Green Monkey Tales

Table Manners

2012-01-26T01:37:00.027-05:00

When I'm not crying, I'm writing - emails, texts, facebook, posts on the Breast Cancer discussion groups. But my writing is not flowing. It is choppy. It is all over the place. Even so, I'm going to post it. I can tweak it later when life becomes simple again. It will get simple again. It will.

I am awake. The room is dark. My laptop is downstairs. My cell phone is downstairs. I am upstairs in the cats room.

I have made a deal with myself - do NOT, under any circumstances, look at the clock. Do NOT go downstairs. Do NOT check your email. Do NOT engage your mind.

I lie on my back and straighten my body - I am like a corpse in a coffin.

I relax my body. I breath deeply. I talk to Kerry. Please help me Kerry. Please help me to sleep.

I close my eyes and the nightmares rush in...

I am in the operating room. A nurse hands me a soft, malleable, mass and tells me to swallow it. I put it in my mouth, but its too big to swallow. I try to chew it but it is rubbery and tart. "What is it" I ask. "It's your heart" she says. I spit it out. I hold it in my hand. It is beating. Strong.

I wake up screaming.

My hearing has become doglike. It's more than just being sensitive to noise, I am hearing sounds from the condo below me - three stories below. We have cement walls and floors and ceilings. The people below are old and gentle toned.

I hear their phone ring. I hear their laughter. I hear their microwave beep, beep, beeping. I want to yell, "you're food is ready!" but I know they can not hear me. They are three stories below.

At first, I thought I was losing my mind. A friend (and lucky for me, a therapist) tells me this is not uncommon for people who are in a depressed state, such as me. I was worried I would need to be institutionalized. Okay, for a moment there, I was looking forward to being institutionalized. What a nice break that would be.

It is almost 2:00 am.

My father is dying.

We are all dying.

My husband is in our bed and I am in the cats room. It is quieter here.

My eyes are tired but my mind is awake.

I saw the squabbit today - a black, half squirrel, half rabbit. You say squirrel without a tail, but Jackson and I say squabbit.

He was scurrying across the road, a bit too carelessly. Carefree and bouncy be.

I am happy he is alive. I thought for sure he was dead. I thought the hawk got him. The same hawk that mistook Miss Lucy - my five pound pup - as prey. In the middle of the day. Right outside my office window. While I was only a few feet away.

That hawk swooped and I screamed. I screamed the hawk away.

That squabbit made me smile! I saw him right before I picked up Jackson. Jackson and I have resumed our Wednesday morning ritual of breakfast, at the diner, before school.

That squabbit gave me the "what's new" answer that Jackson asks for when he greets me. "What's new Nanny?" is always the second thing he says. He begins with a bright, beaming, "HI!!!"

"I saw the squabbit!" is so much better than catstir, or yet another biopsy, or any of the other new things that swirl around me.

In the booth in front of me are two business men dressed in freshly pressed suits, crisp white shirts, bright ties and polished shoes. They talk about their jobs - about profits and loss, about sales tactics and trends. They both order egg white omelets and whole wheat toast - no butter. One adds spinach, the other adds onions and tomatoes. "Got to look after my health," says the one. "My wife is the healthiest person I know," says the other. I hate these business men.

Chocolate chip pancakes are Jackson's favorite. He had three today. Along with bacon and a tall glass of "white" milk.

"What have I taught you?" I asked Jackson.

"Most of my table manners." he said.

"Anything else?"

"Umm.. nothing I can think of."

I need to teach Jackson more things.

I need to prepare my fathers eulogy.

I need to find his safety deposit key.

I need to take care of me.

The "Good Breast"

2012-01-23T23:14:00.001-05:00

This is a quick update. I must rest. But I wanted you all to know that a lot of things happened today that made me laugh. But I will save those silly things for another day.

Today, the good doctor at Sloan Kettering Hospital in NYC (the catstir experts), told me that she disagrees with the Greenwich Hospital radiologists findings on my mammogram.

Yes, I have catstir in my right breast, but my left breast, the "good breast," the one labeled "no suspicious findings" by a doctor associated with Greenwich Hospital, is, in fact, suspicious.

DID NOT SEE THAT COMING RIGHT? Neither did I!

So I had yet another mammogram done on my "good breast" and because her suspicions were confirmed, I am scheduled for a biopsy at 9:00 am tomorrow morning.

There is no messing around at Sloan Kettering. I like that.

My good doctor at Sloan Kettering also informed me that when the doctor at Greenwich Hospital did the biopsy on my right breast (hereby labeled the catstir breast), she put the metal clip - the clip that marks the catstir site - in the wrong spot.

SHE PUT THE MARKER THAT MARKS THE CATSTIR IN THE WRONG SPOT.

This is why you go for second opinions.

Now, I have fight in me. This is exactly what I needed. YOU made a mistake Greenwich Hospital Dr! It's no longer about me wearing an underwire bra's, or me being an asshole, or me doing this when I should have been doing that... For today, this was about YOU misreading a mammogram and miss placing a clip that would mark my catstir spot.

The palatial ambiance of Greenwich Hospital - the marble floors, the giant fish tank, the baby grand piano - all that is nice, but I want to know I'm receiving the best possible care. I listened to my gut and I was right.

Thats one giant leap for MOnkey!!!

xoMonkeyME

P.S. As far as dumb-ass comments go... cross off, "At least you only have catstir in one breast!"

Crazy CATstir Lady

2012-01-22T17:52:00.002-05:00

Dear Blogging Community, Monkey Lovers, Freaks, Followers, Fellow Catstir Comrades,

Because you can't keep a good monkey down, I am launching a new business venture. I am selling Crazy Cat Lady Starter Kits at a remarkable price of only $24.95 (plus shipping and handling).

Now YOU can be a crazy cat lady too!

Don't make me do the math, you all know how much I despise math, but that is less than $4.15 per kitten. What a deal!

These kittens are guaranteed to have blue eyes for the first 8 weeks of their lives AND... they all have tails. Well, the little one in the back, the one crouched down, his tail is shorter than the rest but please don't hold that against him. He's got a great personality.

Did I make you smile? I hope so. You have each given me so much this past week - Joy, Hope, Love, Compassion and remarkably, not one of you gave me pity - the one thing I don't need (besides catstir).

I could not have gotten out of bed today if it were not for YOU.

YES, it took me a long time to get out of bed (4:20 pm) but I did it. AND, I took a shower and changed out of my PJ's.

True, the clothes I put on look a lot like PJ's but they are NOT. Sweat pants and baggy shirt is one small step above floppy, flannel jammies.

And... I'm sitting by the fire, in the living room, sipping wine, and laughing at myself.

Tomorrow is a big day. Tomorrow is my first trip to Sloan Kettering hospital. Tomorrow I get to hear someone talk about my catstir other than me.

I want to keep you all informed but I don't want to freak you out. Promise me you won't freak out. Stay calm, I'll be fine. I've got all of you by my side.

xoxoMonkeyME

WARNING - THIS CAT MIGHT CAUSE CATSTIR

2012-01-21T15:53:00.020-05:00

CATSTIR[kat-stur]noun: Code word for the other "C" word that rhymes with Dancer

I wake at 4:00 am and watch the first flecks of snow touch ground. Everything is peaceful and calm until the sun begins to rise and the nightmares return. I close my eyes and they roll right in...

A buxom blond nurse in stiletto heels, with ruby red lips and bouffant hair is feeding me, intravenously - a concoction of florescent green toxins. In the bed beside me is the frail old man that shared my fathers room during his brief stay at the nursing home last year. "THIS is the waiting place," he tells me. "This is where we wait to die."

What do you think THAT means? No sushi and porn before bed?

And what do you think caused my catstir? I now question everything I ever did.

I smoked cigarettes during my 20's. I had plenty of bad perms during the 80's.

Other then that, I lived a well balanced life. I have always exercised. I taught aerobics in my 20's. I was a distance runner during my 30's and 40's. I stopped running the day my son died. I meditate, I visualize, I balance my chakra's - regularly.

SO, what caused my catstir? I now question everything that surrounds me...

My laptop, especially when it heats up.
My cell phone. I no longer want to hold it. Even placing it on my night-stand is too close.
Every plastic bottle of water I drink from feels like a steady stream of catstir infiltrating my body.
I won't go near the microwave. I'm convinced it's shooting catstir waves at me.
Should I wear a face mask when I pump gas?
What about the mercury in fish?

For now, I trust the rich, smooth blend of coffee, but I suspect those little packets of blue, the artificial sweetener that I used for so many years, might be deadly. Or maybe I ate too much red liquorish, tainted with red dye #2.

I don't trust the water rushing from my faucet - never have. Now, I don't even want to brush my teeth with it.

If it's not organic, I'm not eating it. And I'm avoiding genetically altered foods as if it is the plague.

I don't care if the "wheat scoop" cat litter is not as effective as the super absorbing catstir causing kind.

