability to really care about anyone but themselves?'.  Furthermore, ask yourself what their good qualities are, why you are drawn to them, what they've done for you compared to what they've not done when they could've or should've.  Ask yourself if this is an equal exchange.  Are they around you only when you tell them what they want to hear, or do they stay around even when you disagree, or does that description more accurately fit you?  If you fight, do you listen?  Do they listen?  Are you ignored, or do you ignore them?  In other words, are you both giving and taking enough for both sides to feel respected?  If you can answer all these questions honestly, you'll know who the real friends are, and who to continue friendship with.

Well, I'm out of time.  Cats need food, dogs need walking, and I'm missing Judge Mathis.  Paula philosophy, as dorky as it is, will continue some other time:)

Bitching, Babes and Boys  8/16/05

I have alot to rant about today.  First, a previous entry about a certain person upset that certain person, understandably, and though that wasn't my intention, though I hate upsetting people (believe it or not!), I'm not removing the entry.  In fact, there are several entries I look back at and want to remove, but if I did that, I think I'd end up betraying the entire reason I started this journal.  So, the post stays, but I'm willing to accept the consequences.

Secondly, I have decided to go down to Tijuana and pay some guy named Dr. Pancho to remove my uterus and boobs, then slap a dick on me, because I’m tired of being female, and because Dr. Pancho would be the only affordable option, since I don’t think insurance covers this kind of thing.  I am tired of both being a woman and everything hanging out with other women involves.  I am tired of how I behave as a result of being a woman… the gossip, the politics, the freaking over weight gain, the hormonal surges of crying when that damned Army commercial featuring the father telling his son about how proud he is of him since he came home from serving our great country (his whole ‘You’ve done two things since you came back that I’ve never seen you do, at least together.  You shook my hand, and you looked me in the eye… where’d that come from?’  Fade in the ‘U.S. Army’ logo, etc.  Oh, holy muffinfluff, someone please hug me right now and tell me you love me!)…  I am so beyond tired, I am damned near willing to just go ahead and surgically change myself into a man.  I’ll be a gay man, but at least I’ll burst into tears unexpectedly because it’s fashionable, not hormonal.

Men never get mad at me for being me.  Women do… all the time.  Men tell me about a problem they’re having with other men and tend to just either shrug it off or get into a testosterone fight, usually lasting about 30 minutes total before everyone involved grunts sufficiently and shrugs it off.  Women get their feelings hurt, and they don’t forget, including me.  An offense hits us much more deeply, and we tend to fight back on a payment plan, rather than paying the cash up front.  Women will always compare themselves to other women, especially a successful other woman.  Men will look at another man’s success and do the whole high-five thing, bonding and attaching to the successful one, hanging out with him as much as possible in hopes of scoring some of the hot chick and premium beer perks so often bestowed upon the entourage.

Basically, women require a dance of sorts in order to co-exist with them.  Men, however, will hand you a beer and invite you over on football night just for letting out one 10.0 rated fart. 

I want a dick… not because of what I could do with it (the possibilities could be endless, I’m sure), but because of what I won’t do with it.

Finally, and this just happened about two hours ago, my brother came over and told me he was now unemployed.  Sigh-with-a-tinge-of-huge-loogy-at-the-end.  He tells me he was fired, but when he expanded on what actually happened, it's more like the goober lost his mind and walked out.  I both want to hug and strangle him at the same time, for both having the balls to stand up to the kinds of idiots who run Albertson's, and for not covering his ass first before he did it.  They sent him to the loony bin once, so I suppose I'm leaning towards hugging him now for being strong enough to walk out.  I liken this to the ever-abused spouse who finally takes that last piece of shit with a huge dose of reality and gets the hell out of Dodge.    Thank God for 401K at least.  It'll buy him time to find something else.  Blessings in disguise... the keyword here being disguise!

I could go on, but another Army commercial came on.  I need a moment.

Ok, I'm a liberal, and I hate Tempurpedic!  Aug. 5, 2005

Ugh. Ugh, ugh, and ugh again, and hey, here's one more Ugh, just 'cause I feel so much like it.

Memory foam sucks. To all you consumers, if you ever see one of those infomercials, preaching the brilliance of NASA created spongy sleeping surfaces, click to the next channel. I don't care if you end up watching infomercials about amazing juicers, stain cleaners, or some horribly put together late night Cinemax movie starring Sybil Danning... just don't let those damned memory foam idiots convince you that their mattress is better. It isn't. I shelled out the bucks, slept on it's gooey surface, and I still wake up feeling as if I took a ten minute nap that took 8 hours to complete. The thing feels like it's soaked with snot, and in the long run, I think that takes overwhelming precedence over whether or not a wine glass will tumble over when you jump on the snot foam. I can't tell you the last time I had a fully restorative night's sleep, and I have a feeling that I'm not in the minority when it comes to who the makers of my newest, high dollar booger texture mattress aim their marketing strategy towards.

I am once again seriously considering therapy. I watched Napoleon Dynamite again, and I find the lead character/actor who plays him sexy. I feel the need to stand up in front of a large group of equally screwed people and announce this out loud. I won't feel any less messed up, but at least I won't feel alone. Jesus, I'm 36 years old, and thinking that a guy who wears bad t-shirts, lives in Idaho, has Brilloesque hair and walks dorkily around saying things like 'I wish you'd get out of my life and shut up' and 'my lips hurt really bad' is sexy... DAMN! I felt guilty enough looking twice at Oded Fehr. This, however, is nothing less than inexcusable;) On a lighter note, I told my husband my thoughts, and he gave me that look, ending finally with a 'Yeah, don't blame you. I'm kinda hot for LaFawndah myself.' If you don't know what I'm talking about, watch the movie.

Speaking of the dh, I FINALLY talked him, the staunch Republican, into watching Farenheit 911. Ya'll have no idea how much this took. Eric would tell you, with me not around, that he knows all he needs to know about our government, our politics, our president, and our patriotic duty. I, however, will tell you that Eric doesn't know crap. I love my husband, but he reminds me of the baby birds, not yet blessed with feathers, who sits in his nest and waits for the parent bird to arrive and regurgitate his food into his throat. Ok, in this case, the parent bird is Eric's late night radio programs he listens to while driving his truck, his conservative programs, and the food is fed to the brain rather than the gut, but still, the analogy works, I think.

It took forever to explain to him that Micheal Moore wasn't trashing our dedicated soldiers, not downing them for sacrificing their time, their energy, and sometimes and most unfortunately, their lives, but the government who lied to our soldiers before sending them to Iraq for such sacrifice. If anything, Moore paid homage to the very people in our society that we tend to ignore, if not look down on. The people who tend to enlist from the poorest of our society, and throw their bodies in between our enemy and ourselves, and to paraphrase Micheal Moore: "All they ask in return is that we don't ask them to give their lives unless it's absolutely necessary"

Freedom is necessary...

Oil isn't.

I think Eric, though he won't yet admit it, may finally be thinking about that.

Vote for Pedro!!!!! Chick Chicks, and Fanfiction, yet again!  July 30, 2005

Ok, it's been awhile, so I suppose I'd better catch up a bit.

First of all, finally saw Napoleon Dynamite. I hate to admit it, but it was so quirky, so imperfect yet perfect, I find myself walking around saying catchphrases in my head such as 'Why don't you go eat a decroted piece of crap?' or 'Tina, come and get some ham!'. I hear the makers and stars of this film were all BYU film school students... I usually grab the holy water and crucifix when anything even remotely related to Mormons produces itself (ok, I admit I did have the Donny and Marie dolls in the 70's), but in this case, I think this group of young up and comers, Mormon or not, really were onto something. The movie grew on me as I watched it, as did the geeky yet lovable Napoleon. Anyway, good job, and good movie!

