Reasons why texting is evil

One of the worse things about this whole deployment thing is having to develop and sustain a relationship through email. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm totally grateful to be able to communicate with Apache pretty much constantly, rather than waiting for weeks for a letter- the whole thing is a double edged sword.

Some of the main problems:

* Freepin' IMPOSSIBLE to determine someone's mood over texts. For instance, yesterday Apache sent me short, one line emails (we use email as texting) and so me-being-me, I take it as I am annoying him and he doesn't want to talk to me anymore. But short texts don't always mean that. It could mean (as I discovered upon asking him if he was sick of me) that he's tired, frustrated (not with me), or suppossed to be working (he does this often). HOW are you suppossed to determine any of those things over text as you would from seeing someone's face or hearing someone's voice.  You can't.

Note: please don't be commenting telling me that he really is trying to break up with me, because I know he's not since I got two seperate messages while I was asleep (during his day) that said how much he loved and missed me. So there *sticks tongue out*

* Same goes for silences. Suddenly the conversation stops dead in its tracks. Oh No! I think Did I say something wrong?!  Maybe this is me--I've been trained by Trevor and Jay to assume all silences are the silent treatment. OR I think he's spending his time talking to other girls, like DogFace, or some girls on base because some bitch  woman told me she hoped he didn't cheat on me while he was in Afghanistan. Thanks for introducing that thought into my already worried head. However, with Apache being deployed, it could be he's being spun up, suddenly got busy, fell asleep, or the cell phone service went down. again. And I feel like I'm holding a reciever, listening to empty silence going "Hello? Hello? Helllllllo? Helloooooo?"

* Or how about miscommunications. You know, those things that you say meaning to be a joke, but don't get taken as a joke? Yup, happens all the time to me. For instance yesterday Apache and I were discussing meeting at the airport, and he was talking about how he hopes I'll be wet when pick him up. And I was like "of course. hope you're still attraced to me."  I meant it as a self-effacing joke. And he was like "I really wish you wouldn't say shit like that to me." Annnnnnnnd then he fell asleep. So I panicked thinking he was mad at me, giving me the silent treatment. He wasn't mad (he sent me an email in the middle of our night to tell me so).

I guess, I'm just frustrated because I didn't really get to talk to him much today, and I started off the day thinking he didn't want to talk to me, and then found out his cell service was acting funny. I'm sure it's just a mood, and I'll wake up to a text from him telling me that he loves me, but it still makes me wicked anxious.

Maybe I should go back on Wellbutrin for anxiety.... hmm..

TMI: An Officer, not a Gentleman

The eagle tattooed on his muscular back flexed as NavyBoy lit his thin, black cigarette, staring out over the water, watching the July sunset reflected in the still expanse. Inside the lake house, I watched him through the screen, warm water dripping down my legs as I washed away the last traces of my virginity. A Naval petty officer, NavyBoy was short—a requirement for his job on a submarine—and muscular like a boxer, with closely cropped black hair and bewitching brown eyes.

I stooped to grab my negligee, discarded on the floor, so I could join him on the porch. Though my house was the only one on this side of the lake, I didn’t want any sunset fisherman to catch more than he expected.

“Hey, baby,” NavyBoy drawled behind me. I stood up, thinking that he had snuck inside, and was surprised to see him still outside, a cell phone pressed against his ear. “Nothing much…Just at the Rec Hall with a bunch of the boys watching the NASCAR race…can I call you back later, baby?...love you too.”

“Who was that?” I was back in bed when he came back inside, the thick smell of his clove cigarettes lingering with him.

“On the phone? My sister.”

“Bullshit. I know you’re from the South, but I highly doubt you would call your sister ‘baby.’ Do you have a girlfriend, is that it?”

“Nope,” he smirked like he had just said the punch line to a joke he hadn’t asked.

“Your wife?” He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but those Navy boys were tricky—they usually left their wedding rings and fidelity back on base.

“Don’t got one of those yet.”

“Then who the fuck was she?!” I asked angrily. He sighed as if to answer, and it suddenly became clear “What do you mean, you’re getting married?”

