I DID IT

Convulsions wracked Dan’s body as he stepped inside the Valley Springs University Chapel. The vomit was literally building in his chest--he could feel it resting just above his heart. It stopped his breath into short little spurts and he knew he was sweating profusely. He concentrated harder than he ever had to control himself as he scanned the room for a seat, preferably in the back, of the already full chapel. He sat down next to a group of blonde, sobbing, obviously freshmen girls who took no notice of him as they leafed through the memorial program.

Dan looked over at them and his eyes instantly hit the smiling picture of Josh, beaming out from the front of the program.

The oxy…I gave him the oxy and the alcohol. I watched as his high took affect and laughed at his stupidity--at the way the drug took such instant effect on him and the ecstasy that crossed his eyes. He took another hit and another swig, like a seasoned addict. I didn’t stop him. His eyes lulled back and his body swayed. I wanted more. Had to have more. “Just across the tracks," I told him.

“What a bright future he had. Such a shame, to die so young," Dan heard an elderly woman say across the aisle. He glanced at her and realized it was one of the old Cafeteria biddies, who consistently served on them at 2 AM--even when the cafeteria was closed and she was just cleaning up-- when both had the munchies after coming off a high. Josh always smiled and flirted, trying to get her to knock off a dollar or two, which she always did. She caught his gaze, stared long and hard before Dan realized he was still looking at her. She smiled and waved. Secretly she wished it was he, and not the cute tall one, who had been killed. But Dan had already seen death. He had seen its bright lights…

He followed as I crossed the steel train tracks. 

I didn’t wait for him when his foot got stuck between the rails. My craving got the best of me and I turned and left him, as he yelled curses my way and struggled to free his foot. I heard it first--the haunting call of the train. I turned and saw the lights bouncing from tree to tree, showing its speed. 

But I couldn’t move. 

Wide eyed, fear had paralyzed me. Josh finally saw it and I watched him wrench at his foot. His high had worn off as fast as it had hit him, and he now knew his peril. He looked frantically from the train to me. He stared into me and past me, knowing I was leaving him to his fate for a stupid high. That this was it, and I was going to watch it from the safety of the trees. 

The brakes screeched, but it was already too late. The train slammed into Josh, instantly breaking his neck and tossing his lifeless body 50 feet in the air. 

And I watched as it slammed back to earth, twisted and broken. Drenched in blood.

                                               

Dan’s fists were clenched and sweat poured from his brow, as the memory hit him like a train. The people surrounding him noticed his discomfort but nodded it off, figuring he was just another aggrieved student. “Maybe he knew Josh," they thought. Dan opened his eyes and saw them staring. He could feel their gaze boring into his soul.

“They know,” he thought, as the guilt took over his sanity. They accused him without a single word. A girl whispered mockingly to the friend sitting beside her, then stared. Dan couldn’t take it; they were eating him alive. As he stood to leave, someone walked up to the podium. Dan sat back down as Josh’s older brother, Neil, stood before the congregation.

Neil looked almost exactly like Josh—sandy brown hair, fit, a Goliath among mere mortals, and gray eyes.

Josh’s eyes. He’s looking at me with Josh’s eyes.

He didn’t speak; he scanned the room with angst and an air of accusation.

“I want to thank all of you for the condolences and well wishes on behalf of my family," he addressed them, sounding more like a robot than a person. “This college community has touched the hearts of my family during this very hard time, and we will always remember that. This was home to Josh. And he made some true friends here, some better than others, obviously,” he stopped and looked for awhile into the audience. 

Dan’s limbs were burning. He couldn’t look up. He couldn’t face Neil.

“I’m not gonna stand here and paint a perfect picture of Josh, because Josh was nowhere near perfect. He had a mess of problems and those problems don’t go away just because he’s dead. His problems are more profound now that he’s gone, and that’s what killed him. And no one could stop him, or save him in more ways than one. I know because I’ve tried to straighten him out, for my parents’ sake and that caused a huge riff in our relationship. And for years, I've written him off as a waste of air. But he was still my brother and he didn’t deserve this. Three days ago, he wasn’t my favorite person in the world, but I wouldn’t wish this on anybody. He should be alive right now still giving my parents heartache and trying to figure out life for himself. But a bottle of pills and a train took that away from him."

"Someone was there that night; I know someone was with him. Josh never partied alone. Someone saw what happened and anonymously called the cops, this much I've been told. That person needs to stop being a coward and speak up. My family needs closure; we need to know why he was out there and why this happened. You, whoever you are, are just as responsible as Josh if you remain silent. I just…” he stopped, trying to stiffen his anger, “come forward if you have any decency.”

Neil stepped down from the podium and walked straight down the aisle, towards the door. Dan held his breath and tried to disappear.

Why did I come? Why did I come?

Dan felt a hand tap his shoulder. He opened his eyes and there was Neil, standing right in front of him with no safety space of 30 feet for Dan to cower in.

