The Memoir Outline: 1-3

1

Family outing to the Oceanside pier. In preparation, Ronnie drinks.

Instead of going to the pier with us as planned, Ronnie has me drop him off at the Headhunter Saloon. I take Lyle down the pier for a milkshake and fries. Sunset, pelicans, surfers. We race and I pretend to lose. He wants to take off his shoes, but I daren’t let him. Too many fishermen. And splinters.

We go back to pick Ronnie up. He’s standing outside the saloon in a circle of people, smoking. He doesn’t want to come with me. I get money out of the ATM and give it to him and tell him to take a cab home.

I take Lyle to Chuck E. Cheese and wait for Ronnie’s call. They’re open late. I play games with Lyle. 20 minutes, Ronnie calls. They kicked me out of the bar, he says. I need you to come get me, they’re calling the cops, he says. I say too bad, and I hang up on him. Lyle and I play some more. He calls a few more times. I don’t answer. He calls again. I answer and I tell him we’re on our way.

I pick him up and take him to Weinerschnitzel to get some food in him. At the drive-through window he says, please don’t be mad, but I kissed two women at the bar.

2

Ronnie’s drunk. He’s banging against Lyle’s bedroom door. Lyle and I are inside. I’m holding Lyle close to me and reading him a book on the other side of the room. Ronnie kicks the door in and breaks the door frame. Get away from us, I scream. I’m calling 9-1-1, I say. He takes my phone. I pick up Lyle and get by Ronnie but he grabs my arm and pushes me and gets in front of us and blocks the front door. You’re not going anywhere, he says. He puts a hole in the wall with his fist. He walks towards us. I take Lyle into my and Ronnie’s bedroom. We’re both crying. Ronnie is banging on our bedroom door.

Ronnie stops banging and yelling. I sing and rock Lyle to sleep. Lyle falls asleep. I open the bedroom door and Ronnie is passed out on the floor in the hallway.

3

Ronnie and I are fighting. He’s drunk. We’re going to the courthouse tomorrow morning to get a divorce, he says.

I get my phone and my keys and my purse.

Fine, I say. Actually, fuck you, I’m leaving right now, I say. I fucking hate you and I hope I never see you again, I say. I go over to pick up Lyle out of his high chair. Lyle’s crying. Ronnie gets to him first and grabs Lyle and picks him up. I try to pry Ronnie’s arms loose. He won’t let go of Lyle. I stomp on Ronnie’s foot. He doesn’t let go. Lyle is crying. I’m crying. Ronnie is yelling. Thank you for the worst ten years of my life, Ronnie says. You’re not taking Lyle, he says. You’re insane, he says. If you’re leaving, then leave, he says.

I leave Ronnie and Lyle.

I go to my car. I’m crying in the drivers’ seat. I turn the ignition and put it in reverse and I start backing up, then I put it in drive and start driving down the apartments’ parking lot.

I pull out on Mission Rd. I don’t know where to go. I’ve been texting my co-worker Evan a lot lately, complaining about Ronnie. At work last week he said I should leave Ronnie.

I text Evan while crying and driving. I did it, I say. I left Ronnie, but I don’t know what to do, I say. Come over here, he says. I say, I can’t, that’s too scary. Then let’s get to the scary part, he says. I say okay.

I drive over to Evan's mom and stepdad’s house where Evan lives. He meets me on the steps in front of the house. It’s the first time I’ve seen him not in his uniform and cap. He’s wearing a button-up plaid, long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and his hair is flat against his forehead.

I park and walk up to him, slowly. He kisses me. He lifts me up. He carries me into his house as we kiss. He takes me to the living room and he starts taking off his clothes. I take off mine. We have sex on the recliner. Then the couch. Then the floor.

When we’re done, we get dressed and he cooks salmon, collard greens and mashed potatoes. He pours me a glass of wine, and him a glass. After I drink my glass, I try to put the cork back in the top of the bottle. I don't usually drink wine. Evan laughs. Usually when two people open a bottle of wine, he says, they drink the whole thing. I laugh and pour myself another glass. I don’t like to drink much, he says. It hurts my stomach, he says. I finish off the wine. We eat the food and talk.

We go upstairs to his bedroom and we have more sex.

