Memoir Pitch

The prompt this week for RemembeRED from Write on Edge was to write a 200 word pitch for your memoir.

An idyllic childhood turns sour when a young girl makes the mistake of angering her friends, leading to her ostracization.  Compounding the problem are her family issues, which lead to her withdrawing into herself.

After being bullied for years, she is broken and feels like she has nothing to live for.  Her self-mutilation and cries for help go unanswered until she meets the man who will change her world.

He is everything she thought she wanted, but the fairytale doesn't last long.  She gets drawn into a dark underworld of abuse, drug addiction, and lies, where, in desperation, she sinks to unfathomable lows.

Although she finally gains the courage to break free of the relationship, she can't kick the drugs and manages to drag everyone around her down as well.

An unexpected pregnancy gives her the strength she needs to turn her life around.  Motherhood proves to be a fulfilling experience, and she finally finds the happiness that  has escaped her for so long.

Exploring Friendship

We met the first day of college.  Somehow, it came up in our conversation that she had a car and planned to go home on the weekends.  I planned to go home on the weekends, too, but my car was back home in New York, and I was now living in a dorm in the lovely city of Philadelphia.

After class, I went with her to a cafe and met her mom.  We had a great time, and by the end of the day, I felt like I had known her for years.

Her apartment was only 5 blocks from mine, and we started meeting up in the mornings to go to class together.  Between classes, we would head to Taco House, a little dive of a restaurant that had a huge, $5 lunch special.

On Fridays, we would leave the city after class.  She dropped me off at the train station near her parent's house, which was halfway between Philadelphia and my home.  I would then take a train to NYC followed by a bus to my suburban neighborhood.  On Sunday nights, my dad would drive me 45 minutes to her parents' house, and we would go back to school.

Our sophomore year, I moved to an apartment half a block away from hers.  By that point, we spent all day together.  We went to the same classes, and spent all our spare time at my apartment (sometimes we went to hers, but she lived in a 10'x10' room and I had the bigger place).

We started taking my car after she totaled hers, which worked out better for me because it was quicker than having to take a train and a bus to get homch e.  We shared so much of ourselves with each other on those car rides, and know all each other's secrets.

We've been there for each other through thick and thin, love and breakups, drunken sob fests (where I passed out on her floor on top of a bunch of gummi bears), roommate problems, boyfriend problems, and everything in between.  She loves my kids like they are her nephews and niece, and they call her Auntie Michelle.

Even though we don't spend nearly enough time together anymore because life gets in the way, we're really close.  I only see her 4 or 5 times a year, but we cherish the moments we have together.  We're still just as close as we were when we spent every waking moment together.

I thought I had met a ride home, but I really met my closest friend that fateful first day of college.

This post was written for this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. This week, we’d like you to explore friendship. You can talk about a current friendship or one from your past, a friend you met over kindergarten snacks or happy hour at your first job. Examine your emotional interest in the friendship and the role it plays, or played, in your life. The word limit for this prompt is 400 words. 

Tagline for my Life

Little Girl Lost, Woman Found: One Woman's journey from idyllic childhood to the depths of addiction and back, finding her purpose in motherhood.

This was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge.  Imagine your life, or a part of your life, as a title and tagline.  That's it.

The Car Accident

The three of us giggled as we walked out of the firehouse and into my car.  I was with my little sister and her best friend.  We went to the firehouse to see my sister's boyfriend and his friends.  It was always so much fun there. You would probably be surprised to find out what we all did in that firehouse-teenagers can be wild and crazy.

We drove out of the parking lot to head to the mall, which is where we told my dad we would be.  I had just gotten my driver's license two weeks ago, so my parents wanted to know where I would be with the car at all times.

There was an intersection that had a blinky red light, but it should have had a traffic light.  The people with the right of way were either going up or coming down a hill that peaked maybe 20 yards from the cross street.  I stopped at the red light on the cross street, looked both ways, and put my foot on the gas.

That's when the red Camaro came shooting over the top of the hill and into the back of my car.  I was horrified.  We were all okay, but the car wasn't.  I didn't even have the car for a month and it was messed up.  Then the guy in the Camaro got out with a baseball bat in hand, screaming at us.  My horror turned to terror as  I floored it and drove away.

Thankfully, the guy didn't follow us,  I knew you weren't supposed to drive away from an accident, but
at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do.  We pulled into a nearby school parking lot to check out the damage.  My entire rear bumper was dangling off the car.  It was only held on by 1 bolt.  There was also damage to the rear wheel well and the side of the car.

