text:
Alma Fry was born May 11, 1919, to Nellie and Arthur Jones in Erie, Pa, and died Dec. 12, 2011. One of three children (both sister Gladyce and brother Ralph have preceded her in death) she... › MORE
Helen Louise Roeger , age 85, of Coshocton, OH, passed away on Thursday, December 8, 2011. She was born on June 26, 1926, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to the late John and Mildred (Weffing) Roeger... › MORE
Franklin Barrett Norris, class of 1979, who was more commonly known to his friends as "Barry" or "Skip", died of complications related to AIDS at his home in... › MORE
An intellectual who was good at fixing things, Harold W. Roeth promoted education for all. He died, surrounded by his family, on Thursday, Feb. 11, 2010, at his home in Slingerlands after a... › MORE
Peter G. Koltnow, 82, a traffic engineer who became president of a transportation and highway safety advocacy group and who also helped start a lobbying and support group for parents of children... › MORE
Proud Antiochian John Franklin Fisher (Fish) departed this life on earth November 16th, 2011 at his home in Cincinnati, Ohio. Throughout his 54 years, John had to contend with the painful and... › MORE
Lafayette "Lafe" G. Harter, Jr. died September 30, 2011 at the age of 93. He was born and raised in Des Moines, Iowa on May 28, 1918, the son of Lafayette G. Harter and Helen Ives Harter... › MORE
George Franklin Page died peacefully from complications of old age in Denver on Wednesday, Dec. 7, 2011, at the age of 101, just 11 days short of his 102nd birthday. George was born December 18th,... › MORE
With deep sadness we announce the passing of Professor Herbert Michael Lefcourt on Tuesday, November 1, 2011. Close family were with him during his final days while he was under the superlative... › MORE
December 14, 2011—Writer and high school teacher Rafael Torch '02 has died. He passed away peacefully Monday, Dec. 12, 2011, after a courageous four-year attempt to eradicate sarcoma, a... › MORE


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Showerhaus Shower Head by Whitehaus
$130.21 - $142.06
No Sales Tax, Except CT
Product Reviews
Product & Installation Videos:
This Showerhaus Shower Head by Whitehaus features a unique 12-arm starburst design. This bathroom shower head features an adjustable ball joint that allows you to adjust and direct the shower head in any direction you please. Constructed of solid brass, the shower head is available in Polished Chrome finish and Brushed Nickel finishes. The shower head ships via UPS.
(W = side to side) (D = front to back) (H = top to bottom)
8" Dia x 3 1/2" H
Ship Method:

subset: commoncrawl


text:
chapter 23
Mr cookie :please vote for team s cause we entered the watty awards !
Storm pov
My ultimate pleasure is having a hot bath while reading one of Sherlock Holmes books, it is simply amazing. But poor little moi can't enjoy her book with immature teenage boys screaming and fighting about my personal life, perfect right? you see we told my brothers about us as in me and Adam yesterday, they took it pretty well , but that was the thing , my brothers never accept things easily so I am predicting , team s had a mission without asking their leader .
As I walked down stairs after my so not relaxing bath , the only thing I processed was that my beloved boyfriend is pink , no , no ,not as in he is wearing pink ,it is as in his body color is pink !
I couldn't help it ii started laughing like a maniac, Adam groaned
"Not you too, are you in on it too?"
"No way, but I sure wish I was "I said between laughter
"Gee, thanks a lot girlfriend "I felt guilty a little.
"Aww, don't worry, pink is my favorite color "I said trying not to laugh.
Adam sighed "whatever "he said and sat on the couch.
"Hey, why didn't Nina come with you "
Adam looked confused at me "what do you mean by that? Nina is already here from yesterday "
"What do you mean? She wasn't here "Scott said worriedly.
"It is ok guys. Just call her "spark said. yeah that is it , I'll call her , she will answer and prove me wrong , that the awful feeling I had today was NOT the same feeling I had when I lost uncle .
I picked up my phone and pressed the speed dial button, the phone kept ringing, but nobody answered.
"Adam she is not picking up, call your mom "
"What do you mean she is not picking up "Scott Screamed?
"Scott, calm down! "Seth said.
"Hey mom, do you know where is Nina?" he paused "did she tell you that?" anther pause "do you have it? Ok perfect I am coming now "
"So?" I asked.
"There was a message, left in her room that she is spending the night here, it is still in her room, come on "
Scott practically ran out of the house, his face is a mixture of blood thirst and pure worry.
"Seth I need you to keep an eye on him "Seth understood, he gave me a simple nod.
We got to Adam's place in less than five minutes, even though normally it takes more than half an hour.
As we got out I found Scott on the floor of Nina's room and had his face barred in his hands
I ran to him "what is it? Tell me "I screamed the last part. he gave me his cell phone, there was a message from an unknown number , it said that Nina is with jack , she has been kidnapped .
"He got her "three words that sent my world to extreme chaos. Adam punched the wall hard, his knuckles started bleeding and well Nina now has a huge hole in her wall. Scott simply went numb, if it wasn't for his fast breath, I would believe he is dead.
I hugged Adam "don't worry we will find her, I promise you that.'
"At least we know his exact place now "Seth said, everyone looked alarmed and hopeful at me.


text:
Tag Archives: Real Estate
Tips For Creating A Guest Room/Home Office
Having a home office and guest room are luxuries many of us can hardly afford in smaller homes or apartments. It almost makes perfect sense for an infrequently used guest room to work double duty as a home office. But … Continue reading
Annual Change In Captial City Dwelling Values
Capital city home values have fallen by -0.4% throughout 2012 • Across the capital cities, property values have fallen by -0.4% over the 2012 calendar year, following a -3.8% fall in values in 2011. • Melbourne has been the weakest … Continue reading
Try these DIY tips to make home renovation and decoration easier. 1. Don't waste water by washing paintbrushes and rollers in between coats. Instead, wrap tightly in plastic cling film and they will stay moist – even overnight. … Continue reading
Attractive Buying Conditions For 2013
Century 21, the largest real estate sales organisation in the Asia Pacific region, believes that 2012 saw a general stabilisation in Australian residential property prices which in turn may provide a strong platform for moderate growth in 2013. "Century … Continue reading
Report identifies possible reforms to achieve housing solutions
Should you invest your hard-earned cash in house on a quarter acre block, or a low-maintenance apartment in the city? It's the age-old question that plagues property investors across the nation, and as is often the case when it comes … Continue reading
Homes more affordable now
Housing has become a lot more affordable over the past year, due to a drop in home prices combined with lower home loan rates and higher incomes, according to property analysis provider RP Data. Based on around 285,000 sales over … Continue reading
The Year That Was 2012 – Port Douglas Property Round Up
Thankfully the latter six months of 2012 have seen an increase in tourist numbers and general activity in Port Douglas. The accommodation houses and restaurants have been noticeably busier. The consequence of this is that property owners have experienced better returns. What … Continue reading
The perfect home office
Controlling wiring Making your office as wireless as possible is the way to start, but for most of us there will still be too many leads. Cable turtles will reduce the length of cords. To keep all the wiring bundled … Continue reading
Signs of Market Recovery As Home Loan Approvals Lift For Second Consecutive Month
Century 21, the largest real estate sales organisation in the Asia Pacific region, believes that the increase in dwelling finance commitments over September 2012 could indicate further strengthening in the residential property market. According to recently released figures by … Continue reading
Solar Eclipse Port Douglas 14th of November 2012
The Total Solar Eclipse on the morning of Wednesday 14th November is now less than a week away. Changed Traffic Conditions for 13-14 November Wangetti Beach: Open. A large parking area will be available opposite Wangetti College for … Continue reading