What about my office? Is there asbestos hiding here? I am the third "office worker" to get breast catstir.

The first was Bertha, she was our bookkeeper for over 20 years. She died of breast catstir a few years back. I spoke at her funeral.

The second was my fathers secretary Lisa, who worked for our company for 20+ years. My father hired her straight out of high school and she ran the office like a well oiled machine. She was diagnosed last year. She is a year older then I am.

I can't get over how quickly the gray came. It spread across the top of my head like a peacocks plume. To counteract this, I made an appointment with a colorist and then cancelled. Thinking - why am I wasting money getting my hair dyed if it's going to fall out.

I have to get a new profile picture. That cowboy hat of mine is nauseating. I now HATE the color pink. Even my dear friend "Pinky" has agreed to change her name to "Inky" - isn't that sweet!

What are the odds that this catstir I caught will teach me how to spell?

Wisdom - I'm beginning to hear it.

Katie Gates said, "Peoples advice is more about them then you." So true, so true.

Miss Claudia tried to warn me, "I love you Miss Shannon but please wait 24 hours before you post something in anger." I know, I know... I'll try, but I'm so damn compulsive.

A fellow catstir friend said, "You will feel calmer once your treatment plan is in place - you'll feel more in control."

Is it obvious that I'm a control freak? Yes, of course it is.

I forgot to tell you that I am the only one allowed to spew venom at my husband. Please do not bash him. He really is a good guy and besides, I love him. He is coping the best he can. That is all I ask for. If he must go, I will respect that.

I will close by stating the obvious ...

Thank you. Thank you all so much for being there. For doing what you can to ease my pain. I am way behind in email replies, but know that I appreciate every kind word, every prayer and every piece of advice - even if it's annoying and I choose not to listen.

xoMonkeyME

Today, 2pac guides me, "...its going to take the (wo)man in me, to conquer all this insanity"
Thank you Sweet Lindsay, for your never ending wisdom and sensibility.

The Waiting Place

2012-01-19T10:47:00.010-05:00

This was my week to wait, wait for answers I'm afraid to hear, decisions I don't want to make.

I watched water boil today. It's more interesting then you might think. It doesn't just bubble. It foams and rolls, splatters and splashes. The steam is invigorating. I waved my hand through its healthy mist. I leaned in, felt the rush of heat on my skin. I opened my mouth too it, and took a long, deep breath.

I put hair thickening lotion on my face. I tossed my dirty socks in the dish washer. I left my 5 lb dog outside, in the cold, for the hawks to get her. I bumped my head on the kitchen cabinet. I drove away from the gas station with the hose still in my car. I chased my husband away.

I made a mess of this entire week.

Some of you look so happy walking the streets, shopping for groceries, or waiting for the light to turn green. Many of you look sad, just like me.

I am sorry if you think you were the one who made a dumb-ass statement. It wasn't you. But even if it was you, it's okay. It really is better then saying nothing at all.

Wait... here's one more dumb-ass thing you should never say to a person who has catstir...

"...I will pray that you will seek God."

I managed to fall asleep somewhere around 11:00 pm last night. But then I woke at my usual time of 3:00 am. It's a long, lonely time from then to the first hint of sunlight. Sometimes the geese act like roosters.

I don't watch TV anymore. It sounds too much like noise.

The waterfall is half frozen. It's roar is muted.

The cat won't leave my side. The dog hovers near Mark. I suppose they know we need them.

Imagine if there was such thing as a crystal ball.

Oh... I see many failed relationships Shannon - friendships, lovers, husbands, family.

And I see death. Your son will die at the age of 23.
And you'll go bald at the age of 23.

And look here - it's cancer.

You'll crash a car - roll it over three times before it lands on its roof. Don't fret, you'll be fine, but the car is totaled.

You're daughter will be diagnosed with RA at a young age. She will struggle with loss and pain and things to dark for her to speak of. But in time, she will find the words.

You will be lied to, you'll be played. You'll be the butt of everyones jokes.

It will take you longer then you think necessary, but you will learn from your mistakes. You will learn to recognize the fraudulent, the pretentious, the self absorbed, the bitter, the evil, the people that suck the life out of you, and you will stay away from them.

Eventually, after kissing a few too many frogs, you will find a good man who loves you completely. You will not be afraid to love him back.

You will surround yourself with splendor.

You will travel the world and meet fascinating people. You will choose your favorites and form them into a family.

You will see things that scare you but you will not turn away. You will conquer. You will soar. You will teach. You will laugh. You will love...deeply. You will be happy.

xoMonkeyME

LIGHT BULB ON, OFF, ON

2012-01-17T23:16:00.014-05:00

(updated to reflect a less vile version of me)

When I was 2, my father broke my heart. My parents separated and he was no longer a daily presence in my life.

When I was 14, a boy broke my heart. He told me I was the only girl for him and then he impregnated the preachers daughter.

When I was 23, a man broke my heart. This man did not walk away. I chased him away. I was too afraid to love him. Loving him made me feel vulnerable.

Allowing him to love me, frightening me. I held my stomach in when he was near. I stood up straight. I could not let him see my weaknesses - my needs, my fears, my flaws.

When I lost this man, I did everything I could to get him back, but silly me, you can't make a man love you. You can't control a man, and so... I set out to control my world.

Silly me, you can't control your world. You are not that powerful. I am not that powerful.

When I was 23, after the man broke my heart, I lost 90% of my hair - on my head, and in other places too.

I spent the rest of my twenty's trying to get someone to love me for who I was, not for what I looked like.

I did not look good.

I went on cortisone. I grew some hair but I also grew a second chin, a hump on my back, and 20 pounds.

I went off the cortisone and wore a wig.

One day I woke up and decided I would WILL my hair to grow.

And it did.

Then I met a GOOD man. A man who proved, without a shadow of a doubt, that he could love a woman who was sick, vulnerable, and in need - that he would never turn his back and walk away.

I married that man. I had a child with that man.

Years later, no fault to the man, I realized I could not live with this man.

So I left this man and found another man. A broken man.

I am attracted to this man because I am broken too.

I married this man and together, we schlepped through many trenches.

Tonight, I asked this man to leave and he has agreed.

He will go to Aspen, where his brother is waiting for him. Always waiting for him.

We will revisit our relationship in the spring.

And I will heal myself.

This cancer is not about me dying. It's about me learning how to love myself.

I hope he finds whatever it is he needs to make him feel happy. Because I love this man and always will.

And I need to focus 100% on me.

xoMonkeyME

STEP ONE - RAGE

2012-01-16T12:39:00.010-05:00

"We can rebuild them. We have the technology. They can be stronger, faster... more fire resistant."

Encouragement courtesy of my dear friend, Jesse Fowler

As a heads up, I will begin each catstir post with a picture of a cat. I understand if you don't want to read it. I don't want to read it.

For those of you that are ridiculously late to the party, catstir is my code word for that other "C" word. The C word that rhymes with pancer, or fancer, or wancer. If I type the "C" word, google gobbles it up and bombards me with empty promising of cures and expert advice.

This new adventure of mine starts with a post called Chaos. You can follow along from there. Today's story begins here...

STEP ONE - RAGE

It's really cold out today. The waterfall outside my window is beginning to freeze. Soon it will be one giant icicle. I don't feel the cold the way I used to. It's still bitter, but it does not cause me to shake.

I took a long look in the mirror today and realized I am no longer focused on my facial flaws. My crows feet, brow furrows, laugh lines, broken capillaries and brown spots, have vanished.

My left knee doesn't ache the way it used to and I now think my curling toes, the same toes I once thought were too hideous to expose in sandals or flip-flops, are adorable. To me, they look like monkey toes and they will make climbing much easier.

Now that I have my pathology reports in my hand, I know that my catstir is high grade and aggressive - terms that fit my personality.

I now have appointments at Sloan Kettering (the catstir experts) and at Greenwich Hospital (my local area hospital). My first appointment is on the 23rd and then again on the 26th. This is the waiting week.

The day before my diagnosis my husbands was informed that his last day at work would be January 27th. I couldn't tell you that before. I tried but I couldn't type the words.

Our insurance is through his company.

My husbands was employed by Etrade. I don't find that cantankerous kid cute anymore and I'm going to actively campaign to get Etrade on the Occupy Wallstreet blacklist.

I'm trying really hard not to take my stress out on other people - strangers you encounter on a normal day. I did however, lose my temper when my zipper got stuck in the lining of my jacket for the third time in one day.

I pulled my coat up, over my head, flung it to the ground, stomped on it and screamed, "Don't fuck with me zipper!!!"

Unfortunately, I was in the vegetable department of the grocery store when the incident occurred and my frustration caused the produce man to miscalculate the placement of a perfectly ripe tomato, sending a steady stream of red crashing to the ground.

I am angry at my husband and I don't want to stay with him anymore. I need a plan but I don't have one just yet other than tossing water at him while he sleeps. I'm not ready to tell you why I'm angry at him. For now, lets assume that I am in a state of panic and not thinking rationally. Even so, if you know of any single men who might be interested in dating a recently separated woman who was recently diagnosed with catstir, please let me know.

