NaBloPoMo 7.15

I'm doing it again.

I know. I suck.

Exhausted. Hitting 'submit' and going to bed.

G'night...

NaBloPoMo 7.14

Sorry.

I am totally gonna rip you off today...

Work is stressful and kicking my ass. I've been leaving the office around 7:30 - even a couple of 8 o'clock nights. When I finally get home, I am so ridiculously exhausted. Team that exhaustion with the crazy heat and you get me, exhausted yet unable to sleep. That ain't right!

My head hurts. My brain is fried. So, you get a complaint disguised as a brief blog post.

Sorry.

Good night.

*face pillow*

NaBloPoMo 7.13

I love getting mail. Birthday cards from my grandparents & godparents in San Pedro (with money) and my Aunt Alice in Baltimore started it all. It gave me a tremendous thrill to see my name on the envelope. The thrill continues even now when I get a card or invitation or postcard or letter. I remember when I went to Girl Scout camp, I made my parents promise to send me letters. Hearing my name at mail call or finding a letter on my sleeping bag was so exciting!

As a teenager, I was completely enthralled with Tiger Beat magazine. In my humble 15-year old opinion, Tiger Beat had the best pictures and stories of the heartthrobs of the time. I would wake up early Saturday morning, allowance in hand, ready to hit Stater Bros. with my mom. While she would grocery shop, I would be at the magazine stand, reading the latest teen magazines. Tiger Beat would be tucked under my arm, saving it until I was safe & secure in my bedroom where I could dream about going on a date with Scott Baio or being serenaded by Rick Springfield. One section that was of particular interest to me was the Classified page. There, kids could list ads looking for pen-pals. I always read the ads, but for some reason, I never replied to one. *Light bulb* Submit your own, Rissa! So, I did.

A couple of months later, I started getting letters: Hi, saw your ad in Tiger Beat - I like Rick Springfield, too! I love Loverboy! I love rollerskating, too! It was such a thrill to get letters from all over the country. I wrote back to each and every person.

One of the first to reply to my reply was Kristin from Iowa. We were pen-pals throughout high school - sending letters, birthday gifts, photos, even phone calls on occasion. After high school, I think we lost touch for a bit but reconnected after Kristin married and became pregnant. She moved out of Iowa and we once again lost touch. We briefly reconnected when she moved out to southern California. That was...oh, geez...late 80s/early 90s...and we hadn't been in touch since.

Over the weekend, while spending quality time with Insomnia, I got to reminiscing. I used Facebook search...and found a girl that could possibly be the same Kristin. So, I sent her an email ~ hey, this is random and weird...my name is Rissa...I had a pen pal...are you her? Two days later - voila! - OMFG! That IS me! Friend request me!

Kristin & I have been messaging and commenting back and forth, catching up. Her family is beautiful; she looks fantastic and her life is good! It's one time I'm not cursing Insomnia.

My other pen-pal from that Tiger Beat ad, Shari, lives in Kansas. We're still in touch. I've even been out to visit her & her family a couple of times. It wasn't awkward or weird or anything; we had fun and talked like old friends. Which, we were.

Crap...this went all over the place, didn't it?! Ha! Can't really wrap it up how I intended...so, I'll just stop.

The end.

NaBloPoMo 7.12 - My Happy Place

My favorite band performing one of my favorite songs to hear live. Ladies and gentlemen, the English Beat with "Save it For Later" ~ enjoy!

NaBloPoMo 7.11 - Do Something!

For the past few weeks, I have been emailing a girl who came across my blog via NaBloPoMo. She asked several pointed questions about my compulsive hoarding; and I answered as honestly as possible. The last email she sent was interesting: No offense or anything but why don't you stop talking about it and DO something. No offense taken.

I talk about it because it is a huge part of me, my life. I talk about it because I need help to DO something. I talk about it because I can't be the only one struggling with hoarding. I talk about it because I need the support and encouragement and understanding. I talk about because if I don't, I will live with it, add to it and ignore it. If I don't talk about it and I live with it, add to it and ignore it, it will consume me. And I refuse to let that happen! I am bigger than this. I am better than this. I know I can't do this on my own. I have tried; and though progress is being made, it isn't enough.

DO something?! I am! I struggle every single day over throwing away a receipt, a magazine, mail, anything, everything. I threw out two boxes of junk mail and magazines yesterday. Damn, that was a lot. Small steps...but they keep moving me forward.

I've decided to do it 'their' way - throw that shit out. 'They' say it's so easy. 'They' say if there's no need for it, no use for it, throw that shit out. If you say so. Next weekend, that is exactly what I'm going to do.

I will need help. A couple of people who will keep me on task, tell me those green capris are not coming back in-style, the red shoes are too beat up to keep; a couple of people willing to help me out.

