Elementary, my dear Watson

All of my teachers had an impact on my life growing up. I always wanted to make them proud (well, most of them anyway). I loved them for all they could teach us and for all the loving and caring they showed us at such a young and impressionable age. I looked up to them; they were my heroes. They were the reason I wanted to become a teacher myself.

My kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Imbro. I remember her being kind and somewhat "hip" because she was relatively young. She was married to a Stratford fireman (who is now the chief of the Stratford Fire Department, that is, unless he recently retired). She had pretty blonde hair, was very tall and thin, and wore glasses. There's a picture of her a few posts back. She's where it all began. I knew I wanted to be a teacher even way back then.

My first grade teacher was Mrs. Oliver. She was strick but an excellent teacher just the same. She is the teacher that really made me love reading. We learned phonics in first grade (I don't think they teach it anymore, which is a shame), and I loved every minute of it. All we did was read. This is what I wanted more of. Math was so easy for me that I loathed doing it. I'd much rather read a book.

Second grade is in the post prior to this one. No need to rehash it.

My third grade teacher was Miss Tariska. She was also very tall and thin and wore glasses, like Mrs. Imbro, only she had short brown hair. She was soft spoken, caring, and fun to be around. She was the first woman I had ever seen that didn't have a chest. I thought she'd had an operation and had to have her breasts removed (I knew some women had to have this done for some reason), but I later found out that that, of course, wasn't true. She was simply an A cup. It's funny the little things you remember. We did a lot of math that year, and I got to tutor Tommy, my crush from kindergarten, that year. I learned to like math a lot.

My fourth grade teacher was Ms. Knopick. I didn't like her. My mom didn't like her either. The main thing I remember about her is that she used to wear 2 pairs of pantyhose, both of them ripped, to supposedly make one complete pair. Yeah, weird, I know. She was mean and cranky and she didn't really like children. What finally got my mom super pissed off at Ms. Knopick was when she found out that she gave us birthday whacks. Yeah, for our birthdays "as a treat", she would bring us up to the front of the class, and give us 10 whacks on the ass with her hand (for the 10 years we'd been alive), and then she'd pinch our ass for a year to grow on. I shit you not. When my mom found out, she hit the roof. She went in and ripped Ms. Knopick a new one. Needless to say, Ms. Knopick didn't give my younger sister her birthday whacks two years later when she was in her class.

In fourth grade, we also got to switch classes for the first time, too, so I actually had two teachers, the other being Mr. Mickalovich. He taught us science and math. He was an excellent teacher. And we really liked getting to go to another classroom (if for nothing more than to get away from birthday-whack-lady). I remember him asking us one day if any of us knew the 2 national languages of Canada. Well, I had just been to Canada for my cousin's engagement party, and I distinctly heard people speaking Italian and Spanish while I was there. So I bravely raised my hand and answered his question (I was wrong, of course). He didn't make me feel stupid about it; he just told me that was a good guess.

In fifth and sixth grade, we got to have 4 teachers: Mr. Moyher for science, Mr. Sabados for Social Studies, Miss O'Connor for math, and Miss Sutherland for English.

Mr. Moyher was my fifth grade homeroom teacher. He was a weird guy. He used to have jars of sheep's brains and other disgusting things in the back of the room. He also swore he saw bigfoot and used to show us a picture of some guy in a bigfoot costume. He used to have a mint plant in the front of the classroom he'd let us eat off of. He drove an Izuzu Trooper; I can't believe I remember that. My older sister and my younger sister also had him for a teacher. And one of the last days of elementary school, during our last one on one meeting with our teachers, he told me I was never going to amount to anything because of the friends I had (one friend in particular). I had liked him up until that day. What a terrible thing to say to a student. I always thought he didn't like me because I excelled at all of my other classes except science. It just didn't grab my interest. It wasn't that I tried any less in the class; I just didn't get it back then. I later grew to love science (well, some of it, anyway).

