Month 2; 2 Butterflies and Counting

Lately, I go back to her last fleeting moments of life and think of what I could have done differently. I go back to her sunken, cold cheek with mine against hers. At the time, I thought it was wet with mine and my sister's tears; later I found it was for a more morbid reason. In my thought, I shake her awake instead of telling her it is okay to go. I scream for a doctor instead of pushing them away.

I daily regret my presence in that room that left me with memories that haunt my dreams, while wishing terribly that I could return for one last kiss before she disappears.

I find myself, nightly, in the fetal position with an intense twinge in my abdomine though I spend much time on the bathroom floor, wet with tears, holding my head to keep it from crashing.

When I am with my family I am quite literally screaming to myself, telling them that everything inside is slowly fading to oblivion. "I AM DYING IN HERE TO TELL YOU THAT I ACHE IN REMEMBRANCE! CANT YOU HEAR THE PAIN ECHOING, FILLING THIS ENTIRE ROOM! IS ANYONE LISTENING!"
No one is listening, no one is noticing.

Instead, I jokingly say "Do you think Grandmother will mind if I borrow this?" People find it insensitive, yet humorous, like myself.

A Letter to Mr. Lowdermilk

Dear CV Lowdermilk,

Let me begin by thanking you for your unyielding friendship and generosity over the past 4 years. You and your wife have truly been a blessing.

I am writing you to confess. Though the roses you bring in to my little coffee shop are refreshing and a delightful touch of elegance, I have been swiping one or two here or there as I walk out of the door at the end of my shift in order to put them to better use. It is me; I openly admit it.

I appologize for the gradual disappearance, but also write to say that not only do I lack regret for my theft but plan to continue in my thieving as roses are a bit pricey for my barista purse. Blame the Harrisburg residents and their reluctance to drop their spare change into my jar labeled "Thanks a Latte!".

Not only are your delicious smelling roses free and in convenient abundance, I appreciate that they come from a wholesome garden where each one is tended to regularly and with precision, rather than the impersonal, dollar-driven haste that is the Metrolina Greenhouses of Charlotte, NC.

I have been guilty of this childlike crime two times as of today, though I feel that you will not hesitate to forgive my behavior when I tell you that my grandmother has enjoyed them immensely! I take one to her and chat awhile as usual, letting her know the goings on of my life and expressing my acceptance that she had to leave but also my tremendous grief that she has gone away.

Do not worry, I tie a giraffe print ribbon around each one so that she knows precisely who they come from without an ounce of wonder.

I ask that you keep this little whisper between the two of us, no matter how insignificant you find this confession. I do not want my family to know how uselessly, commiserably weak I remain after my loss.

Thank you and please bring more of those lovely peach colored roses she finds so imposing.

With Sincerity,
Casey Howie

Butterflies

The day that my grandmother died, a part of me held tight to her back and flew to Heaven with her. It must have been the only part of me that had an ounce of good, because Ive not been myself since. It's guilt really. Every time I laugh or smile too big, eat a good meal, get a good night's sleep (you would think these would be fewer but death will exhaust you), have a single thought that isnt morbid or dismal..I feel guilt. I ought to be sobbing, shouldn't I?

The fact is, though I maneuver about the day holding what I have described to some as a cinderblock tied to my heart, the only real sobbing I have allowed myself to surrender to is at night when I feel confident no one can hear accept for maybe Jesus himself.

I guess Ill start from the beginning.

It is suggested that my grandmother fell on a Thursday. I could tell she had been having an increasing amount of difficulty making it to the bathroom. I noticed her pile of soiled laundry peeking out from the bathroom door and though I knew it would embarass her to mention the clothes, I did anyway. The thing is, if she couldn't do the laundry herself, I thought that my harassment might cause her to do what Ive always wanted her to do, that she has never done...ask me for help. I feel confident she was doing laundry when she fell. On Sunday, in the emergency room (which really shouldnt be called this at all for reasons I might describe later), she told me two things that she felt for certain. 1. It was the year 1976. This I nearly believed, mainly because Im naive and desperate for her enough that I always believe what she says as truth. 2. She was doing laundry the night she fell. Ironically enough, on this day I bought and planned to read my first Bible.

