Tuesday At The Staples Center: Live on CNN

Okay, so I'm sitting here watching the memorial service for Michael Jackson at the Staples Center in Los Angeles.  Is anybody else but me just a bit irritated?  Actually, I'm more sad than irritated because it seemed to me that Michael Jackson spent a large part of his life sad, lonely, misunderstood, and wistful for a different kind of life.  What irritates me is that during his lifetime, all you ever heard about Michael Jackson in the past ten to fifteen years was negative, convoluted, tabloid fodder.  People are saving all the good, all the kind words, all the protection and defense for after he's gone.  People waited to celebrate who he was and what he gave to the world until his death.  It just doesn't seem fair or right to me.

I was really grateful to hear Brooke Shields's description of him: happy, loving life, loving to laugh...a sweet, fun, and funny person.

I didn't know him of course, but I loved his music and I was very sad to hear he'd gone. I hope he's found happiness and peace.  He gave us some incredible music.

A more cheerful blog post coming soon, I promise!

HEY! I'm READING here!

What's up with creepiness at Barnes and Noble?  The store seems to attract a particular group of patrons (excepting you and I, of course) whose mothers never taught them not to stare.  And that following people is creepy.  Why do I think this?  Because, particularly at the Barnes and Noble on Maynard in Cary, I have had at least three uncomfortable shopping experiences that have left me researching my purchases online ahead of time and going in to find and buy quickly, instead of browsing, having a coffee, and relaxing in one of those huge, overstuffed armchairs I love so much.  

The first of these instances that comes to mind was about 18 months ago and involved an individual that I have subsequently and creatively named Guy In The Blue Hat.  I was doing my own thing, browsing in the Christian Inspiration section.  I was looking for a particular Donald Miller book and enjoying myself quite a bit.  I hadn't been there long, however, when I noticed Blue Hat in the next aisle over, gawking uncomfortably.  Now I know I was a beautiful sight in my company t-shirt, ponytail, and glasses, but there was no need for the obvious ogling that this guy was doing.  Maybe he was offended by my choice of reading material, I don't know (I personally challenge anyone to think Donald Miller is anything but witty, charming, and knowledgeable in the matters of spirituality and cross-country road trips).  After doing the anxious *glance* Is he looking at me?? *glance around, glance back at him* Yeah, there's nobody else here, he must be looking at me sequence, I shifted slightly so that he didn't have such a direct view of me.  He shifted too.  Annoyed, I turned and glared directly at him in as confrontational a manner as I could without actually DOING anything.  His head swiveled back to the book in his hands, in which he suddenly became thoroughly absorbed.  Seconds later, however, he was back to the same gawking and I was back to being uncomfortable.  So I moved to a different aisle.  So did he...directly across from me.  I moved to a different section of the store.  Minutes later, he showed up there as well.  For the rest of the time I was in the store (about 20 minutes or so), this guy stalked me from a distance.  As I'd walk up one row of shelves, he'd pass by on another.  If I went to the cafe, he found a shelf directly adjacent to it from which to be creepy.  I couldn't get away from him.  Finally, I shot him one last look of what I hoped was complete and total disgust before leaving the store with my half-finished macchiato and no book.

Second scenario occurred about a year  ago as I sat in one of the aforementioned huge, overstuffed chairs (the ones I love so much).  I hadn't been there long, but I had a stack of about three books I was checking out and I was otherwise just unwinding after a day at work in front of a computer.  Already deep into a book I was pretty sure I'd wind up buying, I saw someone out of the corner of my eye come over and flop very conspicuously into the chair next to mine.  (As a side note, it does annoy me somewhat how Barnes and Noble tends to group these chairs, thereby forcing you to make nice, at least for the initial couple of minutes, with a complete stranger whom, if they were there first, always makes you feel somewhat like you've stepped into their own personal living room and asked to have a seat.  Awkward.  Why couldn't they just have MORE of these chairs and scatter them more strategically throughout the store?  Somewhere out there, somebody reading this disagrees with me on this issue and is rolling their eyes at me right now. I can feel it.) 

ANYway.  The person who flopped into the chair next to mine was a guy in his very early twenties, wearing a suit and tie, and obviously uninterested in the book he was holding.  He did the *glance, look away, glance, look away* sequence a few times before choosing the following opener:  "You know, you can tell a lot about a person by their handwriting."  