Mr. Sabados used to sneeze into his hands and then immediately run his hands through his hair. We used to guess at how much snot was actually lurking in there. We always said he never needed gel. We were both memsmerized and repulsed by this weird quirk. Mr. Sabados taught us about Europe most of the time. We had these cool maps of Europe that had been laminated so you could write on them with markers. We used them nearly every day. He also taught us how to play chess, which is a very cool thing for a teacher to do. I will always thank him for that.

Miss O'Connor was my sixth grade homeroom teacher. She used to be a nun. She used to sing to people when they weren't paying attention, i.e. "[insert child's name}, I am calling yooooooooouuuuuuu-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh!" Used to drive us mad. She used to make it a point that you never went "over" someone's house, you went "to" their house and demonstrated by drawing a house on the board and showing a stick figure jumping over the house and walking into the house. We did SRA on Fridays and one group used to get to play Oregon Trail at the old-as-shit computer at the back of the class. She had a mean streak, but she was a good teacher nonetheless.

And last, there was Miss Sutherland. I wanted to be just like her. Have you seen Mona Lisa Smile? She looked like one of those teachers. She wore her hair the same way everyday with these big swoops in it and all secured in a bun at the back. She never wore makeup. She had beautiful, fluid handwriting that she used to coat the blackboards with everyday. And she made me love writing. She taught us not only to write stories but to write poetry, as well. She was always so giving, helping each student revise each piece they wrote. Every single piece for every single student for the entire two years I was in her class. She was never harsh or cruel. She always made us feel at ease, and we all loved going to her class. I remember finding out in high school that she was a lesbian, and I saw her and her partner at one of my plays. She still looked exactly the same.

Backtracking a little into the second grade again

I had precognitive dreams through all of second grade. Every day, I would go to school and have this feeling of deja vu, like we had already done what we were doing the day before. It never really spooked me out until I was much older and realized what had happened that entire year.

Everything felt familiar, even the next chapter of the book that Mrs. Dorman was reading to us, which was James and the Giant Peach. I kept thinking to myself, "Didn't she read us that chapter yesterday?" I never knew what the ending of the book was, just the next chapter, one chapter at a time.

I went home sick numerous days that year; I constantly had headaches. Both the nurse and my mom were sympathetic about the headaches; Mom has them, too.

And even though I wasn't there a lot of the time, I excelled at my studies that year. There wasn't a math problem I couldn't do. I surprised everyone with how quickly I was picking everything up.

I remember my mom helped me write my first "research paper" on lions or cheetas or maybe just big cats in general. We had a set of encyclopedias at home, and we got most of the info out of that. I remember the two of us at the kitchen table finding out all these new and interesting facts about cats, and my mom helping me to construct complete sentences and paragraphs. We put it all in a yellow folder, and we put a picture of a big cat on the cover. That one got an A+.

I remember singing very loudly at the holiday pageant that year, wearing my old bride costume my mom had made for Halloween a couple years earlier. Someone somewhere has video footage of that concert cuz I remember getting to watch myself sing.

We did a mixture of Christmas, Hanukkah, and non-denominational holiday music that year since Mrs. Dorman was Jewish. She was always trying to incorporate all the holidays together so we could learn that there were more than just Christians in the world. We sang "Silent Night", "Dreidel Spin", and "Snoopy and the Red Baron" that year. We learned to make a cork-popping sound by plucking the sides of our mouth with our fingers for the Snoopy song. We all got such a kick out of that.

Then on St. Patrick's Day, she brought in green bagels for all of us. I remember fearing they would taste like spinach or broccoli or something, but they were just plain ole bagels made with food coloring. We learned a little bit about the Irish that year, potatoes and leprechauns and such (hey, we were 7; she wasn't gonna tell us about the wars and the famine, etc).

Mrs. Dorman always wanted to teach us about the whole world, as much as the school system would let her. She felt it was important for us to know that there were all kinds of people out there, very much unlike us, and that having knowledge of that would help us to not pass judgement or condemn people so quickly for their lifestyles and beliefs. Mrs. Dorman was also the only teacher in the school that was divorced.

