Remembering Poetry

I was thinking about something that struck me funny. It happened at church on Easter Sunday, sitting in the pew with Andrea and Rob & Julie. First of all, I really was not expecting to see Rob & Julie and was completely surprised when they not only showed up, but decided to sit in their usual pew – with me. Secondly, after the whole “buying-their-house” fiasco, I was really shocked that they were civil – even though they were the ones who made it a “fiasco” in the first place. ...that’s all beside the point... Anyway – Andrea and I were discussing how the recent time change had really messed up her niece’s sleeping schedule. Rob piped up and made a comment about growing up in the north and how it felt like it was daylight until 10PM...to which I agreed, being from the north myself. Then I said, “Don’t you all remember that Robert Lewis Stevenson poem called ‘Bed in Summer’?” When everyone looked at me blankly, I began to recite: “In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day. “I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people's feet Still going past me on the street. “And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?” They all laughed a bit, looked a little surprised at my impromptu recital, and then Rob – as serious as he could be – said, “We’re engineers...we don’t do poetry.” It was all I could do to keep from laughing myself out of the pew! Julie, his wife, just nodded in agreement. With regard to the poem – I still love it to this day, which is probably why I was able to recite it off the top of my head like that. My grandmother, Tennie, used to read me all kinds of wonderful things when I was a kid and now I’m trying to instill my love of all things rhythmic and lyrical in my kids. Poetry, A.A. Milne (Winnie-the-Pooh), Eloise...so much more. I remember Grandma Tennie reading (and sometimes singing) to me in her scratchy, many-years-a-smoker voice – cigarette in one hand, scotch & milk (with one ice cube) in the other...when I was very young. TTFN JMS

Emotional Basket Case - that's me

My little guy...my Charlie Bug...is four years old now and I don’t know why, but that has me very emotional. On Tuesday night, I went to dinner with my very good friend Barb and her little son (who is Charlie’s age) and, of course, Greta was with us, too. I felt on the verge of tears all night and could barely talk about Charlie or his birthday without getting that hot, stinging sensation under my eye lids and a painful lump in my throat. Of course, I cry at just about everything, though, so I guess being emotional over my first-born child’s fourth birthday is nothing all that news-worthy. But I don’t remember being this emotional for any of his other birthdays – not even his first one! I was not emotional when Greta turned one just a couple of weeks ago. I mean, aside from being utterly exhausted and (unknowingly) on the verge of the flu, I felt pretty good! I had family and friends, all of whom I love very much, at our house and I had a wonderful time! Our friend, Kevin, will probably be laughing his head off right about now. Kevin, as most of you probably remember, is the choir director at our church. He, his lovely (and currently pregnant) wife Nikki, and their little daughter have become good friends over the last couple of years. (I have a point...) Kevin, I am sure, chooses the music the choir sings with two things in mind: 1) The level of difficulty, which is always a factor for any director. He has to consider the ability of his singers and weigh that against the piece he chooses. Our choir is extremely talented and strong vocally, so the difficulty of a piece probably doesn’t sway him too much one way or the other in his decision. 2) Will the piece he chooses, when sung during live church services while the sanctuary is crowded with the faithful, make Jen cry? If he thinks the answer is yes...than that’s his piece. If the answer is no, he might do the piece anyway, but I think he’s less inclined to “make the most of it.” Needless to say, by the time the choir’s anthem comes around during services, I’m teary and lumpy-throated anyway because we’ve already sung several hymns – which usually get me, too – so the anthem is just icing on the cake. I can see Kevin up there, sitting quietly in his seat eyeing me, wondering: “Is she crying? Did we do a good job?” I think he’s mean to me. I think he’s taking advantage of me being an emotional basket case by choosing those pieces! (Whoa – I didn’t intend to write about all that, but there it is. It’s funny what comes out of my fingertips when I just write whatever...you know?) I’m still weepy today. I’m starting to panic now about Charlie’s party. What if it’s too cold? What if it’s raining? It’s now a 20% chance of rain and it’s supposed to be 62° out...is that still OK for an outside party? I need to clean my house just in case! The party is on SATURDAY!!! What if I have to have all these people at my house? I mean, it worked for Baby Greta’s party because most of the guests were adults. But, Charlie’s going to have at least 6 kids his age there, and a couple kids who are older, and if I consider the mess that Charlie’s room was after Greta’s party – then I’m in for a HUGE mess after his! Oh well...I guess what’s going to happen will happen, right? Wish me luck! TTFN JMS

The Many Faces of our Birthday Boy!!!