To raise money, I'm thinking of offering adult nursing (aka breast feeding) for a limited time only. Do you think that's illegal? And how much do you think I should charge? Do I charge more for the breast that has the catstir?

I knew it was only a matter of time before people would say something that would upset me.

Things people have said to me in the last 5 days that have pissed me off:

1. "Keep the faith"
Keep the faith? REally? I had faith that I would live a healthy life and faith fucked me in the ass!

2. "I know a women who thrived on chemo"
Thrived on chemo? REALLY? Give me her name and number. I'd like to speak to her directly. And if I don't THRIVE on chemo does that make me less of a woman?

3. "At least it's only in one breast"
At least it's only in one breast? Really, REALLY??? Let's give you cancer in one lung, ovary, leg, arm. Lets give you catstir in one fucking finger and see what you think about that!

4. "Now you get to have your boobs redone!"
What the fuck!!! really??? REALLY??? Did you REALLY just say that to me!!!??? That one takes the prize. I've got nothing to say to that. That is the sort of thing that makes me want to punch you in the balls.

I know that each of you did not mean to hurt me by saying those dumb-ass things and I appreciate your concern, but my job now is to educate the masses. Going forward, if you know someone who has breast catstir please do not say any of those things.

And if you're wondering...

Yes, I went for annual mammograms.
No, I didn't have a lump.
No, I have no family history of catstir.
NO, I don't smoke. Haven't had a cigarette in almost 20 years.
Yes, I use natural deodorant.
Yes, I exercise regularly, I am not considered overweight, I take vitamin D and fish oils, I maintain a healthy diet.

I do however drink chardonnay and wear an underwire bra.

Word to the wise ladies... chardonnay and underwire bra's cause CATSTIR!!!

And are you ready for this... are you sitting down?

Being a woman, especially an aging woman, puts you at risk for getting breast catstir.

So if you are an aging woman and you think you don't need to concern yourself with catstir, well... you are wrong.

All fights are fueled with rage and as you can see, I am preparing myself for a long hard fight.

In closing... if you are wondering how I am doing (and yes, it's okay to ask)...

The nights are the worst. The darkness makes it hard to focus on the moment. The unknown scares the crap out of me.

***

saying something dumb-ass is better than saying nothing at all.
this is the new and improved version of "love means never having to say you're sorry"

CATSTIR

2012-01-12T15:31:00.016-05:00

CATSTIR[kat-stur]noun: Code word for the other "C" word that rhymes with Dancer

The doctor called yesterday, January 11, 2012 at 12:15 pm.

"You're not getting that extra twenty bucks I baited you with," I told her. "You missed your deadline by fifteen minutes."

After my biopsy, I promised her $20.00 if she gave me my results before noon on Wednesday.

"Well..." she said (long pause).

"And I warned you about the pause," I reminded her. "Just give it to me straight."

"The tests came back positive for catstir," she told me.

Immediately my palms began to sweat, then my feet. And then I got an intense rush of heat across my back.

"I was high on valium during the biopsy," I confessed.

"I thought so," she said.

"I took more than the prescribed amount," I added.

"You're a naughty girl," she said.

Yesterday was my day to get drunk and cry. Today is not that day. Today I picked my catstir doctor and made my appointment. I have to wait two weeks to get the doctor of my choice but I'm okay with that, it gives me plenty of time to process the diagnosis - a high grade of Intraductal Carcinoma. By then I will have a list of questions that will blow her mind.

Today my phone rang at 6:56 am. It was my supervisor notifying me that a security guard called out sick. Without turning on a light, I called the guard and asked him if he had catstir.

"No" he said, "I have a stomach virus."

Then go to work," I told him.

Today my daughter called from Florida. She has been vacationing with a friend for the past 10 days and was due back today.

"I cancelled my flight," she told me, "I need you to watch Mylo."

Mylo, her dog, has been staying at her Dad's house while she was away. He's a great dog but he has issues.

"I can't," I told her, "I have catstir."

I had planned on waiting until she returned to tell her but it just sort of gushed out. My daughter has endured a lot during her 21 years on earth - the loss of two young cousins, a brother, and a grandmother that she adored, and she was recently diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. It sucks that she now has to deal with her mothers illness but there is no reason to keep it from her.

I didn't want her to worry, so I explained it in a way that I knew she would understand.

"I'm just like Samantha on Sex and the City," I told her. "Yes its true, I have catstir, but I'm still fabulous."

I don't care if I lose my hair. I have plenty of wigs.

I don't care if I lose a breast or two. I have made the most out of them. I nursed two children with them. I twirled fire topless with them.

Yes, there where times when I flaunted them, but I have never been defined by them.

They did their job. They served me well, and I will have a party in their honor when they're gone.

I know having catstir will suck but it will NEVER be as hard as losing a child. THIS is something I can do something about and I will fight it with every ounce of my existence.

There are gifts in this catstir, just as there are gifts in all pain, suffering, loss and trauma.

Today, I received my first catstir gift - knowing I want to live. For years after my son's death I wanted to die in the worst way but I didn't have the brain disease that my son had, and therefor, I knew I could not take matters in my own hands.

Knowing I want to live and that I will fight to live, makes everything sweeter.

Please don't gasp, or cry, of sigh. Don't pity me. And for fucks sake don't ask stupid questions. Just smile at me and know that I have been given this catstir for a reason. I believe that with all my heart.

There are so many unknowns but for NOW, in this moment, all I know for certain is that I WILL write about it.

For those of you that are late to the party - "catstir" is my code word for the other "c" word - no... not THAT "c" word - I would never say THAT. "CATSTIR" is code for...that scary, big "C" word. If I use the word in a post, google gobbles it up and then starts targeting me with big "C" advertisements, etc. I don't want to see a wall full of big "C" stuff every time I turn on the computer.

The Morning After

2012-01-10T11:08:00.005-05:00

Celtic Tree of Life Fine Art Tapestry by Jen Delyth

I was okay heading out. I felt calm and collected until Miss Pegged pulled in front of the hospital. At that point I had a mini-meltdown.

But Miss Pegged was patient and nurturing, and after a tissue or two, YOU pushed me, ever so gently, out of the passenger seat and through the revolving front door.

It was a short walk across freshly polished marble floors - passed the auto-play baby grand piano and jumbo sized tropical fish tank, to the well-appointed, radiology reception area. If nothing else, this place is palatial.

As I announced my on-time (thanks to Miss Pegged) arrival, I envisioned myself checking into a Four Seasons Resort. While waiting my turn, I sat in the chair that most resembled a throne. I sat up straight, held my head high, and with the volume muted, played the baby monkey game on my iphone.

I printed out a micro-version of your comments, texts, facebook messages and emails, and slid them inside my wallet next to my insurance card - proof that people are caring, kind, and generous, and that I am loved.

Before I agreed to expose my breast, I needed to rant. The nurse, technician and doctor, stood in silence as I rambled on about the barbaric nature of this procedure, the fact that I wore deodorant despite their instructions not too, and how I would NOT under any circumstances release the rudraksha beads from my left hand, a gift from my dear friend, Aloha Steve.

I explained how these beads had been purified in the ocean waters off the Big Island in Hawaii. How they effect all major chakras, give health and peace, and relieve fear of untimely death. In addition to this and other mystical benefits, these are my writing beads. If I've written something brilliant, it's thanks to these. Now, if I hold them, strongly in my hand, I have all of YOU with me. With you at my side, I feel brave and confident in my quest for perfect health.

And so I disrobed, while clutching my rudraksha beads.

I stood stoically through a series of mammograms while clutching my rudraksha beads.

I climbed the table, got on all fours, slowly lowered myself, and gave my breast up to the hole - the super-sized donut hole in the center of the table - while clutching my rudraksha beads.

I laid completely motionless, eyes closed, rudraksha beads in hand, while the medieval machine smooched my right breast, injected it with lydocaine, and inserted the core needle used for the biopsy.

After all three of my "adorable" microcalsifications were removed, a titanium microchip was inserted to mark the spot.

"If it makes you feel any better," said the nurse,"prostate procedures require an instrument being inserted into the rectum."

Call me crazy, but that sounds kinky and fun under the right circumstances.

Before leaving, I explained how I would need to be given the results as soon as possible. How they should not pause while speaking - just give it to me fast. Then, after thanking them for allowing me to hold my rudraksha beads, I told them that, regardless of the outcome, I was glad I twirled fire topless at Burning Man.

I managed to keep my mouth shut about the valium I had taken - knowing I was prohibited only because legal jargon states that you need to be clear-minded when signing the consent forms.

I continue to hold on to your emails, text messages, phone calls and comments, and I'm wearing my rudraksha beads 24/7.

I AM NOT WAITING for the results, I am focused on the NOW. I am living in the beauty of the moment.