I wasn't writing anything and neither was he.

I looked at him blankly before returning to my reading.

"Seriously," he continued , "I'm studying handwriting analysis and I can tell all kinds of things about a person, just by reading something they wrote."

"Really," I said, not taking my eyes from the page I was reading.

"I could tell a few things about you just by observing you these last few minutes," he persisted, despite my obvious disinterest and the also obvious fact that he'd JUST sat down.  I glanced back up at him but otherwise ignored him.

"Like, I can tell you're shy at first but that you open up once you get to know a person."  This guy was brilliant.  I found myself falling deeply in love with him.  It was all I could do not to launch myself at him right then and there in the middle of the Psychology section.  We're now married and living in a duplex in Raleigh with our three children, Sammy, Davis, and Junior.

Ahem.

What continued after the above remark was a mostly one-sided conversation during which he asked me where I went to school (then where I worked), where I lived, and other questions that were, quite frankly, none of his business.  As I pressed my nose further into the binding of my hardcover, he told me how he was in his last year at NC State but was working about 30 hours a week in marketing.  He sounded terrifically proud of himself and I'm sure that in his mind, buried far beneath a cap of stiffly gelled hair, he was wondering why I wasn't throwing myself enthusiastically into the conversation; perhaps stuffing my number into his sweaty palm as he spoke.  Thankfully, after much uncomfortable shifting in my chair (which he translated to mean that I was a "passionate person" or some other such nonsense), my friend Melissa showed up to meet me for dinner and I was allowed to escape.  As he had informed me that this was his favorite Barnes and Noble to frequent in the afternoons, I avoided it like the plague for a few months.  

Incidentally, I happened to see him several weeks later selling neck ties at a kiosk in the mall.  That's marketing, right?

The most recent incident at this particular Barnes and Noble happened yesterday as I waited for another friend to meet me for dinner.  Of late, I renewed a particular interest in the Romanov family of Russia, their collective fate, and the mystery surrounding it.  I've always been curious about the story and about Russian culture in general, especially since taking a Russian Lit course in college, but my boyfriend's (hey sweetie!!) mom and grandma just returned from a trip to the Baltic region and their pictures and stories sparked my curiosity all over again.  So I went to Barnes and Noble after looking up a particular book on their website which was luckily on sale in their "Bargain Books" section.  Having found that one, I was back in the biography section, seated on the carpet, and poring over a fascinating book about the Tsar and his family with hundreds of full-color photographs.  It was during this perusal that I became uncomfortable in the knowledge that I was being observed.  I looked up and to my immediate right to find that a man seated in the cafe was watching me quite unabashedly.  I'd noticed his head swivel as I'd walked by earlier but I ducked around a display and didn't think much else about it.  But now, here he was again, staring straight at me and not looking away, despite my obvious awareness of him and my returning glare.  Now, I don't mean to sound in any way like I think I'm The Hotness, worthy of, or even used to for that matter, being ogled in public by members of the opposite sex.  When it happens, in fact, it's enough of a novelty to me that I notice it immediately and am made quite uncomfortable by it.  This particular guy, though, was quite a bit older than me and apparently difficult to turn off by my glare, so I got up and moved to the front of the store, sitting in another of those huge, overstuffed chairs (that I do love so).  What do you know but five minutes later, this guy comes rambling over and sits himself down in a chair that was a comfortable gazing distance away.  I slouched down and buried myself in the large book I was carrying, with a fervor akin to a highschooler studying for the SATs.  Thankfully, it wasn't long after that my friend arrived and we left for dinner.  

So what I want to know is, is it all Barnes and Nobles that attract this particular gawky, stalkerish type of individual or just this particular store on the corner of Maynard and Walnut in Cary?  Because of my experiences there, I rarely hang out there unescorted for any extended amount of time.  Instead, I research what I'm looking for, find out if it's there, and I go in quickly to find it, purchase it, and leave instead of loitering around in the manner which is encouraged by the arm chairs and the beverages.  Maybe this blog entry should serve as a Public Service Announcement to all patrons of that particular store: Please keep your eyes to yourself and behave in a manner your mother (and all other women) would approve of!  If it could provoke a restraining order in other circumstances and with continued persistence, please cease and desist!  People are trying to READ around here!