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| Pumpkin Carving |
Such small biology
guts and seed dump
dangling stem membrane
levied corpus callosum
thought doctored
lobotomy left autumn
drooling at our doorstep.
Do not disturb
my angry haunt
on queue. Do not
demand I make
the face I want
for winter.
| Heirloom China at Thanksgiving |
There they sit, a porcelain armada tasked
to keep the in-law's harsh words at bay,
beacon flaws of my cousin's new fling.
Helmed by the gravy boat (brute faering),
backed by orbiting saucers, a platoon of shallow
salad bowls. Their muscle is in fragility:
soft hands grasp teacups like emptied eggs,
children's elbows are off the table without being
asked. These seasoned soldiers are older
than the tradition of argument. Ask the creamer
about our ancestor's first gathering, a time when
things were far from dishwasher safe.
They're my mother's mercenaries now,
charged to protect the cargo of Grammy's
yam recipe. Proud of their history
of successful missions, they sit pompous off-
season in the glass cupboard for all to see;
tease untimely guests with their splendor.
Slam the door and they rattle in their courage;
chatter of the time they lost the brave dinner
plate when Great Uncle Ernie admitted to the
affair in front of your family congress. It was
an ill-timed comeback to his tempered second
wife. It was the only time they lost a man in battle.
It shattered their record of perfect execution like
a splintered dish against drywall just left of Ernie's
head—honored this day by Father's paper plate.
| Absentee |
Our ballots arrived in the mail
today, three weeks before election.
Since you won't be coming overseas
anymore, I take it you'll get to the polls.
Don't forget that as leader
of the House he compromised
on finance reform and left you alone
with that wiggling deficit. How many
sessions need he oppose party lines,
shift platforms, cross constituents
before you realize he hasn't at heart
yours, but the general welfare?
Take this time to make a statement
about the state of our union: lingering
recession, stale labor and stalled
congress. After all, there's always
the other guy: a blank slate whose
lack of record seems rewarding,
somehow posh when partaking in
an arousing, new movement.
What better than the promise to push
policies you love and — assures within
the first term — he will propose?
Reach deep in early November.
Ignore the low-hum of the PA in the
gymnasium, where you wait in line,
collect that card and scribble-test
a pen that others have handled
with confidence. Think to whom
I must have selected when I asked
our ballots find us safely at home
then left the rest to choice.
John Bennett is in his second year at the University of Montana MFA program for poetry. He is a poetry editor for CutBank. John is the recipient of the 2013 Greta Wrolstad Travel Award and the runner-up for the Academy of American Poets University Prize. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Stand Magazine, Concho River Review and The Manila Envelope. He has worked for Ploughshares and was the Fall 2011 writer-in-residence at the Inn At The Oaks in Eastham, MA.]]>
I don't care about having to carry my candy in Mama's pillowcase. Halloween is not about the bag you carry. It's about your costume, but Mama and Aunty are in the living room fighting about the pillowcase anyway. I'm used to it. They always fighting. I'm thirsty, so I let them fight while I go get some Kool-Aid.
Like I said, Halloween is not about the bag; it's about the costume and mine's is real cute. Me and Aunty picked it out at Wal-Mart a couple weeks ago. She said she wanted to get my costume before everything was picked over. She said leave it up to my mama to get the costume and she'd send me out with a paper bag over my head with two circles over my eyes.
I'm a fairy princess with a pink, sparkly dress, shimmery wings, and a wand with a glittery star at the tip. My shoes are glittery, too, like Dorothy's from the Wiz, but they pink, not red, so they match my dress. They click when I walk on the kitchen floor. I'm real careful drinking my Kool-Aid because Mama let me wear some of her lipstick. Real lipstick, not Chapstick or clear lip gloss, and I don't want it to rub off on the cup. I hold the cup real close to my mouth and let the Kool-Aid fall in little red trickles. I'm real careful about that, too, because I don't want none of my Kool-Aid to get on my dress. Aunty's always telling me how red Kool-Aid just don't want to come out of nothing once it gets on it.
I drink all of my Kool-Aid without spilling a drop and pour another cup. Mama makes it real good with a whole lot of sugar and lemon sometimes when she remembers. I'm about to tell Aunty to come on so we can go ahead and get started trick-or-treating, but I love the clickety-clickety sound my shoes make on the kitchen floor. It sounds just like when Mama wears heels when she's all dressed up and pretty, so I feel pretty, too. I mean, I felt cute anyway because I had Mama's lipstick and the dress, but the sound of the shoes on the floor just adds to it. I feel famous right down to my Barbie underwear and light pink tights, so I start tap dancing. I get into it and start jumping, kicking my feet out and making big circles with my arms like I seen some tap dancers do on TV. I forget I'm just in the kitchen until Aunty tells me to sit down and be quiet even though her and Mama are yelling over something crazy like a pillowcase.
I can't even believe Maxine was about to send Angel out trick-or-treating with that tacky ass, leopard print pillowcase. Who does trifling shit like that? A fucking leopard print pillowcase. And a dirty one at that cause I know Maxine didn't wash it. She ain't been to the laundromat in God knows how long, and she ain't been home long enough to hand wash it and let it dry. Ain't nobody gonna care about how pretty Angel looks in her costume when she holds up that filthy thing, smelling all like hair grease and sweat. All people gonna be thinking about is grown people and all the nasty shit that Maxine done did on the sheets that go with the pillowcase, cause that's all that jungle print shit is about—somebody getting fucked.
They gonna think about old played out ass Mr. Donahue always coming in our apartment, I'm not even gonna say like he owns the place cause he does, but like he lives here and pays the LGE and cable bills or something. Like he got the right to go up in the fridge and pour a cup of Kool-Aid like he did a couple days ago. Here, lately he's been getting extra comfortable, coming over here taking his shoes off, watching TV, and playing Candy Land with Angel like we're one big happy family. He needs to be home with his wife. I get sick of seeing him all the time, coming over here with fistfuls of old, melted pieces of candy and leftover fried chicken from Blue's. He's got all that property but he spends so much money chasing skirts that he's got to get a part-time job at a restaurant with his crooked, perverted ass.
We don't need his charity. Don't nobody want to be eating chicken every day of the week, and besides, ain't no telling where his hands and that candy have been. Soon as he slinks into Maxine's room, I make Angel throw all those warped Tootsie Rolls and Now and Laters in the trash. Sometimes she'll hide some pieces and I'll have to take them from her. Lord, that girl got a sweet tooth. She don't care about a block of Laffy Taffy being smashed and curled up like a raggedy shoe from being in a pocket all day. If she had the chance, she'd sit just as patiently and pick off every little piece of paper sugar-glued to each and every piece of candy. Tomorrow's the first and I ain't got one cent of Maxine's half of the rent, so I know soon as Mr. Donahue throws his wife a couple funky breath kisses he's gonna be creeping around here today with something else I'm gonna have to wrestle from Angel.
Everybody else doing everything for Angel—bringing candy, buying costumes, spending time—and all Maxine had to do was get a bag. She could've gone to the dollar store and got one of those little plastic pumpkins while she was out all night doing I already know what and God knows, too. But she couldn't even do that. I'm not surprised. I'm not ever surprised.
Sandra got shit to holler about every damn day. I'm a grown ass woman and I don't need it. She's always talking about how I don't do shit around here. Hell, if it wasn't for me we would've been kicked out a long time ago. Mr. Donahue's tired of hearing complaints from Mrs. Kramer downstairs about Sandra's yelling. I calm him down and he helps me with some financial ends and lets us keep staying here. Sandra's always looking at Mr. Donahue all cross-eyed, but he ain't done nothing for her to look at him like that.
He ain't nothing but a lonely old man who wants to be my sugar daddy. His kids are grown and moved away—I can't remember to where—and don't barely talk to him. They mad cause Mr. Donahue was cheating on his wife back in the day. I don't know why. I've seen his wife before. She's real pretty, but Mr. Donahue's handsome to be in his fifties. Clear brown skin, wavy hair, bowlegged. I don't know why most people do half the stuff they do, but I know most of the pretty men I've known don't know how to sit down. Anyway, she don't hardly pay him no attention, barely gives him any. I guess she still mad cause he cheated back then, which makes sense cause he's still cheating, but I don't know why she don't just leave him. Maybe he said before but I don't know. I be half-listening most of the time. I know he says he loves her, that he misses his kids. I don't know how he plans on getting everything together laying up around me, but his business ain't my business. I ain't like Sandy. Always rummaging around in somebody else's stuff. He brings me chicken and cheap perfume, and roses when he's trying to be all romantic. He and I both know that ain't even necessary. I prefer cash, and it's hard trying to sell that funny smelling perfume. But he does it anyway, and I think it's sweet. He's good to Angel, too. Brings her candy, toys, and sometimes clothes. Hell, Angel's daddy don't do half that shit.
It don't matter what the fuck I do in my room with my door shut or when I go out at night. Angel has a roof over her head, she always looks nice, and she has food to eat. Like I said, I'm grown, and the only mama I got died five years ago.
I don't know why Sandra's making such a big deal about it. Ain't nothing wrong with that pillowcase. No, it's not fresh-from-the dryer, spring clean, but it ain't been dipped in shit and covered with roaches either. Sandra's always blowing something out of proportion. Like how she's saying I was gone all last week. Now, how I did I do Angel's hair on Wednesday and make spaghetti on Saturday if I was gone all last week?
Sandra's working my last good nerve. I wish Mr. Donahue would come on. I gotta get out of here tonight.
I'm not even thinking about asking Mama to go trick-or-treating again until I'm sitting and being quiet, looking out the window in the kitchen and I see Monet Stevens. When I asked Mama earlier, she said she was tired so I went on, but now Monet is walking up the sidewalk looking stupid, waving her hand like the Miss America she thinks she is for real. When I first saw her I wanted to yell "Psych!" out the window, but then I saw her mama.
Miss Stevens is standing in front of Monet, taking pictures like Monet is really somebody. I can't even call Miss Stevens stupid cause she's really nice. When it was Monet's birthday, she came to class and brought pink cupcakes cause pink is Monet's favorite color. She poured everybody cups of pink lemonade and sat in a little seat in the desk next to Monet. She stayed a long time and laughed and played games and paid attention when everybody was talking, even Stanley Bowers who's always saying dumb stuff. For my birthday, Aunty threw me a party at home and bought me a Barbie cake, and I know she paid more for it than Miss Stevens paid for her homemade cupcakes cause I heard her fussing about the fifteen dollars that Mama never gave her for it, but that Barbie cake didn't taste as good as those pink cupcakes.
Miss Stevens is pretty, too. Monet's always talking about it. I tell her my mama's pretty, too, but my mama ain't never been to our school, and I don't like Monet so she ain't never been to my house so I can't prove it. But I wanna show her today.
I run into the living room and Aunty is still yelling and cussing at Mama, first about Mama staying out all night and then about Mama eating the last piece of bologna and how come she had to go to Kroger and buy the bologna in the first place when Mama gets all those food stamps. Mama ignores her and holds her bologna sandwich in one hand. Her other hand is pointing all up in Aunty's face while she's telling her that she's grown and she'll do and eat whatever she G.D. pleases in her G.D. house.
I put my cup of Kool-Aid on the table and step in between them, feeling the thump from Mrs. Kramer's broomstick under my glittery pink shoes, and I don't care about staying out of grown folks' business like Aunty tells me to or the stupid pillowcase or if I get any candy at all. Once I start thinking about it, I figure that Mama might really want to go trick-or-treating with us now since she's up and eating and I heard Aunty talking on the phone to Miss Betty about how Mama's always out tricking on the street and trying to get something for free, but, just in case, I tell Mama that she can have all of my Snickers bars if she comes with us. And then Mr. Donahue comes walking into the living room with a hot pink plastic pumpkin resting on a big pan of chicken covered in aluminum foil.
He didn't even knock. That's the shit I'm talking about. He owns this building, but he needs to respect our privacy. All Maxine cares about is getting her money, but I could have been walking around naked or something and, unlike her, I care about who sees what I got. Usually I would have said something smart, but he's got the exact pumpkin that I wanted Maxine to get for Angel. I look at Maxine like, See? Even a low down, dirty adulterer knows that you don't send a kid out with a leopard print pillowcase. I can't stand him, but I'm not that rude so I thank him and tell Angel to come on.
I heard her ask Maxine to come with her, and I think it's a damn shame that Angel has to beg her own Mama to go trick-or-treating with her, especially since Maxine's not even tired from work or about to go to work. She's just sitting up being trifling. It's an even bigger shame that Angel feels like she has to offer up her candy bars so that Maxine will say yes. Because I know how much Angel loves sugar I know how much she wants Maxine to go, and I don't want her to have to hear Maxine tell her no so I try to get her excited about Sweet Tarts and Starbursts so maybe she'll forget about what she just asked Maxine, who's already trying to push Mr. Donahue, big pan of chicken and all, into her room. But Angel don't forget nothing. She won't stop asking.
I'm getting ready to tell Angel that Mama has company, and me and Mr. Donahue have to talk, but he answers Angel before I can and tells her, "Why sure we'll go trick-or-treating with you." He puts his tray of chicken down on the coffee table and gives her the pink pumpkin basket. She reaches inside the pumpkin and smiles, pulling out a pair of big, red wax lips. She rips them open while Mr. Donahue digs into his pocket. He turns away from Angel, puts his hands to his mouth like a squirrel, then turns back around to show her a mouth full of fake vampire teeth. She laughs and kisses him on the cheek with her juicy wax lips. Mr. Donahue grins up at me with those vampire teeth. I guess he thinks I'm gonna laugh, but I don't see a damn thing funny. For the first time I see what Sandy means about Mr. Donahue overstepping his boundaries. Now Angel's all excited telling me to come on. That we gotta hurry because she wants to show me something. How's he just gonna make plans for me and he don't know what I was getting ready to do? Mr. Donahue digs in his pocket and hands me a pair of vampire teeth, but I am not in the mood to play.
I tell Angel I'll be right back, then I pull Mr. Donahue into my room and tell him he's gotta get shit straight. He's not my man and he's not Angel's daddy. We've got a business arrangement and that's it. I reach for his pants so we can get down to business, but he grabs my hands and stares at me like he's never seen me before and didn't know what we were all about all along. He asks, "Can't it wait 'til we go and come back?" I guess he's talking about from trick-or-treating, and he's thinking we, all of us, are about to go trick-or-treating, and I know he's tripped and hit his head. I tell him I don't have time for this shit, that he's got a wife at home anyway, and I ask him if we're gonna do this. And that motherfucker tells me no and walks out of the room. When I go cussing after him, Angel grabs my hand and starts trying to pull me down the stairs. She's calling for Sandra and Mr. Donahue to come on, jumping up and down, telling me that it's about to be too late. For what I don't know. All that candy ain't going nowhere.
I got a headache for real now, dealing with Sandra and Mr. Donahue's bullshit, and don't feel like going to nobody's house asking for no candy. For a second, I consider going, putting on a mask and taking my pillowcase (fuck Sandy) and reselling all the candy I get, but you can't get nothing for some half candy bars and that cheap peanut butter candy. I figure if I break up the chicken I can get more money quicker.
Mama said she's tired, but I know she's not. She just wants to go out, and I don't know why she doesn't want to go tricking out on the streets with me, Aunty, and Mr. Donahue. Well, she's fighting with them so I know why she might not want to go with them, but I ain't done nothing.
I'm so mad I won't kiss her with my fake lips, and I wipe off the kiss she puts on my cheek. I say "Forget Halloween" and when I throw my pumpkin basket on the coffee table, my cup of Kool-Aid spills. Some of it gets on my stockings and shoes and I start crying. Mr. Donohue runs out of the room and Mama says "Oh" all slow like she's worried or sorry or sad when I know she ain't none of those things. She tries to come over to me, but Aunty pushes her back and tells her to go on. Mama she starts yelling at Aunty saying I'm her baby and Aunty tells her she don't act like it and steps over the spilled Kool-Aid on the carpet to sit beside me on the couch. Mama says, "Whatever, Sandy. F.U." and goes to her room. Aunty hugs me and tells me not to pay Mama no mind cause she ain't got no sense. That I'm looking too pretty to stay in the house and not go get some candy. Mr. Donahue comes back with a wet dishtowel and a wet dishrag that he hands to Aunty. I see her look at him like, What the heck are you doing? But she takes the rag and while she wipes off my shoes and rubs at the splashed-on Kool-Aid dots on my stockings, Mr. Donahue wipes off the table, my pumpkin basket, and rubs at the Kool-Aid that spilled on the carpet. While Aunty is hugging me, the hair from her wig itching on my cheek, her Wind Song perfume all around me, and Mr. Donahue is scrubbing at the carpet, I remember what Aunty said and think about how now I can have all of my candy bars. I promise myself I'm not gonna give Mama one. Not. One.
When he's finished with the carpet, Mr. Donahue takes the towel, all red with Kool-Aid, to the kitchen, comes back, holds up my pumpkin and tells me we'd better get going if we're gonna get all the good candy. Aunty looks at him like he's crazy again and asks him if he's going for real. He says yeah. She says he doesn't have to. He says he wants to, and she huffs like she does when he's watching TV with us and laughing real loud or asking her if she can check the score on the basketball game, but then she says, "Yeah, I guess we'd better go." Mr. Donahue says, "Come on, princess," and I know he's calling me a princess cause that's what I am today, but it reminds me of the shows on TV when the daddy calls his little girl a princess. Just then I remember that Monet Stevens ain't never seen her daddy cause she said so when our teacher told us to make Father's Day cards last year. I know that Mr. Donahue ain't my daddy and Aunty ain't my mama, but Monet Stevens ain't gotta know that. Aunty ain't as pretty as Mama and her wigs be looking crazy sometimes, but she's pretty when she smiles and the wig she's wearing today is alright. It's big and curly and if Monet say something I'll say it's Halloween and she's Diana Ross.
I know Mama won't be home when we get back. Fine. So what. Let her go out by herself. I look down at my stockings. They're not dry and the Kool-Aid ain't gone all the way, but it doesn't stick out so much from the light pink. I don't think Monet'll be able to see it. I grab Aunty Sandra and Mr. Donahue's hands and tell them to come on.
Kristen Gentry is a Kentucky girl who lives in Rochester, NY and teaches creative writing at SUNY Geneseo. She misses Louisville winters that end without a fight, being able to find cans of fried apples in the grocery store, and people who say "pop," but she's able to find all of these home comforts at her scratched and dented desk. "Matching Sheets" is from her manuscript, Mama Said, a short story cycle that explores three mother-daughter relationships in the same family strained by the mothers' drug addictions.]]>
Stop It:
There are days the past sneaks up on her—rising from the streets; garbage rotting in August heat. Memory is a form of suffocation, a stench that knocks you off your feet. Here's what she's remembering now: a concrete shack off some highway, selling fried shrimp hours and hours too far from the sea. They had already stopped loving each other by then, but they weren't done pretending. Even when love goes rancid, it's hard as hell to throw it out. She remembers the pink vinyl tablecloth, the unbearable heat, the way he pressed his lips together and stared right through her. A television bolted to the concrete wall blasted The Sixth Sense on dubbed cable. "Yo veo a los muertos," whispered Haley Joel Osmond in childish desperation; she ripped the greasy heads off every one of her shrimp, squishing their black eyes under her fingernails, and thought: me too.
Kimi Traube is a writer and a translator in her second year at Columbia's M.F.A. program. Her translation of Juan Villoro's "Mayan Dusk" can be found in the Fall 2013 issue of Bomb Magazine.]]>
"I'm a reporter, I do not care about morality. I just want to know what happened." Smith nudged the recording device closer to me. The hard red light reminding me that everything I say will someday be read by Meredith. My stomach sank.
"Are you saying reporters are moral-less?"
"No. I care about my morality. But for this story, it is your morality I do not care about. I want to write exactly what happened. I will not judge you innocent or guilty. I will write what you tell me."
"Good enough for me, I guess." I swallowed hard as I began.
"I want to start by telling you that I truly love Meredith. Despite what I did, I love her with all my heart. I may be a flawed individual, but Meredith is not.
"I had always greatly enjoyed waking up to Meredith beside me. Her straw colored hair tangled around her angelic face. She never drooled or snored. I always awoke with her in the exact same position she had been in when she fell asleep. And yet her hair was always tangled. Thinking back, she must have tossed her head in her sleep a lot. I just never noticed." A pang of regret. I sighed and continued.
"I woke up on that cold day in February to her face. As always. We had been so happy together but, in recent years our marriage was strained. We had found out recently that Meredith was almost sterile. The damn doctors told Meredith she could conceive, but it would be difficult. If only they had told her it was impossible, I could have convinced her to follow alternative options, but no. She insisted we keep trying.
It had been three years and still we were childless. With every month, Meredith grew more distant from me and I grew more desperate.
I had been working on developing intelligent robotic designs for the Neaman Institute for twenty years and had recently acquired Lisa as my lab assistant. I admit, I noticed her beauty instantly, but I swear, I never desired her until that day.
Leaving Meredith to sleep, I went downstairs for breakfast. Meredith always looked so peaceful in her sleep. Waking her into existence was too much for me. I ate the egg and toast Cynthia, our live-in housekeeper, had prepared for me and immediately went downstairs into my home lab. Lisa was there, waiting. Her short brown hair shinning beautifully in the artificial light of the lab. While Meredith's complexion was alive and warm, Lisa looked as if she was frozen from the inside out. Her red lips and rich brown hair were highly contrasting to her pale, almost translucent skin. Meredith and I had sex solely for child-making these days, the intimacy completely gone. So when Lisa kissed me, I could not resist the soft touch.
I forget what was said or done before that moment. All I remember is that she kissed me, and we were gone. We made love five times that day. I basked in the glow of her naked body as we became unified again and again.
And then the day ended, and I dismissed Lisa. She kissed me good-bye and the regret started to sink in. So much regret and fear. Fear for the loss of my marriage, my wife. And fear that my life would end because of it.
I took twenty years of research, almost half of my life, and did not leave my lab for days. I ate, slept, and worked for almost two weeks straight, not letting anyone in. Not Lisa, nor Meredith. Only Cynthia came down with my meals and occasionally I would actually eat some of it.
It was guilt and fear for my life as I knew it. I gagged every time I thought of what I had done and what the consequences would be. Have you ever faced such fear?"
I had been looking absently towards the wall, but now I held Smith in my gaze. Begging him to answer me. I had become emotional with my re-telling.
Smith seemed slightly surprised at a direct question. He waited briefly, probably to make sure I actually wanted an answer before replying, "Once, when living in a small town in Africa, working on an essay about the effects of the endless civil wars on the family structure, I woke up to find a Black Mamba on me. It is one of the most poisonous snakes in Africa."
"Did it bite you?"
"No, it left without conflict. But I was paralyzed with fear."
"Well, unless it had bitten you, then no, you have never faced such fear as me." Smith starred at me coldly, his eyes almost blank. But there was a sliver of disagreement in that stare. "See Smith, I had been bitten. I was dying. And I would die if I did not find the cure immediately. And in my state of panic, I thought I had found it. Thirteen days I had been locked in my lab, but it had been worth it.
I sat on the bed next to Meredith as she slept. Her hair tangled as always. There was a small knock at the door and Meredith's eyes slowly opened. She starred at me unrecognizing. And then smiled. It was a perfect smile. Small but filled with love and unaltered happiness.
'You're back.' I returned her smile. 'Cynthia wouldn't let me see you. What happened? What did the Institute need so desperately that you couldn't see me, even for a minute?'
'It wasn't the Institute that needed something desperately, my love. It was us.' Her brow furrowed with confusion as the small knock that woke her reappeared. Meredith sat up and pulled the blanket to her neck. She wore a look of surprise and curiosity upon her sleepy face, still grinning.
'Come in,' I called. Our bedroom door opened and a small boy with straw-colored hair walked in. He walked slowly, balancing a silver tray neatly laid with eggs, toast and strawberries in his hands. He beamed at us.
'Morning! I made you breakfast in bed, mommy!' He stopped at the side of the bed and smiled up at her, offering the perfect breakfast.
Meredith was no longer smiling. She looked at me. Her eyes horrified. The regret and fear grew in my stomach.
'He's ours, my love.' Meredith looked to the boy, and then back to me. 'I made him,' I explained. 'Since I've been working at the Institute, they have had me design countless robots for use in space, as well as for remedial positions here on earth. While the Institute's main focus is and always will be astronomical research, they quickly discovered that they could easily make the money to fund their intergalactic explorations by selling robots to the private sector. My research for the past six years has been to make these robots more human-like.' I pointed to the perfect boy, who stood patiently at the side of our bed holding the tray of food. 'Meet one of my first human-like prototypes, our son.'
Meredith looked from me to the boy, and back again. She shook her head and walked to the bathroom. I could hear her as she vomited. The boy beamed at me and presented me the perfect breakfast. I smiled hesitantly and took it. He left the room as I ate the food our son prepared for us.
A few days passed and Meredith moved out. She never knew about Lisa and me, but I guess her disgust over my creation of a son for us removed any remnants of love. She told me that she did not approve of Nick because he was not a child nor a son.
With Meredith gone, my world dissolved. It did not take long for me to completely break down and give in to Lisa's requests to return. She eventually moved in permanently. While Lisa's companionship was pleasant, I missed Meredith constantly. Sometimes when making love to Lisa, I would remember Meredith and stop, my guilt making me unable to finish.