“Sorry we haven’t come to the dorm to pick up his stuff. I know what a pig he was,” Neil said, trying to stifle a laugh. The light from his eyes faded in an instant, as if he again realized where he was. His head dropped and he took Dan’s hand in his. “I’m not wrong in this; someone was there and we’re gonna find that bastard. We’re gonna find him, right Dan?”

Say something! Say Something! Open your mouth and spit something out!

“Sorry,” Dan said with an exhale of breath. Neil smiled and nodded. He dropped Dan’s hand and walked out.

Dan could still feel the grip of Neil’s hand, even after he was gone. The pressure was building in his body. He needed to leave. He needed to run--to get away from this place and the memories pounding his brain. He stood to leave, as the congregation began to react to Neil’s onslaught of anger. No one noticed Dan, walking stiffly out of the chapel and staring straight ahead.

           

Three days later, Dan’s body was found hanging from the water pipe of his dorm room. His RA nearly fainted when he came to investigate a strong smell, reported by the others in the wing, and found Dan’s lifeless body instead. 

University Police immediately came to investigate. They scoured the room for clues; anything to justify the suicide of a young man with no reported psychiatric problems. They found nothing until they searched the jeans on Dan’s body. 

Inside his left pocket was a crumpled, blue program.

“Hey that’s the kid who got hit by the train last week,” one of the officer’s said, as the program was straightened and laid flat on the floor. Upon closer inspection, the officers realized something was written across the picture on the front cover of the program.

In large black ink, right below the dead college boy’s smiling face were three words;

                                    I DID IT

Blow it Down

*This next post was inspired by the Carrie Underwood song "Blown Away" off her new album of the same title*

The winds are picking up, after a day of excessive dry-heat and thunder. All the windows in the small ran-shackle of a house are open, the glass straining against their panes and the curtains blowing haphazardly. Strength is building in the wind with every minute that goes by. Dust and foliage whip up in it, making it hard to see beyond the porch. The skies are dangerously dark--huge, fluffy, pitch-black clouds linger in clumps. Rain so desperately needed is not building inside them, but something much more dangerous.

Something deadly.
 
I stand in the kitchen, holding my new born calico kitten close to my chest. We both know what is coming--the danger we will be in the path of. The kitten nuzzles into my neck, trying to comfort me in the midst of our shared terror. But I am stuck, stock-still. I don't know what to do. I know exactly where we need to go, the decision that is only too easy to make. I just can't move. I can't force my mind to make that decision. My eyes are locked on the couch the sits in the living room in front of me. The couch that Daddy is passed out on.

The television by his feet is flashing the red and embolden tornado warnings for Greenboro county, telling all viewers to take immediate shelter below ground, but Daddy still sleeps. In a drunken stupor, his head to one side still clutching his bottle of Jack Daniels--his one and only love and solace in life. He wreaks of disappointment and whiskey. His unconscious form shows a man who has worked hard every day of his life, but pissed it all away on a bottle of brown liquid. He was out cold and completely oblivious to all going on around him.

I can't recall a single day when I haven't found Daddy in this exact position.

 His typical day consisted of waking around noon, contemplating a shower, barking orders and reprimands to my sunken form about the waste of sperm I was, then driving into town to drink himself into an oblivion. The owner of the only bar in town knew our house number by heart and usually called me to come pick him up hours later. Even though I knew the verbal assault I'd receive the second he slumped into the front seat of my car, I always picked him up. That was the spell he had me under.

It only got worse once we were under his roof. Where he could beat the day lights out of me without worrying about others seeing it. He's broken my nose, jaw and both arms in his drunken rages. I've had bruises on each and every clean area of my body--bruises and injuries I had to make excuses for if I ever went to the hospital (which was rare). If I was lucky, I'd run from the car to the house and shut myself up behind my locked bedroom door. He'd chase after me, nipping and trying to grab at my heels, then pound on my door for hours, calling me every dirty word in the book until he finally retreated to the couch. The next morning, it would start all over again.

It never stopped and I knew it never would.

For the longest time, I asked myself why he did this to me. Why he hated me so much and found pleasure in my pain. If he ever loved me. I was his one and only daughter, but he was nothing like a father. He didn't cherish or protect me like all the fathers in movies.

But deep down I knew why he was the way he was. Why he beat me into submission and had me cowering in corners at all hours of the day.

Because I know his secret.

That night, fifteen years ago, he told the ambulance and police officers that she fell. That Mama tripped on the carpet on the first landing and tumbled down the stairs head first. That he was in their bedroom changing for bed when she left the room to get a glass of water downstairs."Her foot must've caught," he said, with no emotion. He was nowhere near her when she fell but heard her scream and the thud when her head hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs. I heard the police say her neck snapped like a twig and her face was littered with bruises. They carried her covered body out on a stretcher, right passed me in the front yard as I clutched a doll to my chest. They wouldn't let me see her--wouldn't let me say goodbye to the Mama I loved and who loved me with all her being. I cried silent tears as they raised her body into the ambulance and shut the doors behind her lifeless form.