Happy 4th Birthday, Charlie Bug! We Love You!!!

click on each picture to enlarge

Easter Kafuffle

Our friends, Carmine & Sarah, invited us over to their lovely home for a fabulous Easter dinner. Sarah is a fantastic cook, and she made ham, sweet potatoes, green beans, asparagus, rolls, and probably one or two other items I’m currently forgetting. Needless to say, everything was wonderful. Charlie, however, refused to touch anything, claiming, “I don’t like what Sarah cooks, I only like what you cook!” That statement is really funny to me, because I don’t cook if I can avoid it. Also, I’m sure he’s referring to the fact that we eat out entirely too often (though definitely not as often as we used to) and that he really likes restaurant food – and more specifically, Chick-fil-A. He was extremely difficult the entire night, prompting Sarah to say to him, “Charlie, I hope that the next time you come over, you’re in a better mood because you’re not very pleasant to be around right now.” I don’t blame her in the slightest. I couldn’t apologize enough for the way he was acting, even though Jamie and I did everything we could (short of murdering the child on the spot) to correct his behavior. When we got home that night, Charlie (of course) was hungry. While I was making him a peanut butter & jelly sandwich and a banana to eat, Jamie was working on the dishes. Charlie continued to be difficult and went into “deaf-boy” mode (as I call it). At one point, Jamie, who was trying to help, turned around and scolded Charlie for not listening to me. Charlie looked at him and said very calmly and rationally, “Dad, just worry about your dishes!” I had to quickly clap a hand over my mouth and leave the room to avoid laughing at this deadpan comment in front of Charlie. I was laughing so hard, and trying desperately to contain the donkey guffaws that were clawing their way out of my throat, that I had tears pouring from my eyes!! I didn’t want Charlie to see that what he’d said was in any way funny – though it was! It made Jamie angry, though, I think. He immediately turned back to his dishes, most probably to avoid beating our child within an inch of his life for back-talking. Oh – it was funny. Charlie ate his entire sandwich and banana and went to bed. Do not pass “GO” do not collect $100.00! TTFN JMS

Bitch-Fest (...be warned!!!)

