Things Family and Friends Have Said To Me (Or About Me) That Suggest They Think I Might Be Crazy (Or Dumb)

“Mom, if we keep driving around like this forever and we get lost and can’t get home, I wouldn’t eat you even if I was starving. I don’t want to get Mad Mom disease.”

“I think you should stop looking at me. But if you must keep looking at me, do it from over there. On the other side of the door.”

“Oh, thanks for answering the phone! I was worried you’d never pick it up again after our conversation the other night about brain harvesting and emus. Have you slept yet?”

To my husband (a year and a half after we were married): “Are you sure you don’t want to look at other marriage options?”

“Can you tell me what colors you mix together to make orange? You can pick from red, yellow and blue.”

“You know when someone tells you ‘You’re so crazy!’ but they’re kidding? This is not one of those times! I need my shirt back. And the fire extinguisher.”

“I did tell you, but you were mumbling something about erasers so you might not have heard me.”

“That is so….pretty the way you organized the thumbtacks into 20 different containers by color shade and size.”

“But did you ever ask yourself why most people /don’t/ carry a raw potato in their purse with them everyday?”

“Do you always keep your phonebook in the fridge?”

“Rubber bands are not really evil. The devil is evil. Rubber bands are useful tools for people to keep papers bound together. Do you see the difference?”

“Is it ok if the green beans are touching your fruit salad or would like you like me to built a mini-fort with the mashed potatoes to protect them?”

“No, I don’t go up and talk to whoever is there even if I think they look interesting. Normal people don’t do that. They just go there to do their laundry.”

“Please stop singing. And if you don’t wash the paint off your hands before we leave I’m going to make you wear my ski gloves to dinner.”

“When I look at you, I feel a little bit better about myself. And I feel so much smarter.”

Today He Can Buy Cigarettes and Vote. And Go To War.

age18dev

This is Devon, my first born. He was such a knobby-kneed, curly tow-headed baby. He was the light of my life and had my full attention for only about 18 months until his sister turned up, whining for bottles and diapers, which he willingly and happily fetched for her (me).

Devon has a brain in his head that can sometimes be a bit intimidating. He is just sharp, in the boy genius kind of way. Conversations with him and what he thinks are always informative, entertaining and sometimes I even learn a little something. Although I fear he is becoming a Republican, which I’m proud of at the same time because he has a mind all his own and isn’t afraid to use it and own it.

He was always in the advanced classes all going through school and figured out even before middle school that he could exert very little effort and glide by quite easily. The highlights of his schooling so far, to me, are those moments where I saw him really getting excited about something he was learning, because it happened so rarely. But when it did, that spark in his eye was so, so great. He starts to talk with his hands and then his arms and then his whole body, sitting on the couch, threatens to almost shoot up through the ceiling as he explains how some new computer program interacts with something else, which I have no idea what it all means, but frankly, I don’t care. I’m just watching him and loving it.

I home schooled Devon for the first three years of school while we lived over in Germany. His little sister joined us for most of our classes and got the benefit of watching him make an erupting volcano and combining chemicals to create the foulest smells ever to touch anyone’s nose. Ever. We went for walks around the neighborhood and learned German and got to know the Landlady and often went to pet her farm animals while practicing single digit timetables.

And then somewhere around his 5th grade year, my mind started unraveling at an alarming rate and Devon shouldered more responsibility than some adults. By 6th grade he juggled school and housework and babysitting and entertaining his baby brothers while his sister cooked them meals and did laundry. And then some months later I went away for a year or so and when I came back, he was older.

By the time I made it back to San Diego, his dad had moved the family north and it took me about 2 years to find a local job and move closer to him and the other kids. All through that trying time of driving back and forth and frustration, Devon would tell me, ‘It’s small steps, Mom. Each time it gets a little better.’ And he would give me a hug. And later, when I was alone, I would weep because my son had cause for so much wisdom.

Living close these past two years has been wonderful in so many ways but one of the most valued by me is watching him become a man. He’s a good man. Young, yes, but old in so many ways. This past year he’s poked his toe into the social aspects of high school. He’s learned a little about having a crush on a girl and making a best friend with a guy. Both of which he had never felt safe enough to do before. He has excelled in leadership and became the co-editor of the school paper, which he takes very seriously. He’s also got a great sense of humor and cracks my shit up. We’ve always been the best of friends but it’s been only the past few years that I learned how to be a real mom. And he’s let me be his mom, although he in no way had to and it must have been a very scary concept to trust me.