Thank you all for accompanying me on this journey.

xoMonkeyME

Chaos

2012-01-05T10:51:00.016-05:00

I cannot write when there is chaos.

There is chaos here.

There is chaos in my house. In my mind. In my body.

There is chaos here.

My chaos is catstir.

There, I said it.

CATSTIR

Dear Reader,
Because I was immediately bombarded with google images and advertisements relating to the "C" word, I have incognito-ed it.
xo, MonkeyME

I won't know if I have catstir until wednesday.

I have a degrading biopsy on Monday and then I wait 48 hours for the results.

Even without knowing, catstir has caused chaos in my house. In my mind. In my body.

I've been walking around trying to act like everything is fine. But it's not.

I don't want to think the worst. I want to focus on the best. But the dark unknown scares the shit out of me. And I know that bad things can happen to me. To all of us.

VISUAL SCIENCE

The graph above summarized the results found when a breast catstir cell is compared with that of a normal cell. The round, outer ring shows the 23 chromosomes of the human genome. The blue lines in the third ring, shows internal rearrangement. The red lines in the bull's eye, designates switches of DNA from one chromosome to another.

There is chaos in catstir cells.

This chaos disrupts a gene called RAD51C which is involved in mending serious chromosome breaks, those in which both strands in the DNA are disrupted. The impairment of double strand break repair could be a major cause of all the other rearrangement (according to research led by Oliver A. Hampton and Aleksandar Milosavljevic at the Baylor College of Medicine in Houston).

In other words, the chaos in my DNA needs to calm the fuck down.

I now talk to my RAD51C gene on a regular basis. I envision RAD51C as a powerful pink, commanding, all knowing force.

"calm those crazy fuckers down RAD51C.... do it, do it now..."

Already, I'm faced with choices and I want to make the best possible choice for ME.

Do I go with a standard biopsy that will leave me disfigured OR do I go with a biopsy that is degrading (in the world according to Shannon), but has minimal scaring and is considered in catstir circles to be a less invasive and ALMOST as effective as a standard biopsy.

After many sleepless hours spent on websites and discussion boards - googling everything I could find, I am opting for a steriotactic biopsy.

In this barbaric procedure, I will be given a shot of lidocaine and then asked to lie face down on a table. The table will have a hole cut in it. My breast will dangle from this hole.

In comes the mammogram machine. The machine will pancake my breast, while I lie motionless, and the doctor inserts a needle into the tissue surrounding the micro-calcifications that have formed here.

Afterwards I am awarded an icepack and sent home to wait.

They would never, EVER, do this to testicles! I can't even find an image of it on google search. Not even a cartoon. This is the best I can come up with...

"squished balls"

And THIS pisses me off. With all the money that goes into catstir research, all the annoying pink ribbons, and breast walks, and awareness shoved up our asses, THIS is the best they can come up with????

It's BULLSHIT!

Why am I screaming at you?

Sorry, I guess I'm angry.

Not even a lawn jockey can lift my spirits today.

I don't want to kick the cat, or ignore the dog, and I don't want to be hypersensitive to the walk, talk, and casualness of my committed husband.

My husband is adorable but alas, he is a non-communicator (SHOCKING) so I don't get verbal stroking from him (something we writers crave). He does the best he can do. We all have limitations. He does well if I tell him what to do but I don't want to tell him what to do. Okay, if I can tell RAD51C what to do, I guess I can tell my husband what to do.

Dear Husband,
Love me if I'm sick
Love me if I lose a breast or two.
xo, MonkeyME

WISDOM

There is wisdom that comes from fear, loss, pain, and suffering.

I woke today realizing what I mean when I close to YOU dear reader with "xoMonkeyME"

I mean....

XO = hug & kiss

which represents ...to me, LOVE

monkeyme = ME

LOVE ME

Please love me.

There... I said it.

It's a vulnerable thing to admit, to write, to release.

Now that THAT is cleared up, my chaos feels calmer,

less,

lighter.

and I feel freer

to write.

xoMonkeyME

What Monkey Do?

2012-01-04T12:10:00.008-05:00

OH ...... I almost forgot. It's that time of the month, the first Wednesday of January. Time to confess my insecurities as a writer. This month I'm worried I will lose my ability to turn words into a story that you will find uplifting, laughable, inspirational, and/or entertaining.

Other INSECURE WRITERS, can be found HERE at the Insecure Writers Support Group.
I have found more support here than anywhere else on the internet.

Now, without further ado, it's onto WHAT MONKEY DO, a post about procrastination.

Monkey still not writing.

Instead Monkey Do:
Facebook
Photoshop
Youtube
Blog reading

Soon I'll get off this pig and start writing. (is it just me or does this pig look like he's smiling)

For now, I'm waiting for inspiration. Not sure where it will come from. Typically my best writing is fueled by passion. I'm either pissed off or heartbroken.

Does anyone want to break my heart or piss me off?

CONFESSION: Yesterday I watched 45 minutes of The Newlywed Game and was highly entertained by the hair styles and the commercials. My mind is quickly turning to mush.

On the UP side, I managed to get "the song" (you know THE SONG, don't make me say it, BABY MONKEY) out of my head for an entire evening last night thanks to Sub-Radar-Mike. Mike is married to his music. Love the heavy bass, electronic fusion featured here. Makes me want to light things on fire and spin them around.

My goal (not to be confused with resolution) this year is to spin fire at the base of the man on burn night with the Portland fire conclave. If that sentence didn't make sense, just let it go....

Did I tell you Mr. Cooked (the husband) shaved his face! I haven't seen his chin in over 2 years. I am still a bit shocked by it. He looks like a completely different person.

He went from THIS, featured here with Fanana Wam, on New Years Day (52 degrees in Connecticut - and they say global warming isn't real)

To THIS...

IT'S SHOCKING!!!

And he'll be shocked when he discovers I put his topless face on facebook and on my blog.

Monkey rarely asks first AND Husband rarely asks first.

Case in point...

Imagine how shocked I was when I found THIS at our front door.
A gift from Mr. Cooked to US.

Once again,

It's time to play...

GUESS WHAT'S INSIDE THE BOX!!!

The rules never change, I'm allowed three guesses.

GUESS #1 - Did you buy it online?

ANSWER = YES

GUESS #2 - Did you buy it after midnight?

ANSWER = YES

The cat is clearly confused but I'm pretty sure I know what it is, even without the third guess.

GUESS #3 - Were you drinking when you bought it?

ANSWER = YES

Based on this information and the fact that the box was labeled FRAGIL,

I knew I was the proud owner of a LAWN JOCKEY.

Sure he's cute but we don't have a lawn. We live in a condo (maybe he forgot that)

I came home a few days later and found a jockey of a different color.

Mr. Cooked painted him gold.

At that point, I tossed in the towel and accessories him.

What every jockey needs - a blindfold, a merkin, and a lantern.

I have no idea how to end this post.

Clearly YOU see this is Monkey ME procrastinating.

Tomorrow I will hold on tight.

Tomorrow I will write

Tomorrow

I will

write

SO...

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

WHO'S WRITING?

INSPIRE ME!!!

XOMonkeyME

Resolutions

2012-01-03T11:40:00.003-05:00

My resolution is simple. I don't need to change the world. I just need to write more, get published, and stop watching the baby monkey video. But it's such a cute video and well, it's a monkey, riding on a pig, holding on tight... and it's ADORABLE.

WARNING song is HIGHLY addictive

There is even a game app and a song for that on itunes!

This Baby Monkey song has been stuck in my head for about 3 weeks now. I dream about that little monkey, riding backwards on the pig, holding on tight. I sing the song in my sleep...sometimes out loud. The first thing I mumbled when I woke up New Years morning was "monkey, on a pig."

Last week we had friends visiting from California. They are "Burners" (people who go to Burning Man). They are known as "The Bunnies" - Bull and Dust Bunny. This was the first time we saw them off the playa - in a normal, non-camping environment. After showing off our running water, electrical outlets, and blow dryer, we settled in for martini's with our neighbor Boris and fellow monkey, Monkey Gurl and well, it was just a matter of time before we got down with some Baby Monkey.

WARNING I can't carry a tune but I can balance on chair arms while semi-inebriated.

Monkey, monkey, monkey, monkey... is it just me, or is everything about the monkey lately?

Did you hear about the monkey that was "missing" from the San Francisco zoo? Banana Sam is his name. Oddly, he went missing around the same time as our West Coast Bunny friends arrived.... with a gift.

Everyone... meet our new pet monkey, "Fanana Wam"

Yes, its true... the world has gone insane, and I have gone insane.

So get on that pig and hold him tight!

Tomorrow, I will write!

So, did you make one?
and if so, how's it going?

xoMOnkeyME

My First Memory

2011-12-30T12:51:00.002-05:00

I am a wee little girl, sitting in an enormous crib. I want to stand but it's hard. My legs are chubby and sweet but they are not strong and I am afraid I will fall and bump my head.