Six months had passed and I grew used to my new little family. I never told Lisa Nick was a robot, but after working with me for so long, I think it was obvious. I was grateful to her for never discussing it with me and she seemed to enjoy having him around.
Then Meredith came back. Just for a visit. I was eating breakfast when the side door opened. I turned, expecting to see Lisa or Nick and my heart almost leapt out of my chest as I saw her. Her stomach was swollen with child. We starred at each other for what seemed like hours before I spoke, 'Is it ours?'
Meredith nodded and she smiled. I laughed and jumped from my seat. I grabbed her and pulled her towards me. I should have been surprised she allowed me to hug her, but I guess I had known she'd come back. Her stomach was firm and unyielding as I hugged her tighter. I remember she smelled of lilacs that day.
Lisa and Jerry entered the room and saw us hugging. Their idiot faces dead to the sight of real emotion. I could make them smile, I could make them frown, I could even make them laugh, but their eyes always revealed their lack of humanity. Meredith eyed Lisa. I had forgotten I had dressed her in Meredith's clothing.
Meredith recognized that dead-look right away and turned to me. I could tell instantly that Meredith knew what I had done to my creation. She threw me against the wall. She yelled at me about how vile it was that I would sleep with a robot. I tried to explain that I did not make Lisa for sex, I made her to help me with my research.
'Then why make her anatomically correct? Do you have sex with a dead thing? Or does she act like she enjoys it? Someone had to program her for that.'
I had not thought of it that way before. I guess she was right, I had made Lisa for my own perverted reasons.
The hole of regret drilled further into my lower intestines. I watched as Meredith grabbed a kitchen knife and started hacking at Lisa. I know Meredith was just attacking what she thought was a complicated sex toy, but Lisa was more than that. I had created her. She was mine and as much a part of me as the child inside Meredith. I grabbed Meredith and threw her on the ground. I watched surprise overtake the anger that had been ruining her pretty face. I still don't know why I did it, but I grabbed the knife Meredith dropped and stabbed her. I sunk the knife deep into her stomach.
Meredith's screams of pain brought me out of my anger-induced trance and I immediately called 9-1-1, but it was too late. I had murdered our child.
I was then arrested and tried. They found me guilty of murder and now I sit locked in my bedroom, counting the days till I'm free. Then you showed up and asked to interview me for your paper. I asked how you could want to write a story about someone who killed one child to avenge another child they had created just to rape. And you told me you did not care about morality."
Smith reached over and nudge the recording device. "Yes, I have that part on tape. Thank you for your time Dr. Jackson."
Smith stood up stiffly, nodded to me and went to the barred door. I wanted to ask him to stay, not knowing when someone other than Cynthia, who brought me my food every day, would come to visit. Maybe I just wanted to not be judged for a moment longer. But I didn't. Smith wouldn't. And it was better this way.
Cynthia opened the door for him. She then came in carrying a tray of food to the little table by the window. I nodded to my original prototype, the stupidest of the robots I had made, but ultimately the least bugged and problematic.
Cynthia left and I stared out the small barred window in what was once Meredith's and my bedroom, what is now my cell. It had started to rain since Smith and I began only an hour ago. I felt comfortable with Smith and now that he was gone, I felt a sense of loss. He had reminded me of one of my robots.
Jessica Charlé is currently working towards her MA in Film Studies at Columbia University and has a BA in English and Media Studies, with a minor in Poetry from the University of Southern Maine.]]>
Amelia Harkins was the first person in Saranac Lake to talk to me.
I had just arrived, was starting school in the middle of the year; between my "fancy Massatusets accent" and my oversized presence, I was not someone the other kids wanted any part of. Newcomers were rare in that world behind the granite walls of the Adirondack Mountains, and Miss Premo, our teacher, didn't help.
My mother hadn't walked me in to class that first day. She had to accompany my brother to the kindergarten, and our little sister was cranky, so she just nodded toward the classroom at the top of the stairs and left me to enter my classroom ten minutes after the starting bell had rung, and Ms. Premo was visibly irritated.
"Yes?" She peered down at me from atop a ladder, where she was perched, adjusting the window shade. The boys in the class were getting a kick out of staring up at her grandmother-style boxer shorts, but she didn't seem to notice, as she stared venom down at me. "What is your business here?" she barked.
"I'm starting here today," I stammered. "I, I, . . . "
"Where are you from, girl?"
"Longmeadow. That's in –"
"Doesn't matter where or what it's in, now does it. It isn't here. Did you bring your school records?"
"I have them here, ma'am."
The class was breathless with anticipation as she struggled down the ladder and came to stand in front of me. I was a good foot taller than she, and the bun in her white hair was askew, telegraphing wiry wisps around her face. I noticed her shoes, mostly because I was afraid to look up; they were the brown oxford style that nuns wore in the movies, and they looked to be two different sizes. I continued to look downward and thrust the papers I was carrying out in front of me, and I muttered, "My teacher in Longmeadow Miss Smith said to tell you –"
"Never mind. I don't need another teacher to tell me anything. I can read."
She looked up at me, assessing my presence. I was wearing a pink dress my mother had made for me; it had a lace front and decorative buttons along the top, and it was the prettiest thing I owned. "Do you always dress like that?" Miss Premo asked. I didn't understand the question and certainly didn't know how to answer.
"Never mind. Can you sing?" Out of the blue, Miss Premo sat at the piano at the front of the classroom.
Despite the non sequitur nature of this query, I was prepared to reply.
"Oh, yes, ma'am. I sang solo in the Trinity Choir, and in my school, I was –"
She plunked a tune on the ivories. "Sing that back to me."
I did. "You can't carry a tune, miss. I don't know what you got away with in Longmeadow, but you won't be singing in my classroom. Sit there." She pointed to the very back of the room. "You'll be out of the way."
I slunk to the designated desk, grateful to be out of the limelight, hoping the teacher would just get on with her classroom routine and forget about me.
"I don't have any books for you just yet, miss," the teacher said. "You'll have to just follow along as best as you can for now. After lunch, we'll settle your materials. By then I'll have time to look over your records, and I can assess where you're best suited to be in our reading, spelling and math groups."
I knew I shouldn't say anything. But I had never been good at holding my tongue. "In Longmeadow, I went to accelerated reading, I was in the 6th grade speller and –"
"No high and mighty people in my classroom miss. You'll be where I put you. " And then, as I sighed a genuine thank you to the lord I still believed in, she turned her attention to the class and left me alone, book-less, paperless, pencil-less in my corner for the rest of the morning.
Since I had no work to do, I was free to watch what I felt like watching, to daydream or to just let my mind wander at will. At first I was entranced by the snow falling outside our window. I had never seen as much snow as was already on the ground, and I didn't know the world could be as cold as the morning felt inside my mother's car, but even so, the snow kept falling, swirling, falling, and the gray air remained misty, as the barren trees swayed in the wind. After a while, though, even the snow was boring, so I turned my attention to the classroom.
The other kids looked pretty much like the kids in my old classroom. I was used to making the adjustment to being new – I was just nine, in fourth grade, and this was my fifth school. My father suffered a strange kind of wanderlust, and he had moved us eleven times since I was born. I knew the kids would think I was weird, and I also knew that I'd find a friend or two eventually, and I didn't need any more than that.
The classroom was standard too. Letters across the top of the green blackboards that circumscribed the room, musical notes and clef signs on music paper hung on the walls around the piano, which was at the front left corner of the room. The teacher's desk was in the center of the front of the room, large, propped on a pedestal, poised to impose order even when the teacher was sitting. And the pupil desks, with their built-in cubbies, stood in tidy rows, rigid and uniformly uncomfortable. Each row of desks had an empty one at the very back except the row that I was in; I was the only person sitting at the end of a row.
What was not like any classroom I had ever seen before was that there was, in the front right of the classroom, a special section with another desk, sequestered entirely from the rest of us. In that desk sat a little girl. Actually, I wasn't sure at first she was a little girl. Because she was unlike any child I had ever seen before.
She sat silently, possibly reading along with the lesson or possibly doing something altogether different; no one seemed to care, least of all the teacher. But she had her back to the rest of us, her desk turned toward the corner. In the Struwelpeter book my grandmother liked to read us, there was a picture of the Struwelpeter facing the wall with a dunce cap on his head; he had been placed there because he was stupid. This person wore no dunce cap, but she was clearly being punished. And when she suddenly, unexpectedly raised her hand, I could see what her crime was.
Her hand had no fingers. At first, when it went into the air, I thought she was making a fist, but then I realized that where there should have been fingers, there were fused, indistinct extensions of hand with only one rather sloppy separation at the center of it, almost as though her hand were a cloven foot.
"What do you want, Amelia?" Miss Premo could hardly ignore her all day though she let the girl keep her hand up for a very long time without acknowledgement.
"I have to go to the john."
"Ask me correctly, Amelia."
"May I please be excused to go to the john?"
"To the what, Amelia?"
"The john, Miss –"
"I have told you time and again, Amelia. It is the girls' room."
"May I please go to the girls' room?"
"You may. In half an hour. It will be lunch time then, and you will just have to hold it till then."
"But, Miss –"
"I have spoken."
The teacher went on with her lesson. Amelia squirmed in her seat, but she stayed put. Before long, I noticed a stream of water flowing from under her seat, and it formed a puddle near the front of Miss Premo's desk.
"Ooooh. It stinks in here," said another girl. "Amelia peed."
Miss Premo descended from her throne and grabbed the pointer with the chalk holder that she used to indicate the letters over the blackboard, and she hit Amelia across the back with it. "Get up, Amelia. Get up and take yourself to the principal's office."
Amelia stood, and I saw clearly why she was the subject of such abuse. She was head-to-foot an aberration: extremely small, misshapen and bent with bowed legs and a large hump protruding from her backbone. Both her hands were like the one that was raised, and her right arm was jagged, permanently bent, like a tree limb that had been blown sideways in a storm, its fracture frozen. Square-shaped and flat, her head tilted so that her hollow eyes hollow looked at you sideways, across her concave nose. When she spoke, Amelia mumbled because her lips were curled under, the way my grandmother's did when I startled her without her teeth in.
Amelia didn't argue or complain. She walked to the door, her shoes making the squish of a wet sponge, and she left. The principal brought her back to the classroom after lunch and left her for Miss Premo to eye her carefully till she was satisfied that Amelia had cleaned up enough to be allowed back into her corner at the front of the room.
That night, I tried to tell my mother about my day, but all I could manage was that I hated my new school. Knowing how reluctant I'd been to leave Longmeadow, how bereft I was at the loss of my close friend Barbara, how very much I had adored my teacher in my last school, she expected me to grouse and made light of it. What I really wanted to tell her was how abused Amelia was, how angry it made me that we all just sat there and let the wicked crone treat a child the way she did, but I couldn't.
I knew in my heart that I was guilty too. I had been relieved when Premo's attention turned to Amelia. In other times and other circumstances, I had already established a reputation for myself as a fearless child who brooked no injustice. When my brother was maltreated on the playground his first day of school last fall, I challenged the Miss Smith, principal, citing her arbitrary, unmotivated mistreatment of a kindergartner. She relented and, in fact, turned out to be the best teacher I ever had. Another time, when my neighbor Kenny was crying because his brother was lost in Korea, I defended his honor against a gaggle of bullies and actually punched the leader's nose so hard it bled for an hour. But for Amelia, none of that righteous anger raised its impetuous head; I let Premo treat her whatever way she wanted to, and, worse, I was aware that I would go on doing so. After all, Amelia was hideous. Her role on this earth was to absorb the tension from my adjustment period.
The next day was pretty much just like the first. We had chorus class, and Miss Premo would not let me sing. "I told you, you can't carry a tune," she shouted at me. "You'll ruin the song for all of us." I stood quietly, determined not to cry. During spelling, she gave me the third grade speller. I could no longer hold back. "But I finished the fourth grade speller when I was in third grade, and Miss Smith had me in the s—"
"We do things differently in New York State, young lady," she squawked. "And in this classroom, you do things my way."
By lunchtime, I was ready to disintegrate. In the lunchroom, I sat alone. The other kids shunned me. For this I was grateful. The effort to be social was way beyond my ken at that moment; I was happy to spend my lunchtime buried in a book – I was into reading biographies at that point, which licensed me to have lunch this day with Helen Keller. Suddenly, sensing rather than seeing a presence at my elbow, I looked up from my book and, to my shocked dismay, smack into the flattened visage of Amelia Harkins.
She smelled. Of what I couldn't tell, but it was a terrible smell. Something like the fluid my dad used for his cigarette lighter, but far worse. She stood there for a moment not saying anything, just balancing her tray on her fingerless hands at the end of her twisted arms. Her dirty coveralls were drooping over her pinched little body, and the pant legs were rolled up so many times they made a thick pad between her legs.
"I gotta sit here," she said. "Nobody 'll let me sit at their table, so I got nowheres else to go."
"You stink," I blurted, aware of how horrible it was that I did and unable to control myself.
"I know." She was so matter of fact I figured she had chosen the odor as a perfume. "Kerosene."
"The oil my dad makes me fill the heaters with in the morning so's the kids can get out of bed. I spill it because my hands –"
"What kids?"
"My brothers and sisters. I'm the oldest. I got –"
"I'm the oldest too. My mother's pregnant, so soon –"
"Really? Jesum crow. So's my mom."
She sat, and I went back to my book. I didn't want the other kids to think I was befriending her. She ate her lunch. I ignored her. The smell abated.
Over the course of the next several weeks, Amelia and I became lunch mates. In class, four of the boys absorbed some of the horror. Ronnie Spivak and his twin Donnie, who looked nothing alike, got in trouble for being late, and she harassed them for a full day, letting both Amelia and me be. Kerry Hirt grabbed an eraser from the blackboard when she wasn't looking and threw it at Dickie Steinberg. She took them out into the hall and hit them with her pointing stick. Molly McDonough, the very model of perfect behavior, dropped her reading book, and Premo was so enraged her eyes exploded, and she shook her fists in a rampage so terrifying that Molly walked out the door and ran away home.
At lunch, I didn't mind sitting with Amelia. I had got used to her smell, to the charcoal dust that clung to her like someone's pet monkey in a silent film. She had more siblings than I had, and I had plenty; she had more chores than I did, and I had too many. Her suffering was clearly greater than mine. One time Amelia invited me to her house, and I declined; how could I accept? She never invited me again. We understood that what we shared at the lunch table was going nowhere else, but I know that we both looked forward to that lunchtime respite from utter aloneness, and we probably would have been disappointed to have anyone additional join us.
One day Amelia didn't come to school. That surprised me because she was always there, even when she was sick, because, she said, being home was worse than being with Miss Premo. A few days later, she was back, her arm in a sling, her face badly bruised. People whispered: "Her father beats her." Over the course of the school year, Amelia was often absent from then on; she would return with burn scars, a cast on her leg, her hair cut at a strange angle. When she stopped coming to school altogether, I wondered if her father had killed her.
I got used to life without Amelia in school. The other kids began to approach me. I had a fight on the railroad tracks with Irene Halstead on our way home from school one afternoon, and after that we were best friends. Molly McDonough, who was even nicer than she was polite, invited me to a birthday party, and even Sherrie Hawkes, the popular kid, walked home with me from Brownies. I didn't miss Amelia.
Then one day I saw her walking on River Street. Actually, she saw me and began to scream and wave. "Carla, hello, Carla. Over here. It's Amelia." I could not avoid her, and I had no excuse anyway. I crossed the street and said hello.
"Where ya been?" I asked.
"My mom needed me to take care of the kids, and I'm old enough to drop out so —"
"I thought you had to be 14 to do that," I marveled.
"I'm 15," Amelia asserted. "An' I had all the school I need."
I nodded, not knowing what to say. I was too forthright to make up a fast lie to make her feel good. I could have said, "We miss you, Amelia," but that would have been ridiculous. I had no interest in pretending to care about her. So we just stood there, shifting from foot to foot, no commonalities to bind us. Finally, I said, "I gotta go. My mother told me I have to – "
"Me too," Amelia sighed. And she turned and walked back the way she'd come.
I didn't watch her disappear up the slight hill toward Pine Street. Just shrugged her off and went on my way.
Years later I heard she died in a fire. Or her brother killed her. Or she ran away. Or her father got her pregnant, and she died in childbirth. No one knew what happened to Amelia.
That's a lie. I knew. We killed her. All of us. But especially me.
Carla Stockton is a First Year MFA Candidate in Columbia University's School of the Arts Writing Program.]]>
The air conditioner sounded like running water trickling out the window and the mother's laughter through the wall interrupted the breeze on nights like tonight. The daughter had loved the way the sequins and buttons of the mother's shirt reflected light onto the book pages during afternoon drives home when every brick house seemed to smile and laugh at them. As if they all knew the mother and daughter didn't have a yard full of leaves to rake up when home arrived.
She threw away all the clothing in the closet first: the blue button-downs, the scarves, the shoes tucked into the plastic, over-the-door organizer, even ripped out the unstained beige berber carpet. After that, it was the mother's dresser with its rubbing alcohol stink and pocked watermarks that ate off the finish. But afterwards, the daughter sat on the nicotine enhanced sofa in the front room watching the plants wilt in the slender afternoon light.
On that couch before the diagnosis, the daughter and the mother lolled with legs spread across each other's lap — lotion traveling the length of each leg and fleshy foot. On that couch in front of the television where the mother smoked cigarette after cigarette between rolling laughter and Jeopardy!, the daughter took in the mother's smile and beamed frail worry, noted by the slight marionette lines already forming at 25. On that couch, the mother's cough was the result of a lifetime of tarring the lungs, but the cough wouldn't take the mother: the increased swelling of her legs stated otherwise.
After the doctors peered down from on high to wag fingers about every cigarette and soda and any salted or phosphorous-laden food item, the daughter and the mother lolled on that couch and laughed not between the imagined curled smoke from every nonexistent cigarette in front of the nightly episode of Jeopardy!. The mother and the daughter laughed not at the cleaning machines and nurses strolling in and out of the bedroom where the same machine stood after the afternoon drives home stopped.
Once the plants wilted in the front room, the daughter peeled away the yellow wallpaper bordering the ceiling and rolled the carpets into storage for an apartment she'd never use. She threw away all the mail piled on the kitchen table and the birthdays and holidays and conversations around which that kitchen moved. The daughter donated the second-hand dishes to the second-hand shop and stripped away the shelf liners.
She threw away the therapy sessions where she talked about the mother and the flesh-building disease that ate holes in the mother's kidneys, and afterwards threw away their mutual pill bottles idling in the fridge. The daughter balked at the pills while the mother swallowed them down initially with un-caffeinated soda and later plain water—rationed plain water that did not match the fluids flowing in and out of the at-home cleaning machine to which the mother's body eventually attached to.
Before the mother's body threw away its last breath, the daughter sat next to her and took down a list: the mountain air scattering of remains, the outdoor services, and the homes for the cats the mother fed on a regular basis. A last request from the mother: a real cup of coffee. After the ashes of the mother fell into the mountain air, the list was the second thing the daughter threw away.
Tonight the mother's laughter does not interrupt the breeze and the air conditioner no longer runs. Tonight the daughter rummages through the mother's old photographs. The daughter wears the mother's flannel shirt and clutches small bottles of the mother's ashes. Memories pass between the daughter and the ashes and are taped to construction paper in little leather books.
Tonight the nicotine-enhanced sofa sits empty and the daughter sits on the floor with the mother whose house will not join the second-hand dishes at the second-hand shop.
Sal Christ is a writer living in Denver.]]>
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There's a cephalopod
in my ribcage,
it's tentacles wrapped
through my organs
like the ribbon on a
Christmas present.
The suckers cling to
every surface,
leaving rings of salt
on my thighs…
would you lick them clean
if I let you see my scales?
I'll sing you an ocean
from my siren throat,
worthy of a sailor's
Watch, those human feet
on my coral reef,
those shards of memory
will split you wide open,
and I am not the only one
who is starving
in the sea.
Yes and No
I come from a family of "yes,"
appeasement is our causality.
Yes ma'am
Yes please
Yes of course
Yes you can.
My yes was never my own.
I will
I can
I should
My choices were made of guilt.
Don't displease
Don't offend
Do not disappoint.
From birth girls are taught to be
don't argue
don't tease
don't fight.
"Do you mind?"
"Is this alright?"
"Why are you crying?"
"What did I do?"
What have you done?
My "no" is trapped
somewhere between the gap in my teeth,
where secrets hide.
My tongue pushes forward,
aching for no.
"No I will not."
"No, you may not."
"No, I do not want this."
My tongue traces maybes and what if's
on the back sides of molars
and canines.
The enamel grinds out agreement.
"Yes, come home with me."
"Yes, touch me like that."
Maybe is a tease.
Perhaps is a lie.
Later is a promise.
A word never felt so foreign in my mouth as "no,"
and never as much a lie as "yes."
My palms were the water color
canvas by which I painted my
artichoke heart,
watered down into
a grey ocean for my paintbrush helm.
When I was a child I drove it often,
steering blue and pink rivulets
onto paper that wrinkled under
the weight of my ship.
On the fridge I taped my
my sunshine days,
my paper mache spine,
begging attention for my masterpiece.
Nowadays I don't boat so much,
and the rivulets are my own.
My keel is rusted out,
and my rudder runs me in circles,
swirling with the chum of my heart.
Marcella Yakalis is a First-Year MFA Candidate in Nonfiction Writing at Columbia University's School of the Arts.]]>
"In God We Trust originated from my personal fascination with the U.S.," says Maria Brewinska, curator at the Zacheta National Gallery of Art in Warsaw. "In Poland, we avoid the topic of religion. In the US, there may be more 'white' States and more 'mixed' States, but there is always freedom to express your identity."
In God We Trust showcases works from over 30 contemporary American artists, including photography, video installations and sculptures. According to the museum, the exhibition aims to present the United States as "one of the most religiously diverse countries in the world."
From a denominational perspective the chosen works fail to bring across America's religious diversity or to create a contrast it with Poland's Catholicism: out of all, only one addresses Judaism (Jordan Wolfson's animation "Masks" – 2012), and a mere handful thematize other big religions and cults, such as Dzine's garish hip-hop blasting Buddha or the excellent photos by Shannon Taggart of Haitians in Brooklyn practicing voodoo.
This leaves Christianity to dominate the show. Yet it does so with ample doses of self-criticism. William Klein's video Messiah (1999) mixes an orchestra performance of Haendel's oratorio with profane images of suburban America, Micheal Murphy presents a Jesus made from toy soldiers ("Team Extreme Jesus"), and GENERIC ART SOLUTIONS (GAS) shows a re-enactment of the last supper in a trailer park with apostles dressed in Walmart.
Another photograph by GAS ("Pieta" – 2009) depicts a man in a saintly pose wearing a soccer uniform, while another player – supposedly wounded – lies on his thigh. Everything about it exudes sensuality: the closeness of their bodies in the absence of eye contact, the shine of their polyester shirts, the shape of their torsos looming underneath.
This homoerotic charge runs through a multitude of works. Anthony Goicolea's black-and-white film The Septemberists (2006), projected onto a giant wall behind soft black curtains, follows a group of boys through a forest as they carry out ceremonies mixing elements of weddings, funerals and river christenings. As a collaboration with menswear designer Thom Browne, the all-male-model cast is clad in tight shorts, tank tops and knee-high socks. It may look like a luxury ad but it is also a fantasy of legitimized spirituality in queer romance.
David LaChapelle's series "Jesus is My Homeboy" (2003) elaborates on the seeming taboo. Arranged across two walls, the large-scale photographs show a beautiful barefoot Jesus admired by throngs of inner-city boys in contemporary New York scenes. In one, a young man crouches in between Jesus' thighs with his head on the Savior's loincloth, while androgynous figures sprawl out on a mattress in vogueing pose.
These – and the gigantic image of Kanye West dressed as Jesus against a pink background ("Passion of the Christ" – 2006) – highlight the often camp drama that pop culture, fashion shoots and Christian imagery have in common.
Beyond that, more importantly, they are calls for tolerance. In a 2008 interview with the Art Newspaper TV, LaChapelle, himself openly gay, stated that "Jesus is My Homeboy" intended to "rescue the teachings of Christ" from the clutches of fundamentalists. This ties in with a debate currently raging in Poland, as triggered by the movie W Imie (In the Name of) about a love affair between a young man and a rural priest. The film, which won the Berlin film festival this year, was condemned by Catholics as "repulsive," and prompted the weekly Wprost magazine to ask: "Can a gay priest be a good soul shepherd?"
Brewi?ska, having reported a huge interest in the show, suggests an answer.
"In God We Trust can be interpreted as a strong declaration of faith, but also as a manifestation of a right to chose your own religion, which may take any form," the curator declares. "It's not only about a denominational patchwork, but also about a human one."
Tomek Jedrowski is a writer and culture blogger based in Warsaw.]]>
"All Through the Dark Night of Your Human Life" by Lisa K. Buchanan
"Activity" by Paul Beilstein
Congratulations to both Ms. Buchanan and Mr. Beilstein! Enjoy!]]>