I worry about all the mistakes I’ve made while he’s been a part of my life. I worry about all the things I’ve put him through. I worry about the issues he’ll have to deal with someday.

And then I look at his face and in his eyes and remember that God and the Universe have everything under control and no amount of my worrying will do anything to change anything. My job is to love him. And I can do that.

Because there is no way to freeze time at 17.5 years old, Devon turns eighteen today. My baby is eighteen. When I was eighteen I had him wrapped round my leg and his sister about to be born. I had lived through years of drug and alcohol abuse and felt about 100 years old. Thank God that all he has to do is attend his last year of high school and prepare to go to college in the fall. Thank God he’s never smoked or done drugs and that his alcohol consumption is at a very age-appropriate level. All of that is hard enough. And he has to register with selective service and possibly get drafted at some point, which scares the crap out me so I don’t think about it very often.

I’m so proud of you, Devon. And I love you with all my heart. Thanks for everything you bring to my life.

Yours always and forever,
Mom

dev_mom_1_small

New Year's Resolutions Suck

Greg texts me:
Happy New Year, Leahpeah! Any New Year’s Resolutions?

I text back:
Yes! No new resolutions!

I don’t mean to be glib. Far from it. I really, really mean it. I can’t count the amount of years I’ve set myself up for failure by promising to Quit Smoking by February 20th!* or Exercise 1.5hrs/day until I lose 20 lbs! or Keep my desk orgnizd! or Say 1 nice thing to everyone I meet! I mean, c’mon. That last one would get on everyone’s last nerve after two hours and that is before leaving the house.

One of my journals from around age 14 has a list of about 20 resolutions, which includes ‘not eating anything with fat ESPECIALLY chocolate’ and has twelve lines written under the word chocolate. The list also has ‘learn to like my family’ which everyone knows is a foolhardy wish at 14. There is some chemical imbalance at that age that makes your hair weird, your taste in clothes questionable and your affinity to family near non-existent.

Somewhere in my late-twenties I realized that the error was occurring in the making of the resolutions at the beginning of the new year. I am always on the path of finding better ways to be and live. I spend countless hours in my head figuring out how to do things in a more fulfilling and time efficient way, much to the detriment of many other things in my life including laundry and orgnizng my desk. So, I realized, that for me to put all this pressure on January 1 of any given year was stupid. My perfectionist personality is doing it 24/7 365 days a year already in every category including welding. The only way to top my natural state of crazy is to create even larger and more elaborate resolutions like Only walk in odd numbered steps or create one crocheted hat per 3 hour installment of free time, including those hours in front of TV in the evening but not including meditation time since my brain will be preoccupied with manifestation, internal healing and levitation, wherein ‘free time’ can include time on the toilet and time sleeping.

I don’t need any help being more crazy. I do it fine all on my own. And piling on New Year’s resolutions every first of the year only adds to the issue when not far behind comes the let down of falling short of my newly set outrageous goals.

I do well to just keep the main goals I’ve had for the past 5 years or so:

1. Do the best I can, all the time that I can.
2. Take good care of myself and others.

So, Hello New Year’s Resolutions! You suck and I will not be making any of you. At least until tonight around 3am when I’ll be hard at work figuring out a better way to de-lint the dryer.

* I did finally quit smoking a few years ago, but it was nowhere near a February.

Three Car Rides (1 of 3)

Mehdi had been driving passengers at all hours for three days. Being woken up by the phone at 3:15am after a scant one hour and ten minutes of sleep was torturous. To say his eyes were bleary would be an understatement of such great proportions it was laughable. He face was a caricature of himself, the dark, red lines outlining the deep bags under his eyes, cutting deep shadows across his cheekbones and making his dark eyelashes stand out like frames on paintings. But it would all be worth it when he got the paycheck. The holidays were just around the corner and every penny counted. His two young girls deserved the world and he would get it for them.

The woman had called the night before giving detailed instructions and the address of her destination. Had he been more awake a few hours ago, he would have remembered to bring the map and the directions he had downloaded from the internet. But he wasn’t and he didn’t. But he was sure that he would be able to find where she was going. It was a small town they were going to, after all.

