No, I didn’t quit blogging again!

 I haven’t posted in, like, a month, which looks bad. One of the main secrets for getting a blog to become successful is, CONSISTENCY! I know. Oopsy, my bad. Despite my embarrassingly low ratings, I’m sure as hell not quitting this blog for a third time. I’ve just been caught up in chasing an obsession, Justin Beeber, (smitten sigh) Nah! Just kidding! I’m obsessed with working on my book series. I’ve been at it for two years. The series has four books now, but book 1 hasn’t even found a home yet. My author/editor/Storgy on-line magazine executive friend, Jo, had given my book 1 manuscript to Storgy Publishing, but they were swamped with manuscripts, at the time he sent it. So no answer from them yet. 

I got even more obsessed, after Jo edited books 3 and 4, and Christa beta read them. Both actually got addicted to those installments. I can brag about this, because neither of them are the type of people that would say things I want to hear, just to be nice. In fact, I pay Jo to be critical. Jo says that I’m the “Queen of Twists”. Both my friend AND my sister were so into the books, they skipped reading book 3’s Appendix, because they were so eager to find out what happened next, in book 4. They gobbled those books up! I mean, like, inhaled them like lit crack! No, I’m not going to get all Trumpotistical about it. It’s just that, after a lifetime of being an inspiration to others, for the dumbest simplest reasons. And a lifetime of never failing to amaze people, when they see how I can perform mindless tasks. I’m thrilled to realize that I can create a complex storyline with plot twists that fool smart and sophisticated people. Like Christa and Jo. 

Writing this series is my fixation,  my passion,  my marriage, my children, and my codependent addiction, all rolled up in one. It puts more life energy into my deadbeat prison-body, than my own soul. I don’t go out, or have a social life. I don’t get exercise, and I’d rather eat what’s quick, than eat what’s right. My hair is unkempt, and my feet look like pterodactyl claws. And my clothes would probably give thrift store shoppers nightmares. I don’t give a rat’s shmeckle. As long as I could get my daily fix of working on the HECCTROSSIPY series, life is a peach fest. 

Jo had finished editing book 3, and sent it back to me, to make revisions. So the poor blog got neglected. I had re-written a chapter, in book 3, and then wrote three added chapters. Hot damn! Writing novels and novellas, re-writing novels and novellas, and then revising them, and perfecting them takes FOR-EV-ER, phew. I don’t think I’m even halfway through with revising book 3. So the hiatus of this lovely blog might continue for another few weeks, but I’m NOT quitting. 

The HECCTROSSIPY series takes place on a pre-industrial planet called Velva Leena, and the story is centered around an ancient mythical monster. The storyline, as a whole, is complex, because it involves more than one plot, and a large number of characters. There’s Artheena and her family, from Village 3, Audry and her family, from Under-Village 3, Leeandro Paul and his family, from Village 16, Mell May’s biological parents, Mell May’s first set of adopted parents, and many other secondary characters, and walk-on characters. As the roller coaster plot twists on, all the main characters are interconnected, in some way. I had already posted the first blurb, a few months ago. But I wanted to post it again, to see how it would fit with the blurbs to the other three books. Even though the other blurbs are just mere blurb ideas… 

  

  

HECCTROSSIPY 1: The Legend of the Land 

In this first adventure, you’ll get to know your way around a tropical land called Continent 15, on a preindustrial planet called Velva Leena. This planet is ruled by two species of people. The grungols, who live underground, and the vervetts, who live above ground, and a hierarchy race of vervetts called Guardians. 

You’ll meet Artheena, a young vervett girl who has multifaceted psychic abilities. Willberry, her cute kid brother, who has an unsettling fascination with the dark side. Their adopted sister, Mell May, and their grungol friend, Audry, who is suspiciously too wealthy for her age. You’ll also get introduced to the hecctrossipy. 

Eight thousand years ago, Jyoseppy, the entity in charge of the negative side of Velva Leena’s creation, created a monster called the hecctrossipy. This monster helped double the evil entity’s strength, which it intended to use to drive out Jumellica, the entity in charge of the positive side of creation. Then take Velva Leena for itself. Having double the evil power was no match for Jumellica, and its countless supporters who fought back, with the power of good. So the hecctrossipy was destroyed. In some versions of the legendary tale, the monster threatens to resurrect someday. However, nobody in their right mind would take this threat seriously. 

The hecctrossipy is now considered just a myth, and a popular villain in children’s bedtime stories. Even so, Continent 15 has a yearly festival that celebrates the hecctrossipy’s defeat. Everyone is excited about going to this year’s Hecctrossipy Festival, especially Artheena and Mell May. They could hardly wait to see Leeandro Paul, the festival’s star performer. He is Continent 15’s most famous heart-throb, singer/songwriter/musician, and the man of both sisters’ dreams. He is also in search of a wife.

On the day of the Hecctrossipy Festival, everyone has the time of their lives. Then when Artheena and Mell May catch up with Audry, it’s obvious that something is wrong. Audry acts very odd, like she’s guilty of something. What happens next, is something that Artheena’s psychic abilities had failed to forewarn her about. Going to the Hecctrossipy Festival changed all their lives, in ways they never could’ve imagined. 

These next three blurbs are not the official ones. Just what I came up with, so far. 

HECCTROSSIPY 2: The Legend of the Land Lives Again 

The adventure continues, on the night of the Hecctrossipy Festival. A night that not only shocked Artheena and her family, but all of Continent 15. After that, everyone’s lives turn in the most unlikely directions. 

Little Willberry learns the hard way, that the dark side is not his friend. Mell May is found wandering the forest, in the middle of the night, with all of her memory erased. Audry betrays her life-long friend, in the most unspeakable way, and Leeandro Paul throws the biggest wedding celebration in the history of the land.   

Meanwhile, disturbing things are happening around them. Things which can’t be explained, and are beyond anyone’s control. 

Artheena has visions of catastrophic changes among the natural world, but these foresights don’t make sense. Children start disappearing without a trace, during Continent 15’s notorious summer storms. A mysterious new virus starts spreading among grungols ravaging their bodies, and taking a tole on their sanity. 

The negative side of creation is rising to power. The hecctrossipy might not be just a myth, after all. Jyoseppy has been secretly growing in strength, and ready to win the battle, this time around. 

HECCTROSSIPY 3: (not officially titled yet) 

This is not a continuation of this saga, but a different angle of the story. The story of Leeandro Paul. 

It wasn’t his multifaceted talent, and heart-stopping good looks that made him become the most famous person in Continent 15. He was an average villager, working an ordinary job, all while his music was going nowhere. That is, until he catches the eye of an alluring young Guardian named, Guardian Jennason. She helps boost his musical success, and the two of them eventually become secret lovers. They plan to get married, despite the strict social rule that forbids marriages between Guardians and villagers. Then Leeandro Paul has a change of heart, about marrying Guardian Jennason, when he takes an interest in Artheena and Mell May, from Village 3. However, there is no right way to break such news to his lover. 

She is his Authority, and according to other Guardians, she has a vicious mean streak. She had the power to make Leeandro Paul famous. So she could easily use that power to destroy him. 

Then Guardian Jennason becomes gravely ill. She has one last request to Leeandro Paul, that leaves him cornered. If he goes along with her request, he would be making the biggest mistake of his life. If he doesn’t, he would be making the biggest mistake of his life. 

HECCTROSSIPY 4: (not officially titled yet) 

Leeandro Paul’s incredible, totally twisted back story continues. The Guardian community morns the loss of Guardian Jennason, except for her brother, Guardian Jobeson. He and Leeandro Paul are the only ones who know that Guardian Jennason had withheld wicked secrets. secrets that could have detrimental effects on all of civilization, if anyone else found out. This leads to Guardian Jobeson and Leeandro Paul’s involvement in the biggest High Tower cover-up that history would never know about. This cover-up forms a bond between the villager and the Guardian, and they become best friends. However, unlike with Guardian Jennason, this socially unconventional friendship is not kept a secret. 

The High Tower cover-up catapults Leeandro Paul’s fame, beyond his grandiose dreams. In this angle of the story, you’ll know about how Leeandro Paul managed to achieve things that are impossible to other villagers. Like how he became the only villager to have his own personal hot air blimp. How he orchestrated a publicity stunt, when such acts are illegal on Continent 15. How he became welcomed into Guardian Society, and became like the Guardians’ Guardian. 

He is chosen, by Guardians, to be the ring leader of a top secret assignment. But is he as trustworthy as they believe him to be? Or could he become as corrupt as his former lover, Guardian Jennason, who still haunts him. 

The adventures of Artheena, Mell May, Willberry, Audry, and Leeandro Paul will continue in book 5, which also has no title yet. 

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Hey, everybody! How about a nice fresh batch of bad jokes!

Q: What’s the best way to kill a clown? 

A: Slit him in the juggler vein! 

Q: What flavor of dough could make a woman horny? 

A: Dill dough! 

 

Q: What do you get, when you plant marijuana at a coffee farm? 

