Just one more thing ...

So, yesterday I get a call from my oldest niece (21) stating that her "baby's-Daddy" and her have had a knock down, drag out, fight that came, pretty damn, close to becoming physical. And, could she bring her 6 month old son and herself to my house and stay awhile ("awhile" for my nieces and nephews has constituted 1 week to 2 years). Now, for those of you who have read this blog before (and for those who haven't just go back in the archives) you've seen pictures of my 130lb french mastiff, named Bubba. And, you also know, Bubba is not good with change or anything or anyone smaller than himself. Let's face it, he's a big bully. Anywho, after a lengthy conversation, detailing in every conceivable grotesque and horrible manner what would happen to a baby, should Bubba take interest, we still couldn't convince her, that coming over here was not a good idea (I guess things were "really" bad at home). So, lo and behold, two hours later, here's my niece and nephew, with more bags than we've ever taken on a seven day cruise walking through the door. Now, I'm a nervous wreck. We have to listen for every growl, every peep, anything out of the norm. We can't let the dog anywhere near the baby, which makes for some interesting situations and, for the love of God, I don't even have ONE 5mg valium left. Forget "Calgon", something take me away. I love my family ... I really do ... but I'm as big a creature of habit as Bubba is (in fact, I think he get's his bad disposition from me) and I really can't take much more change in my life. I hate to sound like "Roseanne Roseannadanna" (an old "SNL" character for you youngsters) but, I swear, "if it's not one thing, it's another". But, I don't want to always sound like a whiner (hee, hee) so I guess I'm stuck. If I get any sleep in the next week or so (please let them make up) I'll keep you guys up to date and if you hear anything "horrible" about a baby and a masiff on the news, than I guess Bubba has kept you up to date (just kidding, we'd never let that happen). Wish me luck.

kill me now

So, I went to the doctor, again, yesterday. It wasn't for me, my husband had another appointment with his asthma doctor. Anyhow, this time, I got up enough "chutzpah" to weigh myself. You see, it's been 3 months since I gave up my two pack a day Marlboro habit and I've been shoving candy (and anything else that will give me a sense of satisfaction) in my mouth to stop the cravings. Long story ... short. Kill me, now .... please. I've gained 30 (not 10, not 15, not 20) 30 pounds. And, with the long history of diabeties in my family, this news has alot more implications than just needing new pants. As those of you who read this know, in the past few months, I've given up a 20 year pill habit, and a 20 year cigarette habit and now they want me to give up my food habit. Can't be done. Might as well just give up. I mean, I can give up the candy and the chocolate and the cake, but, no way, absolutely, no way, can I or would I, give up my lifesblood, in other words "Coke". I've been drinking it for as long as I've been drinking and yes, I know, it's horrible for a person (takes paints off of cars ... heard it all) but it's the only thing keeping me going. And, no, diet crap just tastes like diet crap. So, I'm going to be one plump sonova)*)*&. It's either that, or give me back my pills or cigarettes. I'm not picky, I'll take either one or both. C'mon what's a few more added years to your life. There're only the drooling and shitting years. This is fat and not happy signing off.

Hello weekend ... goodbye sobriety?

Another weekend is upon us and I gotta say, they're all starting to look alike. With my husband's business being incredibly slow, the weekends, pretty much, mirror the weekdays. We're both home, alone, not doing much but waiting for word about both girls and getting on each other's nerves. I guess it wouldn't be so bad if we had something else to keep our minds occupied (blogging and poker only go so far) and we knew something definate. But, definate is a word that ACS has never known. What I really think is we need a vacation. To get away from the all too, all crazy, all consuming familiar and just take off. And, if we didn't have the dog, didn't have these problems with the girls hanging over our heads and, if we had a little more cash, maybe we would. But, maybe's don't count. So, here we are ... here I am. I'll be really honest, everyday it gets harder and harder to stay clean. I know, for damn sure, if I didn't have to leave the house to score, I'd be taking tylenol #4's or percocets again. As it is, I found a couple of 5 mg. valium (left over from withdrawal) that have helped but just leave me craving something stronger. Thank God, my husband is stronger than I am and won't let me fall off the wagon. I really don't know where I'd be without that chubby son-of-a-gun. Here's to not finding out for a really, really, really long time. Anywho, I've never been much of the religious type so it's not like I'm going to hand all this over to God and admit I'm powerless over anything, but somewhere, deep down inside, I know it'll get better ... it has to. Till then, I'll just take it one step at a time, one day after another, one weekend till the next

Beyond words ...