The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 6

"Aspiring memoirist" doesn't do a damn bit of good without any actual effort on my part. And I don't have a job right now, so what the hell am I doing? I've been scattered. Trying to start a business doing way too many things. Performing, voice lessons, tutoring, photography, editing/proofreading, publicity...and not making a cent yet.

I was just laying here on my fiancé's bed in his bedroom at his parents' house while he plays Ben Folds on his keyboard, and tears came to my eyes. "This is what I've come to...I don't recognize my life any more."

The life I recognized was with my dysfunctional family growing up, and my fervent educational pursuits as my escape. Then I recognized being in love with an alcoholic, who made me laugh and kept me up all night long, telling me stories, but with whom I also fought belligerently. Then, I recognized being a mother. All that other crap that came before...blech. But that last thing...that was what life was worth living for.

I wasn't a bad one, either. I use to take my son out every day to mommy-and-me classes, the ones where you sit around a circle with a bunch of other mothers (and a few fathers) with their babies and toddlers to sing songs for half an hour until you took your kid(s) out to the playground for a couple more hours. Those were the days of glory, where in my memory the sun shines bright like the mythical gate of some holy place and bounces off the glittering sand that I would scoop into buckets for my little guy to pour out all over the toys in the sandbox. Real-life toddler heaven, it was. Of course, home was hell. But, as they say...better the Devil you know. (Not really...I'm not being sarcastic or cynical at all in this post.)

These days, my son is four - five in August - and I only see him on weekends, sometimes only every other weekend. Any time his dad asks if he can keep him again "this" weekend, I act like I'm hurt, or sad, or pissed, or I react in some way that hides the fact that deep down I'm relieved as hell to be left to my own selfish, albeit failing pursuits. When I do get my son - when I'm not offered an "out" - I try my best to act like a mother for a couple of days until I "get" to drop him back off with the guy I never thought would be a fitter parent than I. But so it is.

So, yeah. I don't recognize my life. Somehow I'm actually worse a mother than my own was. She didn't pay much attention to us, but she was there, physically. Behind a closed door most of the time, but she was just a knock away.

No, what I've become is my father. Like his, my dedication is to an other on whom I place monumental significance, an other who isn't the parent of my child but who satisfies my need for "love" in a way only a "significant other" can. And I don't have to do all that much to take care of him, except be with him...all the time.

I stood by him during his pyschotic break last week after he'd decided to stop taking all his bipolar/anxiety/OCD/sleep/etc. meds (that's what all the stretching was, a couple posts ago, a precursor to absolute unrecognizable madness that I can't even begin to describe at the moment). Sure, he "loves" me more than anyone has since my husband, #1, and #20 (the other two boyfriends who at least said they loved me). But, I remember when I left my husband, and, when it didn't work with #1, I "knew" that "love just doesn't conquer all" (and that's why I settled with #20 for awhile, because I didn't love him, at all - but my son did, and that's the only reason it lasted as long as it did, until I just couldn't do it any more).

I'm not sure why I've put myself in this position again. I put "loves" in quotations marks, knowing full well that the true word that belongs in its place is "needs". I'm with someone who would completely lose it if I left him. (Hey, that's a song..."As long as he needs me...I know where I must be...I'll hang on steadfastly...as long as he needs me." It's from the musical Oliver! and so says Wikipedia, "It is a love ballad expressing Nancy's love for her criminal boyfriend Bill Sikes, despite his mistreatment of her.")

As a matter of fact, Jason's mental breakdown came on the heels of me packing up because I wanted to go home, just for a night or two, to get away from his all-night manic cleaning episodes. There was shit all over his room, and he was up day and night bringing more shit into it from all over the house, obsessively. Yes, it was part of his disorder gone haywire, and somewhat beyond his control (although, did I mention he's decided to stop seeing his psychiatrist, and just smoke weed from now on?). A good fiancée would stand by her man in his time of need, I guess. But not I. I had tried to get away at least three other times over the course of the week, but he begged me to stay each time. So I did, reluctantly. And so here I still am...miserable.

