The Inner Me

Brigit’s Flame July Week 3

 

Prompt:  Hats

 

 

THE RED HAT

 

 

            Mandy had never looked good in a hat. She didn’t even own one, preferring to wear a coat with a hood when the weather grew cold or inclement.  Summer presented a bit of a problem because Mandy has that fair skin that burns and never tans, but the solution was frequent applications of facial sun-block, the kind that prevented aging of course.  And Mandy does look young for her age.  She is proud of the fact that most people assume she is in her mid-forties, a good ten years younger than she actually is.  So, when Mandy opened the red envelope that had come in the mail and read the invitation inside, it posed a bit of a quandary.

 

            She took her cell phone out of her purse, slid open the door to the apartment’s balcony, and sat down in the black wooden rocking chair to call her sister.  As she listened to the ringing over the line, Mandy noticed that the potted flowers occupying various angles of the porch needed watering.  They were looking as listless as she felt lately.  Then she heard Maria’s voice.

 

“Well, hi there,” her usual greeting.

 

“Hi.  You’ll never guess what I got in the mail today.”  Mandy’s voice dripped with derision.

 

“What was it?” 

 

Mandy’s tone took on a hint of disbelief, “An invitation to a Red Hat Society luncheon.  Oh, my God.  Why would anyone think I’d want to go?  And isn’t that for really old women?”

 

“To some people, Mandy, you are really old,” Maria answered dryly.  “Besides, I think you only have to be around 50.  Who sent it?”

 

“Dunno, didn’t get that far.  I was so surprised I just called you.”  Mandy scanned back over the invitation.  “There doesn’t seem to be a name.  The luncheon is at this restaurant here that is really cute; it used to be n old library and it’s still got bookshelves and things.  And the food’s great.  It says it’s a week from Saturday at noon, but not who it’s from.”  Mandy turned the card over to the back to be sure.

 

“Are you going to go?”

 

“God, no!  I’m not ready to declare to the world that I’m older.  I don’t look it, feel it, or act it.  Besides, you know how dippy I look in a hat.  And it would have to be red.  I refuse to be that conspicuous.

 

“You are getting close to 60, you know,” Maria reminded her.

 

Mandy felt a jagged edge of irritation underneath her ribs.  “I don’t have to acknowledge it, though,” she said, “And certainly not glory in it.” 

 

After ending the call, Mandy continued to rock on the porch.  There was a delightful breeze playing in the July evening and it swayed the blossoms on the flowers and caressed her face and arms.  She thought about Maria and the conversations they had had over the past few years about aging.  Maria just moved along with it, accepting her looks and where she was in life with ease.  She was comfortable.  Mandy was dismayed.  “But,” she rationalized to herself, “Maria is three years younger than me – still in her “mid” fifties, and in a stable, happy marriage.  She’s had someone around who’s loved her for thirty years.  I’m in this alone.”  The thought she didn’t add, but which lingered around the edges of her reasoning like a dark cloud, was that maybe she always would be.

 

Later, sitting at the desk in her sitting room, Mandy googled “red hat poem.”  Clicking on the link, she read the opening lines:

 

  When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

 

The poem was actually entitled “Warning” and was written by a woman named Jenny Joseph.  Mandy scanned the rest of the poem, inherently understanding the desire to defy ageing with audacity.   But she didn’t need a society to help her do that!  She had a tattoo, for God’s sake.  And no one – NO ONE – believed her when she admitted to her age.  Maria usually told her that she, in fact did look like she was in her 50’s, and people were just being polite.  But Mandy silently disagreed.  It happened too routinely not to be true.  She could carry off being younger for a while and she counted on it.

 

Mandy looked at the invitation again, then tore it in half and threw the pieces into the artfully decoupaged trash basket beside her desk.  She loved this room, especially the delicate white desk she had found at an antiques mall.  The window, over the white wicker daybed, looked out on the woods behind the complex.  Mandy gazed out, considering.  Then, picking up her purse, she took a business card out of her red wallet and dialed the number, making an appointment for herself.  Filled with anticipation, she curled up on the living room sofa and called Maria.