I’m crabby today and there’s so much to bitch about that I don’t know where to start. (Yes, I said “bitch”... I said it once, and I’m sure I’ll say it again.) First of all, I’m still struggling with not feeling well. My ears still have cotton stuffed inside them and I’m having difficulty hearing. I am still really, really tired and somewhat dizzy. (No, not ditzy...dizzy...it’s definitely not the same thing.) I now have a cold (I think) on top of everything else. I’m sneezy and stuffy and generally having difficulty breathing – a phenomenon I have not experienced in several weeks thanks to my new allergy/asthma meds. The meds seem to be struggling to keep up with this cold, though. Then I’m feeling the pressure to make sure everything is set for Charlie’s party on Saturday. It’s supposed to be 67 degrees out and I cannot decide if that’s warm enough to have the party outdoors or not. The theory is to put out two or three soccer balls and let the kids run around to their hearts content, eat some cake, open a few gifts, and go home – hopefully worn out enough to sleep the entire night through, even with the sugar coursing furiously through their little bodies. I guess if everyone is dressed warmly enough, it will be OK – and as long as it doesn’t rain, I don’t think I’ll change my mind about it being outside. Plus, the weather forecast can change between now and then – and who knows...it might be warmer! Also, Charlie might not even get a birthday party this year if he continues acting the way he’s been acting lately. He’s been a stubborn, obstinate, bull-headed, crabby, whiny baby. He’s thrown screaming breakdowns over tiny things. He’s whined about various things until I’m ready to throttle him (something, of course, I would never do...even though it might seem like a good idea at the time). He repeatedly asks for things I’ve already said “no” to until I have to threaten to throw the “whatever-it-is” away – which, of course, makes him scream bloody murder. It’s a vicious cycle that I’m really ready to break but I don’t know how. I don’t know what we’re doing that needs to stop, or not doing that needs to get done. I just know that he’s driving us both crazy. Greta seems to be doing fine, and aside from going through a serious case of separation anxiety any time one of us leaves the room, all is well in her world. Plus, she’s finally sleeping through the night – mostly. She might wake up once anywhere between 11PM & 3AM, but with some minimal rocking or soothing, she’s back in La-La Land relatively quickly. Fast enough for me to get back to sleep without having completely lost my own warm sleepies. (You know what I mean?) Work is OK, but really, really busy. My boss is getting ready to have kidney stone surgery next Thursday and is currently experiencing quite a lot of pain. He’s preparing to be out of the office for a few days, and therefore is trying to squeeze in a week’s worth of work in just a day or two. I’m also trying to keep up with this blog and seem to find little to no time to do it in! I miss writing in this blog like one misses a long, lost old friend. I am always coming up with things to write about, but cannot seem to get to a computer when the ideas come to mind! Anyway – I know there are probably several thousand other things I could bitch about today (like the fact that our kitchen is always a freaking mess and our laundry can never stay folded which really pisses me off and I’m ready to throw everything we own out on the curb with a sign that says “FREE TO A GOOD HOME” and then let that be the end of it) but I think I’ll quit while I’m ahead. I’m no good to anyone when I’m in one of these moods. TTFN JMS PS: On the positive side – I hope everyone had a good Easter!

TPFs Revisited

Do you remember my excited post about our Toilet Paper Fairy? How we had been chosen, out of millions of families, to be graced with our own personal, live-in TPF? That the TPFs only mission in life is to make sure that there's a fresh roll of toilet paper on the holder in the bathroom...? Well...our second TPF is more destructive than helpful. She thinks it's quite fun to crawl into the bathroom when she thinks no one is watching, stand up using the side of the bathtub for assistance and start wailing away on the toilet paper roll with her chubby little hands because it's fun and funny to watch the soft white stuff float, flutter, and pile up on the floor! Oh well...I guess, even though there's a massive pile of toilet paper on the floor, at least it's mostly clean and harmless - unless she decides to eat it! Yuck! And...it gives our helpful TPF more work to do. Keep 'em busy, I say! TTFN JMS