I felt even worse after I saw the damage.  The three of us decided that my dad would be really mad if he found out what happened.  So we drove to the mall we were supposed to have been at the entire time.  Then we called my dad and told him someone must have hit my car when it was parked in the parking lot.  After he came, we made a report with mall security.

To this day, my dad has no idea that the car wasn't really hit in the parking lot.  Looking back, I can't believe I was more afraid of my dad being mad than I was of the bat-wielding Camaro driver.  I just hope that asshole totaled his car that afternoon.

This week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge is a flash prompt using the word crash. Take the next ten minutes to write about the first single memory that word calls up. Focus on the emotions and the experience, spend ten minutes really exploring that memory. Then wrap it up, publish, and come back to link up.

My Quiet Place

The dented and faded floral couch sags gently underneath as I cross my legs and lean back comfortably.  I reach up my arm to turn on the lamp that has stood here since before my birth.
Bathed in gentle light, I silently slip my book off the end table, gently brushing my elbow against the black rotary phone.
The fire in the cast iron stove flickers gently, embers dampened until morning.
The steady ticking of the kitchen clock mixed with the small snores of children soothe me.
I am finally alone and at peace.  Only the crickets stir in the pitch dark night.


This post was written in response to this week's remembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. Where is your quiet place? What does it look like? What happens there?
I, of course, wrote again about reading at night in my cabin upstate.  There is nothing more calming, soothing, or fulfilling than practically anything I do in that house.  I just love it so much.

The Last Solo Bar Trip

The door slammed with a thud. "Get out here!" she screamed, "I want my daughter now!"

Rubbing his bloodshot eyes, he staggered out of the bedroom. "What is your problem?"

"I am not the one with the problem!  Give me my damn daughter, I am taking her away from you!"

"No, it's 4am and she's my daughter too."

"But I didn't go out and cheat on you! And stay out all night!  And not even answer one goddamn phone call!"

"What the fuck! I didn't cheat on you, and I didn't hear my phone because I was beatboxing with the band."

"You were out with a girl! At a bar! While I was sitting home, 7 months pregnant with your third baby!" Her screams dissolved into sobs.  "I hate you!"

"I was not!"

"Don't lie! My sister texted me that the stupid horse bitch you were out with texted her that you two were going to the bar!"

"And you're going to believe your sister why? She likes to start drama."

"I had a friend go to the bar to make sure!  I wanted to believe you were out with your friend from Queens!  But you lied!  He saw you together, and people have been telling me shit about you all  night!  And then you don't answer the phone? Fuck you!"

"You had someone spy on me?" he stared at her, incredulous.

"You think you can go to my fucking town and people won't tell me what's going on?  All those guys you think are your friends, they would give you up in a second to me.  They have my back, not like you.  If I wanted, I could have had someone beat the shit out of you as soon as you stepped outside that bar! I want my daughter, asshole!"

The slap to his face resounded throughout the now silent room. Grabbing the sleepy toddler, she slammed the door as hard as possible, burying her tears in the child's pajamas.

This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. Recreate a pivotal conversation with us this week. Remember, this is memoir. You can only record what was actually said. Save the bon mots and imagined snappy retorts for fiction.

The SIL From Hell

"Why does she have a key and I don't?" I ranted to the boyfriend.  "I live here!  She doesn't.  I want her key."

The 'she' in question was the boyfriend's sister.  I discovered she had let herself into our house while I was still asleep, and I was beyond shocked to find someone sitting at the computer when I went to get a bowl of cereal.

She looked me over, said nothing, and turned back to the screen.  I went upstairs and raised hell.  It made me uncomfortable that she could just walk into our house at any time, whether we were here or not, and do whatever she wanted.  I'm sure the fact that I was 6 months pregnant and trying to take care of a 9 month old baby didn't help either.

Eventually, I brought the baby downstairs to see her.  I thought that maybe I was overreacting to her, and I would give her another chance.  I put him in his bouncy swing-the kind that hangs from the doorway. 

"Why is he so chubby?  Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Excuse me?  You've never met me or your nephew before and those are the first words out of your mouth?  I was seriously thisclose to yanking a cleaver out of the knife block and stabbing a bitch.

