How to Deal with Hatred?

Four coffees for four people

I've come to expect "baby killer." I still haven't gotten used to the whole, "You should have killed yourself" or "You should be sterilized" or "You should have your tongue ripped out." But these attacks are typically on twitter, where people can see my avatar, and not actually me. It's safe to attack people in other states.

This morning, I organized some friends, rounded them up around 8am, and headed south to Portland. From there, we took a small coffee break, a small potty break, and found Planned Parenthood. There were already a few protesters lining the street. The rain was coming down in sheets.

I wasn't there for an abortion this time, but the sight of them crawled into my veins like shards of glass mixed with fire ants. Children, younger than their teen years, were holding signs of what they dubbed "Aborted Fetuses."

I was in the state of Maine. Rain was pouring down my face. Yet, for a split second, I was in Virginia on a sunny day, shaking as a friend wrapped her arm around me and whispered, "Don't listen to them, honey. Don't listen."

The caffeine kicked into my system, and I started shaking. My friends and I pulled out our signs:

"We Support You" "Honk for Choice" and "Planned Parenthood Saved My Life"

Immediately the tension in the air rose like a vibration from an amp that had just been turned on. It was almost tangible. I wasn't sure if we were going to get hurt, assaulted, or just verbally attacked. Cars began to honk for the honk for choice sign. People walked by and high fived us. And then the gentleman to the left of this picture began to call us "Willfully ignorant" even after I explained, "Sorry, actually. I know exactly what happens. I had an abortion, but thanks."

From there, he continued to insult us. Women walked passed us with the greeters while protesters accosted them. A representative from Planned Parenthood stepped out and said that it's hard for women entering the clinic to differentiate signs of support from signs of hate and malice. We decided to move across the street, where more people high fived us and honked.

And the protesters began to yell across the street, "Why did you move? Are you scared of us?!"

"We're not scared," I hollered back. "We just don't want to look like YOU."

She yelled for a few more minutes before finally giving up. Our signs began to run (turns out when Crayola says "Washable paint" they ain't kiddin). When Honk for Choice was no longer visible, and Your Body, Your Choice leaked onto the street, we called it a day.

I've spent all day going over this in my mind. My friends and I weren't there to spread hate, rather an environment of acceptance, and support for women who may be there on the worst day of their lives. It's hard for me to separate the hatred and anger I feel from my abortion experience and protesters, to what's currently happening.

I accept people have freedom of speech. I accept that they may be awful people. But it's one thing to verbally attack someone online. It's an entirely different thing to attack someone as she's walking, with her head down, through doors you may never enter.

So my question is, how do you deal with that kind of hatred?

T is for Time Out

Sometimes, he can just sit next to me

So there we were, walking without a leash because MOST of the time Baxter is good enough. It's night time, there are barely any cars out (which is why I'm okay with him not being on a leash). Suddenly, he darts to the left, into the yard of the local veterinary clinic.

"Baxter, get over here!" I yell.

He responds by wagging his tail, taking several steps away from me and peeing on a tree.

I continue to yell, to whistle, to no avail. My dumb dog will not come back. It's usually at this point I start to worry; what if he runs back and gets hit by a car, what if a mountain lion comes and eats him, what if he sees a raccoon and chases it....

On a mission, I march to Baxter, grab him by the collar where his eyes go wide. It's clear he knows he's done something wrong. I walk-drag him a few steps until he fights me holding him.

"Fine, but you better stay with me!"

And he does. He takes a step, turns his head and looks at me, almost like he's saying, "Look, look I'm right here!"

We get home, I open the door and yell, "Go lay down, right now!" It is not a pretty voice.

He's all "Please just love me!"

My boyfriend locks eyes with me. "What'd he do?"

"Ran off and wouldn't listen, so now he's in time out."

How time out works:
1) Baxter acts up. Typically it's him running off and not listening to me. It can be for a vast majority of reasons: other pets, something cool he wants to smell, etc.
2) Baxter DOESN'T come back.
3) We get home, I tell him to go lay down
4) He's not allowed to come near us until I deem him okay to be out of time out. Typically, I yell, "Bax, it's okay to come out now," or "Bax it's okay to come to bed now" and he RUNS.
5) For the next few days he listens a little better

"Know Your Value"

Angryface
(This is me after boxing a few years back)

I've always had issues with setting boundaries; with my sisters, with my relationships, with work...etc. I talk too much and tell people my entire life story rather than easing them into it. I try to make rules and guidelines for myself and then obliterate the lines I swore I wouldn't cross again.