 

“Guess what?”  she said when Maria answered.

 

“I’m afraid to.”

 

Mandy laughed and said, “I just made an appointment for tomorrow to get my nose pierced . . . “

 

“Mandy, no!” Maria interjected.  “It will look ridiculous.  You’re not 25, and you don’t have the right type of nose for it.”

 

“It will just be a tiny stud.  As small as I can get.”

 

“Don’t do it.  You’re making a mistake.”

 

Mandy sighed, disappointed, as they ended the call.  She crossed the room, slid aside the door to the porch, and sat down in the rocker, thinking about herself and her life.  She was keeping the appointment, she decided.  She smiled at the mental image of herself with a tiny diamond nose ring.  It was a much better picture than the one of her showing up at a luncheon wearing a red hat.

 

 

 

Annie’s Story

 

 

            I’ve always believed in true love.  I’ve just never found it.  Oh, sometimes I thought I had.  But then it never lasted, so how true was it, then?  I’ve been heartbroken several times; I know I’ve caused heartbreak myself.  It’s out there, though, I can sense it, feel the promise of its possibilities.  I think, for me, the purpose of this lifetime is to finally succeed at love.

 

            I spent my teenage years in longing.  I read romance novels and daydreamed of the lover who would claim my heart and complete me.  But I went to an all-girls high school and my brothers were far too young to have friends who could be prospective boyfriends.  And I was shy, feeling so very awkward whenever boys were around.  The quintessential memory of my adolescence occurred on an evening in early May when I was about 15.  I was sitting on the ledge of the casement window in my bedroom, watching the purple ashiness of twilight seep into through the evening air.  The voices of children echoed from the backyards below and the sky held a crescent moon with Venus hovering near.  We were studying Romeo and Juliet in English class and I had memorized Juliet’s balcony soliloquy and was reciting it with a yearning heart as I gazed at them.  “Starlight, starbright, first star I see tonight . . .”

 

            I met my first lover when I was 19 and a frustrated virgin.  It seemed that most of my college friends had long since experienced the wonders of sex, which were still an unfortunate mystery to me.  His name was Kevin, and he had already dated, bedded, and left desolate the girl across the hall from me in my dorm.  Any self-respecting young woman would have told the jerk to get lost, but not love-desperate Annie.  After two weeks of making spectacles of ourselves wrapped around each other in the living room of his dormitory, he talked me into bed.  I demurred a minute or two, but being too avid for the experience, I pretty quickly acquiesced.  But the experience was, well, less than memorable.  Pretty much all I recall is laying there not really knowing where to look or how to touch and it was rather quickly done with.  The relationship was over within 6 weeks when he told me that he wanted to have me at school and another girlfriend at home in Cleveland.

 

            Robert I married.  My first real relationship, it was tempestuous from the start, but only emotionally, not sexually.  Because I’d confessed to Robert that I was not a virgin, he decided that intercourse should be put off until marriage, although we did most everything else.  I discovered that orgasms were delicious and I had them easily and often.  When we finally got around to penile penetration, it was in fact our wedding night. And again it was less than memorable.  I had long since outgrown any feelings of deep desire for Robert, and my reasons for marrying him are the makings of another story.  All I can say is tha despite 20 years and 4 children, spending time in bed with Robert became, for me, mostly a chore and a means of pacifying his moodiness and agitation.

 

            But there is more to the marriage story, and it’s not something I admit to with pride.  A year or so into my marriage I fell in love with Michael.  Perhaps “fell in love” isn’t the most accurate description.  Obsession conveys more clearly the depth of passion and desire I felt, or the desperate need that pushed me to take risks to see him.  Michael was also married, and during the years we continued our relationship he and his wife added two children and I had four, none of which were his.  I know by the timing of things, and thank god for that.  It was bad enough when Robert pieced it all together, and, although I claimed I ended things, Michael and I simply became more surreptitious.  I felt like I found myself when I was with him, ached with desperate pain each time we said goodbye and I watched him walk away from me to go home to his wife.  Ironically, my relationship with Michael ended soon after my divorce from Robert.  I no longer needed the emotional escape from my marriage and what little Michael had to offer couldn’t fill the void in my life.