The “Eyes” Have It

Many of you may know of my “eye” phobia...though I’d be willing to bet that most of you do not. I don’t call it a phobia for nothing. Let me explain. No. There is too much...let me sum up. (Five points to anyone who knows which movie I’m quoting there.) Ever since I can remember, I’ve been afraid – no, terrified – of things happening to my (and other people’s) eyes. Injuries, you know? I had a recurring dream growing up of my younger brother, Jeffrey (who’s now thirty and getting married this year!!!) poking his eye out with a stick. This dream is as clear to me today as it was a hundred or so years ago when I was still having it regularly. In this dream, the edges and corners are kind of soft, hazy – like they do to soap opera scenes where someone is remembering something, you know? I’m watching it like one watches a scary movie or television program they’ve seen before, where even though they know what’s coming, they’re still apprehensive? Jeffrey is just a little boy in this dream. He’s probably no more than four or five. He’s standing in the driveway of the house we grew up in on Asylum Ave in West Hartford, facing away from me so that I can only see the back of his head. He seems to be looking at the dogwood tree that was in our front yard. Slowly...oh, so agonizingly slowly...he turns around so that now I’m looking at his smiling face. He seems to be quite happy and completely unaware that there’s a big gaping, dripping hole where his right eye used to be!!! I know there’s a stick in his hand, but I can’t see it – in the way of dreams. This is when I always wake up shaking and sweating. It’s not funny in the way that what’s-his-name from A Christmas Story gets told over and over, “You’ll shoot your eye out!” It’s horrible. I’ve poked myself in the eye (the white part) with the end of a straw when I was much, much younger and less inclined to pay attention to what I was doing. I remember the little red “bubble” that was in my eye for weeks! I remember being afraid of what would happen if it burst. I’ve had Conjunctivitis (that’s Pink Eye) more times than I can count. I’ve had one really bad eye infection (when I lived in Mystic, CT) where I lost quite a bit of the vision in my right eye. This was when Clint was taking me to the eye doctor every other day and they were monitoring my vision closely, afraid if the vision went completely out of the infected eye, that the left eye might follow suit. That was when I was 20. I had to wear these funky blue glasses (think Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker’s Dracula ca. 1992 and you’d just about have it right) that were supposed to reduce the glare of light and allow my eye(s) to heal. I had to wear them indoors, as well as out – and though initially I thought I was cool, I eventually grew to hate wearing them. I have fought with allergies that made my eyes alternately water fiercely or feel like someone dumped a bucket of sand in them. I have this weird condition (is it a condition? I don’t really know.) where my eyelashes fall out. Just fall out. I sometimes have blank spots on my eye lids where the lashes should be. It makes me look strange. I refused to watch my husband’s Lasik eye surgery that was piped to a television in the waiting room of the Refractive Surgery Center back in 2001 so the curious could watch a live surgery. I sat under the TV and tried to avoid looking at the reflection of the TV in the glass of the waiting room artwork. I cannot watch movies with people who have eye injuries or listen to news stories regarding people who have stupidly shot themselves in the head with nail guns and lived to tell the tale. I try to immediately turn these things off. It all makes me physically ill. So Charlie’s eye injury has me panicked and feeling sick. It’s a small injury; an accident where the inside corner of his left eye lid (where his thick, beautiful lashes are) and the clear white part of his eye met with the corner of a book. I’m honestly not sure how it happened – and more importantly, I don’t care. The fact that it happened is all that matters to me. He’s been to see our eye doctor friend (Refractive Surgery Center) and though the white part of his eye is scratched and there’s an injury to the eye lid – it is not permanent damage. Should make me feel better, right? Nope. Charlie has this goopy eye gel he gets morning and night and thank God he’s good about letting us (Jamie) put it in. He keeps squeezing his eye shut. Poor kid. I can hardly look at him because all I want to do is cry when I see him and Charlie’s got just about the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. Jamie doesn’t seem to understand this and says that I’m afraid of everything, which is just plain not true. Ok – I’m done now. I feel like I’ve just written a horror story and I need to go get a cup of coffee and take a breather. TTFN JMS

The Cat Came Back

There is a sleek, pretty, stripy-sided cat in our neighborhood that cannot seem to keep his four fuzzy feet out of the street! He reminds me of Little Man (whose real name was Gypsy), the cat we had growing up in West Hartford. He’s much younger than the Little Man I remember, and much thinner, too – but just about the same color and markings as I recall them. Actually, I’m not even sure he is a “he” – but for the purposes of this blog... Anyway – I come home at night (usually on the nights I work until 6PM) and turn right at the stop sign onto to our street, drive about 100 yards, and there he is. He is either sitting happily in the middle of the road swishing his long tail across the double-yellow lines taking in the sights from this new and seemingly favorite perspective, or merrily padding his feline way from one side of the street to the other, unknowing or uncaring of any vehicles bearing down upon him at 25 MPH or better. Last night, he sat with his fuzzy butt on the yellow lines watching my Ford Taurus become larger and larger as I got closer to him. By the time I was close enough to see his sparkly amber eyes clearly through the windshield, I’d come to a complete stop and the cat was still there, calmly looking at me. I thought, “This cat is playing games with me!” I think he was testing to see which one would give in first: the cat or the car. The car lost. I finally beeped the horn at him and he leapt gracefully to his feet, looked at me disdainfully, and floated (yes, floated) to the left side of the road, where he turned around, plopped his butt down on the grass, and watched silently as my car eased by headed for home. I think that cat is either extremely stupid, or way too smart for his own good. I hope I don’t see him dead on the side of the road. That would break my heart. TTFN JMS

It's Monday and...

