Dream a Little Dream ...and Make it a Big Dream

This is the story that was printed in the newspaper...along with a second part after the "waiting begins". Hope you all like it. Tell me what you think. Don't worry, I can take it. I might add that originally the story was complete with the "waiting begins" part but the editor wanted a second part, or continuation, in order to have a follow up printing. Like a series I guess. Which means I had to rethink another ending beyond the first ending. Wasn't easy and I'm not sure the second ending really fits the story as a whole plus I wrote it about two years ago so the groove I was in at the time just isn't here now. At any rate, here it is. You all (if you are still here) might remember the first part of this story from few years ago. 

Dream a Little Dream
Lee Ann Fleetwood
As the last page slips into the tray she gathers the pile up, straightens them up, and lays them down on her desk. She sits awhile just looking at them and not thinking a whole lot about anything much. For the moment the "what if" game is being silent and her thoughts are wispy things that have no substance.

She reaches over and takes the single white envelope from the edge of the desk and writes an address on it and then her own. She picks up the papers and starts to slide them inside but hesitates. After a moment she sits back with the papers and once again begins to read what she has written though she has read it many times already. It has been a long time in coming making the journey from the darkest recesses of her mind to the white pristine papers in her printer.
As each word of each line skims across her vision her mind instantly plays out the scenes of her life; the good, the not so good, and the ones she wishes she could forget, but of course, that will never happen. Some things are with you forever.

She reaches the end and once again straightens the pages into an orderly pile and slips them into the waiting envelope. Along with the papers she inserts her hopes and dreams that within these pages her future lies. That the events of her life will finally have meaning because to believe it had none is more than she can bear.

She lays the envelope down while she dresses but can't help looking over now and then and realizes the power that is contained within those pages. The power to change her life the thought frightens her nearly as much as it sparks a bright light of hope within her heart.

She slips on her jacket and collects her keys then walks over and stands in front of her desk looking down. The sudden urge to just chuck the whole thing in the garbage can at her feet is so strong she realizes her hand is already reaching out to do just that before she can stop it. She snatches it back and takes a deep breath. A small pep talk was in order and she gives it and listens patiently to it before grabbing the envelope quickly and heads for the door.

As she sits in her car she tosses it carelessly into the passenger seat almost as an afterthought. If she dwells too long on its importance she feels she will lose herself in the enormity of what she is about to do and, of course, back out while she still can. Backing out is NOT an option. Just start the car and get moving.

Traffic is sufficient to require concentration but she still manages to steal a glance or two at the seat next to her. The closer she gets to her destination the harder her heart pounds until eventually she can hear neither the sounds of traffic nor the negative voice in her head that has been her constant companion these long lonely years.
She pulls up into the parking lot, snatches the envelope, and quickly enters the building as if the hounds of hell are on her heels. She can't help but glance over her shoulder just to make sure it IS just her imagination.

She arrives at the counter and thrusts the envelope that contains her life at the surprised employee. Almost instantly she starts to grab it back as if discovering her child in the arms of a stranger. She catches herself, steps back from the counter and plasters a smile on her face to put the cautious employee at ease, or so she hopes.

“Uhm, can I help you,” he asks?

“Yes, I would like to send that by registered mail,” she answers quickly. She is pretty sure she sounds normal, at least to her ears, though they are full of the sound of her beating heart.

“Ok. Fill out this paperwork and that will be $6.80 and it should be there by Thursday,” he says as he places a sticker on her life and sets it behind him on the outgoing mail shelf. She looks at it sitting there and can't help but imagine the little adventure it is about to embark on. Once again the analogy of a child comes to mind. Her child is venturing out into the world and she won't be there to keep it safe. Her heart not only pounds but squeezes too with pain and trepidation.

She quickly looks away before the tears that threaten start to fall. You would think she had just laid baby Moses in a basket preparing to push him off into the unknown waters the way she felt.

She fills out the paper work and pays the fee then turns to walk away. She can't help but look one more time at her hope for the future lying there so innocently on the shelf. Such power in that envelope, she is amazed there isn't some sign, almost biblical in nature that would indicate the essence of what those pages contain.

