Keeping the Peace

Some items travel with us through time. We keep these items that link us to past iterations of ourselves, of special times in our lives and as tokens that bind us to the people that moved through our space and left imprints that whisper of past times and places. We cherish these items, these totems, and in doing so imbue them with a supernatural that call to us on many levels. Each item has its own spirit, formed from the life events they traveled with us.

These items are lovingly tucked away in jewelry boxes, bottom drawers or closets. Seen fleetingly as we dig through these places for other every day things that we need and use with thoughtless connection. We smile on these totems as we see them, sometimes touching them with gentle finger strokes, as memories flit through our mind on butterfly wings or fell us with the hammer of grief and loss. 

My memory boxes and closets harbour many such totems.  The ring my father received as a baby. My mother's wedding ring. The matchsticks that my husband used to spell out "I Love You" on my front porch when we were dating. Locks of hair from my children's first hair cuts. A blanket my grandmother crocheted and many of my grandfather's and father's woodworking tools. A decanter set from my grandparent's bar. A pair of favorite sweats from my high school days. An odd assortment of Christmas ornaments from every vacation my family has taken. I collect totems, the physical manifestations of memory and times captured. These are my links. 

Some totems are often meant to be passed on to the next generation. Stories shared of their beginnings and what they represent. The passing of a totem bond can be as easy as the giving of a hug and some items have only one connection, the sentimentality a one way bond. 

In previous times, in different cultures, the passing of an important totem would have been a grand ceremony for a family or a tribe. In others it's as simple and as meaningful as opening a closet door and taking a jacket off a coat hanger.

Last night I was rooting through the coat closet for a jacket to wear on a walk with the dogs. My fingers brushed over a black denim jacket tucked far back in the closet. I smiled as I recalled buying it at a flea market that no longer exists, the many hikes I took wearing it, and what it meant to the teenage me wearing it most days. I took it off the hanger, touching the metal buttons with gentle fingers, feeling the worn softness of the denim, fixing the collar. And then I turned it around. There it was. The artwork of a friend, a design he made for me and painted on my jacket. We're still friends, not nearly as close as when this jacket received it's markings, because life choices took us in different directions, but friends none the less. This jacket, those memories, link us. 

But as I held that jacket, standing in the hallway, smiling as the memories danced in my mind's eye like fireflies on a summer night, I also knew the time was right. 

I called for my daughter, this wonderful girl who listens to the Beatles, wants to save the planet and recently called herself a modern day flower child. 

When she came to see what I wanted, I showed her the front of this plain black Lee denim jacket, circa 1983, and asked if she wanted it. She looked at it, frowned a bit. I could see she was unimpressed and about to politely decline my offer so I wordlessly turned it around. She gasped and rushed over to touch it, laughing and asking where I got it. I shared the back story as stroked the paint, looked over the denim and straightened the collar.

She put that jacket on and all those wonderful memories of mine wrapped around my daughter and became hers to build upon. 

Totem passed. 

With Love.
  

An attempt at public shaming

Hhhmmm, to post or not to post.

Since I’m still tapping at the keypad, the answer appears to be “to post.”

On Sunday it was brought to my notice that a local online news site had an anonymous opinion up that said I was “undeserving of representing my children or my neighbors children” because I write expletive laden blog posts that are critical and rude. This individual then goes on to post a google search link that filters only the posts where I use the word fuck. And there are plenty of those because well...there just are.

There are excerpts of a few posts, deliberately chosen for their verbal impact, splashed up on this editorial that show my less than polite side.

This editorial gave me a few moments pause. And also prompted me to go back and reread the majority of this blog.  And you know what? I’ll stand behind each and every one of my posts and say, Yes, I did write that. So What? I show, through my writing, the myriad sides of who I am. Do you do the same?

Here’s the thing. I’m up for re-election on the School Board in my town. I’m actively seeking re-election to the Board because I feel that I do a good job and there is work that needs to be done. Work that I know I can help facilitate.