So...there...I have asked for help.

And it did kill me a little bit inside.

NaBloPoMo 7.10 - Splurge and Save

What's one thing you think it's worth spending money on? What's one thing you always cheap out on?

Splurge: Toilet paper and tissues.

When I first lived on my own, I shopped according to what Mom bought. This brand of that, that brand of this. I didn't really budget - everything worked out at the end of the month.

Then, I moved to Los Angeles.

I had to make a few adjustments. It was definitely 'trial and error' - no-name peanut butter does not taste as good as Jif; Hydrox cookies pale in comparison to Oreos; store-brand 'puffed rice' cereal doesn't quite snap, crackle and pop but it is a pretty fair trade for the name brand. So, I cut some corners and moved on.

Then, I discovered the 99 Cents store. :::insert angels' chorus:::

Wow, what a great find, right? Everything you could EVER (and NEVER) need in one place for one price: chewing gum, cat litter, paper plates, those fake designer perfumes, candles, batteries, potpourri, notebooks and NSYNC pencils. Seriously, everything. Wisely, the stores stock tissues and toilet paper in the prime impulse point - at the front of the store. It's perfect placement! You (or I) are standing in line, the display catches your eye and you think "99 cents? Why not? You (or I) will always need toilet paper right and tissues? Right." So you (or I) grab a coupla four packs and a box or two of tissues.

Then, you (or I) use it. dun dun dun

These are horrible paper products. "Paper" :::shiver::: I remember having a cold; those tissues were so rough, my nose was bleeding! I'm serious. And the toilet paper? Trust me: don't do it. So, I splurge. And, I'm okay with that.

Save: shoes.

I've been buying shoes at Payless Shoe Source for over 20 years. I bought my first pair of high heels (white pumps that I absolutely loved!) from Payless at the age of 20. Every Tuesday after work or school, I would make a stop at the two Payless stores near my home and troll for size 12s. All of the shoes were less than $20, so a little money went a long way. I was - and continue to be - rough on shoes, usually lucky if the shoes last one season. My favorite shoes get a regular beating; it's the reason I typically buy more than one pair.

Through the years, the quality and styles of shoes at Payless have improved tremendously. The choices of styles in size 12 has improved, too. While I will splurge on a great pair of Franco Sarto high heels from Nordstrom, most of my shoes are inexpensive ones scored from Payless.com.

NaBloPoMo 7.9

incorporate the following into the middle of your story:

...so, very slowly the old lady turned the corner and was so startled she dropped her bag of apples. Was she seeing things?


With a flick of her wrists, the beach towel floated to the grass. "Ahh, perfect!" smiled Sabrina, clearly pleased with herself. The scene was set - sprinkler on hight from the far side of the lawn so little droplets kept her cool, a cooler filled with ice and drinks so she wouldn't have to leave the lawn, the kitchen timer 'tick tick tick'ing so she knew when to flip over and her new sexy summer mix CD emanating through the window from the stereo inside.

Sabrina untied the tiny blue robe and let it pool around her feet. Across the street, two houses down, Dean's forehead smacked the bay window. "Holy shit!"

Mrs. Dawson shuffled down Verbena Drive with her recycle bag full of apples. Miguel Perez always had fresh fruit and vegetables on Thursdays. Mrs. Dawson would walk to the corner of Begonia and Magnolia, wait for Miguel's truck then return home with her apples. As she approached Avocado Street, Mrs. Dawson remembered to move cautiously in case Max, the big sheepdog, was outside. She always seemed to scare him and he would charge at her. So, slowly the old lady turned the corner and was so startled she dropped her bag of apples. Was she seeing things?

"My word!" she exclaimed.

Dean Carter was rubbing his hands all over Sabrina Stanton's body. Dean had straddled her legs...rubbing and massaging oil onto her skin, into her skin. Sabrina writhed and cried out with pleasure, her back archiing. Mrs. Dawson heard them giggle. Dean was encouraging her "Yeah, baby...ohhh, yeahhh..."

"Dean Allen Carter! What in the world are you doing! Sabrina Michelle Stanton! You outta be ashamed!"

They weren't. They just ignored her.

NaBloPoMo 7.8

IM NOT DEAD

MEET ME TONIGHT

AT JOHNNYS PIZZA

TELL NO ONE

Four lines. All caps. No punctuation.

Pete didn't recognize the email address. He didn't have to know that to know the message came from Nichole. No one else had died recently. He deleted the email, closed his laptop and lit a cigarette. Only one question circled in his mind: Where the hell is Johnny's Pizza?