I just want to get back to my life. I want to open my mail. I want to clean my own room. I want to take care of my cats, instead of just buying bags of catfood and dropping them off for my aunt, with whom I (used to) live. Not only that, I want to pet my cats. And I want to have space, alone time. I want to write my memoir. This blog is just a gathering of ideas. I want to write the real thing. This isn't it. This blog is like a little girl's diary, really. It's just...there's been so much wreckage in the present that it's been hard to just write about the wreckage of the past. It started with Margaret's suicide. Then I dated again - damnit - and that's the irony - this blog was supposed to prevent me from creating any more present wreckage. At least, that was the idea, if you go back and read my first post. I keep acting like getting engaged to be married is the ultimate redemption. I find Jesus, get baptized, start dating a guy in church, have a slip and kiss someone else, so ooh, I know, I'll ask the guy I'm dating to marry me, that'll fix everything - game, set, match!

It's all wrong. I feel like a prisoner. Getting engaged to someone just so he'll "know" you aren't going to leave him and he'll therefore hopefully "let" you leave his house, without freaking the fuck out, is clearly - how shall I put it? - fucking dumb.

I should have been writing throughout the course of our relationship so I could have gotten honest with myself. I was on a roll before this one. I over-analyzed the shit out of the last guy I dated (#29).

(And sorry, I just have to take a moment to laugh about Jesus being #28. A lot of good that did me, lol.)

(Oh! PS, #29 just got married, actually. I saw it on facebook. I wouldn't have been happy with that one, either, so I'm glad it was someone else and not me.)

"Love" - I've made such a joke of the word that I can't even take it seriously any more. And yet I say "I love you so much" every day to...what's the fake name I assigned #30? Oh, Jason, I think. But when I say "I love you" to him, what I mean is, "I don't want you to freak out if I don't say it back, so I'm going to say it back and act like I believe it, so that maybe you believe it, too."

But then...when I'm away from him - when I do GET to go home - first, I feel utter bliss. But then I feel so alone that I can hardly bear it. Even with my son with me at my house, I feel empty. Like something's missing.

I guess that's that "need" again. It's apropos to say that Jason and I "need" each other.

But my son needs me, too, and that one doesn't belong in quotation marks. I'm sorry, but I need to get my shit together. Watching Californication has changed my life. I just finished Season 3. Hank Moody is a better father than I am mother, a better writer than I, too, and, he fucks a shitload of women...which makes me not feel so bad. But it's not cool what he does, and he's has frequent downfalls. His daughter is currently pissed at him, in the episodes I'm watching, for sleeping with her 16 year-old almost-step-sister. But he didn't know she was 16, and he's got a good lawyer that he's fucking, so it'll probably all turn out fine (sarcasm).

Any way, Hank is a fictional construct. But...watching him fuck so many women and and still pick his daughter up from school and out for ice cream makes me feel like a total shitbag. I haven't even fucked that many guys - many of the guys on my list, atleast #20 and forward, are guys with whom I was legitimately trying to get into the relationship to end all relationships.

But it's still fucking lame, putting relationships with men above being a mother to my now four-and-a-half year old boy. This past weekend my son told Jason he hated him, and told me that Daddy loves him more than I do, because Daddy takes more responsibility for him. Those were pretty much his exact words. I hate to say that the kid is right. After four rehabs, his dad is finally doing really well. I'm the fuck-up now. I'm sober, sure, but that hardly means shit any more. I'm not going to go drink or use, because that would make this whole thing so much worse, and there's no need for that. But I wish I could. And why wouldn't he hate Jason? I give Jason way more attention than I give to my son. Goddamnit.

I'm still holding onto the hope that I can get my act together. I started the outline for my memoir. I still don't know if I should write it as a novel, or, "truly". I feel like I'd be completely damning myself in every circle of which I am a part if I write it as a true story. But maybe that's what I deserve.

But I'm not thinking of that yet. What I'm doing now is, I'm just writing facts. I'm writing a summary of things I've done and putting them into little chapters to be expanded upon later. Not how I felt, or what I thought. (For the record, I know that's a sentence fragment, I just don't care. And know that's a comma splice. Again, I don't care.)

In my outline, there are no motives. No self-justifications or rationalizations or painting pictures of people that make me look like the victim (because I'm pretty sure I've done a shitload of that). There's no answer to "why". What is, just is.

Jason was saying, as we were watching the show together, "Poor Hank. He just gets shit on, all the time."

"No. I don't agree with that," I said. "He does it to himself. He can't just fuck everything that has a vagina and a pulse and not expect his daughter and her mom to just be cool with it. It's not about him, in the end. It's about them."