On Monday Im in her hospital room before she is. Out for tests of course. They never told me if she passed though Im sure she recieved flying colors. I hear an elderly woman as Im sitting, staring at my feet in a 65 degree holding cell of a living space (or dieing space, whichever). "It sounds like her, it could be her"; I can't hide the beaming smile across my face as I literally run to the door to greet her. It isn't her. All elderly women do sort of sound the same you know. When she arrives I notice for the first time how terribly, Hollocaustilly thin she is. Why hadn't I noticed this before? Her eyes are of misery and I can't understand why she isn't politely joking back with me as I say "Oh! I thought you went to the Whale's Tale without me!!" (This is her favorite memory, her favorite place to go back to over coffee and cigarettes while CMT plays in the background of the story of her favorite summer). Her eyes are still a cat like hazel, but no one is in there. I don't understand.

It isn't until 12 hours (seriously) of watching her in pain that I understand. My dreams of visiting her in a cozy nursing home as a best case scenario are in vain. I understand on this day that she won't be leaving this room. I open the Bible to page 1 "In the beginning..."

My dad sits with me on Tuesday. I hate this. Even in the best of circumstances he is a drama queen. You can imagine how this devastation turns into his most theatrical performance as of yet. Even still I ignore his accusations that since Im not also crying rivers that "I don't understand." Funny thing is, I understood very well that my grandmother was only leaving that bed to rest in another eternally--at this time, he did not know this. When the doctor arrives on this day he is beyond courteous. He perhaps taught the lesson on bedside manner, because I love him immediately. This is when he breaks the news to my dad, the news I "didn't understand"--that she was dieing. She wasn't coming home. I hum hymns, hold her hand, and read on.

Do you remember when you might have had a hurt finger or something of the like, so you tell someone and they say they can make that feeling go away, then proceed to punch you in the arm? Watching someone die taught me this holds true with emotional pain as well. On Wednesday, when the nurse came in and explained to me what comfort care was and unhooked the IV, I thought this was the most difficult moment of my life. It suddenly became very real. When I walked in to the room at 11:30 pm and watched as she took her final 2, maybe 3 breaths, this still was not the most difficult of moments. I was surprisingly selfless and stroked her forehead, held her hand, hugged my face to her chest, and told her to let go. I wish I could get the sound of her deep, laborious breaths out of my head. I cannot yet. I started trying at 11:46pm when I heard her take her last.

Funeral arrangements were easier than I thought. I chose her flowers, what songs would play at the service. The only thing I kept my mouth shut about was the casket. My dad walked into the "showroom" (this reminds me of cars, I wish I had gotten a new car that day, anyways...) and browsed for a solid 45 seconds before deciding on a slate, carolina blueish casket for about 2,000 dollars. I could see this was something he felt strongly about, so I said nothing. (I would have also chosen the slate blue casket).

On the day of the funeral I held it together nicely. She didn't look like the usual creepy dead body; really, she looked like a prettier version of my grandmother. Made up and wearing pearl earrings I hadn't seen her put on in years. This is where the above mentioned punching of the arm to relieve the pain of the finger comes in. It was not until the preacher informed me that he would be closing the casket that I experienced the worst moment of my life so far. At this moment, any pain my heart had felt prior, suddenly seemed like a single blade of grass amongst a world made of green landscape. It seemed like nothing! It was nothing!
I collapsed into a ball of...it sort of felt like watching the wicked witch as she melts. That's how I picture this scene. I forgot that I was in a crowd of quiet, somber strangers; I just let it out. I wish I could have lost it a little more, because I have to tell you it felt pretty good. Later, I was embarassed and hoped no one saw.

I went to see her gravesite today for the first time. The dirt looked fresh & the flowers didnt. Just as you'd imagine.
I didn't get enough there, so I drove to her house and walked in the door and said as usual, "GRANDMOTHERRRRR, It's meee Caseeeeyyy!" I sat where I usually sit with the lamp on as usual and looked over at her couch and pretended to have a conversation with her. I know that I have lost my fucking mind; I knew it at this moment.

I notice butterflies now more than I ever did. Is the growing amount of flying color a sign that she is still watching me? No..it is a sign that I have been so consumed in myself that I have never noticed them before.

I pretend the yellow one is her. The black one is me. We are finally free. We are at the Whale's Tale.

Hunt to Kill

There are so many things in this life that I have no control over. The very fact that I am alive I had no say in.

But with a gun in my hand that has the power to shoot right through a living thing and take its life, I have a little control.

This is why I love the hunt. I sit, I wait where I cant be seen. In a little while some unsuspecting animal will tip toe in line with the barrel & Ill finally have a choice. Its innocent eyes will look right at mine & that's when I decide her fate. Life or death is in my sweating hands.

