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LJI 10:11 - the blue hour

based on a true story

It's supposed to be fun spending time with your grandma. Grandmas in movies and books bake cookies and make all kinds of yummy homemade food, and they make things out of yarn with hooks or needles.

Our grandma isn't like that, though. She's usually cranky and she yells too much. She doesn't make yummy food, either. Mostly stuff like Hamburger Helper or chicken with bones in it.

And in movies and books, when you go to Grandma's house you sit at a table when you eat dinner. At her house we eat on paper plates in front of the TV. She doesn't like to let us watch the shows we like, though. We have to watch what SHE likes. No cartoons for us.

Uncle Mike lives with Grandma still. He's almost a grown-up, but he still goes to school. He's the youngest of Dad's brothers. Uncle Mark is the oldest, and he's married to Aunt Debbie. Then there's Uncle Tim. He's the best and the nicest. He's married to Aunt Mary. Then there's our dad.

Our mom said that our dad robbed the grocery store around the corner because she wanted to get him into trouble. Now Katie and me don't live with Mom or Dad. Our sister lives with Uncle Tim and Aunt Mary because they say that she is special. We're all special. But I guess she is special on a different way.

At school, they tell us to let a grown-up know if someone touches us in a bad way. Good touch is a hug or a pat on the back when you do a good job. Bad touch is when someone touches you in the parts that are covered up by your swimming suit.

Last summer Uncle Mike did the bad touch on me. I don't really trust him any more. I was getting ready for bed when he walked in on me in the bathroom after I took a shower. He stared for a minute too long before he closed the door and left. It made me feel yucky.

Then the next day when we were watching a movie - because Grandma was at work - Uncle Mike was sitting on the couch with me and Katie. There was a blanket covering us up. He was in the middle.

He put his hand on my knee and moved it up until it was between my legs.

I looked at him and he had a weird look on his face. His eyes were almost closed and he was almost smiling. He started to move his hand up to the button of my pants and tried to undo it.

I stood up and then kicked him under the blanket, as hard as I could. But I'm only ten and he's almost a grownup. He smirked at me and didn't say anything.

When Grandma came home I told her what happened. She just looked at me and rolled her eyes. I could see that the sky outside the window was changing from the pinks and oranges of the sunset to the grayish blue of dusk.

"You're not going to tell anybody," she said, with her hands folded over her fat tummy. "That didn't happen and we aren't going to talk about it. And you aren't going to tell anyone at your foster home about it either! Understand?"

I nodded my head.

But it did happen.

I'm an adult now, married with two daughters of my own. And as soon as I could, I got away from those people and lived my own life. Uncle Mike was married and divorced and in and out of jail. He did the same thing to one of my other cousins.

Fortunately, her mom and dad believed her. He went to jail for five years for what he did to her. I think he's in jail again now. Good.

His ex-wife and I are friends on Facebook. I love her. I have since the day I met her. She is married to a nice man and they live in Arizona. The other day she said something about her ex-husband. My grandma wanted her to be quiet about what he did. But after she divorced Uncle Mike, she wasn't quiet at all.

"He did it to me too," I wrote her. "Grandma didn't believe me. And she told me to never tell anybody."

"Oh sweetie," she wrote back immediately. "I'm so sorry that happened to you. I wish I'd known."

I looked out the window behind me, the oranges and pinks of the sunset changing to the blue-gray of dusk.

It took almost twenty years but finally someone believed me.


LJI 10:10 - take a hike

When I was a senior in high school in the fall of 1996, I began to learn about how political grassroots movements worked. The county was planning to put in a landfill on Graham Road, only a few miles away from where we lived.

This formed the West Plains Neighborhood Association, a group of concerned citizens who were speaking up and voicing their concern. My father, a retired cop who was now driving school bus, went door to door in the area so people could know what was going on and become aware.

Through fundraising of various types, the WPNA was finally able to get a lawyer. The lawyer they went with was a flamboyant publicity hound who, a few years later, ran for city council and won.