There is nothing in here but two cribs, a window, one big round spot, up top, that mama turns on and off, and a sister.

My crib is here, against a cold, bumpy wall and hers is over there, against the other wall.

She is bigger and I am small.

There is no light dancing in my window, instead there are shadows, dark pockets of nothingness.

I hear her rocking, rocking. She stands strong inside her crib, holds on, and rocks and rocks and rocks.

She is on her way over here, to my side of the bumpy wall.

She is halfway here now. She is looking at me. She does not like me.

She wiggles and shakes and pulls at her diaper.

It is off now and I can tell it is full of poop. I don't like poop. It doesn't smell good. I know not to eat things that don't smell good.

She scoops the poop in her hands and whips it at me.

She misses me.

She cries because she misses me.

I don't like to hear her cry. It's loud and it scares me.

Mama comes in and the big round spot, up top, lights up.

I love that spot.

What is your earliest memory?

What's in a Name?

2011-12-22T10:19:00.018-05:00

My mother named me after a character in a Mickey Spillane novel. Shannon was a prostitute. My father wanted me to be named Moire, in gaelic it means Star of the Sea, but my mother would have no part of that. "Everyone will make fun of her," she'd say, "they'll ask, do you want More a this or More a that?"

You'll find no Shannon's in Ireland - it is not a true Irish name. In Ireland, it is the name of a river and an airport. Even so, it's fun to fly from Kennedy airport to Shannon airport and return home flying from Shannon to Kennedy.

As a kid I liked my name until a song came out called, Shannon is Gone. The lyrics were about the death of Beach Boy, Carl Wilson's Irish Setter. The single became a worldwide hit and after that, everyone and their cousin started naming their dogs Shannon.

When I was young, I dreamed of having two children, a girl and a boy. I wanted my son to be named Kerry, after my brother who died when he was very young. I chose the name Amber Essence for my daughter. When I got a older I realized it sounded too much like shampoo (Herbal Essence) so I changed the name to Katherine, after a great aunt that I adored.

My first born, a boy, is named Kerry Ryan Magann. His fathers name is Terry, so it was extra sweet to say Kerry and Terry this or Terry and Kerry that. I'm sure Kerry got teased a lot for having a "girls name" but if you asked him, he'd tell you he liked it.

My second born, a girl, is named Lindsay Katherine Fong. Her father loved the name Lindsay and I understood how important little girls were to their fathers, so I agreed that he should pick her name.

My then mother-in-law, wanted us to call her Dorothy, after the little girl in the Wizard of Oz. As much as I love that movie I was not going to name my daughter after a character in a book or a movie, especially since, with her thick asian accent, she pronounced the name "Door Dee."

Instead she would call her only granddaughter, "Rindsay."

In keeping with asian tradition, her Grandmother gave her her Chinese name. She chose Ling Ling (or, "Ring Ring") after the famous panda bears. Most of Lindsay's close friends call her Ling. I still call her by her newborn nickname, Pumpkin.

My half-sister Lenore (named after her father Leonard), once told me that my daughter would be destine for greatness if I call her Katherine but if I name her Lindsay, no one would take her seriously. "Lindsay sounds too flighty," she said. Turns out Lindsay is a bit flighty, and I like that about her. She is also a force to be reckoned with, and I like that about her too.

My sister Colleen has no middle name. I've always wondered about that. Did they run out of ideas? I think Colleen Elizabeth Kennedy sounds nice, but they saved Elizabeth for me.

Colleens ex-husband is a twin. His name is Paul and his brothers name is Peter. Their middle names are A and B. The one who came out first was named "A" and the second born was named "B." That's weird, don't you think?

Speaking of weird, strange or bizarre...

I once had a friend named Rose. Everyone called her Rosey. Her last name was Lipps. Rosey Lipps, how strange/sweet.

I know a man named Richard. His last name is Dicky. They call him Dick Dicky. His sisters name is Lisa. They call her Licky Dicky.

I once interviewed a woman for a job as my assistant. Her name was Jane. She seemed great and I seriously considered hiring her until she told me her son's name. It is Rector. Rector is a terrible name. I don't care if it's a family name. I don't want to hear about Rector. I don't want to see Rector embroidered on his LLBean backpack. I don't want to hear about how Rector got the shit kicked out of him during recess.

The next woman I interviewed was named Kate. Kate seemed great and I seriously considered hiring her until she told me her daughters name. It is Violet. Violet is a terrible name. I certainly hope it's not a family name. Sorry, but I don't want to hear about Violet. In my twisted mind, Violet is a strippers name, and I don't want to hear about Violet riding a pole with a set of DD's.

Besides, Violet's mom chewed with her mouth open. Violet would no doubt follow in her mothers footsteps. Violet the stripper, with her mouth open, swinging from a pole, with a set of double DD's. NOPE... I don't want to hear about it.

When I interviewed Miss Pegged, over lunch, I asked her what her childrens names were. They are Jake and Tyler. "You're hired!" I told her.

I had several people applying for security guard positions this week. Two, stood out.

The first one's name is "Bah T.A." Yep, thats what his resume says. Can I hire someone the week before Christmas who's name is Bah? I'm afraid if I have him come in for an interview I'll call him, Baaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh.

The other applicant that stood out is a man who called claiming his name is... (wait for it)... Sheelove Boudi. I asked him to repeat it. I then I asked him to repeat it a third time. I was convinced it was a prank call. I had to see for myself what this Sheelove Boudi was all about, so I had him come in for an interview.

I told my husband about Sheelove Boudi and he said, "I love Boudi too!"

Turns out Sheelove spells his last name, B O U Z I.

I told my husband Sheeloves' last name is Bouzi and he said, "I love Boozi too!"

I asked Sheelove if he had any children. He does not. I asked him if he did have children would he be willing to consult me prior to naming them. He said he would.

I once hired a man named Rockstar. He didn't show up for his first day of work.

I once hired a man named Doddie. He got caught on the job with his shirt off (long story) and I had to fire him.

I think if I can hire a man named Rockstar and Doddie, that Sheelove deserves a chance.

What about you? What is the strangest name you've ever heard and do you think a name seals your fate?

Good Tears

2011-12-20T12:38:00.005-05:00

Last week was my grandson Jackson's Holiday Concert at school. They combined the 4th and 5th grade band with the chorus and orchestra. Jackson plays the trombone and it's adorable. Not just Jackson, the whole thing is adorable. You didn't need to know anyone in the concert to enjoy it.

Jackson did a "Tebow" at the beginning and end of his set and I laughed so hard I cried. If you're not a fan of football you may not know that the word "Tebow" (the Denver Bronco's quarterback) is now a verb. It means giving thanks to the Lord above by bending down on one knee, blessing yourself, and pointing toward the sky. "Tebowing" has become the new "Planking." I'm not a fan of tebowing when its played out on the football field, but here in auditorium of Jacksons school, it was a moment I will not soon forget.

My eyes teared up again when the chorus sang a song in hebrew, a song I had never heard before and had no idea what it was about. It was simple and strong, and beautiful. When it was over, their teacher turned to the crowd and said, "I am so lucky, my job gives me goosebumps." It was a genuine and unrehearsed response and I thought how lucky these kids are to have such a fabulous teacher!

A girl in the back row of the chorus sang with such reverence and joy that you could tell this was her gift. She sang with her eyes closed, she sang with no ego. It didn't matter that she was hidden in the back, to the far left. It didn't matter that she was one of 25 in the chorus. She didn't need a solo. She was happy to sing and her love of song filled the room. How do you not cry when you witness something this pure.

Paralyzed with fright, a little boy in an argyle sweater, stood front and center on the stage and focused on his feet. Every time he looked up, he'd start to gag and you could hear the front row moan, "oh no, oh no!" When it was over, his knee's buckled as he walked off the stage. I cried when his family greeted him. "You did it!" they cheered.

Watching the relatives made me cry. Seeing them, with their big goofy grins, sitting perfectly erect, stretching to get a good view. Camera's pointed, waiting patiently for their little one to look their way.

You could feel the love and pride. It was all around me. I bathed in it and I remembered, like it was yesterday, when my son, Kerry was young.

Kerry went to the same school as Jackson. He even had some of the same teachers. It was a magical glimpse of time past mixed with the magnificence of the present.

Jackson and Kerry

Sometimes I hide my tears behind my program, and other times I let them slide. Last week, at Jackson's concert, the drops of my tears were in perfect sync with the beat of Jacksons foot, as he bobbed his head and blew on his trombone.

1961 to 1966

2011-12-17T18:13:00.029-05:00

What I write is MY truth. I write it the way I remember it. I do not include every single detail of my childhood because there were long, dull days where I would do nothing but sit in the center of our dead end street and pop the tar bubbles that blistered from the asphalt. There were days when I would, one by one, pick the freckles off my face with a long, sharp, safety-pin. There were days where I would hide - behind the barn or in the bunker that served as our coal bin. There were days I wish I didn't remember.