I watched as the flashing ambulance lights pulled away, and only turned back to the house when I knew Daddy was behind me. I turned very slowly, when he was a mere few feet from me, but he stopped dead in his tracks from getting any closer. I stared him down. Stared at him with the hardest look a five-year old girl could give. I shot ice and hatred through my pupils and tried to pierce his soul. With every inch of my being, I tried to convey what I knew. What he knew, that I knew. As the seconds grew longer, he couldn't hold my gaze any longer and he looked away. He couldn't take the truth that was staring out at him through five-year old eyes.

The truth that my Mama didn't trip down those stairs. That those bruises were weeks old. That Mama was coming to get me, gather our things and flee Daddy's house forever. She had had enough of his drunken rages, of him taking it out on her face. His abuse and heartlessness. That Daddy grabbed her arm when she left their bedroom and fought with her at the top of the stairs. That he choked her lifeless with his bare hands and then pushed her down the stairs.

Daddy killed my Mama.

And I saw it happen.

And that was why he beat me. He beat me into silence. He beat me to forget. He beat me to remember my Mama.

Suddenly the room went silent. The television snapped to a gray, fuzzed out screen. The lights blinked on and off then went black completely. Only minutes left.

Then I heard the sirens. The tornado sirens that notified all in hearing distance that a spiral of dangerous wind had touched down and was headed our way.  That all who did not take shelter were at their own peril.

There was no longer a decision to make.

I dashed from the house that held only pain and hurt, still clutching the kitten to my breast through the wind and hail, and I ran to the storm cellar. I yanked and pulled at the doors--the wind beating them shut again every time I got them open a crack. Finally, with all my strength I forced the doors open and wedged inside. I scurried down the stairs, safely locking the door behind me. I lit some candles we had stored and found a blanket to gather myself into.

I snuggled into the blanket, still clutching my kitten, and rocked back and forth. The wind got fiercer, the cellar doors strained against their bolts and I could hear things crashing against the house. I tried to shut it out. I tried to remain calm.

And as the wind screamed louder and I knew the tornado was on my doorstep, I prayed. I rocked and prayed. "Blow it down. Blow it away. Blow it down. Blow it away," I said it over and over again. For hours on end.

Blow down my salvation. Blow away my misery.
Blow down my salvation. Blow away my misery.
Blow down my salvation. Blow away my misery.


I wake to my kitten lightly licking my fingers and sun shining through the boards of the storm cellar. Slowly I stand and approach the doors of the storm cellar, still firmly locked. With nimble fingers, I unlock the door and push them out into the blinding daylight.

I step from the cellar with unsure feet to check my surroundings. And I almost drop to my knees.

The house is gone.

Completely gone.

Where Daddy's house once stood was just a pile of brick, nails, broken glass and boards. The foundation was completely ripped from the ground, leaving no semblance of a house or even a shack. No signs of life beneath the rubble. No body. Just an empty bottle of Jack Daniels lying yards away from the mess.

And as the implications of what it all meant hit me, I cried for the first time since Mama was taken. I was free.

Beyond the Mason Dixon

A large bag of laundry, sunburn on every inch of my body, a new pair of shoes, and lots of pictures can only mean one thing--I just got home for my first real vacation in years. And when I say vacation I mean out of the Philadelphia area, more than 3 days of solid relaxation. My Uncle Joe (who is also my godfather) and Aunt Melissa live in Virginia Beach at this amazing house on a lake. My family used to go down to see them every summer for a week, but it's been about 10 years since I've been to see them. So when my parents were planning on going down there for a week, I jumped on the opportunity to see my uncle and aunt and get out of the area for a few days.

It was an amazing vacation, and I have a few stories to share about it :)


Not even out of the City...
My Dad always picks my Mom up from work everyday, and the Friday we were heading down to Virginia was no different. We packed up the car and headed down to North Philly to pick my mom up, planning to leave right from there. Before picking her up, my Dad wanted to stop in Port Richmond to pick up some Cajun kielbasa (which if you're not Polish, it's basically spicy sausage). Years back my Dad found this Polish Deli and swears by it. It's called Cserws (pronounced "Sirs") and it's really a hole in the wall deli--if you didn't know where it was, you would never find it. There's no sign or store front, or even windows! It looks like an abandoned building. So I go inside with my Dad to pick up his 6 pounds of kielbasa.

Now before I go any further, let me explain something about my Dad. He has this weird thing about T-shirts. If you have a business and sell t-shirts, he's bound to buy one. He loves cutting the sleeves off them and wearing them to "work" around the house. He has 3 that my sisters and I have tried to throw out on numerous occasions (a "Michigan" t-shirt that's a gross color yellow that is slopped up with paint and god knows what else), but have always magically appeared back in his drawers. He also has a plethora of navy blue PGW (Philadelphia Gas Works, a.k.a my dad's old job) t-shirts that he swears are collectors items (which in reality they aren't. His jobs gave them at least 12 every year and I swear he has bags of them stocked up somewhere).

So once we walked inside the deli, my dad noticed a Cserws t-shirt for sale. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. "This is great! Definitely getting one of these," he said inspecting the front and back of the t-shirt.