File this under to unbelievable to believe. If you've read this blog before, than you know I fostered a little girl, from the ages of 2 - 8, who I considered my own. At 8, she was returned to her bio-mom who she never really knew and, definately, never bonded with. But, as is the instructions to all ACS workers, reuniting the family is the first goal and the judge decided her going back was best. Skip ahead 5 years, my husband and I have our own runaway on our hands (the younger child's 17 year old sister). She apparently didn't like the idea of being grounded (without computer) after failing all her classes and skipping school to go get the pill. What were we thinking ... we should've have congratulated her (she said sarcastically) Anyway, that's not the unbelievable part. The unbelievable part is that after 5 years of having no word on the younger child, no contact, no speaking with, no nothing, she calls and says she's a runaway. Get's better, because ACS is already aware of our problem with the older child, we cannot let the younger one stay with us. They tried to place her in another home, but, apparently, she didn't like it and, now, she's run from there. Long story ... short, we're watching NY1 news late last night and, lo and behold, whose on the t.v. My youngest foster child (now 13) who is apparently missing and no one knows where she is. But, the best, the very best was the interview with her bio-mom, where she plays the victim and says how the child has done this many, many times and needs to be put in a lock-down sort of facility. There is no concern in her appearance, just annoyance that it has come to this. I'm sick ... no, really .... physically sick of this whole frickin' situation. The system screws these kids from top to bottom and than hides behind beuracracy and ignorance when something horrible happens. If you had seen this child, when she really was a child, my God, she was beutiful and vivacious and innocent and gentle and loving. All the things a child should be. Now, I don't know what she's dealing with and I'm afraid , honestly, to find out. So, I sit here, terrified, not knowing where she is, if she's alright and what will happen to her next. If she calls me, despite the little voice in my head saying, "don't get involved ... not again ... it will hurt all over", I know I'll go to her and do everything I can to help. What else can I do ... she's my kid.

Doctors ... who needs 'em?

So, I went to the doctor yesterday for no other reason than it was the only way to get my husband to go. God, I hate going. I come from that age old school that firmly teaches the more you go to see a doctor, the more things they'll find wrong with you. Luckily, I'm fine. No major problems to speak of. My husband, who hasn't been feeling well lately, has to go for more tests and back to see his cardiologist. But, when you consider he's already had one heart attack and 4 stent placements, and he's only 42, not feeling too well comes with the territory. You know how they say, "Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst"? Well, I believe, "Don't think about it, it'll go away." A little naive, I know, but my way of coping. But, these doctors, they've got some racket. Just for the wait alone, the service should be free. I mean, I know they go to school for a long time and put in a crazy amount of hours as interns, but after waiting 5 hours, you'd think they could spend a little more than 5 minutes with you ... you know to ease your fears or something. And, once, just once, I'd like to hear one of them say, definatively, "don't worry, you're fine". But, no. It's always, "Do this and you'll feel better" or "Stop that and you'll feel better", or "Take this and it will all be fine". But, I gotta tell ya, after stopping pills, quitting smoking and trying to take it easier, I feel worse than ever. Not bad, just worse. In this day and age of cell phones, lap-tops, i-pods and 50 other miracles of the modern age, you'd think medicine could have progressed to the point of a magic cure or wonder drug to fix anything wrong. Not yet ... not yet, but I hope and I wait.

Glory Days ...