 

            I’d like to skip over John, lover number four, but I need to keep this narrative honest.  I remember telling my sister-in-law, in the months after my separation from Rober, how much I would just like to be held, to relax into someone.  Being alone was tougher than I’d imagined, like continually trudging uphill with a full backpack.  When an acquaintance set up a blind date for me with John, I was ready to fall into someone’s arms.  And after so many years of either inadequate or stolen sex, his touch felt exquisite.  The weekends my kids spent with their dad were filled with such lust and carnal pleasure we barely left the bed.   And I decided to marry him, just months after my divorce from Robert was final.  After I discovered he was a narcotics addict.  Before I found out that without Vicoden soothing his nervous system, he was ugly-mean and abusive.  The night he grabbed my 16 year old Jeremy around the throat, pushed him against the wall, and said “I’m gonna kill you,” in a fit of rage he was escorted out of my house by the police.  The marriage lasted a year, and I rarely admit to it.  But the sex was so very good . . .

 

            When I met Larry a year or so later, I believed fate had brought us together.  As if working, going to graduate school, and raising 4 kids wasn’t a fulfilling enough life, I was tired of the loneliness that haunted my quiet moments.  And I was desperate to be touched in a way that hinted at pain.  So, I joined an internet dating site and Larry came into my life.  He admitted to me a few months into our relationship that he had basically used the site to troll for sex, which is funny since he told me he loved me after two weeks.  It was at the end of a 16 hour marathon in bed, of course, but I was ready for love any way I could get it.  Looking back, I can see that what I thought was love was simply the thrilling ride of infatuation coupled with the surge of lust.  After 3 months we were engaged; after 3 more we were not.  But the relationship continued for nearly 5 years, convenient and familiar.  Until I met Charlie . . .

 

            I was besotted.  And I knew it was probably hopeless since Charlie was so much younger than I was.  Although people tell me I look much younger than my actual age, the fact is I was in my early fifties and he was in his middle thirties.  The lovemaking was passionate, intense and erotic and I gave myself over to it completely.  I’m not sure that Charlie did.   I think the uncertainty made me desperate, and desperation made me clingy, and after a year it was over.  Stunned when he told me, it took me months to realize that somehow during that year with him I had lost myself.  It took months more to even want to see other men, or to want them to touch me.  At the same time, my last child was getting ready to leave home and I found myself living entirely alone for the first time in my life.

 

            I began feeling, well, not exactly loneliness as much as a craving for connection.  And I went a little crazy with it, having two lovers in quick succession.  Perhaps  “lovers” isn’t the right terminology here.  In all truth, they were glorified one-night stands.  I met Ben at a party on New Year’s Eve and fell so hard I must have knocked the sense out of my head.  Even my children told me I was behaving with all the angst of a teenage girl in love for the first time.  I called him several times a week, I asked him out (he went), I invited myself over to his place for sex.  In my defense, he did lead me on, calling me “sweetie” and “baby,” which I imbued with meaning that was actually non-existent.  I spent one sweet night with him, during which he held me close and murmured he loved me and we were meant to be together.  I overlooked the fact that he was drunk, too drunk to even enter me.  I left the next morning holding the memory of his closeness like a caress.  He ignored every call from me after that, except for one text when I begged for an explanation.  He responded rather coldly, saying he wasn’t into me and he assumed I would just figure it out.  I had, of course.  I just hadn’t wanted to believe it.  The disappointment settled on me with desperation . . ..