If you feel my pain, please let me know.  Otherwise, I'm switching to Borders.

The Road To Happiness Starts With Fiber.

Thanks for the comments, people.  Seriously.  They've been overwhelming.  I've actually had to hire an assistant named Chandler to read and filter through all the responses for me. Since I'm so busy and all.  

Too bad all that is a LIE!

Still no job, still fighting inertia, still hearing discouraging news from the public at large about the state of the economy and the likelihood of employment, and no one appears to be reading my blog...but you know what? I'm a pretty happy chick.  I've got a lot to be thankful for so I've devoted my last blog post to whining about my unemployed state.  That isn't to say that I won't ever mention it again...you, dear (solitary) reader, are not that lucky because it is, after all, my job to be unemployed and searching for employment now.  

Inertia took a swift kick in the junk this week as I've been to the gym every day so far this week AND my talented boyfriend took a swing at my resume and completely revamped the thing so it looks great.  You need shiny bait to catch a big, honkin' fish, right?  

As for writing, I'm getting little shards of ideas floating in every day now but the problem has become how to form a shard into a full idea and then write about it.  I mean, how can you write an entire story on....eh, no examples are coming to mind right this second.  See?  See how hard it is??  Eh...you know what I mean.  I've always been better at the creative nonfiction than the scarier, full-commitment-requiring Fiction, because that's what I'm used to, but if I could just let go of all the insecurity and write like I did when I was growing up (when literally anything could be possible, as far as my imagination was concerned), I could at least have a lot of fun, if not anything good to show for it.  As grown-ups, we put too much pressure on ourselves to be "good" and "valid" and to "have a point" when really, if you're doing something for the pure joy of it, who gives a crap if it's any of that stuff to anybody else? Blegh, adult validity is boring.  This blog is my baby-step toward abandoning those hang-ups and writing just because I enjoy it.  Having a a point, being good and/or valid are all optional, as anyone reading my blog EVER at any point along the way will acknowledge.

You know what I've caught up on a lot since becoming unemployed?  Daytime television commercials.  Usually during the show, I'm reading or typing or surfing the Internet and just listening to Dr. Phil drone on in the background, but for some reason, I usually end up breaking whatever I'm doing in time to catch the commercials.  I'm backwards like that.  Drug companies, law firms, and low-budget ads for local automotive businesses get a LOT of air time during the day.  I can now give you the names of several recommended drugs for depression, allergies, and erectile dysfunction, point you to the website of a handful of law firms that can handle your workman's comp/disability claims with the scary, mob-like depictions of the insurance companies, and give you the number of a couple of shops that can repair or replace your windshield "for free" if you have car insurance (they pick up the deductible).  Need an electric wheelchair?  Call the Scooter Store.  Your kids not getting enough electrolytes (and really, who is)?? I can give you a few suggestions there as well.  Want to know how what product can give you enough fiber and probiotics to have you visiting the bathroom on a regular basis?  Curious as to what law firm would advertise in a cowboy hat against a background of a picture of New York City?  I've got the low-down.  I am now a veritable well of useful recommendations and information for the elderly, stay at home moms, and the injured, unable to work, and bitter.  Hmm...think I should put that on my resume?  Or just apply to ITT Tech to launch my career in the Information Technology field making a salary in the high five-figures?  Sigh.

Beeteedub...FreeCreditReport.com?  We could use some new entertainment.

Well...I'm off to fight Inertia for another day and find alternate routes to productivity.  And as usual, interested or not, I'll keep you posted.

Kicking Butt and Taking Names

So I joined a gym. 

If you've checked my Facebook page at all in the past couple of months, you'll know what I mean when I say I've been engaged in a battle to the death with Inertia.  Inertia sucks. But it's kicking my butt.  So in an effort to try to turn the tables unexpectedly and get one over on Inertia when its guard is down, I took action yesterday and joined a gym.  I've been saying for almost a month now that I needed to do SOMEthing to get my butt moving again.  When I moved out of my apartment the first of this month, I gave up my 24-hour, right-downstairs access to the gym in my building.  While I won't miss the dude who'd show up occasionally to intrude upon my workouts with weightlifting grunts and groans that made me more than a bit uncomfortable, I have missed having a gym that I can just hop over to without even getting in my car.  Given, Four Oaks Fitness isn't in my house, but it is only three blocks away and the walk will just add to my exercise and the amount of self-righteousness I'll inevitably feel after every workout.  