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Peter Moody has been confirmed as the new trainer for speedy mare Karuta Queen who will be aimed at some of the feature Melbourne sprints.
Formerly prepared by Neville Layt, Karuta Queen has won six of her 15 starts and more than $1.7 million prizemoney.
She was passed in at the Magic Millions broodmare sale earlier this year before high-profile owner-breeder John Singleton struck a private deal to purchase her with her original owners, Glenn and Viive Williams, retaining an interest.
Duncan Grimley, racing manager for Singleton, confirmed Karuta Queen would do her future racing for Melbourne's leading trainer.
"Basically we think the timing and the races that are on offer down in Melbourne for her suits her campaign at this stage, better than Sydney would," Grimley said on Sydney's Sky Sports radio.
"We were trying to get her to the Magic Millions races but that has been impossible given the injury she's had so we'll send her to Peter and he will get her ready for the Rubiton (Stakes) and the Oakleigh Plate to begin with, and we'll go from there."
Karuta Queen won hearts with her brave second to champion and soon-to-be stablemate Black Caviar in last year's Schillaci Stakes at Caulfield.
She has not raced since finishing down the track in Listed company at Rosehill in March.
A knee problem was subsequently discovered and with that mended, connections are optimistic about her future.
Grimley also confirmed outstanding mare More Joyous was likely to follow the same autumn program as this year, pending the handicapper's assessment of her in the Doncaster Mile.
More Joyous went through the Sydney carnival undefeated with three of her four wins coming at Group One level.
"She will probably have the same campaign that she had last year depending on what weight she gets in the Doncaster," Grimley said.