The WPNA, unfortunately, didn't stand a chance against the county. The Graham Road landfill went in a few years later, despite the best efforts of all parties involved. Valid concerns were raised about the drinking water in the area. My father sat at his computer and typed out sarcastic, nasty letters in reference to the "Graham Road DUMP".

Okay, the county decided. If these people are so concerned about their drinking water, let's work out a compromise. How about putting a liner in the landfill? That way, the water will still be fine and we can still build our glorified trash heap.

Ideally, it should have worked.

It didn't.

The liner, for all extents and purposes, turned the landfill into a giant toxic teabag, leaching toxins into the ground water the WPNA wanted to protect.

For some of us West Plains residents, the water issue was an annoyance more than anything else. Many of us were far enough away from the landfill that we were not directly affected. We could buy filtered water at the store to drink, or have the friendly neighborhood Culligan man supply us with a water cooler.

But there was the woman who lived in the little green house right off of Graham Road. It was always one of my favorite houses, and as long as I could remember, I'd admire it as we drove back and forth between Spokane and home. I wanted to live there when I grew up.

She had lived there since the sixties. Her husband had built the house for them before they got married. He'd passed away a few years ago, but she stayed there. It was the home they had shared, and she had no desire to leave.

That was, until the point came, when she had to.

The ground water analysis for her home showed that her home's water was so polluted that it was literally poisonous. She had to leave her home.

The little green house was uninhabitable.

The water was toxic.

The liner, which was supposed to make sure this never happened, had caused this.

Too bad, the county said. Sucks to be you. The landfill is staying, you have to go. And there must be another reason your house has toxic water, because the liner made it safe.

Take a hike, they told her.

I just got back from visiting my parents. Every time we went back and forth, I looked at the house out of the corner of my eye. I thought about how devastating it must be to leave your home by force.

And how important it is for everyone to have clean water.

LJI 10:8 - no comment

I kept seeing the news stories about the murders on TV. They were all over the evening news, as perfectly coiffed anchorwomen with makeup applied thick as Spackle with a trowel seriously discussed the body of another missing, drug- addled prostitute, her skin pockmarked, eyes dead, hair unkempt. The media always said they were younger than they looked.

The one that Miranda Moorhead, Action News 12, was talking about right now was identified as thirty year old Pamela Green, her street name Jasmyn Lux. Her body had been found in a shallow grave in the woods. A young couple had been taking their dog for a walk when Rover started digging and instead of an animal, the couple saw a hand with a crudely done tattoo. They called the police, who identified the body as the latest victim of the Scanlon Streetwalker Strangler.

Apparently, the victim had been last seen getting in a dark colored, late model van that had a license plate ending in N. And as usual, they gave the anonymous phone number to call if you had any information about the crime. The killer probably thought he was doing a public service, I thought, reaching for the remote. At least he's getting this trash off the streets. Maybe they should give him a medal. I thought meanly.

The 10:30 news over, I pushed the button on the lift chair to put me into a standing position so I could easily get up and walk down the hall to the bedroom. Since my array of health problems that had come up the year before, my son and daughter in law had moved in with me. Lauren worked days at the dry cleaners up the street, and Joey worked nights as a janitor. The other kids lived far away and had their own families and responsibilities. Joey was the youngest, and he and Lauren hadn't started having kids yet. I imagined she'd want her own home, but she didn't seem to mind living here. I'd lived with my mother in law when Joey's dad and I had first gotten married, and I couldn't wait to get out of her house. It had been a relief - at least to me - when she died a year later. Even more so when she left us the house.

Joey's dad had passed away ten years ago. He'd had a heart attack at work, a massive one. It had taken him immediately. It seemed to me that at fifty-seven, he was young for it, but considering it ran in the family, I supposed it made sense. I still missed him, but at least he'd left me with the good pension he got from the city.

I wasn't asleep yet when I heard the front door slam, followed by the sound of Joey's footsteps. I recognized the sound of his work boots. I heard the sound of his voice, followed by a soft murmuring from Lauren. Then four footsteps, the sound of the door slamming again. Nothing for me to worry about, I thought, listening to the whirring of the air conditioner above my head, watching the shadows of the tree branches outside the window.