The plan is to work out every morning during the work week (that's five whole days a week!) and then whenever I feel up to it over the weekend.  Now it's your job, if you are in fact out there reading this ANYONE, to keep me accountable to this plan.  And I guess if nobody is out there reading this other than my wonderful boyfriend (Hey sweetie!) then I won't know it without a doubt and I'll pretend you're there anyway and effectively hold myself accountable because for all I know, you COULD be out there and thinking what a wuss I am.  As I can't have anyone, pretend or otherwise, thinking I'm a wuss, I'm hoping that I'll stick with it.  

Also, I only signed on for a month to see how I do so I won't potentially blow a lot of money on a 6-month membership I'll wind up not using.  

But don't think this is giving Inertia a leg-up, however. I just know me and while I've kicked my own booty in the gym before, I can't guarantee that I'll do it again.  I'm just giving myself the opportunity and hoping against hope that I'm stubborn enough to stay with it.

So take that, Inertia! The battle continues in the Land of Unemployment and hopefully I'll be victorious.  I'm becoming more determined than ever, with Jordan's encouragement (Hey again sweetie! Feel better!), to triumph over the list of goals I made for 2009 in a previous blog post...despite being depressingly unemployed.  I'm open to suggestions though so if you're out there and you have any surprise tactics under your belt, leave me a comment.

Or just leave me a comment anyway.  Comments make me happy. 

ncesc.com: The Happy Place.

Ah, unemployment.  

I could go on here in an unending rant of the frustrations of being unemployed, the lack of jobs there are out there right now, and the joys of a very limited income.  But I won't. 

You're welcome.

The lives of those of us who are unemployed are both on hold and delightfully freed.  It's as if we're in college again, but without the protective cover of classes to go to.  We learn what we teach ourselves.  When you have no job, you have the option to sit around in your pj's of self-loathing, watching reruns of What Not To Wear and dwelling on the slowly creeping onslaught of disgust that comes with inertia, or...you could actually choose to do something productive with all this free time you suddenly have and therefore feel at tad bit better about yourself at the end of the day.  

After dabbling in both, I've decided for today that the only way to live on unemployment and not go insane (and gain a half-ton of weight besides) is...well...the second one.  Don't get me wrong. I still have my days of relapse in the self-loathing pj's (they fit perfectly and hardly ever need to be washed, after all), but when it comes down to it, I'd much rather leave the confines of the couch (or my bed, or the recliner, or the middle of the den floor) and find something to do.  

Today, at the encouragement of my loving boyfriend, I've decided to blog again, as blogging is the apparent first baby step on the road to getting-over-myself and writing, despite any fears I have and the difficulty to peel off any remaining garments of the self-loathing variety.  After all, I've always loved to write, blogging used to be a lot of fun (and still is, as I'm reminded once every six months to a year when I update), and I now have an amazing Macbook on which to do it.  This computer is incredibly lightweight, sleek, intuitive, and the keys make a pleasant clack-clacking sound when I type with a certain amount of force.  It was love at first sight in the Mac Store.  

Also, I've done an incredible amount of reading since since January, when I became one of the 8.something % of people now seated in the unemployment dunking-booth ("Welcome back from Christmas break! You don't have a job any more.").  I've read everything from Gillian McKeith (veggie-happy, British granola/vitamin-evangelist who thinks we're all on a fast road to dietary hell in a deep-fried handbasket) to Stephen King's musings on the writing life.  Now, I've never been a horror fan and as a result, I've never read anything by Stephen King before.  But when I was browsing the Writing/Publishing section of Barnes and Noble a couple weeks ago, his book entitled On Writing caught my interest.  I read over the first few pages and consequently purchased it for the bargain price of....I don't remember, but less than ten bucks.  Not to make anybody roll their eyes, but hey... this guy can write!  After a narration of his childhood years and the events and interests therein that led him to write, he continues on to tell how he became the prolific writer that he is today.  I mean, dude's written dozens and dozens of books and I was fascinated with his process of taking an idea that piqued his interest and rolling with it until it developed into a novel. He made it sound as if the books spontaneously created themselves and their characters in his mind as he typed along, marionette-like, on his Powerbook.  I was encouraged by his belief that books and stories tend to write themselves; that all you have to do is present yourself as a tool by which a story can be written.  You start with a character, scene, question, etc. and from there, you just go where it takes you, writing as the thoughts come to your head.  