A: Baked beans! 

Q: Why did the farmer roast a donkey, but then refused to carve it? 

A: Because he likes to eat ass whole! 

Q: Where do scarecrows go to have a good time? 

A: A cornival! 

Q: What is a virgin lady’s drink of choice? 

A: Wild cherry pop! 

Q: What do you call it, when a band plays their instruments with their feet? 

A: Toe jam! 

Q: Why did the good Christian decide to stop driving, and travel on foot? 

A: Because the streets had plenty of crosswalks! 

Q: What do you get, when a cargo plane full of butter crashes onto a psychiatric hospital? 

A: Butter-nut-squash! 

…I won’t quit my day job. I promise.  

 Embarrassing Blind Moments

Dear blog followers, 

I fully intend on posting more fiction stories, and a little less of these self indulgent true ones. But as for now, my brain just feels like being lazy. True stories are so much easier to write. All I have to do is remember stuff, and transcribe memories to text. I have cool fiction stories in my mental movie data base. The action and dialogs, and mind’s eye HD images are all there. It’s just going to take more zoning out into deep hand-wringing trances, and more sugar and caffein, and more meditating to Lacuna Coil, to help transform mental pictures to words. While I’m waiting for my brain to be a better collaborating partner, here is a few short tales about my embarrassing moments, due to having a visual impairment.  

First off, one of my embarrassments is Page’s spellcheck. As far as I know, it’s not all that accessibility-user friendly. I can correct misspelled words, and look through the list of correction options, but I can’t get my screen reader to read the spelling of the options. For example, if I flubbed up on typing the word: simpleton. It might give me the correct option, along with options: simple ten, simple ton, and simple tin, pronouncing each option too similarly. So sometimes I end up choosing a correctly spelled word that makes my writing sound more idiotic than, if I left the word misspelled. In one of my blog posts, I mentioned something about, running Aaron’s. And I think I described the blue of an angel’s gown, like a Celeste you’ll ocean. Woops! If there’s a way to get the VoiceOver to read the spelling of the spellcheck options, I hope someone out there in the blog-o-spheer could let me no. So I could stop actually sounding so clueless and low-tech.

*** 

Mom and I came out of our stalls, in a public restroom. When I found the sink, and went to go wash my hands, I was like, “Boy, is this sink really shallow.” 

“That’s a changing table.” said mom. 

Me and my boyfriend-at-the-time, Bill, were out on a date, at Red Lobster. Bill was totally blind. So it was up to me, to know where we were going. I had eyesight, but obviously not enough. 

We took a cab to the restaurant, which was no problem. Then when we got in, it was going to be about a twenty minute wait. I was given a paging device that would vibrate and flash a red light, when a table was ready for us. “You could have a seat, right over there.” said the host, not giving us any further direction on where “there” was. “We’ll come get you when your table is ready.” Then I was left on my own, to search for the waiting area. I spotted a fat man wearing an oversized Hawaiian T-shirt, and a matching cap that covered half his face. He was sitting on a bench by himself, so I figured he was waiting to be seated too. “Do we wait over here, to be seated?” I asked him. He didn’t answer. I didn’t know that I was talking to a giant stuffed lobster. Thankfully, I found the waiting area, a few steps away. It  was the only area in the restaurant that had chairs and couches, and no tables. The wait was shorter than twenty minutes, and our dinner date went on wonderfully, up until the end. 

The tab was paid, the food server was tipped, our bellies were overstuffed, so it was time to leave. Then I realized that I didn’t know where the door was. When we arrived at the restaurant, there was daylight outside, that illuminated all the windows, and the glass double doors. The dark wood paneled walls offered enough contrast that made it easy for me to  spot where the doors were. Now it was dark outside, and the windows and doors, and dark wood paneled walls all blended together. Still, I had Bill take my arm, and I chose a direction to walk him, trying to act like I knew exactly where I was going. 

I thought I knew where the door was, from our table, but I hadn’t been spending our dinner date paying attention to the layout of the place. My perv mind was too focussed on Bill. I was hot for the guy. He was a soft spoken, southern gentleman to people’s faces, but a frrrREEK behind closed bedroom doors. And his long espresso hair was the silkiest.            I wanted to lose my twenty-year-old virginity to him, but my cherry couldn’t get popped, unless I figured out how to get out of Red Lobster.  

The direction I chose was the wrong one, and we clumsily collided with a wall. So I thought we could just follow the walls until we found the door. Bonk, a lot of the walls had booths against them. So I walked around them, and made one wrong turn after another. Silly me stubbornly wanted to think that it was a better idea to go all around the restaurant, bumping from wall to wall, and table to table, like we were in a giant pinball machine. Rather than just simply asking someone for help. Getting desperate, I dragged Bill toward every space of dark wall I spotted, but there was no sign of any door. It seemed like the damn thing disappeared, and we were going to be forever trapped in Red Lobster. 

Finally, a kind food server asked us if we needed help. I let go of my pride, and accepted that I was lost and confused, and couldn’t see for shit. To my further embarrassment, the door was just a few paces behind me. I was dragging Bill in every direction, except for the right one. Sure enough, there was the fat stuffed lobster in a Hawaiian T-shirt, sitting on the same bench. And there was our freedom! 

As Bill and I stood outside, and waited for our cab, I think my dignity was in another cab, somewhere across town. Too embarrassed to have me cramping its style. 

It was a few months after the Red Lobster incident. By this time, Bill and I had broken up, and I had moved on to dating Billy. The one with the schizophrenia, who I mentioned in my Psychic Dreams post. 

During that time of life, I had an artificial lens implant in my more visually functioning eye, which was causing one problem after another. One of those problems was bouts of temporary colorblindness, which was really weird. It wasn’t like being in a black and white movie, but certain colors, like blue and green, would turn gray. Incandescent lights sometimes looked like harsh, white florescent ones. Then there were times when I would look at an object, and watch its color fade and come back, and fade and come back. Like the object had an enchantment put on it. 

One night, while I was at Billy’s house, we went next door, to visit his neighbor, Bob. Once we parked ourselves on Bob’s living room couch, out came the coolest looking dog. Her soft, thick fur was solid silver, like she came from a different planet. I was in awe. As the guys chit chatted about things that couldn’t hold my attention span, I stayed preoccupied with petting Bob’s space-dog, and baby-talking to her. Saying things like, “What a beautiful dooowog… What Galaxy are you fwom?”  

I figured that she must be some kind of new hi bred dog. Or maybe her silver coloring came from a genetic mutation. Like with cinnamon cockatiels, and white zebra finches. She looked like a dog that would be Uber expensive. I wondered how Bob, who lived in a trailer, and was on a tight budget, had managed to get such a unique breed of dog. 

Before Billy and I left, I said to Bob, “That is the most unique looking dog. I never seen anything like her. What breed is she?” 

And Bob said, “She’s a golden retriever.” 

I was attending classes at the Center for the Blind, in Ocala, but mainly for computer training. Waaaaay back in 2007, the digitized world was not at all warm and welcoming to accessibility users. If us blind folks wanted to learn our way around cyber space, and learn how to do everything on-line, like the rest of civilization, first we had to go through a government under-funded service called Division of Blind Services. From my experience, I would say that DBS wasn’t horrible. They did their best with what they could offer, but they were just a little on the stuck-in-the-1980s side. Once you got through an unreasonable amount of DBS paperwork, and waited an eternity or so, for your doctors to fill out more paperwork, and send it to DBS.  , then you were eligible for enrollment into an educational, or job finding program for the blind. Computer classes consisted of learning about a prehistoric screen reading program called JAWS for Windows. However, this center’s curriculum didn’t allow me to spend all my hours there, just taking computer classes. I had to choose other classes to fill the time. So I decided to take a refresher course on learning to be a better solo pedestrian. Since I’m never going to get a driver’s license. 

A sweet, fifty-something man who went by the name, Butch, was the mobility teacher. Everybody loved Butch, but he did some things that embarrassed the hell out of me. 

One of those things was, how he wanted to get us students all PUMPED UP about things like, learning to find our way from Publix to Wic&Stick. After we were dropped off in front of whichever public place, Butch had all us students get in a group around him. Then he would give us an over-enthusiastic pep talk, like we’re a football team. Then we had to make one of those team comrodary, hand stack thingies, and yell, “ GooooOOOO TEAM!” as we raised our stacked hands to the sky, like a bunch of dorks.  

During one mobility lesson, at a shopping plaza, Butch had no problem with opening random doors to stores and other businesses, and asking the people inside, “Where are we?” 