I sat up on the faded sheets, pulling the coverlet to my chest. The stiff blue polyester scratched against nipples still swollen from earlier.

Standing above me, torso bare in the waning candlelight, NavyBoy shrugged once, casually, his dog tags clinking together gently.

“You never asked.” There was no trace of guilt in the deep Lousianan drawl that had seduced me here. He may as well have been accusing me of not asking his middle name.

“I certainly did ask you the first night I met you.”

“You only asked if I was married or had a girlfriend. I’ve got neither—she’s my fiancée.” He shrugged again. I struggled to my feet, trying to keep the blanket firmly wrapped around my body as I searched for my lingerie and clothes. My bra was still missing—NavyBoy bemusedly retrieved it where it lay flung over a lampshade.

“Dawlin’ I done told you I was only passin’ through here. I thought you and me wer just passin’ a good time,” He lounged on the bed, wrapping a strong arm about my waist to pull me back, jeans halfway up my legs, onto the bed with him.

“I thought we were more than that,” I sniffed, defeated. I couldn’t even blame him; I hadn’t asked if he had a fiancee. “I wouldn’t have just given you my virginity if I had known that.”

“Dawlin’, I’m getting stationed in Jacksonville in a month. You know it ain’t gonna work out between you and me. So why don’t we just have a lil’ fun in the meantime,” He kissed me again, trapping my protests against my tongue.

For more Indecent Exposures, check out the other entries at TMI Thursday.

Wicked Games

So one of my assignments for my grad school was to write about a sexual experience in your genre. Guess what I'm non-fiction so I had to write about a sexual experience of my own. So I chose an event that happened at the end of the December. A note to  Apache's sister-- this about your brother. So read if you dare (and won't think I'm a skank by the end of it). Everyone else-- I'd appreciate your feedback on this!

**

The club was hot and dark. It smelled like alcohol and sweat and sex. Milton’s Pandæmonium—the palace of the fallen. Strobe lights flicker across the room, amplifying the trip so many of the fallen are on. Heavy metal fills the room—Drowning Pool drives out of the speakers, the rhythmic beat pounds into my flesh, becoming my pulse.


I grin, searching Apache’s face for a reaction. A smile plays across his lips as he notices the lingerie-clad girls on stage who look no more older than 16, though they are clad in bras, panties, and garter belts. I squeeze his hand and release as I head for the bathroom.

The song changes. Disturbed’s “Down with the Sickness” beats out. It is the club’s unofficial anthem—a song about the eternal struggle of the individual against the mother culture of society that is constantly trying to beat the child struggling for independence and individuality into submission. I get into line behind Miss Kitty, the transvestite host of the night.

Though I feel as home in this club as I did pre-gaming at the swank sea food restaurant that night, I am one of the few that does. The club is a cult of misfits and deviants who refused to deny their true identities for convention. I envy that freedom, though I could never totally give myself over to that side. I explore my masochism in private. Rape fantasies. A hidden tattoo with a veiled meaning. A strong desire to be treated like a whore in the bedroom, but a lady everywhere else.

It was my important to me for Apache to see that other side of me. I wondered if it would repulse him, the way it had Trevor, or if he would only think of me that way, the way Jau now did. I hope he’s comfortable here. Club Hell is an overwhelming the first time you step inside, and I had never brought a guy there with me. I wasn’t sure what to expect.

There is no turning back now, that you’ve woken up the daemon, in me…..

Once inside the open stall, with a door that has been missing since I began going to the club my sophomore year of college, I stoop to connect the garter to the tops of my thigh highs. I have trouble with the back—the tight black corset makes it impossible to bend backwards. A petite blond with obviously fake breasts kneels between my thighs, her breath hot against the back of my thigh as she fingers graze the sensitive skin there. Her long blonde ringlets cover her face, and I wonder what I would if she were to kiss up my leg and lick my clit? She’s not down there long enough for me to figure out the answer—and I decide that if something like were to happen, I’d want Apache there to see it anyway.