About 10 - 12 years ago, I decided to try my hand at writing for magazines. Now, most people will tell you, and they'd be right, that this is not the easiest job in the world to get. It's subjective to the whims, tastes and, outright, bad or good moods of the lowest people on the editorial ladder. However, armed with a good attitude (something of a miracle for me) and the emotional support of family and friends, as well as, some good ideas for articles, I picked up a copy of the Writer's Digest and started mailing queries. The Digest has some really good ideas for how to write a great query. I used some of them, but basically, I was so familiar with my subject (a woman who lost her son to the witness protection program) that the words just seem to flow (for you writers out there, you know when your in the zone). Anyhow, I sent out about 5 or 6 of the same letters, expecting the standard rejection and, eventually, they started to come in. Most were form letters, but one or two had a personalized message. Something like, "Good idea ... can't use it this time ... try again." It didn't matter how small, just the thought that someone took to seconds to actually remark on something I'd written, was good enough for me. Hell, it was great. Than, to my eternal surprise, I received a phone call from a wonderful woman, who it turned out, was the editor of a rather large magazine. She said, she thought my query was really good and enjoyed the idea, but it didn't meet there editorial needs at that time. As I thanked her over and over for calling, I couldn't help but ask the question that was burning in my brain, "Do you think I can make it as a writer?" Her simple answer of "Yes ... yes I do" is one of the happiest moments in my life. No kidding. It was like a lifetime of being rejected for one reason or another was nullified and every possibility of a happy future (not even dreamed of since I was a child) was made real again. And, if that wasn't great enough, about an hour after our conversation ended, I received another call, from yet another editor, who wanted to publish the article. I swear to God, it's true. Anyway, after the article came out, I was able to sell another, smaller one to a smaller magazine. I was riding high. And, than, reality reared its ugly head and my life took it's usual spiral turn down the crapper. All the good things that I felt about myself, all the positive visions I had, were gone in the blink of an eye or, as in my case, the sound of a gavel as the judge gave my youngest daughter back to her bio-mom. After that, I didn't want to write ... not about anything. And, when I tried, I found out I couldn't write. Everything I put down on paper just didn't come out right. Maybe, it was the depression. Maybe, it was the 20-30 Tylenol with Codeine and 10-15 percocet I was taking on a daily basis, but, whatever it was, writing was no longer an option. Until now. I have been clean and sober for about 4 months and have come to grips, as much as possible, with the fact that I will never parent the child I thought was mine. I figure, if I can't do it now ... if, after all this time, I still can't make a go of it (when so many other have had less to go on) than I should have never picked up a pen in the first place. So, today I have written my first query in 6 or 7 years. Is it any good? I think so. Will someone buy it? Probably not. But, I have to try. I owe it to that editor so many years ago and I owe it to myself. Wish me luck as I go to recapture my glory days.

Can't google ... don't ask me.

Today, I thought I'd write about something that's driving me nuts ... absolutely bonkers. I've had a computer in my house going back to Commodore 64's when I was still living with my Mom. My brother, it's official, is a computer geek. He was interested in them from the beginning and now works in the field. And, he tried, he really tried to teach me how to do basic, common, everyday tasks. In return, I tried to learn ... I really did. But, to no avail. After all these years of owning a computer (and now a lap-top given to me for Christmas), I still can't cut, copy and paste. I cannot copy onto a disc and use it on another computer. I don't even want to talk about my trouble downloading stuff and using it later. If you don't believe me, I offer this blog as proof. As I surf other people's blogs on other sites, I have noticed all types of links, advertisements and counters, as well as, some outrageous graphics. All of it, beyond my capabilities ... believe me ... I've tried. Maybe, it was never meant to be. Afterall, I'm over 40. Maybe, I peaked with VCR's and cell phones. Lord knows, I wouldn't know the first thing to do with an I-Pod and my palm pilot (again, given as a present) is great to play pre-programmed games on. You can't imagine how frustrating it is to know that 6 and 7 year olds are more computer literate than I am. And, before you mention computer classes or "Dowloading for Dummies", at 42 years old I'm not going back to school for something that's not necessary for the continuance of my life. So, as it stands now, if your reading this and enjoying what you read, "matzletov" and thank you. If, however, your wondering why it's so bare, so un-connected to the rest of cyberspace or, just so, graphically boring ... than I'll simply remind you that Shakespeare, Mark Twain and all the greats, never even heard of a computer and, probably, wouldn't have used one, if they did.