The drive of 45 minutes was one of the longest drives of his life. He willed his eyes to stay open, almost missed the exit, took a few wrong roads but aptly avoided collision a number of times. The woman at one point asked him to please call into the office and have someone there tell him the directions because she was not sure she could find the way in the dark in the middle of the night. He scoffed, telling her no, sadly, they are all sleeping and there is no one there to speak to. This is not true, of course, but he does not want the shame of admitting he was too tired to remember to bring the directions.

Mehdi thinks to himself that the woman in the backseat is too much of a chatterbox. Why does she insist on speaking to him non-stop about unimportant topics such as annual precipitation and the Seattle Seahawks and Huskies? He has no care for those kinds of things. Getting people from point A to point B is his concern and right now, he is not so sure he can find point B. Perhaps, he thinks in his unawake and groggy mind, perhaps she knows where she is going and can tell me the way? Perhaps she is always awake at 3:45 am and this is why she is so chatty? Perhaps I can put her mouth to good use and have her tell me which way to go? In these small hilly areas, the addresses are so hard to find. But after a time he realizes that clearly, she is not going to be much help. The sounds of her voice are annoying like a buzzing bee but, he admits grudgingly to himself, they are all that is keeping him awake.

Miraculously, after some time and a few wrong turns and with going 10 miles out of the way, (because surely there is a faster road if he only would have known it) they have found it. He looks up and realizes that he has no idea where he is. He has no idea how to find his way back down and through the hills. It might take him hours.

Mehdi asks the woman if she could go in the house and ask her relations the way back down the hills. They could surely tell him. She tells him that sadly, they are all sleeping so there is no one to speak to.

Passion of the Fig

Have I mentioned my love for figs? I probably should have because my adoration for them might make you a little uncomfortable but since you already love me, it will be too late to stop reading. Face it, you’re stuck.

I SO look forward to fall because figs are really a seasonal fruit, which is different than a-kind-of-seasonal fruit which you can get all year round because everyone everywhere wants to have them in their kitchen even if it’s December and the hankering is for strawberries. It will only cost you $16.99 for a handful, but you can get them. Not so for figs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them in the produce section except for fall. But that is probably just fine, because when I do get them, they are sweet and wonderfully full of flavor instead of pretty looking but tasting like cardboard.

My passion for figs started quite early. My grandparents would sit around our long dinner table (They were at my house, you see, because it was fall. In the summer we went to their house.) and talk grown-up talk and at age six or seven, there just wasn’t anything much better than getting to sit with them and crack nuts, eat cheeses and partake of the delicious flesh of figs. I would over hear about how so-and-so was doing, people I couldn’t remember hearing about before, but as long as you were quiet and polite, they didn’t even notice. And they’d crack open an almond or pecan and leave the shelly mess in front of you to pick the meat out. Sometimes it was challenging. But sometimes it was easy and I’d use that little silver pick to get the flesh out. And the large crates of citrus from their groves in Arizona would be piled over in the corner, the oranges and grapefruit smells permeating the entire house and almost disguising the regular smell of House. It was perfect.

Sometimes, My aunt, the funny one that teased a little (but only in a good way) would come over, too, and it would be those times that I would freeze, hand mid-way to my mouth with a nice, plump piece of nut meat, and stare at the person my mother had become. Laughing and radiant. She was even more beautiful than usual. It was amazing to look at her with her head slightly back, laughing so hard that sometimes you could see tears at the corner of her eyes.

One time, my grandpa showed me how the figs were different tasting when they were only days apart in age. He sliced a whole series open with his pocketknife and showed me the colors in the itty, bitty seeds and had me taste little slices of them. His favorites were the ones right in the middle. I liked the least ripe ones that were firmer. And we both agreed that the very, very ripe ones were just too sweet for eating and should be used in baking. If he were here to ask me now, I’d tell him that I agree, the mid-point ripened figs are the best tasting. And also, my palette has matured and I now enjoy dates as well. He would be so proud.

I wish I had photos of the figs in my refrigerator for you, but the pictures wouldn’t be the same without his strong and weathered hands holding them, anyway. Or without my mother’s laugh.

Why Do I Listen?

I can never get enough of public radio. I know where all the stations are in my area. I know when my favorite shows are on. I sometimes sit in the car for an extra 5-10 minutes after reaching my destination just to finish listening.