 

            Until I met the Pirate.   Number eight.  He really was a pirate, went to conventions and everything.  It was only a couple of months later, but we seemed to connect on all levels and my heart soared.  We never made it out of the car on our first date; on the second he spent a luscious night in my bed.  He told me he was moving to Florida in a few months, had a ship to sail in the Keys.  I thought that if we fell in love, he would change his mind and be content with one of our land-locked lakes.  I was wrong.  Within a week he said it was over.  He didn’t want a relationship that was all about sex!  And he didn’t want anything in his life that would interfere with his dream of moving to the Keys.  I kept in touch, kept trying to talk him out of it, or into it, whichever.  He told me to move on.  He was done.

 

            So, that’s my story.   I’m seeing a therapist now.  She wants me to commit to not dating for awhile, to not having random sex.  She says I need to discover who I am and to like myself much better before I’ll have a good relationship.  Eight tries – eight failures.  I figure I’ve got one more chance to do this right.  Night’s falling as I’m writing this, I can see the moon rising in the summer night’s sky, Venus twinkling bravely nearby.  I sigh and my heart beats inside me. “ Starlight, starbright, first star I see tonight . . .”

Prompt:  Symbiotic

Here goes!  No title.  I'm barely making the deadline as it is.

Madelyn

 

I’d driven by the place several times before I actually stopped.  From the road it looked so non-descript, a rectangle of peeling white paint; two square windows above, and two down, one wistfully hosting a small red and black FOR RENT sign.  The house fronted a busy road and promised nothing to me but an unprepossessing space, and a fixer-upper at that.  I wasn’t much with nails and hammers. Nor did I have much money.  But I was getting desperate.  I slowed my car as I passed the house, turned left into the grass of the side yard beyond it, and got out to take a look.

 

The side view of the house offered nothing more than the front.  But I noticed that the tangle of trees and shrubs that blocked the back of the property from view came all the way over to the house along the side, obscuring it, except for the second story which continued a ways into the overgrowth.  After walking around to the other side and finding it similarly blocked, I began looking for some sort of pathway.  None was apparent, but I was now too intrigued to stop and began pushing at the leaves and branches to make my way through, forgetting to even watch for poison ivy.  I could feel my face and arms getting scratched and attacked by gnats and other insects inhabiting the greenery in the August heat.  Within a few minutes, however, I emerged sweating and a little bloody on the other side, only to be stunned by what I saw in front of me.

 

The grassy yard curved down until it met a creek, probably an arm of one of the small nearby lakes.  The creek itself was fairly wide and looked deep enough to maneuver a boat through.  Moss covered stone steps led up from the water, bisecting the yard and becoming a path that led to the front of the house.  My eyes took in the porch that extended across the front of the house and promised a place for a swing and some Adirondeck chairs.  The front door was oak and featured a stained glass window at the top.  I strode over to the porch and went up the stairs to peek in the front windows, which looked out over it.  The room on the right side appeared to be a living room with a fireplace along one wall.  The room on the left might have been a bedroom, or perhaps a dining room and it also had a fireplace complete with blue and white tiles around the center.  I turned around to take the scene in again, knowing I’d found what I wanted, even if it did need work.  Maybe that would keep the rent from being too high.  I only needed a number to call.  It took a while to find another For Rent notice, this one at the water’s edge,  at the bottom of what turned out to be rather slippery stone stairs, posted on a stake stuck into the ground.  I copied the phone number down, re-climbed the stairs, and looked at the house once again.  Satisfied, I made my way back through the shrubbery to my car.

 

 

Olin

 

I been stayin’ here for upwards of a month or so.  Found an unlocked side door half hidden by the shrubbery and just walked on in.  It’s dusty and dirty and smells of mildew.  Probably mold too.  Good thing I ain’t allergic.  I’ve been beddin’ down in the back room next to the kitchen.  It has a fireplace, most every room here does, so I’ll be fine when the nights get cooler soon.  Been able to cook there, too.  I’ve been able to panhandle enough to buy some food, so I’ve been jus’ fine.  Even done some fishin’ in the creek.  There’s an old shed out back I found one day.  It has a boat in it, and some fishing gear.  The boat looks to need some repairs, so I’ve just been fishing from the grass, or sometimes wading out a bit.  Not that I couldn’t fix the boat.  I’m pretty handy.  I’ve even thought of callin’ the owner’s number and seeing if I could fix things up around here in trade or something, but they’ll probably do a reference check.  That prison thing doesn’t look so good to people.  So I’ve just kinda kept to myself the last few weeks, grateful for a place to be.