I got the nothing on T.V. blues...

Alright, I'll admit it, I was breastfed on television, suckled on the likes of MASH, All in the Family, Mary Tyler Moore, Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley. Too much of my youth was wasted on variety shows such as, Sonny and Cher, The Carol Burnett Show, and, though I'm ashamed to admit it, even Donny and Marie. Yet, if there is one thing that can be said about watching all that as a kid, it's that it gives you a great eye, as an adult, for instantly picking out the crap they call television today. I am so sick of reality t.v. and every Tom, Dick and Schmuck's 15 minutes, I want to scream. I don't care who survives "Survivor" or who wins the amazing race or, for that matter, what level f (for failed before started) celebrity can sing the best, dance the best, or lose the most weight. And, please, please, someone tell "Bobby" and "Whitney" if I wanted to see a couple that fucked up parade around in front of me, I'd just attend more family dinners where attended is mandatory and everyone is forced to watch. Even, "Lost", which I have recently started to get into, teases us with a couple of new episodes than reverts back to repeats, hoping the hanger-ons will do just that and hang on. But, the biggest violator of our trust and the ones that inflict punishment, where there is only devotion, has got to be HBO. Two years in between new episodes of "The Sopranos" ... that's insane. I even thought about organizing a boycott, but what for ... if everyone is dying to see it end in the only three possible ways it can, than a boycott is for naught. Besides, I have a mad crush on Tony Soprano and must see for myself if 1) he will truly be put out of his misery and his life by his faithful little nephew, Christopher or 2)he'll turn states evidence and enter witness protection or 3) he'll take his millions of canoles (hidden all over the world) and take his family and him off to see the world (which might still have to do with number one, if someone finds him they will take him out). One thing's for certain, nobody dies in their own bed and nobody retires from that line of work. And then there's Deadwood. I don't know about anyone else, but I love this show and I would give my left ring finger to write like David Milch. Genius, if you ask me and no, it's not because he's found a true home to one of my favorite curses, "cock-*&*&*&". Listening to his characters speak is almost musical. There's not one wasted syllable not one unnecessary double negative. Someday, when I grow up, I want to be David Milch or Frank Miller or Brian Michael Bendis (the last two will only be familiar to nerds and comic afficianados, such as my husband and I). Well, I guess everyone should have aspirations and I don't think they'd mind giving up their identities. But, back to television. I have never seen a time with less original thoughts or ideas. Mark my words (and remember I told you first) when we start seeing "The Matrix ... the series" on UPN, or "Brokeback Mountain" taking place 40 years later when the two cowboys are now "queer" friends who share the same E. Village apartment (think the Odd Couple with two homosexuals). Or, finally, one hour dramas based on the communist witch hunt of the 50's (and the honest, hard-working people who fought back) . A real-time drama that takes place on death row and deals with two hardened criminals, senteneced to death, and the effiminate writer who, tries, in his own way, to help them out. And, last but never least, the hottest thing in makeover shows ... "So you wanna be a Geisha". On this show, three woman are dressed like Geisha, wrap their feet to the point of crippling themselves, and taught a very old tea ceremony. The winner, to be determined by just how much money a man is willing to put out to spend time with one of them, will be the deciding factor. I'm not kidding ... I worry for our youth. If there's nothing good on t.v. now, than where will all the movie ideas come from 20 years from now. Think about it .... "The Apprentice ...Lost on Survivor Island ... The movie. Scary ... just scary.

Friday blues ...