The timing of this editorial is purely due to the upcoming election and the fact is the news site owner supports other candidates. My blog is not a secret as it’s linked to my facebook account and I’ve shared it with local friends. And I know for certain that the owner of this online news site has previously provided a link to my blog to other people in the hopes that it will cause them to gasp in outrage over perceived perfidies in an effort to plot my downfall. To which I say, Really? You need a new hobby.

Here are more of the reasons I’m a terrible person:
“This woman’s blog site is very full of colorful language, self-righteous nagging, complaining about everything from neighbors, to kids crying in her ears to people riding their motorcycles down her beloved road and even some harsh criticism of children and parents alike.
Is this really the person you want representing our children? She spends a lot of time criticizing the people of Jackson for their actions in this blog, especially parents who break her social rules, but perhaps she needs to be a better role model herself. As a publicly elected representative of the people of Jackson, she needs to bring herself above the boil and I find this entire blog immature, foul mouthed, critical and condescending to everyone in this town.
I urge anyone who votes this November to take a look at the link: http://bit.ly/QsJNj8, and read a few passages from this woman before voting for her to represent YOUR child.
Can you imagine if any other candidate in any other election had publicly stated and said such horrible things about the people they purport to represent?
No thank you Ms. Murnane, you have no business near our children and I hope children in Jackson don’t stumble across this board member’s blog accidentally.”

People are going to be offended by any number of things; probably some of those things will be words that I write. I won’t filter my thoughts, feelings or my writing in fear that someone will take offense. This is my space. You’re invited to come into it with a hearty welcome and post your comments, agree, disagree, tell me I’m an ass. I’m okay with that, sometimes I AM an ass. Trolls are not welcome. I’d have the same policy if we met in person.

On the flip side of that, what I put out there is fodder to anyone who doesn't like it and chooses to use it as a tool for their own gain. That's the risk of exposing oneself publicly and I'll roll with whatever happens.

There were two aspects of this opinion piece that did ruffle my feathers. The link with the filtered posts? That’s just a little National Inquirer sleaze right there.

The anonymous resident looking to lambaste me for putting myself out there publicly, stink bugs and all, have the balls to add your name to the letter. I showed mine. Where are yours?

headin' out on the highway

In August my son will be 16 and the proud new owner of a Driver’s Permit. Like any teenage closing in on this rite of passage, he is anticipatory of the moment that he can slide behind the wheel of a car and gain that step to adult independence. He often asks if he can drive now, in a parking lot, down the street, just to get some practice. During Driver’s Ed class in school he studied that NJ Driver’s Handbook so much it was dog eared and dirty, worn down by the attention he gave it until he knew the contents inside and out.

Turning my son loose onto the busy streets is a harrowing thought. Do I trust him? Yes. Do I see him clearly as a teenage boy who will revel in this new found freedom and stretch the rules more than he should? Yes. Do we speak to him ad nauseum about driver safety and the responsibility of driving? Yes. Is it enough? Never.

He will not be an isolated individual on the road, but one of many moving in rapid distraction from one place to the next. The potential for disaster is tremendous and it just takes one inattentive moment.

Each and every day there are news reports of another auto accident that claims a life. In the past two months alone, our community has lost two teenage boys in separate unrelated auto accidents. Parents are devastated, friends are grieving and a community mourns the loss of these two young men. Gifted athletes, academic achievers, good young men with their lives open before them. Unfulfilled. In one of these accidents another driver was killed. A man with a young family and now that family is broken, grieving and at a loss to understand why.

Despite these losses, and the losses felt in previous years, young adults behind the wheel continue to believe they are immortal and that these horrible things will not happen to them. It will always be someone else.


What these young invincible spirits do not realize is that one moment is all it takes to destroy multiple lives. One moment that reverberates throughout the years in loss, pain, heartache and hardship.


I realize there are just as many adults on the road that are reckless and flout laws while behind the wheel, putting others at risk. But NJ statistics claim that young drivers are the majority of car accidents. I just ponder on what efforts are required to deliver the message of safety and responsibility as a driver to the young people of our community, and beyond, in such a manner that whenever they turn the key in the ignition, they think, for a few seconds, on what it might be like to have the police knock on their parents door and deliver the news of a tragic accident.