The end result of this is that I’m kind of sort of informed about a wide variety of subjects. A connoisseur of tiny tid-bits, if you will. I can carry one side of a conversation with someone that knows more than I do pretty well. It’s when I try to tell someone that has less knowledge than I do, about any certain subject that has caught my fancy, that we find ourselves in trouble, people, since I really don’t know what I’m talking about. I have, some people might say, just enough knowledge to be dangerous (and/or annoying).

What I notice, however, is that my feelings on the subject are not proportional to the amount of knowledge I have. For example, if I know 20% of all there is to know about immigration, shouldn’t I be 20% on the scale in how strong I feel about it? This is theorizing that there is a way to quantify the amount of knowledge on any subject that is to be had. But instead I find that I get passionate about some things right from the start and I want to ‘share’ my feelings and point of view with others. My small and puffy mind wonders if this is a problem for other people as well. Do the people in the public eye know more than I know? Do they spend the time to really know their subjects well, front and back, before formulating an opinion and going out on the path to support Pro-Choice or Pro-Life? There are times when I’m completely hot under the collar and spewing strong opinion and passion everywhere only to find out a few days later that I’m actually full of crap.

Since I am by nature an impatient person as well as slightly lazy, or at least drawn to comfort and ease as opposed to being driven, for the most part, to spend my days researching politics and current events, and because I have this public format that I am free to use any way I wish, I might as well spill my over-saturated, passionate feelings about subjects I don’t actually have all the facts for here. I need a name for these new recurring posts.

In this series, I will not even try to pretend that I know everything about the subject at hand. I will merely state my current opinion and hope that you, dear reader, will agree or not agree in my comments so that I can actually get a well-rounded and more full knowledge base on said subject. Look for the first installment this week.

I hope you are all having a wonderful Tuesday.

Regarding Foley

More than anything else we do in our lifetime, it is what the youth of today learn from us that creates our legacy. Notice I didn’t say ‘what we teach’ because what we teach and what they learn can be universes apart.

You can’t escape hearing about the Foley Debacle these days. It is everywhere and for good reason. With all the finger-pointing going on, it’s easy to ascertain that not only did people know about it for years, but so many people knew about it as to create the classic abused/abuser environment.

As an abuse survivor, it took me years to unlearn some basic truths that I learned as a child. These truths were not true in the socially acceptable circles out in the open. But on the most very basic levels of my Self, they were rock hard truths.

In a classic familial abuse situation, it is the children that learn to read the parents. They learn to assess the feeling of the room before even walking in the door. They learn to read their parent’s feelings and attitudes and intents to gauge the danger level. The children become parentalized and must watch out for their own safety and welfare because no one else will do it for them. Parents/adults can’t be trusted.

Let’s say that at some point, those kids get to a place where they are brave enough to tell someone what is happening. They hone in on an adult that can be trusted. They somehow find the words to speak the agonizing truth of the situation. And here is where they learn their next lesson: will they be believed? And, if they are believed, will they be protected? A child learns many truths about life in the aftermath of telling their secret.

In this Foley situation, the things that bother me the most, and there are so many to pick from, are 1) the kid(s) that came forward years ago were not believed to the degree that they should have been and if they were believed, their feelings and the danger of the situation were minimized, 2) the adults in control ‘stuck together’ and most likely shuffled off those particular kids to new places to keep them quiet, 3) new interns and pages were told that ‘this is just the way Foley is’ and it then became THIER responsibility to monitor what happened in this completely power-lopsided relationship, creating the illusion that children can control the abuse that happens to them, 4) immediately after being found out in the mainstream media, Foley’s camp turned to ‘he’s an alcoholic’ and ‘he was abused as a teen’ and ‘he’s gay’ in order to divert responsibility and 5) these kids and young adults are treated with less respect and have less protection than working adults do with sexual harassment statutes in place.

I find it indescribably sad that our youth are going to what should be an exciting and knowledge-packed place and supposedly having this spectacular experience learning how our government works and the ins and outs of how things get done and instead are learning the very worst kind of lessons about dysfunction, which apparently, is how our government works.

We can teach our youth all kinds of things that we wish they would learn, but it’s what we do and what we allow to happen to them and to this country that they will internalize. That is our legacy.