I had a really rough day at work yesterday. I walked in, got in a fight with my managers, was accused of lying and being a bad employee (as per usual), and overall, I felt like I was being attacked and not listened to. A customer who'd been standing outside the office during the first confrontation told me as I cashed her out, "Don't let them get to you." And though they were small words, they were like putting air in deflated lungs.

Awhile later, I was pulling forward, and some candy was out of place so I put it back. My manager flipped out on me because it was his candy and he was going to buy it later. I was called selfish, and a bad employee, etc. It's part of my job to make sure the store looks good, and that items that are out of place are put back.

After fighting for a long while, I cashed out another customer. My face was flushed, my teeth were grinding together. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, I'm angry."

She nodded. "Work stuff?"

Unsure of what to say, but not wanting to lie, I nodded.

"You need to set boundaries," she said. She paused like she was waiting for my eye contact, which I gave her. "If your boundaries are crossed..." and she left it at that. I gave handed her her change, and she smiled at me. "Know your value." Then she walked out the door.

I've been mulling over that conversation ever since. It almost seemed like she was telling me to quit my job.

So happy together...

Like my personal value was being affected by my work, and being told I'm a bad employee. It eats my soul. My needs are not met at this job. I am worth more than a barely above minimum wage job.

But it's money. It's reliable. And come December I will have accrued vacation.

Every single day, I need to remind myself, that I won't be at this job forever. It's temporary.

And then I exhale, the day goes on, and I remind myself I'm better than this. And I know, like all the times I'd sing to Baxter, "We're headed for a better life," we truly are.

Sloppy Sunday

There are marquee boards in Hell. They're engulfed in flames, centered in unbearable sunlight, and the letters will never stick to the pole.

I don't like sunlight.

A portion of my job ensures that this is my weekly nightmare. Because I haven't had money for a new set of contacts, I've been saving my vision for snowboarding and regularly wearing my glasses. Which means that because the marquee board is put in such a way the sunlight goes straight into my unprotected eyeballs, I have a tendency to leave my glasses in my car and swap em for sunglasses. Sure, I can't see while I change the sales, but I don't feel completely blinded.

On Sloppy Sunday, I did this, as I usually do. After dropping a million letters (because they don't in fact stick to the demonic pole), I went in to the store, took care of the letters, and pole, and ventured out to my car to exchange my sun blockers for my vision enhancers.

I grabbed the handle, and the door didn't open.

I did it again. Then I realized that my car has a safety feature....that locks the doors without having to touch anything.

Through hazy eyes, I squinted in to the car. My glasses were sitting on the driver's seat...along with my car keys. The door was, in fact, locked. The windows were closed. The truck was locked.

Getting my glasses back kind of felt like this.

After a rather lengthy panic attack, and calling my sister who informed me it'll cost about $75 to unlock my car through a locksmith, through the advice of a friend I contacted my insurance company. Lo and behold, I HAVE ROADSIDE ASSISTANCE!

Within the hour my car was unlocked, the day was saved and I hugged the kind old man who made me sign a waiver that released him from smashing out my window, and thus begins another week in the life of Lynne.

Happy Monday.

Shamrock Shakes

I have an addiction. It costs money, it's unhealthy, and if my needs are not met, I turn into a freak of nature.

A few years back, I was jonesin real bad for a shamrock shake. Laura and I had gone in SEVERAL times for one and they kept giving the same answer, "They should be here Friday" "They should be here in a few days" etc. We waited, we were patient. Finally, one day I'd had an awful day, and we strolled over to McDonald's.

"I'd like a large shamrock shake, please," I said, calmly placing my order and waiting the minty goodness that I'd been longing for.

"I'm sorry, we don't have them in yet."

I snapped. "Are you f#$ing kidding me?!"

From there it went downhill. I yelled, I screamed, Laura shoved me out the glass double doors saying, "I promise, she's not always like this! I'm sorry."

Though St. Patties Day was yesterday, I hear my McDonald's is already out of the beloved shakes. I died inside a little.

Until we meet again, friend. Until we meet again.

What's That On The Fan?

Welcome to the Dungeon

Well, as I called it on Friday, the poo has hit the fan, my friends. After my roommate/landlord texted, freaking out about my friend (now boyfriend, eek! Commitment issues everywhere) spending the night, he came over to let me watch Harry Potter. Within the first fifteen minutes, landlord's son (he's 30+ years old) comes downstairs and calls out, "It's time for company to leave."

"Thanks, but we're watching a movie."

"No, I think it's time for him to go, didn't you get my mom's text?"

"I did, and we're watching a movie. Night." (I'm so passive aggressive.)

Well, he goes back upstairs, and Damien and I continue watching the movie. And he falls asleep. Rather than waking him up and kicking him out, I let him sleep.

