One big, happy family...?

The following is a letter I wrote to a friend of mine, and I decided to blog it... Sort of airing my frustrations.

My cousin died in July, and the whole family decided to make amends. In public, anyway. Behind closed doors they still gossip and bicker. Anyway, it was the first time in 23 years that I had known my mother to hug her mother. Both of these women are expert at deceit and secretive maliciousness. They've hated each other for decades, and they're very sneaky, which is why I keep my distance as much as possible. It's also why I refuse to be dishonest. I refuse to be like them.

My sister moved here from Indiana, and it raised a huge stir. Mom was really hoping to claim my sister's kids on her taxes another year. She even went to the extent of giving my unlisted address (you can't find it in the system at all) to Sis's convicted felon ex-husband (whom Sis has a restraining order against) a few weeks ago. That night, an officer showed up at my door asking if Sis was here to check to see "if she is ok". Might sound innocent to an extent, until you realize that I have never met this person or his family, and Mom already knew where my sister was. We had talked to her earlier that day.

Anyway, the latest stunt they're pulling is that my mother and family from Indiana are coming up here to Wisconsin to my grandmother's home for Thanksgiving. Sis and I are not supposed to know about it, nor are we invited. Very sweet of them, isn't it?

I have gone to the home of some friends for the holidays for the last year, anyway. Otherwise, Sis and I both learned to cook for ourselves very early on (we had to if we wanted to eat sometimes), and we both make a mean turkey.

Ahh, those warm family times....

Neener neener neener....

I'm not one of those high-maintenance, manicured and primped people. I love to dress up and look nice, of course. But spoiled? No... Ok, not in the material sense.

I do love to get my way, though. Especially when it's a win-win situation. I can be very stubborn and persistent. Then again, a strong will is what's gotten me this far in my life. Sometimes stubborn is good.

Oh, but what a good weekend...


"Between an overload of information
And a striving for a pure dedication I
Find myself looking for the exit sign
See your pretty face in the sunshine
In the morning after staying up all night I
Want to wake you just to hear you
Tell me it's alright
And all I want to be is too much
Sometimes for me
Good morning baby"

- Bic Runga

Anglodaskalophilia

There's really no word for it that I could find anywhere, so I'll have to make it up. It's an odd little neurosis of mine. I'm incredibly attracted to English/literature teachers, bookworms, etc.

I went to a high school in a small farming community in rural Connecticut. Instead of having the basic singular English or literature classes I had been used to back in my home state of Indiana, there were several options to choose from. Being the bibliophile I was, I took them all. My favorite was - and always has been - British Literature.

The instructor, Mr. Roche, was soft-spoken, long-haired and incredibly intelligent (another turn-on). I would listen with rapt attention to his descriptions of Shakespearean lore, all the time fantasizing about my infatuation with him. He was also perpetually stoned, and could never remember anyone's name. Except mine, which my friends found hysterical.

The classroom wall next to his cluttered desk was lined with rows of books. I'd find any excuse to stay after class to talk to him about some quickly-fashioned excuse to borrow one of his books, or to ask for an in-depth explanation of one.

I had several strategies to attract his attention, one of which was to sit on the edge of his desk while he offered me his explanations on whatever I had come up with to discuss that particular day. I was relentless in my choices of outfits and seductive poses for these little meetings: My mini-skirts or tights jeans, legs crossed and placed just so.

Interestingly enough, he was definitely not crush material in the commonly accepted sense among hormonal teenagers. He looked rather like a cross between Michael Bolton and a certain monotonal comedian I can't remember the name of. He sort of spoke that way, too. But he read us poetry and spoke of the intricacies of the relationships between the Shelley's and Byron. He told us about mysticism and alternative thought.

It's likely these digressions were a direct result of all the pot he was smoking at the time (it was commonly known - and more than that, he was arrested in Vermont not long after my graduation with a trunkful of cocaine and imprisoned for quite some time).