& then the sick rush of pulling the trigger. Finally, control.

NY Summer Begins

11 hours of interestate highway later, I am welcomed by a sign that foreshadows a quaint little town called LeRoy when a smell hits me that could not have come a second too soon.

It's cow shit.

Usually I would drive right by this smell and not have even noticed it; maybe if the summer sun were hot enough it would force me to roll up my windows. Today, in LeRoy, NY, I rolled the windows down, looked at Tim with the smile of a 5 year old, and said "I'm not so far from home after all".

Now you may find this scene comical, but it is exactly what I needed as I reluctantly rode into this foreign town. This smell made it possible to hold back the tears and realize that this move was not such a stretch for me after all. There were horses and diner dives, mobile home parks, and miles of corn fields. You see, maybe home isn't 9560 Hickory Ridge Rd. Maybe home is where I find these things that make me feel like myself.

stifling summer evenings

I used to paint. Organic things, mainly flowers, limbs or trees, etc. I painted because I felt like I had something in me that needed out but I couldnt speak it. I am there again as I contemplate wedding ideas. I have a vision that I cant put into words.

I browse these wedding sites and look under headings such as Flowers, Venues, Dresses. The more I look at these the more I realize that these people have no idea how to satisfy a woman whos main goal in life can be summed up in one word -simplicity.

I dont want to spend a lot of money, not because I dont have it (tho I dont) but because that just isn't me. I dont need to rent out Panthers stadium or have flowers shipped from across the world. I dont need the perfect dress; I dont know the difference between baby doll and sweetheart nor do i care what snotty woman or homosexual male made it. There has got to be a way to compromise cost without compromising class.

I can tell you this, it will be outside on a stifling summer evening. There will be music & laughter & candles but most importantly, I will be barefoot... because this is how a girl ought to spend a stifling summer evening.

I don't have much against New York. Okay, so they talk funny, but they think I talk funny too. Okay, so they eat strange food, then again they think I eat strange food too. Okay, but the weather sucks; Ive definitely got'tem there!

Ill go ahead and state the facts: Im the hero of my family. Im my mom's best friend; she comes to me for advice, to vent, to gossip, and for help with my unhelpable sister. Im my dad's saving grace; I make him laugh, I calm him down, I pick up slack, but I ignore him when he's venting about my unhelpable sister. Even my sister who is embarassed by me in all ways possible comes to me as a last resort when it comes to matters of school and work. My grandmother tells me things and confides in me in a way she does with no one else; I stand as the interpreter between her and the rest of the world. My stepfather Todd finds me funny, & I enjoy reminding him that he is a remarkable person and father.

As much as the pressure of wearing the S across my chest brings me down, I secretly love feeling needed. If I move to NY even for the 3 months that separate me from the new school year, who will save my family?

Sure, my dad looks forward to my company, but he looks forward to cooked meals, a clean house, and having a nurse to take care of my elderly grandmother. My mom will miss my company & that's all; she'll miss me at church or when she goes to the mall :] My grandmother will miss my visits too, though I could tell her I was there last week and she'd have no choice but to believe me over her failing memory. My sister won't miss me at all though she'll call to see if Im losing the weight I promised her I would. Todd will be childless; ignored by his other kids, lonely without me there to humor him and hang out on the farm.

But do I have a duty to my fiance'? I think deep down I know what I have to do.

College Dollars

Let me begin by saying I will be in 24,000 dollars of debt when I leave NC State University. (Not counting the loans my father has taken out for me). This is sadly about the amount I will make in one year as a teacher in NC.

The major difference between high school teachers and college professors is not the phd on their letterhead or the amount of zeros on their paycheck--it is the fact that they are free to teach whatever they want. Theoretically, you could take a course on poultry and learn all about dress making, if that is what your professor chose to talk about.
Example: In FOR 252 I am supposed to learn the basics about forestry in North America. My professor spends over half of the class venting about America's inability to sustain forest land, yet my test is still on forestry in NA. This is my college dollars at work.
Example: In Gardening with Herbaceous Perennials all I have learned is my professors favorite flowers, and why. Remember, these classes are mandatory for me to graduate.

In college, you are forced to take general education courses. I plan to teach Hort or Animal Sci at a high school level, yet a shop class is ruining my gpa. I am glad I will know how to weld in case one of my plants becomes unruly or I need to shoe a horse. Last year an economics class threatened my gpa. These courses do not relate in any way to my future goals as a teacher, yet they rear their ugly heads every semester around final exam time.

