Nothing like stomach pain

to break an addiction.

Last week, my stomach pretty much hurt all week. I stayed home Friday so as to be near a bathroom. Why did my stomach hurt? Well, I'm pretty sure it was the coffee habit I'd been building. I haven't had coffee since last Thursday. Ok, well, there was that Starbuck's run on Sunday. Doh. But it was 1/2 soy milk. Anyhoo, my stomach feels much better, and the thought of coffee makes my insides lurch.


I swear I'm not making this up...

I found this memo I typed to myself among the stories and poems from my "early years".

Lakeland Library Cooperative was where my mom worked and was the site of my first job. I pulled books to be sent through inter-library loan. Apparently, on April 10, my mind was not on my job. I'm sure I wasn't day-dreaming any OTHER times on this job. Er...

I don't remember writing this poem, but I must have. It's funny that 20 years ago I thought that I needed to write every day even if I didn't feel like it. One of the books I'm reading advocates that as the only way to become a writer.

Um, ok, you probably want to know about "Casey Taylor". I don't remember where "Casey" came from except that my friends, Karen and Beth, and I had pseudonyms. "Taylor", of course, was because I was going to marry this man.


Oh Hai

U R tween mi n mi fud

U G'Way Now

U got kittehs in teh hiz-ouse?


1st Sentences of High School Stories I wrote for "fun".

Never before had I seen "Tony's" so swamped by patrons. I made my way over to the table in the center of the small happy restaurant, nearly tripping over someone's little boy sprawled in the aisle.

The immense man clad in a gray suit made his way briskly across the park crowded with lunching business people. He did not look over his shoulder; he stared straight ahead, oblivious to all except the pretty middle-aged blond secretary sitting on the bench facing the fountain. He stood in front of her waiting for her to notice. She finally looked up from the romance novel she held in her manicured hands and started violently.

Ahhh... Summer. Yet it can be so rudely interrupted by the worst possible scourge... BAND CAMP.

It's funny who you run into. The other day in Italo's, I could have sworn I saw my sister through the window. The thing is, I knew my sister Jayne had died several years ago at the age of 20. When I thought I saw Jayne through the window, my first instinct was to run from the restaurant and follow her, like she had come into town unexpectedly. Then the cold fact hit me all over again. The body. She died almost 10 years ago. And I hadn't actually seen her face, it must have been a trick of the eye. The heat in the big city does that. Doesn't it?

If you had told me, say a year ago, that I would write a book, see it published, meet the man of my dreams, marry, have a child, and lose it all, all within one year, well, I guess I would have laughed. Unfortunately, or fortunately, that is exactly what happened and in that order.

Early in the morning, a lone car meandered it's way to the High School. In the car were two girls who felt surprisingly wide awake for so early. The dark haired one started to say that it seemed like a trip that starts at daybreak, but the blond one beat her to it, which was not unusual for them; they always managed to be thinking the same thing at the same time and almost trying to beat each other at saying it, it seemed.

I suppose one could call my life strange. I do, every time I think of it. From the time I was 17, my main ambition was to be rich, not just well-off but bonified filthy rich. At 18, I entered the state lottery and won $50,000. It was good, but not good enough, so I invested most of it and went on a cruise around the Bahamas with the rest. On this cruise I met my husband.

The light through the open window falls on his still form. A summer breeze ruffles his dark hair.

Oh, yes, you may laugh. All these stories "end" after a page and a half. Maybe later I will publish the LAST sentences of these stories. They are just as good, if not BETTER. :)

Chaucer was a Chump. (Not Really.)

Hey! I found my Canterbury Tale Poem from January 1987. I think it holds up well, you know, rather TIMELESS. Um, yeah. I'm not going to type the whole thing up, but here are my favorite bits...

To a fair city I once took my leave,
An incredible journey, and hard to believe.

The next morning while looking for the church,
We felt the car give a mighty lurch.
We found ourselves lost in Chicago's slums,
Far from any of our church bound chums.
The decadence of the city closed in on our ride,
"Hourly Rates" and "Mirrored Ceilings" printed on a motel's side.

Cramped in the backseat sat three well-hipped girls
Eating pretzel sticks and chattering like squirrels.
What we would buy! And where we would live!
We pondered the joy the town had to give.
Sailors on leave caught all our eyes,
The parents in front caught all our sighs.

That trip, very memorable indeed
For the moment, seemed all my restless soul could need.