...I’m tired. You’d think after spending about 3 solid days in bed last week that I would not be tired, but I am. My eyelids are so heavy that I am honestly having difficulty keeping them open and all I can think about is the horrible green, vinyl chair and footstool in the “health room” here at work; if you put the stool right up to the chair, it’s almost long enough to lie down on comfortably. I hear it calling to me, almost as a whisper on the wind. For some reason, it would be easier to resist if it were screaming, rather than whispering. I find that I’m closing my eyes while I type this, so if you suddenly get a bunch of screwy words or gobbledygook, you know why. (I’m completely shocked that “gobbledygook” does not set off the red squiggly underline of the automatic spell-checker thingy in Microsoft Word! Apparently, enough people use “gobbledygook” to warrant it being in the dictionary. It is defined as: Nonsense or Jargon - language that is difficult or impossible to understand, especially nonsense or technical jargon. Who’d-a-thunk-it?) I got yelled at by my husband this morning because I woke him up to help me find my keys. The last time I remember seeing them, he’d had them when he drove my car home the other night. He mumbled that he’d given them back to me, but having already searched my purse three times, and in every other possible hidey-hole, I risked waking him thinking he still had them and could lead me in the right direction. What I got was an extremely sleepy, unhappy human, stomping around the house dumping stuff out on the couch. He found my keys alright – in my purse. Which, of course, made him even more thrilled about having been awakened at 6:30 AM. I repeat, I checked my purse three times before I even considered waking him up. I was as shocked at where he found them as he was upset about not being allowed to sleep in. Still – I don’t like being yelled at first thing in the morning. (He doesn’t call it yelling though, because technically, he didn’t raise his voice...sleeping kids and all.) So now neither of us is happy with the other and I’m sure we will both play stubborn until I get home tonight at 6:30. It’s very childish, I know. And Charlie is sick. He’s had a fever ranging from a manageable 99.7 to a very hot 102.5 (which always sounds like a radio station setting to me...) and has been getting Children’s Motrin twice a day for the last two days. He’s also taking Tamiflu. I’ve talked to the doctor at the pediatrician’s office and they said to double him up on the dosage of Tamiflu (meaning instead of the preventative single dose daily, he’s getting a treatment dose twice daily). The doctor is OK with me giving him the Motrin, though I’ve only been giving it to him when he really seems to need it. It’s tough seeing him so floppy and listless, though when the Motrin makes him feel better, he wants to get up and run around. It’s very hard to explain to a child that even though the medicine might make him feel OK, he’s really still sick and therefore he should rest. I tucked him in on the couch yesterday, with a big jug of Gatorade to help keep him hydrated, and stuck in one of our “Land Before Time” DVDs. That kept him occupied for a while, but eventually he got restless. Then, Daddy came home with three new puzzles and Charlie and I spent the next hour putting them together. Good brain exercise! He’s so good at puzzles and he absolutely loves them. I think I’m going to clear off the little table in his room and make that his puzzle table. Charlie’s OK – but he’s definitely sick. I guess it’s a good thing his school is on Spring Break this week, or he’d probably miss most of it anyway! Then, some pipe connection under our kitchen sink came loose and left us with water all over the kitchen floor. The water seeped out under the molding next to the dishwasher, so at first I thought it was the dishwasher malfunctioning (great) but upon closer inspection by a very competent (thank God) Jamie, he was able to find the actual problem and fix it. There’s still water to be dried up in the pocket of space under the sink, and Jamie set up a little fan to take care of that. I’m just hoping that it dries nicely and doesn’t leave us with a mildew issue. Also, we’ve somehow managed to keep our house mostly picked up and it’s such a nice thing to be able to sit on the couch and even stretch completely out, should we want to! The trouble I'm still having, though, is the enormous pile of unmatched socks! I cannot seem to bring myself to take Samantha (W) up on her suggestion of throwing them all away and starting over. That's...just...(erg)...not...right. Ok – I guess I’ve typed enough for now (800 words as of the opening parenthesis). Since I really have nothing of consequence to report, I’ll sign off. Hope everyone had a great weekend! Happy St. Patrick’s Day! TTFN JMS