Months passed.

More women were disappearing, presumed killed. I watched Miranda Moorhead standing under a billboard with all of their faces on it, their names listed below.

Angela Dietz. Starla Kerry. Mindy Morgan. Pamela Green. Rachel LaFontaine. Kendra White. Traci Milligan. The two that were missing and presumed dead were Sunshine O'Malley and Melody Monroe. Nine prostitutes, either dead or missing, presumed dead.

Someone on TV with their face pixellated spoke about Kendra White. It was reported that when she was found, her ring was missing. I had watched enough of those crime shows to know that the killer had probably taken it as a souvenir.

And although I wasn't sure why, I began to feel ill. And then it came to me exactly why. I thought of Lauren's hand, and the garnet ring Joey had given her "just because", she'd said. That wasn't like Joey. He could barely remember his anniversary or Lauren's birthday, and even then he'd mostly buy cheap junk, not ever anything pretty like that ring.

I reached for my cane, braced myself, and walked downstairs, scared of what I expected to find. Lauren was working. Joey was out. No one was home to catch me snooping.

I opened the drawer of his bedside table.

Inside was a quart sized Ziploc bag with a melange of jewelry inside.

I pulled out a delicate gold locket with the faces of two children in it.

A turquoise and silver bracelet.

A rosary.

Lastly, a key ring that said "Melody".

And then I knew the truth.

Choking back the bile that had begun to rise up in my throat, I headed up the stairs and reached for the phone. I needed to act fast, before Joey got home.

Twenty minutes later, they were here. Bloodhounds barked and howled outside my bedroom window, pawing fervently at the flower bed. Shortly after, two bodies wrapped in Hefty bags were removed.

There was surprisingly little fuss when Joey was arrested. He got home, saw the police cars, and surrendered peacefully. He never asked who called them. Maybe he guessed they just figured it out. Or maybe he knew the whole time it was me. I don't know. I'll never know. The tip line was anonymous; nobody could have known that I turned in my own son as the Scanlon Strangler.

It took surprisingly little time for the verdict to come back. Nine consecutive life sentences; essentially four hundred and fifty years in prison. I was there, of course. Even though I turned him in, he was still my son. Even though he had done the most horrible thing I could imagine, he was still my son.

Media swarmed us as we left the courthouse. Miranda Moorehead, still perfectly coiffed, shoved her microphone in my face. "As the mother of the Scanlon Strangler, how does this verdict make you feel?"

Stupid question, I thought.

"No comment," I told her.

And with my cane, I cleared a path through the hordes of foot traffic like Moses parting the Red Sea, never turning back.


LJI 10:6 - heel turn

post is fiction but idea inspired by my friend Christy O, who lost her own Tanya in 2008.

I got the phone call in the middle of the night. It startled me out of a sound sleep; the dogs looked up from my feet, alarmed. My husband, who could sleep through a national disaster, just snored away.

It was Tanya's husband on the other line. She and I had a relationship for a while, but before that had even started, she was my best friend. It didn't work out, but somehow she and I had managed to stay friends. Best friends, in fact. I was the light to her dark, she often told me. And when she and her husband would fight tooth and nail about what sometimes seemed like insignificant things to me, she would call me, crying.

I'd drive over and pick her up, and we'd go to Lucy's Diner to drink coffee (as black as her soul, she'd say sarcastically, I thought) and smoke cigarettes and talk until the sun began to come up. My husband would have gotten the kids off to school, and I'd take her back to my house where we slept side by side, her fragile frame curled against mine.

Joe sounded upset. Extremely upset, more than I think I'd ever heard him sound. His voice was heavy and choked with tears, and I heard him take a deep, ragged breath before he told me what would rip my heart out of me.

"Tanya's dead."

I knew, without him having to tell me, that it was suicide. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that she'd done it herself. She wouldn't have ever put anyone else in danger. I'd heard about people who killed themselves by going the wrong way on the freeway, taking an exit ramp instead of the on ramp. But that wasn't her way.