 

I saw the woman peekin’ in the windows out front.  Pretty thing, although middle-aged.  Kinda stange someone like her’d be peekin’ around.  I thought of scaring her by yelling or something, but I thought better of it.  More ‘n likely she’ll look around and just go away and I’ll be jus’ fine.  What would she want with a house like this anyways?

 

 

Madelyn

 

I was sitting in my car, still in the side yard of the house.  I was nervous when I dialed the number from the FOR RENT sign.  But I’m always nervous calling people I don’t know, even businesses like doctors and dentists.  But I got my nerve up and dialed my cell phone.  “A woman answered.

 

“Hi, umm, I’m calling about the house for rent?”

 

“Yes.  Goodness, we haven’t had many calls.  I’m Mrs. Nesbitt.  It was my grandparents house.”

 

“Well, that’s nice.  I wanted to see inside and ask how much it rents for.”

 

“We live in Wisconsin.  How do you feel about seeing it by yourself?  It needs a lot of work, you know.  We don’t really want to sell the house, but being so far away we haven’t had a chance to really do anything about it yet.  There’s a side door on the right that is open and leads to the kitchen.  The keys then are inside the cupboard over the stove.  Why don’t you go take a look and see what you think?  It just needs so much work . . .”

 

“Well,” I was feeling a little surprised, “I guess before I do that I need to know how much the rent is.  The house is so what I’d want, but I have a budget for my rent and . . .”

 

Mrs. Nesbitt interrupted.  “We can make it work for you if you can promise to fix the place up a bit.  How does that sound?”

 

“Umm, sure!”  I breathed, a little too optimistically.  I wanted that house!  “I’ll take a look and call you back?”

 

“That will be fine.  If you decide to rent it, we’ll set up all the details then.  You do work, don’t you?”

 

“Oh, yes.  For years.  I work for an advertising company – graphic designer.  I’ll go look at the house again now and call back after.”

 

After closing my phone I got out of the car and headed back through the thicket, emerging with even more scratches, mostly on my face.  This time I looked for a side door and spotted it, overrun with ivy, just past the bushes.  I was a little hesitant as I turned the knob, feeling a bit like an intruder stepping into someone else’s life.  What surprised me was that the door opened easily; I thought I would have to push against it a few times.  What I didn’t notice at the time were the areas where the ivy had been broken along the top of the old door.  I peeked around before walking in.  There was enough light from the windows that I could see well, so I went ahead and entered the kitchen.  There was an old stove and refrigerator, tall cabinets that stretched almost to the 8 foot ceiling, painted a now-chipped green.  Not my favorite color, but painting I could do.  The floor, though . . . that would require some work.  The probably ancient linoleum was stained and cracked.  But didn’t they make things in tiles now you could just lay down and press?   I remembered the keys.  Mrs. Nesbitt said they’d be in the cabinet over the stove.  I made my way over and reached for the handle when I heard a sound to my right.  My eyes widened in alarm as I spun and saw a man, fiftyish, standing in the doorway to the next room.  I tried to keep my voice even and firm.  “Who are you?  There’s not supposed to be anybody here.  I’ve just talked to the owner  This is going to be my place.”

 

 

Olin

 

Her voice was trembling, but she had her lips set in a determined line.  Her arms were crossed in front of her chest, clear body language for self-protection.  I had to smile, then laugh.  She was trying to be so forceful.

 

“Well, my question would be who are you?  Possession is 90% of the law, as they say.  Or somthin’ like that.  I believe I was here first.”  I smiled as charmingly as I could, although I am missing one of my upper teeth.  Canine, I believe.

