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I think this movie was beautiful, and thought provoking. I have lost two friends in a month, and therefore, two funerals, two eulogies.

We all need to think about what we do with our lives. I have a constant battle with that one. Today I am ready to give up. I want to give up. I'm sick of so much. I can't handle much more.

I sure hope that I have done good. My friends that passed away-both had to rent other facilities than our Hall since they would be filled to the max. I know it doesn't matter how many come (one had 450-500 and the other 300+) but it shows that they were loved. They both died faithful to God and were great men. Well respected, cared for, cared about.......

Plus, the photography was excellent. It goes to show what God gives us daily to enjoy. We could've all been made color blind, without taste, smell, etc, they're not vital to life. But it makes life so much more ENJOYABLE.

Baby, you could drive my car.....

Well, being that I am such a sap and love dolphins SO MUCH I would have to say I'd be a dolphin. They are so graceful, beautiful, just...EVERYTHING!

As for the car...hehehe. I've never been a car freak. I'll see something I like and refer to it by color. "See that green car over there? That sure is cute!" But two and a half years ago I saw this car. A white, sexy car. Yes, you heard me. I loved it. I kept seeing it around town and wondering what it was. I'm not like Don who can look at a car and name make, model, year and whatever in three seconds.

So I kept trying to describe it to Don, and kept hoping to see it again. Then one day at the gas station THERE IT WAS! So, being the outgoing weirdo I am...I went and asked them. Now I realized this second I forgot the year. But it was a STINGRAY. I'm not a muscle car lover usually, but lately, I've been liking them more. So, if I could be a car, it'd be the sexy Stingray.

I'm looking at the (wo)man in the mirror....

I think that this is a very private thing. It's hard for me to open myself up to such a large audience and tell them what I think about myself. Maybe a few close friends know. Even a few less close friends might know a few bits and pieces of the true Cat, deep on the inside.

Depending on the day, the hour, the minute, the second, I can be several different people. During junior high I joked about this saying I had seven voices in my head and that they were named M.O.N.K.I.E.S. Now, just to give you a disclaimer, no, I don't have multiple personalities. I'm bipolar. I have PTSD. I've been told dysthymia, clinical depression, and a few other random things, but the winners are bipolar and PTSD. YAY for them! No.

So when I look in the mirror, I don't look. Blake said that she goes through the motions of putting in the contacts, makeup, teeth, whatever without really looking. I can say the same thing. Although I think that the mirror is more of a metaphor, I am going to use it literally and figuratively.

Literally, on a good day, I see my pretty eyes, nice mouth, alright teeth, shiny hair, fabulous eyebrows.

On a bad day, I see my acne that I can't seem to shake, even though I'm 27. I see my chins, my stupid hair that probably makes me look fatter, ugh. Everything.

Figuratively, on a good day I know that I am loving, kind, nurturing, funny, well, hillarious really :-) , creative, strong, good, spiritual, doing the best I can, secure, almost happy.

On a bad day, I am beat up, torn down, ugly, fat, stupid, dumb, unworthy, unloved, deserving of what I get, forgotten, alone, distubed, annoying, horribly insecure, panicky, stressed beyond belief, scared of every noise or sudden movement, paranoid, have a twitch in my right shoulder, and want to give up. My friends don't like me, my family doesn't love me, God doesn't forgive me.

I am who I am. I don't put on pretenses. I've never said online something that's not true. I think. At least about my age, looks, stuff like that. If I'm having a good day, I'm terribly witty. If I'm having a bad day, I take all comments personally, and literally, as if people are being mean.

I take things to heart, wear my feelings on my sleeve. I'm emotional, sensitive, way too pensive for my own good, melancholy,trepidacious and apprehensive. And yes, I really do use words like those. I didn't have to use a thesaurus.

I explain and overexplain myself all the time. I don't have a back bone, I don't stand up for myself.

I've always been tall, big, fat, etc, etc. I remember when I was in 4th grade and I wore women's shoes. I had a training bra in 3rd grade. Got my period in 6th grade. Had Cs by 7th grade. I was 6' by the time I was 15. Looking back at pictures of my high school years, I wasn't as fat as I let everyone else make me believe. Sure, I wasn't as thin as the other girls, but a 12 isn't that bad. Either is a 14, or 16. I'd even be happy to be an 18 right now. *sigh*

I like to sing. In Junior & Senior High I had solos, contests, etc, etc and did quite well. I was even offered a part in a community musical, but turned it down as I would miss my religious meetings, and don't want to do that. I feel good about singing. That's how I met my husband. In a Yahoo karaoke chat room. I was singing "But I Do Love You" by Leann Rimes from the Coyote Ugly soundtrack. He loved my voice, thought I was spunky, the rest is history.