In the morning my alarm beeps, and I climb the stairs. Baxter, who opens the door with his face, smashed into the closed door. It didn't open. I patted him, pushed him to the side, and twisted the knob.

Terrifying, isn't it?
Worst part, when I moved in and saw it, I had a mini panic attack.
I should trust those instincts more often.

It still didn't open. They'd locked us in the basement. So I start yelling until the landlord's son opens the door, where another fight ensues. I let Baxter out, and managed to lose my car keys so Damien gave me a ride to my eye appointment. When we came back, the landlord's son blocked the entrance and was all, "You can leave now." (He is NOT a small man by any means. His entire body took up the door, so there was no way to get through.)

Now, a few days later, I'm still livid about the entire situation. If a fire had started, the three of us would be dead. The 'second' entrance is currently barricaded with the landlord's crap for 'winter'. There would have been no quick way out. Secondly, I pay to live there. Which means if I want to have friends over, who aren't doing anything, I get to have friends over. I'm not a sister/cousin/relative. It is NOT okay to EVER, EVER, EVER lock someone in the basement. (Unless you're seven and they cheat at tag. Then it's okay.) Thirdly, her little niece that got screamed at by her little boyfriend is a pot head, and yet it's okay for them to come whenever they want, without giving me notice so when they come creeping in at midnight I think I'm going to get murdered.

The so called "emergency" exit

So once again, I'm back to the apartment/house hunt grind. Wish me luck.

To end this on an uplifting note here's a song lyric that keeps me going in these situations:

"All I need is the air I breathe, and a place to rest my head" ~One Republic

More Roommate Issues

In case you haven't heard, I am not meant to live with or near people. There needs to be about a ten mile buffer zone or my crazy will bring out your crazy. It happens. Time and time again.

Baxter saying,
"Please let's move again!"

So we've reached that point with the current living situation. Maybe it's because I'm a bad roommate. Maybe it's because I don't like guys screaming at their girlfriends and making them cry at eight in the morning. I'm not sure what it is...but I seem to be in that situation where all I do is camp out in my room and avoid my roommates at all costs. This phase is the one right before shit hits the fan...(wait for it. It's coming.)

I live in Maine. It's beautiful, has four seasons, and ::gasp:: one of those seasons is Winter. Which means snow, and sometimes a blizzard. A few weeks ago, I drove home, went off the road twice and arrived only to find that the steeply up-hill driveway hadn't been plowed. After several attempts, I gave up, turned my car off, and walked angrily up the hill.

"Lynne," the roommate's son said, 'Are you stuck?"

"Yes," I said in a very short manner.

"Want to try again?"

"Nope!" I nearly screamed and walked into the house where they proceeded to bombard me with, I need to be up and gone in the morning, yack, yack, yack. I got re-stuck in the morning, and stood in the driveway at 5am crying (good day, right?)

It's been a million little things like that. But last night, for the first time since I've moved in and had to readjust to alcoholic roommates, I had a friend spend the night. Yes, I like him. After I got out of work, we drove really slippery roads (he told me I drive too fast in crappy weather), then went downstairs to watch The Hunger Games. Yes, he's cute. Yes, he slept in my room, but no, nothing happened because I'm a good kid and not currently self destructive. (Also, even if something did happen, I'm an adult. I'm allowed to do those things!)

So we get up this morning, make oatmeal for breakfast (which was delicious, though Baxter got to finish most of it), and then he offered to give me a ride to work (since we were both headed in the same direction). As I go to finish getting ready (brushing my teeth and all that jazz) the guy who wanted me to "Try again" when my car was stuck and his baby mama were taking a shower together. (Keep in mind, he also pees with the door open, and pees on the floor. Not. Cool.)

So we sit and wait and we talk about watching Harry Potter because I haven't seen the last movie (still. Have you heard it's demonic?), so because it's human decency, at work I text the roommate/landlord and say, "Hey, he's coming over again tonight because we're going to watch Harry Potter."

Her response?

Bad roads. Not safe. I'm not sending peeps home
in that

"NOT HAPPY COST ME THIRTY DOLLARS for the guy to plow only part of the driveway OBVIOUSLY After a storm you get plowed FYI Just hoping you are not planning another SLEEP OVER here. The first one was quite enough."

So let's rewind a bit. A month or so ago, as the mountain started picking up, she sat me down, looked me straight in the eye (without a beer in her hand, maybe that was the problem) "Listen, you live here. This is your house too. We want you to feel comfortable. If you want to bring people over, you can. If you can give us a heads up, that's be cool, but you don't have to ask permission or anything."