I will not omit things because they are unpleasant. This is my laundry - some clean, some soiled, some tattered - here, out here in the open air, for all the whole world to see. And if your dirty clothes got mixed in with mine, and you're not happy about that, you can BITE ME.

My friend, Red Shoes, recently wrote,"It's not Christmas until somebody cries." Well, for me, it's not Christmas until somebody pisses me off.

1961 to 1966

I have no memory of my parents being together. When my mother, sister Colleen, and I moved from Greenwich, Connecticut to a small rural town in Pennsylvania, my half-sister, Lenore was also with us. She is 11 or 12 years older than I am. We share the same mother, but have a different father.

From the time I was 2 to 7 years old, we moved several places before settling into the old house, on the dead end street that butted up to Snake Mountain. (see Fifty Year Itch for part one of this story)

I'm told that we first lived in a place Lenore called "The Wonder of the World House" because it had four levels and each was painted a different color. I have no memory of living there. I only remember stories people told me. My mother working in a cigar factory, and Lenore being forced to take care of us kids, are some of the stories.

Next we lived in the shell of a house my mothers brother was building. Here, I remember my sister Colleen climbing onto the kitchen counter and eating an entire stick of softened butter, my mother administering caster oil anytime us kids sneezed, watching Hatchy Milatchy on a black and white TV, a german shepherd puppy named King that we tied to a tree, stealing the neighbors mail and hiding it in Betsy - mom's (now) broken down Studebaker, sneaking on the school bus in my red and white striped clown pajama's so I could attend Colleen's kindergarten Halloween party, and playing some sort of "Pie and Wolf" chasing game in the yard.

My mother was a stickler for good manners. If you didn’t sit up straight during dinner she'd stand behind you and shove her thumb in the center of your back. And if you didn't finish your dinner, she's put it in the refrigerator and serve it to you for breakfast, cold. "We're poor," she'd tell us, "we can't afford to waste food."

Somewhere between working in the cigar factory and making us kids dinner, my mother met a man named Mert and we moved to Mentor, Ohio.

Mert was tall and thin with slicked back, black hair.

His teenage son David, moved in with us. David was about the same age as my sister Lenore. David was tall, and thin with black hair. David had a guitar but I don't remember him playing it.

My mother and Mert had a child together - a boy. They named him Mark.

My memories of life in Ohio are in slow motion and framed in a harsh, crackling light. Sometimes I squint. Sometimes the light forces me to shut my eyes all together.

In Ohio, we lived in a house that had a screened-in front porch. This is where we'd wait for the ice cream man and Charlie, the potato chip man, to come.

Across the street was a large house with lots of kids - girls mostly.

To the right of us was a house full of boys. During bright summer nights, they'd sleep outside in tiny green tents. They'd carry flashlights and tell ghost stories well into the daylight. Between their house and ours is where I'd find an endless supply of fireflies.

Small swirling tornado's formed in and around our backyard. Here, tucked behind the tool shed, was our garden. There were carrots in the garden. When I was hungry, I'd pull one from the ground and eat it, never bothering to wash it.

Beyond the garden was a large parking lot. In the winter, plowed mounds of snow were perfect for making igloo forts.

I walked or rode my bike to school. I had not one, but two boyfriends. Their names were Michael Pope and Jimmy Griffin. I gave them each a key to my bike lock and I'd watch them race each other down the corridor, out the side door, to the rack where my red Schwinn was waiting for them. Whoever got there first unlocked my bike and walked me half way home. I knew not to tell mother about Michael or Jimmy. When my sister Colleen threatened to tell her, I beat her with my hairbrush.

I fell off the monkey bars during recess one day, and got a bloody nose. My mother was angry at me because I ruined my pretty pink dress.

I sang, "I Want To Be Free" by the Monkee's as I rocked from the metal railing that bordered the playground. I sang it really, really loud. I sang it all winter, while the other kids skated on slippery snow. I sang it as I clung to the metal railing, even thought my hands were cold, because I was afraid, if I let go, I would slip and fall.

I spent a long, steamy summer digging holes in a dirt road and filling it with gross stuff - rotten food and dog poop - then covered it lightly with leaves and sticks. The road lead to a big, gray house that I was convinced a witch lived in.

My stepfather Mert wore white collared, button down, shirts to work. My mother would wash them, then put them in the freezer, wet, before ironing them. In time, his crisp white shirts where replaced with worn, blue collared, grease stained shirts. My mother did not iron these. One day, Mert no longer went to work, instead he walked the house wearing white, v-necked, t-shirts.

As the story goes, Mert was once a low level executive, but I knew him only as a raging alcoholic who died from cirrhosis of the liver and malnutrition. My mother let us know he passed on by placing a note on the kitchen stove, "Mert died at 1:39 am." I went to school happy that day. I have nothing kind to say about Mert - no pleasant memories.

My sister Colleen was coined, early on, as the pretty one. The one with the golden curls and a sunny disposition. Because she was 15 months older, she was, in her own words,"the boss of me." She got to stay up 30 minutes later than me, she was the first to ride the big yellow school bus, and the one who got everything new. And she got Davy, she always got Davy, and I got Micky. They were the best part of the Monkee’s. The Monkee’s were bigger than Elvis and better than Lassie. And we were just sisters, and I was little and she was big. They were the reason we raced each other down our staircase, around the corner, to our still black and white TV every Monday night.

I was convinced that, if it weren’t for her, I’d have everything I ever wanted. I’d have her side of the room. Davy’s picture would hang right next to my bed. Davey’s face would be the first thing I’d see every morning and the last thing I’d see before mother made us turn out the lights.

If it weren’t for her I’d have those cool, baby blue sheets. I’d have the bigger pillow, the better blanket, and I’d have her “Bummy,” her best friend “Bummy,” her NOT REAL Easter basket, stuffed bunny rabbit, but I wouldn’t have sucked him till he turned gray. She hugged the pretty pink padding out of him, pulled the tickle from his tail.

Everyone knew she loved Bummy more than me.

Why did the yellow brick road - that long, dangling, double-sided sticky tape weighted in misguided flies - have to hang on my side of the room, from my part of the ceiling? I could no longer lie on my bed of mismatched sheets, stretch my legs up high and point my toes or I’d touch it; and I'd never sleep without my blanket pulled way up over my head, because I knew, someday, one of those flies would come unstuck, and land right between my eyes.

Just outside our bedroom door, in the open hallway at the top of the stairs, is where my stepbrother David slept. His bed, and pillow, and blanket were there. He got to stay up late because he was a teenager, but instead David waited for me, under his blanket. It was more like a fort than a bed. He kept a flashlight and a red rubber ball under his blanket. We played games here, in the open hallway, while my mother and Mert were downstairs watching TV. I had to keep quiet or I'd get in trouble. We'd both get in trouble. David would tell me to find the red rubber ball that was hidden inside his tight, white underpants. He hid it next to his "bat and baseballs." He'd flash the light on it. He wanted me to grab it. He wanted me to play with it. But I had to be quiet or I'd get in trouble. We'd both get in trouble.

It took almost thirty years for the fly to come unstuck. I was watching an episode of Oprah. She was talking about the uncle who molested her when she was a child. It was the first time I had ever heard anyone speak openly about child molestation. Images started to form, one crackling bright, slow motion frame after another. Each so sickening that I curled into a fetal position and cried. I cried for a very long time. Then, I called my mother. I needed my mother. I was certain she would comfort me, but I was wrong.

"That's impossible," she said, "It never happened." She rationalized it as all being part of my twisted imagination - a cry for attention.

Later, my sister Colleen called me. She still thought she was "the boss of me" and she told me never to upset our mother like that again. She told me never to speak to anyone about it - only her.

Well, my sister is not the boss of me. I am the boss of me and I will tell my story.

I wish I said it first but, its true, the truth WILL set you free.

DEJA VU

2011-12-16T09:08:00.013-05:00

UPDATED: It has been brought to my attention that I left a few details out. I have made the necessary correction and highlighted them in red.

I have not posted in a week but I have been writing. Working on the book. Tweeking, tweeking.

As part of today's DEJA VU Blogfest I'm posting ..... The Fifty Year Itch which is the rough draft of Chapter One in my memoir.

Fifty Year Itch contains a mix of two past posts (Fifty Year Itch and The Animals) and some dialogue and refocusing that has been suggested by a writing coach. Coach hasn't seen it yet. You go first. Promise me you'll be gentle.

Thanks to Lydia Kang and the others for hosting this blogfest.

The Fifty Year Itch

It is the first taste of summer, the first Friday of June, when the sun and wind are in perfect tune. It is the eve of my 50^th birthday and the start of our 50^th year in business. We are together again, just as we often are. My father sits on the front porch of our office in his classic white, high-backed rocking chair, too afraid to rock, and I stand beside him, too uncomfortable to sit. The depth of our conversations is narrowing.