Running Away

It was a flowered suitcase. More of a valise, actually. The elasticized sections on the zippered top measured into thirds and partially hidden inside the silky fabric, starting from the left, were three pairs of panties; rolled, a light blue flannel nightgown handed down from my sister: well worn around the seams, and my faded Mr. Bubble T-shirt which I owned because of meticulous cutting and saving labels and box tops for what seemed like eons but what in fact was probably more like an entire month the previous year.

The large area of the case, normally reserved for clothing for the savvy traveler who appreciates a fresh change of clothes while abroad, in this situation was full of notebooks and drawing pads, pens and pencils, reading books such as Grimm’s Fairy Tales and the H, B and I encyclopedias. H for the Human Form with clear plastic pages that with every turn inevitably created the back part of a man or woman, complete with bones, muscles, veins, organs and a flaccid penis or halved uterus, respectively. B and I for the wonderful illustrations of butterflies and insects. The final items rounding out the contents were a Holly Hobbie doll, practically new, and a pair of plastic pants to go over my panties, sewn by my own mother in my own size in an attempt to cut down on not only the laundry but the smell. Sadly, I don’t think it would have saved me from the humiliation of wearing them in front of friends. They crinkled.

The year was 1977. I was six and incredibly upset. As I lugged the suitcase up from the basement, the injustice of the situation did not escape me. Not only did I have to run away, I had to also carry my own luggage. And all of this because my mom did not think I was old enough to sleep over.

I was a bed wetter. Oh, the humiliation. With each bump-step, bump-step, I became increasing sure that I was in the right and that my mother was in the wrong. Should I be locked in a cage simply because I could not hold my urine? bump-step Should I be forced to stay home when every other girl in my class would be spending glorious evenings together playing Barbies and Smurf Family all over town? bump-step Was it fair to ask me to be the only girl that hadn’t played Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board late at night while giggling and secretly being completely freaked out? The mystique surrounding that game was luscious, sparkly and completely opaque to my eyes. I would never find out if the ghosts were real if my mom would not let me sleep over using my plastic pants.

bump-step.

And now on the landing, I looked for my olive green, corduroy jacket with the ripped right pocket from the time I tried to jam both gloves in at the same time. Those small, darling topstitched pockets were more ‘Pockets’ than pockets and unfortunately, were not made for a glove set. There was really only room for my chapstick and one tiny vial of perfume no bigger than a pen lid, scent: green apple, my favorite, which now resided only on the left, near my heart.

There was one dollar and sixty-three cents from my bank in my back pocket. Along with over ten dollars I had stolen from my sister’s room. This being an emergency, and since she would never see me again, I suspected it would be fine.

I gave the entry hall one last look, a tear rolling down my cheek as the seriousness of what I was about to do settled in my heart. Oh, my dear, dear parents. They would miss me, yes. And they would understand that they had wronged me. There I would be, living in a hovel, a gutter, dirt smeared on my face. The tears began falling in earnest now, my suitcase heavy in my hands. I would eat leaves and scraps from trashcans. The neighbors would refer to me as that sad, dirty girl that had no parents that loved her.

With a heavy sigh, I opened the front door and plunged into the early evening air. Tears on my face, snot dripping, but oh, so brave! I marched down the sidewalk just as my mom drove home from her errands. Well, fine! Good! I was glad she would see me. She’d soon be sorry for treating me like such a baby.

From the corner of my eye, I saw her form get out of the car, open the hatch and remove a brown bag of groceries just as I reached the street. The neighbor, also exiting his vehicle, asked me, ‘Where ya off to, now? With your bag? And it’s about to rain?’ which, apparently, was more questions than I knew what to do with. I stopped in my tracks, teetering on the edge of our property between Home and Out There. I looked at the neighbor. I looked back at my mom. She yelled, ‘Leah! Get the bag with the Rice Crispies cereal in it!’

My decision was swift and based mostly on hunger. I grabbed the cereal bag and dropped my suitcase at the door. But I kept my sister’s ten dollars.

Dissociative Disorders

In rewriting parts of my book, I had the chance to get a little deeper into the frustration of how dissociative disorders are classed and diagnosed. Here is an excerpt:

During my stay at a mental hospital in 1999, not only did a doctor diagnose me accurately with DDNOS, but I didn’t make myself forget the diagnosis, which had happened a few years previous. This is after being misdiagnosed any number of times with any number of ailments, some of which were correct for specific personalities but never the entire picture. Diagnosing someone with DID or DDNOS can be particularly difficult if the therapist only sees one or two of the personalities during their visits together. I was lucky to meet some very competent doctors during that first mental hospital stay.