I recall with crystal clarity the words of my high school driving. After having us, his three captive students, perform a safety check on the school’s student driver car, he stood back and told us to take a good hard look at each other. We did, somewhat quizzically, and then looked back to him. He told us to remember each other’s faces because statistics said one of us will be dead from a car accident within five years. And that is how we started our first day of on the road training. I have never forgotten that moment.


Today, in our over-sensitive society, if a teacher spoke to students in such a way, parents would complain that they were being too harsh. Perhaps a little harshness when it comes to driving teenagers is necessary. I know that as a parent I remind my son of the dangers of driving regularly, enough to keep it in the forefront of his mind. Because it is our job as parents to remind them of the laws, the dangers and the devastation that can come from ignoring those laws.


How then, do we parents prepare our sons and daughters to take to the roads with safety and responsibility uppermost in their minds when they turn the key and press foot to peddle?


The answer to this question continues to elude me as I see drivers ignore posted speed limits, teenagers texting and talking on their cell phones, adults doing the same.


What does it take to remember that a vehicle can be a weapon in a moment of inattention and carelessness?

first days

There was no getting around it, she thought as she tugged her jeans on. Today’s the day.


Slipping her favorite shirt over her head she contemplated what would happen if she just didn’t show up. She chewed a little on her lower lip, eyes narrowed as she gazed, sightlessly, into the space of her room and considered doing just that, not showing up.


Who would realize?
Could that work?
Where would she go?
Could she pull it off?


Probably not, she decided. Her luck never worked in that area. They were bound to call.


It sucked, really, that she had to do this again, she sighed. Twice now in as many months. Double the torture, double the fun, she grumbled to herself, tying her hiking boots.


She stood up and took one last critical look in the mirror. Her eyes tracked over the faded denims, purple shirt and blue hoodie.
 Clean, casual enough, not to different, but not so bland as to disappear, just herself. Maybe bland is a better plan, she pondered. Less color and maybe no one would notice. Maybe she'd just blend.


She snorted. Fat chance that would happen. They always noticed. Eventually.


Gathering her courage up close she headed out of her bedroom for the kitchen. Her stomach was too jumpy for food so a cup of tea was in order.


While it steeped, she envisioned the possibilities.


Would it suck? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Will it be awkward? Most definitely.
How would she deal with people? With difficulty.
Will she like it? Maybe.


Taking a sip of the tea, she closed her eyes and sighed, wishing for the millionth time that she didn’t have to do this again.


As she put the empty cup into the sink she realized her hands were trembling and braced them on the counter. When her hands trembled, she knew her voice would as well. Great, she’d sound like a warbling duck every time she opened her mouth. Way to make an impression. Staring hard at her hands, eyes intent, she focusing on pulling herself together. It took a few moments, but her hands steadied and her breathing evened.


She could go back to bed. She almost gave in to that thought but the aggravation she’d get later wasn’t worth it. Besides, she’d just have to do it tomorrow.


With that thought rattling in her brain, she grabbed her sunglasses and battered backpack and headed off for another first day.


Tomorrow would be easier once she got through today.

the red brick farmhouse

Everyday, twice a day, I drive past a modestly sized red brick house on my way to work. Set back from the road, partially obscured by a variety of old trees, the faded brick farmhouse sits on a little rise, the second floor jutting out in back from the hill it's built into, presiding over a small creek that runs beyond the house and meanders through untended farmland. It's a charming house, square and sturdy, sedately observing the passage of time.

There's an abundance of trees around the house, almost obscuring it from the road, that offer plenty of shade to tempt a lazy weekend nap in a hammock that could be tucked into the long front porch. I can imagine after dinner strolls along the wooded property as dogs dance around my feet or laugh as they streak across the field chasing the occasional wildlife. Some mornings as I drive by, if the weather is just right, mist clouds hovers over the fields, adding an air of mystery that could be viewed from a kitchen window while sipping a morning cup of tea.

In recent years the house has fallen into some disrepair, looking sad and neglected. The well used chicken coop and low ancient barn sprawled along the property seem tired and rickety and it's a testament to the perseverance of farm buildings that they managed to survive the whipping wind storms we've had recently. 

