Archive for October, 2007


I never had Trick-or-Treaters at my prior residences (once I had my own place). When I moved to this house, I was optimistic I’d get a few. I don’t know many of the kids in the neighborhood, but I thought maybe some of the kids from next door would show up, and bring friends.

The first year, I bought two bags of candy, just in case. I worked a full day, and rushed home, noticing all the Trick-or-Treaters out and about. Hoping I’d still get a few despite getting home so late. It was madness. My two bags of candy were gone in 20 minutes. I was giving out Starlight mints and breakfast bars, to looks of extreme disappointment. After a while, I just turned off the porch light and other lights visible from outside and hid in the kitchen, worrying my house would be egged. (It was not.)

The next year, I was prepared with more candy – despite working a full day, I still gave out 17 bags of it. I barely had time to go to the bathroom all evening.

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I had a dream

I had a dream last night.  I was really tired, and I was driving somewhere.  Since Latifah was on the back seat in a carrier, I think I was driving home from a vet appointment.  I was so very tired, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open, and I started swerving into the other line, into oncoming traffic.  But, I just couldn’t keep my eyes open… after a while I was pulled over by a police officer, and the dream got odder and took on a “Patricia Cornwell” feel – where I sensed something wrong with the police officer, who escorted me somewhere to get myself together…

 What do you suppose it means???

 I’m no dream analyst, but I’m thinking perhaps it means I’ve been really tired – and spending too much time chauffeuring cats to vet appointments – and reading too much Patricia Cornwell during my commute.

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Okay, I’m needy. First of all, I am STILL trolling MySpace, searching for friends. I’ve added celebrities like KT Tunstall and Evanescence. I’ve added fictional characters such as Spencer & Russ from Psych, “Chuck” and even Vincent the dog from LOST. I’m pathetic, and sadly I STILL have less than 40 friends. I look at the profiles of people I know with over 100 or even 250 friends… and wonder what they have that I don’t. (I realize the answer is most likely “a life”.)

I’m needy here as well. I look eagerly to see if anyone has commented. Generally, no one has. Some have viewed, that’s encouraging. Hopefully they didn’t just get here by accident, and leave as soon as they saw “Crazy Cat Lady Blogging” – huh? What the heck? I don’t want to be here…

Perhaps sadder yet, I actually go to the comments that wordpress has marked as spam, and read them all. I hope to discover they’re not spam – but genuinely people I’ve never met that have commented on my blog. Now, the ones that contain links to Viagra or hot cars are unlikely to have actually looked at my blog…. but maybe the ones that just say “Nice read” or “Looking for something different and found your blog” or “Keep the posts coming”, maybe wordpress is wrong. Maybe they’re not spam, but fans.

By the way, I have actually started writing the book – the first in what I hope to be a series of books. Pretty exciting! Of course, I got all bogged down in details and wasted the first afternoon debating what size the book should be – standard paperback or grocery-store paperback? I spent hours debating where the page numbers should be. However, once I really started writing, it was fun! Fun for a while, that is. After about 10 pages, it got significantly less fun. I’m up to about 16 pages now, with pictures, if it’s a tiny grocery-store paperback. I will either need to push myself harder, or it will be the shortest book in history.

A friend suggested I need to give it to others for feedback, once it’s drafted. She says writing a book is not supposed to be easy. It’s not? That’s a huge bummer. My dilemma – if I give the book to friends and family, who will buy the book? I have maybe ten people who have promised to buy a copy – but if I’ve already provided it to them for feedback, there go all my sales.

Same friend suggested I decide how much I’d like to earn, then divide that by the number of people who will likely buy it. However, I doubt these people would pay $1 million for a book. I’m counting on, if the price is low enough, some will buy it out of pity.

In the meantime, I’ll attempt to bask in the two mentions I have in other books. One is just a first name, but the other has first and last name… on page xv. Unfortunately, it seems few people read those roman-numbered pages. I’m considering buying packages of those small stickie notes with the arrows, like you use to indicate people should sign documents, and trolling bookstores placing them strategically on page xv.

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A friend lost…

I got the news Friday morning. A friend of mine had been killed. An act of violence had ripped a beautiful giving person away from me, her family, her friends…

I remember our last conversation so vividly. She called me with some news a little over a month ago, and was so excited. So full of life. It sounds cliche, but I agonize over why I hadn’t made time to call her since then. I’d meant to. I’d thought about it often. I just hadn’t gotten around to it. Now I never will.

I think our friendship often perplexed people. We were so different. We really didn’t have much in common. We were both raised in small towns, and raised Catholic. That’s where the similarities ended. She was tall, thin, athletic, and beautiful. The type of beauty that turns heads and makes men beg for introductions. The type that invites stares even in her worst work-out gear. She worked out daily, and ate healthy. On the other hand, while she was doing abdominal crunches and eating boiled egg whites, I was watching T.V. and eating raw cookie dough.

There was something about being around her. We once went roller-blading together – of course, she bladed along gracefully while I struggled behind sweating and red-faced, until I collapsed in the grass and had her finish the trail without me and meet up with me later. She made everything athletic look easy. I tried out raquetball – she borrowed my raquet and made it look effortless. She went with me to some plays and dance performances. I went with her to a few fashion shows. She’d attempt to explain to me how fashion shows mattered, when I couldn’t imagine anyone wearing the couture on stage. She was so understanding, yet pulled no punches. She’d look at my clothes and laugh, with comments like “You bought that in the 80’s, didn’t you?” or “Oh, this is so you!” She’d try to help me understand why I really should never wear tangerine orange – ever. She’d take me to a store and show me how really lovely a new pantsuit or jacket could look on me.

The last time I spent a day with her, I had such a great time just talking to her for hours. Though we had so little in common, we always found conversation easy. Why didn’t I talk to her more often? I ache to talk to her now. I keep hoping it’s just some horrible mistake. I can’t imagine what her family is going through.

There always seemed like there would be time later – time to talk more, time to take photos, time to tell her just how fantastic she is. Time’s up so suddenly. I think I might have one photo of the two of us – somewhere. It never seemed important before. Now I want to hunt for it, find it and frame it though it’s a hideous photo my mother took of us.

I want to scream “Wait! No fair! No warning!” She wasn’t supposed to go for 40 years yet, old and gray, but still beautiful, surrounded by loved ones. Not like this. Not ripped away violently.

You know what else upsets me? Despite this punch in the gut experience, I’ll probably make the same mistake again. Eventually lose someone else with things left unsaid, photos left untaken, and not enough time spent together.

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