Oh, I almost forgot. THE BEN STORY. Ben sat next to me for awhile that year. I think he was on Ritalin, one of two boys who were taking the drug because they were so hyperactive. Ben always made me laugh; he was definitely the class clown. So one day, Ben brought in a pair of wax teeth. He was wearing them during class. After a while, Mrs. Dorman asked him to put them away, but he refused. By 2:30, she was at her wit's end and demanded that he hand them over until the end of class. He got up from his seat, ran for the side door, and left the building. The principal was called, along with the few male teachers we had. For the next half-hour, we watched from our classroom window as Mr. Moyher and Mr. Mickalovich chased Ben around the school. When we were dismissed at 3, Ben was still going strong. None of us wanted to leave. He was finally caught around 3:15 by Mr. Moyher when he tripped and fell.

Second grade was also the year Kyle L. moved into town, right across the street from Krissy. Oh, he was cute. I had such a crush on him. I even invited him to my MacDonald's birthday party. He ended up being the only boy there, but he sure as hell didn't mind. He was the center of attention that whole day. He moved away again the next year. I wonder where he is now.

Second grade ended with a horrible case of the chicken pox for both me and M. We had to go to D's high school graduation party covered in spots, and my dad dragged us to Riverside Amusement Park like that, too, because my cousins from Canada were visiting and he had promised them he'd take them. He never promised us that. He never took us to any amusement park. So there we were, under the scorching sun, itching like crazy and crying our eyes out. We ended up sunburned and our chicken pox lasted even longer than they were supposed to. And we both ended up with scars on our faces from those damn things.

Getting into trouble

I remember the first time I got into trouble at school. It was first grade, Mrs. Oliver's class. We were supposed to be doing our Phonics, and, for some reason, I decided to do my work on the back of a notice we were supposed to bring home to our parents. We were NOT supposed to write on these notices. When Mrs. Oliver asked me what I was doing, I freaked out and shoved the notice to the back of my desk cubbyhole. She asked me to bring up what I was writing on, so I fished around in my desk for something else that had writing on it. I found my guesses for the heights of 3 fellow students (it was a contest we were having) and brought it up to her. She told me I was supposed to be working on Phonics, ripped up my guesses, and told me I would not be allowed to participate in the contest. I was so ashamed.

In second grade, we had a subsitute one day. While playing 7-Up, I got into trouble for pointing at my friend, Krissy, pretending I had picked her. The substitute yelled at me in front of everyone. She later took my ruler away from me when I playfully snapped it while Krissy was walking by my desk. I had to ask my teacher, Mrs. Dorman, for my ruler back the next day and explain why it had been taken.

In third grade, we had a stack of index cards with our vocabulary words written on them to study from in our desks. When it was time to study, I went to get my vocabulary cards out of my cubbyhole, but they weren't where I left them. I started pulling books out to see if they had somehow slipped behind them or something. They weren't there. I quietly started to cry because I had lost them. Eventually I found them later on in the day. They must have gotten stuck in a book or binder or something.

The story of me

I've decided that maybe it's time to start recording my story. My whole story. From my earliest childhood memories to what I'll be having for breakfast this morning. I'm sure it's gonna take awhile, but, hey, I got time. And at least I'll have something to write about for the next few weeks.

I'm thinking about trying to write the majority of it in chronological order. Of course, I can change my mind halfway into it. I am a woman, after all.

So here's my story:

In the Beginning

My first memory is of me on my dad's shoulders in the brown family room. The brown family room is still so vivid in my mind it's scary (both having the memory and the brown family room in general). I must have been around 3 or 4 years old because the room had just been built. The whole room wasn't actually brown, just the walls and the sofas. The heavy curtains were blue and the carpeting was this strange mixture of grays and blues. Both those things are gone now. To this day, that room still has ugly brown paneling on the walls. So '70s. We also had these brown sectional sofas, and I remember there were actually 2 pieces (chair size) that were placed back to back in the middle of the room. Who's idea was that? Anyway, Dad's seat was in the corner, the best seat in the house, naturally. While we were watching TV, I'd always climb up onto his shoulders and watch from there.

My next memory is of me and my sister, M, playing. Again, I was probably 4 and M was 2. We must have just seen a movie of people in bed together because I remember the two of us getting into my bed after taking a bath and making kissing noises and touching each other's bums. Hey, we were kids... kids do strange things.