Secondly, my friend is giving me the silent treatment. I don't know how to describe the situation that brought this about accurately except to say it's a result of her being a 'chick' chick, and me not being one. See, I like being alone most of the time. I like shopping alone, sitting at home alone, going to the bathroom alone, and all those other alone things that really feminine women don't always like to do alone. Anyway, this friend doesn't like to do things alone most of the time. She likes to shop with a friend, go to lunch with friends, etc. And because of this basic difference in our psyches, there tends to be this cycle of problems when we do get together. Basically, if I accept one invitation to go and do one thing with her, in my mind, it means I'm agreeing to go to this one thing, not a myriad of others throughout the week. In her mind, though, it means that if I go to one thing, I'm more apt to go to other things with her. Saying yes to going shopping one day usually opens itself to more invitations to go with her to this place the next day, and that place the day after that. It's not her fault for wanting company as often as possible, but it's not my fault for not wanting the same thing, either. As I said, when I go with her one place, she wants me to go to other places with her, and when I don't say yes to too many of these invitations, a little silent spell like this usually happens. I don't know if she thinks I just don't like her, if she thinks I'm nuts, or whatever reason might be going through her head, but the simple truth is this.... I am not a shopper, I'm not a chick kind of chick, I have way too many animals and way too many responsibilities here to afford myself the luxury of doing girlfriend stuff every day, pure and simple. It's not the lifestyle most women prefer, but it's my lifestyle, and though I can see why some people get angry with me because of it, I wish that they'd understand it more than they do.   I also need to add here that this friend is a good person, salt of the earth, generous in so many ways, so I sometimes feel as if I'm nitpicking when bringing up this topic.

Thirdly, and somehow I always end up back at this subject, fanfiction continues to be a subject in my life, no matter how hard I try to get away from it. My good friend in fanfiction had some sort of blowup with some of her other good friends in fanfiction. First of all, I have no idea what the details of this argument are, and I don't really want to know. She's not offering the details, and I'm not really asking.

All I know is that these women used to be a good strong group, supportive of each other and banding together when one of them was down. I don't know what caused the breakup, but even though my initial instinct was to get angry, too, really more angry than I should've, I've thought about it a bit, and now I just think it's sad. It's sad because I won't ever get to read these group emails from all of them anymore, where we all laugh our butts off over this thing or that thing. It's not so much that I personally hurt, because frankly, I haven't been around enough to really get involved enough to get hurt, but I hurt for a friend who's lost friends. With all due respect, I'm not an idiot. I know that there is probably fault on both sides here; there almost always is, no matter how good an argument either party has... it's just a bitch to see alliances come to an end, you know? I'm also hopeful that neither side will resort to anything childish in an attempt to hurt the other. I would be shockingly disappointed if that happened. As far as I know, so far, it hasn't, and I hope it stays that way. If these were all guys, they'd have probably started to drink, then got into a clumsy wrestling match when the liquid courage was at a certain level, then worked it out and gotten even drunker together afterwards, LOL!!!!! Women are different, though, so I can't hope for that kind of resolution. All I can do is crack open my own beer and try not to think about it.

It just never ceases to amaze me how much of a mystery women are. Men, I've pretty much got figured out, I think. But me and my own kind... I'll don't think I'll ever understand it!

Saturday mornings should be way better than this

I feel 'icky' today, didn't sleep well, and I'm tired, even though I just woke up.  Oh, little note here; talked to my friend (from the entry just before the scam letter entry) on the phone last night.  She and her 'best' friend are fighting, and all of a sudden, I'm getting tons of attention again.  I don't know about other people, but this reminds me so much of the oft-resorted-to 'rebound' thing that happens with dating couples.  Anyway, I was nice, kept the conversation short, and didn't get too involved in the argument she's having with her buddy.  It's the kiss of death to get in the middle of this kind of thing, and frankly, I don't feel like putting on lipstick.

Short entry today... but before I end it, if those of you reading could send out a little extra vibe, prayer, energy to the folks in Florida.  My good friend and Catbroad Jac lives there, and she really doesn't need to go through another bout of weather like she had last year.

Ok, back to feeling icky.  I'm hoping some home improvement TV will alleviate it, get me off my butt and out working on something.

Talk about bad timing!

Checked my mail this morning, and there's this 'Nigerian Scam' letter there, only with a twist this time.  Needless to say, it pissed me off, and I had to reply, which you'll see below:

In a message dated 7/8/2005 6:42:42 AM Central Standard Time, samad_n73@yahoo.de writes:

Dear Sir,
RE: I NEED YOUR HELP
I am compelled to contact you with the hope that you will be of a kind
assistance to me.
Let me briefly introduce my self to you for the avoidance of doubt and
record purposes.My name is Nabil Samad. I am an Iraqi citizen and I studied
engineering in Howard University in Washington DC. After my studies in US,
I was lured home by the Government of Sadam Hussein to serve in the Iraq
Ministry of Petroleum and Mineral Resources.
You may not understand me very well, but that I am alive today is out of
Divine Intervention from God. Some of my colleagues were not as lucky, as
they were sent to their early graves on spurious charges and allegations. I
only spent few years in prisons before the timely invasion of the
Americans.
Meanwhile, I am writing you now because I am in a desperate need for help.
The increasing violence of insurgent attacks which is targeted at my ethnic
stock for supporting the US invasion has claimed the lives of my Friends,
close relations and family members and I do not know who is next and the
insurgents do not give notice when next they will attack and kill their
helpless victims.
I am therefore looking for a resource person, who is honest, trustworthy
and reliable to help me take custody and invest some funds on my behalf.
This Fund is in excess of USD 30 Million and was legally earned through
personal hard work from the Petroleum sector on contract transactions in
the Kurdish Region.
With the impending invasion of the US forces, a UN diplomatic Agent
supervising the UN/Iraqi oil for food program assisted me to move this fund
to Europe under Diplomatic cover as family treasures. The fund has been in
safekeeping with a Fiduciary/ Security company in one of the European
cities and is held as personal belongings and Family Treasures in Three
Sealed Trunk boxes with the content of the boxes unknown to the security
company.
As the violent situation here does not seem to abate, and with the
increasing daily suicide attacks targeting and Killing my people, I cannot
afford to leave this fund in the hands of the Security Company. I need your
urgent help before it is too late, as I can not travel out of Iraq now.I
want to request you, please to move in on my behalf to receive the
consignment from the company for investment purposes preferably in real
estate, stocks or bonds, pending when I can leave Iraq with my family to
settle in your country.
For your information, there is no risk involved in offering any assistance
to me. All I need to do is to issue you with a Power of Attorney to receive
the consignment from the security company as my agent, family Attorney or
friend. There is a legal provision in the deposit certificate, which
indicate that my appointed representative will receive the consignment on
my behalf as my next of kin or attorney, if I am incapacitated.
For your investment assistance and help to retrieve this consignment on my
behalf, I am willing to offer you 25% of the total sum.
Please indicate your interest to help me as urgent as possible by email or
you may contact me on my satellite telephone no: for further discussion. 
Looking forward to your response and co-operation.
Best Regards,
Nabil Samad.
Email: samad_n73@yahoo.de

Dearest Nabil,

It is most wonderful to hear from a fellow Iraqi citizen, much less one who studied at Howard University, as I also did.  I received my Masters in Prehistoric Latch Hook Rugging, and a doctorate in Medieval Dermatology, in 1987 and '89, respectively.  In what year did you graduate?  And did you take advantage of the Hussein Grant as I did?  Stupid Infidels, HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!