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Goals and Objectives
Students from institutions nationwide, with a focus on women and under-represented minorities and from a wide range of engineering disciplines including electrical, mechanical, biomedical, computer science, and physics will be recruited to participate in the program. These students will contribute to specific research projects pursued by faculty and researchers at the Laboratory for Computational Sensing and Robotics (LCSR). Each student will be a part of a collegial research team, including a faculty project supervisor and a graduate student mentor, and will work on a challenging research project. The projects will be designed to match each student's interest and to maximize the potential for making a contribution during the session. Some students may contribute to research on medical image registration and fusion or image enhancement and segmentation. Other students will help to develop new robotic devices to help support surgeons in the operating room. Many more projects have been identified and new projects will emerge each year. Participating students may receive instruction on technical communication, oral presentation skills, and research ethics to aid in the completion of the required final research report and presentation. Additional activities will include tours and trips to other labs.
The REU program in Computational Sensing and Medical Robotics(CSMR) is an intensive, ten-week program of laboratory research and instruction, beginning end of May and concluding in early August. Projects are listed by departments including Electrical and Computer Engineering, Mechanical Engineering, Biomedical Engineering and Computer Science.
The projects hosted by the Laboratory for Computational Sensing and Robotics (LCSR) and the Computer Integrated Surgical Systems and Technology Engineering Research Center (CISST ERC) are funded by the National Science Foundation (number of spots available will be based on funding renewal by NSF). The participants may have an opportunity to be part of a poster session at the end of the program. Candidates will need to be a U.S. Citizen or a U.S. Permanent Resident to be accepted into this program.
Stipend for 10 weeks- $5000
Housing – Provided
Program Dates- May 25, 2015-July 31, 2015
The projects that are available for the summer of 2015 are listed in the link below. Please review this list, pick your top 3 projects and list these three project numbers on your application.
2015 Project List
To Apply
Please visit the Academic Jobs Online website using the following link to apply.
2015 REU Application
If you have questions about the application process, please email or call Anita Sampath.
Email: email@example.com
Phone: 410-516-6841
Mailing Address
Anita Sampath
CSMR REU Program The Johns Hopkins University
3400 North Charles Street
200 Hackerman Hall
Baltimore, MD 21218
This program is supported by the National Science Foundation under Grant No. 1004782
Results from Prior Support
Intellectual Merits of 2014 REU Projects
The program has been able to recruit students from diverse backgrounds over the past decade.
This program has been advertised to these educational institutions in the past.
If you would like to see a copy of the External Evaluation of the program for 2013, please contact
Anita Sampath
Email: firstname.lastname@example.com
Phone: 410-516-6841
OTHER JOHNS HOPKINS RESEARCH OPPORTUNITIES in 2014