Pete pulled his Toyota 4-Runner into the small lot, parked and looked around. He expected the lot to be empty at 9:30 on a Sunday night. Instead, there three cars and two scooters. He sat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, his stomach a sour mix of dread and fear. "Aw, shit" he sighed, jumping out of the truck. He stood inhaling the cool summer breeze and thought of Nichole.

He hadn't know her long; he hadn't known her well. Like the breeze, she blew into his life, unexpectedly. It was at the 24-hour Rite Aid on Sunset and Fairfax. He was achy and miserable; she was sparkly and alive, something he didn't expect at 3 o'clock in the morning in a drug store. He remembers reaching for a box of Sudafed, it spinning and falling and he following it down. When he awoke, his head was in her lap, a blue velvet, fur-trimmed jacket covering him. 'You okay, champ? Let's go. I got chicken soup." She was a free spirit who took it upon herself to nurse him back to health. Nichole had also decided Pete needed mothering and she was the one to do it. The last time he saw her was the day he told her to stop the mothering.

Shaking her memories from his head, Pete smoothed his khakis and walked to the door. The red neon OPEN sign went dark as his hand touched the handle. A short rotund woman with an ample bosom, smiled sweetly and nodded as he walked in. Her soft pudgy hand guided Pete by his elbow through a curtained doorway. An old greasy-faced man offered up a tray with beverages. Pete grabbed a Coors Light bottle and a glass of water, fairly certain he would need more than one of each.

The rotund woman led Pete to a banquet room. He was surprised to see seven other people in the room, each seated at a small bistro table. He sat down as a candle was placed on the table between his water and beer.

Pete did not recognize anyone. No one spoke. No one looked around. Pete's leg started to bounce nervously. He chugged the beer to keep his sour stomach at bay. He did not have a good feeling about this at all. He stood, turned to walk out, but was stopped by a smile and an insistent shaking of the old lady's head.

Like a mirage, Nichole appeared. She looked sparkly and alive - much like the first time he saw her. She was wearing that same blue velvet fur-trimmed jacked over a white halter top and white sequined hot pants.

"Hello" she said to everyone and, oddly, no one. Her smile was wicked behind its sweet facade as she looked at each person. Her eyes were puffy, makeup smeared.

"No one came to my funeral. None of YOU came to my funeral. You were my closest friends. My cohorts. My confidants. Of all the people in the world, in MY world, you all were the ones I love and trust above all."

She stepped to a young girl in jeans and a Juicy Couture hoodie. "Betsy...you sweet girl...I took you in to my home when you were troubled and in trouble. I shared me with you. And you abandoned me."

POW!

A bullet to her brain.

"I should NOT have worn white."

Nichole stepped to the next two people - a boy and another girl. And wordlessly shot each one.

POW! POW!

Pete jumped.

The next two boys seemed to have a conversation with Nichole. Her smile softened a bit. She threw her head back, a silent mocking gesture, then fired two more shots.

POW! POW!

"Fuckers."

The two remaining girls lit cigarettes and called for a round of shots. Nichole raised her glass, clinked to a toast with the others and tossed back the drink. She smiled, kissed each of the girls.

POW! POW!

She walked to Pete. "Oh, Peter. Sweet, sweet Peter..." She stroked his hair, kissed his cheek. "Be a doll and take me to Rite Aid please. I'm going to need a Tide stick."

NaBloPoMo 7.7

I didn’t plan to steal anything that day. In fact, I had never stolen anything in my life. OK, that’s not exactly true. I did have a plan. It wasn’t a plan to steal; it was just a plan to get what I needed. Man, nevermind. I didn’t plan to steal anything.

I needed to get to California. I didn’t know where to go; just knew I had to go, had to be there. Phoenix was a dead-end, man. There was no music scene; no people worthy of being in a band. No one is serious about music. No ambition, no dream. My friends just want to party and smoke out. I do that, too; and I have dreams – a band, me making music, gigs every night. California, that’s the place to be, man…Los Angeles or any place around there would surely have a place for me and my bass. I can get myself to California; then what…?

That’s when I met her. We struck up a conversation on some party line. She lived in California – a city called Riverside. She had 2 jobs, a house, a car and no self-esteem. It was perfect; she was perfect. Within twenty minutes, she had given me tons of information – and her phone number. This was the perfect scenario, man.

We talked throughout the night, every night. She was desperate for affection and sex and love. I hate to admit it, but I used this to my advantage. Whatever, dude – gotta do what you gotta do. We would talk, I would dangle some sort of compliment, she would eat it up then I wouldn’t call her for days. She would call; she would always call – early morning, late night. I would sit there, listen to her messages then delete it. Her tone went from casual, to frantic, to distraught and then apologetic, like she’d done something. This went on for weeks. By this time, it didn’t matter what she looked like or what I looked like. I had her, man. And I was moving to California.