Apache is standing outside the door. He doesn’t see me as I slide my hands around his waist, laying my head against the thermal knit fabric of his back, breathing in the familiarity of his scent. It smelled like home, though that night was only the fifth time I had been physically near him.

At the bar, he stood behind me possessively. I liked that. I knew from his vantage point he could see how my breasts were only an inch from falling out of the corset. I wondered if he thought about ripping the corset off of me. If he did now, I was planning on doing everything in my power to illicit that reaction.

We had had sex already today. But that was a release—the physical culmination of over a month of text messages, phone calls, and web cam sessions. Tonight is about seduction.

I leaned forward to order drinks from the bartender, not-so-innocently pushing my ass into him. He was getting hard, like he had been at JC Penny’s earlier that afternoon, after I had picked up from the Armory.

Though we had spent so much time talking on web cam, I was shy with him at Penny’s. I wasn’t sure of his expectations and decided to follow his lead. In the men’s department, he kissed me, sweetly. Later, he came up behind me wrapping his arms around my waist, pulling me into him. He was hard against back as he kissed my neck. It lasted for a moment, but his breath was ragged when he whispered into my ear, “I need to stop.”

We had joked on web cam, betted even, how long it would be before we had sex. Would we make it back to my house? I had bet that we wouldn’t make it onto the highway. But when Apache decided to visit his mom at work, I forced myself to disinfect my thoughts. I wanted his mom to like me. I was sure she would see in my eyes that I was thinking more about getting her son naked than making small talk. At JC Penny’s I flirted with the idea of suggesting a romp in a dressing room, but thought against it.



We made our way onto the dance floor. He winced as his drink burned his throat and he drank It like an enormous shot of tequila. I enjoyed dancing with him— he had a rhythm that surprised me, and I found myself getting wetter. Straddling his firm thigh, I knew I was leaving wet spots as I ground myself into him.

Grabbing his hand, I led him off the middle of the dance floor towards a more private spots, behind a column. He seemed more comfortable here, and he pressed up against me, his hands wandering across my breasts, down my sides, bare thighs, to trace the tops of my thigh highs. My breath caught in my throat as I hoped he would touch me. I wondered if he could feel how fast my heart beat in anticipation.

Reading my thoughts, Apache slid his hand under the plaid school girl skirt and white petticoat especially chosen for this occasion. He groaned in satisfaction as he realized my panties were soaked, and I gasped as he pushed them aside, thrusting a slim finger inside of me as his thumb found my clit.

“Good girl,” he whispered into my ear, and I felt his cock pulse through the fabric of my skirt.

My knees shook, and the fabric barrier irritated me. Grasping his wrist, I moved away from him, pushing him against the wall as I found his hot mouth, kissed him forcefully, before standing on tip toe to breathe into his ear.

“I’ll be right back.”

The surprise was impossible to misread when I returned from the whore’s room and handed him my panties. I flashed him an impish grin as I pressed my ass into him again. This time his movements were direct, confident—rubbing my clit hard. I circled my arm around his neck, his stubble seducing the sensitive skin on my neck.

I came hard for him then, not afraid to cry out in the noisy club. I turned around to face him, lifting his hands to my lips, sliding my mouth down his wet fingers, my eyes never leaving his as my sweetness played across my tongue. His eyes darkened with desire, and I closed my eyes in pleasure, flicking the fingertip with my tongue the way I wanted to tease the swollen head of his cock. I wondered, for not the first time, if it was me he saw—wonders if he transposes her face for mine. I decide I don’t want to know the answer I turn so I can’t see his face, slide my hand down his firm chest, and slide my fingers down his pants.

I want to fuck him, to fuck his self-satisfied smile away, to make him come and close those dark eyes. I want him so badly I can taste his sweat on my tongue and hear the sounds he is going to make, before I even touch him.

He’s surprised when I grip him, but not unpleasantly. His hips buck once against my hand, and I know he wants to fuck me too. I push him back against the wall, gasping as his fingers slide into me once again. He’s a master with them, because nothing feels this fucking sweet—because boys never do this right. They rub your clit as if it’s a spot that needs removing. But not him. He know exactly what how to graze the flat of a finger softly over my clit and down to the opening. There’s a river down there and it has a course; it tells you what path to take … that valley was made for fingers.

