In another life

On May 10, it will be the eleventh anniversary of the day that I was sworn into the Florida bar. On August 7, it will be the tenth anniversary of the day I left grad school behind and started working as a lawyer. Since then, it's been a roller-coaster, to say the least.

As some of you know, I am an avid Lost watcher. And I am very very intrigued by the current plot-line where the main characters are featured in an alternate reality, where small changes in their lives lead to entirely different end results. Or, as Desmond famously says, "See you in another life."

(This may also explain why I am so fond of Hot Tub Time Machine. Well, that and the excessive use of hair metal. But I digress . . . .)

Every once in a while, when work gets really really busy and stressful and I reach a point where I've had it UP TO HERE with lawyering (in general) and other lawyers (in particular), I find myself wishing I work in a profession where people tried to be nice and kind and helpful instead of becoming deadlocked in a never-ending competition for the title of "World's Biggest Asshole." In these moments, instead of rushing home to cry, punching someone in the face, or announcing my decision to quit the practice of law and move to the south of France to write poetry, I try to make myself take a time out -- a pause in the action, like in the movies where the main character seems to be moving in slo-mo while all of the blurry surrounding action continues in fast-forward.

In that momentary stillness, I often reflect. I think about my decisions to go to law school, to be a lawyer, to take the job I have -- TWICE! -- to move away from my family, and pretty much every other step along the path that has led me to the place where I am now. And in so doing, I occasionally think about what my "other life" would be.

When I graduated from college and moved my stuff back from Tallahassee to Coral Springs, I was already admitted to law school, to begin six months later. Despite my protestations that I needed a break (i.e. lying out by the pool, extensive sleeping, and voracious reading) my dad told me that there was no way that he would allow me to live in his house for six months without a job.

At that point, my only real work experiences were 1) part time telephone sales for the Tallahassee Democrat and 2) working as an unpaid intern in a government office. So I did what any overqualified-yet-underexperienced unemployed new graduate would do: I applied to one of the many local neighborhood Target stores, thinking that, until school started, being a part-time cashier would be good enough. Target had other plans: they hired me as a management trainee, and, as a result, I spent the next few months working my butt off in retail.

I diligently and quickly learned EVERY SINGLE JOB in that store. I met the trucks in the morning and unloaded them. I painted shelves and changed displays. I learned the inventory system. I opened the store in the morning and closed down the store at night. I even learned how to be a cashier, run security, and serve popcorn at the snack bar. After a few weeks, they gave me a real management job: I ran the seasonal department during what turned out to be the two busiest times: back-to-school and Christmas. I worked a lot of hours and was on my feet pretty much the entire time, but for me, it was relatively mindless menial labor.

Plus the job paid well for 1995. As a nineteen year old with no debt and no real obligations, I was making $10 an hour, plus overtime, and, as long as I remained a full time employee, I qualified for health insurance. I could have stayed in that job and moved up the management ranks. With no student loans and living with my folks, I could have saved money, eventually moved out on my own, and had a completely different existence than the one I've managed to create for myself. At a minimum, I wouldn't be confronted with the endless deadlines and toxic personalities that tend to permeate the legal profession.

When I get all stressed out, I think about this alterna-life, and, some days, when it's real bad, I envy it, more than just a little bit. On the other hand, if I had chosen this path, I would not have gotten to experience the things that I've experienced, made the friends that I've made, or learned the things that I've learned. I'd be me but somehow, not me. And most days, being me is pretty okay.

The History of Dara, Part 8 (Crazy Notebook Edition)

I know I said I'm done blogging, but there are some things that still need to be written. Especially today, the one year anniversary of my mother's death.

I've been sitting here reading the notebook I scrawled in on the airplane down to Florida-- when I was trying to keep from pacing up and down the aisle looking like a terrorist -- and I am astounded by some of the things that I wrote.