I don't think I have a different writing persona. I write how I'm feeling right now. And what goes with the story. But maybe that's also just the way it sounds in my head. What the M.O.N.K.I.E.S. hear. :-P

My fear is that people will take what I say and throw it back in my face. It's happened before to me, several times, throughout my life. People that I confided in, let my feelings show, trusted, in a heat of anger or bitterness or whatever, would bring up information, or chide me, using my own words as ammunition.

I am naive and gullible. But I don't think gullibility is necessarily a bad thing. It just means that I trust people. I either trust too much, or not enough. It seems like the last person always screws it up for the next person. And the naivete is simply per instance. I am quite intelligent, but at the same time, can't know everything.

Due to my fear of being mocked, ridiculed, and laughed at, I hate asking for help, or asking questions. It is very difficult for me to do so. I usually leave that up to the people that I trust implicitly. I firmly believe that there is no stupid question, but apparently, not everyone feels that way.

I am a victim, if you can say that, of physical, mental, verbal and emotional abuse. That's where the PTSD stems from. And trust issues I would assume. I am uncomfortable talking about it, and feel guilty even "whining" about it when I do because I know others who have had it worse. I know I could've had it worse. It's the hardest when I have nightmares. In school kids would make fun of me for flinching so much. Well...now you know.

I don't know how to end this. I'll end it with another picture. Funny that I just took these Sunday morning before meeting, cause I thought I looked nice that day. Then this blog challenge came along. Weird.

Elementary, my dear Watson

I'll start with my worst memory of elementary school.

Growing up we moved a lot. Not because I'm an Army brat (Dad was out by the time he married my Mom) but because our lease would end. And for some reason or another, they didn't renew. I don't know. I should ask them. I counted it once, I've lived in 20 different places in my life. I'm 27 years old. Fun, right?

During school years, I moved every two years, and always in the middle of the year. Man, did that stink. Middle of Kindergarten, middle of 2nd, middle of 4th, middle of 6th. Then my parents were able to build a house thankfully, due to some funding program.

Anyways. The first few moves of my life that were during school were insignificant. Litterally right around the corner from each other (17th to Ella, or was it Ella to 17th?) so I still went to the same school, same friends, teacher, everything.

Then in second grade we moved to Kandiyohi. Only 5 miles from the city limits of Willmar, but at the time, it had it's own elementary school.

Right before I moved to Kandiyohi, my dear friend Becky decided that she wanted to be called Rebecca, so I decided that instead of Cathy ( DO NOT CALL ME THAT! I HATE IT!), I wanted to be Catherine. We were so mature. Well, at least that's how I felt. I don't know why she wanted the change. (Tell me!)

When my teacher sent over my files, she sent a note saying that I wanted to be called Catherine. So then all the kids and my teacher called me that at the new school. I corrected them and said I wanted to be called Cathy. The teacher said that isn't what I had said before, and I needed to make up my mind. (Seriously, was it that big of a deal?) I chose Cathy. I sat in my desk on the right side of the horseshoe layout. Straight down the row was a girl named Megan (I should really be careful, who knows if she'd read this, find me and hurt me!) She would lay her hand flat on the desk, then curl in all her fingers but the middle one. Then smirk at me. I had to double check with my mom, but sure enough, that was bad. She would constantly tease and berate me in front of the others. That year I also had to get glasses. Not cool. Along with my short hair that I decided to perm. Oh, the humanity.

By third grade, you'd have thought she was used to me. But no. There was this boy, Brent. Oh, was he cute. He was in my reading group. I went to the table, getting ready for Reading, and was singing a song to myself. He smiled at me and started singing along. Megan plopped down and put an end to it. Later when we were all getting in line to go to the cafeteria (wouldn't drink skim milk because I thought it was SKIN milk), I found out from Angela that Megan paid Brent to be her boyfriend, and not like me.

I also was oblivious as to what was cool, and what was not. My mom went to a garage sale and found me a purple shirt. It was (is) my favorite color. So, cool, I have a new purple shirt.

Next day, sporting my new purple shirt, Megan comes up to me and says, "You have an ESPRIT shirt?" Befuddled, I nod. She says she'll give me five bucks for it. I said I'd have to ask my mom.