I remember trying to look up my mom's nightgown around this time, too, and her getting very angry with me for doing so. I was an extremely curious child. I remember seeing my Dad's bum while he was getting dressed one day and being completely grossed out. I think I was trying to see if my mom's bum looked like my dad's.

M and I were obsessed with seeing naked people ever since we got cable, but we were always more intrigued with naked women because we wanted to know what we'd look like when we finally got big. I remember being absolutely amazed by breasts. They were just so pretty.

This was also around the time that I realized that my sister, D, hated me. No, she really did. She'll even admit it now. She hated me. She had been an only child until I came along 10 years later. Who the hell did I think I was horning in on her show?

She let me suck on permanent markers. She also made me pick up an entire box of rice krispies that had fallen on the carpet with my hands instead of getting the vacuum cleaner out. She and her friends laughed at me when I reached to pick something up off the floor and my underwear was showing under my skirt.

This leads to the tale my mother absolutely loves to tell people, the day D left me home alone. I was 5, and my friend, Krissy, had come over after school. Around 3:30pm, D's new boyfriend showed up at the house. D then took Krissy and me aside and told us that she and her boyfriend were going to go for a walk. She said they'd be back soon, but in the meantime, I was to answer the door when her old boyfriend showed up. I was to tell him she wasn't home.

They left. Krissy and I played for a while. Then the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and there was D's old boyfriend. I told him D wasn't home. He asked where she was. That was when I spotted the gun in the car. It was sitting on the middle console. I told him D had left about an hour ago, and I didn't know where she was. Then he left.

I closed and locked the door. Another half hour passed, and D hadn't come home yet. By that time, Krissy and I were really scared. We didn't know what to do. So I called my mom, and told her that D hadn't come home yet. Mom told me she'd be home in a few minutes.

My mom must have flown home. She worked about 6 or 7 miles away, but it seemed like I had just hung up the phone and there she was in front of me. We were crying and scared, and we blurted out the whole story to my mom.

About half an hour later, D finally came back to the house. She was, shall we say, VERY surprised to see my mom's car in the garage. When my mom asked her where she had been, she told her that she was in the backyard the whole time. When my mom asked her why she didn't come back into the house after the old boyfriend had left, D had no answer. After a huge fight, we came to find out that D and her new boyfriend had taken a walk around the block and had hung out in the woods that are on the other side of the back street behind the house. I GUESS you could call that the backyard.

During this fight, my sister called my mom a bitch, and my mom struck her with one of those spikey curling irons. It was a very bad day.

If my sister didn't all-out hate me before this incident, she surely did after it.

Hey, in my defense, I was 5. And the dude had a gun.

That's all for today.

Mabon

Also called Harvest Home or simply Autumn Equinox, this holiday is a ritual of thanksgiving for the fruits of the earth and a recognition of the need to share them to secure the blessings of the Goddess and God during the winter months. from Wikipedia

Sister Spikey Mace wrote about Mabon this morning, as well. Go check out her post; it's an excellent one.

I noticed that the Autumn Equinox was soon approaching via my lovely faerie calendar I have hanging up in my cube, but I felt it coming, as well. It's around this time of the year that I start to sleep in more in the mornings and simply have a sense of loss? depression? longing? wistfulness? (ok, maybe it's not that simple). I just don't feel like I'm all there, ya know? Like a part of me is missing. And I don't know where to look for it.

This feeling eventually goes away as it gets colder. Then Harry and I sit around drinking hot apple cider and cuddling up under our faux fur blanket to veg out in front of the TV. Suddenly, I feel full, no, more than full, like spilling over the brim. I get that feeling of "my cup runeth over" as Thanksgiving and Christmas stroll around.

Yet it's this time now, mid-September to mid-October, that always gets me down. I have no desire to do anything. I wonder where I went to. I get these extremely strong creative urges with no energy surges to play them out. This is the time when I long for the old me, the girl who wrote poetry and painted her fingernails black. The girl who sat in coffee shops, having a smoke and waxing philosophic about why our hearts must break.

Thankfully, this melancholy will be gone soon. For now, since I don't feel like creating, I'll share some lovely creations in celebration of Mabon. I love the google image tool.