"When I go, just forget I was ever here," she told me one night at Lucy's. "I don't want or need to be remembered. Not like there's anything about me that's worth being remembered anyway."

She was wrong, I told her.

She said I was a liar.

And now she was dead.

For the next few months, whenever I couldn't sleep, I was on the computer reading Tanya's blog.

I had to read the words she had shared there when she was alive.

Over and over again.

"Forget I ever existed."

I couldn't bring myself to do that. One of the biggest parts of my life, aside from my husband and the kids, was gone.

"Baby, I'm worried about you," my husband told me, apropos of nothing, one night when he woke up at three in the morning.

I was illuminated by the backlight from the computer, reading Tanya's words. I wished they were a physical thing, so that I could find a way to hold them in my hands. Taste them. Touch them. Smell them. They were all I had left of her.

My blog and Tanya's blog were on the same site. If I deleted my blog, I wouldn't be able to read hers - and then maybe I could try to begin to heal from a loss that had shaken me to my core.

I thought of the way I had been in ROTC in high school, how we would turn on our heel when doing drills and the commander would bark "ABOUT FACE!" And then we would change our direction. From north to south, from east to west.

I needed to heal. And I knew that I couldn't do it by sitting here at the desk, obsessively reading Tanya's blog because it was all I had left of her. It wrecked me every time I did it, but I couldn't stop.

"Do you want to permanently delete your account?" asked the pop up box on my screen.

I clicked "yes" and closed my eyes as what was left of Tanya faded away.

About face, I thought, as I kissed my husband and let him lead me back to the bedroom for the first good night's sleep I'd had in months.

LJI 10:5 - fear is the heart of love

My husband the photo bomber. #family #siblings #father #bloodgood

L-R - my sister Jolynn, my bio-dad JB, my sister Chris, my brother Patrick, and my husband photo bombing us. Summer 2015

L-R - My sister Jolynn, our bio dad JB, me, my sister Chris, my brother Patrick, and my husband photo bombing our cute family photo. 8/15

I had heard nothing good about my birth father. I knew his first name, knew that he was Swedish, but in all honesty, that was all the information I had that wasn't laced with some sort of anger and pain. He and my birth mother had three children together and kept one - my biological brother, P.

My birth mother, J, had said she wanted to keep my sister but asked me, over the phone, in tears, if I had ever seen or read "Sophie's Choice", and that was why my sister had been adopted. The story she told was devastating. My birth father, J.B, had threatened to throw my brother off a bridge if she didn't give up the new baby.

One night nearly two years ago, I was finally able to summon the energy to give him a phone call. My sister had sent me his phone number in a Facebook IM with a simple message that said, essentially, that he would like to get to know me too, when I was ready.

A girl's first love is supposed to be her father. My relationship with my dad has always been fraught with conflict. He's a realist, I'm a dreamer. He is a far right conservative Christian who proudly voted for Trump and loves Fox News. He is a complete neat freak who wants things just so.

That's not me. I'm a liberal Christian who followed my proudly Democratic maternal grandmother's footsteps. I live in a constant state of chaos and clutter, avoid cable news like the plague, and consider Donald Trump to be a festering sore on America's rear end that we'll be stuck dealing with for at least the next four years.

The only thing we have in common is our faith and our taste in music. I cut my teeth on Dad's LPs of Simon and Garfunkel, CCR, and BS&T.

When I reached out to J.B that cold night in late January of 2015, I was scared to death. I left a rambling, disjointed message saying who I was, leaving my number so that he could call me back, ending with "go Seahawks!" because I had no idea what else to say.

I wanted to have that kind of father-daughter connection with him that I didn't have with my own dad.

I wanted him to be patient and understanding.

I wanted him not to be the kind of person who bragged about his sons when bumping into a high school friend at a pizza parlor but completely ignored his daughter.

I wanted him not to be the kind of person who talked loudly over the phone about my "FLIPPED FINGERS", an OBVIOUS sign of the MILD CEREBRAL PALSY I'd been born with.