You're barely 21, married your military boyfriend so you would get money (and promptly got divorced once he left active service), and don't have or want kids (just yappy, poorly behaved dogs), and you have the nerve to criticize me?  And my infant?  When this is the first time we've met and you didn't even have the decency to introduce yourself?  Who the hell do you think you are?

That was the moment I knew it would never work out.  She and I would never be friends, and we have, in fact, become enemies.  She is no longer allowed to see my kids after many more unpleasant incidents.  As far as I'm concerned, the only aunts my children have are my sister and my best friend from college.

I know the boyfriend wishes I could pretend to like her, but I don't have it in me.  I put up with her crap so many times.  I'm not going to sit there and take insults about my kids, or veiled nastiness.  It would be different if she was nice to my kids-she's not.  She won't even pick them up.  So the only one losing out is her.  Maybe one day she'll either drink herself to death or get over herself.   Until then, she is dead to me and my babies.

This post was written in response to this week's remembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. This week, we asked you to write about a relationship you knew was doomed from the start. It could be your own relationship or one of a close friend or family member. The only thing we required was that it not be fiction.

Snow Days and Soup

I always loved the first snow day of the year.  My sister and I would sleep in, only to realize the winter wonderland before us hours after we would have normally needed to be up.  Excited, we would pull on our snowsuits, gloves, hats, and boots, and our dad would take us out sledding.

We trudged down the snow-covered street to the hill at the elementary school.  It was the biggest perk of living two houses away from the school.  We would sled until our faces were red and our fingers were numb.

Once we entered our vestibule and stomped the snow off our boots, we opened the door to the house and were hit with the smell of potato soup. 

My mom has always cooked potato soup on snowy days.  I love anything potato.  As far as I'm concerned, potatoes should be in their own food group.

I always rushed into the kitchen, got my chair and dragged it to the stove, and helped.  My mom would have the chicken broth, onion, and potato chunks simmering on the stove.  It was my job to mash the potatoes when they were done.  Not all of them, just enough to make the soup a little creamy but still a little chunky.

My mom then ladled the soup into mugs, and I added a couple spoonfuls of Parmesan cheese into each mug, followed by a sprinkle of dried parsley.  The whole family sat at the kitchen table and ate soup for lunch while we talked about sledding and the snow.

My mom still makes me this soup on snowy days, even though I could (in theory) make it myself.  It tastes better when she does it.  I know it's a really simple recipe, but when I think of winter and snow days, I immediately think of my mom's potato soup.  It is everything good about winter.  So far only Princess shares my love of this soup, but I'm hoping the boys will eventually follow suit.

Mom's Potato Soup
-2 cans chicken broth
-1 small onion, chopped
-4-6 russet potatoes (this really varies depending on the size of the potatoes, but I say more is better), cut into 1/2" cube
-Parmesan cheese, 2-3 spoonfuls per serving
-dried parsley, for garnish

-Add first 3 ingredints to 2qt saucepan and simmer about 30 minutes, until potatoes are tender.  Use a potato masher to mash about half the potatoes.
-Ladle soup into a mug or bowl and add Parmesan cheese and parsley. Serve and enjoy.

This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. Take me back…whether to a month ago or decades ago.  Share with me a special recipe, but don’t just list out ingredients.  Take me there…in 500 words or less.

My Favorite Halloween Costume

It was my final year trick-or-treating.  I was 14 and in ninth grade, and wasn't sure if I was too old to trick-or-treat.  A lot of the other kids in my grade were going to Halloween parties, but I wasn't invited to any.

I was too old for the cutesy kid costumes and too young (and chubby) for the skanky grown-up ones.  I didn't know what to do until my dad came up with the perfect idea: wear his army dress greens from Vietnam.

My dad and I went to our basement and he opened the green metal cabinet that I'd always overlooked.  Inside hung two pristine uniforms: my dad's and my uncle's.

Examining the uniform and the dog tags was like visiting history.  I asked my dad a ton of questions about his time in the service.  I discovered that he was in Chem Corps and got to stay in the states, while my uncle was a medic stationed in Germany.  My dad joked that his brother came back 20 pounds heavier from all the food he ate there.

I tried on the uniforms, and, although my dad's was too small, my uncle's fit.  I called my best friend Iris, and she agreed to wear my dad's uniform.

On Halloween, we donned the caps, jackets, and trousers and went out.  Trick-or-treating was not that fun, and at one point, the police even stopped to ask us where we had been because some kids vandalized a house.  I was self-conscious about being too old, and a little embarrassed and upset that I wasn't going to a party like everyone else.