Can you tell which one is me?

Picture 1: Kindergarten - from left to right:
Top Row: Cyndi, Paulino, Kristine, Mark, Amy, ME!, and Mrs. Imbro
Middle Row: Donald, Todd?, Tom, David, Andriana, Dave, and Jennifer?
Bottom Row: Leighann (and her poor, broken arm), Brandi, Steve, Tony, Heather, and Debby

Picture 2: First Grade - from left to right:
Top Row: Todd? (another Todd?), Marissa, Tristan, Suzanne, Tom, Andriana, Jon, and Mrs. Oliver
Middle Row: Chris, Steve, Jason, Mike, Justin, Kristine, and Paul
Bottom Row: Heather, Christine, Jen, Janet, ME!, and David
Seated: Ben and Tony

Surprisingly enough, I went to school with most of these people for years, which is why I still remember their names. I even went to college with a few of them, and I still keep in contact with a handful. Many of them still live in our little town, so I see them at the local supermarket from time to time, as well. It's funny how small towns work.

Take Cyndi for instance. We've known each other since we were 5 years old. We still get together whenever Jess comes home. That's 23 years of friendship.

As Harry and I were going through some of his old pictures a couple of years ago, I spotted one of Cyndi around age 5. Yep, Harry's known Cyndi just as long as I have, yet we never knew of each other's existence until about 5 years ago.

It may be a small world, but it's an even smaller town. Sometimes it's comforting, other times it's downright creepy.

I demand eye care!

Insurance is a pain in my arse. If you're covered for say, vision, under the plan, and it actually says, "VISION: YES" on your ID card, then wouldn't you think that you were automatically covered for eye exams, glasses, and contacts? Well, not with my insurance carrier.

Harry and I have an appointment next week, but we decided to go in on Saturday to pick out new frames ahead of time. When we got there, the receptionist decided to call our insurance company right then and there so we'd know how much will be covered on our purchases. For some reason, the insurance provider couldn't find me and could only find Harry through the "medical" section of coverage. If vision isn't medical, what is it?

So they called again and spoke to someone else, and this person at least found me (I mean, geez, I'm the freakin' primary on it; how could they find Harry but not me?). Vision coverage still wouldn't come up. What is this horse crap? I checked it myself via their online service, and I got the info in 30 seconds. What's the deal?

So I checked again this morning (the coverage is outlined in black and white, same as it was before), and I called, as well, again receiving the same info via those stupid automated service things. I called my vision place back, and they said I might have one of those weird plans where you have to submit a reimursement form after the fact, which I find strange since Harry had this same insurance 2 years ago, and it went through on its own.

I don't really mind filling out the necessary paperwork and waiting for the money back, but at least give me some kind of heads up that that's what I'll need to do. With all the medical stuff I've had done this year, there's been no problem, but this damn $20 I get towards my eye exam is proving to be the thorn in my side. $1800 for an MRI... SURE! $300 for bloodwork... SURE! $20 to get your eyes checked out... oh, I'm not so sure.

I guess what I'm really ticked off about is the fact that my employers decided to switch insurance carriers for this year to try to save some money. I had a great insurance plan last year. It covered everything, no questions asked. Doctors' offices would see that card, and suddenly, I was royalty. Now they see this new card, shudder at a mere glimpse of it, and banish me in the corner until they can squeeze me in. Ok, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit. They actually give me a condescending look now due to the insurance I have. "Oh, you have C----, I'm so sorry!" C---- is definitely the red-headed stepchild of the insurance world.

So now I have to see if my inadequate HR department has any reimbursement forms for me to fill out, and possibly see if they know of anyone else in the company who's had this problem. Maybe if we complain enough about the new coverage, they'll get a better provider. After all, the big boys have to use this insurance, too. Maybe after this passed year, even if they don't think their employees need better care, they'll realize their families do. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Saturday mornings

Harry's at work this morning. Sadness. He got up at 5am on a Saturday to work. If that's not insanity, I don't know what is.