H.I.M.’s “Wicked Games” came on then, and I slide my hand up and down his cock to the rhythm wishing that he could take me right there. Lift my skirt up, tug the zipper down, petticoat to hide it. I almost suggest it to him, but am not sure if it’s too much too soon.

It's strange what desire will make foolish people do--I'd never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you

His knee slips between my thighs and I think about him dragging me across his lap, ceremoniously pulling up the hem of my skirt bringing his big, flat palm down onto my right ass-cheek with a loud smack. The thought alone is enough to make me cum, harder, this time, and I know his fingers are soaked. His other hand grips the wrist now tightly jerking him. He’s close, and he wants to wait until he can cum in me. I know. I wonder if there’s a place where I can straddle him, ride him. I look around. The only available couch is behind the liquid dancers, their glow-sticks leaving trails of light in the darkness. An old flame runs that crew; I’d like to avoid confrontation.

I lead him the back bar instead and sit down on a bar stool, the vinyl cool against my ass. I pull him towards me, kiss him, and think about asking him to leave. The lights go up then, and we stumble out in the night. The cold December air caresses our fevered bodies, and Apache helps me through the snow to the parking lot.

He presses me up against the car, his full mouth devouring mine, kissing my breasts. His breath licks my ear.

“I can’t wait to fuck you. Get us the hell home.”

Yes sir.

Broken Glass

When I was a child, my Memere had a candy dish that once belonged to her grandmother. Made of beautiful Beleek China, the candy dish adorned the table at parties and holidays. One day when I was a young teenager, Memere dropped the candy dish after she lovingly washed it. This piece of china, with its tiny, hand painted shamrocks, had survived the trip to America aboard a steamer from Ireland. Now, in America, it lay in tiny, shattered pieces across the floor.

Memere didn't try to pick the pieces up and glue them back together, even though the whole held so many memories for her. She knew, as we should know, that once it's broken it's always going to be broken, and it's better to accept that than to hurt yourself trying to piece it back together.

It's the same with relationships. Why do people insist on holding onto relationships that are not just cracked, but broken. Is it out of nostaliga or a longing for the once perfect past? Is it a fear of being alone? Is it out of guilt that we somehow had a hand in their undoing?

I'm dealing with this with Apache now. He is at a very confused place in his life. DogFace has him fully convinced, it seems that he is to blame for her infidelity, because he left her alone to go to boot camp. She also has convinced him that Jay, who she is living with as his girlfriend, deserves just as much blame. So Apache lives in this state of pereptual guilt, both fully believing that he is to blame, and also recognizing how incredibly illogical this guilt is, which makes him feel even worse about himself because he can't seem to rip himself away. He talks about taking revenge on Jay when he comes home-- about making him pay for all the pain he has caused. Yet, he can't doesn't want to make DogFace atone for her sins, by cutting her off and divorcing her. Yes, you read that right, Apache has not yet filed for divorce, and refuses to even think about such a thing while he's on deployment because he feels he has too much to deal with in country. He knows he has to make a decision, and since meeting me, his decision is complicated. When we first met, he was saying he was going back to her no matter what. Now, at least, he's doubting if he can trust her again (ugh, no!) and if he should be with me. His decision is no longer clear.

And DogFace is a master manipulator. Here she is, living with Jay, and parading around at his girlfriend. The only people that do not know about her new relationship are her family, who live in Utah. Her Facebook (because of her Mom) still says she's married. There are NO pictures of her and Apache on there, though, and there are some of her and Jay. Yet, she tells C that she is not sure what she wants. That she still loves him. That she still thinks about growing old with him. Yet, she's telling Jay the SAME THING.

And he's with me. He calls me his girl to his buddies and they know details about me. I've met his parents, sister, and extended family. He texts me non stop when he can. He talks about a future with me, about what it would be like to do all these things together both when he comes home on leave and when he comes home for good.