 

“I’m, uh, here by permission of the owner, Mrs. Nesbitt.  I just talked to her”.  Her voice was high and tremulous. “ I’m planning on renting this house.  She didn’t say there was an occupant.  So who are you?”

 

“I found it first.”  I was trying to make her uncomfortable, so she’d want to leave.  For good.

 

“You’re just a vagrant, aren’t you?” she asked.  “I’ll call the police.”  She reached into her jeans pocket for her phone, but her hand came out empty.  “Damn!” she exclaimed, now starting to look around anxiously.

 

“Now tell me,”  I drawled, “what do you want a place like this for?  It’s a mess, dirty and dusty.  And it needs a lot more than TLC to fix it up right.”  I moved closer to her and she took several steps back.  I was enjoying the alarm on her face.  Thought I’d take it a little farther . . .  “What you so scared about, darlin’?  I’m not that dangerous.  Only killed a couple of people before they locked me up.”

 

“OK, I’m leaving, but I’m coming back with the police.  And I have the keys,” she said, backing toward the door.

 

Maybe I was taking it too far, and maybe she had more determination than I originally assumed.  “Wait a minute, darlin’ . . . I wasn’t serious.  About killing anyone, I mean.  Just robbery, no one died.”

 

She stopped suddenly and looked straight at me.  Her voice came out firm this time.  “Look, Mr. Whoever-You-Are, I am going to rent this house.  It’s just what I want, what I need really.  You have no idea.  Scaring me isn’t going to make me change my mind.”

 

I had to admire her at that point, and I didn’t want her returning with any police.  What I started thinkin’ was maybe we could work something out . . . ‘Hey, gotta deal for you,”  I said.  She stopped, the side door held partially open, and turned around.  “It seems like we both need this place, then.  You’re maybe runnin’ from something.  I just left my own nightmare.  And I’m pretty handy at fixin’ things.  My name’s Olin, by the way,” and I reached my hand out towards her.

 

She hesitated.  “Oh my god,” she said, “I can’t believe this.”  Then her small hand touched mine.  “I’m Madelyn,” she said.

There was an article in the Sunday Star about the quality and success of various charter schools in the city. I skimmed through it, but started paying attention when the writer began making comparisons - via test scores, of course - to different IPS schools. IPS in general looked worse than even the unsuccessful charter schools. But this type of comparison makes me really angry. First of all, why are the results of one yearly standardized test deemed the primary method of evaluating education? Isn't education supposed to be much more than merely teaching to a test? Unfortunately, that is what it has become. What it fails to provide anymore is teaching kids to develop higher level thinking skills and to develop a love for learning. But, more importantly, my frustration stems from the comparison itself. Charter schools don't have to take everybody; they can choose their students. IPS cannot. Just this past year I received a call from a charter school principal about a student they were letting go who was returning to Harshman because it was her boundary school. This student's mother was causing "difficulties," the school had already been in touch with CPS concerning this student, and her academic performance was very poor as well. Of course, we enrolled her; we have to. As it turns out, she failed 7th grade with us, and more than likely failed the ISTEP as well. This is just one example - there are countless others who come back from charter or township schools during the year. And, what comparison charts also fail to mention, is the type of kids who make up our student population. First of all, the percentage of Special Education students is disproportionately high. Secondly, most of our children come from difficult family situations and certainly depressed economic ones. One student I talked with this past year indicated during our conversation that they were out of food and it would be a few more days until mom got the next food stamps. She was eating at grandma's. Add things like this to the proportion of single parent (mostly moms) families, and the level of stress and distress in their lives, like a cousin getting gunned down on the street. These children live lives we middle class people can't even imagine. In Maslow's hierarchy of needs, education come along way after safety and getting enough to eat. Yet our kids scores are compared to others as if it is a level playing field. It's infuriating.

January 27, 2010

 

 

What Am I?

A child of God . .

   A wild thing . . .