text:
When your adrenal glands are overworked by stress' both their function and structure can benefit from targeted' natural support. Dr. Wilson created Adrenal Rebuilder® to provide naturally bioavailable building blocks your body can readily use to support healthy adrenal structure and promote optimal function of your adrenals and the other endocrine glands affected by stress.
Product Highlights:
- Combines balanced proportions of dried extracts from glands most affected by stress.
- Processed to be free of hormones.
- High quality' free-range porcine source.
- Contains natural nutritional components that foster and support strong adrenal structure and function.
- Readily bioavailable for optimal absorption and utilization.
Your adrenal glands respond to every kind of stress you experience by producing and secreting hormones such as cortisol and adrenaline that regulate many essential processes in your body. Stress can fatigue your adrenals' causing adrenal hormone levels to drop (adrenal fatigue). When your adrenal glands are overworked by stress' the resulting biochemical and cellular changes can affect many systems in your body such as immune function' blood sugar balance' energy production' thyroid function' and hormone balance' among others. Specific' targeted supplemental support can aid in maintaining healthy adrenal tissue structure and function' and contribute to overall good health and vitality during times of stress' as well as to your ability to handle additional stress. Dr. Wilson designed the products in his Program for Adrenal Fatigue & Stress to work together to provide the specific targeted support that optimally fosters healthy adrenal function and structure. Adrenal Rebuilder is the foundation product in this program and the cornerstone support for health during adrenal fatigue and stress.
Adrenal Rebuilder is an example of how Dr. Wilson's formulating expertise has allowed him to considerably improve on adrenal supplements that were available when he was writing his book about adrenal fatigue and stress. This is a unique formula containing concentrated glandular extracts that provide important building blocks for the adrenal and related endocrine glands. These concentrates are carefully selected' processed to be free of hormones' and combined in precise proportions to best facilitate building and maintaining healthy adrenal tissue and function' while also supporting the other endocrine glands affected by stress. The precise combination of ingredients that makes Adrenal Rebuilder succeed where other adrenal products have failed is the result of hard won insights gained by Dr. Wilson during his twenty-nine years of clinical and research experience.
It has been known since 1918' when the first adrenal tissue extracts became available in the US' that the most effective way to support the health of people experiencing adrenal fatigue is to have them take adrenal cortex glandular tissue along with the tissues of supporting endocrine glands. Dr. Wilson found that adrenal cortex from high quality porcine (hog) sources that has been processed to remove the hormones produces the best results. In addition to a generous amount of adrenal gland concentrate' Adrenal Rebuilder contains high quality' hormone-free hypothalamus' pituitary' and gonad concentrates in the proportions that provide the greatest support for those experiencing stress and adrenal fatigue.
These statements have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration (FDA). These products are not meant to diagnose' treat or cure any disease or medical condition. Please consult your doctor before starting any exercise or nutritional supplement program or before using these or any product during pregnancy or if you have a serious medical condition.
Serving Size: 1 Caplet
Servings Per Container: 90
Amount Per Serving / % DV
Proprietary Blend 910mg / †
Porcine glandulars (processed to remove hormones) (gonad' adrenal cortex' hypothalamus' anterior pituitary)' calcium glycerophosphate' inositol.
†Daily Value not established.
Other Ingredients: Dicalcium phosphate' inulin' magnesium stearate' stearic acid' modified cellulose' and pharmaceutical glaze.
Dairy free.
Contains no milk' egg' sugar' salt' wheat' gluten' nuts' yeast' corn' soy or artificial coloring' flavoring or preservatives.
1-4 caplets daily' or more as recommended by your health practitioner (1 upon rising' 1 at noon and 1 before bed; 1 additional caplet at 2:30 PM if desired).
Consult a healthcare professional before use.
Allergy / Dietary Needs
- Artificial Color Free
- Artificial Flavor Free
- Corn Free
- Dairy Free
- Egg Free
- Gluten Free
- Milk Free
- Nuts Free
- Preservative Free
- Salt Free
- Soy Free
- Sugar Free
- Wheat Free
- Yeast Free
Ratings & ReviewsReview This Item
Overall Rating for Adrenal Rebuilder® - 90 Caplets
Displaying reviews 1-4 of 4
By kathy smith
from Oscoda, Michigan
I have severe Adrenal Fatigue..
I bought the whole Dr Wilson program but the Adrenal Rebuilder is not working for me. I had been taking Bovine Adrenal Glandulars Adrenal Rebuilder is from Pork It is just not as potent I am sending them back. They may be good for someone with less Fatigue but dont work for me.
Doesnt work for my particular Adrenal Fatigue
By evy
from usa
Seems to be working!
After a year of adrenal fatigue issues and trying many things, I have recently added Adrenal Rebuilder by Dr.Wilson's Original Formulations and it seems to be offering a bit more improvement. The jury is still out, but it looks positive at this point! :)
I didn't experience any negative side effects when I started taking this.
√ I would recommend this item to a friend.
By Melinda
from Charlotte, NC
Very Good Product
My family has used Adrenal Rebuilder by Dr. Wilsons Original Formulations for a few years and see the results. Now my turn to see the results.
√ I would recommend this item to a friend.
By Debbie
from Calabasas, CA
Stress relief in a bottle!
Adrenal Rebuilder was prescribed by my doctor to treat stress and related side effects. Adrenal Rebuilder along with an Adrenal C supplement work wonders!
Large pill a little difficult to swallow
√ I would recommend this item to a friend.
Displaying reviews 1-4 of 4
Questions About This ItemAsk a Question
Displaying questions 1-1 of 1
mike guidotti on 8/26/2014
You have an ad for Dr Wilson's Adrenal rebuilder 90 caplets for $52.16 but on the disscreption it says 150 caplets, how many do you get for that price of $52.16???A
Rosa on 8/29/2014
Hello Mike, thank you for contacting us the 90 caplets is for the price of $52.16 and the 150 caplets $67.46
- Rosa on 8/29/2014
Displaying reviews 1-1 of 1