But I loved my costume.  I learned a lot from my dad because of it.  I felt like I was wearing history, which made me want to learn more about the Vietnam War.  It was like I was finally privy to a piece of family history that had eluded me until that point.

I got to look at old photos of my dad and uncle when they were in the service.  I found out my dad really did have a giant fro (I never believed it before I saw it), and that he looked like the guy in Welcome Back Kotter.

So even though the trick-or-treating experience wasn't the best, the costume and everything I learned about my family as a result made it an incredible experience.

This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. For Tuesday, reach back to a costume that made an impression. Was it yours? A friend’s? Maybe it was a costume you never got to wear. Show it to us with your words, draw us into the emotions it evoked at the time. Word limit is 400.
Also, I'm sorry if this post is not up to my usual caliber.  My youngest, Goober, has been really sick with a high fever since Thursday so I've been preoccupied and totally unfocused.

Fall Memories

My Oma piles up the cushions on the driver's seat of her 1984 baby blue Toyota Corolla.  Giddy, my sister and I slide into the backseat.  We are greeted by the comforting scent of dog that always lingers in the car.  Long dog fur covers the throw and attach themselves to our clothes.

Oma drives slowly down the empty road as we look out the windows at the cows and horses.  Finally, we pass the large home modeled after an Italian Villa (Oma always calls it the mobster's house), and turn down the dirt drive to the orchard.

There are apple trees everywhere we look.  Many are heavy with fruit, but the ones closest to the road have already been picked clean.

Oma parks in front of the old blue house.  We run to the door and let ourselves inside before she even has a chance to get out of the car.

The only light inside is sunlight filtering through the windows.  There are tables full of apples-bagged, loose, red, green.  We pick a bag of red apples and I look to make sure they aren't bruised or bug-eaten (I am super picky with my apples-they have to be perfect or I won't eat them).

I run to the refrigerator and grab a gallon of apple cider.  Oma opens the register and deposits money for the apples and the cider.  Before we're even back outside, my sister and I are crunching apples, smiles on our faces.


This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge.  This week we asked you to use the weather, or a photo of an autumn day bursting with color to inspire an autumnal memoir piece. Word limit is 300.

I knew I had to write, once again, about a memory I have with my Oma.  I loved going to her house in the fall because she would always take us to the apple farm.  It was always on a weekend morning when the store was closed, but, since she lived in a rural area, the farm owners would leave the door unlocked and trust anyone who came in to leave the money in the cash register.  I always thought it was so cool to be in a store that was closed and still get to pick out  my apples and cider.

The Ice Rink

My heart pounds as bile rises in the back of my throat.  I try to calm down by telling myself I do this every night, tonight is exactly the same as last night and the night before that.

Focusing away negative thoughts, I tug the laces again and again until they are tight.  I spend a full 10 minutes on the effort.  I roll the clear tape over my socks, making a big X from my ankle to my knee.  I pull on my helmet, fastening the straps, and yank the gloves over my fingers.

I breathe slowly a few times, fighting the rising panic.  I walk down the hallway and through the  swinging double doors.

I am hit immediately by the cold, frozen air.  It smells like rubber, sweat, and old gym bags.  For some reason I love that smell.  It is what finally puts a smile on my face.

Pucks crack loudly off sticks and echo as they slam the boards.  Sharpened blades dig into the ice, making a barely audible swish.

I enter the rink and all of a sudden, I am the same as everyone else.  I finally relax.  As we line up and run drill after drill, I know I am doing what I need to be doing, whether anyone else likes it or not.

This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED post from Write on Edge. In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”  Write a memoir post – first-person and true – inspired by that statement.  Word limit is 300.
I knew I had to write about hockey again because I recently ran into my old hockey coach as well as the teammate who broke my heart.  You can read about that here.

Why I'm Happy Summer is Over

The sun viciously beats down.  Tar bubbles; heat steams up off the pavement.

Sweat beads on my face, constantly dripping.


My face is so flushed I look like a cooked lobster.

Livid bruises in all shades of red, purple, green, and yellow cover my arms and legs.

I feel like I'm trying to breathe underwater-the air is thick with humidity.

My hands tremble, getting tingly and numb as the seconds progress.

Multicolored dots cloud my vision, increasing until my world is black.

I am falling.  My ears roar with the sound of crashing waves. 