"Can I help you," the deli owner asked from behind us. Now the owner did not look like a typical Deli owner. Maybe this is a stereotype, but I always expect them to be round, old and bald. This guy was very fit, had shaggy blonde hair and a bunch of hemp bracelets up his arm. He looked like he should've been on a beach, waxing up his surfboard. Very strange to me.

My Dad gave his last name and the owner quickly went to the back to wrap it up. Once he returned my Dad asked about the t-shirts. "It'll be 2 weeks. That's our last one," he said curtly and kept wrapping up the meat.  The one on the hanger was too small for my Dad, so obviously he was pretty disappointed. The owner finished wrapping up the meat and shot a look up at me, noticing me for what seemed like the first time. And a smile stretched across his face, "Oh wow that's a great t-shirt," he exclaimed pointing to the Queen t-shirt I was wearing. "What's your favorite song!"

I was kind of caught off guard and honestly couldn't think. "Ughhh..." I started to say, then he cut me off--"How old are you anyway?"

"26"

He nodded and smiled again. "Where'd you get that shirt? I'd love one," he asked.

"Honestly I can't even remember--I've had it for 2 years," I told him.

He rang up my Dad's order and shot another look at me and said, "How much did ya pay for it? Here," he said and handed me 10 bucks.

"I'm not gonna take it off my back and hand it to you," I said laughing and half shocked.

"No, no. Just take this and if you find another one buy it for me. And I'll give your Dad our t-shirt for free." I took the money and said I'd try. My Dad could barely contain his laughter as we walked out of there.

"Penny, I can't tell if he was trying to pick you up or was just a really big Queen fan."

Thanks Dad!


7 hours later
After 7 hours of driving, 2 stops (Wawa for gas and Tylenol, McDonalds for dinner), we finally reached it to my Uncle and Aunt's house. It was almost midnight but luckily they made sure to stay awake for our arrival. We opened the doors to the car and it was unbelievable how hot it was even at that time of night. My glasses fogged up and I instantly began to sweat.

My Aunt ushered us out to the deck, where we talked for 2 hours then we all retreated upstairs to bed.

After a good night's sleep, this is what I woke up to

No, this is not photo shopped. This is my Uncle Joe's backyard.

I spent the first 2 days of my vacation swimming in the lake, laying on the dock, reading, and drinking cocktails under that tree. I can't even describe how relaxing it was to just wake up, put on my bathing suit and dive (well not really, please see last post) into the lake.

At night, we sat and talked for hours. And my Dad and I got to do the one thing we haven't done in years; fish. Yes, I'm a girl and yes, I like to fish. A father of 4 girls has no prejudice when it comes to gender related recreation. For as long as I can remember, my Dad would take us fishing on the creeks and rivers by our house. He taught us to bait a hook, cast a line, and take the fish off the hook once caught. He did everything with us that he would've done with a son. And casting out into my uncle's lake took me right back there--to those days when my Dad took us fishing.

"Remeber that one day at Tyler State Park when you caught 20, Pen" my Dad asked, telling the story to my uncle.

"Dad, I'm pretty sure it was the same one over and over," I laughed.

It was a nice moment to share with my Dad.



Walking with the Colonials
It was hard for my Mom and I to pull my Dad away from the lake, but we were determined to experience a different aspect of Virginia. Busch Gardens was a no-go as we are not really ride people, so Colonial Williamsburg it was. My parents had brought my older sister there when she was just a baby, and my Mom told me how great it was. Being from Philadelphia, I've seen reenactors and period dress, but I thought it'd be fun to experience something different.

Took us over an hour to get there (my Dad still hasn't gotten the hang of a GPS and kept making wrong turns) and parking was a bit of a hike, but we finally got onto the main street of Colonial Williamsburg, amidst all the colonial buildings, cobblestone streets, dress and foods. Here are a few of my pictures.

My parents....

 

The pictures really don't do it justice. I kept trying to get action shots of the Colonials, but they kept moving!

"Good 'Morrow," is how we were greeted by each Colonial. They never broke character or revealed anything about living in modern times (except for when I saw one of the colonials on their cellphone and smoking a cigarette behind the bathroom. I guess she was on her break?)

We spent a little over two hours walking the streets, and probably would've stayed longer if it didn't get so hot as a the day progressed. One modern element of Williamsburg--all the buildings had air conditioning, which I don't think they had back in 1770.....

Good Vibrations

On July 3rd, my Uncle was able to get tickets for us all to go see the Beach Boys. Yes, the Beach Boys. Probably the closest I will ever get to seeing the Beatles (same genre, same generation). And I'm a big fan of the Beach Boys anyway, so I was super pumped.

Now I've been to a lot of concerts with my friends, and we had a pretty normal tradition. If its an outside venue, we get there a few hours before and tailgate in the parking lot. A few cases of beer, lawn chairs, and snacks are a must before the concert. So I really wasnt sure how this night was gonna go--the youngest out of my uncles friends had about 30 years on me. I was pretty shocked when my uncle explained we'd be going to his friend Jimmy's house to "pregame". Which for older people means sitting in an air conditioned house, eating pizza and drinking a lot of beer. Sitting there with a slight buzz, the only thing I could think was "God, I hope me and my friends are exactly like this in 30 years."

