By TouchedByMadness, on August 28th, 2010
This is what packing is like when you have cats Dante . . .
“Boxes? Yay! I’m going to nom the box flaps!”
“Plant? Yay! I’m going to nom the plant. Why you yelling?”
“Why do you keep trying to put stuff in my kitty fort? See me rolling around in your box. Aren’t I cute?”
“If I didn’t have to climb your tower of boxes to nom the plant, I wouldn’t be knocking stuff down.”
“Wow, that looks heavy. Let me lie down exactly where you plan to put that. Why you yelling?”
“You’re going to move that big bookcase all by yourself? I help! I’ll sit on the shelf. Whee!”
“Whatcha doing? Hide-and-Seek? Are we playing a game? GOTCHA! Why you yelling? Ew, don’t bleed on me.”
“That looks fragile. I’ll lie on it and keep it safe.”
“How did I got on top of the TV? Uh . . . don’t know, actually.”
“I’m exhausted after all that hard work. Zzzzzzzzzzzz.”
By TouchedByMadness, on August 22nd, 2010
. . . are perfect for playing hide-and-seek with Dante.
By TouchedByMadness, on August 15th, 2010
I am texting the Captain (who is away yet again) about the puppy I put a deposit on (because I’m lonely . . . and he’s not here to say no). The Captain goes off on a tangent about one of his friends.
Him: [blah blah blah] and he’s not listening to me [blah blah blah blah blah]
Me: I don’t care about Drew’s problms
Me: I need a dog name
Me: And a spell check apparently
Him: I need you
By TouchedByMadness, on August 12th, 2010
Part of the appeal of the Internet, for me anyway, is that you know me through my words. My words have power. I remember in high school when I was a mousy, socially-awkward kid in the back of the English class, no one paid me any attention. Not until I handed in my first writing assignment. I remember the teacher standing up in front of the classroom and urging the students to read my paper. His voice was filled with a mixture of surprise and excitement. As if he had discovered a very important secret.
In that moment, my writing made me special. My teacher saw me in a different way. I wasn’t invisible. I wasn’t even ordinary. I was something else. Something more. Something noteworthy. I liked that. A LOT.
So I share my words with you. I tell you my stories. I expose my soul to you. Except . . .
Except sometimes I feel like maybe I hide behind my words.
Like I am showing you what I think are the best parts of me instead of sharing all of me.
Because maybe you’ll be satisfied with just words. I will give you all the words you want!
But photos?
Well, that’s a whole other story entirely.
I have a confession. I am not a cat.
I have a face.
This is me.
By TouchedByMadness, on August 10th, 2010
My family moved when I was nine. Not across the country or even to another state, just the next town over. Even so, for me it was a BIG DEAL. I was beside myself with excitement. I was leaving a tiny private school where my entire grade consisted of six students to go to a public school where my grade would consist of two classes full of potential friends. Plus I’d get to ride the bus. And my days of ugly plaid jumpers were over.
I was a ball of nervous energy that summer before I entered the fifth grade. I daydreamed about all the amazing people I was sure to meet. Two whole classes full of kids my age! More classmates than I had ever seen before! It was hard to wrap my mind around. My social calendar would be teeming with play dates and parties! I was certain that my life would change in ways I couldn’t even imagine.
September finally rolled around. I was ready. On the first day of school, my sister and I waited for the bus at the end of our driveway. I smoothed the skirt of my brand new first day of school outfit over and over as I imagined the smiling faces of my peers. When I saw the bus rolling down the street, I practically burst with joy. I was going to make so many new friends!
But I didn’t. Not that day. Or the next. Or the following week. Or my first few months. Or at all that year. My classmates had known each other since kindergarten and their social circles were set. There was no warm welcome. They had no need of me. I was an outsider. There were occasional unkind words or a chair pulled out from under me, but for the most part I was ignored. I was invisible.
My mother went as far as to meet with my teacher and plead with her to help engineer a friendship between me and one of my classmates. But still every day I came home more alone than the day before. At this point my mother decided that birthday parties with friends from school were “too expensive,” a cover for her fear that I would blow out my candles in an empty room.
By ten years old, I decided that something must be horribly wrong with me that not a single student wanted to be my friend. I set aside my silly dreams of sleepovers and friendship bracelets. I crawled up deep inside myself. Sad and wounded, I refused to come out.
And now that twenty years has passed, I don’t know how to.
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