This post was written in response tothis week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge.
Writing short posts is an excellent way to flex your word choice muscles. Which word is the most clear? Poignant? Direct?  This week I want you to conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like. But don’t tell me what it is, conjure it.
You have 100 words, use them wisely. And yes- you so can do this!

Here's a little background info on this post.  I have a bleeding disorder called vonWillebrand's disease.  My blood doesn't clot right, and it really affects me in the summer.  I am usually okay when the weather is cooler, though.  I really can't even go out in summer because I faint constantly.  So I sit in the air conditioning whenever it's hot.  And I pretty  much hate summer, because I've had a lot of bad experiences where people did nothing when I fainted.  I will always remember fainting in the doorway to an ice cream store (literally half inside the store, half outside) and no one even asked me if I was okay.  All I needed was one person to be nice and see if I needed anything (I really needed some cold water) but no one did and I couldn't even sit up for a half hour.  People just stared at me and walked over me to get in and out of the store.  It was awful.

The Decision

FADE IN:
EXT. HOSPITAL- PARKING LOT- DAY
It is sunny.  People mill around in summer clothes, hurrying in or out the main doors.  As the door opens, a young WOMAN in her early 20s, holding an infant carrier in one arm and a TODDLER'S hand in the other, exits.  Her hair is unkempt and her face is puffy and red, like she has been crying.  She steps into a waiting taxi with the children.  It drives off.

INT. TAXI-CONTINUOUS
The woman stares at the INFANT in her arms.  She cries as the infant looks at her.  The toddler is distressed by his mother's tears.

TODDLER

Mommy?  Don't cry.                                  

She reassures him with a hug.

WOMAN

It's okay baby. Mommy is okay.  She's just

thinking.  About what to do.                        

TODDLER

Where are we going?                                  

WOMAN

Back home, baby, back home.                    

TODDLER

Is the baby coming too?                             

EXT. SUBURBAN HOUSE- CONTINUOUS

A HUSBAND and his WIFE walk to the car parked in the driveway.  It is a typical colonial, on an average tree-lined suburban street.  The lawn is manicured well; the yard is landscaped with flowers and shrubs.  The couple are in their early 40s.  Both are upset.  The wife's face is tear-streaked.  She sits in the early 80s model white Toyota as he loads luggage in the trunk.  He enters the car and they drive away.

INT. AIRPORT- CONTINUOUS

The woman sits on a bench with the toddler and the infant.  She fidgets, looking panicky.  The airport is busy. All walks of people rush around with their luggage.  The woman stands up, carrying the infant, toddler in tow, and finds a nearby pay phone.

WOMAN

(sobbing)

I changed my mind.  I don't know what to

do.  I can't do it.                                          

LAWYER (V.O.)

Where are you?                                          

WOMAN

The airport.  But you have to come.  I can't

take her.                                                       

               

   LAWYER (V.O.)

I'll be there as soon as I can.                         

The woman returns to the bench and sits with the children, exhausted.  She puts her head in her hands and waits.

INT. SUBURBAN HOUSE- KITCHEN- LATER THAT DAY

The lights are off.  No one is in the small kitchen.  The phone rings until the answering machine picks up.

LAWYER (V.O.)

I have very good news for you.  Please call 

my office immediately.  I will try your other

contact numbers on your application.  Please

call or come to my office as soon as you get  

this message.                                                    

EXT. AIRPORT - TARMAC- DAY

We watch a plane take off.

EXT. AIRPORT- PARKING LOT- CONTINUOUS

The LAWYER, a middle-aged man in a suit, walks to a waiting car, carrying the infant carrier.

INT. LAWYER'S OFFICE-NIGHT

The office is clean but small.  The room is full of bookshelves and file cabinets. A large desk is in the middle of the room.  The infant is in the carrier on the desk, asleep.  The lawyer sits in a chair, signing papers.  There is a KNOCK, followed by the husband and wife entering the room.

LAWYER

I'm glad you finally got my message.  I've

been trying to reach you all day.  I would  

like to introduce you to your daughter.       

The wife, tearful, stares lovingly at the baby in the carrier.  She cries joyously.  Her husband stands behind her, looking lovingly at the baby.

WIFE

I've waited my whole life for this.  We're

naming her Alison.                                  

LAWYER

Congratulations to you both. I'm very happy

it all worked out today.          