I wanted him not to be the kind of person who would threaten to put me into a group home because my apartment wasn't clean enough for his specific standards.

I wanted him to think that I was amazing and wonderful despite the fact I'd been broken time and time again by a well meaning but domineering and condescending father, glued together by my mother's soft words until my father broke me again. And again. And again.

And with all those thoughts bouncing around in my brain like popcorn kernels in a hot pan, I drove to Trader Joe's and bought a cookie butter cheesecake.

And I texted a friend from the Trader Joe's parking lot. "OMG I just called my bio-dad and I am freaking out right now."

When I got home, the voice mail icon was on my phone screen and I knew that he'd called me back. Hysterically, I hurried into the house, frantically put away my groceries, shoved the cheesecake I'd just bought into the freezer, babbled some nonsense to my husband, and listened to the voice message.

He sounded nice. Kind. Not at all like the red-eyed cartoon monster I had envisioned due to J's dramatic story about my brother and the bridge.

I called him back. We talked like old friends for half an hour, and he told me about his life - three kids with J, an older daughter, twice married, once divorced. He'd retired from the mill at Pend Oreille and when he got bored, began working on cars. Chevys. He told me a delightful story about his older sister from Arizona tearing around town in a red convertible he'd fixed up.

"Just like the little old lady from Pasadena," I laughed in delight. I couldn't wait to meet that aunt. She sounded like a fireball, full of piss and vinegar.

We met on March 1st in Washington State. I'd flown in for my best friend's wedding - I was maid of honor. He was exactly the way I hoped he would be - kind-hearted, funny, caring. Over the loudly raucous dinner table at Tomato Street, he shared stories with us about the only time he called out of work, and the time he did what is now known affectionately in family lore as "pulling a JB" on a broken fridge Sears was replacing.

I was scared to death that he wouldn't want to be a part of my life, because of my own baggage of self doubt and insecurity. I wanted him to accept me for who I was.

And he did.

And that night, as my parents waited in the parking lot of the restaurant, listening to music in their car, he thanked them for doing such a wonderful job raising me.

All my quirks and flaws didn't matter. The only thing that mattered at that moment in time is that not only had I accepted him, he had accepted me.

I wasn't afraid anymore.


I've battled depression for years. So much of the time, it's an uphill struggle in the snow, while barefoot, in below freezing temperatures. I know that there are going to be some months that are harder to deal with than others.

April is my least favorite month. Some people love it...Flowers are starting to come out, there are cute baby animals around. But for me it's the beginning of my spring depressive cycle. And I know that for the next thirty-one days, it's going to be harder and harder to do the things I love to do.

Instead of wanting to hit up the St. Vincent's thrift shop down the street for ridiculously cheap books and retro kitschy knick-knacks, I have to push myself out of bed every single day.

Instead of wanting to immerse myself in the kitchen cooking delicious food, comforting myself with the rituals of chopping garlic and onions, marinating chicken in buttermilk, and blending shallots, herbs, olive oil and vinegar to make dressing, I subsist off the McDonald's dollar menu, eating foods that don't even taste good because it's easier.

People think self care should be fun. Go get a mani-pedi! Go shopping. Karaoke with your friends!

But in fact, it's not glamorous and it's not fun.

It means that you have to wash your hair when it's so greasy it looks like you washed it in canola oil.

It means that you need to wash the pile of dishes that have accumulated in the sink that you don't feel emotionally equipped to deal with.

It means you need to wear real clothes, not those Old Navy pajama pants, sock monkey slippers and the stinky, sweaty t-shirt you've been living in the past few days because getting dressed takes more energy than you possess.

By the time the middle of March rolls around, I have prepared myself for the upcoming crash. I have to plan for what I know will happen sooner rather than later.

The depressive phase, for me, is best explained by referencing that episode of "Duck Tales" where Magicka McQuack casts a spell to cast a dark cloud is over Scrooge no matter what he does, says, or where he goes. Scrooge carries the umbrella with him because even if the sun is shining everywhere else, it will be storming over his head.