I know you all think I'm pretty stupid for sticking around in this situation. And I'm not going to argue with you. The thing is though, other than this situation, it feels pretty damn perfect. I love him, especially for this situation because I wish that someone (Trevor) would have fought that hard for me a year ago, and he loves me too. He's not the type of person to say something he does not mean, so I am not doubting him on his feelings there. I love his family, who are amazingly normal and wonderful to have in my life. I love how he supports me. I love how much fun we have together. I love how I am a stronger person because of him. If you asked me a year ago, if I could have handled dating someone who is not only on the other side of the world, but is in the line of fire, I would have laughed in your face. Solitude is never something that I am good at. For Apache, though, I'm willing to wait however long it takes to be with him.

Do I walk away? Right now, I'm saying no. All that shows him is what he already thinks. That being with him is too difficult. But I am not selfish, and I am a figher till the last bell sounds my victory or defeat. Maybe this will shatter in my hands, I'll end up cut-- but at least I'll have the memories.

I left Ken for GI Joe

"Shit, gotta go, getting spun up, I love you. I'll email you later, baby," Apache typed.

"I love you too. Be Safe." I typed back, blowing him a kiss as he shut of the web cam.

"Don't worry. I'll be fine. later baby."

Saturday began in a rather idyllic fashion. I woke up to some texts from Apache, who was online. We FINALLY got our web cam to work and got to chat for a few hours like that. Being able to see his face makes me feel so much better, and it is hysterical to listen to the guys goof off in the background. On the plus side, it's mad cute to hear Apache told the guys about something funny "his girl said". It makes me feel really secure to know that the boys know about me-- they even know details, like I'm a teacher and I have a horse. Apache's closest buddy, MB, even calls me "the future wifey." LMAO.

Apache was on QRF duty-- QRF stands for Quick Reactive Force. In essence, he and his crew are back up in case a mission encounters problems.

He's gotten "spun up"-- sent out on missions-- before and returned home without making any contact with the natives. So, I didn't think much of it and got dressed, took care of Magic, and went shopping at Target for the rest of the things to include in his birthday box.

A few hours later, I got an email from him, "We're back. Contact Made" and my blood ran cold.

I mean, I knew that it would happen. He's not on a vacation in Afghanistan. He's cautioned me against asking too many questions that I dont really wanna know the answers to.

Before dating Apache, I was pacifist. Not for the war, but not against the soldiers that are fighting it since I know so many of them who joined to make a better lives for themselves. And dating Apache has cemented a very strong belief in me. I don't care what he has to do as long as he comes home safe.... I hold NOTHING he does over there against him.

The idea that he's in harms way scares me more than the idea of him going back to DogFace. I could pretend that he was on vacation as long as his QRFs came and went without incident. Now,I feel like there's a perpetual lump in my throat and I can't quite catch my breath. Since he sleeps during what is my afternoon, I spend that time worrying about him.  Thank God for the miracle of Internet and cell phones, cause if I had to wait weeks between letters, I would be a hot mess.

I wonder if Apache knew it would be like this and that's why he introduced me to his family. Being able to email his sister, aunt, mom, and dad really help. His sister even is a devout reader of this blog (*waves*) and you can thank her for the many updates lately cause she is constantly reminding me to update!

Seriously considering starting Wellbutrin again since I've always had a problem with anxiety. I weaned myself off of it this winter since I'm a bit of a purist about what goes in my body. The only reason I take birth control is because, according to my doctor, my cervix is too tight for it to be properly inserted. Trust me, I've tried three times after the pregnancy.

My heart is deployed, and I want it back...

Commit to Be Fit

This is the end of week 2 on program and on exercise. This week I treated myself to an I Pod touch, which helps the time fly by. Since my ankle was feeling much better, I upped my exercise from 30 mins of walking to 30 mins of elliptical. Yeah, the elliptical kicks my ASS and I'm covered in sweat by the end of it all,  but I know its so worth it.

So, I totally went to weigh in today and except at least a lb. I was surprised to find out that I lost 0.2. That's right 2/10 of a lb.

Had I not done the program, I would have been sincerely upset. And it still does bother me. However, I know my body well enough to know that it takes at least two weeks of activity before I see results. I know that what I am doing is the best for me and my body. Even though I have not seen the results yet, I feel much better. I've been sleeping more fitfully and i have more energy these days.