                        

The wife gently picks up the baby and kisses her forehead.  The infant opens her eyes and serenely stares at her parents.
FADE OUT.

This post was written in response to this week's remembeRED prompt from Write on Edge.  Congratulations! Your best selling memoir has just been optioned by a major motion picture studio, and the producers want you advising on the script.  Write the opening scene for the movie.  Would you begin with a visual montage?  Voice-over? Flashback or forward? A conversation? The trick here is to look through a lens. The camera needs to tell the story through visuals, action, dialogue.

I was really excited to do this because I majored in screenwriting in college and haven't written any scripts for over 5 years.  Although I took dramatic license to write this, it is a true story.  I was adopted as an infant and it almost didn't happen.  I know my birth mother almost went home with me and took me to the airport.  I also know my parents really couldn't be reached because they were distraught the adoption fell through, so I spent the better part of a day in the lawyer's office.  I am really happy I got to write this story of how I came to be.

Fate Intervened That Night

I relax on the cheap old futon, its bars poking painfully into my butt.  Gulping down most of my bitch beer in one shot, I slam the empty bottle on the floor, grinning.  The others in the room nod at my accomplishment.  There is a constant hum of conversation in the air.  Even though it is a cold March night, the sliding door is open to let out the heat from all the bodies crammed into the basement apartment.

Next to me, there is a sizzle as the blunt is lit.  The air fills with with the heavy, thick smoke of weed and a vanilla dutch.  I twist open another bitch beer, ripping some skin off my thumb in the  process.  Shrugging it off, I chug half the drink, the carbonation making me gag.  I have to swallow hard a few times so it doesn't come right back up.  I know I would never live that down.

The blunt makes its way to my  hand.  Puff, puff, pass.  I inhale deeply, the smoke penetrating my lungs.  My eyes water; all attempts not to cough are in vain.  Laughter fills the room as I'm reassured coughing makes you higher.

I get off the futon and walk to the door.  I rush outside, slipping on the ice.  My arms flail as I try to regain my balance.  I fall hard, jamming my hand and wrenching my back.  I know that when I'm sober again, it is going to hurt.  I am helped up by someone I've never seen.  He is with the birthday boy, the reason for tonight's party.

I look him over, head to toe.  He is wearing a too-big black hoodie with large yellow letters spelling ARMY across the front.  An Army keychain hangs out of his pocket.  His dark wash jeans are a little too long, the hems faded to white and torn.   His sneakers are generic, black, and beat up.  We talk about how he's going to join the Army in the summer, since he just turned 18.  I'm no longer interested (since I'm 23) until he mentions the bottle of Johnny Walker in his trunk.  After he retrieves it, we sit on the futon to talk.

His hands wander to my leg.  I want to move it, but end up letting it be.  He is not my type.  He is too young, his nose is to big, his crewcut is too short.  I make it clear that I do not want a relationship.  He is still pushing his luck, and I feel a little bad for him.  He boasts about how good he is in bed.  I laugh.

We head to the only secluded place left in the house; the laundry room.  The floor is damp.  It is cramped.  He pulls an old blanket from dryer and covers the cement to make a "bed".  I tell him I will never even see him again after tonight.
 
This post  was written in response to this week's remembeRED prompt from Write on Edge. 
For this week’s memoir prompt, we’re going to let narrative take a backseat. Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.
If you didn't guess, the boy I was never going to see again is my boyfriend and the father of our kids.  The post is about the night we met.  And he never ended up joining the army-less than 2 months later, I was pregnant with T.

Being Online

The computer in front of me is a rental.  My dad, a chemistry teacher, borrowed it from school.  It is white and new and a major improvement from the beige Apple with the black and green screen that I  play Frogger on.  I love it.

I turn on the modem that sits above the printer.  I click the button to log on to AOL and listen to the familiar and long beeping sound of the dial up.  I'm so happy we just got a new phone line for the internet last week because I don't have to worry anymore that my mom will miss an important phone call.

Once I'm online, I look up Hanson fan websites.  I love Hanson.  I've loved them since 1997, and let me tell you that I still love them today (actually, MMMBop was playing in Toys R Us today when I went to buy T the Power Ranger car, and I stood in the video aisle and sang it-out loud-and I didn't care that other people looked at me like I had 10 heads).