All I can do is get ready for it to show up, so I grab my virtual umbrella on March 31st, make sure my night table is full of books and things to read, and that, with any luck, the pantry is stocked with Spaghetti-Os and Chunky soup so I don't go to McDonald's every day.

I hate it.

I don't think there's a person in this world who enjoys being depressed. But in a way, I'm lucky that I know when it's coming, so I can plan for it and let the people I love know that it's coming.

And if I find it hard to take care of myself during that window, I am thankful that I have someone who can.

I am thankful that I have him to run me a hot bath and a cup of tea, to take out the garbage or to pick up something to eat, or to cook for me, even if it's just a frozen flatbread pizza.

In the mental air hockey game I play throughout March, he and I both know where to go as we wait for the heavy weighted puck of sadness, sorrow, depression and crippling self-doubt to come around.

When it does, we are ready.

LJI 10:4A - Jantalagen

This is fiction, loosely based on actual events.

I'm not a nice person. I never said that I was, and if I did, that would make me a liar. And I might be a lot of things, but I'm sure as hell not a liar.

I call 'em as I see 'em. That's the way that I am. You don't like it, then you can kiss my ass. I don't give a good GD what you think about that, either. And I sure as shit don't want to listen to all your caterwauling and bellyaching about it either.

I told my wife to look for the girl she adopted out in the 80s. It was a long ass time before she and I even got together, either. She's a good woman. Probably better than what I deserve. So she did. Wrote a letter to the people in charge, said she was interested in meeting her.

I call it as I see it. When she said she wanted to find her birth father, I called her a piece of garbage. Because that's what he is, a piece of trash. Sometimes, because we live in the same damn town, I see his sorry ass at the grocery store. I want to punch him in the face when I see him, want to rip that mustache off his upper lip.

I don't much cotton to people who associate with trash. I told the girl as much. I don't wanna have to deal with that son of a bitch and his pigshit redheaded asshole daughter. And she went ahead and contacted him anyway even after we told her who he really is.

I like me some women who stay in their place. My wife doesn't talk back or sass me. She's damn near ten years older than me and she recognizes that I'm the ruler of the roost and the head of the household. Her girl doesn't do that.

We had the same problem with my wife's niece and her kids. She doesn't know when to stay in her place, or when to shut the eff up. It's my way or the highway here. And the sooner you realize that, the better.

My wife's other daughter found her on the internet. Guess she got her original birth certificate or some shit like that and found her. I looked at her page online. She seems like she's the kind willing to grin and bear it and stay in her place.

That's the way it's supposed to be.


LJI 10:3 - Brushback Pitch

"You have to see this scrapbook that the MIL group and I made," burbles my mother. I've been going through the worst year of my life, but I'll take a few minutes to look at her scrapbook.

The MIL group is made up of Mom and a group of her other church friends with married children. The MIL, of course, stands for "mother in law", but because they're clever, it's also an abbreviation for "mothers interceding lovingly". More like an excuse to meddle in the lives of your children, particularly the one whose life you still want to control.

My life is hell.

My husband is in prison. I spend every Sunday going to visit him and come home emotionally exhausted. During our visits, if I'm with his mother, she dominates the conversation with talk about her job, his other brothers, and his nieces and nephews - including the one who put him in here.

The woman herself is emotionally manipulative and has been using me as a meal ticket for years. I give her $300 of my SSI check, then another $50 for the phone bill (since when Michael calls collect it gets expensive, she informs me, seated in her pedestal, dressed in a ratty purple sweatshirt and the kind of knit pants that fat old ladies seem to favor.)

The past year for me has consisted of a domestic violence incident, my ex-husband's trial and subsequent incarceration, and having my purse stolen when I was walking home with my friend on a Friday night. I do my best to put up a good front, and since I don't want to be weak, I plaster a smile on my face and rattle off some cliche quote about how God won't give you anything you can't handle.

"And this is when we did a spa day for A!" Mom exclaims, showing me a picture of her friend H's daughter in law, her eyes covered in cucumber slices on one photo, a green facial mask on in another one, photos of C's daughters getting in on the fun.