I am passionate . . . I am wild and unfettered . . . I am crazy with life

   I am a child of God

I am happy and free . . . I am uncensored . . . I am truth and beauty

   I am ferocious and loyal and loving

      I am free . . . I am beauty and wildness and rain and wind . . .

I am impassioned.        I am free and untangled

 

  I am careful of myself  . . . I am beyond hope

         I am sorry . . .

 

June 20, 2010

 

To My Future Self in 10 Years,

                What do you make of this poem now?  Personally, whenever I read this aloud, I wonder at that last line – I am sorry.  I am a sorry mess?  I am sorry for not really being wild as the wind and rain and thunder?  I am sorry for who I am?  Maybe by now you have figured this out, conquered the waves of sadness and hopelessness, let the wild child run free.  I don’t  even see, much yet understand, the many layers of repression that hold me down.  I  tell myself I am interesting, worthy, worthwhile . . . I’d like to believe in the passtionate, bold, and undaunting spirit that speaks within the meditative trance above.  Sometimes I can feel the yearning of that wild child for more than I have offered her so far on this journey of mine.  Tell me that you have done better.  Tell me that you have grown into yourself at last; that the wind rustles the leaves of trees when you laugh.  Tell me you have discovered the truth of your own beauty . 

                I imagine you, reading this.  It is summer, too, and you are sitting at an old wooden desk in front of an open casement window.  I hope this  is the cottage by the sea I’ve always dreamed of, looking out over water that can soothe my soul even lashed about in a violent storm.  It calls to me, that wild water  - do you still hear it?  Or have you lived within it and become who you were meant to be?  I am looking at you now with my heart’s  eyes and you are young even still, and there is a bemused expression on your face as your eyes scan this letter.  A good sign?  That is what I hope.  My desire is  that ten years from now, you are not still sorry.

 

With hope,

The Wild Child

P.S.  And what of the tattoo?  Did you decide on the rose or the dragon . . .?  I know what I am thinking you might have done . . .

The BBC believes most people will have read only 6 of the 100 books here. How do your reading habits stack up?

Instructions: Copy this into your JOURNAL. Look at the list and put an 'X' after those you have read.

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen - X
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien -
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte - X
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling -
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee - X
6 The Bible - X
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte - X
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell - X
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman -
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens -
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott - X
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy -X
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller -X
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare -
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier -X
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien - X
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulk -
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger -X
19 The Time Traveler’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger-X
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot -
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell - X
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald -X
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens -
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy -X
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams -
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky -X
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck -X
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll - X
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame -
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy -X
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens - X
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis -
34 Emma-Jane Austen -X
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen -
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis -
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini - X
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres -
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden -X
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne - X
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell - X
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown -X
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez -
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving -
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins -
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery -X
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy -X
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood -
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding - X
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan -
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel -X
52 Dune - Frank Herbert -
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons -
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen -X
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth -
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon -
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens -X
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley - X
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night - Mark Haddon -
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez -
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck -X
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov -X
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt -
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold -X
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas -X
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac -
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy -X
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding -
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie -
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville -X
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens -X
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker -X
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett -X
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson -
75 Ulysses - James Joyce -
76 The Inferno - Dante -
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome -
78 Germinal - Emile Zola -
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray -
80 Possession - AS Byatt -X
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens - X
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell -
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro -
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert -
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry -X
87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White -
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom -
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle -
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton -
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad -
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery -
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks -
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams -X
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole -
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute -
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas -X
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare - X
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl -
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo -

I'm finally moving!  It's going to be a long drawn-out process as I've got both places this month ($$) and I'm bringing vanfuls of boxes down as I get them packed.  The movers aren't actually getting the furniture until the 26th.  I wanted to be moved in sooner, but Julia freaked at the prospect of the house disappearing from under her, and refused to go to Indianapolis with me for the remaining days until she leaves for school (June 24th).  So the 26th is the official day.  And, just for the record, I hate packing.  I don't want to rush summer vacation, but I'll be glad when this month is over.