She gets back in her car and starts the engine. Buckles her seat belt then turns the radio on. Checks her mirrors before pulling out and heads for home and it is only then that she allows herself to dream a little dream.

And the waiting begins...

Once she reaches home the real waiting begins. Even though she is aware that it could be days, weeks, even months before her intense pangs of labor bear fruit, she cannot help but count every moment of that unknowable future. She will ignore for the moment the possibility that she will never hear a single word about the package containing her dreams for her future and that it could end its short unassuming life lying forgotten and collecting dust in some storage room somewhere. Hardly worth thinking about so has shut that train of thought down instantly whenever it rears its ugly head.  

She gets on with the business of living her life as best she can. Working a dead end job that does nothing to satisfy her desires but pays her bills, what more could one ask for? Days filled with numerous trips to her local bookstore and library to fill her restless need to live an exciting full filling life even if it’s vicariously through someone else’s version of it. She wakes in the morning and falls seamlessly, if not contentedly, into sleep every night having managed to not let her gaze rest too long on the passing days as noted by the kitty calendar hanging in her kitchen.

She keeps busy doing lots of seemingly important things mixed with utterly pointless things. Rinse and repeat, and the days pass. Then weeks pass and slowly weeks turn into months. Turning the page of the calendar from one month to the next has become a ritual that is accomplished with a deep cleansing sigh and a mental kick in the pants to not give up, not just yet. Patience got her through her childhood of fear filled days and terrifying nights and patience saw her through a very long marriage to a very unkind man. Patience was her best friend and soul companion when all others had walked away or simply forgotten she existed. Patience had not let her down so far and she was more than thankful for that small spark of optimism in her life.

If you asked her later about the day she received the call she had been waiting for all her life, a call that started its process of reaching out to her way back in her childhood when every step she took and every action for or against her lead her through her life for better or worse up to that very moment she was meant to answer an unrecognized number, she would say it was among one of the best and worst days of her life. A life filled with a great many worst days but very few best ones.

She was on the side of the road staring down at a flat tire, already very late for a work related meeting, Her dress, torn from a grasping needy edge on the car door and a newly minted speeding ticket tossed angrily onto the passenger seat were just the latest in a day full of “should of stayed in bed” moments. By the time she answered her mobile with an exasperated frustrated sigh hissed through clenched teeth, she was already mentally preparing herself to do battle with whatever new foe was bringing even more bad news; however, the proverbial straw for this particular camel’s back was not in her cards for today. Oh no, not today. Today that camel was about to lighten its straw filled load considerably if she had only known.

“Hello,” she nearly yelled into the phone.

“Hello,” replied a somewhat hesitant voice. “Is this Renee Miller?’

She realized she needed to calm down and not take her escalating bad mood out on the poor stranger who chose to call her at the worst possible moment. “Yes,” she replied in a calm even voice. “Who is this?”

“Hello, Mrs. Miller. This is William Conner calling from Blue Moon Publishing Company. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time?” he answered with no hesitation at all in his voice now.

At the exact moment that he uttered the words Blue Moon Publishing it would seem the world came to a sudden and quiet end for it simply ceased to exist for her. She heard nothing, saw nothing, was aware of absolutely nothing other than the crashing thundering sound of a heartbeat that appeared to have forgotten how to function like a heartbeat should. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing at all came out. She closed her mouth and continued to live in a world that no longer existed for a few more crashing thundering heartbeat filled moments.

“Yes,” she replied again but gone was the calm even voice. This yes was little more than a breath filled release.

He rapidly started speaking but she only heard the odd word here and there accompanied by an odd tapping in the back ground. Somewhere in her mind she pictured this unknown William Conner tapping a pen against the edge of his desk, possibly with his feet propped up somewhere along its smooth surface. Words that did manage to pierce her fog filled mind included, “wonderfully written “emotionally powerful”, and “best seller”. Those two words evaporated the fog instantly and the world came crashing back into focus.