So this week, I commit to tracking more closely and ramping up my activity level on the elliptical. Starting on Monday, I'll be doing 45 mins. To reward myself, I purchased a Barbie pink sports bra from Target. Yay!

What do you do to motivate yourself?

The Love Doll

As

Meet "Aurora," she is a "love doll" replica of a famous celebrity that I share a name, hair color, and cup size with. As we speak, she is on her way to Afghanistan fully blown up, complete with party hat to wish Apache a very merry birthday.

A few weeks ago, I was attempting to quiz Apache what he would like for his birthday. He, very sweetly, said, "just you..." Now, y'all know I love adventure, and I would gladly mail myself if I felt I could get away with it. But I just do not wanna make Apache's buddies jealous.


So I bought "Aurora", blew her up, added some candy, snack foods, and some toiletries that he needs, and shipped her off. I CAN'T WAIT to see what he thinks about that, and I'm hoping he laughs!


**

On another note, those of you sending packages overseas might benefit from the USPS Shipping Assistant --
one of the things I HATE is filling out custom forms, especially since it takes FOREVER to do and i always send a variety of items that exceeds the number of lines on the form. You just load the program, and type in what you're sending, press print and done! <3 it!!!

TMI Thursday: Misplacing the V-Card

I was 19. Chase & I had been dating about 2 months. He was older (23) and experienced. I had just gotten my first kiss on Valentine's Day when I was 18, and my first boyfriend, Patrick, and I didn't do much more than makeout and dry hump over clothes.

Dates with Chase were like a practical application of sex education. We quickly went through lessons 1, 2, 3, and then Chase was ready to slide into home (yes, I know that's a mixed metaphor--but go with me here).

I stalled for quite sometime, mostly because I was positively terrified. At the time, I thought Chase was freakishly huge. After our experience last September, I'm not sure if I was just reallllly shy or something else. Camile insists that penises can grow--do they shrink too with age?

Finally, one night we're getting into it and I get into the usual routine of fondling and oral sex. It was about all I was comfortable with. Not to mention, he still lived with his mother. His bedroom was next to the bathroom-- and I'm not exactly a quiet person. She liked me, though I'm not sure she would if she knew how often I sneaked into the house after everyone else had gone to sleep.

Chase is more insistent tonight.


"I want to make love to you," he purrs in my ear, the dim lighting reflecting into tiger stripes across his cinnamon colored back.

"I don't know if I'm ready for that, Chase," I insist. He runs his tongue down my neck and across my shoulder, turning my deep breaths into ragged gasps. It isn't long before I'm begging for release, and he is only going to give it to me in one way. I can't take it anymore.


"Fuck me," I command. A condom materializes out of thin air and he slides it on, ready to slide into me. I tense, cause now I'm anxious as hell as he slides in. It hurts. I ask him to stop. He kisses me, trying to get me to relax, but I can't. I'm not ready, and I know it, as much as I want to please him.

"It'll just be like pulling off a band aid. It'll be okay," he purrs again. "You love me don't you?"

"I can't do this!" I roll away from him and start crying. He sighs angrily, pulls the condom off, and lays down as far away from me as he can on the single bed. I know he's upset.

After a few minutes later, I curl into him.

"I'm sorry...." I plead in my best "I'm-cute-please-don't be-mad-at-me" voice. He says nothing, and turns on the TV. I stare at the movie--Resident Evil--for a few minutes. I'm being punished--I understand that through my naiveté. I do the only thing I know how to do—I grovel.

Burrowing my head under the covers, I lick down to him, taking him in my mouth, wincing momentarily at residual latex taste. He stops me.

“I don’t want you to give me head. I want to fuck you.”

I answer by giving him a condom.

Again, he tries to slide into me. I try to relax, but as he stretches me, I involuntarily tighten up. The impatient look on his face turns my stomach. This was not the patient, loving experience I wanted to have. And so many questions run through my mind: Could I get pregnant? Am I ready to give up the Virgin label? Will he call me tomorrow? Could I go to Hell for this?