"No, it is about him," Jason argued. Jason doesn't know how much I identify with Hank. I was crying today at Albertson's and Jason asked me what was wrong. "If I told you, it would probably end our relationship."

"I'll never stop loving you, sweetheart. Nothing's that bad," he said.

I still couldn't tell him. I couldn't say, "Do you know you're number 29 (not counting Jesus) in a long line of guys I've been with in some capacity since I left my husband? Do you know I don't even truly know if I love you or if I'm just with you to numb my pain? I don't even know if I'm capable of loving anything. I don't even love myself."

Cheating on him and breaking up with him in the beginning didn't work. So I'm not going there again. But I'm in fucking deep, here. We go to the same church; the pastor announced our engagement to the whole congregation a few weeks ago, at both the 9 am and 10:45 am services.

So now what?

"I believe in you, baby," he just said to me. He knows I'm writing, but he doesn't really know what about. I did tell him I'm writing my memoir. I told him earlier, at Albertson's, that he may not love me so much when I'm done.

The truth will set you free, they say. We'll see.

The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 5

I'm watching Californication right now and thinking about my own "status" as a fictional character. I know I'd have a wider readership if I posted as myself. But tear the covers off? I'm just not ready.

I'm also reading Writing the Memoir by Judith Barrington. Why do I think my stories are worth telling? Well, they're shocking - at least to me. I find myself telling them to people one at a time. One person at a time, that is. Which stories I tell depend on the person and the amount of time I have, and where and why I'm telling them (the stories) in the first place.

I met some chick the other night who was brought to my fiancé's by her boyfriend Noah. Noah was supposed to record a song - my fiancé is an audio engineer and has a recording/mixing studio in his room. Noah brought his guitar, his girlfriend Megan, and a bunch of beer. I don't drink, and I was trying to work, myself, but because he brought her, I ended up having to entertain her while the two of them smoked weed outside.

Megan offered me a beer and I found myself telling her why I don't drink, or smoke, for that matter. Sometimes I just say, "No, I'm not drinking tonight" - but for some reason, this time, I took it upon myself to describe my entire downward spiral, post-separation/intra-bedlam. Those two phases are mutually inclusive, but, I don't know if I would cite either as the cause of the other. That's...more complicated, and to be saved for another post.

Which brings me back to Californication: this guy who has one successful novel can afford a house in L.A., and, women throw themselves at him, every episode, including women who don't even recognize him as the writer of said novel. Hank Moody "exudes" sexuality. I wish I could relate to the former of those descriptors, but alas, it's the latter that's apropos. Even now, as secure in my relationship as I am, hardly a day goes by that I don't get that second-take out there - that, you know, "I'm just turning back to look for an extra second here to see if you're at all interested, because you kinda look like you could be," and I, carefully, have to not smile too blatantly, for too long. Mine is, "Shit, I see you looking at me, again, so I better look away now before you get the wrong idea...even though I like it."

Unfortunately, though, no amount of blatant "exuding" on my part has been able, tonight, to get my fiancé to detach himself from his hours-long stretching routine to come "do" me. He's OC with plenty of other D's; he spent two days cleaning his room, putting every little thing in their perfect little places, and now it's been a full day of stretching. Stretching. I wish I was stretching in writing this.

I hope getting married isn't so close to suicide as being a "permanent solution" to a "temporary problem." The solution is the part that sounds good, of course, which is why people kill themselves, or, get married. I guess it isn't funny, but those were seeming to be the two alternatives back in January when I set out to try and nab this one last guy, or, maybe just be shit out of luck and, maybe just not "do this" any more.

Well, Californication's over. I'm turning in. He's still stretching, and I'm pretty damn annoyed, but there's a bit of karmic comedy in it all. I guess I want feel wanted all the time in every way that I want. I'm a little selfish that way. What I should be is grateful. This is better than the alternatives. Either one - being dead or being alone. He does love me more than anyone I've ever been with, besides my son - and that's a pretty nice feeling.

The Poetry Slam Emcee

[Disclaimer: This didn't occur during my current relationship; sometimes I jump around in the timeline to write about someone in my inventory. See the inventory on the left side of my blog for details.]

I was wearing a full suit of black, shiny leather, all the way down to the boots. It made sense to me at the time. Jazz, Poetry, Leather. They just seemed to go together.