Though I take deep offense to your callous mention of my mentor and former lover, Saddam, I must put such personal emotions aside and consider your offer, after which consideration, I am compelled to offer my services to you regarding the above proposition. 

I fully offer to you my willingness to receive Power of Attorney over your affairs, and I am most honored and thankful to receive a 25% commission for my willingness.  You see, my son has just received word that he has been accepted into Bin Laden University (Go Dune Dogs!), and the desert bunker dormitory costs alone are far too high for me to afford.  I simply do not own the number of goats they require.  It is a sign from Allah, dearest new friend and fellow Alumni, that I hear from you now. 

Forgive me for digressing.  Please allow me to give you further contact information so that we may have further contact:

Mr. Uderfay Al Amabajabayabbadabbado Al Jolson Al Abib Al Berkowitz Sinclaire

Al Quaida by the Creek Assisted Living Facility

666 Hezbollah Drive, #911

1-800-382-5968

I anticipate with great eagerness your prompt reply,

Udie Pooh

P.S.- Go to hell, you heartless opportunistic parasite.

July 5, 2005

Ok, this is the last time I put this entry up, and this time, I’m not removing it.  I put this up a few days ago, and got a few emails from friends, freaking in concern that they were the subject of this entry, so I removed it.  Two days later, I put it back up when those same friends said I should, then new emails come from friends, asking if I’m mad at them, so I removed it yet again.  Well, now everyone says I should put it back up, so I am, and for future reference, I’m not telling just who the person is!;)  If you think it’s you, it’s probably not, so try not to worry about it.  After all, this is my rant page, right?

I can't do it anymore. Just can't. What 'it' is, I have to be vague about.

I have a friend, a good friend, and to sum it up in as vague a nutshell as I can, she idolizes a person I happen to know for a fact has trashed the hell out of her (to me, personally! Amongst others.) until 'not trashing' her was the 'hip' thing to do, until the hip thing to do was to finally be nice to my friend.. This person brought my friend to tears in the past, yet when she suddenly ups herself and decides to give my friend long-due respect, all is forgotten between the two. See, the problem is that I can't forget, and I get pissed off when I remember. My friend sees this person not just as a friend now, but a best friend, and yeah, I can be jealous, but at the same time, don't let my jealousy outweigh my basic and honest good reason to be pissed off at an alliance between one good friend I've always defended with a person I've had to step in and defend her over in the past. There is so much burden to knowledge. Whoever said ignorance is bliss had it beyond right.

You know, who am I to judge? Maybe this person really has seen the light. Maybe they finally do realize that my friend, the one they once dogged the crap out of to me, was entirely not deserving of anything but devotion. Maybe I should just step aside and give a little bit of benefit of doubt in this case, but it's just hard to.

I sit on a secret. I sit on knowing just how much of an evil person one has been to one, and I can't say anything. Saying something will only end up with feelings getting hurt, and denial continuing to take the forefront, in which I get branded the evildoer for saying anything. So, I stay quiet. I watch a friend continue to look up to people who should be the ones doing the looking up, and I just want to walk away. Honestly? I think I've already started walking away. I just can't seem to stop looking back.

I just know that I can't keep this up. I have other friends, and there aren't nearly the kinds of politics involved. I am not listened to, not that what I have to say is genius, but it's getting insulting, and old, to see loyalty surpassed time and time again. And I find the most insulting just who I am continually surpassed in friendship for. I know this is all cryptic, but if I were any less puzzling, I'd hurt more feelings than I probably already have.

Just a few observations in the guise of questions I've had as of late. Paula Philosophy, so to speak.

1. Why is Tony Little such a dork, and why in the hell did Geico decide to actually PAY him to be so annoying in one of their commercials? The man is a walking steroidal (yeah, probably not a word) testiment to dorkdom ( I officially declare this a word if it isn't already). The long haired Chippendale perm has been over even when it was IN style, his muscles I can guarantee you can in no way be attributed to his Gazelle piece of crap workout machine, and 'You can doooooooo it' was way funnier when Rob Schnieder uttered the line, and even then, it wasn't that funny. Oh, and Geico, if you're going to hire anyone to be in your 'I just saved a bundle by switching to Geico' commercials, make sure it's a guy who can actually look AT the camera and not the cue cards. Steroids... just say no. I think the whole world would've been better off if Mr. Ogilve Home Perm Little had just stuck with ripping off his breakaway pants on stage while horny middle aged women shoved ones in his g-string.

2. Whatever happened to actually walking up to a door once you've driven up to a house to pick someone up? Why is it no longer a rule that you just don't drive up and honk your horn over and over again, regardless of the time of day, when you're stopping by someone's house? I have an idiot neighbor who has an idiot friend who drives up at 7 in the morning, honks his horn some ten times in succession while he sits back in his twin cab Ford, waiting for aforementioned idiot neighbor to come out. And idiot neighbor never seems to figure out that when that first honk happens, she should stick her idiot head out of her idiot door to let aforementioned idiot friend know that she's on her way. Are IQ's going down due to ozone depletion or something? Or is the overabundance of functioning microwaves in the U.S. causing some sort of frontal lobe trauma?

3. Why do some people continue to ask their friends for honest opinions when it is painfully and obviously clear that they want anything but, and when they know an honest answer is going to do nothing but put everyone on the emotional hot seat? Odds are, if someone says 'Tell me, honestly....', they already know the answer, and don't want to hear it.

4. What in the hell happened to Christian Slater's career? At one point, I was convinced he was slated (pardon the pun) to be the next Jack Nicholson, then the next thing you know, he's doing B horror movies my dyslexic 6 year old niece could edit better.

5. While we're on the topic of actors, what is the big deal about Meg Ryan? First of all, it's hard to get past her incredibly small teeth and huge gums when she talks, and secondly, every movie I've ever seen her in, she's played not the character, but Meg Ryan. She's Meg Ryan in every movie. Even the fake orgasm scene from 'When Harry Met Sally' is overrated, in my opinion.

6. Is there some unwritten hiring practice in animal shelters across our great state of Texas requiring that if you're a female Animal Control officer, you must wear Wranglers, a shorter version of a Billy Ray Cyrus hairdo, and listen to nothing but Melissa Etheridge and K.D. Lang?

7. Why do most NASCAR fanatics live in doublewides and lack at least one tooth?

8. Why do I always get strange looks from the cashier when I buy cat food, corn oil, and incense?

9. Why is it that a teenager's age in years lies in nearly direct relation to the volume number, times two, that they like to keep their car stereo volume button set at, subwoofer and all? And why are they so absolutely convinced that those of us living around them desperately need to experience their taste in music?

10. What in hell is up with all these baby names new mothers are picking for their children the last few years? If it's not a new twist on an old name, such as Antwan instead of Antoine, Eriq instead of Eric, Amie instead of Amy, or Khristina instead of Christina, it's some extremely stupid 'original' name like (and I'm not picking out any particular race or culture here. All colors, cultures, etc., seem to be doing this) Lashaniqua, Blade Dirkson, Essence Dawn, or Chance Excalibur. Seems like kids today are lucky if their name doesn't remind people of either a Spike Lee movie or Romance Novel. Whatever happened to Scott, John, Erin, Laura, etc.? God, I miss them!

11. Who decided that male local news anchors all had to have that same helmet hairdo? I shouldn't complain... if they weren't around, Aquanet and Just for Men would've gone bankrupt by now.