“What did you just say? Could you repeat that please?” she asked with a voice full of fear, incomprehension, and yes, hope. Hope that she hadn’t just miss heard him in the absolutely worst way possible and that this small flame of hope was going to quickly be stamped out before the much needed oxygen of life was breathed into it.  She pressed the phone painfully against her ear to drown out every other sound, including her own still thundering heartbeat. “Could you repeat that please,” she asked with as calm a voice as she could muster.

“No problem. I said that we received your manuscript and we are very excited about it. We at Blue Moon don’t usually say this to potential clients on the phone during a first contact call but Mrs. Miller, you just may have a best seller on your hands,” he answered with a touch of laughter in his voice. “We would very much like you to meet with us and discuss the publishing of your book.”+

“Really? You want to meet with me?” she asked tremulously. Not daring to believe that her dream was about to become reality. Possibly. Maybe.  “About publishing my book?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” he asked. “It’s a beautifully written book, at least the chapters we have are so let’s assume the rest will follow suit. Could you come see me next Monday at our offices at 9:00 a.m...? Will that be fine?”

“Yes,” she nearly shouted once again but this time from within a bubble of exploding happiness. “Yes, that would be perfect.” Was it possible that all the pain she had suffered in her life, the loneliness and oceans of tears, the dark days that accumulated into dark years occasionally brightened with lightning strikes of happiness was about to finally mean something beyond she just had been dealt a bad hand? Were the hours and days and months spent pouring her grief and pain into her computer while keeping a box of tissues nearby that constantly needed replacing at last going to MEAN something beyond her life just sucked? She was beginning to think maybe it did. If it meant nothing more than her story might affect others in some way that benefited them to some degree than her life did mean something, at least to her, and that was a feeling she had needed to know all her life. The smile beginning on her face felt strange and out of place but also very good.

“Great,” he said. Monday at 9:00 it is. See you then.” He hung up and several moments passed before she closed her phone as well. The flat tire, the torn dress, the late appointment all seemed to fade away as she contemplated Monday at 9:00 a.m. and the impossible possibilities. Several cars passed by and the amused drivers were treated to the vision of a woman in her 40’s with long red hair in a blue flowery dress twirling happily with arms stretched out and her face raised up to the sun. A very odd reaction indeed for someone with a flat tire who looked like she needed to be somewhere important.

I am a published writer...of sorts. Woohoo!!

http://weekender.bh/e_paper_pdf/17_04_2014/epaper.pdf

Hey, everyone. A local newspaper here, The Weekender, started a new thing in which writers' can send in stories and have them printed if the staff likes them. As soon as I heard about it I sent in one of mine (it's on this blog somewhere) and I quickly got a call from them about it. Apparently they really liked it and asked me about myself and why I wrote it etc.. At first the editor wanted me to change a few things, give the character a name and other things and then said he would print the story after the changes were made. I said OK even though I like it the way it is but it's not a big deal. He hung up but called back ten minutes later and said we decided we love the story just as it is, don't change anything. We will print it this week and we would like you to send in more stories if you have them. 

If I have them? I may have a few here and there. Ha ha. 

The cool thing (more coolness) is that they made my story into a competition by asking readers to come up with an ending for it. Actually, the story is complete as it is but he wanted to make it interactive. No matter, I am a published writer (an unpaid one but who cares). This could be a stepping stone for me, never know. 

Check it out. I'm famous for a min. 

The scars of our memories.

When I was around 7 years old my father hit me on the head with a wire hanger. My "crime" was that I had scuffed the toes of my new school shoes. He checked them just before I was ready to head out the door to school and his reaction was rather extreme...if I say so myself. 

Grabbing the first thing available, one of those wire hangers that had a cardboard cylinder for a base, he smacked me on the head with it several times. He then kicked my butt, literally, and sent me out the door crying and with abusive words and threats ringing in my ears. Unknown to me, but I would shortly find out, was that he had actually managed to hit me hard enough that the wire had entered my skull...thus I was bleeding quite profusely as I stumbled shaking and crying down the street on the way to the bus stop.