Tack on the fact that my room is FREEZING and I've asked her to help warm it up some so I don't feel like death. Okay, now re-read the text.

My brain just exploded on the ceiling. Resuming the living arrangement hunt. How is Germany these days? Is it still way over populated? (I need not crazy people in my life!)

Villains and Fear

Last week's YaLitChat revolved around horror, and the chat went from scary, to super scary. We talked about invasion of space (that feeling you get when you think someone has broken in to your place), what really scares us (monsters under the bed), etc. But the things that scare me the most are the things that happen in my head. That whole, "What is he/she willing to do next?" Conveniently, this saga unfolded shortly after this topic:

This is a mile walk from my apartment
I love this. Love it.

I've had my share of horrible living environments. I lived in a place in North Carolina that got infested with bedbugs because of a creepy man in his 50s. Before that I lived with a girl whose dog pooped and peed on the floor so Baxter got a rash, and I got sick for two months.

Then I moved to Maine, and I thought it'd be smooth sailing. My 60-70-80 year old roommate played guitar, talked a bit much when I was writing, but I thought you know, it'd be okay.

Then he and his elderly mother decided to start terrorizing me (yelling, moving/touching my stuff, throwing my food away, locking me out of my room, turning off the heat in the middle of winter, etc), so Baxter and I began staying in my friend's basement. Then, when I returned to the house to get my stuff, he exposed himself to me....and I called the cops. (The arresting officer is a somewhat regular where I work. He's said he thinks he has PTSD from the ordeal. You and me both, kid. You and me both.)

After staying almost two months in my friend's basement, when I found my apartment, I was so blissfully happy. So happy, so excited for the future. The only reservation I had about this place was the driving distance, but soon I rocked out to all sorts of CDs, and on days where I had to be up by 5am, so I could leave by 6am, and make it to work by 7am, I didn't shower (those are overrated, anyway).

The stuff under my name is his response

The neighbors seemed cool for the first couple of weeks. There was one I didn't like because she is living with her boyfriend, and yet spent 2-3 nights all over another guy (classy, huh?). Only one of those nights she was drunk, and so I was judging her pretty much the entire time she was stealing his hat.

Anyways, we'd sit on the porch, and chat, and try out for ninja warrior. I breathed easy for the first time since November. One of my neighbors invited me over for dinner a couple of nights, another let Baxter out while I was at work.

But, as is my luck with living situations, the crazy set it much too quick.

First, it started with the crazy neighbor next door and the wifi (yes, this was the one with the boyfriend). Then it exploded this last week when I went down to the laundry room to find my Tide laundry detergent in the trash (I'm broke, I had half a bottle left. When you get one day a week to do laundry, this is not what you want to find). So I did what any other passive aggressive person would do. I wrote a note:

It was nice to come down to do laundry today and see that someone has stolen all of my Tide. I had about 1/2 a bottle left.
Whoever you are, please replace. I was hiding it for a reason, and that s#$t is expensive. 
Thanks,
Lynn(e)

A bit later, I went to check my laundry, and my note was tapped to my door, with chicken scratch that read:

Next time leave your f@#$ing soap in the house Don't accuse any of us of stealing your s%^t and speaking of s&*t the next time I step in s&*t your gonna hafto buy an extra jug of soap to clean your car. And (neighbor's girl's name) is no longer at your dog watching disposal cos of your being a b@#$h. 


First of all, it was hard for me to take this seriously due to all the cursing, the misuse of your/you're, cos rather than cuz, or even because. (I judge people who misuse words.) At the bottom he wrote other threats, and crossed them off (that purple blue streak.)

Let me explain this a bit more. The neighbor who wrote this, yea, he's been in prison for murdering someone. Clearly I'm not comfortable with having me or my car threatened, and so I called the landlord to let him know. Landlord said he'd talk to the guy, and I figured that'd be it.

Instead, after a long day at work, I came home to find this:

Yep, that's poop.

So, we're adults, right? We're not sixteen years old. The dude is 32 years old, I can hear him screaming at his girlfriend nightly, she's come over after several of their fights, once when he allegedly threw her engagement ring in the bushes. (By the way, she's only 22.) You can look up my twitter feed because the walls are paper thin and I live tweeted them.

So I let Baxter out the poop night, and we get back inside, and I lock the door because that villainous fear crept in, What is he going to do next? Followers on twitter told me to call the cops, and my manager at work said the same thing. Because it wasn't an emergency, so much as annoying, I figured I'd wait until morning.