On another mobility expedition, we went to an office building. After us students spent most of our lesson climbing the building’s many flights of outside stairs, Butch lead us into the receptionists’ area of an A M radio station. I mean, we just went ahead and showed up unannounced, and took our seats in this little waiting area. The lady at the front desk was cool about this, but she was probably thinking, “What the hell” When she asked us, “How can I help you?” Butch told her that we just came in there to cool off in the air conditioning. He introduced himself, and his mobility class, and told her a little about the Center for the Blind. Then he and a couple other students started asking stupid annoying questions about the radio station. One of the students asked if the receptionist had any coffee for us, and another asked if we could go in the neighboring room, where we could clearly hear a radio show going on. It was no wonder that the receptionist spoke to us, like we were Elementary school children who were on a field trip. She politely declined giving us permission to barge in on the radio show, and gave each of us a tiny cup of water, and a computer keyboard dusting brush, before we thankfully left the building. 

The worst trip of them all, luckily was my last mobility class. The lesson for that day was to find our way to an ice cream shop called Scoops. When the lesson was over, we were going to celebrate completing our last mobility lesson, by treating ourselves to some ice cream. However, neither Butch, nor the person who drove us, told us students that this lesson came with an adventurous surprise. 

We were dropped off several streets away from Scoops, forced to take a rout that nobody in their right mind would take, blind or sighted. This route to Scoops had a shitload of construction projects in the making. There were cyclone fence barricades, piles of God-knows-what, that were covered with sheets of white plastic,  bright orange cones, and all kinds of loose building materials everywhere. I didn’t think we had any business walking through this area. We were the only people in there. We must’ve looked like a bunch of assholes. For what seemed like almost an hour, we trudged through the construction sights. Knocking over cones, stumbling over stray building material, banging into barricades, and trying not to trip over each other’s canes. Even though we were the only ones there, I felt embarrassed about how we were setting a good example of why people assume that a blind person is an accident lawsuit waiting to happen. I was so mad at Butch, for putting us through this. We were blind! Not fucking nuts! There were other ways to get to Scoops. Routes that were fit for traveling. If we wanted to independently go out for ice cream, we would’ve simply gone a different way.  

Halfway through our idiotic journey, the marshmallow tip of my cane got stuck in one of the cyclone fences. When I pulled it free, the tip popped completely off, and went rolly, rolly bounce, bounce into the frame working of a new building. Now the end of my cane was just a nubby spike that kept getting stuck in every little crack and crevice it touched, making me stumble like a drunk. All the more adding to the humiliation. 

When we made it to Scoops, at last, I planned to treat myself to a heavenly chocolate overdose, after going through this hell. Butch congratulated us, with gusto. Then he informed us that Scoops wasn’t going to be open for another fifteen minutes. I wanted to choke him. 

I don’t mean to sound uppety, and ashamed of my fellow members of the blind community. I’m just conscientious. I’d rather go on the computer, and look up information about which store is on what street, or in what plaza, and take notes on directions to get there, before I go there. Rather than wander around town, and figure it out, as I go along, and risk having to ask a stranger, “Where am I?”  I’d rather go to a place, like a mall, or an airport, with a sighted guide. Rather than go about, independently, and risk having to ask people for help, if I get lost. Guide dogs are great for a lot of blind people, but not for me. They can’t read signs. I just like to know exactly what I’m doing, and where I’m going, while out in public. Preferring to blend right in with the shuffle, without having to parade my disability around.  And yes, maybe I am a little too conscientious about what people think, which brings me to this next story. Oh, boy. I saved the worst for last. 

My old friend, Carrie, was opposite of me. She strutted her blindness, loud and proud. She didn’t care what people think. If she was going about in public, and needed help, she was never too proud too ask for it, like I am. Carrie had no shame in making a spectacle of herself until help came, if that’s what it took. 

It was June of 2002, only a few years after Carrie and I graduated from FSDB. She was among several people from school that I kept in touch with. That June, I had my parents drive me to Gainesville, to visit Carrie and her husband, Al. I stayed with them, for a week, at their humble apartment, which ended up being more crowded than I had expected. Natasha and Narissa, two girls that had also went to school at FSDB, were staying over for the week too. Al and Carrie’s neighbors, Marion and Corrie, were the type of neighbors that would drop on by, at any time. And my friend-at-the-time, Donald, often came to visit. Lucky for him, he missed out on the mall trip from Hell. I was having a nice time during this visit—until then.  

I had a bit more vision than I do today, but it wasn’t enough for in case someone needed a sighted guide. Carrie, Al, Corrie, Marion, Natasha, and Narissa were all totally blind, but I had faith that Al and Carrie, and their neighbors knew their way around the mall. Since they had been living in Gainesville for quite some time. The mall was only a couple of bus rides from their apartments. So I assumed they made frequent independent trips there. Then come to find out, I don’t think they even knew their way around the city bus system. The moment we were all off the first bus, and starting toward a cluster of busses at a bus stop, Carrie yelled at the top of her voice, like a panicking banshee, “WIIIIIIILL SOOOOOOMEBOOOOOODYYY PLEEEEEAAAAASE HEEEELLLPPP UUUSSS!” A kind Samaritan immediately came to our rescue, and lead us to the next bus we were supposed to get on. I was able to look past this, because at least it helped move our trip along. Then when we were in the mall, the whole seven of us were as lost and confused as earthworms in zero-gravity. We had no idea which direction to go first, and where was what. Then Al had to go to the bathroom. Canes-a-swinging, we held onto each other’s shoulders, or purses, and walked about the mall, in an insecure, huddled clump. Once we found a row of stores, Carrie had to go in each one of them, and scream, “WHAT STORE IS THIS?!” That was embarrassing enough. She also had to alert all shoppers and mall staff, that her husband has to take a piss, and that he won’t be able to hold it in much longer, because he has diabetes. One store after another had a bathroom, but it was for staff only. Carrie got all the more frustrated, and went stomping out of the stores, like a two-year-old. I was among the back of our people clump, but that didn’t make me feel hidden enough. If Al were to piss himself in the middle of the mall, I would’ve hauled ass to the nearest pay phone, and called for a cab to take me to the nearest high bridge. Luckily, a compassionate guy from Radio Shack allowed Al to relieve himself in their bathroom. 

After that, we drifted around, in our people clump, and managed to figure out where some of the stores we wanted to go to were. That part of the trip wasn’t so bad. After we shopped around, at a few places, we were ready to head to the food court, for lunch. The food court was easy to find, because it’s the most crowded place in every mall. 

We all got our lunch from Wendy’s, which was no problem. When we were finished, I was unpleasantly surprised to know that I was the only one in the group who wanted to know where the trash can was. The rest of them had no problem with leaving their fast food garbage lying around, for someone else to clean up. That was what they did all the time. Once again, I was embarrassed to be among this group.  My friends were nice people, but I wished they had a little more class than that. To my relief, I saw the blurred, vertical rectangle shape of a trash can, less than ten feet away. So I gathered up everybody’s garbage, and threw it away. I thought the worst was over. 

Nah! 

We figured out how to get into the food court, but we had no idea how to get out. We turned the wrong direction, and ended up in this extended part of the food court, that was just more tables and chairs. This area was bordered by  walls that were maybe about 4 feet high, and large indoor plants that were potted in brick pillars. The walls had railings above them. So we assumed that there was a stairway somewhere, that would lead us out. The clump of us stupidly wandered from wall to pillar plant to wall, and found no such stairway. The more persistently we searched, the more clumsy and idiotic we got. Bumping into every wall, plant, table, and chair. There was a set of stairs that lead out of the enclosed area, but like with my episode at Red Lobster, we were going in every direction, except for the right one. A security guard had to come to our rescue, and lead us to it. I was so humiliated, it was a struggle not to cry. 

Al, whose arm I was hanging onto, could tell that I was miserable. He asked if I was OK. And I whispered to him about what was wrong, and how badly I wanted to get out of there. He whispered back, that he would get us out of there. Raising his voice to the rest of the group, he fibbed, “Hey guys, we really should start heading home right now! I think it’s about to rain!” So then the security guard helped us to the main entrance, and outside to where the busses were pulling up. This worst, last story at least had a happy ending. Coincidentally, Al was right. It    really was about to rain. 

              

Easter Memories

1987 

A week or two before Easter, my grandparents got me this big inflated blue Easter bunny. He had a cute, drawn-on cartoonish face, and he held a carrot in one of his featureless, oblong nubs that were his arms and hands. I was thrilled with this surprise inflatable toy, because it was given to me, right before my bath time.. So I played with him, in the tub, even though there wasn’t much room in there to play. This bunny was almost as tall as me. 

I named him Blue Cloud, and I used to pretend that we were rock stars. We did concerts in the little windowless bathroom that me and my sisters shared. I’d turn off the light, close the door, and shine a flashlight all around the bathroom, as our stage lights. Blue cloud and I made the crowd go wild, as we sang our terribly botched up versions of Van Halen and Bon Jovi songs. 

I insisted that Blue Cloud was a boy, because he was blue, but Christa and Gina pointed out his drawn-on pink fluff of hair, and his feminine, long pink eye lashes. Whatever, this was the glam rock days. 