The simple landscaping in the front has become overgrown and bedraggled. The lawns are scraggly and unkempt. Bare windows show no movement, day or night, further emphasizing the sense of aloneness and abandonment.
It clear that this house was a home and the land well tended in the past. 
But now, the For Sale by Owner sign planted in the front yard for the past eight months or so corroborates the sense that this house, once a home, offers no one shelter now.

Something about this house has captured my imagination for the past thirteen years and often I've wondered if it would ever be available for sale at a time we might be in a position to purchase it. The house pulls at me and I never fail to look at it as I pass by, acknowledging it's presence in some small way.

Because the for sale sign has been up for awhile and I've not seen any sign of life in the house for some time, on impulse I pulled into the rutted overgrown drive, noting the rusted crooked gate and buckled fencing. There behind the house is a dilapidated blue truck full up with I don't know what. The outbuildings, on a closer look, appear to be holding together by sheer force of will and stubborn pride.

I slipped through a gap in the fence and walked up the concrete front stairs to peer in the windows. Windows that recently saw a coat of paint to cover the peeling weather-exposed trim. There's been some efforts to make the house more marketable, giving it a half hearted face lift, some shine to enhance the inherent personality of the property.

I felt a little sad as I walked around the back and found that the snow melt had left a small pond overflowing with dirty water that made the yard look wrecked and severely worn. An old bathtub, stained with rust and dirt, sat tucked under a tree behind the frosted glass enclosed porch. Ironwork stairs crackled with rust as I stepped up onto a small deck, the floor of which was the scratched and old roofing tiles of the enclosed porch. Despite the relatively new screen doors, painted windows and fresh walls I saw when I peeked in the windows, the house is in a state of disrepair that is a little daunting. Not to mention the condition of the yard with random piles of unidentifiable debris scattered amid the weeds and decrepit buildings.

Despite these things I could envision sitting out on that porch with my husband on a warm summer evening, holding hands and quietly discussing our day, as we watch evening settle over the land, softly and comforting. Going on impulse again, I dialed one of the numbers on the for sale sign, and when a very nice woman answered the phone, asked about the house.

It had been her mother-in-laws. Built in the early sixties, the woman raised chickens, sold eggs, boarded horses and tended a small crop of vegetables. She had loved her home and tended it well. The house has about double the square footage of our house, which isn't saying much, and probably tops out near 1900 sq. feet, has three bedrooms, two baths, a partially finished basement and stands on seven acres of land. The eager woman on the phone said there has been extensive work on the inside, new floors, paint and carpeting, but given that we just gutted three bedrooms last year I know what that type of work looks like and there is still much work to be done in and around the red brick farmhouse.

I then inquired of the asking price. And almost crashed my car as I pulled out of the driveway when she cheerily answered my question.

Eight hundred fifty thousand dollars.

I quickly explained that that was way beyond my consideration and thanked her for her time. I don't exactly know what I was expecting but that certainly wasn't it. Half that maybe. Certainly a little closer to attainable, even if attainable is just a fanciful thought of the possibilities.  

We're not house hunting, we're not even considering house hunting. We just refinanced our house and we certainly don't have a reserve of funds that can be tapped into to appease my fanciful wondering. But even if we did, the modest red brick farmhouse on seven acres is way out of my price range. That price is so far beyond anything I can imagine paying for a house that even the faintest glimmer of a fantasy curled up whimpering into a deep dark recess of my mind.

It's going to cost a small fortune to complete the remaining upgrades on that house as it stands, not to mention removing or rehabbing the existing farm buildings. It's a fact that I almost never fantasize about moving from the house we live in because financially it's not in the cards. Now, if we won the lottery tomorrow, or I sold the two books I'm pecking away at for mountains of cash, well then, that might be a different reality. But today's reality says that the intriguing faded red brick farmhouse will belong to someone else and when it does I'll watch with interest what is done to bring it back to life as I pass by.

cardinal's kiss

Warning: Sappy sentimentalism ahead. Proceed at your own risk


There are moments you glimpse, just barely, that impress upon your day, your thoughts, but when you try to verbalize them, the impact is hard to describe.