But instead of him being crazier, it was the wifi neighbor, who created an account that same night specifically to attack me. She tweeted at me about 9 times, all of which I didn't respond to, but continued to complain about the dog poop, the psycho neighbors, etc. Well, around 11:30pm, I heard her yell something and storm over and start pounding on the door. I told her point blank (through the open window), I'm not opening the door, to go home, or I'd call the cops. She told me to call the cops, so I did.

I'd finally started making this place my own!

Well, cop hottie (who is married but let me out of the fine when he pulled me over) showed up about an hour later. He told me this is ridiculous, and I couldn't agree more, but I was somewhat more comfortable because if something happens to me, to Baxter, or to my stuff, there is now a record of this craziness.

I texted a picture of the poop to the landlord saying that he needed to speak with his tenants because this is unacceptable, and by the time I got home from work the following day, the poop was removed from my door step.

None of the neighbors have had contact with me since, though an animal control officer (who walked over from next door), came over yesterday to ask if Baxter was registered because we'd been here for longer than 10 days (yea, bro. We've been here two months. Where were you then?), which leads me to suspect one of them is still trying to make trouble.

I'm very frazzled about all of this. My mangers at work are suggesting a new living arrangement but, I love this place. Not the neighbors, but my apartment. My place to live alone, my punching bag in my bedroom with my air mattress, a mile walk to a river and beautiful views.

But, if we move, it would be closer to work, and I could potentially go home during lunch to let Baxter out. If I could find a cheap place, maybe I could actually start saving up some money.

But if we move, I wouldn't be able to hop the border and head to New Hampshire and avoid sales tax. I'd give up the river, the drive where I get to collect my thoughts (though granted, sometimes the drive sucks). We'd have to give this up:

I'm not sure I'm ready to do that, but maybe giving all of this up is better than you know, coming home to a dead dog, huh?

Lag

So, I think I have people issues. Maybe I'm meant to grow up and become like Emily Dickenson. I should hole myself up in my house, have a secret shopper, and never go outside. I'm not meant to interact with people, they annoy me, most times I just roll my eyes and don't want to talk to them.

Except...maybe...I should still go outside and go hiking, longboarding with Baxter, you know, the usual. Just with no one else. Me, and my pup.

I think he'd be okay with that

Or maybe, just live in a writer's colony. I can deal with people who read, and who write, because they're reclusive like me. These people, they're my lifeblood.

Bottom line, I was supposed to be paying $15/month for internet through my neighbor. (Note: Neighbor, not roommate! Small victories!) Well, she told me to pay her by the 14th. (I'll pause while you check your calendars for today's date.....Yes, it is the 8th. Even still, not the 14th! It wasn't even the 1st of the month when this stuff went down.) 

So yea, during the week of rain (another one), I noticed my wifi wasn't working. Well it was...on my phone, but not my computer. People suggested maybe the rain was interfering so I waited about three days, and left a note on their door, which they didn't respond to.

Then she came home, and I confronted her. Her response? "Oh, we changed the password because we thought you were avoiding us."

Hmm...So...you don't come approach me directly? 

She then continued to say, "We don't want to supply to anyone in the complex."

Days later I find this is a lie, and she's still providing to another neighbor, and I'm irate. So now I'm pirating from someone down the street, but it's spotty and unreliable. Posts will be minimal until I figure out a solution. I'm sorry, and thanks for your patience. In the meantime, loathing of this neighbor has gone full force. She and her little friends recently set off fireworks RIGHT next to Baxter, who then RAN (with a look of panic and horror) toward the apartment. Here, she said, "If he was leashed, this wouldn't be a problem."

Right, because we all love ear splitting bangs going off RIGHT NEXT TO US. 

After that, it literally took ten minutes of coaxing Baxter to go outside. He was mortified. I wanted to punch her in the face. 

Anyways, enough ranting. On the writing front, After Elizabeth has gone through another edit, as well as The Right to Live. Both are now on submission, so that's exciting. I'll keep you posted if anything good happens :)

High School Dances

Thanks to Kelley Lynn for hosting this blog hop!

My friend (blue) Crazy Carolin, and me (dark red)
Sophomore or Junior Homecoming

As the title suggests, the hop is about high school dances, which is awesome because I LOVED high school dances. I went to every homecoming, coming home, and prom available....and even went to some extras (because my sister invited me to hers since she went to school an hour away from me.)

Though I hated dress shopping because my shoulders and hips are too wide, I loved finding shiny shoes, getting new make-up, getting my hair done, and being the only girl getting ready who knew what she was doing....which was funny, because I never wore make-up to school.

Sadly, all of my dances took place in the era of film cameras so I only have the photo above, and some from prom. This story, however, takes place with Alex and me at Coming Home.