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While your fundraising event should be about having fun, the money you raise has a very serious use. It helps us support children suffering through poverty and neglect in our country.
We're here to help as you plan, promote and fundraise for your fundraising event. Follow our simple five step process and make your event a success.
Step 1: Register and receive our guide
Registration only takes a few minutes and will mean we can send you our fantastic guide packed full of ideas, tips and stories.
It also helps us support you with whatever you decide to do.
Step 2: Decide what you are going to do
Organising your own fundraising event is about being imaginative and creative, so think of something you love to do or perhaps something you've always wanted to do. But do it for us and do it for the thousands of children that need you to fundraise for them.
Whether you want to carol sing, host a Bake and Brew or come up with your own event, there's an event for everyone.
Step 3: Tell us about your event
We want to help make your event, no matter how big or small it is, a hit. Use our online form to tell us about your event.
We can get you started by giving you the tools to raise money online. Using information you provide, we'll set up a JustGiving page and your own page on our website, which you can share with family and friends.
It won't take long so register your event with us now.
Step 4: Holding your event
So you know what you are going to do and you've told us about it – now is the time to do it! We'll be in touch to offer you resources and advice but take a look round our resource centre as you'll find most of what you need to make your event a success available to download for free.
We can also offer materials that don't fit through a computer screen, so check out our online shop for things like balloons, posters and collecting buckets.
Step 5: Send us any donations (and have a rest)
After your event is complete and and everyone has had a great time while raising lots of money - well, that's the plan. Regardless, you deserve a well-earned rest.
But we'd like to do what we do best and use the money you've raised to help vulnerable children. So please send any donations to us as soon as you can. There are a few ways to do this:
- Use your JustGiving page to donate – any money donated through this page will come directly to us and we can even get additional money from Gift Aid.
- Pay in online through our website (coming soon).
- Send us a cheque – include a note to tell us who you are, what the donation is for, and make cheques payable to The Children's Society. Then send these documents to:
Freepost RSYH-HEEE-XZEG
The Children's Society
Edward Rudolf House
Margery Street
- Use one of our pre-printed giros to pay in to our bank account at any Barclays branch. You can order a giro from our online shop or by calling us at 0300 3030 555.