 It was one of those moments where you don't realize you are injured until someone points it out to you. In this case, it was one of our neighbors that happened to be out in her yard and who quickly let me know something was wrong with me by her piercing screams and bug eyed look as she rushed towards me. 

She actually scared the cry right out of me as I saw her come rushing at me and I wanted to turn tail and run back to the house. Not often children see strangers come running at them while screaming and reaching out in such a way...but back home was the stuff of my nightmares...and so I stopped dead in the street and waited for whatever fate this screeching woman intended for me. 

It was then I realized I felt a very warm sensation oozing down my face and shoulder and I reached up to wipe it away only to come away with a hand drenched in blood. I stared at my red hand wondering just how it came to be covered in blood and couldn't think of one good reason. Suddenly the screaming woman went silent though her mouth still made the motions of screaming...only to be replaced with a very loud buzzing sound. Just before I went weak at the knees I was scooped up by someone I hadn't seen coming up behind me. My mother. 

Apparently my mother hadn't witnessed my father's early morning lessons on keeping my shoes unscuffed, but had heard me crying as I left the house and came to the door to see if I had left or not. It was then she noticed blood droplets in a haphazard line leading away from the door and towards the sidewalk. She told me her heart stopped in her chest when she saw that blood, assuming I had been taken by someone and injured in the process. She ran down to the  sidewalk just in time to hear the neighbor woman start screaming...and assumed the very worst.  

As she rushed me back to the house intending to take me to the hospital, not knowing how I was injured but seeing lots of blood, she was met with my stony faced father who quickly took charge of my "medical care". He refused to allow her to take me anywhere and insisted I be put in the shower so all the blood could be washed off. I remember him insisting my underwear stayed on which seemed rather odd when I thought about it years later. All the while he was washing off the blood he was on a long rant of how it was my fault and these were the consequences of disobeying his orders. I made not a peep in my own defense knowing it would do no good and also knowing it could make matters far worse. 

My father investigated my head to see what the injury was and declared there being no need to pay a fortune for the hospital when all I had was a pin sized hole in my skull from the end of the wire hanger. My mother did not insist...in fact she said very little. Something I took in stride at the time but would recall years later as being silent acceptance of my fate at his hands yet again. 

He kept me home from school that day and we never spoke of it again until I was grown and my mother came to visit me. She said that she didn't want me  to be hurt more than I was so she remained quiet...to protect me. Considering what that man did to me over and over again for the next 10 years I find it hard to believe my safety was what motivated her that day...but who knows.  Possibly she had my short term safety more in mind back then.

I think about that particular moment of abuse more than lots of others because I have a scar on my head to constantly remind me. It started out as a small raised bump but over time it has grown bigger and gets scratched my hair brush quite often. My father is long gone but his mementos are still around keeping his memory alive. Yay me. 

Another memorable event that always comes back with unending clarity were when he forced me to stand in the corner with my sodden underwear pulled over my head. I was a horrible bed wetter as a child and it lasted until around the age of 9 I believe. My older sister absolutely hated sleeping with me as I generally soaked us both with my nocturnal offerings more often than not. I remember my father making it a point to come check the bed every morning and me laying there fully aware of what he was going to find yet again. 

No matter how hard I tried or what I did (using the bathroom before bed, not drinking anything for hours ahead of time) it never seemed to help much. I actually recall having dreams as a child of me getting up and using the bathroom, feeling that sense of  release when you have been holding it and then get to finally go as you sit down...only to wake up and realize it wasn't a dream. For the rest of the night I would lay there cold and shaking from both the wetness and fear. 

On those mornings he chose to come throw the covers back and pull me from the bed I knew what fate awaited me...hours with my face pressed into the corner with my own panties snug against my face. Of course it didn't end there. Once his particular brand of punishment was over I still had my older sister to contend with. She always found time to punch or pinch me while hissing in my ear about how disgusting I was and what a baby I was and did I need diapers again? 