Greta's Party

The keyboard and I are still fighting (I guess that means we’re not friends any more) but I’m determined to write something other than a disjointed paragraph about being sick and feeling more miserable than I’ve felt since that horrible infection (mastitis) I had after Charlie was born. Now that was pain and misery...worse than childbirth, if you ask me!

I did not work on Friday and spent the entire day cleaning my house. At one point, sometime in the late morning or early afternoon, I felt like if I didn’t lie down, I would fall over. I slept hard for about 30 minutes and then got up again, feeling much better. My dear, sweet, OCD friend Samantha (I know she won’t kill me for the OCD comment...she’d be the first one to agree with me) came over and helped Jamie and me while we cleaned. She alternately watched the kiddos, or grabbed a corner of the house and went to town. I think she did more that day than Jamie and I combined – she’s a machine, I tell you! (I guess maybe it has something to do with her being a Smart Person...she’s currently pursuing her Master’s Degree in Microbiology. How did I get all the Smart People friends? Ahem...Cara?)

Oh...there I go getting sidetracked again. (Train of thought...derailed.)

Anyway – Jamie commented that night that it looked as if we’d gained 500 square feet because the place was actually clean. Granted, our bedroom gained a lot of stuff it didn’t used to have and is currently overflowing with stuff that needs to be gone through and thrown away...but...

So Saturday morning dawned cold and snowy. Yes, snowy. I worried quite a bit that our out-of-town family would not be able to make it – especially because they were coming from North and East. But with a few more hours of cleaning, an over-budget trip to the grocery store, some pretty balloons and one lovely Winnie-the-Pooh cake later, we had ourselves a nice little party.

There were about 20 people there, and the kids all played in (er...destroyed) Charlie’s room. Greta, thankfully, had had a big nap prior to everyone arriving and she was the best behaved, calmest, most interested and happy baby I’ve ever seen during a party. Especially when she was surrounded by all those dozens (almost) of people! She didn’t cry once! She was passed from hand to hand and made the rounds of getting hugs and kisses from everyone who loves her.

We all sang “Happy Birthday” to her, ate cake (which I think she thoroughly enjoyed) and opened presents. Greta got so many beautiful outfits, some great toys, and a few fun books. With respect to everyone who brought great presents for Greta, her absolute favorite toy – hands down – is her Soothe and Glow Seahorse from her Uncle John. This little guy has not been out of her sight since it came out of the box! (Thanks, Uncle John! You sure know how to pick ‘em!)

Thanks to everyone who came to celebrate with us and for all the wonderful gifts. I don’t know how one little girl can have so many wonderful friends. We love you all!

TTFN
JMS

SIDE NOTE: This is totally off the subject, but I had to share this before I forget. I saw a man sweeping his lawn yesterday. Sweeping it. With a broom. Really. Is this a normal practice? Or, did I witness something truly odd?

Didja Miss Me?