On Easter morning, I was surprised by another inflatable Easter bunny. It was the same size and shape as Blue Cloud, and it was holding a carrot in its nub too, but this one was Easter pink. I don’t remember what I named this one. Probably something generic sounding, like Pinky. I made Pinky the girl bunny, just because she was pink. However, Christa and Gina pointed out that the pink one should be the boy instead, because its drawn-on face was more guyish. She had no fluff of hair. Her black lashes were stubby, and she had more masculine looking, thick black eyebrows. I won this argument, of course, because they were my bunnies, and I was the spoiled rotten youngest kid in the family. PLLLL! 

My sisters and I had a walk-in doll house that we used to play in. This wasn’t one of those cutesy little playhouse type things. Dad had built a two-story shed, with one half of it being his tool shed, and the other half being our dollhouse. The downstairs floor was a full sized room, furnished with all the comforts of a pretend home. The upstairs was just a partial room that we climbed a short ladder to get to. For us kids whose parents were on a tight budget, this dollhouse was a luxury item. 

I used to play with a boy named, Mark, who lived only a couple of houses away. One day, we pretended that Blue Cloud was my husband, and Pinky was Mark’s wife, and us two couples moved into the dollhouse together. Once we married the bunnies, it was time to have babies with them. We both had older siblings, so we knew a little about where babies come from. We just didn’t realize what kinky little seven-year-olds we were.  

Mark and I took our spouses to the upstairs room of the dollhouse, for baby-making time. We kept our clothes on, of course, but we laid on the floor, and put the bunnies on top of us. Then we hugged and kissed them, and wiggled around underneath them, for a few minutes. 

“I’m done. She’s pregnant now,” said Mark. “Are you pregnant yet?” 

“Ok, now I’m pregnant too.” I said. 

After a full five minutes of gestation, Pinky gave birth to a Mr. PotatoHead, and I pushed out a Cabbage Patch doll from under my shirt. 

1995 

While in Home Ec, I was very impressed with this Easter decoration that some other student from a previous class had made. It was this large hollow egg, made of baskety material. And it had a hole on one side, where someone could fill the egg with candy, or potpourri, and whatnot. The basket was woven together, like mesh, so you could see what’s inside the egg.  

I thought this must’ve been extremely complicated to make, and probably took several weeks to finish. 

So I asked the teacher how such advanced craftsmanship was done. She told me that, all it takes to make one of those eggs, is simply glueing a bunch of yarn around a balloon. Then when the yarn dries, the balloon is popped, and instant basket egg. 

This inspired me to make a homemade Easter basket for my grandparents, who we all call Nannie and Poppy. The day before we went to their house, for Easter weekend, the basket making began. I got a balloon that was inflated to the max, a bunch of purple yarn, and some runny craft glue. I put the balloon in a factory-made basket, to hold it in place, while I glued the homemade basket over its top half. First, I poured way too much glue in a tiny disposable cup. Then dunked the first long strand of yarn in it. Coating it thoroughly, and dribbling glue all over the place. This gloppy strand was stuck around the middle of the balloon, as the basket’s brim, and my starting point. 

One sticky, dribbling strand after another, was carefully laid over the top of the balloon. It didn’t take long to realize that this wasn’t as easy as the teacher made it sound. It was tedious. An hour into the project, my basket only looked like a mere frameworking of a basket. The yarn was as thin as dental floss. It looked like I was going to need the whole damn skein of it, to fill in the many bald spots. This was too much for my fifteen-year-old attention span. So I half-assed the rest of it. Just plopping the wet, sticky strands onto the balloon, not caring which way they laid. 

When the basket was dry, and the balloon was popped, and pealed off, I realized that I didn’t glue the brim as evenly around the middle of the balloon as I thought. And the thing was all flat and lopsided. 

When we arrived at Nannie and Poppy’s house, I proudly handed them a purple, discombobulated spider web pancake, topped with Easter candy. 

That same Easter, Poppy had a creativity disaster too. Poppy always enjoyed dying eggs with us kids, but he didn’t like just dying them solid colors. He used to have fun mixing the colors, and making the eggs two toned, and multi colored, and all artsy. It was cute. That year, he bought an egg dying kit, specifically made for making rainbow tie-die eggs. Supposedly, you were to heat up water and oil, over the stove, and put all the dies in the same pot. The oil was supposed to prevent all the dies from mixing together. I took a peak at the concoction, after it was made, and was amazed. The oil really did separate the colors. It looked like golden oily liquid with rainbows swirling around in it. 

I don’t know what went wrong. Did poppy misunderstand the instructions? Or was it just a crappy product that didn’t work? Once he got to dying the eggs, all the colors did run together, and covered the eggs with a blackish brown blotchy cow pattern. 

That was all right with me. I pigged out on them anyway, because it’s what’s inside the eggshell that COWnts. 

2003 

Usually, our Easter celebrations included me and my sisters, our parents, our Nannie and Poppy from mom’s side, and uncle Frank, aunt Joanie, and cousin Sean. That Easter, our family get-together was slightly larger, with the additions of Nannie and Poppy from dad’s side, Christa’s boyfriend at the time, Tommy, Gina’s first husband, Eric, and Eric’s mom, Terrie. Because there were more people, my parents and sisters wanted us all to get together for one huge, happy family Easter picture. 

I hate family picture time, with a FURIOUS passion. It’s the same old boring, cookie-cutter pictures, over and over and over and over again. Everybody stand close together, in a neat little row, like a bunch of stupid bowling pins. Then smile, and look nice. I know I sound like a teenager, but, BLECK! It’s so cheesy and phony and degrading. 

Unfortunately, there was no getting away from participating in this special family moment. We all went out into the back yard and assumed our bowling pin positions. Poppy from mom’s side was going to be the photographer. This was 2003. So quick and convenient, smart phone cameras didn’t exist yet. Poppy used this big honk’n boxy camera that was propped up on a stand. It had a timer on it, so you could set the camera up to take the picture, and be in the picture, at the same time. 

Poppy set up the camera, and hurried over to get into picture pose, with the rest of the family. But he couldn’t hurry fast enough, because of his gimpy knee. When the camera took a picture, poppy’s ass was blocking its view of the family. So he tried a second time. Again, he couldn’t move fast enough, and the camera gave his ass another close-up. Then it happened a third time. Everybody else was cracking up at poppy, but I was getting impatient. After a couple more old man butt shots, Poppy finally succeeded at getting into the picture in time. The thing I hate even more, about family picture time, is when the picture has to be re-taken. It seemed like we were going to be standing and forcing nice smiles, out in the back yard, for a damnation eternity. I was so annoyed that I regretted not practicing my mind-over-matter skills enough, to give me the ability to blow up the camera. Then I would’ve been the one cracking up. 

No, I take that back. 

That wouldn’t have been cool. Poppy would’ve had a gimpy knee and flaming ash-cheeks.  

2012 

I was staying at Gina and Carlos’s house, during the week before Easter. Gina was pregnant with Jaden, at the time. She was always into healthy eating, and doing things the natural way. Being pregnant for the first time, made her even more fearful of all the preservatives, nitrates, and artificial colors lurking within our everyday products. So for Easter, she and I were going to die eggs, using all natural ingredients. 

We looked up how to do it on-line, and it looked easy. You could die eggs with fruit juice and vinegar. All you have to do is hard boil the eggs, mix a certain amount of juice with one tablespoon of vinegar, put the eggs in the juice, and make sure they’re all completely submerged. Then let them soak in the juice for a couple of hours, in the fridge. 

To make egg die, using fruits, vegetables, herbs, or flowers, you put the natural ingredients in pots of water, with uncooked eggs. Then you boil it all together. The boiling bleeds out the colors of the natural ingredients, which will absorb into the eggshells. 

We tried the juice method, to make the red and pink die, using cranberry juice and cherry juice. Then we crowded the stove with pots of eggs, and their other natural dies. We used fresh spinach to make green eggs, turmeric to make yellow, paprika to make orange, and red cabbage with blueberries to make blue. 

It was a total disaster! 

First of all, the spinach sucked. It only gave the eggs the slightest, faintest, boogery green tint. The cabbage and blueberries had potential to work, but it seemed like the combination triggered the wrong chemical reaction. The eggs came out a nice earth toned, stoney slate blue, but all their shells had multiple cracks. A few of them were salvageable, but most of them formed cracks that oozed out egg white, while they were boiling. Then the whites had morphed into gross lumpy, purple, gelatinous tentacles. Making the blue eggs look like a gene splicing experiment gone wrong. 

The cranberry and cherry juices could’ve worked, but I believe I screwed it up. The recipe said one tablespoon of vinegar, per such-and-such cups of juice. The vinegar helps the color soak into the eggshell better, and I like Easter eggs to be extra, extra vibrant. So I used two tablespoons of vinegar. I guess this made the mixture way too acidic. It died the eggs, but it also gave them a chemical peal. The outer-most layer of eggshell flecked off like dead skin. 

The only natural dies that worked out were the turmeric and paprika. They made beautiful golden-yellow and yellow-orange eggs. The only gripe about this was, it was a pretty expensive way to die eggs, because you have to use the whole jar of spice. Gina likes to buy the good stuff. So we probably used, like $20 worth of spice, just to make two colors of egg die. 