Mom put it to me this way: If Megan wants it, it must be something good. Keep it.

So I had a cool shirt. Yeah, I rocked.

I know that none of that was traumatic, or horrific. But I still can say that I dream about her. I despise her. If it wasn't bad to hate, I'd probably hate her, as she made my life miserable...even on up to High School.


Best Memory?

In 6th grade in Mr. Hamann's class, my friend Marie, from Hawaii came to visit for a few months and got to be in my class by sheer coincidence. I hadn't seen her in two years, and barely remembered her. But I asked her questions, and we realized we knew each other.
It was so awesome to have her in my class.

Also in 6th, ( I think? or else 5th- I remember it was in Roosevelt) we had Up! With People come to the school. That was awesome. And an artist in residence named Tacumba. I loved that, too. He was from Africa, I believe.

If this would've been Junior or Senior High, I'd have much better stories. But this will have to do for now.

The junk in my trunk.

So there I was. At the George H. Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston, Texas. I just landed fifteen minutes ago. My fiance was supposed to pick me up, but overslept. At this hour, rush hour will be hectic, and it'd be quicker for me to rent a car, then to get him here.

I go over to the Budget counter and see quite the line. Apparently it's also rush hour here. I plunk down my carry on and let go of the suitcase I'm pulling. I want to sit. What I really want is a drink, but I'd take a bench right about now, too. Seven minutes later I'm third from the front. Not bad. We're moving right along here.

Twenty three minutes later I'm at the window. Looks like I spoke too soon.

"I need a car. I don't care the make, model, year, anything. I just need a car." Yeah, I'm a bit cranky.

The clerk behind the desk hands me the papers, I hastily fill them out. I am handed the keys to a 1981 Chevy Citation.

"I thought car rental places dealt with, uh, new cars. " I said, eyebrow raised, tone in my voice.

The clerk would have none of it. "You said you didn't care. This is what I have left. No one else will take it. It's not even supposed to be ours. Someone dropped it off here instead of bringing it back to the other location where they deal in all types of vehicles. Look at it this way. It's cheap, it's here. You can go now."

"Thanks" I muttered and walked away.

The parking lot was another mess. The closer it was getting to supper time, the busier it got.
As I pulled onto Beltway 8, I hear a clunk. I didn't put much thought into it.

A few miles down the road, I hear a louder thump. I turn up the radio louder and listen to 94.5 The Buzz. Even over Maroon 5 rocking out, I heard a third, very loud, thump.

"FINE!" I yell to myself as I succumb to the need to pull over.

Thinking it's one of the tires, I circle the Citation checking each one. They're all fine. Worn down, but fine. I shake my head and get back in, start driving down the shoulder to get up to speed, and then hear another thump.

Trying not to curse, I throw the car into park, get back out of the car, slam the door and stomp back to the trunk. It's the only other thing I can think of.

I then realize I don't have the key to open the trunk. So I stomp back to the driver's side door and turn off the car, take the keys out of the ignition, and go back to the trunk.

I open up the trunk, and a cold sweat covers my body immediately.

Now I know why someone left the car without returning it properly. Drugs, a gun, a rope...all in my trunk.

"What the...? What am I supposed to do now?"

Just then, a police car pulls up.

"What seems to be the matter, Miss?" he says as he walks towards me. I quickly try to shut the trunk, as I am sure no explanation would work. Too late, he saw it.

"Turn around and put your hands where I can see them!" He quickly shouts, turning from friendly to fierce in 10 seconds.

"You don't understand! This is a rental car! I found all this in here just now!" I frantically try to explain.

"Tell it to the judge." He says while snapping on the cuffs.




And so you see, Your Honor, I have nothing to do with the murder of the President. I just rented a car, because my fiance overslept.

My Favorite Layout

Really, I am still growing. I haven't done any scrapbook pages in awhile. I do a lot of cards. But I just made my first paper bag book for my friend when her dad died. I left it blank so she can do with it what she wants. Pics of her kids, hubby, family, best friend (me!), etc, etc.
As for LOs though, I see a lot of ideas that I love, but don't have pics that would work. Or I'll get a lot of ideas at work, then when I get home, I don't have time or I forget what my idea was. I'm thinking about doing a sketchbook like some other girls. That would help keep the idea alive, at least. Then when I have time, I can get to it!

Here's the little book: