Somewhere in Connecticut, there's a woman who hasn't updated her phone number in about two years. I still get calls for her. It's become a little bit of a hobby of mine to follow her life.

The first message: 

Hi Tracy! Would you be available to substitute for us today? 

So, she's a teacher with a passive aggressive stance toward her livelihood, considering I'm getting this call and not her. I don't like work, either, but I do enjoy the paycheck as most people do. Therefore, I'm feeling fairly confident that Tracy's either won Powerball and doesn't care if she ever works again, or she's dealt with her last spitball and has decided that the only subbing in her life from now on will involve a grinder and a bag of chips. 

The second message: 

Tracy, this is Dr. Smith's office. Please call us back. It is very important we speak with you.

A lackadaisical substitute teacher with medical problems, judging from the amount of doctor's office calls she's gotten. Some of them sound pretty dire, but then all doctors kind of do. The people in lab coats are spooky. Fingers crossed for Tracy.

The third message: 

Hello, this is the New Britain school system calling to let you know that classes are cancelled for today.

I don't live in New Britain, and have no children. I suspect Tracy strikes again, this time with what I bet was once her full time teaching position. She not only strikes again, but at 5 AM every time it snows, no less. In Connecticut in winter, that's often enough for me to wonder why I invest in an alarm clock. I'm starting to wonder if all the doctors are psychiatrists, because I'd go nutty getting called at 5 AM every other winter morning, too.

It's no secret that I'm very much looking forward to True Blood, because my lust for all things cheesy know no bounds. So, I was delighted when I saw this picture of Eric. At first, I was convinced that he's straight from a romance novel cover to you, but I don't know that he's quite manly enough for that. There's no mullet, and Smart Bitches favorite chest accessory isn't in plain sight. However, I knew that I knew him from somewhere. Finally, I got it. 

After my silence, that's right, I'm posting again. I'm just feeling verbose lately. I am writing again, matter of fact, but this is strictly for my own private purposes. I like the characters in my head, and I want to keep them there for the duration. Publication is a maybe, someday, and for the moment I'm good with that. So, what else have I been doing with my time? Well...

I finally went on a date. It was horrible, and I'm never trying online dating again, but I'm glad to be in a place where I finally have the me-happy to go ahead with it. Just for the record, guys, if I'm on a date with you and I'm being honest and upfront about being bisexual, please don't try to save the tanking date by asking if it would help if you like guys, then going on a 20 minute long rant about how you have a thing for drag queens, but don't want to like guys, and besides you don't really like guys, I mean not like guy guys, just drag queens for some reason, not that you really do like drag queens except that you do because that'd be gross. I'll be praying for you to bring me back to the Olive Garden where I left my car the whole time. The first date is not the place to whip out quite a few things, and your crazy is chief among them. Words aren't your friend there, okay? Just FYI.

Weight loss! In early June, I made a bet with my mother and brother in law that whoever lost the most by the time my cousin's wedding in late June rolled around would win 10 bucks from each. I got that 20 bucks, and I've been rolling hamster-style at the gym ever since. I started at 209.6, and I just weighed myself a few minutes ago - 189.6. 20 pounds, lost and done. Water weight may vary, snack attacks may apply. I'm looking better than I have in a while, and I firmly believe that I'll get back to my goal weight of 130 again by this time next year. Granted, my mountainous highlands are starting to reach for the lowlands, but that's to be expected. It's a sad side effect of being hourglass who's losing weight and 30 years old, but I'm figuring some pec exercises will perk the girls right back up. If not, then why mourn an excuse to go to Victoria's Secret when I'm all said and done? Good times, good times. 

So, I'm watching HBO today on my fabulous week off, and the day's made even better when I see a knockoff of the Chemistry commercials, only this is about a vampire being rejected by human dating sites. It seems that HBO's started promoting True Blood, their Sookie Stackhouse series. Now, while I still stand by my desire to smack Sookie upside her ignorant, greedy, stereotypical little head in the books, I'm still going to watch the series because it's vampires, and Alan Ball. 

So, if you're a vampire looking for love, go here. http://www.lovebitten.net/

Wuv. Twu, bwoody wuv....

If I have a gift for words, then I have to say it came from my father. I found out a few years ago that he writes poems. He wrote me one, about the travels of a leaf. He also gave me a book once on writing poetry, once he found out that I loved words as much as he does. His verbal gift is evident in his sense of humor more than poems, because that's really who he is. He always wanted to get a laugh from everyone, and we often told him as kids that you should be a stand up comedian, Dad. You'd make millions. I can't deny that if I have a gift in my DNA, then it is from his blood to mine.

Mostly, though, my father was the reason I began to make up stories. I stood underneath a chandelier in the wood paneled back room of The Quartet Club when I was a little girl, and pretended I was a princess dancing in the spotlight instead of someone's kid left to her own devices at 3 in the afternoon while Dad sat at the bar, drinking beer and ordering me and my sister the occasional Shirley Temple or ginger ale. My father never hit me. He never even said a cross word to me. He did refuse to give us his telephone number, and very often didn't show up for weekend visits. When I was a teenager, he moved a couple states south, down and away, and I didn't really care much because the emotional distance was already about on par with the physical distance.

Today, I got a call from my sister to tell me he was in the hospital all of last week. He can't drink anymore, not even a drop. His body is so ravaged by the damage he's inflicted on it that he'll have a seizure that could kill him if he does. His stomach hurts so much, all the time, that he let a bleeding ulcer go. It got bad enough to land him a week long stay under medical supervision. I don't want him to suffer. Most of my twenties were spent being angry at him, at my paternal grandmother, my sister, my self, my mother, and everyone else involved. After a while, I learned to stop seeing him as my father, and as a human being instead. He's frail, and for that reason I should call him and let him know that I'm glad he's all right. I don't want to. I have a nice, quiet life. I don't want it interrupted in the middle of the night by a sad old man begging for answers, love, and just one more second chance. I have no ill will, but I also have no urge to reconcile.

Once my father withheld his phone number from me. Now, I want to withhold mine from him. I won't do that, and the reason is because my heroes, my beautiful fictional heroes that sustained me, would do better than that. So, I'll hold myself to their standards. Tomorrow, I'll call my father and wish him well. I'll tell him I love him, and I miss him too. They're my words, and like my life I've made them my own, apart from him. For that alone, I thank him. It's at least one gift that I can return.

Hi! Still breathing! Me and my bunny slippers are doing just fine. It's been busy as hell around here, which is always good and bad. Good that I have so many awesome people in my life to pester on a regular basis, and oddly enough they seem to -like- it. Odd. Busy can be bad, though, because it's always hard to find time and motivation to write when I've been out till at least 8 PM, sometimes 10 PM, on 3 out of 5 worknights a week. Still, I do have something to put on my status report. The edits for Nights of Our Lives so far are moving along, and I'm adding an entirely new section to go before the NOOL posts I've already put up to add action, excitement, character development, plot development, a guest starring turn by the Exposition Fairy to help with the sense-making, and of course massive helpings of Velveeta. It wouldn't be NOOL without the sweet, sweet cheese. 

In the news in the world of me: 

Work is so slow that I'm going to start calling it Tortoise Healthcare. Yay for the fact that I'm still in a job, but when I finish my work in 15 minutes and have to spend the rest of my 8 hours a day flailing at my desk for something to do before I run mad, MAD I TELL YOU, it's a little stressful. I signed on for a project, and that should keep me busy. Cross fingers. In the meantime, I've been haunting the Jim Butcher message boards. Nothing says lovin' like cyber stalking your favorite authors to kill time. 

As a final note, I just have to mention this because I'm pretty well morally torn about this news story. It's been under my skin since I heard about it, so I might as well blog about it. Put this in your life is unfair file. I'd prefer if he donated it to the psychiatric care of the children he terrorized, but that's just my humanity talking.

If you see it, bring Dramamine. The monster's scary. The motion sickness from the home video style cinematography is much scarier.

*gulp*

Tonight is my first night within my Fortress Of Thank God I'm Finally Alone-itude. 

It's quiet. It's connected. It's everything I dreamed. Life is good. Happy New Year's!