12. Why are local TV commercials for accident and injury attorneys always SO BAD???? If I was guaranteed to get away with it, I would abduct and castrate both Jim Adler and Brian Loncar in a friggin' heartbeat. In fact, if I did so, I'd expect a parade thrown in my honor, complete with ticker tape. Is it too much to ask that a person smart enough to get a law degree should also be smart enough to somewhat be able to actually act in his commercial rather than monotonously recite lines like 'I"m the Texas Hammer, and I'll get you the money you have coming to you', etc? Jeez, they're lawyers! Aren't they SUPPOSED to be dramatic?

Ok, enough for now. I always have plenty to bitch about, but my bitch buzz at the moment is bordering on drunkenness.

Been awhile, but a lot’s happened. 

Mainly, genetics.

I am a half-sibling, only technically.  I have three siblings, two brothers and a sister I loved completely, and the fact that we share only one parent doesn’t tend to mean a whole hell of a lot.

My sibling’s are all older than myself, their births a result of my mother’s first marriage right out of high school to their father, a firefighter who was killed off duty in a motorcycle accident.  My mother then met my father, they married, I was born, they divorced, etc., etc.  It was really kind of romantic when you think about it after hearing a bit more detail.  See, apparently, my father was due to propose to his debutante girlfriend.  He was a law student at the University of Texas, his soon-to-be a sorority girl with privileged parents who couldn’t wait for the official word that their daughter was betrothed to a future attorney. 

I guess Dad had some worries over the situation.  He must’ve… because when he was supposed to go home and spend time with his family and his girlfriend’s family for the holidays, Dad stayed in Austin and went to a Christmas party his friend Butch had talked him into.

He met a girl there, a girl he flipped over and chucked everything for, and pissed everyone else off for… a young woman named Dorothy, who was widowed in her early twenties… a widow with three extremely young children.  Stories tell me that on the eve of their marriage, my Dad’s family formed a 60’s ‘intervention’, cornering my father in a room and saying every possible thing they could to try to talk him out of ‘doing this to himself’. 

Didn’t work, and I was born.

Anyway, back to genetics.

I found out years later that my siblings’ father had some ‘problems’.  I learned that he was abusive, unstable, and hospitalized more than once for psychiatric problems.  He had chemical dependencies, violent tendencies, and if I could think of something else true that rhymed with ‘endencies’, I’d be honest and put it here as well, but that’s all I know.

I know that some of these things are genetic now.  I know because my sister was an annoyance for years, an anomaly I never understood, a personality I loved but never really trusted, and someone I am just now getting to feel comfortable with now that she’s been diagnosed and successfully starting therapy for diagnosed bipolar disorder, the most severe form of the disease one can have. 

And I know now because this Monday, I had to take my brother to Timberlawn psychiatric center after seeing in him the classic textbook symptoms of major depression.  He, like me, is afraid he’ll be branded like his sister, a nutcase, a loony, a psycho, and frankly, too much of this world tends to hear about someone’s stay at a mental rehabilitation center and assume just as much.  Hell, I did with my sister Donna when she first went in for treatment.

Instead of seeing someone’s complete strength in knowing they need help and seeking it, I saw flaw.  Instead of seeing an overwhelming amount of bravery in admitting the soul needed help restoring itself, I saw weakness. 

With my brother, I’ve learned.  I’ve learned a lot… about others, and about myself. 

It’s so unfair, so funny, so absolutely tragic that, in this world, when someone suffers a wound to a limb, an organ, gets a bug, gets a fever… the treatment is widespread, the insurance covers it all, and the people around the person are supportive and sympathetic.  Yet when the mind gets the same kind of nick or cut and needs the same kind of help healing, the stigma attached to going to the right kind of doctor and seeking healing makes one feel almost as if they’re committing some crime.

My brother’s boss, when first told by my brother that he was taking a leave to go into psychiatric therapy for depression, was anything but sympathetic.  He was an ass who yelled, amongst other things ‘What’s wrong with you?’ before hanging the phone up in disgust.  There’s a little thing called the Americans with Disabilities Act, and if you ask me, in this case, it was violated.

So, now my brother is going to therapy every day, healing himself, looking better and better each time a session is over, healing before my eyes, and to my extreme pleasure, yet the one thing still preventing his recovery from being full can all be chalked up to one asshole of a non-supportive boss who more than likely is going to tell all my brother’s co-worker’s that ‘he’s a nut’ and is going to treat him less than civilly when he returns to work.  In fact, the rumor mill tells us that he’s also saying that my brother is faking his illness.  When I heard this, I lost it.  Lost it not just for my brother, but in that very moment, it truly dawned on me just how hard this world can be for those with mental challenges, moreso, those who recognize and want to work on those challenges.  They’re screwed , in way too many cases.

Don’t know what all I can do about it, but in this case, what’ll make me personally feel better in the immediate time frame is to address this little part of this rant to my brother’s boss:

Mr. Mark Drake,

Hiya, and that’s about as friendly as I’m going to get.

Mr. Drake, I realize that you live in a world of retail rather than reality.  I also realize that you seem to value the bonus rather than the employees who help you achieve it.  I fully and with pity try to grant you some sort of leeway because of this, but knowing my brother as long, and as thoroughly as I do, the kind of slack you’re going to get in my eyes is about as loose as the recently tucked skin on Joan Rivers’ ‘lifted’ brow. 

Mr. Drake, life is not about specials, inventory, cost-control, pathetically retarded employee pep rallies in which everyone but the ones with the average IQ’s and above fall for it.  Life is not about how well your store does.  Life is about what kind of man you are, how you live your life, and who you do right by. 

What that means in this case, Mr. Drake, is that when an employee obviously has a problem, a problem he’s come to you about before, asking for time off and just an ounce of compassion in which he can try to heal himself, that means you work with him, give him his earned vacation time, and you know, if you’re really a man, you’ll even call him while he’s off to see if he’s doing ok.  Like I said, that’s IF you’re a real man.  If you’re a commercial sheep who thinks he’s really a herder, then you’ll take that same initial employees phone call, then proceed to guffaw and ask him what’s wrong with him, no hint of understanding or support, then slam the phone receiver down.  Baaaaaaaaaa, Mr. Drake.  If I had an alfalfa stick right now, I’d shove it up your ass.  Screw your bonus.

Let me tell you something else, Mr. Mark Drake, and try to listen whilst you try to comb that ever balding patch on your egotistic cranium over and convince yourself that you’re fooling us all into thinking you’re not middle-aged and beyond insecure…. If you think my brother is faking his depression just to escape work, then maybe you should consider this;  my brother is paying 20 dollars out of pocket a day co-pay to seek therapy, and his paychecks are 60 percent the normal amount he’d get paid.  In other words, he is PAYING to get better, taking a loss so that he can get better and come back to work, but more importantly, feel better about life in general.  If you can find the actual profit in this scam, let me know, and I’ll print a retraction, along with a nude picture of me wearing nothing but Revlon red lipstick on my lips and nipples, you close-minded idiot. 

Ok, I’m done.

Anyway, like Mr. Drake, I used to be a shit when it came to those who had the less visible, but just as real health concerns.  I know different now.  I really know different.  I owe not just an apology to my sister, but I owe one to so, so many people.  I also know now that our families don’t just determine our eye color, our hair color, what our tone of skin will be, how big our boobs are, or how big our butts get.  Our brains receive the same kind of genetic imprint that our parents and their parents had.  It’s only what we do about it that presents us with real choice.

My brother and sister chose wisely.  They’re breaking the chain, and I am so proud.  So very, very proud.

As much as I try to leave it, they keep pullin’ me back in, dammit.

Yes, I am once again referring to fanfiction, and the writer I have psuedo-quasi-et.al dubbed the ‘Queen of Little Yellow Bus Smut’.