Feeling a little blue today. Trying to figure out why. I guess it doesn't really take much thought. I got a call from child welfare ... again ... saying that the child I love and raised and had returned to her bio-mom five years ago (after living with us for 8) has run away from her new foster home. And, naturally, we are still unable to help because our oldest child, who we loved and raised for the past 12 years, than adopted, ran away from us 3 weeks ago and called child welfare to file a report, making it, by law, impossible to take in her sister. It's all a freakin mess and I'm too clean for this. All I wanted, all those years ago, was to have children of my own who would love me as I loved them. And, MAYBE, ... just maybe ... not have to worry about me or my husband should one of us become sick or alone in our old age. I guess after years of love, support and attention, that was a little too much to ask for ... silly me. Right now, I'd just be happy if everyone would leave us alone to absorb, adjust and repair. I always knew, one day, it would be just my husband and I, I just didn't think it would happen this soon. It takes some getting used to. It has it's great points. Walking around almost naked (naked is too much for both of us after 20 years ... bad for the eyes), eating whenever we want and, strangely enough, being the center of each other's universe, is still kinda great. On the other hand, it can be a little boring and you kind of live everday like the other shoe's going to drop any second. Like the police are going to knock and say something happened to one of the kids or my husband's going to get sick again from all the stress, and I'll really be alone. Morbid ... I know. Self-pitying ... you bet your sweet bippy. But, every once in a while I just have to vent. It's either this or a rifle and a tower. Good God, what I wouldn't give for some percocet. Nothing like some oxy-codone to numb the pain and make you forget you ever considered yourself a Mother. But, none of that for me ... not anymore. I done took that train to it's last stop, got out and pushed for another couple of miles and than tried to swallow it. Nope, pain is a part of life .... it's okay to feel the pain ... after the pain comes the peace. What bullshit. Get me a pill.

Bubba is life ... life is Bubba

If I did this correctly( I'm about as computer literate as my husband and he doesn't know a mouse from a port) there should be an image somewhere on this page of the true love of my life (sorry, hubby) but, it's true. I mean, really, look at that "punim". And, before I sound like one of those crazy pet people that treat their animals better than people, I should explain, I am one of those crazy pet people who think animals deserve so much more. Bubba (see picture for explanation of name) doesn't really complain, doesn't bitch when the food's not to his liking, doesn't whine when he wants something, and, certainly, doesn't wander off to be with his girlfriend and get high. No. all he wants is some food, some water, a walk now and then and some attention if it's not to much trouble. In return, he will give you big sloppy kisses, a small amount of room on your own bed, lovely aromas throughout the day and the only kind of love that truly matters ... unconditional. But, before people leave in a huff saying "he's just a F*&(&^% dog" I will agree to some of their points. Bubba is a 130lb French Mastiff. If anyone's ever seen the movie "Turner and Hooch" with Tom Hanks, well, suffice it to say, they were pretty on the money when showing some of his more glamorous habits. He drools all over ... everything. He's a big bully when he really wants something(and, usually, that's anything smaller than himself ... including children) and he has, something, of a gas problem. Before, I demanded him from my husband as a Christmas gift a few years ago, we traveled alot and had friends and family come over at will. Now, we can't go anywhere because nobody else could watch him and family and friends tend to be a little intimidated by him (and I don't really blame them) so visitors are also an "iffy" thing. Those are some major sacrifices for a large eating and shitting machine and, I hate to admit it, there are times when my patience is tested and I question my decisions. But, than I look at him sleeping or he comes over when I'm sad and licks me or he just does something so damn cute I just have to smile and I know it's all worth it. Every second. Many of you will not understand ... I understand ... but for those of you crazy pet people, like myself, who have felt the unconditional love of a pet, enjoy yours, as I do mine and don't take a minute for granted. They're not around as long as we wish and we wish they were around forever. So you see, Bubba is life ... life is Bubba.

Is anybody out there ...