He started his new position at his company on Monday. Since his old division is soon moving to Joliet, Illinois, we were really starting to worry that he wouldn't have a job come March when they bid us a fond adieux. He had found out about this new position back in May and immediately submitted a resume. He went on an interview a couple of weeks later, and it went well. They said they'd let him know their decision in one month's time. We hit July, and still no word. He asks HR what the deal is, and they tell him no decision has been made yet. August rears its head and still no word. Then ANOTHER interview is scheduled. After all is said and done, Harry gets a call at the end of that week to be told he has the job; he starts in 2 weeks.

Cue this Monday. He's now working in a print shop. He loves it. He's always loved being a machinist. It's what he did before 9/11. His company (an aerospace part manufacturer) closed a month after that tragic day when a multi-million dollar deal collapsed with one of the airlines involved in the 9/11 attacks. Harry had been working there since the day he graduated high school. He loved that job.

He was out of work for 6 months after that. Companies were closing left and right around here. Jobs were scarce. I, myself, was laid off a few months after he was. There we were, in a brand new relationship, both of us jobless, both of us trying to keep not only clothes on our backs and food on the table but the very roofs over our heads. When his unemployment was about to run out, he decided to take a seasonal job as a landscaper at a local retirement community condo complex (say that five times fast) for $4 LESS an hour than what he had been making before.

Luckily, since he's such a hard worker, they realized what he could do for this landscaping company and offered him a full-time job as a foreman a few months after he started working there. It came with a $1 an hour raise and benefits. He worked the whole summer, fall, and beginning of winter until we got word that a position was opening up at my old company that he could do. He so much wanted to get back into manufacturing and such, and this position would be a way to do it.

He was offered the job (I believe on Christmas Eve), and he took it not a moment too soon. Christmas morning we got a call from the landscaping company telling him he had to work all Christmas day, plowing the roads of the complex. Seems the town doesn't plow their roads for them since they're technically not town roads. Bullshit. I can understand each person having to go in for a couple of hours to get it done, but an 8 hour day? Man, call in all your non-Christian workers to plow that day. Harry told them he couldn't work all day, and they told him he'd better come in, or else. Or else what? So Harry told them he'd been offered another job, and he was taking it. Then they asked if he was still coming in. Yeah, right.

So, Harry's been at my old company for almost 3 years now. He likes it, for the most part. And he's been very excited about this new job. He loves the fact that he can get all this overtime in without any fuss (the higher-ups in the other division were sticklers about overtime). He calculated last night that if he can do 54-56 hour workweeks every week, he'll be making a shload more than I do. That makes him happy. That makes me happy, too. That's one step closer to paying off the cars and buying a house of our own.

I miss him. Saturday mornings have always been my favorite time with him. I guess we'll have to have our SUNDAY morning ritual from now on.

"When you dream, what do you dream about?"

From School of Metaphysics: Your dreams tell you about your present state of awareness; this is why we dream. Dreams come from an inner place we call the subconscious mind and are presented to you in images which, when interpreted in the Universal Language of Mind, become personally relevant to you and your life. The meaning of these nighttime messages can literally change your life.
When studying dreams and learning to interpret them, you need to know the two universal principles which apply to everyone, everywhere, at all times. The first of these principles is that every dream is about the dreamer. The second principle is that every person, place and thing in the dream is the dreamer. We as human beings are very multi-faceted. A great majority of us are only aware of a small part of who we are. You can learn to expand your awareness of yourself by learning to interpret your dreams.

From a post By Michael Sheridan: Dreams come from your soul and are intended to help you progress along your life path. In sleep the focus of the physical world and the body is on hold and during this period your soul has a perfect opportunity to dialogue with your conscious mind... or so it would appear. The problem here is that the subconscious never sleeps. Think of the subconscious like a faithful dog always on guard to protect its master. Your soul asks the conscious mind to make a change to some aspect of functioning in order to avoid a particular undesirable outcome. Let's take a very common example. Say your soul wants you to be less analytical / rational in your approach to life and to incorporate intuition / feelings into the decision making process. It dispatches a dream for this purpose. Ideally the dream is received and your conscious mind accepts the direction of your soul and begins a program to change in this direction. The more likely outcome, however, is that your subconscious mind asserts itself in the dream and provides all sorts of reasons why this change should be avoided. Due to this, the message / request in the dream is effectively spoiled.