He wants to talk shop and I want him to realize just how fortunate he is. How, at the age of 84, his ailments are minuscule compared to his quick sinking circle of friends. He clings to his independence - his stubborn, thick Irish temperament - while I patiently wait for him to need me just as I have always needed him. I wait for his Parkinson’s disease to slow him down enough for us to get to know each other. I want to understand what fuels him, what haunts him, and what his regrets are.

“I started this business the year you were born,” he boasts.

“Yes, I know Dad.” I put my hand on his shoulder and he bristles, then shoots me a disapproving glare. My father does not like being touched. I have no memory of him reaching out to me, holding my hand or wrapping his arms around me. Lifting me up into a limitless sky the way Daddy’s often do. Twirling me around and around. Smiling, just for me. Believing in me.

To avoid his sign of disapproval, I turn and look away. I look across the street, past the towering juniper tree that guards the unpretentious two-family house that my father bought back in the early 80’s. He lives here now, in the first floor apartment, because he can no longer climb stairs. This is the same house I raised my son, Kerry, in and where he would return, years later, to raise his son.

I look across the street, to the same two-family house where, 7 years ago, I found my son. Lifeless.

I look past the roofline, the green-shingled roofline. I look past the chimney top and tips of neighboring homes. I look past the limitless sky - upward, onward, closer to my son. I look for clarity, conviction, and guidance.

“Fifty years, fifty YEARS” my father groans, “Where did the time go.”

He founded Kennedy Security Services long before there was such a thing as no-fault divorce. With a cocked camera, pencil and pad at his side, he spent years shadowing adulterers – trailing unsuspecting husbands and less-than-perfect wives. Primed in high school as a track and football star, he carried his competitive nature with him. He drank and ate more than his share - balancing it all with a plethora of women.

He ran with the best of them: affluent lawyers, doctors, politicians and businessmen. He was free spirited, gregarious and fun -- a welcome relief from the stiff shirts his white-collar friends encountered on a regular basis.

When they offered him a referral he took it. When they opened a door he walked swiftly through it. When they spoke of impending change, he listened. Hard.

“Dad, what made you want to start a security company?” I ask.

He laughs.

“Dad, why security? Why not be a cop?”

He laughs harder.

I push harder.

“Dad, tell me what to tell your grandchildren and your great grandchildren. Tell me what motivated you, what made you who you are. Tell me why you never stopped. Tell me why you were always such a hard ass!”

I pushed too hard. His eyes point downward, his head slumps forward, his mouth opens and he sighs. Two deep breaths later, he is fast asleep.

By the mid 60’s Greenwich, Connecticut, catapulted from a quaint, coastal New England community, into a city overflowing with opulence and opportunity. To match the demographics, he restructured the company into a full-scale, private security agency specializing in uniformed guard services for high-profile corporations, grand scaled events, and lavish homes.

But Greenwich is not where I grew up. My parents divorced when I was two years old; I have no memory of them being together.

When I asked my mother why, she’d tell me that my father had an explosive temper, that he was loud, impatient, and uncouth, and that us kids made him nervous.

She told us about the time he came home early, and angry, and how my sister Colleen climbed into the attic to escape his fury -- screaming that ants were crawling all over her, when there were no ants in sight.

We left Greenwich in the dead of night. Mom packed everything she wanted, including a parakeet and us two kids, into a 1960’s Studebaker she nicknamed Betsy, and we headed to a small town in northeastern Pennsylvania. (I did not list all the contents that were in the car)

Surrounded in rural simplicity, we moved from one shoddy place to another before settled into an old country farmhouse on a dead end street that butted up to a wooded hill we kids called Snake Mountain. (Other stuff happened from 1961 to 1966 - age 2 to 7 - but I will revisit that later in the book) Our yard included overgrown apple trees and a badly weathered barn with an attached, two-car garage.

A few blocks away lived Mom’s aunt and uncle, both of her brothers, their happily married wives, and a brood of cousins. Their cohesive welcoming added calmness to our disjointed lives. But despite their efforts, it was obvious that our family was not intact. And I, the only one with dark hair, stood out as a constant reminder of my father.

“If you wrap a towel around their head you can’t tell them apart,” my mother would say when asked which one of us kids was Colleen and which was Shannon. “They’re only 15 months apart - practically Irish twins.”

The only other one with hair my shade was Aunt Pauline and Uncle Zibe’s forever roaming mutt, a rat terrier mix that folks called by his full name, Blacky Martin. Blacky Martin was known for breaking into people’s houses and impregnating their purebreds. Every dog in the neighborhood looked a little bit like him and, like me, he was fiercely independent, stubborn, and unruly.

I remember passing Blacky Martin as I wandered down the hill to an old feed store in the center of town. In the back was a large barn where they stored bundles of hay. They would stack them one on top of the other, creating mounds of soft cushion, perfect for jumping. I would leap from one bail to the next. Sometimes I’d jump so high, I was convinced I could fly. Everything about this place made me happy.

Occasionally I would steel salt licks and handfuls of hay -- things I would need to feed the pony I was determined to get. I even had a name for him: Chester.

After receiving a satisfactory report card, I dialed my father, stretched the cord of our harvest-gold wall-mounted kitchen phone to the far end corner of our pantry, cupped the receiver with both hands so no one could hear me, and begged for my faithful foal.

I didn’t know much, but I knew I was my father’s favorite. I was his “Black Irish,” and my pleading was impossible to resist. My father’s YES was no sooner celebrated than it was squished.

“Absolutely NOT,” yelled Mother. If it were not for her, I believed, I’d have had everything I wanted – a pony and a father.

Mother may have been the boss of me, but she could not control me. I was, and still am, a dreamer. My dreams would take me anywhere I wanted to go. In the world of my imagination, I spent my days riding Chester across golden wheat fields that blanketed the crest of Snake Mountain. Then, I would sneak him down densely wooded, serpentine trails, and into our barn in the dead of night. I’d feed him apples; watch his long, scratchy tongue lap the salt licks. I brushed his sleek, dark, mane. Chester was my favorite thing in the world, next to my father.

All was well until I started telling the kids at school about Chester.

Camille was new to the neighborhood. She moved to Shavertown, Pennsylvania from Connecticut - the same state my father lived in. Her clothes were cooler than mine. Her house was newer and neater than mine. I wanted her to like me, so I invited her over for a ride on Chester.

Standing inside our dilapidated barn, I explained, “Chester’s not here right now, but this is his stall, he sleeps here. And this is his hay, and these are his salt lick. He really likes his salt lick.”

“Where did he go?” she asked.

“He’s off gallivanting,” I told her.

Gallivanting is a term my mother used often when she spoke of my father, and it sounded like so much fun to me.

Sometimes, when I missed my father the most, I’d sneak out of my bedroom, down our slippery, uncarpeted staircase, out the back door and into the barn. There, snuggled in ever-growing mounds of hay, I’d drift off to sleep.

“Wake up Dad,” I shout. I put my hand back on his shoulder and a shake him, gently at first. When he does not stir I shake him harder. “Wake up old man,” I demand.

He hates being thought of as an “old man” and I am pleased to know that I can still get under his skin.

He blinks twice and then bounces right back into his favorite topic – the good old days.

“Our office used to be on Greenwich Avenue. Right where the Ralph Lauren store is going,” he reminds me. “They picked it up and moved it here back in the 50’s.”

In the late 70s, my father moved his understated office above a string of trendy shops on West Putnam Avenue into a house owned by the family of a close friend - a local lawyer who went on to become the first selectman of Greenwich. The even side of the street is business zoned, allowing him to transform this colonial revival into a comfortable work and living space.

“Will you look at that,” he says as he points to the ornate black iron railing wrapped around the second tier balcony of our newly constructed neighbor. – a 5300 square foot, federalist-styled brick town house stuffed into a ¼ acre lot. It’s perimeter brick wall butts exactly 8 feet from our foundation. “THAT is gaudy!” he adds.

It’s “urban sophistication,” I tell him.

“Well, I think its shit,” he contends.

Because we are located in the heart of downtown Greenwich, 40 minutes outside of New York City and within walking distance to the train and Long Island Sound, our address is in high demand.

“No need for a car,” my father will tell you. School, library, church, grocery store, drug store, restaurants and boutiques - everything is in close range.

You’ll hear the locals complain a lot about how much the town has changed yet its upscale essence remains. A community infused with wealth, culture, and charm. A population of 60,000 thrive here along with one hundred of Connecticut’s largest corporations. Museums, a symphony, polo grounds, and marinas interlace with 8,000 acres of protected land - including 32 miles of coast, 20 parks, four beaches and a municipal golf course.

“They should have NEVER made the Avenue one way,” growls my father, “and you can’t get a decent hot dog, let alone a burger now that Finch’s is out of business.”