He’s the one to turn away, sitting on the edge of the bed. I watch as he takes care of himself. I try to help, but he shoves me away, so hard I tumble over onto the floor. I kneel watching his cum rain down onto the carpet, where it pools in angry drops beside the two unused condoms.

I still stay there that night, laying next to him in the tiny bed. He’s hanging off on the edge of the bed, but when I try to pull him closer to me, he pushes my arms away.

It’s no surprise that Chase broke up with me a week later. Its 9 more months until I lose my virginity, to a Naval petty officer stationed at the sub base. 15 minutes later, I found out he was engaged.

For more Indecent Exposures, check out the other entries at TMI Thursday.

Grave Robbers

Graveyards fascinate me.

No, it's not a morbid, "I sleep in a coffin" type of fascination. If you think about it, unless we are published authors or artists, our gravestone is our lasting statement to the world as to who we were. Even pop culture has figured this out, remember the "What do you want on your tombstone" commercials?

I got interested in grave stones when my Nana would take me and my sister to visit the graves of her parents. Not interested in paying respects to the dead I never met, my Papu and I would walk around the grave yard and he would tell me the legends and lore behind the gravestones. There is the mysteriously ball on top of the Houghton family plot-- the solid granite ball weighs more than 4000 lbs and has somehow rotated more than two feet on its base.  There's the grave of a toymaker whose stone says, "Goin' but know not where".

Some of the stones are sad: next to my brother's grave is the grave of another little boy with his picture inlaid in the stone-- the little one died in a fire. A little ways down the field there is a headstone for a teenage girl who died in a car crash when she swerved to avoid a chicken that had flown into the road. A talented softball player, her gravestone has a ball and bat on it.

Graves, no matter the inscription, demand the respect for the dead, because the dead cannot defend themselves. So that's why I find grave robbing and vandalism absolutely disgusting.

On the grave of Sara Larned Osgood in Yantic, CT sits a bronze statue of a kneeling woman in flowing robes. The piece weighs 450 lbs with an estimated value of $35,000, and has been a part of the cemetary for $120 years.

I should say that it sat there.  The statue disappeared a few weeks ago from the Yantic Cemetary. It turned up days ago at a scrap yard, cut into pieces. The alleged thief said it was pieces from a Statue of Liberty (replica) that tipped over, and netted about $200. Suspicious, the owners of Willimantic Waste Paper called the cops.

Sean P. McNee, 43, of 182 S. Park St. in Willimantic has been charged with first-degree larceny, first-degree criminal mischief and desecration of a grave site.

It completely sickens me. I understand times are tough, but this is a public monument. Publically owned does not mean that one citizen can lay claim to a piece and use it  for their own personal gain. I hope that he and his cohorts, when they are found, be prosecuted to the highest extent of the law.



Speaking of gravesites, watching Ducky weeping at his mother's grave site almost broke my heart, though it made me feel good to know he's reinventing his life according to his own rules, not his mothers! Seeing Gibbs lying on the exam table freaked me out, however, because I hope it's not foreshadowing anything to come!

Christian Kane

It was late January 2009 and the fog was ghosting off the lake, drifting across the road. I was in my car following the phantom of the Jay's taillights. Easily creeped out, imagining figures coming out of the dark woods, I turned on the radio to muffle the eerie sound of silence. The country station was playing the opening notes of a song I had never heard before.

Instantly in love with the song, because it described my relationship with Jay so well, I jotted down a few of the lyrics on the back of an envelope. A Google search turned up no hits. So, I emailed the DJ of tha radio station. He emailed me back, sheepishly admitting that the had played a demo tape. The song was called "Let Me Go" by Christian Kane, who some of you might know from the show Leverage. The song was only available on his MySpace page.

The electronic albumn just got released today. I highly recommend him to you all. He has a beautiful, rough voice-- he reminds me of Chris Daughtry or Bo Bice, except in country form.

I downloaded it and I'm sharing it all with you. I hope you enjoy!

5 - Let Me Go (EP Version).mp3