The exfoliated eggs were salvageable, once Gina rinsed off all the flecks, in the kitchen sink. However, the whole experiment was a regretful waste of food and fruit juice. We had a couple dozen more eggs to go, but nothing to die them with. It was the evening before Easter. The stores were sold out of the evil artificial egg die, by now. 

So what were we to do? 

We drew beautiful, brilliantly colored designs all over the eggs, with lethally toxic comic book illustrating markers.         

Coming Soon…

 HECCTROSSIPY 1: The Legend of the Land 

In this first adventure, you’ll get to know your way around a tropical land called Continent 15, on a preindustrial planet called Velva Leena. This planet is ruled by two species of people. The grungols, who live underground, and the vervetts, who live above ground, and a hierarchy race of vervetts called Guardians. 

You’ll meet Artheena, a young vervett girl who has multifaceted psychic abilities. Willberry, her cute kid brother, who has an unsettling fascination with the dark side. Their adopted sister, Mell May, and their grungol friend, Audry, who is suspiciously too wealthy for her age. You’ll also get introduced to the hecctrossipy. 

Eight thousand years ago, Jyoseppy, the entity in charge of the negative side of Velva Leena’s creation, created a monster called the hecctrossipy. This monster helped double the evil entity’s strength, which it intended to use to drive out Jumellica, the entity in charge of the positive side of creation. Then take Velva Leena for itself. Having double the evil power was no match for Jumellica, and its countless supporters who fought back, with the power of good. So the hecctrossipy was destroyed. In some versions of the legendary tale, the monster threatens to resurrect someday. However, nobody in their right mind would take this threat seriously. 

The hecctrossipy is now considered just a myth, and a popular villain in children’s bedtime stories. Even so, Continent 15 has a yearly festival that celebrates the hecctrossipy’s defeat. Everyone is excited about going to this year’s Hecctrossipy Festival, especially Artheena and Mell May. They could hardly wait to see Leeandro Paul, the festival’s star performer. He is Continent 15’s most famous heart-throb, singer/songwriter/musician, and the man of both sisters’ dreams. He is also in search of a wife.

On the day of the Hecctrossipy Festival, everyone has the time of their lives. Then when Artheena and Mell May catch up with Audry, it’s obvious that something is wrong. Audry acts very odd, like she’s guilty of something. What happens next, is something that Artheena’s psychic abilities had failed to forewarn her about. Going to the Hecctrossipy Festival changed all their lives, in ways they never could’ve imagined.    

More Psychic Dreams

In these next two dreams, I felt like an asshole. Deeply regretful that I wasn’t paying attention, when I should’ve, and I found out too late. 

I dreamed that I invited my old childhood pal, George, to come over and visit me and the family. I hadn’t seen him, or spoken to him in years. His wife and kids couldn’t join him, for some reason, but we made plans to make sure they would come, next visit. In the dream, my house had this dark, depressing looking den type of room downstairs, which is not my parents’ taste in home decor, in real life. Dad wasn’t around, but mom was. So George and I hung out with mom, in the den. Then I went off to get a drink, and promised to bring them one. 

This promise never happened. I drank a soda in the kitchen, and then remembered that I left my TV on. Before George came over, I was watching a marathon of some dream-made-up show that I was really into. The moment I was back in my bedroom, I decided to not turn the TV off just yet. An episode of my show was on, that I hadn’t seen before. So I stayed there, and watched it. Watching one never-before seen episode lead to watching a few more. Then I remembered, “Oh, crap. George is here. I got to tend to my guest.”, but I got distracted again, by hunger. 

I went back to the kitchen, and got a snack and another soda. George and mom were still blabbing in the den. “Tia, what are you doing? George has been waiting for you.” I heard mom say, in a slightly shaming tone. Now I felt bad. 

Sorry about that. “I’ll be there, in a minute.” I said, but then broke my promise, a minute later. My brain was unusually ADD, and I remembered that I meant to turn the damn TV off, before coming back downstairs. So back to my bedroom I went.   

Once there, I got sidetracked by the show again. The marathon was almost over. So I thought one or two more episodes wouldn’t take long. I heard dad come home, and figured that he could blab George’s ear off, while I finish my last little hour of binge watching. It turned out to be much longer than that, but I got so sucked in, that I lost track of time. It was 11:00 at night, when the marathon finally ended, and I remembered, “Oh, no! I totally forgot about George! 

I felt so awful, and so guilty about this, it got me depressed. Poor George. He drove from North Carolina to Florida, to visit with me, and I ditched him for a stupid TV show. 

When I went downstairs, mom and dad had gone to bed, and the house was dark and quiet. I found George, all by himself in the den. He was getting his things together, and getting ready to leave. I broke down into a million desperate apologies, and lame excuses, and pathetic attempts to suggest he come over again. Promising him that we would hang out, next time. No matter what I said, and how remorseful I was, George had this cold, “whatever” type of attitude. I didn’t blame him. I had a sinking feeling that it was too late, and there wasn’t going to be a next time. I had my chance to catch up with George, but I threw that chance away, over a show that I could’ve binge-watched on NetFlicks, any old day. I felt like the stupidest, biggest asshole in the universe. 

In another dream, Carlos and Gina adopted a dog. He was this cute little part Doxin type of mutt, with lopped ears, and soft brown fur, and a long tail that was always wagging. He was the sweetest, happiest little dog, but he was a complete moron. Trying to house break him, or discipline him didn’t sink in. Gina, Carlos, and Jaden had to remember to never leave their front door open, or else their dog would run away for no reason, and not listen. However, Gina really loved this dog. His sweet, happy-go-lucky personality made her overlook his lack of intelligence. The parents and I were staying at our Time Share vacation resort, and Gina and her dog came over to our suite to visit. I was sitting on the living room floor, for no apparent reason, while Gina and the parents conversed in the kitchen. The living room was right by the front door, which was left ajar. I watched Gina’s dog walking towards it, but I just didn’t feel like getting up, and moving the few feet distance it would’ve taken me, to close the door. Then I watched him quietly slip through the narrow crack, and then he was gone. Once he was out, I absent-mindedly shut the door. Then I regretted what I had done. 

Even though the dog was really Gina’s responsibility, I knew that I should’ve caught him, before it was too late. When I told my parents and sister about what had just happened, I felt like a complete idiot, because I had no reason for why I let Gina’s dog loose. 

Then the four of us got in the car, and drove all around the resort, looking for the dog. I kept apologizing to gina, for my screw-up, but she wasn’t all that forgiving. Her attitude wasn’t cold, like George’s, but it was unreassuring enough to make me feel like the stupidest, biggest asshole in the universe. 

  

I don’t know exactly what these dreams were forewarning me about, but I think it might’ve had something to do with my blogging. Several posts ago, I talked about how I quit blogging twice, and why. I didn’t think it would be any help to my pursuit at becoming a kick-ass writer. Then when I started blogging again, and posting more consistently, I hadn’t had anymore dreams where I felt guilt and regret over not paying attention when I should’ve been. 

*** 

A few weeks ago, I had dreams that told me that Christa was going to bail me out of some sort of technical problems. 

I dreamed that I had somehow screwed up all my social media apps, on my phone. I could open them, but I was blocked from being able to use them. Mom let me borrow her What’s App, to call Christa, and tell her my latest technical fiasco. But there wasn’t much to tell, when I had no idea how I glitched up my phone in the first place. Shortly after we got off the phone, Christa made the glitches disappear like magic. She knew all my passwords and account information. So she was able to get into all my social media accounts, and fix whatever was preventing me from using them. Lucky for her, and lucky for my guilty streak over needing people’s help, all the time, the de-glitching was quick and easy. Something I would be able to take care of, if I foolishly messed up my apps again. 

Then I dreamed about a blast from the past, named E J. Fourteen years ago, I passionately love/hated him. I used to want to fuck his brains out, and then use his blood to make a tie-die T-shirt, that I would ware to bed every night. Back in the days, when he and I used to attend the same classes, at the Orientation and Adjustment Center for the Blind, he was intimidated by me. He used to avoid walking past me, in the facility’s hallways. I used to think this was hilarious, because he was the one with temper issues. My love/hate toward E J drove me to drink, and nearly made me lose my damn mind. One night, several years ago, I had a few too many, and blasted him on FaceBook. My actions caused problems in his marriage, and brought shame to his reputation. Fortunately, this damage was not permanent. 

By now, I’m completely over it all, and everything that went down, fourteen years ago, seems like it happened in a distant past life. 

In the dream, I was taking classes at Lighthouse Central Florida, and E J worked there. We didn’t run into each other there, because of our separate busy schedules. I wanted to talk to him, only because he had a book that I was interested in borrowing. I don’t remember what the book was about, but I remember that it was a paperback. And the design on its cover looked like the blue and turquoise water illustration on the little paper cups from my high school cafeteria. A friend of a friend of a friend of E J’s got the book from him, and left it on the front desk for me. 