Getting ready for the day ahead, my mind ticking off little tasks as I contemplated my crazy schedule for the next few days, I saw the swoop of red pass the kitchen window. Seeing the cardinals pecking around the feeder in the morning always brightens my mood, they are so cheery; the bright splash of red and vibrant song just makes me smile. Looking up and out, I saw the female cardinal land on the feeder and the male dance around the base.

Giggles was right next to me, she enjoys seeing the birds too, so I told her the Cardinal’s had arrived and she hopped up on a chair to glance out the window.

Right at that exact moment, the male cardinal flew up from the ground, hovered near the female, who reached out from the feeder and the two cardinals kissed. I swear that’s exactly what it looked like. Her head turned and stretched, his wings fluttering to bring him closer, and their little beaks clicked together, then he settled back to the ground and she turned back to nab more seed.

Giggles and I oohed and aahed and there was silly morning laughter about the Kissing Cardinals.

That moment, seeing those two birds do whatever that was, sharing it with my daughter, witnessing the simple beauty right outside my window, eased all thoughts of schedule stress and just made me so blissfully happy that I’ve been riding that wave since it happened yesterday morning.

Such a simple moment in time, one that probably happens throughout the day, in that same spot, but when viewed, resonates deeply.

That scene has embedded itself in my head, a private picture I can pull out with a wispy thought, to remind me of what is real and true and most important - the simple act of living and loving.


I hope everyone gets a day that begins with a cardinal's kiss.

need to read

Books Galore! Seriously, there are more books out on the market than one has the time, or the inclination to read, because frankly some of the books out on the market suck fantastically and we've all read some major bombs that people have raved about only to experience the desire to hurl them across the room within the first two chapters wondering why the hell anyone liked this particular piece of drivel enough to recommend it and you're left wondering how in hell these people can be your friends if they would even think for a minute that you would like this book, and for that matter, how can they be your friends if they do?

But this is really not that post, this post is about books, books and more book recommendations that the fantasy/sci-fi enthusiast would love to curl up with while ignoring their offspring and spouses to explore new and exciting worlds that only the most  gloriously twisted imaginations could envision. I thank the Gods for the these people, because without them, there might only be Nicholas Sparks or Dr. Phil books and that would have suckitude on par with being forced to read Bridges of Madison County again. **shudder**

I mentioned a couple of times here that I heart this book with the passion of twenty burning suns, The Name of The Wind by Patrick Rothfuss, and think you should all go out and buy a copy now, I mean now! go on, I'll wait, because when you are done reading, or listening to the audiobook, as I did, you will come back here and thank me for opening the windows to your reading experience, it is that awesome.

Just look at that cover, it whispers 'read me, for there are secrets amid storm.'

And since my geekdom has been established more than a few times here, I confess to an extreme level of giddiness with little heart bubbles floating in my head space when I read on his blog today that the second book in this trilogy comes out March 2011. Date already recorded. The Wise Man’s Fear, I await you.

I made another blog discovery while checking in with Mr. Rothfuss, a blog entitled Whatever, by John Scalzi, a Sci-Fi writer and bearer of great book recommendations for those of us afflicted with the need to read about other worlds and strange beasties. Mr. Scalzi offers up a nice insight into his life as a Sci-Fi writer and his other job, which you can read for yourself when you visit his blog, and the best part is that there is a lot of great books mentioned on his blog just about every where you look.

My "Need to Read" list just exponentially increased from an hour poking around his blog today.

So, go feed your head. You will be satiated.

***This is not a sponsored post, just me forcing my opinions on you. Like good friends do. Out of love. Seriously.

darkly dreaming deliveryman

It’s probably the Flagyl I’m sucking down twice a day to combat the bacteria farm that sprouted spontaneously last week in my lady parts, but holy freaking hell did I have the weirdest creepiest dream ever the other night. Either that or divine intervention just soft-tossed me the best opening scene to a novel I had yet to even think about writing.

Until now.

Because of the dream.

You decide.

I’m in the shower (don’t all good creepy tales have at least one shower scene?) getting ready for something. The dream was sort of vague on that detail, so we’ll just go and assume I am a lady of leisure preparing for my day of domestic bliss while delicately nibbling on dark chocolate and watching Mark Harmon NCIS reruns. Because that is so what I would do.