I sang Johnny Mercer/Harold Arlen's "Blues in the Night" with the university Jazz Band, and I was damn sexy. I didn't really think of it that way at the time. I really didn't. I'm one of the most innocent people I know - or maybe I'm just the most naïve. At least, I used to be innocent, before all "this" happened. You know, the Fall. It's what this whole blog is about. How a sweet, innocent, straight-A student like me ends up in all leather singing a sexy blues tune with a jazz band. I wasn't really attractive growing up, so I still get surprised when I get asked out. Even after a performance like the one I put on that night.

He was black. I hadn't dated a black guy yet. Is it racist to feel like I've accomplished something? He was talented, charismatic, the host of the show - just the kind of guy I'm attracted to, and just the kind of guy who knows what to say to a girl. And I'm just the kind of girl to fall for a guy who knows just what to say to the kind of girl who's gonna fall for what he's gonna say.

He came up to me with a single white carnation in his hand. "Here. Great job tonight. I think I might have to ask you for your number. But first...what's yo' name?" It took him a second to get into the groove.

I laugh nervously any time this happens, and guys love it. They think they're so funny and attractive. Go me. "Adora...what's yours?" Tee hee.

I'm smiling and looking him right in the eyes. He bit his lip. Real smoov, dude. "Emmanuel."

My heart's racing, I can't lie. This is the nature of things. I'm not really that interested in anything except the feeling. I want more of it.

"Say, Adora, why don't you let me buy you something to eat? Then maybe I can ask you for your number."

"Sounds good to me." I was starving.

We went out to his car. It was in bad shape. He took me to IHOP. Meanwhile, I'm letting him lead the conversation, and I'm just responding. It's really not hard work at all.

He flirts with the waitress who seats us at a booth. He's making her laugh nervously, just like he did me. Wow, what a player.

IHOP had a special bacon menu at the time, and we both ordered from it, plus we both added extra bacon to our meals. We started getting into some meaningful conversation after we bonded over our bacon. I told him about my recovery from alcoholism, and he told me about his mom with mental disabilities. It was getting interesting now. I could see us becoming friends.

He thought he was going to shock me with what he said next. "I don't tell any body this...but for some reason I just feel like can tell you. So here goes, ready?" He took a sip of coffee and raised his eyebrows. I'm thinking AIDS.

"I'm a sex addict." Close enough. Shit, if he only knew.

"Hey, that's cool," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "No wonder we get along so well." It's true - addicts of whatever kind find each other kindred.

"But I want to change," he said. "Like you. Two years sober, that's so inspirational."

Should I tell him? Sure, why not. "Actually, Emmanuel, I'm a recovering sex addict, too."

"Really?! You?!"

(Told you, I'm so 'innocent', people just have no idea. But it's about powerlessness, not purposefulness.)

"Yeah, but I'm trying to change that, too. No sex til marriage. That's my new thing."

"Whoa, I wanna calm down, but....I don't think I could do that."

We kept talking for a little longer about it; he told me how many women he dates (and usually "does") a week. Between one and three (and now I didn't feel like such a slut). He told me how he goes to salsa dancing every weekend and picks up women without fail, every time. Even at the beach - he had sex with a random chick last week just hitting on her in the water. Did I believe it? Yeah. He wasn't bragging. He was remorseful, because most of them end up wanting relationships, and he just wants to do it once and move on to the next one.

We moved on to talk about the poetry slam/jazz concert, and I volunteered to start a facebook page for him. It sounded like a great plan - he wanted to expand to other colleges and universities in the area. I work in performing arts publicity, so I wanted to help. We exchanged numbers, he paid the bill, and he took me back to my car at the university.

"Adora, thank you," he said. "I really like you. You're one of the most amazing women I've ever met."

"Thanks," nervous laughter. "I'll send you an admin invite once I get the page set up." I grabbed my box of bacon pancake leftovers and got out. No kiss. Just a hug. Refreshing. "Have a good night."

"Thanks, you too!"

The next day was Saturday; I got the facebook page set up, and called him. It started off okay, but then he started talking about how he's never wanted anyone so badly in his life, and he wanted to see me again. I told him no - let's just be friends. I don't know where my power came from all of a sudden - probably from his talk of how many chicks he bangs every week and how much he hurts them. I didn't want to be one. I had been one too many times with other guys.