Ok, let me start off by saying I like smut in writing sometimes… Oh Gods, Goddesses, Sirens, Muses, Whoever- I can sometimes LOVE smut…IF it’s good.  Unfortunately, most of the time, it isn’t.  It’s just hard to catch the essence of sex in words.  It really is, and even those who are the best at it don’t ever really quite catch it; they’re good because they’ve been able to spark something in their reader’s mind that lends memory to the paragraphs.  It’s kind of like Frankenstein’s Monster… anyone can sew cadaver parts together, make a corpse look like a human being’s supposed to look, but it’s an outside force that gives it life.  Lightning and the reader are the ones you really have to count on in respective situations.  For me, it’s when a writer writes the usual smut scene but adds the tiniest detail that makes a scene more real for me.  Seriously, how many times and how many ways can you say that two people ‘join’, ‘penetrate’, ‘collapse in an exhausted heap of sexual release’, ad nauseum?  We all know how that happens, at least most of us.  If you don’t understand me, you seriously need to close this window and go straight to Disney.com.

Like I said, I like smut writing sometimes… IF it’s good, if it’s surrounded by plot tension, if it’s a result of good writing, if it’s a result of two well-developed characters I’ve had at least some background to read about before hitting the lovemaking chapters.  However, if it involves shallow characters who only just met, then jump into sticking fingers into orifices and pulling out the treasure chest of blow up apparatus and other varied sex toys, during which the lovers (and in the kind of love scenes I hate, there are MANY lovers sometimes, the whole several- men-on-one girl, girls-on-one man, etc. gang bang kind of stuff)  scream out that their impending orgasm is due, then you lose my interest.  Not because I’m a prude.  Not because that kind of sex I feel is entirely damned by God, or that any kind of sex is condemned by God (short of sex with children or animals!) but because the writer simply just sucks at making any kind of sex sound original.  That’s all.  Cumming and Cock in a story are usually proof that a writer is just paying way too much for his or her Hustler subscription.

Anyway, back to what made me write this. I was watching cable access here, and there was a woman bitching about pornography on one of these local, low-budget programs while wearing a black Lycra, low-cut bustier…reminded me of something that happened on a fanfiction message board I used to go to frequently awhile ago. It’s a site and message board dedicated to actor Oded Fehr and the characters he’s played.  Most of the women who went to the site found their fantasy in Oded’s characters, not in Oded himself.  The man in real life is married and has a young son… anyone who can’t separate the two, respect the difference, well… I’d pray for you if I thought it’d help.

On this message board, there existed a woman who was so in love with the actor whose characters we all loved, that she would spend hours creating these Photoshop pictures of  him, one of which made me, who’s seen damned near everything, get nauseous.  She took a picture of the actor, cut the head off, and pasted it on some gay magazine’s nude, buff, and crookedly erect ‘ness’. 

Now, any buff and naked man sprawled across hay (or whatever it was in the background; I couldn’t stop gawking at the stiffy), wouldn’t normally make me nauseous.  Here’s what did-at the same time this woman was posting this picture online, she was also back on the Oded Fehr message board, bitching about how she’d put his name into a search engine and come up with nothing but porn links.  She went on to insist that we all join her in this completely stupid campaign aimed at stopping those who would ‘cheapen’ the image of Oded Fehr… to shoot them down for their pornographic portrayals of the man she loved.  My first thought was ‘When do I get to turn the gun on you?’

So, my point is… Smut…usually bad, sometimes good, usually hypocritical, but always entertaining in one way or another.

When the past is a good thing-

I look back at my life and I think more of the good times than the bad. I'm picky, though, and those good times are less grabbable than the more unpleasant lost-in-myself ones. I guess that's what makes the good times more like gems.

Anyway- I got one of those good time treats just recently.

Robert E. Lee Elementary School and Alan

I always liked being around boys far more than girls. I wasn't a girly girl, still am not, and I always found myself relating more with the male population than the female. Alan was my first real best friend, first 'boyfriend' (as much as an elementary girl can have a boyfriend), first alot of things. I had many friends back in da day at Robert E. Lee, but Alan was the one I had cut down joke contests with, sat with at lunch religiously, hung out with after school, and did just about everything with. He knew me, faults and all, and accepted me a hundred percent, and I did the same with him... easily. One of the main reasons I actually cried (something I still don't do easily) when I had to move to Longview, Texas during the summer before seventh grade started is because I knew I wouldn't see Alan again. I went on to have friends in Jr. High, High School, College, and beyond, but Alan was one of those eternally cool influences you just don't forget.

He just rocked.

Yet again, anyway- Thanks to the internet, I found Alan again awhile ago. Additional treat-he remembered me as well as I remember him:) Even bigger treat-he's the same Alan in so many ways. Same sense of humor, same wit, even looks the same, just older. Hearing he's doing well and that Life is treating him well is icing on the cake.

You know, sometimes you meet up again with people from your past, and many of those times, it disappoints, proving that annoying adage 'You can never go back home again'. Yeah? Well, sometimes you can go home again. Sometimes, home may have changed a bit, but it still feels like home. So there, ya adage quoting bastards;)

On another note-I hate to go back to harping on Mr. Jerry Vale Mullet/ Dog the Bounty Hunter, but I went to his official website for the first time yesterday, and HOLY HELL ON A CRUTCH...

The graphics are great, I'll give them that, but he's paying someone to keep his website going. Someone is getting money in return for producing a professional website; so why is the writing so messed up? I read the bios of the 'Dog Posse', and was amused yet annoyed to read 'he shares a close relationship with both his parent' and 'and considers him, without a doubt, to the world's best bounty hunter.'

I know I have a world of errors on my site, but hey, mine is a personal web page. Dog is paying someone to get it right, and they ain't getting it right. These aren't huge errors, either, but hey, they accent the whole trailer park image, something I don't think the Dog Chapman family needs. Soooooooo, I in my nitpicking emailed them, citing the errors and suggesting they correct them, something I'd never normally do. I wonder if I'm going to get a reply at all, and if so, what it'll say. I haven't gotten a response yet, but that may be explainable... has Nascar been on the last couple of days? Any Jerry Springer specials?

Sometimes on a lazy Saturday morning, a person alternates between taking deep drags of the morning ‘rette and sipping her coffee, then suddenly decides to reach deep inside herself for a moment and cast denial aside in hopes of seeing who she really is.  Don’t know about you, but when I do that, I usually end up screaming, partially pissing my pants, and collapsing in a surrendered puddle on my cat-hair covered floor.

Nancy Grace annoys be beyond comprehension, by the way.  Yeah, blah, ok, she was a top notch prosecutor with no losses on her scorecard, sure she became that same determined attorney due to a sad time in her life when her fiancé was murdered, inspiring her to drop her current college major and pursue law instead.  Sure, she’s a big-balled, take no feces kind of sassy chick who always guarantees Court TV and CNN good ratings.  But JESUS CHRIST, is it just me, or is it impossible to watch that woman on a TV screen and not feel as if you’re being sucked into some mucoid tractor beam by her hideously huge nostrils?  And hey, is there some law I don’t know about stating that all professional women past the age of 35 must cut their hair into this Hillary Clintonish bland and short shape that looks more like a pre-Wesson Florence Henderson than a woman we should all take more seriously? 

Ok, that’s not the only reason she annoys me.  The woman has totally forgotten that in America, you’re innocent until proven guilty.  Former prosecuters tend to do that, and it annoys the living hell out of me.  I have yet to see her cover a trial and not overtly hint time and time again that Joe Schmo is guilty as sin, not to mention crudely cut off any guest on her show who doesn’t agree with her.  Still, though, I have to say my main reason for disliking her is those hugely disproportionate nostrils.  I’m convinced she’s one of the Xmen you never hear about, able to knock bad guys off their feet just by inhaling deeply.