Had the flu. Hit me like a ton of bricks on Sunday and it was all down hill from there. Back at work now, and feeling better, but not quite 100% yet. I'll post more in a day or two when I have time, and am finally reacquainted with my keyboard. My fingers are being quite reluctant, and my brain forgot how to spell. Thank God for Spell Check! (Oh...and Thank God for Tamiflu, Ibuprofin, and Gatorade!!!) TTFN JMS

The End of Several Weeks of Hard Work

Yesterday marked the end of a work project that has taken quite a bit of my time and energy. It was the event to celebrate the fact that the Company I work for received the JD Power and Associates award for an "Outstanding Customer Service Experience" for the fifth year in a row. It included a poker tournament, food, beverages (both adult and otherwise), prizes, trophies, and lots of coordination. I'm exhausted. I'm glad it's over. It wound up being better than I'd anticipated. I've heard that at least one of the poker dealers was terrible and didn't know what he was doing...but other than that, feedback has been quite positive. Everything went well. Thank goodness it's over! TTFN JMS

Justa Blurb

As we all know, email has no tone of voice. I know this and am usually very careful about how I word things when emailing...about any subject and to anyone. I have now rediscovered how badly words in an email can be taken out of context. 'Nuff Said. TTFN JMS

Update on "The Story"

I've now written five more pages. I'm pleased with the way this is turning out, even though I still really don't know how to connect everything. It's funny - every detail about these folks is so real to me. The woman's (whose name is Evelyn Markum, by the way...don't know where I got that but I like it.) house is completely constructed, furnished, decorated, and lived-in inside my head. I know where the pantry is in relation to the front door, I know which room the master bedroom is over and I know that Evelyn cannot see Officer Romani pass by in his cruiser becuase her front door is solid. That was funny. I tried to incorporate Evelyn and Romani just briefly in the same chapter and I wanted Evelyn to be sitting at her kitchen table and see the cruiser pass by her house, but from where she was sitting, that would not have been possible because the solid front door was obstructing her view. I thought, "Well that won't work!" So I took it out. Anyway - I don't think that I am going to post any more of it on the blog. First of all, the sections are too long, and though I usually write a lot because I can't help myself, nearly 5,000 words of story would be ridiculous to try to post here. Secondly, I am struggling somewhat with the story line and I don't want anyone poking holes in what I've already written until I finalize some ideas and make things a little more coherent. If you're desperate to find out what happens, let me just say that in the chapter I just wrote, Evelyn remembers how Jerry's mug got broken. It's a little wordy, but I can't take out more than I already have because then none of it would make sense. Believe me, nearly 5,000 words is about 3,000 less that it was originally. Anyway - I'm going to keep writing it because now that these people and places are so alive for me I cannot stop making them alive for someone else. Thanks for your interest and I hope that you're not disappointed by not getting any more sneak previews! TTFN JMS

Jen's Elusive Story, Part 2 (and an explanation for Part 1)