At this precise moment, my heart hurts so bad I can barely take it. A recently had a hysterectomy, which is why they did the spa day. And I realize that the amount of mental pain I've been in doesn't really matter. Because physical pain gets you a cucumber eye mask and a mani-pedi, but mental pain doesn't matter.

I could have used that. I need someone to take care of me, to rub my feet and put cucumbers on my eyes and rub some kind of cream all over my face and treat me like a princess. Because I feel like nothing, a big zero. I get plenty of prayers, but God doesn't seem to be anywhere around right now. I don't think He's listening.

"Looks like fun," I say, plastering a smile on my face even though I want to cry for a month. I dont deserve good things. I deserve to be living with people who manipulate me and take whatever they can. Good things happen to people like A, who has two adorable little boys and a worshipful husband. She deserves good things. I do not. It's so clear to me now. Like staring right at the sun, it hurts.

Quickly I turn the page. If I don't get away from the sorrow I'm feeling right now, it's going to break me. And if I break right now, I'll never be able to be put back together.

And that's the last thing I need to happen right now.

LJI 10:2 - that one friend

It was 2008.

Life had changed dramatically for me in the past several years. After figuring I would spend my whole life in Washington, I was in Arizona. After always swearing I would never live in sin , I was happily shacking up with my fiance. My ex-husband was out of prison now.

He had been released in April of that same year. It's weird for me to think it's been almost 10 years. I've been divorced from him longer than we were even married.

I would have happily ignored the fact he was out of prison, but the problem was that everyone and their dog felt the need to keep telling me that they'd seen him downtown waiting for a bus, and I wouldn't have been surprised at all if he'd asked about me.

I usually say that I kept most of our friends in the divorce. To be honest, that's mostly true. The few friends that were willing to reconcile with him weren't really people I wanted or needed in my life anyway.

And it was kind of funny to me, the way that most of our mutual friends had been his friends first. Now they had dismissed him from their lives. It was completely understandable that most people weren't really interested in associating with a convicted child molester. Not that I could blame them.

I've been friends with Chris since late '97. He had also originally been one of my ex-husband's friends. Not to mention, he'd also been a groomsman at our wedding. I tried in vain to set him up with one of my friends, but she wasn't at all interested.

Chris was also the first person that I told when my cousin's rapist was found innocent. The two of us could talk on the phone for hours, discussing music, movies, or even tea. If you could only have one friend of the opposite sex in the world, he'd conceivably be the one I would choose.

But now it's 2008. And Chris is working at First Presbyterian Church, where my ex-husband and I had sporadically attended an evening service the summer before we got married.

The chat window on Yahoo messenger popped up. "Guess who came to visit me at work today?" Chris asked me.

Instinctively I knew without him really needing to tell me.

"Apparently, he's looking for a job. And I guess he thought that I'd be willing to help him out. I told him that after the way he treated you, I'm not interested in him being a part of my life."

He knew what I'd gone through after the incarceration. Living in the House of Repression, being a victim of domestic violence, being gaslighted by my ex's harpy of a mother...he had been there through all of it.

We had gone to Cucina Cucina together one night for dinner (they had a phenomenal pasta dish I loved with goat cheese,
broccoli and pine nuts) then to watch "Seabiscuit" afterwards - even though I know he really wanted to see "Pirates of the Caribbean". 

That was the night he gave me the words I needed to hear but didn't know. And that was "Everything will be all right." And in the long run, it was.

I haven't seen him in almost ten years now. He's remarried and lives in Montana - his marriage to his hometown high school sweetheart fell apart a year or so before my ex's conviction. I haven't met his new wife, but as long as she treats him well and makes him happy, nothing else really matters in the long run.

When I flew out to Arizona in November of 2006 to meet the man who would become my husband, he picked me up at 5:30 in the morning in exchange for breakfast at Molly's. As I flew alone for the first time, he got an IM from Mike, asking if I had gotten to the airport all right and thanking him.

"Please don't hurt her," Chris told him. "She's already been through so much."