I've always tried to read into my dreams. I think they're important. I think they are a part of me, not necessarily an important part, but a part nonetheless.

I've had significant dreams, ones that were premonitions to something that would soon occur. I've been able to separate these dreams from the everyday static my mind creates while I sleep.

Then there are the absurd dreams, ones where people I know are doing strange and bizarre things, like riding down the road on a big cantaloupe or telling me I can't go to work because the Pope is calling. These are my favorite kind of dreams to have, mostly because even though there is a lot of activity going on in them, I always wake up feeling very refreshed and happy. These dreams make me smile. My creative side obviously takes over on the evenings I have these dreams, and I think she likes to flex those muscles once in a while.

There are also the scary dreams, my B-Horror-Movie dreams. These dreams usually take place in a familiar setting, and the cast is made up of people I know. I am always the main character, but I never look like me. We're always being chased by someone or something, it is always dark, and we are constantly afraid. I wake up exhausted after one of these dreams, like I've just run 10 miles. My heart beats frantically, and there are times when I've woken up crying. I've gotten hurt a few times in these dreams, and the pain seems real while I'm asleep, although it quickly dissipates upon waking. I don't have these too often, but Harry knows when I've had one. I usually jerk awake, wide-eyed and terrified. It takes me a minute to realize not only WHERE I am but WHO I am. I've had these dreams all my life, and I attribute them to the fact that I am still afraid of the dark at 28.

I also have a few reoccuring dreams, which also happen to be B-Horror-Movie dreams. I had most of these dreams growing up, although one of them still creeps into my head from time to time now. There was the octopus dream and the 3rd floor fire dream I had while growing up that I haven't had in years now, and then there is the clown/troll/gremlin-type thing that chases me through my grandparents' house dream I'm still, unfortunately, afflicted with.

And lastly, I have what I call the left-field dreams. These are dreams about people or places from my past. They're usually very emotional, and I've never been able to find a reason for having them when they occur. I wake up confused and drained. And sometimes I wake up feeling guilty.

Does everyone dream about people they were once intimate with? I'm curious to know. Do these people come back into your lives through your dreams like he does mine? I feel like my mind is being invaded. The dream even seems to linger after I wake up.

I want to know why he's still here, in my head. I want to know why he won't go away. It's almost like being haunted, yes, it's exactly like being haunted... haunted by the ghost of the person you once knew. Both of us are ghosts, merely apparitions of the people we used to be, in these dreams.

I wouldn't mind a little Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind action right about now. I need to mentally kick his ass out; he's worn out his welcome.

Good Times, Good Times

It was a good weekend. I had gotten a message from Jess the Saturday before last, telling me that she was coming into NYC for work from the 6th to the 10th, and, wonder of wonders, her boss told her she could come to CT for the weekend and fly back to the office Monday morning. Woo hoo!

She got in on the Metro-North Saturday afternoon and gave me a buzz. I drove a whole 1/2 mile to her mom's house where she, Tara, and I stuffed ourselves with Marie's pasta and meatballs. We drank copious amounts of wine, bullshat, and ended the evening feeling SO Golden Girls after Marie (Jess's mom) invited the mother of an old friend from elementary school over to chew the fat and catch up on gossip. After ranting about taxes, real estate prices, and the ever-increasing gas prices, I called it a night and left Jess to defend for herself (sorry, hon!).

Sunday evening, the lot of us (Lea, Jen, Jess, Tara, and I) ventured on over to Archie Moore's for a few drinks. There was no herd that evening (I guess Archie's has been slow), so we got to pick pretty much any table on the patio we wanted. We decided to steer clear of the birthday party that was going on in the back corner and settled ourselves in at a table in the corner opposite the little shindig.

We ordered a round from our less-than-charming waiter (who obviously thought muttering snide comments under his breath or repeating the drink order back in a haughty and accusing tone, i.e. "I'll have a Jack and Coke with a lime, little ice" repeated back in the manner of "OK, you're the lesbian at the table; which one is your bitch?" is a pleaser with the ladies). We drank and laughed and ate and laughed and snapped some pictures and drank and laughed some more. Good times, good times.