Coming Home for those of you who aren't familiar with the term, is where girls ask the boys, AND then the couple wears the same outfit. At my school's Coming Home, you also had the chance to get hitched. Teachers would pose as ministers and marry the students. They supplied bogus wedding certificates, and cheap re-sizeable rings.

Days before, I'd found out Alex had cheated on me (gasp!) but because I was young and in love, we figured we'd try to press on...if I didn't murder him, first.

Plus, I'd already bought the tickets and filled out the paper work so he could come, so damnit, he was coming whether he wanted to or not!

Alex and Me (and my friend's brother in the background)

After going to Hot Topic and buying shirts that said, "Don't Make Me Go Zelda On You", and getting white tear-away pants from Aeropostal, we were ready to go.

The dance was mostly fun. Most of my friends had found out what he'd done, and so there was a drive-by kicking from my friend Erika, some people would walk by and call him mean names, and I was still teetering on the edge of snapping and punching him in the face at any moment.

Then the DJ made the announcement that the weddings were now open, and suddenly the anger evaporated. Replaced, was a desperate need to marry Alex. Though I was still incredibly pissed and hurt, it seemed like only the rational thing to do. Since I'm the girl, I wasn't going to propose...even if it was a fake wedding. Instead, I decided that if he didn't propose, I'd have another reason to pick a fight with him.

My friends kept running at us, showing us their rings and certificates, and I was oozing with jealousy. I wanted to get married, too! I loved the stupid kid, and it was part of Coming Home! Every time we danced, I looking over, pining at the adorable couples getting married. It's not fair! That should be me!

At some point, Alex disappeared.

After five minutes of pacing back and forth on the dark dance floor, I figured out he wasn't in the bathroom, and the anger started surfacing again. I wasn't sure where he'd gone until a friend ran up to me, grabbed my arm, and dragged me to the vending machines, where Alex was waiting. They both smiled at each other, and she left.

"What is this?" I asked, probably not in a nice way.

Alex proceeded to take my hand, and drop to one knee. "I think it would be in your best interest to marry me," he said, and my heart and stomach fluttered.

"My best interest?" I laughed, not caring if the whole school was staring at us.

"Yep."

I probably played it off like I wasn't giddy, or excited, and when he got up, I kissed him because he was mine, and I was happy. We went to the "chapel" (a small sign at the top of the stairs that said something like "Chapel" or something like that), and when they asked if we did, we said I do. We signed the paper, and were both distracted when the photographer took our wedding picture, so it was the worst picture...ever. (I wish I had a copy to show here, but it's in my storage unit, sorry!)

We spent the rest of the night with my friends, and playing with our rings. Months later, I want to say it was for my birthday, he made a photo collage consisting of our wedding rings, a copy of the certificate, our wedding photo, and some lottery tickets we'd scratched off.

I had a lot of adventures in high school, but this was probably one of my favorite ones. Hope you guys check out the other entries!

The Roommate Saga

So for those of you who haven't heard about the roommate drama, feel free to click on some links. Or if you're really ambitious, go through my twitter feed, there is some interesting stuff going on there. This is a long post today, sorry. I added pictures to make it more fun :)

The house that was lovely...aside from the residents

Long story short, for the last few months I've been living in a crap hole. I was desperate, I had just moved from North Carolina, and I had nowhere to live so I looked on Craigslist. Without really looking into the situation, I moved into the house in Woodstock.

The first thing that went wrong was heating. I don't like to sleep with my door open, because I don't like or trust people. So I would close my door, and then freeze. Then the landlord got on my case about having a space heater, and told me I wasn't supposed to have it because the house could burn down. But I continued doing it so Baxter and I wouldn't freeze to death. Plus, the sketchy old man would leave the oven open, leave the stove doors open (a few times wood exploded out of the fire and lit the floor up). The old man and the cougar roommate also would leave candles on. All. Night. Long. Oh, and there were three cats living in the house, too. They liked to get out counter tops and tables. And yet the space heater was the problem.

I'm so creative :)

The next problem was that the house claimed to be furnished, and yet didn't have a drier. There was only a washer. Which was okay, all of my clothes were crusty, and so were my towels, but eh...I could deal. At first. There are two stoves in the house that were used for heating. One in the living room, and one near the back of the house, which is where my bedroom is. When he started fighting with me, he decided to turn off that stove so that the only source of heat was where he was sleeping...on the couch. Once the stove near the washer had been turned off, my clothes wouldn't dry. They'd freeze over night, and warm the following day and stay wet. So I decided to make my own drier.

