I'm usually very composed, in any given situation, composed. It may be the influence of my British mother... those of you who know her know that she is the very image of composure and I have tried very hard my whole life to be like her. It's very difficult for a little girl to grow up with a beautiful mother. She never actually cared about her looks... that was just something that was a gift from God... but for me it was like I had to grow up and look just like her- Long red hair, green eyes, alabaster skin. The last I actually managed to get. The rest is curly blond with these strange grey, blue, aqua eyes- depending upon who you talk to, they'll give you a different answer. I look nothing like her and that was a very hard thing to deal with growing up. So, as I couldn't look like her, I would act like her. I had it down in highschool. I was cold, like ice. I never cried and was the Queen Bitch of the Universe. And I was so unhappy. Slowly, I realized that that is not who I am. I'm emotional. I'm a happy, fiercely opinionated, more than slightly off the wall, woman. I am who I am. I can still be ice cold and the Queen Bitch of the Universe when I need to be, but I've tried very hard to let go and be who I really am. The one thing I can't let go of is my composure. It's carried me through many a difficult situation. So as I stand her typing at my job in my cute suit, I remain, as ever, a picture of composure.

Do you ever have those weekends where you don't actually do what you WANT to do and it is jam packed with obligations. I don't think I actually WANTED to do any of the things that I did this past weekend. However, it still managed to be fun, just jam packed and now, at my job that just went fulltime, I'm exhausted from the weekend! Aren't they supposed to be restful? A break from working? And yet we all pack them so full, we never actually get to rest and relax. My vow is spend at least one day in a weekend for actually relaxing. Don't know how I'll fare in my quest, but I'm going to try my best.

I love flowers all flowers. Most women do. And like most women, I am particularly fond of roses. Today, one of my co-workers, who is in the throws of a new romance with a man that she actually met at Pleasure Island in Disney World (Who knew?) received roses, beautiful red roses. Although cliche, still soul achingly lovely. I'm happy for her, genuinely happy but it still stings as I have never had anyone send me roses. And so, I will wallow, just for a little while longer in my roses pity party.

I work in a bank. It's sort of a strange place for me to work given as I have no head for numbers, am a terrible multitasker, and I'm just generally the "creative type." I'm a bit off the wall. Often, someone will say something, and then a minute later, I will say something else that seems totally unrelated. Then, they give me the "Where the hell did that come from?" look and I have to explain the chain reaction that occurred in my head to get from what they originally said to where I came up with the "strange" statement. Then the other party inevitably says, "Oh." but I don't think they feel any better about my explanation.

And after that HUGE digression, I will resume my point... which is why I like my job at the bank. I have the unglorious job of bankteller. I work in my home town, in the bank that I have been going to since I was 18. Needless to say, to get hired there 8 years later was strange. But what makes it strange is that I already knew everyone, my fellow tellers and the customers. I see high school teachers that have since retired. (It is sad to me to see their somewhat disappointed looks on there faces when they see that this is what I am doing now. It's not forever,just for now.) I see my dad, my brothers, all of their friends, and prior to her death, my grandmother. (I think I would faint if I saw her walk through the door! I believe in ghosts but I don't want to see any!) One of my favourite things is the old men who come in and flirt with us. Like Trisha said when she and I were at her grandfather's Legion post, "There's nothing like old men to make a girl feel young and hot!" I don't like the stress. Working with large amounts of money is not exactly a relaxing work environment. But as I said it is for now, not forever. Does anyone really know what they want to do forever? Can you believe that they actually expect us to have it figued out by the time we're 20? That just seems so wrong!

I have to admit that I am fascinated by "Stickboy's" entries. Who is this enigma? I can't help but wonder.

I have to admit that my favourite journals to read on Elwoodstrip.com are TK's, because they're hilarious and honest, and Trish's, because she is my best friend and I love her quirkiness. Saying that, I have to ask, Trish, You actually WANT to grow a third nipple? Like Crusty the Clown?

I loved the idea of the "things I have never done list" but mine would be, I hate to say it, kind of sad. What do you expect from the non-sexual, good girl!?

Screw it. Here goes anyways.

1. Bungee chord jump, possibly from a hot air
balloon.
2. Watch the sun set over Paris
3. Have one of my novels published
4. Dance naked in the moonlight
5. Have sex that makes my mind want to explode
6. Sing Ella Fitzgerald tunes with a jazz band
7. Tell The Boy how I REALLY feel
8. Gain my independence
9. Finish the books that I've started, put down,
and never ended.
10. Be out of debt.