As usual, my husband and I were up to the wee hours of the morning (playing on-line poker ... any addiction, is a good addiction) and watching the trajedy of those poor W. Virginia miners on CNN. Watching the elation of their relatives when they believed their loved ones were alive, only to be followed by devastation as the truth was finally revealed, was heart-breaking (and I was only a bystander). The whole situation got me thinking about God, the big "G". Now, if your a frequent reader, than you already know that I'm something of a cynic. The flowery "what if's" and "you never knows" were shit-kicked out of me as a small child by reality. So, you really wouldn't think I'd believe in the big guy. Well, I'm not ashamed to say I do. But, I should explain. I don't, actually, believe in an organized religion big guy (though I was raised Catholic, and even though, my Father was a Jew ... another story for another day). I believe there's "something" or "someone" out there. I just don't know what. I've seen to much freaky stuff in my life not to figure there's got to be some overseer to this whole mess. I mean, really, the Boston Red Sox finally winning the series, after sweeping the last four games from the Yankees. If that's not a seventh sign of the apocalypse, than I'm not writing this. But, really, as cynical as I am (and, take my word for it, I am) I just can't wrap my mind around the idea of dying as being turned off like a light switch. I just don't think we're here to be controlled by a clapper made up of bad genes. "Clap on ... clap off". Not me. Now, if we really get into the depths of my depravity, yes, I do believe in heaven. But, no, I don't believe in hell. If this world's not hellish enough for most of us to expect something better ... than I don't know what. And, yes, I believe in Christ. Too much similar information on this one person, throughout history, to be mere coincodence. Do I believe he was the messiah? Good question. I believe, he BELIEVED, he was the messiah and that's enough for me. Now, before I start a holy war, I want to say I'm not certain of any of this and I'm not putting down anyone else's belief's. Heck, I won't even make fun of Tom Cruise and I know scientology is bullshit. Aliens, my ass. So, if you believe something else, good for you. If you believe, like me, that this world is someone's Matrix, someone's idea of a sick joke, than welcome to the club. Either way, my heart and soul goes out to those miners, who were only doing there job, and their poor families put on a roller-coaster ride through hell. May, whoever, be with them and give them peace.

Looking for Love in all the wrong places or why I write

I believe I have discussed in prior sessions the unusual aspects of my family. However, I don't think you can fully appreciate how much fun it was, as a child, to grow up with this true group of originals, but I think this story will help. When I was 10, my family was forced to attend family therapy (bullshit) sessions. My brothers, always helpful, never went so, in the end, it was just my Mother and Father (Yes, I had one ... but the passed away) my Sister and me. Well, we had this great, progressive, free-thinking asshole, who felt it best if all secrets were laid bare on the floor in front of us like a wounded, bleeding animal. With that image in your head, imagine being 10 and not wanting to watch a puppy bleed. Anywho, when no one fessed up to anything, the always helpful therapist, prodded my Father (badgered ... hounded ... haunted ... annoyed ....better words) to come clean to his young daughter about his past. I still cringe at the look on my Father's face (God, there were times I really loved that man) when he had to tell one of the only things he was proud of in his life that he had been a bank robber and done jail time before I was born. But, I really think, it was the self-congratulatory look on the therapists face that has burned that episode in my psche forever. As for my Father's news, I always suspected there were things I didn't know about my parents past. Kids just know these things (whispers in the dark, drawers and closets that are off limits and looks shared between conspirators that you just can't put your finger on). Never lie to your children. They always find out and when(and if it's without your help) it's always worse than if you'd just told them. But, as for my Father, it made no difference to me. He was still the same grouchy, mean and bitter man he'd always been. And, he was mine and he loved me. He was also a terrible alcoholic (a mushy one, thank God) who spent most of the time drunk out of his mind or passed out on the bed. And, still, I didn't care. It's hard to explain my loyalty to him to the normal world. I guess I've always routed for the under-dog (except my beloved Yankees ... but that's another day) and my Father was, certainly, the underdog in my house. My Mother belittled, argued, ranted and raved at him with the full force of all that she was and, as young as I was, I realized she had her reasons. My brothers alternated between pretending he didn't exist or hand to hand combat with him. And, as for my Sister, well, she was terrified of him. Drunk or not, he yelled alot at her and, emotionally, it wore her down. So, why was I such a staunch defender of this flawed, crippled man? I think it happened a few weeks prior to our historic family therapy session. I was searching in those secret drawers and closets that we were never, ever, supposed to go in and I found a folder with a handwritten title on the cover that read "Black Coffee and Cigarettes". Inside was a treasure trove of poems, short stories, and commentaries, all written by my old man. And, they were good. Damn good. It started to dawn on me then, as I read them, why he was so bitter, so mal-contented. Here was a man who wanted to be something else (a writer) and, as life so often does, he was blown off course by a wife and 5 children to support. No excuse, even at that age I knew, for his nastiness with us (we didn't ask to be there) but an explanation, none-the-less. And, lo and behold, and answer to another question. Why I loved to write, why I knew, so young, why there was nothing better than inventing far, away places where everything worked out, nothing was scary and all families loved each other. In finding out what, really, imprisoned my Father, I had stumbled upon what set me free. Catharisis thou are truly pen and pad. So, that the long and the short of it. Why I write, why I'm screwed in the head (well, part of it anyway) and why I love and miss my Father. Thanks Daddy.