Many professors are old. I am spending a great deal of time learning how to teach & as I sit in the classroom I am finding that rarely do my professors know how to do what they are paid to do. At a certain age, you are out of the loop. Newer and better ways of teaching are out there & these 60 year old farts are still practicing 'teaching as usual'.

Would you go to work every day if you knew you weren't going to get paid? Would you purchase something if you never got to reap the benefits? This is similar to how most students feel. Working hard...for nothing.

Cain & Abel

Whatever little I know of the Bible I owe to my father's storytelling. To teach me a point he would reference the Bible to give a story of how lessons were learned. Sick as it is, Cain and Abel is my favorite. My father stood by this story and used it multiple times in my growing up to tell me how important it was to love my sister but most of all to never be jealous. Perhaps his brother's contemptment for him made this story a favorite of his.

Disliking my sister has never been an option because of this story. As a matter of fact, every time Im angry with her I remind myself it isn't allowed because it is displeasing to God and my father. Displeasing either sends one to Hell.

At age 20 I find myself disagreeing with my father on many ideas. In the past I have changed my mind to suit his beliefs because I thought that is what children are supposed to do. This new found idea independence is wonderful. Instead of "Oh, okay, I see what you're saying, you're right." I now say "Then I guess we disagree.."

A new area of disagreement, though I wouldn't dare tell him, is my take on the story of Cain and Abel. Now hold on a minute; Cain committed murder out of jealousy and I will stand firm that that was wrong of him for the rest of my life. What I am not so firm on nowadays is that I am not allowed to dislike my sister because of the story.

I am going to put this plain; I love my sister because she is just that. But I am appalled at her lack of respect for anyone, including herself. My days of caring whole-heartedly for someone who treats me like dirt, are done. She was to be my maid of honor, I planned to name any future daughter Alison, she is someone I have always thought I could love unconditionally, she is someone I would have taken a bullet for. Now I feel that I can only love her as I love thy neighbor--as a common woman, not a blood sister.

I will continue to pray about this and hope that the Lord can change my mind; as for my father--he cannot.

I spent another night up crying until i was so exhausted I just couldnt stand it any longer. This isnt the kind of crying I do some nights when I miss my grandmother or my sister; this is terrible, whole body crying. The kind that makes noise. I don't worry Tim with this unless he asks how I slept, then I mention it nonchalantly like it's nothing.

During the day I am busy & when I'm not I find something to read. Ive taken up working out which fills in some gaps. But I dread the night when all I can do is think of how alone Ill be come Saturday.

I have a beautiful engagement ring that reminds me Im loved. Thats nice to look down and notice when Im depressed. Funny, I feel like I need to fix myself up to keep up with how gorgeous it is.

I look forward to next fall with a great group of girls that I can share things with. Im so thrilled to live with them. I have to look forward. I have to have something to work towards.

Tim

I realized a couple of nights ago that I pray for Tim more than I pray for anyone else on my prayer list. What does this mean?
Tim is what I would consider agnostic; when I go to church on Sunday I wait for people to ask where my future husband is and plan what I will say. "I am a very patient woman." What do I mean by this?
Tim may never believe in my God & thats okay with me. But if one day he asked to go with me to church, I would be tickled. For now, this remains a very quiet subject in our life. And that's okay too.

I pray that Tim be motivated to do well. With his terrible luck and some of the hands he has been dealt I know that it would be so much easier to stay in bed & dwell on the bad things. I like to think that since I have come in to his life I have made things a little easier. I don't want him to ever worry about anything. I want to take his pain and worry and see him smile.

I pray that Tim make smart decisions. He doesn't have great judgment and he can be very impulsive. I like to think that since I have been in his life he is using me for advice to make decisions that are right for him.

I pray that God be with him in all his times of need. From a bad day at work to God-forbid a car accident or the like. I dont know who else prays for Tim; maybe no one. I like to think that since Ive been in his life he is getting all the prayer he can stand.

Through thick and thin I promise to be the best wife I can be to him. Thats what women are supposed to do, and that's what I will do.

Amen.

Weight & Culture

It is no coincidence that women in California are a size 2 on average while women in Texas are a 10+.

I am surrounded by and include myself in a group of women who constantly look in the mirror & are unsatisfied. My sister, a perfect 10 on the beauty scale is 5'3'', 100 lbs, tans year 'round, whitens her teeth, avoids the clearance racks, and defines herself by all of these things. This girl must be miserable.