About an hour later, 11 of us headed over to the venue and took our seats on the lawn for the concert. Now I was not sure what I expected as far as an audience for this concert. Like the Beach Boys had their hay-day 50 years ago. I kind of expected it to be mostly people my parents' age. Maybe a little younger.

I was pretty shocked once the venue filled up with a mix of people my parent's age, my age, and younger. There were actually a lot of little kids there, running around playing with beach balls. It really, really warmed my heart to know that these kids were going to have this experience with their parents.

Then the show started and I was blown away. 

Again, I wasn't sure what to expect--let's be honest, the 4 remaining original members are pushing 70. But the vocals were amazing--they hit every single harmony like it was a piece of cake. They performed like they were still in their 20s. And Brian Wilson was performing with them. If you don't know, Brian Wilson is the founding member of the group and also wrote the majority of their music. He's basically a musical genius. But he had a mental breakdown about 30 years ago--he actually didn't leave his room for almost 3 years because of depression (the inspiration behind "In My Room"). He stopped touring after that--he literally could no step on stage. But finally, for the band's 50th anniversary tour Brian was able to rejoin the group and perform his hit "Surfer Girl".

It was amazing to witness the crowd, standing and singing right along with him. At one point my uncle turned to me and said "You know Brian Wilson hasn't toured with the Beach Boys in 30 years and he probably never will again. Now you'll be able to tell your children that you saw the Beach Boys 50th Anniversary tour and heard Brian Wilson sing "Surfer Girl."

I truly felt that moment was bigger than me. It also made me really wish I had been born in their generation--to have experienced the Beach Boys when they were groundbreaking and new. I've always kind of felt that way, but being with that crowd made me wish it even more. And in a small way during those 3 hours, I kind of was.


Heading on Home....
After 7 long days (including a spectacular 4th of July fireworks display over the lake), it was time to head home. I heard the soft knock on my door at 7:30 am on Friday and knew it was time to embark on the next 7 hour journey back to Pennsylvania. I packed my last few belongings and headed downstairs to say my goodbyes.

As I gave my Aunt a hug she whispered in my ear, "If you ever need to get away again, don't hesitate to come down south again. Even if you find a job down here." I was kind of shocked but also touched by what my aunt said. Could I handle moving down to Virginia? Leaving everything and everyone behind and starting a new life down south?

It's a lot to think about.

Before leaving, I walked down to the dock to take one last look. As I sat down, a big fish jumped out of the water and scared the crap out of me. My aunt had told me during the week that huge carp live in the middle of the lake, on top of cat fish and bass. "I don't think I'd like to be a big fish trapped in this small little pond. I'd really get bored," I thought to myself. There's only so much space and things to see. Then I realized something.

 I am the carp, and Philadelphia is my pond.

Pretty funny to have a life altering realization before 8 am.

Gave me a lot to think about on the ride home.....

Not an Olympic Swimmer

Glistening blue pools, with icy cold water are very enticing in the summer time. Especially when the temperature tops anywhere above the high 80's--which it has for the last few days. When the sweat is literally pouring down your face and your make-up is melting off, all you wanna do is dive into the nearest crystal blue, chlorine-filled water. To stand at the waters edge, toes just peaking over the sides, arms stretched in front of you in an almost prayer like position and your body is slightly arched towards the water. All you have to do is let go--launch your body forward, jump out and let your head hit the water with your legs to follow.

It's really that easy! One little push off and instant relief washes over your overheated body.

Well, for most people.

Most people being everyone but me.

Yes world, I am one of the few people in the world (not including babies who can't swim yet) who can't dive. Never could and probably never will.

And trust me, it's not for lack of trying. One summer while up the Poconos visiting my aunt, she spent an entire day in the lake teaching my younger sister and I to dive. I watched as my sister easily caught on to my aunt's instructions. My sister stood positioned on a dock as my aunt stretched her arms out across her body and told her to lean over her arms with her arms reaching into the water.

"Now, just lean over farther and let go," she told her. Instantly, my sister did just that. Three more times is all my sister needed after that to get it completely on her own. I, on the other hand, was a lost cause. Almost a half hour later my aunt wanted to call it a day. Needless to say, I was done in the lake for that weekend.

Later that summer while babysitting with my best friend at her aunt's house, she attempted to teach me again in their in-ground pool. This time, my best friend used noodles, the pool net, and she even stood on the diving board with me. Naturally, she dove right in and by the time she popped up out of the water, I was still standing there on the board--legs shaking a bit. Again and again we tried, but it just wouldn't happen and eventually she gave up too.

I just couldn't figure out how to do it. It was completely beyond me.

Let me rephrase the above statement. I know how to dive--I know how to position my body and launch myself forward into the water. I've had enough people try and teach me that I know the exact instructions they will give. But my body physically repels the thought of diving. I physically cannot do it--my psyche will not allow my head to hit the water first, as it should do. Every time I try, I'd launch off the edge of the pool with my arms out and my head down, but my feet would always hit the water first. The top half of my body cooperates but the bottom half fights me every step of the way--it literally looks like I'm just jumping into the pool with my arms in front of me.