Family ... what more can I say?

Yes, I have a family. Three brothers and one sister (all older). An abundance of nieces and nephews and, last, but never least, my Mother. It is hard to know what to say about these people ... they are, putting it nicely, uniquely characteristic charicatures(?) My Mom was 18 years old when she had her first son (practically a child, herself) and since she lost her own parents by the time she was 10, she really didn't have much of an example to follow. Hence, us. My eldest brother, let's call him "Nicky wannabe" was influenced greatly by the classics (The Godfather 1,2 and 3, and Goodfellas). He will argue with you, to this day, that DeNiro and Scorcese are "mobbed up". Unfortunately, we came from a section of New York where these types really did conduct their business and my brother "Nicky wannabe" was lured in like a fish to a worm. Long story, short, he is living incognito after running away from the witness protection program where he was, also, living incognito (is that an oxymoron ... I can never tell). This is a man who had to beg the feds to take him by convincing them that he must know something about someone they wanted. It's always so sad to see a grown man beg to be a rat. Sad. My middle brother, the one most like me, the tortured artistic soul with never enough self-esteem to try and do anything creative. In fact, the one time he tried to create, I call it his dark, introspective period, he collaborated on a great addiction to heroin with the heroin doing most of the creative parts. Now, junkies in general, are not an attractive bunch. The grunge, the lack of desire when in comes to personal hygiene and the, out and out, desperation make them some of the least desireable people to be with. But, when your eight years old and, directly, related to one, you find, there's very little room to hide from this thing that used to be your cool brother. Crappy times when your just a scared kid, but when he was straight, he was my idol. He introduced me to the Beatles, the Stones, and The Who. He gave me copies of "The Little Prince" and "Lord of the Rings" (when I was 10) and told me "Frodo Lives" and I believed him. He introduced me to the world of Doonesbury and explained who "Duke" really was. My middle brother was my door to that other realm where life didn't suck that much. Or, he was, till he lost the key in a drug induced stupor and by the time he found it again, I no longer needed his help to get there. Now, there is too much guilt between us. His for not being there when I really needed him and mine for resenting a new family he needed to finally straighten him out. Never let unspoken words get between two people and linger for years. After a while, that mountain becomes impossible to climb. My next brother is straight. So straight, I believe he has trouble relating to the rest of us. Well, I guess there's one in every bunch. My Sister ... my sister ... what can I say. Susan the brave, Susan the strong, Susan the non-label. When she was very young, doctor's said my sister was special. They said she would never learn like other children and her social and emotional skills would always be much lower than the norm. Schmucks. My Sister was the only one of us to "really" graduate high school (no GED). She has held down many different jobs, can be totally self-sufficient and lives with the same boy-friend for 15 years. Yea, she's special. She's special because she loves me unconditionally and looks up to me (though I am 4 years younger) as if I'm some kind of God. She wants to be like me (read what I read, write what I write, and do what I do) which puts a certain amount of responsibility on my shoulders that these poor old things simply cannot withstand. I love her, dearly, but it is hard to be someone's idol when you know in your heart she's got the wrong lady. So, I guess you can say she's special, just not in the way those assholes thought. And, that rounds out the immediate family. There are others, but that's for another day. I have always told my children, you can't blame your whole life on your parents, but , Hell, you can, certainly, without a doubt, blame who you are on them. I know I do. So what, don't we all?