When I finished the book, I intended to give it back to E J, but the Lighthouse was closed for renovation, and nobody knew when it would be back open. I somehow knew where E J lived. So I took an Uber there, but I didn’t realize how far his house was. 

As the Uber driver pulled up his driveway, she didn’t stop until the nose of the car bumped into the front of his house. Then I was suddenly outside, sitting on the car’s hood. As the car idled for a minute, I was horrified to notice that, from where I was sitting, my face was right in E J’s front window. I looked like a total psycho. I quickly got down from the hood of the car, hoping to God he didn’t see me. 

Another horror was finding out that the cab fare was $40. I had enough cash to pay it, but I didn’t have another $40 to get back home. I figured I could pay the driver, once we get there. Then I realized  how psycho I would look to others, when it was found out that I spent $80 just to see E J. People would think I still have it in for him. They wouldn’t believe that I only went to E J’s house, to drop off a book, and that I didn’t know the commute there would cost me $80. I pictured them saying things like, “You need to get over it.” and “You need to see a therapist.” along with the dreaded critical preachings on how I should fix myself. Then things only got worse. 

I asked the Uber driver if she’d wait there for me, while I make a quick knock at the door, to give back the book. I also told her that I didn’t have another $40 on me, but I have the money at my house. And would it be all right if I paid her, when we got there. The driver refused to wait for me, no matter how short the wait was. And she wasn’t going to give me a ride home, if I didn’t have the money, right then and there. Then she sped away. 

I was on the verge of panicking. This looked bad. I was sure E J remembered the FaceBook thing. Now here I was, standing outside his house, like I’m still out to get him, after all these years. This was beyond embarrassing. I wondered, would he believe me, if I explained that I honestly didn’t intend to take a one-way Uber trip here? I had no better choice, but to brave it out, and tell the truth, as sincerely and apologetically as I could. Then Hopefully, E J would know someone who could give me a ride home. 

When I rang the doorbell, I was shocked to be greeted by Christa. E J followed close behind her. I was even more surprised to know that my sister and my old blood-crush had developed a platonic friendship through Twitter. I told them the truth, apologizing after every other word. They were cool about it, and said that it was no problem. E J was glad to get his book back. I was relieved how casual and friendly he acted toward me. As though no such toxic psycho drama had ever happened between us. Then Christa made my day, by reassuring me that she would drive me back home. It was a mericle. 

A few months ago, me and Christa’s author/editor friend, Jo, had e-mailed both of us a copy of the final draft of the first novel in my Hecctrossipy series, after he re-edited it. Recently, I had decided to divide my one humungous novel into two just-slightly-chunky books, HECCTROSSIPY 1: The Legend of the Land and HECCTROSSIPY 2: The Legend of the Land Lives Again.        I also wanted to divide my long-ass chapters into shorter ones, and change most of the original chapter titles. I re-wrote a whole section of the first chapter in book 1 too. I had already made all these changes, on my rough draft document that I keep, on Pages. I wanted the same changes to be made, on Jo’s re-edited version, but I don’t know how to separate attachments, and then send them out again, after making changes. I’ll learn this, someday. Christa was going back to Panama, the next day. So she didn’t have time to teach me. The best way we could work this out, was for her to save her copy of the re-edited document on her computer. Then I guided her along with where I wanted to make which change. Everything was going along smoothly, but we were limited with time. Christa had a guest pass at the gym I go to. We wanted to hurry up and get there, before her pass expired. I saved the trickiest change for last. I told her the last sentence of one paragraph, and the first sentence of another, which marked the big chunk of chapter in between, that I wanted removed. Then she got on my computer, selected and copied the re-written part of the chapter, e-mailed it to her computer, and then cut and pasted it into the now re-re-edited document. After that, she even divided the document into two separate ones, since I’m only querying for the first book. Then she sent both re-re-edited books to Jo. I had planned, later on, to re-write the blurb for book 1, study the website for Curiosity Quills, write my query letter, and then set up a Skipe appointment with Jo, so he could help me fill out the submission form. I felt confident that the final copies were as perfect as they could get. Jo was happy with them—at first. 

Come to find out, Christa’s computer had glitched things up. I felt panicked. After all the hard work I had done, and after all the hard work Jo had done, my documents were a mess. I dreaded how pain-staking it was going to be, for us to fix it. Even though I saved up enough money to pay for another editing, I hated the thought of having Jo trudge through the story for a third time. 

He told me that words were replaced, all throughout the document. I blamed this on that damn auto correct. I always despised auto correct. It’s the worst, most freaking annoying thing ever added to digital devices. I had it turned off, on my phone, and my computer. I don’t know how people could stand it. It almost always corrects words, the wrong way, and makes the wrong assumptions of what your about to write. Using it is like being hounded by one of those obnoxious, overly talkative people who never let you get a word in, and who insistently try to finish your sentences for you, so they could keep taking over the conversation. Ugh.      Christa is an excellent writer, but she doesn’t want to give up on using auto correct. I came to the conclusion that, once the document was saved into her computer, her pesky auto correct immediately attacked it. I was wrong. It was worse than I thought. 

After Christa had left the states, she started a three-way e-mail thread with me, Jo, and herself. When I read the latest messages between her and Jo, one morning, I just about had a heart attack. Not only were words replaced, but there were words where their first letter was replaced by a number. 

But then I read further. 

The glitch didn’t effect the second book. Christa had cleaned up the mess, and saved my manuscript, and then sent the re-re-re-edited first book back to Jo. PHEW! 

It wasn’t Christa’s auto correct that was the problem. The problem was caused by my book being passed around among three different softwares. I write my books on Pages, but then change them to a Word format, before sending them to Jo. He edits them, using Libra, and then sends them back to me and Christa’s Apple devices. When Christa pasted the re-written chunk of chapter from my Pages document, into the Pages-to-Word-to-Libra document, her computer just got a little confused. She got me out of trouble, just like that. Just like in the dreams. 

*** 

Lately, I’ve been having extremely realistic dreams about getting out of bed in the morning, right before I actually get out of bed in the morning. These dreams are so life-like that I really think that I’m awake, and out of bed, even when the nonsense starts kicking in. My senses are fully alert, in these dreams. I could clearly feel my bamboo bedroom floor beneath my socked feet. I could feel the air conditioner and the ceiling fan blowing on me. I could smell my room’s slightly sweet stale air. And I could clearly see the daylight softly shining through my closed dark blue curtains, and closed blinds. It’s all so real. These getting-out-of-bed dreams also come with some form of anxiety. 

I dreamed that I was getting out of bed, in the morning. Then I checked the time on my talking calculator. “It’s 9:54 A.M.” said the old fashioned synthesized voice. I wasn’t happy about this. I hate waking up late. It makes me feel like a lazy shmuck. I pressed the TIME button again, hoping that I heard wrong. The calculator responded with a bunch of radio static noises. Usually, when my calculator acts weird, in my dreams, I figure out that I’m dreaming. But this all felt too much like real life. I’ve had my trusty old Sharp talking calculator, since 1988, and thought that maybe it was finally ready to quit. I was going to sadly miss my calculator. It had been with me through nine moves, countless family vacations, and overnight visits at people’s houses. I had done thousands of math problems on it, and used its timer for baking hundreds of different baked goods. And I woke up to its alarm, that always gave me a ten minute, and then five minute warning, before it broke into a bad 1980s-style digital version of a classic opera melody. 

I pushed the TIME button again, hoping to hear my beloved Sharp’s out-dated voice, one last time. Instead of saying the time, it said an algebra equation, in a low pitched, demonic voice. When I pushed other buttons, it spoke in many different voices. Some said more weird math equations, and others gave nonsensical answers. This made me realize that my calculator was not really in my hand, but lying on my entertainment unit, where it was functioning just fine. And I was really in my bed, having a lucid dream. Now that I knew this was a lucid dream, I felt free to dance around my room, like an idiot. 

As I did, the vibrations of the floor under my bouncing and kicking feet, felt much too real to be part of a lucid dream. The loudness of the racket I was making seemed real too. I abruptly stopped, not wanting the parents to get concerned about what was going on in my room. 

I dreamed that I was getting out of bed, in the morning. It was late, but I didn’t check the time. I heard my parents talking downstairs, along with a third voice. Their friend, Valery, was over. So I decided to change into some decent clothes, before coming downstairs to join them. 

I was wearing my turquoise robe that mom had gotten for me, from a catalog. When I tried to change out of it, its zipper refused to budge. So I started pulling it over my head, but the long sleeves constricted around my arms. They were so tight, it impaired my arm coordination, and I was trapped in my robe. I found a pair of scissors lying on my bookshelf. So I grabbed them, and began cutting off the robe. As I did, I heard Valery coming up the stairs, and then going into my bathroom. I was still cutting, when she came out. Then I noticed that my door was open. I was afraid that Valery might come in, and see me trashing a perfectly good piece of clothing, like I was losing my mind. To my relief, she didn’t notice the frantic cutting sounds coming from my room, and went back downstairs. 