My mom is 5'1'', incredibly busty blonde, a bitch on her best day, and gets a good scold on her fried chicken. A breath of fresh air to be around.

I find myself comfortably in between.

You see, food is the centerpiece of southern tradition. We plan our life around our meals.
Jim: "Can you come fix my tractor t'marra night?"
Bill: "You bet, after supper; Sarah's cookin' a roast."

Liz: "Hey sugar, lets get together n talk."
Jane: "Oh Id love to, I'll make us a pie."

My point is, us women cannot be expected to be the same weight and have the same appearance as those who arent southern.
I was recently watching a show called Southern Bells. The women were like my sister...the only thing southern about them was their birthplace. They were well kept, on the verge of starvation, and sittin at home while their husbands made their shopping money. This could not be further from the definition of a southern bell. They should have had my mother and I on the show..

I'm 5'4' 135 lbs, blonde, curvy in college to be a school teacher. I like raising pigs, ridin horses, huntin deer, and Im not done with lunch before Im plannin supper. Im tee shirt and levi's with whatever shoes don't have horse shit on 'em and I been known to wear my boots to church. My favorite color is camo and there aint a song miranda lambert wrote that I dont know. I cuss like a sailor when Im being lady like and though I like a glass of wine with dinner sometimes, Bud Light is my drink of choice. Damn right I cant stand a yankee, & from what I can tell they cant stand me neither. I been plannin a weddin since I was 12 & Ive got all my babies named; at 20 I should have had a couple by now. I aint afraid to sweat and if there is one thing farm life will teach ya, its that there aint no such thing as "man and woman's work". Ladies, if ya want it done...putchya boots on & go do it.

As appetizing as that lettuce looks, ill stick with my meat n potata's

Judgments

I sat in a somewhat sketchy coffee shop in a seat that was actually an old wooden school desk. The place was full of mismatched places to sit. A chair from a yard sale, a loveseat from Goodwill, etc. I looked around feeling like an elephant in a china shop. My silk blonde hair rustled every chance it got at the opening of the shop door. This set me apart as the other folks had dyed hair of orange and red; most of which hadn't been washed since Christmas and the dred locks formed naturally, making me instantly curious what that rat's nest could possibly smell like.

My outfit was casual, bought right out of an American Eagle outlet store in Charlotte; it was a simple black, but wrinkle-free and smelling of Snuggle. This also set me apart. The last concert tee I bought was probably Kenny Chesney; somehow I didn't think to wear it. They had theirs on however. The women in long skirts, bra-less with homemade bags that hung heavy across their shoulders. It's only the first of March but they are so proud of their white, shiny, skin that they shown it off as if it were June.

I ordered a tall (tall, as in small, not tall as in large; I always found this coffee lingo a little confusing) decaf, vanilla latte, with two shots of espresso from a man covered in tattoos. The worst part about trying a new coffee shop is attempting to understand the menu. I looked at it dumbfounded for a couple seconds, then decided to disregard it altogether. Instead,
"Okay, Im just gonna tell you what I want, & I trust you will make it happen for me." I like to eliminate the guess work. I walked away forgetting to pay. I guess this is because the gentleman didn't ask for any money, he and his tattoos just stared at me, enjoying the view of a woman who had recently showered.

I looked down at myself remembering how I thought I might be under-dressed for an interview. I couldn't have been more wrong. The three average Joes at the counter wore oversized t shirts that most men I knew would wear as undershirts or to mow the yard in if anything. Their hair was a a mass of clusters rather than individual strands that peeked out from their ball caps. But they worked diligently and made the best latte I had ever had. At one point I caught the chashier staring at me sipping my drink & turned my eyes away quick as possible. "Get me out of here already".

They don't know it, but I knew the TOOL song playing on the radio as well as I knew my name. I had seen those Frank Zappa posters a thousand times. And I could tell you the name of the tour the man sitting next to me's Cure t shirt came from and probably what year. I was singing rock n roll before a had my ABC's down. They don't know it but Im a writer. I sing country music pretty well. I've got a tattoo they'd have to strip me naked to find.

I'm pretty sure I didn't get that barista job because the interviewer took one look at me and sent me on my preppy way, back to my Taylor Swift listening, Hannah Montanna watching, do gooder way. She did what I do, judged.

Babies

I look down and hold my belly in a perfect heart shape and smile. Although no baby is inside, my tummy has taken the freshman 15 a little hard. Okay, about 25 lbs too hard. This new shape reminds me constantly how badly I want to be pregnant. I want to know my little life is growing inside of me. I want a rocking chair that I rock my unborn child to sleep in, even though he doesn't yet live. Ill wear long dresses and rub my belly all day long letting him know Im still here. On the day he is born I will welcome him so happily into this terrible world for my own selfish reasons, but Ill grieve a little at the loss of that big round ball under my shirt. I will take him in my arms and listen to him cry, wanting to turn up the volume that is proof that he lives. My life will have ended after a 9 month prognosis and I will give every last minute of my time to him. I will spank him when he misbehaves. I will kiss and coo at him and hold him to my side for the rest of his life. I will pack his lunch, drive him to school, and fight for him like no woman has ever faught for a son. I will teach him to love and respect women, that knowledge is power, and to go with his instinct on every decision. I will push my way into every relationship he ever has and remind every woman he thinks he loves that I am his mama.

It is an interesting feeling to be in love with a person you havent met yet. I think his name will be Timothy, John, Noah, something strong. Her name might be Rayna Alison or Amelie Fields, something that makes her unique. Ya gotta be unique when you're a woman, you have to stand out on your own.

Some thoughts to conclude the day.

I told Tim I had a new blog.
"Is it readable? Do you say what you mean this time? Or is it more of that emotional stuff that I have to decode to understand what you mean?"
Well, I guess it is in need of decoding..if you are a shallow man.
"Who reads it? Have you had any comments?"
Well, not a one..and no one reads it I dont think.
"So why are you doing it?"
Well, maybe the man has a point. Or maybe a man having a point is a complete oxymoron.

Above all things a woman is to a man, I think the most important is loyal. Correct him when he is wrong but stand by his side no matter how little he gets right. It is so easy to watch a man make a mistake and leave him for his stupidity; one day he will thank you for being so patient & when he doesn't..well stand by him anyway. (This is Southern culture at its best).

One

Last night, listening to my lit professor in a dim, overcrowded, stifling hot room..i started to feel it. It started in my core; the feeling of Tim leaving leaked into the rest of my body like a terrible, incurable disease. I whiped the streams from my cheeks & avoided any eye contact. I dont know what caused the tears; the thought of Tim hundreds of miles from me or the realization that I hadn't felt that beaten in 4 years.

It's the feeling of being single. I am a girlfriend two hours away, but I feel like just a girl when you multiply the space times 6. I don't fear being single..I just don't want to be.

I learned something when Tim's father died. The look he left on his ghost of a wife who wanders her home in search of things to busy her mind, reading romantic novels that have become meaningless. That look is of a woman who knows she is now alone. Sometimes in this life there is only one person destined to be with you to fill the void like a magical puzzle piece. Sometimes there is only one.

Keep your ring; just stay with me.

New York

Upon finding out that Tim would leave for NY March 27, I immediately found myself searching for a calandar. Counting down the days I had until he would be gone for what seems an infinite amount of time. About 4 weeks to give him a reason to unpack his bags. I have begun a playlist of songs Ill put on a cd for him to listen to & probably ignore on his journey north. We don't necessarily agree on music. But though Im a pretty raw person, I say what I mean even when I don't mean to, I find these few songs able to do it in a way that I won't be able to come March 27th.

At the mention of this strange place, I am vulnerable in a way I have never been before. I can't control this move. I can't help him the way I want to; I cant pick up after him, give him advice, listen to his venting, talk about movies and books Ive read lately. How will I know him when he returns? Will he have taken on that God awful attitude characteristic to northerners? I pray that that attitude is what separates him from the women there. Their high pitched, fast talking, terrible voice is sure to be a repellent for Tim, it will sound so opposite of mine.

I chose Tim for a hundred dozen reasons. One, very high on the list, was that I knew he would never leave my side, he was so eat up with me. I was wrong..

A New Start

Ive had a blog since as far back as age 13. I used to fill it daily with the common goings on of high school and current love affairs with boys and girlfriends that i created in my mind. (These people existed, but I have found that at that age we see them as we choose..we create them). Then I was bombarded with part time jobs, planning for college, etc. and though I love to go back and read them, I see that they are entirely meaningless. I fretted over the smallest things.

However, here I am again, starting anew with much the same purpose..to say whatever I choose. The things I post are entirely unfiltered, not appropriate for making available to the web, and bold as a future educator who will soon walk on eggshells and learn to fear parents. Having said this, remember whos name is in the url; negative comments are unwelcome & will be entirely ignored. If you are bored or offended, find a new blog to follow.

C. Howie