Well...it was more encouraging until I realized that this is pretty much my approach to blogging and we've all seen how that can turn out.

(Insert reader's uplifting comments and "pshaws" of disagreement here.)

So...to cut the rambling to a minimum, I'm side-lining the nerves and trying things the Stephen King way.  And you, dear reader, may have to suffer the consequences as I post bits and pieces of any resulting stories on here.  Hey, I may even read a Stephen King novel!  After all, I borrowed Craig's copy of The Shining like ten years ago and have yet to make it past page three.  This may or may not bode well for Stephen King's and my relationship and the writing it influences.

Sigh.

Unemployment, in the end, gives you a lot of time to take a good, hard look at yourself and what it is exactly that makes you tick.  When you step out of the working-to-live-to-work cycle, your daily reality shifts a bit, leaving you feeling disoriented and in desperate need of your sea legs.  The direction in which you so stalwartly marched every morning at 7am isn't where you left it anymore and so (to be apologetically metaphorical here) you may have to stop and ask for directions.  That's where your family and friends come in.  These are the people who hang around you for no apparent monetary or inspirational or reputational (exercising creative license there) gain and without any amount of threatening or stalking involved.  It's these people who will let you sit around in your pj's for only so long before they laugh, lift you up under your armpits, and shove you in the direction of the shower.  They don't expect apology or explanation, they're just there because they want to be and they want you to want to be too.  To all of you who are my particular people, I love you and am very, very thankful for you.  Keep laughing and shoving.  I'm sure I'll need it.

Hey!  What Not To Wear is about to come on...

*Clang, clang clang!* Meeeeeeerry Christmas!!!

The mall, approximately 52 hours before Christmas Eve: NOT a fun place to be. But you knew that, right?
Everybody's out, slavering at the mouth to get those presents they've put off shopping for because they were too busy sitting at home watching local news broadcasts about people out shopping for Christmas early, pointing at them on the screen, and making fun of them. I refuse to use the phrase "last-minute shopping" in any of its variations because if I hear it again at any point in the next 48 hours, I may very well approach the person who said it and, quickly and nonconfrontationally, shove a candy cane where the sun don't shine. That sounds violent, I realize. I just hate seasonal cliches.
I was very surprised yesterday at Cary's illustrious Cary Towne Center mall ("Town" spelled with an "e" to up the hoity-toity factor, one can only presume), by a number of things. First of all, where did all the Indian people come from?? I cringe at even asking because such questions are the proverbial match at the end of the fuse on a big ol' keg of racist gunpowder, but I don't mean to sound racist in the least. I'm honestly curious about what it is about the Cary area that draws more and more people of this nationality every year. If not for their colorful dress, they would've blended right in as they rushed around with a look of grim determination on their faces just like the rest of us, but as their children were some of the most adorable I've ever seen in my life, I couldn't help but notice their growing number.

Second Surprising Thing I Noticed at the Mall: the infinite number of times a teenage girl squeals, screams, or otherwise uses in general conversation the phrase "Oh my god!" I was in Bath & Body Works with Mom, studying a display of a new scent called "Sleep" (a combination of cinnamon and cloves), when the display in question was also approached from the other side by a gaggle of three or four girls, approximately 13 in age. They were at that charming stage of physical development when their noses, arms, and legs are disproportionately long compared to the rest of their bodies, yet they somehow remain cute, in an awkward coltish way. They were clad in the standard uniform of girls of their age: a combination of denim skirts, hoodies, jeans, and colorful socks from one or the other of the three A's: Abercrombie and Fitch, American Eagle Outfitters, and Aeropostale. They approached rapidly and in one clump of arms and legs, moving much like the collective Peanuts gang as they decorated Charlie Brown's tree in A Charlie Brown Christmas: features indiscernable initially, just a moving mass of giggles and noise and the refrain of "oh my god!". I was a little taken aback as I didn't expect the display of Sleep products to merit such a vocal response (it is intended to be relaxing, after all), but Girl Number 1 seized a bottle, exclaimed "Oh my god, SLEEP!", and proceeded to read the label out loud to her companions, who were all breathing heavily and grinning to beat the band. All I could see from my position on the opposite side of the display were scarves, noses, and hair. I quickly moved on.