Awesome! I apparently was a prolific writer, as I found many typed gems that I will share. There are some that are absolutely embarrassing... Woo hoo! So you've got that to look forward to. There's lots of written fodder typed on my portable electric typewriter. Oh, yeah, baby, a typewriter. I never used a computer for papers until college.

A Rose by any other Name

In 6th grade, we did a poetry study... we must have been writing haikus and trying different styles of writing. Somewhere in there, I decided to put together a book of all the words that rhyme with -ade, -ent, -al, etc... I really thought I could achieve a comprehensive book of all the words that rhymed with every ending any word could have. I had pages and pages of these lists. I left enough room (about 3 lines) for every ending... you know, in case there were other words I thought of that would fit. Eventually, I realized that NOT ONLY were there more endings that I could possibly find, but also there were an infinite number of words to fill each list. I abandoned the project.

There was a time when I enjoyed writing poetry. I even got a poem in the school newsletter in 6th grade. It was about Thanksgiving dinner and it went something like "mashed potatoes, turkey, gravy; and the jello, nice and wavy." Um, wavy? I remember being really pleased with myself about that line.

In High School, we had to write a Canterbury Tales type travel poem. The only line I can remember from that one was "3 well-hipped girls" (I think I had us riding in the backseat of a car, or something.)

In College, my poems often went horribly wrong. They'd start out all serious and the last line would be a punch line. I tried to write sad, pathetic poems about love lost, and they'd end up with lines like "get too near the edge and I'll give you a shove." (I am sure it rhymed with "love".)

I think maybe I should see what's in my poetry well... and just let the goofy fly out onto the page. Could be fun as it used to be!



Is Spring FINALLY here? Apparently, this little guy thinks so! Huzzah!


Almost Famous

Yeah, not really famous. BUT, I will have photos for sale at our local Coffee Shop/Art Store, The Brick.

I'd been hemming and hawing about taking the pics in to show the owners. Even after talking to them about it and them being interested in seeing them. I fell back on self-sabotaging thoughts like "I think they're good, but they're probably not." "There are photos in here by people who have way more experience than I do." "Who do I think I am, trying to sell my photos?"

Finally, I decided to stop being a wimpy little baby girl and take the pics in. I matted and framed 6 of my favorite pics. Lee was doing his guitar set through lunch, and it was busy, so the owners didn't have time to look at them until after the lunch rush.

Sherry, one of the owners, looked at them and was excited about them. I said, tentatively, "If you don't have room..." And she said "Oh! We'll make room! They'll go RIGHT HERE. These are great pictures!" Now, I think that Sherry pretty much likes Art, in general, but it did make me feel pretty good. No, not good, great.

In the book I've been reading about unblocking my creativity, she talks about not needing validation from others to say "I'm an artist." or "I'm a photographer." I guess I'm not there yet. Although, even with others' validations, I can still sabotage my own self just fine. Must work on that.

Now there's talk of an Art Fair in Belvidere at the end of June. The question is, will I be able to grab the bull by the horn and get pics ready for the show? I'm tired of wimping out.... it's more tiring maybe than trying something and being successful.


Carbon Copy.

Lee and have or have had the habit of having new people from church over for dinner. One of the families from last year were Chris and Ann. We got to chatting, you know, the usual. Turns out Chris was born in E.Grand Rapids a year after I was born in Grand Rapids. He followed me to MSU, even living in the same dorm his 1st year that I lived in my 1st year. Now he's in Belvidere, and I just found out he has a blog. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Gee, thanks, Chris! :)

We enjoyed dinner AND a show with C&A last night... their girls kept us laughing. It ended with a nearly-naked crying meltdown. (Not any of the adults... although I have felt that way from time to time.) The littlest girl has been taught to say "What the deuce?", and it is hilarious coming from a nearly 3 YO.

Don't you wonder about the secret lives of children? What's she thinking down there in the dirt?

This girl's got a killer swing.



With very little help from my backseat photoshopper, I managed to tweak this photo from "nice" to "WOW" in about, um... well, ok, I'm not the most EFFICIENT PSer. Yet.

See, nice... kinda cool.

Here is where you say "WOW! It's magic!"

Just For Grins

Google (used as a verb here)

backseat photoshopper


The afghan that never ends

My friend Katherine came over to knit the other night and pulled out THIS BEAST...

Notice the gigantor "skeins" of yarn on the floor. She's got 2 more in the bag next to her. Now that is dedication.

I was working on a tee-tiny (in comparison to the afghan that never ends) dishcloth.

Did you ever feel...

Like you were....

Being watched?