School is out for the summer (Yay!), but I'm still working at night, at least through this week.  I could use another week's pay, but I'm ready to be done with it..  It will be nice to just be lazy for awhile.  It's during these breaks that I really appreciate my job!

You Are An INFP

The Idealist You are a creative person with a great imagination. You enjoy living in your own inner world. Open minded and accepting, you strive for harmony in your important relationships. It takes a long time for people to get to know you. You are hesitant to let people get close to you. But once you care for someone, you do everything you can to help them grow and develop. In love, you tend to have high (and often unrealistic) standards. You are very sensitive. You tend to have intense feelings. At work, you need to do something that expresses your personal values. You would make an excellent writer, psychologist, or artist. How you see yourself: Unselfish, empathetic, and spiritual When other people don't get you, they see you as: Unrealistic, naive, and weak

Interestly, I always get this on any Meyers-Briggs type testing.  The only thing that varies is the Introverted-Extroverted domain (the first letter).  Guess I'm feeling more withdrawn today!

This is my second snow day off in a row following a  storm that left approximately 10" of the white stuff on the ground.  It's wonderful to sleep in late and not have to drive an hour each way on the snow and ice covered highway to work.  But the long empty days are not helping my mood.  I see the psychiatrist tomorrow, however, so hopefully there's assistance coming in the form of revitalizing medication.

I've been talking online to two guys who have contacted me from various dating/singles sites.  I seem to attract only creepy guys anymore.  Both of them talk like they're in love with me (from a picture!!!) and one even told his 11 year old daughter that I'm going to be her step-mom!!!! She apparently was excited, poor thing, because her mother was killed in a car accident 5 years ago, and she misses her.  I'm avoiding getting on IM because I really don't want to talk to either of these guys right now. 

I wonder what it would be like to meet a nice, ordinary, sweet regular guy?  Or don't they exist out there for someone in my age bracket?

I do have some plans for this weekend, which will get me up out of bed.  On Friday I'm meeting a group of women, who get together regularly, to go to a ritzy downtown Indy restaurant for dinner.  They're having a special called "Winterfest" and the meal, usually unaffordable for mere mortals like myself, will only run $30.  The interesting thing about going out with these women, is that I've never met any of them before.  One of them, Carol, contacted me through FaceBook and said she was a friend of one of my FB friends and it seemed as if I need some womanly support right now.  Wow!  I'm looking forward to making some new friends.  Then on Saturday I'm going to a singles Gala sponsored by two Indy churches.  It's at one of the downtown hotels, only cost $10, and provides a buffet dinner, entertainment, and a dance.  Don't know if I'll meet any of the nice, ordinary, sweet, regular guys that I'd like to, but I know several women who are attending so I'm sure I'll have fun.  I am going to have to dance with one loser guy because he managed to get me a ticket when they were sold out.  I've heard he has a crush on me, but, well, to be kind I'll just say he's not my type.

I need to be working on a power point for a presentation to the 8th graders next week.  Have procrastinated long enough.

Copy to your own note, erase my answers, enter yours. Use the first letter of your name to answer each of the following questions. They have to be real. . .nothing made up! If the person before you had the same first initial, you must use different answers. You cannot use any word twice and you can't use your name for the boy/girl name question.


1. What is your name: Mary
2. A four Letter Word: Musk
3. A boy's Name: Martin
4. A girl's Name: Miranda
5. An occupation: McDonald's employee
6. A color: Mauve
7. Something you wear: Muffler
8. A food: Meat
9. Something found in the bathroom: Moisture
10. A place: Moscow
11. A reason for being late: Making Love (It happened to me once)
12. Something you shout: Move!
13. A movie title: Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
14. Something you drink: Milk
15. A musical group: Monkees
16. An animal: Mole
17. A street name: Meridian
18. A type of car: Mercedes
19. A song title:  Make a Memory (Bon Jovi)
20. A verb: Memorize