But he wouldn't let up. Being turned down must have really turned him on. I tried to talk to him a few more times over the next couple of weeks to discuss what school he wanted to put on the next poetry slam at, and when, but the conversation would always revert back to him talking about what women he wanted to do (but didn't want to do - the struggle of an addict), and of course, how he wanted me most of all.

So I handed the page over to him, blocked him on facebook, and deleted his number.

I know he wanted to change - we all do - but it's just not possible on willpower alone. And I couldn't help him in that regard worth a damn. Quite the opposite. That's like telling your bartender you want to quit drinking...after this one.

The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 4

We're engaged.

I'm just gonna give that some space.

I broke up with #30  - on February 14 of all days - because this sex and love addict from one of my meetings was obsessed with me and I totally bought into it (plus, I didn't like #30 that much, remember?). Nothing more came of it than a kiss (THANK GOD) and him leaving the state to go join the Navy (he was all ready leaving for that; it had nothing to do with me).

But anyway, so, #30 fell absolutely head-over-heels with me, by the way. He was heartbroken when I broke up with him after meeting with #31, and I was surprised. I didn't know he liked me that much.

I still broke up with him (#30...I'm calling him "Jason") one more time. He smokes weed, and I felt really tempted to smoke one day. He supports my drug and alcohol recovery, and so he does it out in the backyard of his parents' house and cleans himself up so he doesn't smell...but just me knowing that he was doing it was making me want to smoke so badly! So I broke up with him again in March, because I can't take that risk.

But he said I was breaking his heart, again, and we talked about how his smoking weed was affecting me, and we figured out some alternatives to ending the relationship. I am glad; I gotta admit, I'm so tired of being "out there" - you know, single, or serial relationshipping/dating, whatever - that I was willing to go ahead and keep trying with him. So he smokes a little weed? It's not the worst thing in the world. Plus, now we actually talk about things - finally!! He cries a little more than I do, but that's okay. He's sensitive (well, bipolar, you know - but that's okay, too).

Oh...

So, I decided to go ahead and propose.

Crazy? I know it would appear that way. And I never thought I'd want to get married again, least of all to a guy with so many mental disorders that he has to take eight different medications and see a therapist and a psychiatrist. But he is also so kind, loving, intelligent (high IQ's often come with an array of disorders, I hear), talented, fun, comes from a good (not-broken) Christian family who adores me. He was all ready talking about marrying me someday. It sounded almost too good to be true - until I bought him a ring, got down on one knee, and asked him to marry me, for real, then - and he said, "Yes," of course.

So that's it! I'm done, right? It's a victory story, the way I see it.

The Mastery of Love by don Miguel Ruiz helped to teach me what Love is. It's a great book, and I highly recommend it. I also spend a lot of time reading the Bible and working the 12 steps, and I still go to meetings (not the sex and love ones any more [sorry, but fuck those]).

I'm so happy today. I want to write a book!! It's time!! My classes are over for the summer, and so is my job, for now. I do have to find another job; Jason and I want to be married in a year's time and have a place to move into with each other. A two bedroom, so my son has his own room when he's with us (he and my son are developing quite the relationship, too! It's great!).

But....man...a book...can you imagine? I can...but until I get on it, that's all it'll be - imaginary! So, what should I write about? Should it be an autobiography? Should it be fiction, based on my experiences? If the latter, should it be first person perspective, or third? Should I write a series of short stories, with different protagonists, or the same protagonist? What's more interesting, my childhood, or my adulthood...or both? Or should I write creatively about something or someone that has absolutely nothing to do with myself? Now's the time to call upon my varied English education (and professors), whip out some old books, and pick up reading again, avidly.

All I know is, I have to write. I just have to. These past few months of focusing on school and securing my fiance have taken up all my time (yeah, you can laugh there), and now I'm exploding with creative desire. My photography class provided a great outlet for creativity, but I just had to give the loaner camera back to my school's Arts Department. I'm still singing, and Jason's going to help me record a CD (he's a sound engineer/singer/songwriter and has his own mixing studio and equipment). But it's writing that's always been my first and foremost passion, ever since I was four and learned how to read and write rhymes a lá Seuss and Mother Goose.

But, it does feel like I've turned the pressure valve a little to the left here, and I can *sigh*, smile, and get a good night's sleep. Oh, but I just want to say one more thing:

YAY!!!