It's actually really embarrassing. Especially when I reflect on the years that I swam competitively for my grade school's CYO. My school had a really good team--we had a few swimmers who were actually nationally ranked and Junior Olympics bound.

Naturally my parents signed me and my 3 siblings up for the swim team, but I obviously was hopeless. I would stand up on the the blocks during meets and look completely the part--team bathing suit, swimming cap, TYR goggles, little trim body--but the second that whistle blew, I was found out. I looked like the biggest ass during those meets and I can't blame the coaches for not putting me in as many races as they could. I will say this, I am/was a pretty mean backstroker. But again, you don't have to dive to be a good backstroker.

There's something about my head hitting the water first that literally scares me to death. Like I'm afraid of not pulling up in time and hitting my head on the bottom of the pool. Drowning, really, I think is the worst way to die. And psychologically, I think that's what stops my body. And I'm pretty sure I know where that fear comes from.

Like most Philadelphians, our summers are spent at the Jersey Shore. All of my summer memories involve the shore in some capacity. But my earliest shore memory is one from when I was 5. That summer, we stayed in a motel in Cape May for a few days that had an in-ground pool. We were definitely beach people, but on one particular day my parents (including my older sister and my 3 year old sister) decided to hang back and  let us swim in the motel pool. And I loved the pool even though I couldn't swim yet. I loved jumping in and splashing around. But I also hated it because in order for me to go into the pool, I had to put on a swimmie. Now the ones we had in the 80's were a lot different than the ones they have now.

Yeah, I wish I had these.

The one I had to wear basically had a bathing suit/wet suit top that went over your head and then a round raft went around your waist. It was awful--so awful that I can't even find a picture of one! You had to be wet to get into it, and most of the time you had to force in down over your head. Then when you wanted to take it off, it clung to your body like an extra skin. It was the biggest pain in the ass. I actually starting swimming  in baby pools just so I didn't have to put it on.

On this particular day, I had had enough with the swimmie. I had been swimming for about an hour, under the watchful eye of my parents who were sitting in beach chairs on the pools edge and I felt smothered by the swimmie. I got out at one point and took it off --I liked going under water and the swimmie didn't exactly allow that. So I stripped it off and crept back into the pool.

"Penny you stay near the steps," my mom called.

"I'm fineeeee! I'm just going in a bit further," I told her, being a complete rebel even at 5 years old. So I stepped down from the steps and felt the freedom of walking into a pool without my swimmie. With my feet firmly planted on the pool bottom, I slid further and further into the pool. I felt invincible. My feet inched along the pool bottom and I kept pushing forward, little by little, all the while waiting for my mom to yell at me. Then it happened.

The pool bottom dropped an inch and I went under. The water swirled above my head as I was completely submerged. I could feel the air being sucked out of my lungs, but I didn't struggle or fight. I remember opening my eyes--for the first time under water--and looking up. Light was reflecting into the pool and it shown right to the bottom. It flicked and danced all around me. It really felt magical and the world was quiet. I wasn't scared, from what I remember but could feel my chest heave under the pressure. I'm not sure how long I was under before I felt my body grabbed and then lifted out of the water. I gasped and coughed for breath, as my dad carried me to my mom's waiting arms. I burst into tears while she held me, and watched as my dad took off his soaked shoes, drenched wallet, and ruined money that was still in his pockets when he urgently jumped into the pool to save me.

Needless to say, I never swam without my swimmie again. And my mom immediately enrolled me in swimming lessons at our local Swim Club. But, after that one experience I was hesitant about the water and swimming. The swimming lessons were horrific because they were according to age--where I needed to be actually swimming at that point and not wading in the pool. I screamed my head off the first time they tried to make me go down the slide into the 5 foot pool. After a day of that, my mom pulled me out of the 5 and up age group and I was put with the 5 and under--back in the baby pool. I don't think I officially learned to swim until I was 8 or 9.

So I guess you can see that I have a love, hate relationship with the pool and its pretty deep seeded. Diving into a pool is just not in the cards for me and I'm okay with that. Yes, it's embarrassing as hell but also kind of funny to explain and demonstrate to people. But, there's just some things in life a person is not meant to do.  

Guess I'll never go to the Olympics for swimming. But I'll live.
Not everyone needs a gold medal to survive.

Couch Potato

As new a member of the unemployment line, I have been trying to stay very active as a means of not going completely crazy and get my life on track. I get up everyday at 6am, eat a well balanced breakfast of fruit and various grain. I then proceed to run 6 times around my development, which comes out to about 3 miles. After my run, I do 30 minutes of strength and core training to build up my abs. Usually it's about 11 o'clock by the time I'm all through. After that I run any errands and go on the slew of interviews that I have lined up for the employers who are dying to hire me. I read a book a day and also write until my fingers hurt. Every day, I make my family a 3-course gourmet dinner, clean the entire house and oh yeah.....find the cure for cancer. Very, Very productive days.

Yeah, right.

Obviously, the entire paragraph above is bullshit.