More TV… I’ve been watching more Dog, The Bounty Hunter.  I can barely find the words.  Beth and Dog, nice people with bad hair, husband and wife bounty hunters… borderline retards who somehow stumbled on a way they could make money despite their IQ’s.  I should introduce Dog to Al (scroll down if you don’t know Al).  The two of them sharing their philosophy would be one of those rubbernecking car wreck kind of things.  I shouldn’t knock Dog or his family… after all, they’re successful enough to keep themselves stocked up on more than enough fishnet stockings, heels (and I ain’t just talking about the wife) L’oreal blonde, and tough law guy leather duds.  And hey, I have to hand it to Dog… that’s the first time I’ve ever seen a Jerry Vale mullet.  Very original.

My GOD, I’m trivial today.  Sorry.  No, I’m not.

Well, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?  I guess I should catch up on as much as I can, or at least fill in a few observations I’ve had lately.

One-Christmas has become a whore holiday, money surpassing morals.  Duh, like it hasn’t been that way for ages, but still…I guess it’s just really hit home for me over the last couple of Christmas seasons.  What the hell does it mean when stores are stocking Christmas items in October?  When the Christmas merchandise such as lights, trees, garlands, stockings, etc. are taking up more store space than Halloween and Thanksgiving items… in October?  I see the poorest of my neighbors skipping utilities payments and getting their gas or water cut off just because their children are so desperately expecting Santa to grace their two bedroom, one bath, 678 sq. ft. crackerbox house with 30 relatives living in it with a West Coast Choppers mini scooter.  Yup, Christmas is a whore holiday.  The spending consumer is the pressured ‘ho’ while the corporate bigwigs are the pimps, pure and simple.  I hear more people mentioning the words ‘Ipod’ and ‘Xbox’ in December than ‘Jesus’.  ‘Nuff said.

Two-Fanfiction is continuing to piss me off. The fanfiction writer I tend to incessantly bitch about is up to even more dysfunction.  She is now pretending to be her husband, has started a web journal under his screen name, or at least I suspect it’s her pretending to be him.  I dunno, I read an entry where a supposedly hetero woman loving man is wanting to sob over the tough patches in his life, then referring to his loyal girlfriends as being his saviors, I get a little suspicious.  You really just have to read this ‘man’s’ blithering steaming fecal words to know what I mean. 

Three-Is there some unwritten law that requires all people working in the bail bonds/fugitive recovery business have to either a.) Look as if they’ve lived their entire life on food stamps, b.)look as if they have lived at least six months in a doublewide trailer, c.) have absolutely no fashion sense inspired by anything other than Harley Davidson, Frederick’s of Hollywood, or the latest Fingerhut catalogue?  I’ve been watching ‘Dog, the Bounty Hunter’ on A and E, and Family Bonds, on HBO, and I swear, other than a difference in accent, I’d swear both these families who all work in the bail bonds industry are related, or at least attended a Conway Twitty convention together.  Still, though, I can’t help but watch both shows religiously.  Then again, I’m from Texas.

Fourth and final- My husband is convinced we’re going to buy a log cabin package and build one for less than a hundred thousand.  My husband is a dreamer, just like the rest of his family.  Dreaming is good; Lord knows, that’s what keeps us all alive, dreaming about what we just might make possible in our futures.  But my husband and his family have this knack of totally ignoring the roadblocks of reality and setting their hopes impossibly high.  My husband wants to move from this neighborhood.  He’s sick of the crappy yards with the combination of non functioning appliances and automotives in them, the houses with the purple and aquamarine trim painted on them, of the ‘oompah oompah’ Tejano bass that always seems to make it through our walls and into the deepest core of our brains on so many Saturday evenings.  I’m sick of them, too, but you know what?  I have a feeling that if we build a log cabin and end up paying on a 200K mortgage(and it won’t be less than that!), his stress levels in trying to just keep up on insurance, taxes, and mortgage are going to have him wishing we were back here in this house, involuntarily being subjected to the basslines of Selena’s greatest hits.  I’m sorry, but I’d rather deal with bass and idiots than bankruptcy and ulcers. 

That’s it for now. There is a wealth more to write, but I’ll save it for the next entry.

I was almost starting to think that the spirit I’d connected with at the Baker Hotel, Ginnie, had left me for good.  I’ve had some paranormal experiences here in the last few weeks, but none I could attribute to the woman who leapt to her death from the Baker Hotel’s Cloud Room, the woman who’s visited me many times in the past and shown me the many sides of her, the metamorphosis that occurred with her during her stay at the Mineral Wells landmark.

For those of you who have no idea of what I’m talking about, I’ll give a quick refresher course.  I stumbled upon a landmark here, not far away from Dallas, that drew me directly to it.  I couldn’t understand why this old western Texas abandoned hotel called to me so much, but as I got more involved, someone other than me started to make it all more understandable.

Long story short, thanks to some wonderfully trusting human beings who love the Grand Old Hotel even more than I do, I was able to step inside and learn more… about the great building itself, the spirits who inhabit it (and until the Baker Hotel, I didn’t really believe in ghosts; not in the way one ever really believes), and in one spirit who has visited me in waking and dreaming world, giving me details I both wanted to see and wished I’d never seen.

Her name is Ginnie.  She’s known on internet sites as Jenny, sometimes called Virginia (an identity often confused with another famous Baker Hotel spirit).  Ginnie/Jenny, according to whimsical tale, jumped to her death from the Baker’s 14^th floor, the ballroom/Cloud Room floor.  She’s reportedly an angry little ‘ghost’, even evil to some, and many a negative experience by paranormal investigator within the walls of the Baker is attributed to Miss Jenny. 

I’ll tell you what I know.  I can’t give you facts, I can’t hand you printed out documented evidence of what I’m about to tell you.  I can’t do the Sylvia Browne thing and just insist it’s so, and that you have to believe me…I can’t do that because the world of the spirit just isn’t about forensics or skeptical analysis, something I’ve been way too good at for way too many years of my life.  I can only tell you about the person I’ve come to know and love…yeah, love, and understand, something I think she really needed.  Oh, and by the way, it just happens that she’s been dead for decades.

Her name isn’t Jenny, or Virginia, though her birth certificate says the latter.  She’s Ginnie, a nickname earned proudly by her in her late twenties/early thirties as a result of her love for her drug of choice at the time, gin. 

Ginnie first came to the Baker Hotel in Mineral Wells a married woman in her late twenties, and she stayed far longer than she’d ever dreamed she would.  Ginnie was from the East Coast, a younger child in a family of many children, mostly boys, and all of them always a dime short.  Dad was an immigrant, as was mom, but the two did whatever they had to do to make sure their children at least ate three square meals a day.  In the dreams Ginnie shows me, her mother is hanging laundry in the dead of winter, knuckles cracking from the cold…other people’s laundry, and Ginnie makes sure she shows me in my dreams her mother’s hard expression cracking even more when the hard cold change hits her hand for the work she’s doing.

Ginnie hit the stage by the time she was a teen.  She was tall for her age, pretty and graceful, and hoped to succeed as a dancer.  She couldn’t sing or act, but when she moved on a stage, one couldn’t help but see the beauty.  Her greatest fear was of getting her father to consent to her choice of career.  She was Daddy’s girl, after all, and pursuing something Daddy didn’t approve of was as inconceivable as the thought of becoming a lady of the evening.  Daddy ultimately did approve, under one condition…she never change her last name like the screen stars did…ever! 