As I step out of the shower, water cascading over my firm svelte body (Hey! My dream, my fantasy. ’K??) I hear a strange man’s voice drift in from the living room. I wrap my luxurious towel around me and move swiftly down the hall to the living room. (My dream did not decide to place me in my dream house, alas, so that walk was about five steps.)

My daughter is standing at the door, holding it open while a deliveryman has one foot inside the door, clipboard in hand. He’s about 5’ 9”, almost military short black hair, liberally streaked with grey (dream details can be do fucking intense. I could pick this guy out of a line-up, I swear), with pale blue eyes behind simple black framed glasses, smiling at my daughter. His face is long, tanned and craggy, plain really, not one to stand out in a crowd. This guy? He’s Mr. Everyman. His uniform is that slate blue color, the logo Excel007 Package Delivery in yellow but there is no nametag.

He looks my way and his eyes change, just a bit and my skin prickles. My son is lounging on the sofa, reading his book, paying minimal attention now that I’ve come into the room. My daughter excitedly announces that thiis man has a package for us. I pull my towel a little tighter to my body and move closer to her, asking what delivery company.

He smiles widely, friendly, waving the clipboard over his shoulder toward the door, “Excel007. Got a Delivery for you, Ma’am” he says, with a smiling wink at my daughter. I peer over his shoulder out the door and there is a dark blue panel truck backed into my in my driveway, the same Excel007 Package Delivery name sprawled across the side.

During this exchange, he has somehow gotten both feet in the door and is now level with the edge of the front door my daughter is holding. I realize that and something inside me goes on alert. I put my free hand on my daughter’s shoulder, pulling her back a bit. I stare hard at this man, this plain stranger who is now in my home. “I’m not expecting any packages. Please step outside.”

He waves the clipboard a bit more, “Just need you to sign this for me, got your package right outside.” He looks around a bit, glancing toward the hall, the kitchen, his eyes taking in the rooms, I think. He leans a little further forward, as if he’s about to take another step.

My voice firming even more, I ask him again to please step outside. My son looks up at this exchange, maybe sensing the tension in my voice, puts his book down and comes over to my side. I don’t like the way this feels, this man, in our house.

Deliveryman’s eyes narrow slightly as he looks at me, glances to my son. For a few quiet seconds, nobody moves, there is only eye contact. “I’ll need someone to come out and sign for the package.” He insists as he takes a slow step back from me.

“We’re not expecting any packages.” I say again, moving forward to push him back through the door. “Please leave the information, and I’ll call your company when it is more convenient for me. Can you leave a card?”

We’re both standing still, not more than two feet away from each other. I know how vulnerable I am, standing there in a towel, and my children at my side. I refuse to let him know just how vulnerable I feel at this minute. I glare, unsmiling, at him, memorizing his features, letting him know I am doing so.

He pulls a card from his pocket, holding it out for me. I gesture to the table next to the door, clearly indicating he should put the card there. This forces him back another step closer to the door. He’s staring at me, all pretense of a smile gone from his non-descript everyman face. “Sure. Just contact the number there.”

He steps fully out of the house now, and I swiftly close the storm door, a barrier between him and my children, the lock making a solid click as I engage it. He turns and walks down the stairs. Before he rounds the back corner of his truck, he looks back over his shoulder at me, his eyes now cold, his face hard and set. I stand, shivering in the warm air, as he disappears from my sight and the truck pulls out of my driveway.

I pick up the card with shaking fingers and know with gut wrenching certainty that the number printed in black does not exist, nor does Excel007 Package Delivery. My dream self knew without a doubt that we had narrowly avoided a very bad experience and was shaken to the core.

As dreams are wont to do, the next sequence was a jump that found me detailing what had happened that morning to my husband, that I had called the police, told them what happened and upon their investigation they confirmed that the company didn’t exist and the truck had not been seen in town that day.

When I woke up from this dream, every bit of it was so still so clear; the water drops on my skin from the shower, the light background noise from the television, the sound of cars passing our house. It was like any day at home, except our dog wasn’t in the dream, which was odd.