If people come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime, Chris is of the "lifetime" group.

And if I was able to sit on the front porch with God, I'd thank Him for lending Chris to me.

Chris, Daphyn and I at my going away party - 2/07

I have a white board in the kitchen that I ordered off Amazon on the pretense to keep me on top of household chores. It's a nice white board. It came with markers with magnets attached to the back and tiny erasers on the lids, of course in a variety of colors. Blue, black, green, and red.

The white board is as useful to me as soup on a stick. Usually it has some sort of snarky communication between myself and my husband on it. More often than not, the communication involves the proper spelling of the mop-like tool with detachable pads used to clean the tile kitchen floor. He adds a "t" where the second "f" is. I correct him still, more out of habit than anything else.

I have ADD. A few years ago, I was officially diagnosed after hearing all kinds of speculations on what exactly was wrong with me - from cerebral palsy to autistic tendencies to Aspergers, to my father's vague label of a "staying on task disorder", which basically is what ADD is. But no, he doesn't like that diagnosis. And apparently, in his mind, people with ADD can't like to read. So obviously, the psychologist who gave the diagnosis was wrong.

I'm great at starting things. I can say that I'm going to straighten up the living room, which usually looks like a tornado blew through. I grab trash bags and get to work.

There are clear plastic cups from Dunkin Donuts that once held cold brew coffee, empty bottles of America's Choice fruit flavored sparkling water from Walmart. Coffee cups and books litter the side table. The recliner, where the dog likes to sleep, is crowded with books, the overnight bag I packed when we house sat for my in laws last weekend is still there where I dropped it on Sunday when we got home.

I think I'll watch some TV while I work in here, I think to myself. I click on the remote, select one of the DVR'd episodes of "Match Game" I'm addicted to. Patti Deutsch, of the droll wit and hilarious but irrelevant answers, is one of my favorites.

Patti sits in the "dummy seat", bottom row, far right. The spot is sometimes occupied by Betty White, Fannie Flagg (one of my favorite authors, but wait, with the ADD I shouldn't like to read!) or the adorable Joyce Bulifant, ex-daughter in law of Helen Hayes and ex-mother in law of the repugnant Jenny McCarthy.

I wonder what Patti is doing now. I take my phone off the side table and look her up on Wikipedia. She has a son! I wonder what he does. His name is Max. I Google him, too. And then I wonder about the other panelists.

Help me, Obi-Wan Wikipedia, you're my only hope!

Fannie Flagg was in a relationship with Rita Mae Brown!

Betty White was married two or three times before marrying Allen Ludden in 1963.

Brett Somers was married to Robert Klein (not THAT Robert Klein) before she married Jack Klugman.

Nipsey Russell never got married.

Charles Nelson Reilly was almost killed in a circus fire when he was a little kid.

Wikipedia leads me on bunny trails. I bounce from one hyperlink to another for hours, my elbow resting on a pillow I've placed on the armrest of the couch.

And meanwhile, the open mouth of the black trash bag I've set in front of me yawns accusingly, because it's still empty. I have done absolutely nothing I set out to do. But on the up side, I now know random trivia about every Match Game panelist. You don't get to be the reigning family Trivial Pursuit champion by doing housework! 

The truth is, if my house was perfectly clean and I had a husband without executive function disorder, who gets overwhelmed when he sees all the things I was going to do but didn't, I don't think I'd feel alive.

So, we live our lives in constant chaos. The dog gets into the trash in the middle of the night and I wake up every morning at seven to feed her, discovering the results of her nighttime scavenging on the couch. I can't be mad. She's just being a dog.

I look at the note on the white board that says "buy new swiffer pads" and notice the second "f" has been turned into a "t", yet again. I sigh to myself, turn it back into an f, and start the day over with grand plans I likely won't achieve.

If I lived in a perfectly clean house without spots on the beige tile floors and a sink full of dishes and a side table full of coffee cups and books, I'd think I was in heaven. But living in constant shades of chaos reminds me that overall, I'm a flawed human...and that in turn, reminds me that I'm alive.