But then the old man started fighting with me. All the time. I think it was because I freaked out one day because he was smoking in the house, which he was NOT supposed to do. Either way, I started going into work angry because he'd moved my stuff, stolen my food, picked another fight. Then the only roommate I sort of liked moved out in less than a day, and the sketchy old man stole her computer...which made me start to wonder...

What will he do to my stuff?

I stuck it out for awhile longer. But then things got worse (see Living Situations blog), and I started trying to stay at friend's places more regularly. I also started trying to take Baxter everywhere with me; to work, to friend's. I hated leaving him alone because I was now terrified that they would hurt him to get back to me.

Not only that, but they started picking fights with me when I was trying to just stay in my bedroom and write my memoir, or edit, or just not be around any of them because they were all crazy. It got to the point I was tweeting my complains (on a regular basis) and my friend made me a "Quiet Please, Memoir Writing in Progress" sign. Then I had a friend over one day, and they (at this point they is the Dickey and his mother) picked fights in front of her, too.

Huge gaping hole

I'm not sure when I hit the breaking point, but I hit it fairly recently. I started packing up my room so that way I could just cut and leave as soon as I found a place. Because I came in freaking out every day, my managers all started looking in newspaper ads for places to rent that allowed pets. None of us could find anything. Just recently, I've been spending a lot of nights at a friend's house because well, they feed me, they offer me beer, and they're lovely company. Plus, they allow Baxter.

For the last few days I'd been staying with these friends, in another town, with my pup. Last night I went back to the house so I could move more of my belongings over to their house. I called my mom when I was in my car so that the creepy old guy wouldn't talk to me as I entered the house. I went to the outside stairs to find, amazingly, he'd redone them. Up until now, they'd been removed so Baxter and I had constantly been having to jump up and down the gaping hole (which was incredibly dangerous at night).

When I walked in, out of my peripheral vision I thought I saw that he was naked, but kept my eyes straight ahead and ran up to my room, still on the phone with my mother.

The dog Baxter abandoned me to play with

After barricading myself inside my bedroom (because Baxter decided to stay outside playing with the other dog), the sketchy old man didn't even knock and came into my room. He handed me my mail, where I then fully noticed, he was completely NAKED. And I mean NAKED. Like I saw 62-year-old-man-penis.

Immediately I dropped some f-bombs in the form of "Why the f3$% are you naked?!!!?! Get the f@#$ out of my room!!"

He then tried to take my mail from my hands, and demanded that I give him my house key, which I refused because I don't have all of my stuff moved out yet (and until I get sent to court, it is my legal right to have said key). We continued to scream at each other, he remained naked, completely un-phased by the fact I was flipping out because of seeing his member.

I could tell he was drunk (as all he ever does is drink), and he was naked. In my bedroom. And not leaving. So, I told him if he didn't leave, I'd call the cops. He told me to do it, so I hung up with my mom and called 911.

The only picture I could find of the sketchy
old man. This was a game night I had with
some folks from the mountain

He continued to yell at me until he realized I'd actually called them. Then he disappeared downstairs for awhile while I spoke with the dispatcher. By this point I was shaking (and maybe crying a little bit because why the f#$ was he naked??? IN MY BEDROOM??). The person had me stay on the phone with her until the poliece arrived. During the time of waiting, Dickey decided to come back in my room (I'm not sure if he had clothes on this time) and continued to yell at me, while I was on the phone with the dispatcher. Who (thanks to loudspeaker) told him to get out of my room and leave me alone. It took her about 5 times telling him to leave, and I was terrified that I was going to get shot, knifed, or punched.

The dispatcher asked how long I've been living here, and I answered that I'd been living here since December. She asked if we'd had confrontations before, I told her we had. She asked why I'd never called the cops before, and I answered because he'd never been naked before.

At long last, the cops arrived, and asked me the same questions the dispatcher asked. I showed them my bedroom, explained about the high tensions and the fights, and how they're trying to evict me, but haven't gone to the courts yet, etc, etc, etc. They had me wait in my car, and I ran inside to get my phone to text my friends that I was okay, and would be over ASAP because old man was crazy.

When I left the house, Dickey followed me out and yelled at me to return my house key, and I booked it to the safety of my car. The four officers immediately yelled at Dickey and told him to go back inside (he wasn't listening), and thus, screamed at him until he finally listened. When the coast was clear, they allowed me to re-enter the house, recommended that I not stay there that night, and I kept packing.

It got to the point I was afraid he would hurt Bax
So Bax started coming to work with me

In the end, Dickey got arrested for indecent exposure, and some other stuff that I can't quite remember (I think terrorizing was one of them). When they hauled him out he only had shorts on. Which, I was thankful for (again, who in their right mind would think it's appropriate to be naked???)