It’s been a couple of days and that sense of dread, of menace, lingers every time the dream resurfaces in my mind, which is frequently. There will be further discussions with my kid’s on how to answer doors in our future, that’s for certain, just to remind them again. Because Mommy’s dream paranoia takes a little while to overcome.

When the more creative side of my brain kicks in, that scene ends a bit tragically for the poor unfortunate fictitious family I am now creating, and opens up a whole sorrowful story of loss, redemption and revenge.

the deep of night

My eyes drift open, slowly, a vague mist of dream swirls in my mind, slumber clinging, like silky webs. Darkness surrounds me, light from the street lamp barely shimmers through the window. It is the deep early hours of the morning, filled with that dense night-time silence, a slumbering house. Quiet and mysterious. Rain gently patters outside, soft snoring rises to my ears from the dog curled next to the bed. We are in a cocoon, nestled safely inside, buffeted by darkness.

I feel the weight of his arm across my waist, the warmth of his body tucked in close against my back, our feet entangled. Soft breath, the breath of sleep, skims my ear in a gentle caress. This is wonder, the finding of him so near, so connected, the unconscious reaching for each other deep in our dreams. A sense of security, of love, of belonging, soothes my spirit, my soul. I shift my legs closer, extending contact, feeling his skin against mine. As my shoulders relax into his chest, his arm tightens over me. He is deep asleep, dreaming. Our body heat envelops us, warmth enfolding us in a shared exchange of intimacy.

At peace, my eyes drift closed once more and sleep reclaims me.

drowning the high school mean girl or Corey, you can suck it

Yes, this will be one of those posts where I divulge the trauma of my youth as a social outcast. Because this is my blog and I can.

The summer before high school my parents moved us into my grandmother’s house in Chatham while we searched for a two family home. My Dad was an only child, my Nan was getting older and it would be better financially for the family.

I started High School in Chatham, met some great kids, had wonderful classes and loved the environment. For about a two months. Then we moved to Millburn. TWO MONTHS INTO THE SCHOOL YEAR.

This is the absolute worst thing ever to do to a child. In two months the social groups are formed, the hierarchy is established, and it is so not easy merging into the insanely stupid caste system that is high school. Especially not when one is a lower middle class kid moving into a high rent district.

For fuck sake, I was from a dinky little NJ shore town, with more bars than people, my Dad was a bus mechanic, my Mom worked in the school and I didn't know the difference between Ralph Lauren and Girbaud, nor did I really care. We now lived in a place where kids were driving BMW's and getting Corvettes for their 16th Birthday. I was living in Surreal Land. Let me tell you that for kids in the Millburn School District, life is all about what you have and if it's better than what everyone else has. At least it was then. Maybe it's better now. I certainly hope so.

I didn't fit in with the larger population and thankfully met some kids more like me, realistic, down to earth and quirky. I was/am reserved and shy in public and unknown places. I don't like being the center of attention and prefer to blend in, rather than stand out. In familiar, comfortable places, with people I know, that's a whole different thing where it's easier to let my freak flag fly. So to speak.

After I had settled into a seat on my first day, after that wonderful experience of standing in front of the class while the teacher introduced me as the new girl in the school (don't they get how insanely awkward this is?), I could already sense the small groups that had formed based on what heads were huddled together, whispering, while they stared at the new chick in no name jeans, generic sneakers and a battered denim jacket. One of the girls asked me where I was from, smirk firmly plastered on her perfectly made up face. My response was the shore area, I figured no one would have a clue if I named towns, so why bother. When same girl asked where that was, my defensive inner bitch emerged. You know, I said, sand, water, beach. The shore, you've probably seen it. Snickers erupted from a handful of kids, and the girl's face flushed and she stared back at me, vitriol blazing from her hate filled eyes. I had just flipped the figurative bird at one of the popular kids and she would never, ever let me forget it, by waging a career campaign of trying to humiliate me at every available opportunity. And holy shit, there were so many opportunities.

There is always one person, it seems, that will be your nemesis throughout your entire high school experience. That one person that singles you out to mock, to point out as different, to hassle your space, to make you loathe walking into a classroom. I guess it's a character builder, having such an individual to deal with, to find a way to co-exist with or punch in the face, if all else fails.