I, unfortunately, had a premonition

Wednesday morning, 4am. The phone rings. No, I won't pick it up. The caller ID says it's my sister. I DEFINITELY won't pick it up. The flashing image I had right before I fell asleep crosses my mind again. Shit. Hello? Dad called an ambulance. He's going to the hospital.

Less than 10 minutes later, I arrive at the emergency room. The nurse takes me to my sister, who is in tears. There was some kind of incident with the paramedic. The nurses had him leave he was upsetting everyone so much.

We sit and wait. We hear the words "26% Congestive Heart Failure".

Not again.

M says his blood sugar level was 388 last night. Holy crap.

He called the ambulance because he couldn't breathe and his chest was tight.

After changing their minds about a million times about what they want to do, the doctors move him to MICU. We follow him upstairs and wait some more. Finally, he is settled, we talk to his nurse, and then leave him to rest a little. He's supposed to be going in for a Pulmonary-Artery Catheter.

Me, I have to go to work. M takes school off that morning for lack of sleep. I go to work blurry-eyed and in a daze. At 5, my boss sees me and asks what's wrong. I'm sent home to see how Dad's doing. My boss is a good man.

My sister has been elected the person who calls the hospital for updates; MICU asks that all families do this. I haven't heard from her all day. I managed to call my mom and my other sister to tell them what's going on, as far as I know. Finally, at 6, after still not hearing from my sister, I toss out the rules and call the hospital myself. The catheter has been rescheduled for tomorrow because Dad's blood is too thin from the new meds he's been taking. Harry and I go to visit; he looks better. He has been very accepting and compliant all day. He's finally listening to the doctors when they say he needs a pacemaker. I think he's finally scared.

The next day rolls around. My boss tells me to immediately go home when I show up for work. I tell him I'll stick around for a few hours, seeing as I can't do anything at the hospital while he's getting the catheter done. My boss tells me to leave as soon as Dad's out of the procedure.

The doctors are going in to see if the quintuple bypass performed 9 years ago has deteriorated. Since my dad didn't give up smoking or drinking after his first, second, or third heart attack, they're afraid for the worst. They go in and find that all the work is holding up fine. Life is full of surprises.

After hearing this bit of information, my father suddenly becomes non-compliant. He gives the nurses and doctors a hard time. He wants to go home. He's thinking about not getting the pacemaker. Dammit all to hell but he is such a pain in the ass.

The doctors tell him he can go home on Saturday and then come back on Wednesday for the pacemaker. He's grouchy about it but agrees to it. On Friday, the doctors decide they don't want to release him. They feel he would be better off there with nurses at his side until the pacemaker's put in. Dad agrees to it... at first.

Sunday morning, he calls my sister and demands she come get him right now. He leaves the hospital. He's been home since.

Luckily, he's still going in for the pacemaker this morning. He's there right now. I've developed a cold over the passed few days, so I haven't been able to see him. And I won't be able to see him for the next week. I just hope I didn't transfer the bug to him BEFORE I knew I was sick.

My sister had it out with him on Sunday. He expects too much from her. I agree. She is not his mother or his wife. He was such a cruel bastard to her on Sunday as she ran around picking up his meds and getting him settled at home.

The way I see it, she doesn't owe him a damn thing. He left us when we were children. He never offered us love, only critizisms. I've learned to care about my father but not to get too close because, well, he bites the hand that feeds him continuously.

I've prepared myself for something like this to happen over the years. Something like this is inevitable when someone is given a second and third chance to fix things and they don't. The doctors have told him over and over again that the drinking and smoking will be the death of him, but he won't listen. He still holds that child-like mentality that he will live forever.

M has not prepared herself at all. My father has always been a very strong and willful man. Nothing seems to stop him. So when this happens, it knocks her for a loop. She sat and cried while I just sat. It's not that I don't care; everyone knows that I do, even though they have told me not to time and time again. It's just that I know that this is how it's going to happen.

It has been a horrible week. More later.