I don't really care the order I accomplish this list, but I think that they are all do-able, many in the not so distant future. Wish me luck!

I always find it very enlightening to re-read my journal entries, or stories, or little notes that I write in the margins of notebooks when I'm bored. It's like a snapshot into my own mind, a time and place and frame of thought that I won't be in again. Last summer, I was living in NYC. Well, the apartment I was living in was in Astoria and I worked at the Disney Store on 5th Ave., if we're being technical. It was, emotionally and mentally and spiritually, a rough summer. It was the first time I had ever lived with someone outside of my family, and she is a very good friend, but it was rough because I tried very, very hard to be ultra-courteous and aware of her feelings and she didn't really care about mine. I was re-reading the journal entries that I had written. They ran roughly from my arrival there in the middle of May and stopped at the end on July, when my sanity started to return. I can actually read myself turning from sane and happy and excited to angry, embittered and on the edge of my sanity. In short, I was losing it. And strangely enough, or not really for me, I finally began to get balanced when I started going to church. *The good thing about being an Episcopalian who attends St. Paul's Cathedral and then relocates to NYC is that Trinity Wall Street is so very like home. They even SMELL the same!*

All in all it was a good, growing experience for me. I had to do it. I had to go. I still love NYC. It's a great place to visit but the only way I would live there again is if I made a hell of a lot more money.

When I re-read that particular journal, incomplete though it is, I remember the truth, not some rose-tinted version of it. I think the hardest thing for me to recall when I do re-visit that time not so long ago is not that I nearly lost my mind, but that I was so very needy. It's hard for a fiercely independent person to confront aspects of themselves that they don't admit even exists.

And so, another chapter closes. I have to admit, I never know how to end these things. End.

Love. It's a thing that vexes and makes us weak in the knees and stomach and nether regions. It makes us crazy and makes us sane all at the same time. I actually fall in love rather easily, because as Patty Bouvier says in her raspy, smoke ridden voice, "I've got a lot of Love to give!" Fortunately, JubJub wound up with that love and not an unsuspecting baby... But I digress. I have been in love with someone for ages and I can't tell him. We've known each other for years but I still can't tell him because of that whole, "What if he rejects me?" fear. Frankly, I ought to be the rejection queen, but I'm not. I do not handle it as gracefully as I ought. Too many bad memories have left me far less brave than I used to be. So, I love this man. Some of my friends view it as a waste of my time and energy but is loving anyone really a waste? One must be able to give it freely without expecting it in return. One can wish for it, but not expect it. And besides, my belief in fairy tales is far too strong, probably stronger than is good for me. I know he's worth it and so I will hang in there and one day, will tell him how I feel. Hopefully, it won't be too late.

It's funny what sticks in my head. I have a memory for the most useless information, such as lines from movies and "the Simpsons" and song lyrics and people's birthdays. I remember birthdays for people that I was in grade school with. Why? I just don't know. Some things strike me, and seem like "YES! THAT'S IT!" One of my favourite quotes of all time is, "Madness in great ones must not unwatched go." from Shakespeare's "Hamlet". It always seemed to fit me probably because I have often wondered if I am a little mad. Then again, aren't we all a little mad?

Things have been strange. I don't know if anyone else has noticed lately, but things seem to be happening to everyone I know. I know, I know "things" happen everyday, but what I mean is that the shit seems to be hitting the fan for everyone. It's like a cosmic shitstorm hitting the conciousness of every day folk. I say this because this year has been, for me, inundated with death and disaster, and I don't even have anyone fighting in Iraq or Afganistan. The latest on this wave of disaster has been my father's best friend, the kindest man you will ever meet who is right at this moment lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life after having 3/4 of his right leg amputated because of some freak condition he developed due to his kidney transplant he had 2 and half years ago. It's so hard to see someone you love like that and all I can cling to is the idea that once he makes it through, he will be better because he and his wife are very strong people. I could barely keep back my tears in an effort to maintain a cheerful disposition for them both, although he was so out of it from the pain medication that he didn't notice my father and I were there.

Another thing is that my former choir director, whom I adore and is living a fabulous life in Beverly Hills now, was found unconcious in his home. He had a pulmonary embolism and he's maybe 42. Fortunately he is doing well, but still, this is what has been going on this entire year. One even after another and, because I am optimist I keep telling myself that it's going to get better. But the real question is, is will it get worse first?