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How to avoid hand cramps when you're in the 3rd grade

A t the beginning of the third grade my mother moved my brother and I to a new school. She did this often. With each move I attempted to blend in and fade away with the other children; but with a younger brother whose rebellious reputation was known in the tri-county area and a mentally ill mother this never seemed to happen. Each time I would gradually become known as the good student with the crazy mother and hellion brother. This meant I was never invited to sit with people at lunch, or play at recess. At our young stage of development we didn’t understand that mental illness was not something you caught; that my raving mother’s appearance outside of homeroom would not infect our teacher, or my classmates. I was blacklisted. Determined for this move to be different I decided to reinvent myself, to remove as much of my family as I possibly could. When I walked into my first class at this new elementary school and the teacher called out my name, “Elizabeth Johnson” I replied, “Act...
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Episode 2, "Are you my mother?"

Here's Episode 2 of "Adventures in Un-stored phone numbers". You can read the first episode here , although the only connection is my phone number. In this episode you get a bit more internal monologue and a glimpse at how neurotic I can be. Especially on the subject of mothers.  All sentences in italics represent internal monologue and should be read as such. Even this one. Episode 2, "Are you my mother?"  INT. ANGELA'S DOORWAY - EVENING. I am unlocking my front door having returned from a day spent at a nearby cafe/coffee shop. I wrote a very short promo blog, submitted my resume to a few places and spent some time editing old pieces and mapping their future, so in other words I had taken it pretty easy on myself. I answer my phone as I enter my apartment. ME: Hello? HISPANIC WOMAN: Elizabeth ? ME: Um...yes?  Shit, no one calls me that. Is this a bill collector? Do I have a bill that needs collecting? No, I don't. This had better not be a telem...
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Morning pick me up

So it's Tuesday at 6:14 a.m. I am a rockstar. I am jogging with my dog, plowing through my novel's plot points in my head and feeling fan-bloody-tastic. And thennnn..... my alarm goes off. I snooze for the next hour while my pudgy dog snores next to me. After the 6th snooze button, I hoist myself off of the bed and down the hall to clean all the only-in-my-dreams exercise sweat off. As the foamy white toothpaste drips down my chin I think of old people. Old people eating breakfast. I don't usually eat breakfast. Will I ever be old if I don't like breakfast? Are there old people that don't eat breakfast? Surely not. Bruce (my faithful corgi mix) flops his body down with a fleshy thud at my feet. The rush of air from his flop blew the thoughts of old people and breakfast from my head and I leave them suspended in the bathroom near the stacks of washcloths. I grab Bruce's leash and let him lead the way around the neighborhood. As I'm passing the Hillary '08...
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