This time I brought a notebook on the plane, mostly out of fear of being alone with my thoughts for too many hours. I don't have any idea what I'm doing. I'm like a zombie. A robot. A zombie-robot.

She would have thought that was funny. She always found my strangeness funny. And I always obliged because I didn't care if she was laughing with me or at me. As long as she was laughing.

***

Crying on a plane is so not me. I hope no one sees. And if they do, I hope they just think I'm sick.

***

Right now I think God has a sick sense of humor.

***

I was born on a Thursday. Today is Thursday. 32 times 52 is 1664. So, since it's been about 10 weeks since my birthday, I've had my mother for 1675 or so Thursdays. Not enough.*

***

I think I've been checking my watch every three minutes. God, I can't wait for this flight to be over. Everyone here is either older than my mom or has a baby. One's been screaming since fifteen minutes before we took off.

Need to be off the plane ASAP. Have about an hour to go. Keep trying not to think, not to cry, but it's not like there's a switch I can turn on and off.

I brought a book, but can't bring myself to read, it would just be a waste. I wish I could sleep or even just relax. But my mind's going about a thousand miles a minute. Wish the plane could keep up.

***

My mom is my designated beneficiary on all my insurance and pension and stuff. I remember telling her once that if anything happened to me, she'd be a very rich lady and wouldn't need to share it with Dad. She told me that I was being horrible and that she would share with him.

I guess I need to change all those forms. Which sucks. On so many levels.

***

I think, in retrospect, buying an airplane-proof pen was a fantastic idea. Should have bought a notebook with lines, though. Writing on a plane is hard enough, with all the jolts and jostles of varying degrees. My handwriting is all over the place. But at least it's legible. It looks like hers.

***

I feel bad for my future theoretical children.

***

Not ten minutes ago, I wrote about how much I want this flight to be over. Then I realized that as soon as I get off the plane and see my dad, my sister, or my Nana -- or any combination thereof -- I'm going to burst into tears, and I don't think I'll be able to stop.

My eyes are already brimming over just thinking about it. So now, maybe I don't want this flight to end. Instead, I want to go back in time, to Monday evening, and I want my mother to get herself to the ER the second she started feeling sick, before the infection got so bad.

***

I hope this is not what crazy feels like.

***

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

***

I hope no one reads this, ever.

***

I bought this notebook with my mom, the last time I saw her, over Thanksgiving.

I can't remember if it was the day after or the Saturday. Whatever. I can't believe we wasted all that friggin' time on line at the crappy-ass Bealls Outlet so that my dad could buy $3 pants and I could get a notebook with a fancy cover for a quarter.

***

Who's going to take care of my dad and my Nana?

***

She wasn't even eligible for Social Security.

***

I can't believe the last conversation I had with her was about the superbowl and the Catherine Malandrino dress.

This is all so fucked up.

***

I am too young for this. My parents had their mothers around well into their sixties. I am only 32. I've been cheated of at least 30 years.

***

Guess she managed to keep me from voting for Obama in the primary after all.

***

In the car on the way back from the airport, I kept saying "Fucking fuck fuck fuck!" It's like stress-induced Tourette's syndrome.

I broke down for a minute in the bank vault with my Nana. We were getting info about the cemetery so my mom can be buried near her father -- my Pop. Nana told me how my dad'll be buried there too, now -- and I lost it. Two grandparents and one parent in 7 months is enough. More than enough, really.

***

I talked to my best friend from high school tonight. She was a religion major in college but couldn't really say anything to help me. I told her how my Nana broke down in the car and started to curse God. (At least she believes enough to curse something!)

The conversation was weird, but necessary. How does someone you've known for more than half your life help you get over this?

She just about lost it too when I pointed out that my brother's bar mitzvah was exactly 15 years from next weekend. How did we get so old and our lives get so screwed up?

***

Just praying that I can manage to get some sleep. This house is fucking weird without her in it.

My dad is a zombie-robot too. It's clearly genetic.