Here's the real deal: I sleep as late as I want (which I haven't been able to do in years, so that in itself is great), I wake up and move my sorry ass to the couch and channel surf for the majority of the afternoon, I think about getting up an exercising and sometimes I even attempt it ( I borrowed the Jillian Michaels DVDs from my best friend and have actually gotten about ten minutes in and given up. She is a nasty, nasty bitch), I spend a lot of time on the internet searching for new jobs and opportunities, I try to write but get so frustrated with the crap coming out of my brain that I give up and revert back to the television, I wait until my friends are home from work and either try to coax them into hanging out or beg them to, I read (so that's not bullshit), and I wait to go to bed.

The end.

Pretty pathetic, I know. But I'm still getting used to this whole unemployment thing--I'm honestly not used to having a hectic and full schedule. I've been running on all four cylinders for years now, and not having to do that is very weird to me. I feel like I'm in a constant weekend frame of mind and my psyche is all messed up from it. Like I'm in this never ending vacation in my head and I don't need to do anything but relax and be lazy. But in reality, that's not the case. I need to be doing more. I know I need to get myself onto a set schedule and start doing something constructive with my days because I don't want to be a sloth. Or a "hermit" as my mom calls it.

I'll get there, I promise. I just need to get my head on straight first.

So that's my rant for the night, now onto the point of this post!

I have obviously been watching an obscene amount of TV out of pure boredom. And as I've heard my Dad say repeatedly while flipping through channels, "500 channels and not a damn thing on." Yes, Daddy you would be correct. TV programming has seriously gone into the crapper over that last few years. Instead of supporting quality shows and writing, networks are pumping cash into shit programming--case in point the Kardashians. I heard a few weeks ago that this talent-less family got $40 million to continue taping with their NBC affiliate. $40 million for a show that was launched based off of a sex-tape scandal? If nothing, the Kardashian's were geniuses to cash in while the fire was hot.

That being said, I have become OBSESSED with the following reality shows. To the point that I feel like I go into a daze when there's a string of episodes on at once, and I only realize hours have gone by once a different show comes on.

Mountain Men

 This little gem was introduced to me by my youngest sister and Dad--one night they were talking like the Mountain Men for hours and I won't lie, their drawls and grunts made me very intrigued. On the History Channel, the program follows the lives of 3 men who live solely off their land in Alaska, Montana and South Carolina. These men literally live for trapping and living in the woods (as foreign as that may be). Seriously, it's addicting. Made me want to pack my stuff and move to Alaska. Well not really--I'd much rather watch from the comfort of my comfy bed, then have to worry about skinning beavers for meat or deal with frigid winter weather--the one guy Martin in this show had to walk 10 miles to his cabin because his snow mobile broke down. Yeah, it was -10* outside. No way!

Animal Cops Houston

This show is literally my crack. Not even kidding you. Animal Planet is a constant on my TV just because I love the animals. But this show takes it to a whole new level. It's all about the Houston SPCA and the above pictured badasses cracking down on animal cruelty. At times it is really sad--especially when animals are rescued from awful living conditions or need to be euthanized because they are in such horrible shape--but it always ends on a good note with the animals finding loving homes. It has made me want to drive down to Houston and adopt a horse. Not even kidding.

Deadliest Catch

No, I am not late to this party. I've been watching this show for years but I've recently become more obsessed. If you are living under a rock, this show follows the crab-fishers (is there another name for them?) of Alaska, who go out into the farthest parts of the ocean to fish for king-crab and opis (again, is that how you say it?). But this is no joke--you fall into the Arctic Ocean and you are dead. The show amazes me just because of the brute strength of these guys--they work like 20 hour days for days on end and at the end of their 3 week stretch, each crew-member usually walks away with $20,000.00. Like holy crap! If I didn't get horribly sea-sick, I'd sign up in a second. Hey.....maybe that's my life calling.....

Kinda funny that my favorite shows these days mostly revolve around real burly men. Is someone trying to tell me something?

Anyway, check these shows out. Trust me, they're awesome! And will totally fill your reality TV fix, without having to admit that you actually watch the Kardashians.

Wrong Turn

 Here's a piece of Flash Fiction I wrote for a class back in college. The assignment was to complete a 150 word piece of fiction, but each student was given a title and a first line (that another individual in the class wrote). Then another peer was to read and critique it blindly (our names were not printed on the assignment), then present to the class. When my classmate stood up and read my piece, my stomach turned. But then the entire class broke out if uncontrollable laughter. Which only became louder once I announced it was mine.

I guess that's a good thing? Haha

Enjoy!

It’s funny how death seemed to stand still, as Sam was about to come crashing into it. The tires screeched and debris flew in through the window, as Sam’s SUV tumbled down a hill into a ravine. He thought little of how he had gotten there—swerving from a deer that would assuredly adorn a hunter’s mantle in a month. His life didn’t flash before his eyes—as most people say when they have near death experiences. Rather, he had one blinding thought:

Women’s underwear.