Surprising Mall Thing Number 3: People are angry. In the case of Christmas shopping, I can only guess who it is they're mad at. They're mad at themselves for waiting until three days before Christmas to do their shopping. They're mad at the knowledge that now all the people who have their shopping done are sitting at home, watching them on their local news broadcast, pointing at them on the screen, and making fun of them. They're mad at the actual people who necessitated the buying of gifts in the first place: the loved ones for whom they're slogging through the mall, swiping and purchasing at an alarming and angry rate. These people don't want to stop, they don't want to browse, and they don't want you doing either of the above in their vicinity. They will jostle your shoulder hard as they pass you, they'll sigh loudly at the store counter as they wait in line behind you, and they WILL move as if to hit you with their car, should you dare have the audacity to cross a parking lot in front of them with more parcels than they've managed to buy at that point. Move quickly, keep your head down, and don't make eye contact. These are the only ways to have a semi-acceptable existence to these people.

Surprising Mall Thing #4 (and then I'm done, I promise):
Nobody who actually WORKS at the mall knows anything about anything having to pertain to the mall. If you want to know where anything is, how much it is, if there are any left in stock, what other stores might carry what you're looking for, and/or what the mall hours are, you'll have to ask your fellow shoppers. Employees will give you nothing but a blank stare and your receipt.

I hope you all are surviving the pre-holiday season and that you're now one of those at home, watching last-minute shoppers (yes, I know, I said it...keep your candy cane!) on the evening news and shaking your heads in mock sympathy. 'Tis the season for baking and I have a lot to do so that'll most likely be the next Christmas adventure of mine you're privy to. Happy shopping/wrapping/frustrating everyone! And be safe out there!

What the...?

What the crap happened to 2008??
What the crap happened to ME???
I blog no longer, yet I call myself a writer (in the professional sense, I suppose this is true). How can this be?!

Hi.
So it's been....eh......a year or so since my last blog post and you've all forgotten me. That's okay. I'd like to say I've been working on the upkeep of my ant farm or my second best-selling novel, and I suppose I could say that, but consequently, I'd be full of crap.

I've missed you!

Obligatory Personal Update:
2008 has been a great year. I'm still working at SchoolDude, plugging away and working on some new (read: scary and exciting) projects there, and daydreaming about becoming a freelance writer in my spare time. That hasn't happened yet. That's where 2009 comes in. More to come on that in a minute.
In 2008, I also met and began dating The Most Wonderful Guy In Melissa's Personal History. His name is technically Jordan though. We actually met via email in November of 2007 through my lovely and effervescent cousin, Rebecca Lindhout, and now it's basically her fault that I'm absolutely crazy about this guy (who , by the way, lives in Boston). Never would've happened if she hadn't given him my email address. Well...it's Jordan's fault too that I'm crazy about him. He constantly impresses me in countless ways and boy howdy, does he make me laugh. He's wonderful. I'll leave it at that before you stop reading.
Also in 2008, I began my world travels (thus far, having hit up the states of Massachusetts and Kentucky). Don't worry, the rest of the world will follow suit. I'm in love with Boston now...it's a beautiful city and is everything a city should be: historic, alive with young people and their energy, a creative magnet, chock full of Irish pubs, and only smelling faintly and in isolated areas of urine. LoveBoston. Love it. I was there two weeks or so ago for their first snow of the year. You could really tell I was from out of town as I strolled haltingly up Tremont next to the Common, gawking at the constant, steady blur of falling snowflakes and holding up my fellow pedestrians. Jordan said I reminded him of a cat that morning, sitting in front of the window and staring out in fascination.