How the fuck is this my life?

FUCK!

I am still hoping that this is some kind of fucked-up fever-induced nightmare -- and that I'll wake up in the morning with everything back to normal.

***

Mom, I'm sorry about the ear piercing. And the belly button. And the tattoo.

I'm sorry about what a crappy pre-teen I was.

I'm sorry about lying about drinking and sex.

I'm sorry I moved so far away.

I'm sorry I wasn't here.

I love you. You've always been my best friend and biggest supporter and I am so sorry that I didn't tell you that often enough.

I don't know how to be without you.

I don't know how I'm going to make it through the rest of my days without being able to call you just to hear your voice, or to relate something silly.

When I make good decisions, it's always been because of your influence and support. I don't know how I'll function without that.

I am so lost already.

***

I only freaked out two more times today. Once was when my dad handed me my mom's rings. I just lost it. And honestly, I didn't mean to do it in front of him.

The second was in my car with Nana, when she said something and it brought up the fact that my mother will never see my kids, her grandkids.

She will not be at my wedding. It is all so very backwards.

My dad lost it a little too. He says he has no focus anymore. I am so worried about him having to be here, alone, when we all have to leave.

I can't believe that my mom will never ever make Thanksgiving dinner again.

Everything is so upside-down and backwards. It's not right.

My dad keeps saying that over and over again. That and the fact that it all happened so quickly.

I don't know what to do. It's like I'm living someone else's nightmare right now.

***

I told my brother and dad about this notebook, how I spent the entire flight writing, and how half of it was the word "fuck."

My brother said that the people next to me probably thought I was schizophrenic. I guess that's better than reporting my behavior to the air marshal.

I keep telling everyone that I'm currently held together with Scotch tape and rubber bands. We'll see how that holds up when we meet with the Rabbi tomorrow.

***

My mother told me what to do all the time. The small things, anyway -- clean your room, make your bed, don't leave dishes in the sink, that sort of stuff. She never really told me what to do, though. She would always listen and help me decide what to do and encouraged me to follow my instincts. And then, when I made whatever decision, she would tell me how proud she was of me. Like when I decided to take less money to do what I wanted to do. She was proud of the level of thought that I had given it -- but mostly she was proud of it as an expression of my priorities -- how it was better to be happy than to make more money. She took special pride in that one, even if it meant that I wasn't going to buy her any more designer handbags. Secretly, though, she was happy because she knew I'd be able to take more vacation. In theory, anyway.

***

My mother had the most beautiful hands.

My mother had the most beautiful laugh.

My mother's eyes were somewhere between sky blue and a cloudy sky. On the way back to the house from the airport, the northeast corner of the sky was the exact same color as her eyes.

These are things I hope I never forget.

*It was actually exactly 1680 Thursdays, but who needs to get bogged down in the details?

History of Dara, part 7

Once upon a time, a long long time ago -- a little over thirteen years, to be exact -- I was eighteen years old and living in London for the summer. Well, not just living there -- studying abroad -- which basically constituted taking a bunch of art history classes and a playwriting class.

I lived in a flat -- with four other students -- in a historic building that -- according to rumor -- Shelley had lived in at one point in time. I drank beer, at pubs. I went to lots and lots of plays, and the opera, and the ballet. I shopped in the open air markets. I went to Paris. More than that, really -- I went to so many places, it would take more than a whole blog entry to catalogue the whole thing. But that's not what I wanted to write.



I was recently reminded that, in my playwriting class in London, I wrote a one-act play as an assignment. Actually, each and every member of the class wrote a play, and then, the class voted for the top three, and staged them. Mine was selected.

In retrospect, it's not exceptionally good -- but I was eighteen. And, at the time, my class compared it to Pretty in Pink, which is a compliment. (If it had been written after 1997, I would think that Dawson's Creek would have been more accurate, but whatever.)

Anyway, here's the play, such as it is.

History of Dara, part 6

I was looking through some papers yesterday, and stumbled across a two chapter attempt at writing my autobiography. It was written right around the time I graduated from college. In retrospect, I clearly had no business writing an autobiography at that point in my life, but I had a couple tales to tell. Plus, my last semester was a summer semester, and my roommate left after the first six-week session, so I had a lot of time to kill. I'm going to save the chapter on my telemarketing jobs for a later date, but here's the chapter about my trip to Paris. Enjoy.

The summer after my first year of college, I went on a study abroad program in London. This program also included a four-day trip to Paris. I was so excited to be going to Paris that I did not accurately prepare for the trip. I forgot my French-to-English dictionary, I packed all the wrong clothes, and I left my umbrella in my flat. Coincidentally, all it did was rain while I was there.

The first thing I noticed as I stepped off the bus was that Paris smelled. "But hey!" I thought to myself, "This is Paris -- the city of love, the city of light! Who cares if it smells? This is a historical, important place."

I went into the hotel to check-in and unpack. After this, I had some time left before I had to be anywhere, so I decided to find a bookstore and buy another dictionary. I left the hotel, and wandered into a small boutique around the corner. I walked up to the salesman. "Excuse-moi," I said oh-so-politely. "Je nes parles pas Français bien. Parlez-vous Anglais?"

The salesman looked at me as if I were a total moron. "Of course I speak English," the man said rudely, in a perfect British accent.

"Thank you," I whispered, and I turned around and walked back to the hotel, where I sat in my room and cried for twenty minutes. My friends practically had to drag me out of my room that afternoon.

Eventually, I was able to leave my room and go see the sights. I eventually bought that dictionary, which came in quite useful.

I had packed clothing for warm weather, however, my entire trip was cloudy and cold. So I bought quite a number of t-shirts to wear with my one pair of jeans that I had with me. The problem was the rain. My only shoes that I had in Paris were an old ratty pair of sneakers with holes in the heels. My feet were wet for four days. I thought that I was bound to come down with pneumonia.

The entire time we were there, the rain just got worse. On the night we decided to go to the Eiffel Tower in order to get an aerial view of the city's lights, there was a thunderstorm. The winds were so strong on the top level that I kept getting blown into the railings. The storm got too violent, and we had to be sent down. Then my friends and I got to walk through the twisting streets of Paris, trying to find our way back to our hotel.

The next night, in order to celebrate the end of our trip, my friends and I decided to go out to a "nice" dinner. We found a restaurant that looked appealing and went inside. We were seated and proceeded to order. The group of us decided that it would be a good experience to try some French wine. We looked at the wine list, and as everything was unrecognizable, we randomly selected a name. When the bottle came to the table, we were shocked. It was a California Chardonnay. We couldn't stop laughing about it all night, or even the next day, as we started our journey back to London.

History of Dara, part 5

I have a strange relationship with my mother, always have. I know she loves me and would do just about anything for me -- and I feel the same way -- but personality-wise, when I was growing up, she and I tended to be like oil and water. She was very overprotective -- some would say controlling -- and I was very independent.

I was also somewhat of a Daddy's girl, which I think bothered her. For many years, she was a stay-at-home mom, and, to some extent, I think she expected some loyalty. But instead, according to the family mythology, starting at a very early age I would say things like "Daddy's home now, you can leave," and drive her to tears.

It was bad when I was in high school.

Even now, after I've been out of her house for all of these years -- since I was 17 -- I still have problems getting her to let go of some things. For example, she just won't let me have my birth certificate, even though I've asked for it a bunch of times. She always says she'll do it, but conveniently forgets, or ignores me, or something. It's clearly psychological -- like she needs to keep it, just to prove that she's still the mom.

Lucky for me, I haven't run into a situation -- yet -- where my driver's license or passport hasn't been sufficient.

Anyway, she always talks about all of these things that she's kept from me, over the years, but rarely lets me see them, and even more rarely, lets me have them. She always says she will, but like the birth certificate, it just never happens. And, trust me, I ask.

Last Thanksgiving -- my birthday -- I was visiting them in Florida, and she pulled out this giant box filled with stuff that I didn't remember. One of the things was a Mother's Day essay I had written for her in elementary school. I didn't remember it -- or pretty much any of the cards or things I had given her throughout the years. I did, however, remember making the paper flowers in art class.

She then told me about some story that she had found from when I was a kid. She didn't show it to me. But she promised that she would get it to me.

As usual, nothing.

When I was down in Florida a couple weeks ago, she mentioned the story again. I asked her for a copy. She said she'd look for it at some point. I assumed she had forgotten, but this evening, after a lovely dinner with some friends, I got home and found a letter. It was a photocopy of the story.*

Based on the handwriting -- relatively neat printing and no cursive -- I most likely wrote it in first or second grade. And I illustrated it too.

Here it is, for your viewing pleasure.







It's got all the elements of a great sci-fi horror movie: Gigantic lizard monsters, space ships, martians -- and most importantly, candy bars! I should have sold the screenplay.



*Actually, it was a copy of the the story and a check completely unrelated to anything of mine. I think she just sent me an extra page, but I'll have to talk to her tomorrow to confirm.

History of Dara, part 4 -- the 9/11 edition

As I've indicated in some of the prior posts, I've often kept journals in the past. I'm very inconsistent about it, though. When I was younger, in high school, I'd write almost every day for a couple of weeks, and then wouldn't write anything for months at a time. The entries got more and more sporadic when I was in college, and then law school. When I first moved up to D.C., I vowed to be more consistent about it, but it took me about a year to keep my promise. So, on September 10, 2001, I started a new journal.

I wound up ripping out my first entry, because it seemed so inconsequential in light of the next day's events.

Anyway, on September 11, 2001, this is what I wrote:

History happened today -- the plane crashes into the World Trade towers and the Pentagon.

Just heard an update -- hundreds might be dead in the Pentagon. I drove by earlier and saw it engulfed in fire and smoke. Everyone was all worried. Mom, my aunt, my siblings -- all worried and tried to reach me. But I was in court in Greenbelt this morning and barely heard anything. Just a peep before I left about a hijacked plane out of Boston. Then, when I got to court, heard about the NY attack. Never thought about the Pentagon, though, until I was getting evacuated from the courthouse.

I metro under there every day. I was even under there on my way home tonight. If I was late for work, I could have been there when it happened. Scary -- but the worst thing about it was hearing the fear in Mom's voice on the message she left. This had to be hardest on her -- being so far away and not being able to reach me.

My apartment smells like smoke. My throat and eyes are burning. I am less than ten blocks away from the Pentagon, and there still are sirens and flashing lights going back and forth.

On the news -- they're saying that this is one of the dates you'll remember forever -- like the millennium, the fall of the Berlin Wall, Tienemen Square -- which I remember. Others -- the assassination of Kennedy, the space landing, and Pearl Harbor -- clearly, I don't. But the images live on and are immediately recognizable.

Hopefully, all this will make sense one day.

What I didn't write about was how Judge Mannes wanted to get through his morning Chapter 13 docket before acquiescing to the evacuation, or how after being evacuated from the federal courthouse, I had to walk down to the Metro -- about a mile, in heels -- and then sat for a long time, while officials decided whether -- and if so where -- the trains were going to run. Initially, I couldn't even catch a train back in to Virginia. So, I spent the intervening time with work friends up in Cleveland Park, watching events unfold on tv.

For a long time after that, I was scared of getting stranded at that courthouse without a car, so when I had to go out there, I always drove. But about a year later I moved even closer to the Pentagon -- now I'm only about 5 blocks away. I still metro under there every day. Most importantly, though, I still haven't been able to make sense of any of it.

History of Dara, part 3

In case you couldn't tell, I've been having a lot of fun with the "History of Dara" posts. They've given me a chance to revisit some stuff that I haven't looked at in years. So, I'm going to try to do one a week, for the foreseeable future -- or until I run out of publishable material.

This week's blast from the past is from a Humanities class I took my first semester of college. It was taught by a graduate student named Dennis who had long hair -- which was something I really dug back then -- and seemed like this really nice, sensitive, artsy guy. Of course, I was seventeen at the time, so I didn't stand a chance.

It was the only class I never skipped that semester. I got an "A." Then again, that wasn't unusual for me -- I went to a big state school.

Anyway, one of our assignments was to write a "dada" type poem -- something random. I had written a bunch of found (or collage) poetry when I was in high school -- where you cut words out of a magazine -- and was inspired by that idea. But instead, I took three words from each song on the first two Pearl Jam albums -- a noun, a verb, and an other -- put them into piles, and drew one from each for each line of the poem. The result was something sort-of like Justin's Blog Explosion Poetry.

Here it is:

Divided

Lonely insomniacs convince
Manipulate deadly madman
Backwards fleeting nightmares
Haunting dream thread
Never complaining moon
Admit twisted story
Neighbors standing afraid
Dissident ponders wrong
Simple tension gathers
Memories return forever
Diagnosed wicked direction
Tracing bottomless disaster
Greets nemesis nautiously
Lunatics breathe disgrace
Countering defective opinion
Question superior initiatives
Chases servile circus
Cried lifeblood end
Deny safest thoughts
Powermad contemplating revolution
Abused listless god
Abduct weak clone
Personally working mischief
Sold oneway bomb
Jumping mace filth
Shot middle surface
Shattered order slammed
Stab clean glass
Rearview enmity tattooed
Backstreet windowsill drawing
Troubled visions fade
Shove rain astray
Deserve clearer moutnaintops
Running against lifetimes
Trust precious mission
Emancipate loaded retribution
Freezing pieces congregate
Polish a thousand mirrors
Plight eradicated on impact
Candle flashing bright
Faith alone laughing
Unite towards amends

Actually, now that I'm looking at it again, it kind of reminds me of a nonsensical spam e-mail. I guess I was ahead of my time.

History of Dara, part 2

As I said in my prior post, I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. My family always noticed it, and to some extent, always assumed I’d be a writer. I don’t know if my daily legal writing really counts.

Anyway, my great-grandfather bought me my first "grown up" journal, shortly before he died when I was 8. Up until that point, I had a little purple diary with a lock and key – like all little girls – but I never had a journal for the express purpose of story writing. I didn’t write in it at first, because I didn’t really know what to say. But I vaguely remember writing my first story in the journal a couple years thereafter – but only because I remember reading it to the assembled family at some kind of holiday get-together, before we moved from New Jersey to Florida. Based on circumstantial evidence and contextual clues, I am fairly certain that I wrote it when I was around 10 or 11.

Anyway, here it is, in all its glory -- and with no editing. Enjoy.

When the letter arrived she recalled the moment. She had been barely more than a child at the time when it happened. She was 13, and she saw a man suffocating inside a burning building. She dragged him out, and then called an ambulance. When he came to, he thanked her and requested her name. She answered, “Josephine Anne Smith.”

Now, she was 21 and an heiress to a great fortune left to her by her parents. She lived in the mansion on their estate, Foxwood Estate. She also owned and operated her own business started by her father J.B. Smith Fashions, Inc. She called herself by her old knickname, JoAnne.

Her company had been in need of a new warehouse and when the letter came, she felt relieved for it said, “Dear Miss Josephine Anne, You are the only heir of Mr. George Donaldson, the man you rescued from a burning building 8 years ago. He left his entire fortune to you if you stay in his estate, Donaldson Woods for at least one night. After this, the estate along with the sum of 2 and one half million dollars are to be yours. If you do not, the inheritance will be given to certain specified charities. Yours truly, Geoffery P. Chantler, lawyer.” She then thought, “I’ll leave tomorrow.”