The robe was off of me. It was reduced to two piles of turquoise shreds on the floor, in front of the bookshelf. I planned to carefully put the mess in a bag, and hide it somewhere among the clutter in my closet. I didn’t want mom to find out what I had done to my robe, because she would be very hurt. That robe was expensive. Even though the robe was off, I still wasn’t free. 

Another one of my robes materialized in its place. It was a cranberry colored one that I had, like, forever. It’s larger and more bulky than the turquoise robe, but it’s very roomy. So I thought that changing out of it would take a second. Then suddenly, my whole body got all sweaty. The sweat made the heavy robe stick to me, like cling wrap. Then the motor skills in all my limbs became slowed down and weak. I could barely bend or lift my arms. I was more trapped in this robe, than the turquoise one. It constricted around me until I thought I was going to suffocate. I was about to call out for help, but was distracted by the sound of running water. 

It sounded like a shower was turned on, but the shower was somehow in my room. A second closet appeared, opposite of my closet. It was like a mirrored image of it. It even had the same crappy old slatted folding doors. There was a shower in that closet, for some odd reason, and it had turned on by itself. In the dream, I was familiar with this second closet, and I remembered that I moved my filing case full of important paperwork in there. The filing case is made of sturdy plastic, but the shower water was pouring right over it. I was afraid that some water might sneak in, and ruin my paperwork. So I struggled against my restraints, and moved over to the second closet. The shower jumped out, on its own, like it was looking for confrontation. It was a lame, flimsy looking little shower. The shower’s head was only an inch or two above my height, and it was held up by a skinny, cheap quality metal pole. I reached over and tugged at a rickety faucet handle behind the shower head, and the water turned off. The slight force from my tug made it collapse across my bed, as though I killed it.  

AGAIN, I was getting out of bed, in the morning. I checked the time, on my talking calculator, and it was almost noon. By this time, I didn’t believe that I was really awake, even though it clearly seemed like I was. I threw my calculator on the floor, and it landed on the bamboo, with a realistic Bang! This made me unsure again, about whether or not I was truly awake in real life. I tested the truth, by allowing myself to fall flat on my face. Then I chickened out, in mid fall. The sensation of gravity felt too real. I through my calculator again, and it twirled through the air, in slow motion, before gracefully landing on the floor. That answered the question. This was yet another lucid dream. So I decided it was time to have some fun with it. I flung my curtains open, and time fastforewarded. By the looks of the sunlight behind my closed blinds, I could tell that it was now around 3:00. I heard my dad mowing the front yard. The white blinds were blotched with shade from the trees in front of my room. I knew that there isn’t really  any trees that shade my bedroom window. I was going to pull up the blinds, open the window, climb out onto the roof, and see what would happen if I jumped off. But I woke up, before anything exciting could happen. 

What are you trying to tell me now, oh great sub conscience?      

   

Psychic Dreams

Sure, this is not The Dream Dimension blog anymore, but I just love talking about dreams. I don’t know what’s going on, whether it has something to do with getting older changing my brain chemistry, or if it’s just one of those things that could never be explained. For some weird reason, my intuition has been getting a lot sharper lately, and my dreams have been symbolically telling my fortune, for the near future. Christa has read a little about dream psychology. When I told her about my dreams that are not exactly reoccurring, but have reoccurring themes, she told me that it’s not so much what happens in your dreams that have meaning. It’s how you feel, during the dream.  

It’s normal for anyone to have a future premonition in their dreams, every now and then. I used to have them, maybe once every so often. Here are a few I remember very vividly.  

In September of 2004, the very night that I moved in with my long-time boyfriend, Billy, I had a bad dream that he turned into a complete asshole who was impossible to live with. This was not a master psychic prediction. I just wanted to deny what was coming. Billy was a self centered, verbally abusive jerk at times, but he wasn’t pure 100% asshole. We had a lot of happy couple moments together. 

a lot of his behavior problems was due to his functional schizophrenia, which means, he was able to hold a job, drive, run aronds, and do all domestic tasks like a normal person. He even had a normal social life. He just had problems with delusional thinking, and he had an annoying habit of speaking in metaphors. He also sometimes brought up memories that never happened, and accused me of things I never did. Why did I date him? I had a shitty self esteem, when I was in my twenties. We had gone through ups and downs for four years. It was dysfunctional, but at that age, I wanted to believe in the whole soul mate thing. I was excited about moving clear across the country, to Hackensack New Jersey, with him. It was a new adventure. We were finally going to live together, and start our life together, without his clingy, controlling mom coming between us. She was not 100% pure asshole either. There were times when I enjoyed her company more than Billy’s, but I was relieved that she decided to stay back in Florida, and move in with Billy’s brother. 

Then low and behold, my dream was right. I learned the hard way that, the only reason why we stayed together for four years, was because we weren’t living together. After only a week of living with him, I couldn’t wait to get the hell back to Florida. 

In February of 2007, I had a dream about another ex boyfriend, named, Luis. He was in a hospital bed, with IVs and stuff, attached to him. In the dream, I apologized for how I broke up with him, and for being such a bitch. The next day, when mom answered the phone, it was Luis. He and I hadn’t spoken for almost two months, so this was a surprise. He was in the hospital, calling from his hospital bed. The parents and I were shocked to find out that he had cancer. Like in the dream, I apologized for all that I had put him through. I was so glad to have had the chance to make amends with him, before he passed away, the following July. 

In the summer of 2008, when I was getting enrolled into community College, I had all kinds of zany, but negative dreams that warned me that College wasn’t the right choice for me. Sure enough, my attempt at community College was a disastrous failure. Mainly because my neurological disability made it impossible to get assignments done, in a sensory overstimulating classroom. It was the same reason why I was a C student, all through school. I just had the hope that maybe being older and more mature would somehow improve this problem. 

A year or so later, I had dreams that Gina had a brightly glowing flower growing out of her belly button. I came to the conclusion that this symbolized pregnancy. Then, in 2012, she gave birth to my adorable nephew, Jaden, who is also our parents’ one and only grandchild. What’s funny about this is, he’s a very bright kid, with an IQ of 160. And he always had this thing with belly buttons. 

Another one that spooked me as much as the Luis dream, was a few dreams about my old friend from high school, Kate. I don’t remember precisely what year I had these dreams, maybe 2010, or 2011-ish. At the time, Kate and I had lost touch, back in 1998. In the dreams, we got back in touch again, but our reunion was short. We soon discovered how different we were, compared to when we were inseparable 9th grade BFFs. Then our relationship always went cold. These dreams always ended with me feeling crappy about the situation, and wanting to make things right with her, and hang on to our old friendship. So  I would go to her house, but then find out that Kate had turned into a lifeless, warn out, ventriloquist dummy.  

In October of 2013, Kate and I really did get back in touch. But our reunion ended coldly, in January of 2015. We got into a disagreement on FaceBook, and the claws came out. I would say neither of us was right, but she thought I was an immature psycho. She too had cancer, and she didn’t want the last few months of her life to include immature psycho bullshit. So she unfriended me, and cut me out of her life. 

A month later, I found out, through another friend, that her coldness had turned to compassion. Here she was, near death from stage-4 cancer, and she was praying for me. This was four years ago, but I’m getting choked up as I type this. I was deeply moved, and wanted to make things right with her, but I lost her phone number, when I changed phones. My friend tried, several times, to give me her number, but all these glitchy things kept happening between his Android, and my I-phone. Then she died, in May. So it was too late for any apologies or good-byes. Up until then, I didn’t realize that the dreams about Kate turning into a inanimate puppet were  symbolic premonitions. 

*** 

Within the past few months, I’ve been getting symbolic dream premonitions, almost back to back. Once the foreseen real life situation happens, my sub conscience moves on to the next near-future situation to warn, or reassure me about. 

In February, I had dreams that had to do with going through a situation that terrifies me, and seems like it would be impossible to get through. Then miraculously, I get through it, and everything works out, in the end. 

A few examples: 

I dreamt that the family and I were traveling by jet, somewhere. We were all getting comfortable in our seats, when a flight attendant came up to me, and said that the plane was too crowded. So I had to be moved to an outside seat, on the wing. I know that this situation would be totally impossible, in real life, but anything could happen in a dream. 

Mom and Gina were already sitting on the wing, when the flight attendant escorted me to my seat. But there was no seats, and no seat belts either. A bright red railing, that barely went up to my knees, went around the edges of the wing. This was all us wing passengers had to hold onto. While I was scared as hell, mom and Gina acted like this was a perfectly safe way to travel. They were sitting on either side of the wing, with their backs against the railing, happily blabbing about healthy dinner recipes. I was seated next to mom, with my back against the railing too. 