For me, this person was Corey, the girl I had embarrassed my first day of school. She was used to other kids being intimidated by her, reveled in her popularity and role as de facto leader of her social strata. I had disrespected those roles, to her way of thinking. I had broken the boundaries and Corey's comfort zone. I would push back, stand up for others she and her ilk picked on and try my best to make her as miserable as she made me. Corey, as fate, or irony, would have it, was in my writing class, my english class and my art class. Christ, I could not get away from that demon spawn. And from the very first day of our meeting, she hated me. I have to say the feeling was mutual, but I recognize now that we were both sporting huge chips on our shoulders, and needed to prove ourselves to be bad asses.

I had always loved art classes, and my creative writing classes. I was able to escape into the assignments, taking the images in my head and use words to bring them to life on paper. I had yet to discover the power of, and my love for, photography. I was dreadfully unhappy in this new place that first year and my writing invariably focused on the one place I found solace in describing, a small town in Rhode Island that I fell in love with the moment I first visited. Rocky shorelines, pebbly beaches, dense woods, crashing surf.

I loved this place, wished I were there fervently and often, as I tried to adjust to my new environment and the people I needed to navigate to find my place.

This school was the very first place I experienced reading my creative writing out loud to the class. It sucked big hairy moose balls. I was insecure in my voice, painfully shy and did not want to put myself out in front of kids I was finding to be scathingly cruel. It was like living the mean girl nightmare. They surrounded me, and they were led in their douchebaggery by the evil bitch Corey. Every time I read an assignment to the class, she would utter snide comments, point out my faulty grammar, find something to criticize and ride it to fucking death. She completely disregarded the teacher’s chiding for bad behavior and kept at it.

When I had written another descriptive essay about Rhode Island, focusing on the large boulders that riddled the shoreline, and how jumping from one to another gave me a sense of power, escaping the clutches of the frothy sea water reaching up to grab me by feet and pull me under as I leapt over its foamy expanse, Corey hurled the bolt that slammed home and, until recently, has been embedded in my brain since 10th grade.

Don’t you write about anything else? She sneered at me. Is that the only place you’ve ever been? You’re writing sucks. This from the girl who had spent spring break in some exotic resort, recovering from her nose job. The teacher scolded her but, as usual, had no control over the prima donna that tormented my high school days.

What made these jibes stick so hard, was that Rhode Island had been the furthest from home I had ever been at the time and it was my sanctuary, the safe place in my head and heart where I escaped, at a point in time where everything was out of balance and uncertain. I endured the remainder of the semester listening to Corey talk about this place or that, poke at everything I wrote, every art project I generated and found ways to ridicule me mercilessly. She was the demon riding my shoulder. I didn’t let anyone else pull that kind of crap with me and had a reputation for not taking anyone’s bullshit.

I once walked out of math class and slammed this girl up against the lockers for spreading rumors about me that she knew were not true. I made recant her lies to everyone who had spread into the hallway to see the girl fight, before I let her go.

When one of Corey’s sycophants kept shoulder slamming me in the hallway, I rammed her so far into a bank of windows that she didn’t talk at me, or to me, from that point on. I didn’t tolerate stupid people hassling me.

Yet, I let Corey silence me, I could not shut her up and I allowed her to influence my writing and my creativity.

A couple of years ago, I was reading a book on writing and it referenced the voice in your head that makes you doubt your writing, that criticizes constantly and that you have to tell it to shut up whenever it speaks. Immediately Corey’s face sprang up in my head. Holy Shit, I realized. You Bitch, Go Away.

It was her voice criticizing every word I wrote, every picture I drew, and every creative effort I labored at over the years. Whenever I set pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, it was her face floating in front of me, ridiculing my efforts.

When I started blogging, I promised myself that Corey would have no dominion on my words and so far that has held true. I love knowing that I banished the evil bitch to the bottom of the sea, under a big ass boulder, not far off the coast of Rhode Island. Whenever I get stuck or start wondering what right I have claiming to be a writer, I envision her there, with sand getting stuck in her girl parts. And flip her the bird.