While our heroine lays sleeping, let me describe her to you. She was very attractive, dark blonde hair, blue eyes, and a peaches and cream complexion. Her hair was long and usually fell to the bottom of her back neatly braided. She had a fine wardrobe, ranging from the newest things off the rack, to ancient ball gowns. She had a slight Southern drawl, for she grew up in Georgia. Her parents had come from Georgia, while her mothers parents came from England, and her fathers parents from France. Her family had been rich for as far back as her great-great-great-grandparents could remember, and therefore had would up with an extremely large fortune.

In the morning, JoAnne dressed for the trip down to Brunswick. She got dressed in a black dress, and put on black gloves and a black hat with a veil of the same color. As she put on her black shoes, she surveyed herself in the mirror. “Perfect, “ she thought. She then packed her overnight bag. She grabbed her purse and her bag and climbed into the backseat of her limosine to go to the Atlanta airport.

When she finally arrived at Donaldson Woods, a storm was starting up. The eerie sound of the wind made JoAnne think of all the things that could go wrong. Her mother had always warned her to think carefully before making a decision, except, JoAnne never did. Why didn’t she just put it off? Why did she come on such an eerie night. Just then, a bolt of lightning hit the house. JoAnne jumped. “Oh no!” she thought. “Not another thunderstorm.”

She got nervous. “What happened if . . .” She thought of possibilities, but she got up anyway and thoroughly inspected the house for leaky faucets or loose floorboards. She was looking through what appeared to be an antique bureau, when she found a yellowed piece of paper which read “Beware! This home is haunted by the ghost of Oliver S. Donaldson, born 1691, died 1784. JoAnne was scared. She ran out of the room and tore up the paper. Then the storm eased, and the full moon shone through the clouds. JoAnne thought “The storm is over. I am safe now.” But she didn’t notice the short white creature slowly inching down the stairs.

The End . . .
. . . Or is it?

History of Dara, part 1

I've been writing since I could first hold a pen in my hand. I was looking for something in my file cabinet the other day, and came across a veritable treasure trove of things that I had written in my younger years. I'm hoping to share some of them on occasion.

Alas, I don't have any of the good stories from my early, early years. My nana and my mom have some stories that I wrote back before a lot of kids my age were reading. Apparently one is very funny, because I spelled the word "pop" with an extra "o." Maybe one day I'll get a hold of them and share.

In any event, the only real early writing that I have is My Book About Me. For those that are unfamiliar with this, it is a Dr. Seuss book written as a sort-of questionairre for kids to fill out about them, where they live, and their likes and dislikes.

I got the book for a 5th birthday present from someone named Adam. I don't remember him at all. Whne I got the book, my mother wanted to hold off on filling it out in order to do it right -- to turn it in to a project -- but even then, I generally didn't listen to her. So, when she wasn't paying attention, I filled it out quickly, primarily in crayon, and made up most of the answers as I went along, because I didn't want to take the time to find out the real answers.

For example, I responded to the "How tall am I? " question by responding "I am 301 feet, 401 inches tall." I also wrote that "I think I have about 6 freckles," and "My house has yes steps." I think I was supposed to count the steps.

When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I responded "T.V. Star," although, if you look at it quickly, it bears a striking resemblance to the word "toaster."



I actually wrote that my favorite pet was a cat-fish. I think I was being indecisive, but I really don't remember. And, it's not like we had any real pets until much, much later.

In the story part, I couldn't be bothered to write a real story, so I just wrote mean things about someone named Jane. I don't remember her, but the best part of the story is "No, Jane I hat you. Dont com to my hous." I also drew a picture of a chicken, and named it after my then 3-year-old sister.

Nice kid, right?