School is really rough for me.  I get bullied a lot and I really have no friends.  I also just found out I needed glasses, and they are pink and ugly, and I only wore them in one class and got so made fun of so much I stopped.  It's so hard for me to see the board to take notes, and all the squinting I need to do gives me a headache (but I learned to write fast-everything the teacher said, and that has served me well in life).

I am learning HTML so I can have my own fan site.  I spend hours every day reading about Hanson, and finding all the fan stories I can.  I adore them, and I can't wait to write my own (And I still love writing, although I no longer know any HTML and I am awful with computers now-my boyfriend had to set up most of this blog for me, and I used the template).

This is the only part of the day that I'm happy.  I can be in my own world.  I get home, sneak some alcohol to try and forget the pain of school, and hop online until my parents get home (they were both teachers).   I'm alone in my basement, but being online brings me together with other people who like the same things I do.  I don't get made fun of by them.  We have a bond with each other, even though we've never met, and probably never will.

The internet has opened up a whole new world to me, and I feel less left out.  I can finally meet people who have no preconceived notions about me and won't judge me like the people at school.  I have finally found my sanctuary.

This post was written in response to this week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge.
We want you to recall those early memories of being online.
But there are two catches:
Please do not use the phrase “I remember…”
Also? No laundry lists. Try to focus on one small memory and share that with us. Tell us how it impacted your life and what it meant for you.

I Miss my Childhood-RemembeRED

I  miss my childhood.  I miss the days where I had no responsibilities.  I miss being naive and believing people were inherently good and didn't hurt others to make themselves feel better.  I miss the excitement I could find in the mundane, as only a child can.  I miss being small and innocent.

"Mommy, I want to stay 3 forever!" I exclaim in front of the video camera, pirouetting for good measure.

"I'd like that," my mom replies.

It's the middle of the day and I'm excited.  My ballet recital is coming up soon, and I get to wear a neat blue and white striped costume with a tutu and matching umbrella.  I get to dance to the song "The Yellow Rose of Texas," and I am the first girl in line.  I love the spotlight.

I ham it up some more in front of the video camera.  "Mommy, look at this!" I run to the bookshelf and grab my folder of books I've written.  I pull out the most recent book, "The Adventures of Molly Colly," which is a series.  I show my mom all the pictures I drew and read her the story.  She is so proud of me.  I love showing everyone my stories, but my friends don't read and write yet like I do, so I show any grown up I can find.  They usually seem impressed.

I continue to twirl around the living room before getting bored.  "Mommy, I'm hungry.  Is my next meal lunch, or dinner?"

My mom smiles at me, shaking her head.  "We already ate breakfast and lunch.  You can have a snack, and we will eat dinner later."

I rush to the kitchen to find a snack.  I love food, and I make sure every day that I get all my meals.  I grab an apple and yell for my dad.  He always takes the first bite.  When I finish the apple, I put on my shoes and go outside.

I enter my playhouse.  The rest of my afternoon is spent pretending I'm a mommy too, and my dolls are my babies.  I can't wait to grow up so I can have my own house, and do everything myself.

Now that I am a grown up, I look fondly back on those days and wish my childhood could have lasted longer, or that I could have savored it more.  I miss my childhood.  But now I can make sure my kids won't miss theirs.

This post was written in response to this week's remembeRED prompt, to write a memoir piece beginning with the words, “I miss my childhood”.

My Best Friend-RemembeRED

I enter the house, excited.  My happiness dampens a little when I am handed the mask.  I put it on and am immediately stifled.  The air becomes hot and stale.  I feel like I'm suffocating.  I try to ignore the feeling.

Once I'm ready to play, she comes out of her room.  Erin is my best friend.  She has leukemia.  But today is a good day for her.

We run to the basement, giggling and squealing.  I want to play Nintendo-Erin has Zelda.  All I have at home is Duck Hunt and Mario Brothers.  Erin wants to play dress up.  We pull the bin of clothes and accessories from its storage spot.

I choose the green floral dress like I usually do.  It is pale and long and covered with flowers.  My mom once wore it as a bridesmaid.  Erin picks her clothes and goes to the bathroom like she always does to put them on. 

I rip off the mask and gulp as much sweet, fresh, cool air as I can.  I cannot even tell you how much I hate this mask, but I know I can make Erin sick if  I don't wear it, and she's sick enough already.

Erin comes back into the room in a dress, hat, and boa.  We giggle and play.  We end up rolling on the floor, wrestling.  I try to roll Erin off me, then it happens.