So Ginnie went on and danced for almost a year before a handsome young military man swept her off her feet, convinced her to marry him, and moved his military wife to Mineral Wells, where he was stationed.  Funny thing, though…no base housing for Ginnie…Ginnie (still Virginia at this time), ended up staying at the Baker Hotel, a grand and gorgeous place, on a military discount.  She enjoyed free breakfast and dinner, a government paid room, and all the social events she could stand, plus whatever paycheck her husband sent her way, yet she hated it.  The husband was on base constantly, never seeming to get the okay to see her as much as she’d hoped, and month after month, the frequency of visits slowed and slowed until they were at a complete stop.  Still, Ginnie lived in a world of telling herself her husband was just a much needed asset at the base, staying at the Baker, even when the final word came that her husband had transferred to another base, failing to inform her about the transfer, or about his new girlfriend, a girlfriend pregnant with his child.

Ginnie was despondent…not over losing her love…I don’t think she ever loved her husband, not really.  Ginnie was alone again, very alone, and a girl used to a large family of protective men doesn’t do well alone.  Fortunately, or unfortunately, someone was there to catch Ginnie before the depths of abandonment pulled her down too far.  You see, there existed a man at the Baker who ran quite the lucrative business on a certain floor of the hotel…a pimp.  Yeah, a pimp.  He’d had an eye on Ginnie since she first showed up at the hotel, and when the time was right, he moved in, gave Ginnie the protection she craved, with just one request in return.  At this point, Ginnie could’ve gone home to Daddy, or Papa ( I get from Ginnie that Papa was a closer term of endearment), but to do that would be to admit defeat, and to do that would mean to disappoint, something Ginnie couldn’t do.  So, the next few years of Ginnie’s life were spent as a call girl, something she was slowly and expertly coaxed into by one of the most manipulative panderers you’d ever fear meeting.  She entertained the best of Baker guests, and sampled the best of the drink and fun the Baker Hotel had to offer, particulary on the 14^th floor… the Cloud Room, where her dancing grace redeemed her in the eyes of the average patron, not to mention in her own eyes.

The last day of Ginnie’s life was spent arguing with her boyfriend/pimp.  He’d betrayed her, not in a sexual way, but in a way that hurt Ginnie more than catching him with another of his ‘stable’ ever could’ve hurt.  He tried to smooth things over, eternal sleezy diplomat that he was, but she wasn’t having it this time.  She was beyond having every man in her life promise what he couldn’t deliver, and she faced an epiphany that felt both powerful and horrible at the same time.  She stood up to him for once, truly and fully, and followed it up with a threat to spread his secrets, not to the law, but to his enemies. 

Ginnie’s last mortal memory is of men she knew to once protect her lifting her up by her arms and legs while her boyfriend watched, and swing her over the 14^th floor’s railing.  Her last vision is of the regret in her boyfriend’s eyes… but more so, his failure to step in and stop that final swing.  Her final thought? “It’s better off this way.”

You see, I know all this.  I really know it.  I wasn’t there, but I know it happened.  I know it because Ginnie showed me.  Ever since that day I first accidentally clicked on a site that talked about the Baker Hotel, Ginnie has told me in thoughts, dreams, visions, you name it.  She’s shown me details I didn’t include here, memories I wouldn’t want anyone else to share, but at the same time she’s shown me things about her that make me unable to do anything but absolutely adore her strength.

Ginnie haunts the Baker Hotel.  She has been seen, heard, felt, and recorded by more than one person, and by most I think she’s been misunderstood.  Why she’d chosen me, I’m not sure, except to say that I think she’s found me an easy sounding board, or relay in which to talk to some of the Baker supporters she really wants to talk to. I feel used in a way, but I also don’t really mind.

Anyway, Ginnie had visited me regularly for awhile there, then she stopped, and I wasn’t sure why.  In fact, for a few weeks, I thought that perhaps I’d really gone crazy, and that all these pieces of her life I was getting were all just the product of a redneck with too many cats finding things to think about.  I was starting to fear that the magic I’d discovered at the Baker was fading.

Thank God, I was wrong.

Ginnie has come back…with a vengeance, the last few days.  And she wants me to know two things.

Remember the husband?  The military, salt of the earth protector of our nation who up and dumped her?  Ginnie didn’t tell me until two days ago…she moved to Mineral Wells eight months pregnant with his son, Jeremy, a son born happy and healthy on the hotel’s spa floor, a son she loved and cared deeply for until her mother in law showed up eighteen months later and took him from her.  Good old Daddy never had a hand in raising him.  His mother and father did all the work, Ginnie knows now, and she punishes herself for not fighting more for him.  Even more so, she tells me in my latest dreams that her son is alive and well, living just a handful of miles away from Mineral Wells.  She has grand and great grandchildren she watches over often, which is the main reason she stays at the Hotel, even though it’s now abandoned, and even though she knows her son knew who she was and where she was, yet never wanted to see her, not even when he found out she’d died and was about to be buried.  He was a young man, but a stubborn one, and though his grandmother (yes, the same one who took him away from Ginnie) wanted him to attend, he insisted that he not.

The second thing…there exists a room in the Baker Hotel, a gathering kind of place called the Brazos Room. To most of us, it’s a party room, a rec room people once reserved, dined in, danced in, gathered in.  To those who were lucky enough to shed restrictive shells, the Brazos Room is the ‘terminal’ area where a gate exists, a vortex, a portal, that allows entry and exit to and from worlds, what worlds I’m still not sure; Ginnie won’t tell me.

Anyway, what Ginnie will tell me is that this vortex is starting to close.  Partially because interest in the hotel has slowed since the city closed the hotel’s door to tours, and partially because the spirits traveling through it to be closer to relatives are now finding those relatives leaving our world and joining them in theirs.  Less spirits are using it…kinda like a plane or train route to a town that once was hip, but no longer draws the tourist crowd.  Other famous Baker ghosts are concerned, too.  Some aren’t…some want to not use the vortex anymore, but others fear not being able to come through anymore once the vortex closes.  You see, the vortex is fed by energy, and it must be used to stay open, and to stay open, we, the mere mortals, must come and feed it.  We’re not able to as much anymore, thanks to city liability concerns, utility concerns, etc. 

Now in some incidences, this could be a good thing.  You’ve all seen paranormal investigations on tv where a ‘trapped’ spirit is urged to go to the light, to leave this plane and be escorted by angels to the next world because its existence in an earthly place is creeping the living out.  Okay, if this were the case, then things would be peachy keen, but this isn’t the case.

The spirits at the Baker don’t want to or don’t need to be sent along.  They are here by choice, and they are anything but trapped.  Most travel back and forth…the Baker is simply a depot for them, and now many of them fear that their one depot will be closed now.  Ginnie is terrified of this.  She acts out because of it, scaring some, intriguing others, and in either way, is getting her agenda met. 

In any case, things have been happening with the Baker lately.  Things I hope will keep that vortex open, and keeping those who want to continue to travel through it traveling, especially Ginnie.  I still have yet to figure out why it’s me she’s connected to, why it’s me she decided to start visiting, why it’s me who has to start questioning everything I once knew was real.  But you know, even though I’m trying to figure things out, I’m grateful it’s there to ponder.