Because that is what he was wearing beneath his Levi jeans. He saw the coroner removing the tattered jeans from his broken body, carefully cutting the pant legs up the middle, only to find a man wearing women’s underwear. 

A thong actually. With big pink hearts.

Then, he imagined that same coroner handing over the personal items left from the crash to his aggrieved and tear stricken family. Holding up the underwear he asks, with a sly smile and mocking tone;

“Should we burn these?”

So, as the car finally hit the bottom of the ravine, Sam couldn’t help but laugh.

And pray that his car would explode.

Not Looking Back....

I took my dad's advice and have taken a few days to "decompress and calm down."

No more crying, no more panic attacks, no more curse words or frantic outbursts. No more trying to make sense of it all, while accomplishing nothing. I am as calm and panic free as I can be--and trust me that isn't a lot. I have accepted what happened and feel at peace with it now, knowing it is for the best and I am a better person for it. But part of this acceptance is also letting it all out and not hiding behind it anymore. I am no longer ashamed.

So here goes.

On Wednesday, I was fired.

At approximately 2:30 pm, I was called down to the Business Manager's office--the same office where I accepted the offer of employment--and handed a sheet a paper. I was then told that my employment with their company was immediately terminated due to my "skill set not being appropriate for the position." While being asked if I needed a box to collect my things, I happened to look at my official "You're fired, get the hell out," letter and noticed that they spelled my name wrong. Pretty funny when you consider I worked as an Editor.

I walked back to my desk in a zombie-like state, where my "lovely" co-workers happened to have conveniently disappeared from and grabbed my stuff.  I said goodbye to no one--after the hell they had put me thru over the last 3 months, they didn't deserve a single thing from me. I am proud to say that I kept my shit together until I got to my car--I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. But the minute my car door slammed, I lost it. And how the heck my dad understood what I said between sobs, I have no clue. All I heard from his side was, "Those sons-of-bitches! Come home, okay? Calm down and come home."

Calming down was not an option at the moment, but somehow I was able to make the treacherous drive home on the New Jersey turnpike. And of course, my entire family had gotten the news and swarmed to my house. All had their own advice and assurances, but honestly I didn't hear any of it. My mind was swarming with student loans, car payments, insurance bills, and the biggest sense of failure I had of date. The last was the worst bit--I left a job where I had security and made a big to do about it, and now was fired just shy of 3 months. And as I filled out the unemployment application my sister had pulled up on the internet, I felt the gravity of the situation even more.

I was now a stereotype.

After that, I needed to get out of the house. I retreated to my best friends house where she had a large cocktail waiting for me. I pretty much spent the next three days with her and her family, which was probably the best thing I did. Because they kept me laughing and not welling up in dread and anxiety. Eventually, my other friends found out and I had a large outpouring of support and understanding from them and most of my family.

But I was still pretty ashamed of the entire situation.  I hated having to explain to people what happened, why I was fired and what they said to me. I have always been proud of the fact that I have never been fired from a job, even part time jobs in high school. But reviewing the entire situation  over and over made me realize one thing about my 3 month employment stint--I was a scapegoat. My co-workers had an issue with me from the minute I walked into that office. If it was my age or qualifications, I'm not too sure but they were hateful, spiteful people towards me from the get-go. They never gave me a chance to prove myself, but were quick to run to my boss every time I made a mistake. At times, I felt like I was in Nazi-occupied Poland because everything I did was watched and reported back to my superior. One woman in particular--a self-proclaimed "Church Lady"--liked to keep running tabs on me. If I stopped working for even an instant, she was breathing down my neck and running to my boss with accusations and lies--and I know about this because my boss called me down to her office several times and told me. Really, I should've seen it coming, especially when they made a huge deal about hiring someone as an editor the week before. All this to say, I was fired to make room for this woman. And in retrospect, they hired me to fill a space temporarily--again, I know this because my boss was constantly pressured by the business side to hire more people, which she refused to do. I was hired to shut them up, and then fired when someone better came along.

My "skill set" had absolutely nothing to do with it. But it did have everything to do with caddy, high school bull shit.

But even after this introspective look at the situation, my biggest enemy was  still my ego and pride--most asked right away if I could go back to my other job or take a waitress job to compensate the unemployment. Both of which I completely shot down. "I'd rather chop off each of my fingers one at a time," I told them. I refuse to take a step back.

So where do I go from here?

Back to sending out resumes and applications
My unemployment has been accepted and will kick in in about a week
Of my two student loan carriers, only one (naturally the lesser payment) is willing to defer my payments until I secure employment--stress number 1 at the moment
My parents are in constant vigil over me, trying to keep me busy
My room has never been cleaner
I am grossly aware of my bank account and what I spend
I am happier

Most of my friends think I should take the summer off and just enjoy myself--a summer vacation of sorts. Which I will admit I am half tempted to do. But I think I will try and focus on writing and getting a publisher for my novel and go from there. I do have an interview Thursday for an editing job with a firm I had interviewed 3 times for back in December. They were actually thrilled to hear from me, so I guess that's a good thing.

I'm not sure what happens next for me. But I do know this situation hasn't beat me. More importantly, those bitches haven't beat me.