There was some confusion on Thursday or Friday (whatever day it was that I posted the first part of this story) as to what it was all about, why it was here, what was the point, etc... The only thing I can conclude from these questions is that my post regarding that story that I have stuck in my head and cannot get out has been forgotten by those who regularly read my blog. It's OK...I'm not feeling offended or anything...but as an explanation, the story is finally coming out...and faster than I thought it would. My problem was that I was convinced the story I wanted to tell was a children’s story and so I was mired in the thought processes of trying to get my story across to that audience, telling it from the perspective of a couple neighborhood kids. The more I looked at it, though, the more I realized I had more to say than would be reasonable for a children’s story and also, that I was “dumbing down” what I was trying to write – and that is why I was stuck. I expanded my horizons, looked at things from a different perspective and bam!...things just started coming together. I’m not entirely sure where I’m going with this – although the basic premise for the story has not changed. One of my friends at work seems to think this story is somewhat dark, and is worried that the woman is going to die. She is the central focus of the story and therefore, she cannot die or there would be no story. As for it being dark? It may be...I haven’t decided yet how best to pursue the angle of the tale. Anyway – I’m posting another section of the story today and maybe one or two more...and then I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. Let’s just hope that I don’t get too consumed by this, because that woman is SO REAL to me – she absolutely does exist – and I hope that I don’t become so involved in her life, that I forget to live mine. (Isn’t that a danger with writers?) THE STORY, PART 2 Officer Fred Romani sat at the end of the cul-de-sac in his squad car with one thing on his mind: the enormous sandwich in the paper wrapper on the seat next to him. He was as far away from anyone who knew him as he could get, yet still close enough to his jurisdiction to be available if he was needed. This was a strategic plan. He was taking no chances that anyone would report back to his wife. That sandwich, he knew, was strictly forbidden but he was sick of the rabbit food he’d been forced to eat for the last five months. He needed substance and if he had to sneak food to get it, then so be it. Six months ago, Romani had suffered an acute myocardial infarction. At least, that’s what those damn doctors called it – he just called it a heart attack. I call ‘em like I see ‘em, he thought to himself. He was much heavier than the department’s weight guidelines allowed, but he was a good cop, so the Chief let him slide. Besides, he’d been on desk duty for four months now – how can they expect his waistline to shrink sitting on his rear end, shoveling papers all day? Even with the rabbit food! As he sat behind the wheel, the sun streamed in the driver’s side window making his dark blue uniform uncomfortably warm. Romani cracked all four windows slightly to allow the cool, spring air access to the stuffy interior of the police car. He felt sleepy, heavy and lethargic, and his mind drifted off, but stopped just short of actually falling asleep. He didn’t want to neglect his duty, even if it was technically lunch time. Looking out the windshield of his cruiser, he admired the neatly manicured lawns of the ten or so houses on this short, dead-end street. All the houses were essentially the same, but you could see that each owner had done his best to make his own house distinguishable from his neighbor’s. Aside from the wide variety of hues, there were also structural differences – major and minor – that characterized each individual home: a dormer window here, a wrap-around porch there, ginger bread trim, a stone chimney. Not to mention the flourishing gardens that graced the fronts of each property. Nice place, Romani thought. Maybe the wife would like this neighborhood, since she don’t seem too thrilled with where we are now. You can’t afford much more on a cop’s salary. One house stood out from the others, though. It looked neglected and run down, almost abandoned, and totally out of place among the perfect “Leave it to Beaver” houses that surrounded it. There were shingles missing from the roof, shutters askew, paint chipping, and a screen door that looked ready to fall off its hinges. The fence surrounding the front yard was missing pickets in places and looked like it needed a few coats of fresh paint. The saddest thing by far, thought Romani, was the lonely bench swing hanging from the ceiling of the sagging front porch. It made him imagine a young couple, sitting side-by-side, wanting to be closer to one another, but stiffly avoiding contact – saying all they needed to say with their eyes. Even from this distance, Romani could see a straw hat and a pair of shoes carelessly abandoned on the seat of the swing. The flower bed was the only thing that hinted at the house being inhabited. Though far from the beautiful gardens in the yards of its neighbors, there were small spaces on either side of the front porch steps which were pruned and weeded to perfection. He briefly wondered about the person who lived inside that house, and wondered why they had let it fall into such disrepair – but his stomach made a dreadful lurch and pulled him out of his musings and back into his hunger. He quickly glanced around the little street to make sure no one was watching him, and, assured of his privacy, he lunged for his sandwich and attacked it hungrily. The first bite was absolute bliss and though he chewed too quickly, he was aware that his taste buds were getting a thrill they hadn’t had in far too long. The second bite was good, too, but not nearly as pleasing as the first, and he chewed more slowly hoping to savor the experience of this prohibited meal. By the third bite, guilt had set in as well as another emotion he could only label as fear. He could feel his wife’s eyes boring holes into the back of his skull, and though he knew she was nowhere near him now, he felt her presence as acutely as if she were sitting in the seat next to him. He felt scolded, like a little child. Disgusted, he put the sandwich down, swiped at his face with the back of his hand and checked the time: 12:13 PM. He was amazed that he’d been sitting here for only 13 minutes. What a waste of a good sandwich. What a time for my conscience to rear its ugly head, he mused. With another visual sweep of the tiny neighborhood, he started his engine and headed back toward the center of town. (Written by Jennifer Shell, February 29, 2008)