Well, I went and did something I swore I wouldn’t do…deleted an entry for other than webspace reasons.  SO, just for the record…my deleting a certain entry about a certain fanfic writer’s cowardly practices had nothing to do with me taking back anything I said about her.  I deleted the entry because I stooped a little too low.  I made comments about her writing that I should have just kept to myself.  As for her character, I have no regrets about openly disliking it.  The woman has consistently and in the sneakiest of manners picked on more than one person unfairly, has lied consistently in order to get attention, manipulates people who think she’s their friend, and trust me, I have a long list of personal reasons as to why this particular person has incurred my wrath.  Anyone who read that post, didn’t like it, and thinks I’m just a big meanie, my message to you is two-fold:

1.)    You don’t know the history, don’t know the situation, you just don’t know.

2.)    There will be future posts that will not be removed.  If you don’t like it, don’t read.

That’s it, in a nutshell. 

Couple of things today….one, I’m going insane, and two, some fanfic people piss me the hell off.

Back to one…

I swear, I have a ghost who followed me home from the Baker Hotel earlier in October.  All I know is that it’s a male, and that he’s frustrated about something.  I swear, had you mentioned ghosts and me in the same sentence six months ago, I’d have nodded and said something polite, but I’d never imagined being as into it as I am now.  To be a believer is strange for me.  Some think I’m nuts, some think it’s great, some support me, some want me to seek therapy.  They’re all probably right to some degree.

I was cleaning my extremely filthy bedroom the other day, the bedroom I’ve felt ‘watched’ in since coming back from the Baker.  I had piles of clean clothes to fold and put in their drawers, and as I’m doing this, ignoring the VERY strong being watched feeling, I bend over to put some clothes in an already opened drawer, and I feel a severe blow to the back of my head.  Turns out a glass purple vase that was sitting on top of the dresser I was putting clothes in fell and beaned me on the head.  That kind of stuff happens, but here’s the strange part…that vase was at least a foot back on the shelf/upper part of the chest of drawers, not at an incline, and to have fallen off and hit me in the head means that it had to have slid forward a foot, which is just impossible, at least to my knowledge of physics.

Anyway, the thing falls and beans me, I scream ‘OUCH!!!!!’ and stand up, and I crap you not, without hesistation, I yell out ‘I know it was you who did that!!!!!!!’.  Hell, even I don’t know who I was talking to, but I just knew to yell that.  After that, I took this picture….mind you, this picture was taken at night, no sunlight filtering in, and I was NOT smoking when I took it.  So, as for what the smoky stuff in the picture is, I have NO idea!:

A couple of strange happenings around here since I came back from the Baker Hotel (first time I got to see the inside), and I’m really wondering a little about whether or not I brought a spirit home with me.  In any case, I’ll list the strange things here, and those of you who believe can believe… those of you who don’t can keep on livin’ in your happy, spirit free worlds and just chalk my thoughts up to serious need of psychiatric care, while I, in the meantime, feel sorry for you;)

Things happening at my house since October 9^th, 2004, after coming home from the Baker Hotel in Mineral Wells:

1.)    Light bulbs…I’ve gone through four four-packs of light bulbs in my house since then!  This is an old house, so that may be the reason, but oddly enough, since coming home on the ninth, light bulbs have been burning out at an extremely fast pace.  Another thing…the entire back part of our house is new, an addition we built here a few years ago, yet we’ve had light bulbs pop and go out in both the old and new sections of the house.  My computer desktop lamp, the front hallway, the kitchen, the upstairs bedroom, the outside porch, and the stairway light have all been continually needing light bulb changes when before, it seems like I rarely had to change anything.

2. I have dial-up connection to the internet, which means that anyone wanting to reach me when I’m online will get a busy signal when calling my number.  Lately, the phone has started ringing WHILE I’m online.  Go figure.  I’ve tried logging off, then dialing *69 to call back, and always get the ‘number is unavailable’ message.

3. My oldest calico, Miss Calliefornia, who usually hides in the water heater closet only during fierce thunderstorms, has started hiding there much more often, even if it’s a sunny day.  No change in health, she just hides more.  And Vivian the Bolivian, another of my oldest gals, has begun play fighting with a specific corner in the house.  She runs up to this corner, stands on her hind feet, paws at the wall, then darts around the house like Ike Turner fresh after an eight ball hit.  Yet again…go figure. 

4.)    I’m starting to feel like I’m being watched when I’m in bed at night.  I wouldn’t say it’s a terrifying feeling; I’d label it more as being uncomfortable.  I have a vanity in my bedroom that I inherited from my grandmother, and the ‘watching’ comes from that direction.  I can never see anything, but I feel it.  The last couple of weeks, it’s been harder for me to fall asleep when Eric’s on the road, and I’m up in that room alone.  As I said before…nothing evil, nothing threatening, just something uncomfortable.

5.)    Dreams…I’ve been having some doozy kinds of dreams, all with more dialogue than usual in them, all with a higher number of faces I don’t recognize in them.  I dream all the time, and usually recall my dreams to an extent, but the dreams are getting more vivid, staying with me longer, and seeming so real that I often wake up now still caught in the emotion/moment of the dream.  I dreamt not long ago that I was trapped in the Baker Hotel at dusk.  The sun was going down outside, and at first I felt elated to be there.  Then I started to feel uneasy, wanting to find an exit to the sidewalk outside.  As I’m working my way towards the front exit, I pass a lavatory with a leaky faucet, and I stop myself.  I want to get outside as soon as possible, but I can’t leave this faucet leaking when I can just shut the water supply off on the wall below it and spare the Grand Old Lady any extra water damage, so I duck into the lavatory to shut it off, and a feeling I can only describe as ‘black’ washes over me.  I peek out of the lavatory into the walkway, and I see a ghost child, just a brown-gray shadow of a little boy, running down the hall, away from me, and he’s terrified, and all of a sudden, I’m thinking “Paula, you shoulda just left the leak”.  At no time am I afraid of the actual hotel; in fact, I can still recall feeling love for the place in the dream, feeling welcomed by the walls, so to speak…it’s the ‘blackness’ that scares me, it’s only one being who nudged its way into the hotel…that I can definitely feel, and it’s overpowering the others in the hotel who might protect me.  Wish I could tell you more, but honestly, that’s when I wake up. 

Other dreams of a classically pretty brunette woman in her late twenties, possibly early thirties have regularly visited me since before I finally saw the Baker’s interior, but after I first discovered the Baker online.  The dreams with her in them are surprisingly simple.  She and I sit in a room, and she talks to me.  I never talk back; I only listen, maybe nod once in awhile.  Sometimes she’ll show me pictures of what things once were for her, sometimes she’ll share an actual feeling with me, kind of like handing someone a scratch and sniff sticker, if that makes any sense.  I’ve had so many dreams of her in the last few months, particularly this last month, that I consider her family, someone I hope is real, someone I’ve gone so far as to join genealogy and archive sites in hopes of confirming. 

6.)    My husband has been having constant thoughts about Mineral Wells and the Baker Hotel, and for him, the eternal skeptic, this is amazing.  I’ve always thought my husband was different, had a connection to some things more than the rest of us… you see, when he was a toddler, he contracted spinal meningitis and actually died for several minutes.  There were several doctors working on him when he died (they were in the hospital elevator, transporting him at the time), and all but one wanted to just let him pass.  Only one doctor insisted they continue the resuscitation efforts, Dr. Kramer, and when he brought Eric back, not only were the other doctors absolutely dumbstruck, my husband was dubbed ‘the miracle kid’.  He survived…obviously, but my point is that he’s always been different, not ‘Rain Man’ different, just ‘different’…pure, I guess is the best word I can think of to fit him.  He tries to be skeptical, tries to be tainted, but it never really works with him.  I think his first trip into the Baker chipped away at that exterior of his he tries so hard to make look firm.  As a matter of fact, I’m not so sure the things I’ve personally been experiencing all of a sudden aren’t because of the fact that he’s my husband.