I was told that the next time I come to get the rest of my stuff, I am to notify the sheriff's department and to have an escort with me because the old guy is batshit crazy. I was also told that he does in fact reek of alcohol, and weed. Which doesn't surprise me, at all.

The girl is the one whose computer was stolen.
The boy is the kid who got kicked out of the
bar...later that night

When I got to my friend's, a previous roommate texted me, told me to drop everything that is going on with Dickey, and basically sounded like he was threatening me, too. He also called me a psycho (although he spelled it wrong), and said some other mean things, and I just wanted to punch him. (Keep in mind, this roommate was the one who got kicked out of the bar for being a creeper the first and only night me, him, and our female roommate tried going out together. She made him walk home.)

So that was my night on April 20. Baxter and I are currently residing in the basement of a friend's house, and I'm constantly praying that my stuff is okay (as I had to leave some of it). The only downfall of this, is that Baxter and the other dog keep fighting (they've drawn blood a couple of times now), and it terrifies me because I don't want Baxter to get hurt or to be uncomfortable...Ugh. I need to find my own place.

How are you?

Memoir Writing III: Selling People Out

Welcome to day three of Memoir Writing. Today, I'm going to focus on what I learned at a panel at AWP; Selling Out Everyone You Love. I'm also going to tie in a couple of other things I learned but...Let's start here.

People say, "Never trust a writer." Why? Because we have this little habit of basing fiction off real life...and then *GASP* some of us write the dreaded memoir. So, our life, and our friend's and family's lives are there for the world to see. So how do we handle this? How do we write about that time when Aunt Sally got drunk and peed her pants on the dance floor? How do we approach that time when Uncle Willy accidentally killed the neighbor's dog and just left it? How do we write about the people we've been in fights with, people who told us their secrets in exchange for ours, and still keep them in our lives? 

Baxter saying, "No, Lynne. Don't write about that time I chewed up that photo album you loved and then proceeded to pee on it when you yelled at me."  (This is a true story, by the way)

Firstly, those of you who follow my blog, know I post a lot of things about real life pretty regularly. I have a personal blog on Xanga that is my "Woe is me," blog. My sister will say things like, "Wow, you're able to just write about that," meaning that I'm not censoring myself, I'm just saying, "This is what happened, this is why I'm pissed."

But blogs are different from Memoir.  Memoir tells a story, your journey through (usually) hell and back.
 Stephen Elliot, author of The Adderal Diaries gave some advice,

"Find your moral line, and never cross it." 

So what's your moral line? What is that one thing that you'll never do, never write about, never say? Notice, this isn't your sister's moral line, this is yours. This is how you'll get to sleep tonight.

Things to consider when you're writing:

*Everyone you know will read it

*You don't know what will set the reader (your potential, mother, grandmother) off

In order to write a memoir well, you need to be able to forgive the people in your life for wronging you. Truth of the matter is, people aren't just evil all the time (except for the guy I lost my virginity to...literally, this kid had and still has no redeeming qualities). In contrast, people aren't always good all the time, either. As writers, and even as specifically memoirists, it is our job, our RESPONSIBILITY to say the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

The truth of this picture may have some potential
law breaking involved....

If you're unable to tell the reader that one good night you had with an ex lover before he crashed your car and decapitated your cat, we won't believe you. After all, why would you be so dumb as to let him in your apartment in the first place? Chances are that you loved him before you hated him...so why did you love him? Keep in mind, if that cat was your sister's cat, too...she may not want you to paint him in this light.  After-all, she hated him from the get-go. She told you he was bad news.

So, some things to consider  before you write your memoir:
This book is about you, and your path. It is NOT about getting literary revenge on Johnny. While he may have had a piece of the puzzle, you only need to show your interactions with him to propel YOUR story forward. This is your story, not Johnny's.

Who are the important pieces of the memoir? Why are they important?

When you write, try not to censor yourself. Don't think of friends, and family, or publication. Think of the story, because clearly, this story is important to you.

As a creative non fiction writer, you have to be willing to sell out YOURSELF before you can really sell out anyone else. If before that ex lover decapitated your cat, you handed him the knife and said, "Dude, cut my cat's head off," we need to see this. We need to see your faults, your truths that you usually leave out of your retellings. People's short comings are really what make us interesting.

With that said, remember all it boils down to is being able to write the story. So, write it before considering who you're going to offend because...

Tomorrow's blog is about handling the pissed off character in your memoir. (Also known as, "Don't you dare write this or you are not my daughter/son anymore!" and how to handle those responses.)