Let me say that I am a master of twisting words, manipulating them and, in turn, controlling people. It’s twisted, circular logic. A girl with no self-esteem is very easy to manipulate; especially this girl. I contradict myself, get her all turned around and she ends up agreeing with me, no matter the topic or how strongly she disagrees. She was thrilled with my plan to move to Riverside to “be with her.” I had her talking about all the things “we” could and would do and see – the beach, the mountains, the desert, her favorite places. I was agreeable – sure, babe; I’d love that, too, babe; I want to kiss you under the stars, babe – quoting that Eagles song. Damn, that was just too easy. When she pushed back at my moving in with her, I was surprised. I was also ready for her resistance. My voice took on a harsh tone; I didn’t raise it or yell. It was clear I was angry. I called her a tease (You said this is what you wanted – me out there to do all these things with), said she was mean, called her a liar, called her selfish. She was flustered; couldn’t get words out to make her point – or any point. Then I dropped the three little words on her, man – “I love you;” let that hang for a minute…”but you don’t love me.” She started crying. “I do love you…” I kept the stern tone, talking over her as she uttered, sputtered and cried. She caved in, of course; I would be moving to California, baby! And moving in with her. Done, man. Perfect.

Over the next year and a half, I was able keep her under control easily. The stern harsh tone worked best on her. She didn’t know how to deal with me being disappointed. She just wanted to please me, man. If I didn’t like the TV program, I would say so and she would apologize. If she liked something, really really liked something, I would dismiss it (and her) as being stupid or not worth my time and she would apologize. I bought her the new Gin Blossoms’ cassette, telling her the band is from Phoenix and I’d heard they were good. She loved it; played it all the time. When she would ask me to listen to a particular song, I’d scowl and call the music crap. “How could you listen to that crap? That’s not music. That’s crap!”

Yeah, sometimes I yelled and threw things. She yelled, too, so that didn’t work for me because I would want to hit her. I would see red and come so damn close to hitting her with my cane. I had to throw shit or hit something else. I broke out a closet door one night; and knocked the bathroom door right off the hinges! Damn, I was pissed. I don’t even remember why, dude.

I complimented her once in a while and crushed her often. It wasn’t too hard to be nice to her, any little thing from me made her happy. She craved physical affection; she ached for it, man. I would touch her then I’d shun her. She would even beg for it – that was a trip. Never has a girl begged for it, man. But, she did. Yeah, she did. She begged. Oh, man – one time, we were making out and her mom called. I told her it was a ‘sign from God’ telling us we should wait til we were married. It was total bullshit! It worked though. That was a good one…

Food was another way to keep her in control. I would buy Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream, telling her “I thought of you today. I love you.” Then, blast her shit for being fat as she ate it. I would read then throw away her mail, I didn’t tell her when family or friends called and I gave her mixed messages – give her food, call her fat; tell her I love her but refuse to touch her or sleep in the same bed. I took her car for my own use, forcing her to carpool or miss work entirely. I used our bank card and money with complete disregard, causing checks to bounce; which resulted in us being kicked out of our apartment. Whatever. This girl was so twisted up!

Damn, this one time…oh, man, this was sad but funny…I bought her an emerald ring for our first Christmas together. She totally loved it. I told her it was an engagement ring until I could get a decent one for her. One night, after late night band practice, I stopped to buy weed. I didn’t have enough cash, but my dude said I could bring the rest in the morning. When I got home, she was asleep of course. I took the ring, hid it in my guitar case. The next morning, before work, she was tearing up the house looking for the ring, but she didn’t tell me that’s what she was looking for. When she was ready to walk out the door, I said “Lemme see your ring, babe.” She stammered and tried to leave. I took on that stern tone of voice. Man, I ripped her up! She was shaking and so upset. I slammed the door on her. A few days later, our roommate showed her the receipt she found in the trash that showed I returned the ring, got my cash back. That was messed up.

So, no, I didn’t plan to steal anything that day; but I did. I broke her down and I stole her soul.

NaBloPoMo 7.6

Almost 2 years ago, I came across a message on Myspace - Beginners Creative Writing class! I clicked through to find the 8-week workshop was taught by world-renown author and groupie, Pamela Des Barres. Wanting (and perhaps needing) an adventure, I sent an email to her. "I have never written anything other than class assignments and journal entries. I enjoy writing, though...is it okay to join your group?"

It was the start of a wonderful part of my life. These writing classes have been a tremendous experience - my writing has improved, my creativity has as well, I've developed friendships with amazing, talented and inspiring women who will, undoubtedly, be part of my life forever.

Thank you, Miss Pamela, for bringing this awesome group of women together. And, thank you to Miss P and her dolls for saving me.