The full definition of DDNOS can be found in the dictionary:
DDNOS is a diagnostic category ascribed to patients with dissociative symptoms that do not meet the full criteria for a specific dissociative disorder.

Because there are only a handful of specified dissociative disorders, there are any number of people falling through the cracks without a diagnosis. Add to that the fact that many states and doctors don’t acknowledge DID as a ‘real’ illness, and you can see why there are so many people not getting the help they need. After all, if your doctor doesn’t believe in the illness you have, how can they help you heal?

This is a serious problem and needs to change. We need better words and clearer diagnosis. It was nice to see that I’m not the only one frustrated with this current diagnosing system and the words that are used. This letter to the editor from Kenneth A. Nakdimen, MD says pretty much the same thing.

If you read my book and would feel comfortable giving me specific feedback, please let me know. I’m getting plenty of feedback from editors about what they think should be ‘streamlined’ but I’d like to know how those of you that have read it feel.

Thoughts About Being Positive

I’ve had thoughts just floating around and around for the past few weeks and I’ve had a really hard time getting it down in a concise and readable way for others to understand that also comes from a place of loving. But, I think the gist of it is this:

Why do people spend energy and time sending out negativity? Isn’t their life just as busy and full as mine? Don’t they have only the same limited hours in a day and juggle things around trying to fit them all in? Why would they choose to spend any of those precious moments writing hateful and venomous things about other people?

The most used argument is that everyone has the right to write about whatever they want in their blog. And I mostly agree with that. In most cases, we do. But the part I don’t get is why? What has happened in that person’s life that makes it fun to trash other people for sport? Possibly residual resentments from their upbringing? Maybe they were teased or emotionally abused (or worse) and so they unconsciously need to unload that somewhere? I think if they focused on themselves for a while and went through their own emotional stuff, they wouldn’t feel the need they do now to tear others down,

I tend to think, for the most part, that it is not just plain jealously, because of the amount of pleasure these people seem to get out of their ‘sport’ and how zealous they are about trying to tear other people down. I think it borders more on an obsessive behavior, where they are finding their self-worth in hurting others.

Another common argument is that the people ‘on the top’ that are getting hit with the negativity, should somehow not care because ‘they are famous’ and so this is what goes with the territory. Since I’m not one to get into the trash magazines about movie and music celebrities and I don’t agree that being famous is synonymous with asking the world at large to judge you for every choice you make for the rest of your life, I don’t agree with this argument, either. If someone has worked hard, been recognized for their effort and reaps the benefit of being ‘on top’, then great for them! I wish we could all support each other and say, ‘Way to go! Nice work!’ or if we don’t agree with what they say or what they’ve done, how about, ‘I don’t agree with what you said/wrote/did but I hope you get everything you hope for!’ because them getting what they hope for and work towards takes nothing away from me. There is enough ‘good stuff’ out there for everyone.

Honest debating and real discussions are great. Not agreeing is great. Diversity is what makes the world a great and wonderful place to live. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, just as I’m sure there will be those that don’t agree with what I’ve written here. But resorting to name calling and trash talking and negativity can’t be the best option. And if you have the time and energy and get the inclination to put negativity out into the world, how about putting that excess energy into something positive, like volunteering for your local candidate who might get elected because of your efforts and create some real change in the government? Or, how about looking yourself in the mirror and telling yourself that you love yourself, since that might be lacking. Be positive with yourself and let it come out of you and give it to others. You will be a truly happier person.

Badges. Get Your Badges. (and HuffPost)

Get your BloggerNetwork.org badges here. It includes instructions if you need them. If anyone feels adventurous and creative and wants to make some more badges, please do and send them to me. I’ll post them and make them available along with a link to your site if you want.

The Huffington Post is looking for submissions. If you have a story related to overcoming fear, they would love to get it for a new section of their website that is launching very soon. Email Romi for more specifics.

Whodoyou, Whodoyou, Whodoyou Think You Are?

Bless your soul.

Is there a writer’s group in Simi Valley or Ventura County? If so, I can’t find you. Please contact me or I will be forced to start my own. And if I did start my own, who would come?

I want to get together with people and write stuff and drink beer or coffee or something.

For a good time, call me.