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She's Got a WayItem #: HL.08202221
Our Price:
Unrated ( Be the first to review this item )
As performed by Billy Joel. Composed by Billy Joel. Arranged by Mac Huff.
Pop Choral Series. Voicing/Format: ShowTrax CD. With CD. 5x5 inches. Published by Hal Leonard. (HL.08202221)
Free Shipping on this item in orders above $199
In Stock
Found in: Pop Choral Sheet Music
From the Billy Joel songbook, this well-crafted pop ballad from 1982 speaks directly to the soul. Ideal for both pop and concert groups, the effect will be stunning! Duration: co. 3:05. Available separately: TTB, ShowTrax CD.
Songs Include:


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Please provide both a username and a password.
March 16, 2014
So the band wanted the fans at the show to have one last chance to vote for a song. So the bottom three songs for Bogota were displayed on the screens during the day: Whiskey, Ride, and Day. Fans got to text their vote for which song they wanted. When the band took the stage, Whiskey was leading. But during the show, James was giving subtle hints for the fans to vote for Ride. Well, it worked, cuz Ride came back and won the "Vote of the Day"! Full setlist is up, and pics to come. And yes, we will work very hard to try and get L.O.S. up as soon as we can for you guys to see......


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Costa Brava has some of the most "gorgeous, unspoilt, and romantic coastlines in Europe", says The Independent. Explore the Spanish coastline with this cut-price break from Crystal Travel -- saving up to 49% on the usual price. For £209 per person, this package includes return flights and seven nights' all-inclusive accommodation at the H TOP Royal Star Hotel.
Depart from London Stansted, Luton or Southend on select dates in December. Depart on select dates in November for an extra £30 per person; or in October for an extra £40.
The 4-star H TOP Royal Star is in the centre of Lloret De Mar -- a 30-minute drive from Gerona Airport and a 10-minute walk to the nearest beach. Hotel facilities includes a restaurant, two bars, indoor and outdoor swimming pools and a children's club. Hire a bicycle for the day for free. All-inclusive board includes all snacks, meals and alcoholic beverages from 10am to midnight.
All flights include a 10kg hand luggage allowance; hold bags start from an extra £50 per item.
Click here for more information, including departure dates.
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Cubs Trade Hairston To National For Minor League Pitcher
July 8, 2013 9:40 AM
(CBS) The Cubs have traded outfielder Scott Hairston to the Nationals in exchange for minor league right-handed pitcher Ivan Pineyro.
The 21-year-old Pineyro has combined to go 6-3 with a 3.24 ERA in 15 starts between Single-A Hagerstown and Potomac. He began the season with Hagerstown and went 5-3 with a 3.14 ERA in 13 starts, earning a promotion to High-A ball, where he went 1-0 with a 3.86 ERA in two starts with Potomac.
On the season, Pineyro combined to strike out 72 batters with only 22 walks in 77 2/3 innings.
Hairston, 33, batted .172 with two doubles, eight home runs and 19 RBI in 52 games with the Cubs this season.


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Fly to Paris (France) with Destinia.com. We offer you flights at economical prices or in the class you choose. To select your flights Paris, type the name of the city you wish to depart from in the Departure box and write Paris in the Arrival field. Then select the departure and return dates. You can buy several airline tickets to Paris at the same time by indicating the number of adults, children and babies travelling. You can filter the type of flight if you are only interested in direct flights to Paris (France), multiple destinations or flight stopovers.
The distance from Paris-Orly airport to the centre of Paris is 14.141 Km
The distance from Paris-Charles de Gaulle airport to the centre of Paris is 22.912 Km
The distance from Paris-Beauvais airport to the centre of Paris is 68.907 Km
The distance from París-Chalons Vatry airport to the centre of Paris is 134.908 Km
Flights to Paris (France) most sought after by users, in the following chart we show the flights from some important cities to Paris (France) .
Book your flights now from Paris (France) to the most important cities in the world. The box below contains flights from Paris (France) to the most important cities.
Selection of the airline routes that are most popular with users of Destinia.


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Along with outgrowing shoes, Little Boy is also outgrowing his clothes! I made him this pair of winter (flannel) PJ's this week. He picked out the fabric - actually he wanted 2 different prints and I told him we could go back to the store to get the 2nd print after I finished the first pair. Because he is in constant motion these days it was a bit hard to get a photo that isn't totally blurry- the fabric has rockets and planets on it.
The pattern is Simplicity 8493. Personally, I don't think Simplicity patterns have a nice fit, and are sometimes clunky, but since PJ's are fairly easy - I went ahead and bought the pattern. And sure enough - The pant legs and sleeves both had this weird flange thing going on - so I chopped that off - who needs that? And, the waist came up under Little Boy's armpit - even though he is within the height range for the pattern! The pant leg itself is just about right - next time I will add extra take up room. The sleeves are too long (which is fine - just tuck the extra up inside and then you have room to let it out later - and I don't use elastic at the bottom of the sleeve like the pattern does). I use 1/2" elastic on the waist band instead of the called for 1/4" - that just seemed way too narrow to me. And, the bottom of the shirt is like a huge A-frame tent and maybe a bit on the longish side. Hummm - got to take that in next time around. The pattern calls for 3 buttons up the front, but I don't use buttons - I use 2 velcro dots - so much easier! I will say though - the top is a neat and easy design - just a pull over and then you lap one side over the other, so I would still recommend the pattern for that alone!
All I can say is that I am happy that I know how to sew clothes - a beginner might be frustrated with these things! If you don't sew alot, Very Easy, Very Vogue is my favorite line - very easy to understand, great instructions, good fit, etc. etc. Oh - and a tip - when I start to cut out a pattern I put the cut pieces into a good sized freezer bag (the zip lock kind). Freezer bags are excellent for patterns!
Anyway, for 2 yards of fabric Little Boy has new PJ's and there is even a bit of fabric left over to go toward quilting! So, now that I know the pattern and know the adjustments to make - we are going to go back to the store and get another print so I can make up another pair. In my free time, ha, ha, ha!


text:
Oxnard man leads police on vehicle pursuit
An Oxnard man was arrested after leading police on a brief vehicle chase early Sunday, officials said.
Officers attempted a traffic stop about 12:40 a.m. near Hemlock and Ukiah streets, Oxnard police said.
The driver failed to stop, and officers pursued the vehicle near Channel Island Boulevard and Saviers Road, authorities said. Speeds ranged from 30 mph to 55 mph.
The vehicle crashed into a light pole in a yard just before 1 a.m. on Redwood Street, near C Street, police said.
The driver, Francisco Javier Dominguez, 25, tried to run away but a K-9 caught him, officials said.
Police found that Dominguez was wanted on a felony parole violation, authorities said.
He was booked into Ventura County jail for the warrant and on suspicion of failing to yield to officers, officials said.
Dominguez was treated for minor wounds due to dog bites.
Anyone with information about the incident may call the Oxnard Police Department at 385-7600 or Crime Stoppers anonymously at 800-222-8477.
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