For the life of me when I think about these episodes...I can't remember what my mother had to say about it or if she ever did anything for or against me other than once again change the sheets on the bed after letting it air outside for a few hours. To this day the smell of urine triggers memories of those mornings spent in the corner while everyone else went about their routine as if I were invisible and inconsequential. Good times.

Years later when my own youngest daughter had her own bed wetting years, I should have made the connection, one of many, but it just never clicked until hind sight gave me 20/20 vision about that and a lot of other clues as to what was going on. Another reason to feel such guilt about my blindness. 

When these memories, and so many others, suddenly intrude on a perfectly nice moment, I can't help but wonder what memories my own children have locked away that also cannot be forgotten and make for unwanted company now and again? In my own defense (if I even have the right to make one) I did not remain quiet from the moment I learned what he was doing. I know this does not mean anything against the painful memories my children suffer from when I was clueless but it at least lets them know that if I had known sooner...I would have stopped it sooner. 

Small solace but something I try and convince myself means something. 

 

What would YOU do?

http://thesocietypages.org/socimages/2010/12/03/when-do-we-intervene/#comments

This is an interesting experiment in which people in a compound are subjected to loud drum music...and then on a different night...subjected to what they believe is domestic violence going on. People felt quite all right to bang on his door to object to his loud music...but not one person bothered to come complain about the assumed violence taking place in that same apartment.

It reminds me of my own home growing up...none of our neighbors ever bothered to respond to the violence Im sure they could hear coming from our trailer (trailers are not spaced that far apart for the most part) and neither could others who could see our bruises and injuries bother to inquire beyond the surface as to how we always seemed to be bruised and injured *hint hint much*.

How do we as a society decide on what we get involved with and what is none of our business? Loud music...my business....domestic violence...close my windows and pull the shades....hmmm.

Out of the Pan...into the Fire!!!...pt 1

(this is I-80 in Wyoming...not the one I rode my bike on but close enough)


Anyone that has read this blog for any length of time (thank you btw) will have realized by now that I came from a childhood home that, hindsight tells me, Im lucky to have escaped from with my life. No lie. Read this little adventure I had and tell me someone wasnt smiling on me that day (night).

My family lived on a farm of sorts the last two years I was in high school. It was situated about 17 miles outside of Rock Springs just off highway I-80. We were isolated and at the complete mercy of my insane father who kept us wondering on a moment by moment basis as to when his newest rampage would begin...and would we come out the other side with limbs and lives intact?

This farm had a tank in which we could haul clean water and fill it up to use in the house etc...or fill up with ordinary water for watering the animals or just day to day activities. For the longest time it was filled with sweet water so that we could drink directly from the tap in the house...as well as all other household needs.

Unknown to any of us the tank had formed a crack in one of its underground walls and therefore rainwater or whatever ground water there was had gotten into the well. My father knew this and had taken a sample to be analyzed to see if any impurities had gotten into the tank.

Apparently the answer was positive for impurities. Father did not bother to tell me this when I arrived home from school and went about my usual chores and preparing dinner. I also made a pot of coffee which was required to be made at all times in our house.

I had a feeling something was up though because he kept pacing around the house like a caged animal waiting for someone to get too close so he could lash out and strike...leaving torn skin and shredded nerves behind. I stayed well clear...I knew the potential for violence was never far away. Little did I know that the caged animal had me in his sights.

Finally my father stormed into the kitchen shoving some papers under my nose shouting about poisons and plots and how I was surely going to hell for trying to murder my own father...WTF!!! I desperately looked at the wall clock and realized my mother wouldnt be home for another hour or so. I was alone with a mad man.

A mad man who apparently thought I had tried to poison him though coffee made with tainted water. Water he didnt bother to tell me was tainted to begin with.

For the next half hour his anger and agitation grew more volatile with every new accusation of plotted murder and threats of sending me directly to hell. I was literally shaking in my shoes at this point. I had seen him go off on a wild rant before but this was something else entirely. Every few moments he would come charging back to me shoving the papers anew...spitting out numbers that were supposed to mean something to me about so much % of taint in the water...then he would start circling the house again. I would take that time to try and calm down and figure out my escape...for escape I knew was my only solution. He was on a true and straight course for violence...and the fact that he was whipping himself up into an ever greater frenzy left me feeling like I wouldnt live to see the sun come up much less my mother arriving home to calm things down.

I had to take action...no time like the present as they say.

I might mention that by this time my younger sister had arrived home from school and walked into a scene of impending domestic violence...she backed out into the driveway again without my father even realizing she was there. She knew how to lay low when it was called for. Of course this meant she was a witness to my get away.

The moment my father stalked off once again I was out the front door and taking my life into my hands in the only way I knew how...I grabbed my bike and hit the road. I might remind you that we lived off a major Wyoming highway....17 miles from town...and it was just reaching sunset.

I had nowhere to go...but I was damned if I was going to stay and willingly be hurt (or worse) by that man who had violence on his mind if there was something I could do about it.

I got on the highway and road like the hounds of hell were on my heels.

Some of you are probably thinking right now...how the hell could she even think about doing something like that? A long stretch of lonely highway...unknown potential predators behind the wheel of every car or semi that went by? Sun going down and miles between me and the next town. Believe me...not once did I even think about the dangers I was willingly riding into because the danger I was escaping held me in a grip of reckless abandon...better to escape the Monster I knew...then worry about the ones that might lay ahead of me.

Unknown to me...I would find out later...my mother had arrived home but obviously got a condensed and cleaned up version of what had been going on prior to my hitting the highway. Since my father didnt know my younger sister had been there...he assumed his story would be the only one that mattered. When sis told mom what Really happened...she called the police. Father apparently wasnt too worried about daughter on the highway at night...but mom was right on it!!!

However, once she called the police, father was all ears and full of fake concern. Remember he had already had a year in jail for accusations of killing my older sister (old post...cant link sorry) so he wasnt about to keep up his rampage when the cops were on the way...suddenly he was concerned father worried about his wayward daughter. Yeah...right

As well as waiting for the cops to show up my mother had gone down the road both ways thinking I hadnt gone very far...but by this time I was miles away headed for town. (wasnt sure what I was going to do when I got there...worry about that later)

Lucky for me (yeah lucky) I happened to be wearing a white tshirt...it had Mickey Mouse on it. Dont know why I remember that...but at least it showed up clear and bright on that dark stretch of highway...otherwise I could easily have been hit by any car or semi that went by. Unknown to me I had obviously been spotted by a few semi's that had gone by (nearly knocking me off the road anyhow with the blow back)...and someone thought it prudent to call the highway patrol. Whoever I was...I sure wasnt safe on the road at night on a bike.

Of course all this time my mother was freaking out back home...she also realized what bringing the police into it might do to our house...while the police were there father would be the epitome of domestic bliss...once they were gone...lets just say...you would hate to be us. When the cops arrived they gave a sanitized "teen upset so ran away" story as a cover. My mother was too scared to say what really had been going on. My father had that affect on us.

So here I was, black highway stretched before me. Only the occasional billboard to light the way. The sky was clear but the moon wasnt that bright. I could just barely see the road well enough to stay on it...all though the lights of passing cars helped...but the horn that they sounded now and then scared the crap out of me every time. To this day Ive often wondered why not even one car or semi stopped for me...with honest intentions of help or...ahem...something else....I didnt even get one slow down and shout out the window. Im absolutely positive that wouldnt happen here in Bahrain if the situation were the same.

On I rode. My back was killing me...not to mention my ass. I had visions of never being able to sit properly again....but on I rode. I never once considered turning around and going back. Fear kept my adrenaline on high octane.

Eventually the highway patrol caught up with me. Not the ones my mother had spoken too actually but ones that had gotten several call outs from passing semi's that had spotted me in the dark. These ones did not know who I was at the moment.

For some reason these men in blue (or is it brown for the highway) decided to come up RIGHT THE FREAK BEHIND ME before turning their lights on and hitting the WHOOP WHOOP!! of the siren.

To tell you that my heart nearly flew out my mouth as I barely kept myself from flying off the side of the road into the ravine running along side the highway hardly describes it. When I realized the cops had found me...I wasnt in the least happy to see them. All I could think about is that they were going to take me back home...he would make up some crap story about me being a bad daughter...they would leave with severe warnings to "behave myself and keep of the highways".

So I did what any kid would do in my situation...I lied to the cops.

*to be continued

I LOOOOVE My Jeep..You Haters Can Bite Me!!!

This is my little red jeep I write about now and then...or my Red Hot Box as I lovingly refer to her on occasion...or even my "poor jeep" as she is forced to be called because red seems to attract the crazies when it comes to driving. Never seen so many drivers just lose their minds when she comes anywhere near them...and seemingly make a beeline right for her...the near misses are too numerous to count.

I bought her about 2 years ago brand new. It was my first ever purchase of anything of significance...first new car I have ever had...and first time I put myself in debt to own something...Whew!!! a lot of firsts with this girl.

From the moment I walked into the Daihatsu showroom and seen her sitting there all sparkly under the spotlight I knew she was going home with me. She called out to me and I answered with gleeful abandon. Its been a love affair every since.


In the two years Ive had her nothing has ever gone wrong or caused me hardship...other than the mindless idiots that are determined to take her from me with their constant need to validate their day by crashing into someone else...sigh!!! She has been in a few crashes...but none of them were her fault...she's very careful and ever mindful of safety first. The people at Daihatsu garage are always happy to bring her back to pristine condition. Right now she has some scrapes and bruising that need to be taken care of...but shes still beautiful to look at.

I smile every time I go and take her for a drive. She always seems happy to see me too...making zippy little engine noises and quick to answer my every command with accuracy and agility. Its an added plus that I can pretty much park her wherever I want...she fits right into the smallest of gaps....or up onto a sidewalk and over to the dirt area (shush..dont tell...but traffic is dreadful and sometimes you gotta do what you can to keep your sanity).

She is a dream and I highly recommend any potential car buyer to check out her sisters and take one home. You wont be disappointed. Her ability to just go and go on one tank of gas leaves you making bets as to just how much farther she will go even when her gas light has been on for "quite some time". (sorry girl...times are tough....money is low...mommy doesnt mean to make you drink from the bottom so often)

Now here is my beef. Nobody seems to consider her a bonafide jeep...they act as if she is just a jeep wannabe and has no right to even be so high off the ground and look all jeepy like. Ive lost count of the number of times people ask me when am I going to get a "real" jeep!!! Such blasphemy...Im always careful to reprimand them in front of her so her feelings are not hurt. I wouldnt trade her for the biggest baddest gas guzzling jeep on the market today...shes my baby...my comfort...my space for some solitude and my taste for adventure fullfilled.

In a world (my world) where so many things are tough and hard to get through...where bills pile up and friends become enemies over petty stuff...where families are separated and the net is slooooow...at least I have my little jeep to take me away from it all...we go for a cruise...windows down...cd's playing...no worries.

Heaven!!!

btw...as much as I love you daughter of mine...NO I will not send her to you in the states...I love you with all my heart...but thats just pushing it.

How to Get Rid of Repairmen in a Hurry!!!

My washing machine quit on me so I called the repairmen to come collect it. I had just tried to run an orange colored fabric through it and so the tub was full of the fluff from that fabric.

Unfortunately the repairmen were a hell of a lot faster than I anticipated and showed up while I was still running my hands around the tub swiping up the bits of orange fluff...so I quickly gathered it up and threw it the first place I thought of as I ran for the door....my toilet bowl....which is quite near my washing machine.

Im fairly sure the repairmen had plenty of time to view that mess in the toilet because when they arrived they were full of smiles and chit chat...when they left they gave me a wide berth and could barely look me in the eye.

Hmmm!!! Wonder if this could have anything to do with it....(scroll down people)

















































I also forgot to pick up the pads off the floor before letting them in....so Im not sure if was the "mess" in the toilet bowl...the pads on the floor...or a combination of the two?

So what do ya think...did I scare the shit out of those repairmen or what!!!