As the plane was taking off, I turned around, wrapped my arms and legs around the railing, and held on as tight as I could. The lifting off feeling was so realistic, and so was that funny thing gravity does to your mind, when you look down from a dangerous height. I gripped tighter, with all four limbs, and pinned my arms in place, with my head. I had never been so scared, on a dream plane ride before. Meanwhile, mom and Gina were still as relaxed as yoga instructors, as they talked about the beautiful view below. I looked down, but my vision blurred, and the view looked like greenish-brown fuzz. I felt so helplessly vulnerable, surrounded by 30,000 feet of open air. This flight was going to be two hours long. I wondered how I was going to get through it, or if. The plane picked up speed. I tensed my whole body up, and clung to the railing, for dear life. Then I felt my arms and legs getting clammy. I was so terrified, I wanted to cry. 

Then the attendant came back out, and decided to let me have my original seat back. As I took his arm, I suddenly was able to walk along the wing, with super-human balance. Then I was back in the comfort and safety of flying the normal way. I was SO happy.  

In another dream, the family and I were somewhere in New York city, and we were taking a GrayHound bus back to Florida. The bus wasn’t going to be there, for another few hours, so we had plenty of time to wander around. The GrayHound station was part of a ridiculously huge building that had a mall, several dozen bars, and all kinds of other noisy, crowded places. There was even a quiet room, far away from the human traffic congestion. Dad took me there, and promised that he’ll come back for me, in a few hours. 

This quiet room had soft lighting, and was more like a study room. There was desks and chairs all around, complimentary computers, and even some familiar visual aide equipment. I had my Mac Book with me. So I parked at a desk, and got to writing. This was the perfect time to work on my book, because the quiet room was empty. Then some other lady came in, who seemed even nerdier than me, and disturbed my peace. She put on an irritating educational musical about DNA, on her I-pad, and didn’t use headphones. I was really annoyed, but I’d rather not get into confrontations with total strangers. Especially not in New York city. So I soldiered on with wrestling with my brittle sense of focus, one typed word at a time. 

Dad came back, but it wasn’t time to get to the bus yet. He and mom had realized that we were in the wrong building. Our bus was scheduled at another GrayHound station, in a building that was across this 30-lane, death trap highway. So I took his arm, and we headed out with the rest of our party. Before crossing the 30-lane death trap, we first had to walk across a parking lot that seemed to go on for eternity. It suddenly started raining. Then my right sneaker shredded to pieces, all by itself, and so did my sock. The family didn’t want me to walk the rest of the way, with one bare foot. So we went back to the building we came from, and went to the mall. Our bus was leaving at 6:00 PM, but once we were in the mall, we realized that we hadn’t been keeping track of the time, as good as we thought. It was 5:30 already. We had only a half hour to help me pick out a new pair of sneakers, and then hurry to the other building. The mall was a chaotic confusion of stores upon stores, and millions of people. Luckily, the first store we walked in had the right pair of sneakers for me. As I bought them, waiting in the check out line, and paying for them, was unnaturally sped up. Like God hit the Fast forward button. Now that I had new shoes on, it was time for us to hall ass, but then it hit me, “Oh, shit! Stupid me left my Mac Book in that quiet room!” 

The quiet room was on another floor, far off in a different wing of the building. Luckily, we didn’t have to hurry there ourselves. Some kindly force of nature tele transported us there. But once we were there, my computer was gone. I was crushed. I hated myself for being so flaky. I was so anxious for us to get to the correct GrayHound station, that I hurried away without my best friend. Mom, dad, and my sisters told me to wait right there. They were going to check if this place had a lost&found. The quiet room was empty again. So I took this opportunity to search every inch of it. Hoping that maybe somebody just moved it somewhere, but it was nowhere in sight. 

I was about to cry, but then dad came in to tell me the great news. We were at the correct building, after all. There was a minor communication mix-up, and my computer wasn’t lost or stolen. The luggage handler guy found it, and packed it in my suitcase. I don’t know where our luggage had been, through that whole dream, but now it was safely loaded into our bus’s luggage compartment. The bus driver needed to take a break. So we weren’t going to be leaving for another twenty minutes. This gave us plenty of time to take any last minute bathroom breaks, before the trip. Everything worked out in the end. I felt that same strong, thankful, happy, relieved feeling, as I did at the end of the jet dream. 

Then I dreamt that I was a little girl, but a completely different character, in a completely different family. I was the only child too, which felt odd. We were visiting relatives, but staying at a hotel. Our visit was long enough to go past my bed time. So I slept in a spare bed that was in a hallway, for some dream nonsense reason. These different parents of mine were finally ready to leave, sometime after mid night. 

On our way to the hotel, my parents got lost. We drove all around this unnamed city, until 3:00 AM. I was too anxious to sleep through the drive. Then dad discovered a different rout to our hotel, but it went through a rough neighborhood. We were in the slummiest of slums. Dilapidated shacks were cramped together, in clusters, on each block, and they all had the same flimsy looking front steps. There were no yards, just bare dirt. Garbage, and all kinds of other filth, was strewn everywhere. No lights were on, in any of the shacks, but this neighborhood was all lit up with bright white streetlights. The thing that frightened me the most about this neighborhood, was that it was full of angry kids. 

These kids were all between the ages of eleven and fourteen, and of different races and ethnicities, but they all had the same tough, mean spirited attitude. They were all running a muck on the streets, cussing, trash talking each other, and beating each other up. I was so scared of them. I sank down into the back seat, where I would be below the windows, and stayed still and quiet. What made it even more scary was that, because these kids kept going in the streets, my dad had to drive through this hell-on-Earth very slowly. And for some reason, my parents wanted to keep all the car windows open. I feared that, at any moment, these nasty kids were going to jump onto our car, and come in through the windows, and attack us. Or they might throw trash, and hawk loogies into our car. Then I heard one angry boy scream murder accusations at another boy, and now I was in fear for our lives. 

It was disturbing to see so many kids out on the streets, unsupervised, at 3:00 in the morning. Something told me that their parents, and none of the other grownups in their lives, ever gave a damn about them. And that they acted tough and mean spirited, because they believed it was the best way to survive. Then my fear turned to compassion. I also realized that the kids never even noticed us, even though we were the only car driving through their neighborhood. It was like we were invisible to them. Or as if this brightly lit slum was only a figment of ghostly residual energy.  In the end, we made it safely to our hotel. And my heart was once again, full of thankful, happy relief. 

*** 

I believe that those dreams had to do with my anxiety about babysitting. On the same weekend my parents had plans to go to St. Pete, to help nannie out with house repairs, Gina had to do a house call massage. Carlos was going to be in Daytona. So I promised Gina that I would look after Jaden. I promised Jaden too. While the rest of the family tended to our garage sale, Jaden and I had fun, hanging out in my room. We watched Tiny House Nation, and talked about Minecraft. He also had fun going on my Elliptical Trainer, and then jumping off, and belly flopping onto my bed.  Jaden has been in our lives, for six years, but this was the first time he and I had an hour or two of aunt and nephew quality time. It made a good impression on him, and he actually requested that I would babysit him. I was very flattered, but terrified. 

The last time I babysat was almost 20 years ago. Lucky for me, it was a very well behaved, eleven-year-old girl. She was content with watching Rug Rats cartoons, and doing arts and crafts stuff. At the time, I had enough eyesight to enjoy these things with her. She went to bed, at her own bed time, and she even cleaned up after her dogs, when they had diarrhea accidents. It was the easiest $20 I had ever made. 

Twenty years later, I was set to babysit a high-energy, six-year-old boy with a fickle attention span. Toys and fun activities only hold his interest, ten or fifteen minutes at a time, and I was to keep him entertained for four hours. On top of all that, all the things he likes to do are visual, which are things I would suck at. There’s only so much Tiny House Nation, Minecraft discussions, and Elliptical stunts that he could do, before being miserably bored. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to keep the fun going, and he would regret choosing me for a babysitter. I pictured him crying, and wanting me to call his mommy. I was also anxious about being fully responsible for a wild child, when I can’t see. I thought about, what if he gets into something, and gets cut or injured. What if he trips and falls, and cracks his head open. What if he loses his footing on my hard, wooden stairs. Would I know how to do the himelick maneuver correctly, if he chokes on his lunch? All these worries, and many more kept ruminating in my brain. 

Then when babysitting day came, everything worked out surprisingly great. After he had his fill of Tiny House Nation, and the Elliptical, we made homemade play dough, played Battleship, and then I showed him my Tap Tap See audio descriptive camera, on my phone. The thing was out of order, and it kept describing things that were nothing like the things I was taking pictures of. When Jaden held up an unused light switch plate, my phone said that it was a men’s black crewneck shirt. When I took a picture of my blue hair, my phone said it was a black and white, floral bed spread. This cracked Jaden up. He wanted me to keep taking pictures, to hear what out-of-wack thing my phone was going to say next. 

When babysitting duty was over, Gina gave me $50, and she helped clean the cornstarch mess me and Jaden made, when we were making the play dough. Like in those dreams, I felt very thankful, happy, and relieved that what seemed impossible, all worked out in the end. After that, I stopped having those Extreme anxiety dreams. Then my sub conscience moved along to the next situation to warn me about.