Oh my God, I panic.  I made her hair fall out.  Erin's hair lay on the floor.  I burst into tears.  I didn't know how I did it, but I knew I made her hair fall off her head.  I was terrified. Erin ran upstairs, distressed.  I thought her mom was going to yell at me.

After calming myself down a little, I slowly trudged up the stairs, still in tears.  Erin was at the kitchen table.  Her hair was back on her head.  I learned that day that your hair falls out when you get treated for cancer.  Once I was assured I did not make her hair off by wrestling with her, everything was back to normal.

We ran downstairs to play Barbies. 

This post was written in response to this week's Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt.
Your assignment for this week is to write about a memory of yourself WITH someone else.

Note: Erin meant lot to me, and I will be writing another post about her soon.  I wrote some of it for this, but there were too many memories and more than 600 words.

The Day my World Turned Upside Down

They're laughing at me.  All my friends.  It is lunchtime.  My backpack is gone.  The table is full.  They sit, smirking and laughing.

I hold my lunch tray in my hands.  My eyes are already burning, vision blurry.  Don't cry, it will only make it worse.  Whatever you do, don't cry. I try to say something, but I can't.  I am too choked up.

Even Erin is grinning at my expense.  She is supposed to be my best friend.  I've known her since we were 3.  I was the only one who came to visit her when she was sick.  I wore a mask and felt like I couldn't breathe just so I could play with her.  I was the only one who saw her without her wig.  I went with her to the hospital for blood tests, and to the orthopedist when she needed casts because her leg muscles atrophied from being in bed.  And now she is betraying me too.

I don't know how much time has passed.  I am still standing next to the table.  "I need a chair." I finally stammer.

"We don't want you here." Ellen says.  She is the Queen.  Everyone else will go along with her for fear of being treated like me.  But I was your only friend when you moved! I want to scream.  No one at this table would be talking to you if it weren't for me!  The words don't come out.

I hang my head in shame and sit alone, picking my bag out of the garbage.  I want to curl into a ball and disappear.

The bell rings.  I trudge outside.  I don't want to play.  I don't even have anyone to play with.  I sit alone, against the cool brick of the school.  I try to avoid everyone's eyes.

"Alison!" Hearing my name snaps me out of a daze.  I look up and see Michelle.  She waves me over.  I hesitate before slowly walking towards her.

She is surrounded now by Ellen and the gang.  I am surrounded.  I don't know whether to be happy or afraid.  Dare I hope they'll take me back?  Is my punishment over?  Or will they just try to humiliate me some more?

"Play tag with us," Ellen says, smiling.  I relax, and nod my head.  Maybe it's all over.  Maybe they are still my friends.  I miss the malicious smile behind my back.

"You're it," says Michelle.  They start to run, on the grass, the driveway, the sidewalk.  I give chase, but everyone is faster than me.  They know I'm the slowest because I'm chubbier than everyone else.  I am mercilessly teased for this every day.

I'm on the grass, near the curb.  Ellen is in my sights.  I can catch her, I think.

I feel a hand on my back, a sharp nudge.  CRACK!  I'm on the ground.  Standing up, I see Michelle behind me.  Ellen is with her now.  They're both laughing.  My foot hurts.  I'm limping.  I can't put weight on it.  They call me a baby, tell me I'm faking it, laugh at me.

I can take the pain, but not the laughter.  The humiliation makes me want to die.  The tears flow freely now, running hotly down my face.  I can't stop it.  The more I cry, the more they laugh.  I now know for sure that I have lost all my friends, and I am not getting them back.

A note about this blog: I snapped 3 bones in my foot that day after Michelle shoved me off the curb.  Not wanting to give them satisfaction, I walked around on a broken, blue foot for 3 days before I saw a doctor and got a cast.  I still hung out with these girls for another month, being their punching bag, before I had the courage to walk away from them.  The last straw for me was Halloween that year.  I was still in my cast, and they made me try to run from house to house.  When I couldn't keep up, they left me alone.  I managed to hobble over a mile home, and when my mom called Ellen and Michelle's moms to complain, they both blamed me.  How can someone's mother be so awful to a 12 year old?  I still can't wrap my head around it, and I just pray that my daughter is never tortured by her friends like I was.


This post is from a Remembered prompt: We all have them. Memories that we wish we could forget…things that we wish we could banish from our minds. Imagine that writing down your worst memory will free you of it. What is it? Why does it haunt you? What could you have done differently?