Along these lines, 2008 brought with it, my first visit to...guess. Humor me. Really? You got nothing? No, not Lake Tahoe. Seriously. My first visit to Lizzie Borden's house! Located in picturesque Fall River, Massachusetts, the house itself is three stories high, painted a lovely dark green, and not imposing in the least. Jordan and I stepped through the front door on a July evening and were greeted by victorian charm and a wave of 90+ degree heat that almost canceled that charm right out. You see, the AC was out, due to some rennovations being done, and so we experienced Lizzie's house as she herself would have in July: humid and absolutely insufferable without the fans running in the open windows. Honestly, it was enough to drive a person to....commit a horrible homicidal act upon her father and stepmother with a hatchet on an otherwise unremarkable morning in 1892? Maybe. Along with other guests at the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast that night (that's right, it's a B&B now and we STAYED THE NIGHT THERE!), we were cajoled into participating in debating the case, possible motives, and various contestants in the running for "whodunit". Also...we reenacted that fateful morning. Yes, we did. Characters in the story were picked at random by our hostess, based on our heights in relation to the actual people involved. As a result, Jordan was chosen to be Andrew Borden (Victim #2) and I was shortly thereafter designated to be that night's Abby Borden (Victim #1). What this means, basically, is that Jordan had to lie on a sofa in the exact same spot as poor Andrew when he was bludgeoned to death with a hatchet as he took a nap after lunch. Photo op. Not much later, I pretended to make up the bed upstairs as our (charming) hostess snuck up behind me with a hatchet (I never saw her coming) and pantomimed hacking me repeatedly in the skull. I dramatically (and impressively) crumpled to the floor in the same spot where Abby's body lay 116 years before. Wow, was that a creepy feeling. I lay on the carpet, looking under the bed to the stairway outside the door to the bedroom, well aware that an actual crime scene photo hung on the wall directly above me, depicting poor Abby as she was found that day. Morbid? Yes, quite. Fascinatingly cool? Yeah, that too. I have to admit it gave me the proverbial "willies". We spent the night in Lizzie's actual bedroom, with her sister Emma's room directly adjoining, but nothing spooky occurred. No noises, no voices, certainly no full-body apparitions...not even an indistinct anomaly. I actually felt about as comfortable staying in the Borden house as I do in my own. Maybe it's all the Victorian decor. Very "Currier and Ives". Mom and Dad love that crap. And I do have to point out that none of the furniture in the house was original. Whew.
Jordan went downstairs at 2am with his video camera, catching what we would later discover were EVP's...voices caught on tape that weren't actually heard by Jordan at the time he was filming. Among the quotes caught were the words, "Who's there?" and "I didn't...do it." Of course, we didn't find these until we viewed the footage later or that might've upped the creepy factor quite a bit. It was hard to sleep in such sweltering heat, but I managed somehow and we woke up the next morning to an authentic 1892 breakfast of johnny cakes, eggs, and fruit. I'd never had johnny cakes before. In case you're wondering: cornbread patties, fried and doused with maple syrup, like pancakes. Yummy.
So that was probably my favorite experience of 2008. We arrived around Lizzie's birthday and you'd be amazed at the eccentric (read: downright weird) folks all across the country who actually send cards and flowers to her former home for the occasion every year. Those people may very well be more creepy than Lizzie herself. Did she "do it"? No idea. I like to think she was framed and just happened to be seen innocently burning a stained dress the next day. Eh...as they say of how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll pop: "The world may never know."

2009 will be the year of the following:
1. Melissa's Freelance Adventure: How It All Began. (Coincidentally, also the title of the first chapter in my autobiography, coming soon to a Borders near you, Summer 2027.)
2. The Year Melissa Worked Out Like Xena, Warrior Princess and Consequently Kicked Booty.
3. The year Melissa finally found "her" church.
4. The year Melissa learned the words to "Auld Lang Syne" and what "Auld Lang Syne" means (literally: "Old Long Since". You're welcome.)
5. The Year Melissa Learned to Cook.

Among other things. I'm also hoping it'll be The Year Melissa Blogged Consistently. Fingers crossed, I guess we'll see about that. I'm working on a few short stories to subject you all to soon AND, when number 1 on my 2009 list takes place (as I'm almost a little sure it will within the year), you will all hear about it and be called on to suck it up and act happy for me.

Speaking of blogging (a few sentences back), Nathan's doing a great job on Raleightively Speaking so go check him out if you haven't already. The boy's actually quite humorous and can even be somewhat poignant in his observations. Look at me: I'm a proud older sister.

See you soon. I'm off for a lunch of goat cheese and cranberries. On a salad. Potato chips and ranch dressing on the side.