My father wore many hats before he struck it big. One of his favorites was “soda jerk” at the food counter in Finch’s Drug Store. It’s been 20 years since Mom and Pop stores ran the Avenue, trampled by trendy trademarks such as, Kate Spade, Baccarat, Tumi, and Tiffany. If it’s a $5,000 vase you’re looking for I can easily point you in the right direction, but nowhere can you find a needle and thread.

The average net worth per person is 430 thousand, the typical home costs an estimated 2.4 million, and the combined real estate value exceeds 50 billion. Dubbed the “Hedge-fund Capital of the World,” it is easy to see why the affluent flock here.

“You can work three jobs if you want,” he’ll tell you, “You’ll never go hungry here.” This is his way of keeping us grounded.

“Dad, what made you come to the office the day Kerry died?” I ask.

It was Memorial Day, my father was celebrating the beginning of summer over dinner with friends when he sensed an urgency to go to the office. He walked in not knowing what he would find just as I did not know what I would find when I walked into my son’s house, 30 minutes earlier. But unlike my father, I had no hint of the devastation that hid behind the door.

“I don’t know Shannon. I couldn’t eat, my stomach hurt. I knew something was wrong.”

My father has always been instinctually aware of looming work related problems but I had never witnessed this on a personal level.

After discovering my son’s cold gray, lifeless body in the two-family home where he lived, his eyes locked open and upward, I fled in horror and in disbelieve. I ran down the stairs and out the front door. I ran past the towering juniper tree, across the street, and back to our office. I ran without looking. I ran hoping oncoming traffic would hit me, and kill me, so that I could follow my son.

I reached the office in a panic, grabbed the phone off my fathers desk and collapsed on the floor, in a fetal position, where I rocked and screamed for a very long time. I wanted my father, I needed my father, but I could not dial the phone. I could not focus through my tears. I could not form words. I could not comprehend a world without my son.

My screaming triggered an involuntary reflex of urination. My skirt was wet, the carpet beside my fathers desk was wet. My screaming also caused a bulge, a hernia, to form in the pit of my stomach, just below my ribcage. I would moan and massage this mass for days, months and years following Kerry’s death. I reach for it still.

A neighbor heard my cry and called the police. Two squad cars arrived at the same time as my father. “I killed my son” were the only words I could speak.

“He was mad at me when he died, Dad” I remind him.

The last thing I said to my son was “get your act together” and this outraged him. Less than an hour later, he was dead.

“It’s not your fault,” my father reminds me.

“Today, I know that’s true Dad. But back then I blamed myself just as I blamed you. I pushed him hard, just as you pushed me.”

Guilt, blame and shame is what I wore when I began my journey through grief. I search hard and long for answers. I search in places I never thought I’d go. Today, 7 years into my journey and 50 years into my life, I realize that Kerry’s death has taught me many things, mainly how to live.

Reindeer Games

2011-12-09T11:13:00.003-05:00

I owe you a light post. A bit of holiday cheer. In the spirit of good tidings, reindeer games, and all things naughty and nice - I will be heading into NYC this Saturday to take part in Santacon. Just me, Miss Pegged, Monkey Gurl, and 5,000 silly Santa's.

Last year Miss Pegged was an angel who fell a lot. She wore white and towards the end of the night she got pretty dirty. So this year, she'll be "A Fallen Angel" dressed in black.

This is Miss Pegged tossing "angel dust" (silver glitter) into an NYPD squad car.
Typically, this is the sort of thing that gets you a free ride, but these cops were great sports.

What a good little angel Miss Pegged was. Here she is helping Mahmoud Ahmadinejad cross the street.

Santacon's been getting a lot of bad press lately but I assure you most of us are very well behaved.

This will be my seventh (?) year attending and each year I change it up a bit.

The first year I was "Tally Ho" - along with my friends "Ida" and "Uda"

That's me with two balls on my hat.

I thought I was slick by sewing on that extra ball
but my creative endeavors paled compared to some of the costumes.

Yes, thats a giant beer bong.

Smurf Santa!

elf affection

fire and ice

I had so much fun that first year.

I got to dance on a bar and I didn't fall off.

And I had fun at the playground.

One year I was Frosty the Snowman.

It was all about the coat that year.

Another year I was a panda and asked everyone if they knew where "Pandacon" was.

I thought I made pandacon up until I started running into other pandas.

At the end of the night my hands ached from making "panda claw" hands over and over and over.

This was also the year I found Jesus.

The year Justin Timberlake sang his "Dick in the Box" song on SNL, I was a bad Santa with a crop and a box on my box - a cute little tiffany box glued to a pair of panties that I wore on top of three layers of tights. I kept asking people if they wanted to see my box, by the end of the night all I heard was, "No thanks, I already saw your box."

Last year I was a "Christmas Mess"

This is how I know that "puckered-up lip" shot isn't working for me anymore.

This nice young man was kind enough to share his banana with me.

The banana's got bigger as the night wore on.

This year I'm going to be "something that fell out of Santa's naughty coal bag."

I've been training baby mice to stay in my dreadlocks.

Working the little fellows six hours a day, 7 days a week.

"STAY dammit STAY! Do it or I'll make you learn how to ROW"

And I'm bringing a Trust Fund Baby with me.

She's part of the 1%.

And she's bringing her pet monkey,

who swallowed one of the mice.

Ho Ho HO, MOnkeyME

Monkey Gets Wings

2011-12-07T06:00:00.002-05:00

I don't know why this monkey has wings or fangs, or why his glass is empty. I do know that he is part of a bizarre, new trend in taxidermy and I want to meet the person who created him, and dressed him, and I want to know what happened to his drink. And you should know that, because of all these questions, I will be taking a taxidermy class in January. Can't wait to blog about it. But that's not why I'm writing to you today.

I started this blog a little over two years ago so that I could work on my voice and my rhythm, and learn how to believe in myself.

Because its safe here, I focus on keeping my writing honest. It was hard for me to admit to you that I didn't see my friend before he died, that I was not a good wife, that I got run over by a pedicab, that my family won't tell me where my brother lives, that sometimes I blame my father and worse, I blame myself. But you listened, and you didn't judge, and you let me know you were there, and I appreciate that. Truly I do.

What you read here is what goes on inside my head... all the time ...thoughts rise, and spin, and erupt and sometimes clash and then, finally, hopefully ...settle.

Well, I've stirred the pot. I couldn't let things be. I took a HUGE leap and contacted an agent that I met a few years back and she has agreed to take me under her wing. She believes in me. I can hear it in her voice. And I am starting to believe in myself. But I am really scared.

I made it through the editing stage. I've signed the contract. Now... I wait.

Can I handle rejection?
I honestly don't think so. That's what the GIANT voodude doll was all about in my post titled What's Right with Me - me trying to cope with rejection.

This week Wendy (the agent) is pitching a story I wrote called DEAD FLOWERS to Rolling Stone Magazine. I was thrilled when she first told me but now, I'm petrified. I am after all, an average, 52 year old woman who seldom reads books, can't spell, can't sleep, has low self-esteme, and very little post high school education.

I wasn't going to tell you this. I didn't want to jinx it. I didn't want you to think I was full of myself. I didn't want you to doubt me. But then I remembered...its safe here.

Yes, I know the odds are stacked against me but if they print my story - my life will finally begin to make sense - in an odd, round and round and round, sort of way.

How is that you say?

~ The only thing we placed on my son's casket was the DVD of Almost Famous, a pack of Marlborough reds, and some wild flowers that we picked from the park across from the funeral home that were dead by the time the doors opened.

~ The movie is the semi-autobiographical portrayal of Cameron Crowe as a Rolling Stones Reporter. Ben Fong Torres is his editor. My daughters last name is Fong. Hunter S. Thompson wrote for Rolling Stone. Hunter S. Thompson was my sons favorite writer.

This might sound like a stretch to some, but to me, it feels like the eternal cycle of birth, death, and rebirth - know in Hinduism & Buddhism as SAMSARA.

~ Samsara...I met the writer and director of the movie at a writing retreat in Paris. The same place I met Wendy, now my agent. It's a beautiful movie. If you haven't seen it I highly recommend it.

When I was young I dreamed of being a Rolling Stone reporter. Now that I am old, I dream that Rolling Stone publishes my story and then comes the book deal and then the movie - which Cameron Crowe directs. At the world premier I meet Mick and Keith, and I tell Keith that we invited him to our wedding and he never responded...

Keith and Mick photo courtesy of M24digital.com

But there are questions - a downward spiral of self doubt, self loathing, and disbelief...

Will I be able to handle fame? Should I get my boobs done? What about hair extensions? Where would I live if I could live anywhere in the world? Will my marriage stay strong? Will my business collapse once my sorted past is magnified? What makes me think I'm a writer? Will the words keep flowing? I don't know what the fuck I'm doing...

But its safe here.... its safe for me to tell you what I feel deep inside...

I've done all I can do. I've honored it, and released it.

Now I wait.
Now I live.

XO,MonkeywithWingsME

This post is part of a monthly participation piece for the Insecure Writers Support Group

Because I'm not the only one.

Living Deliberately

2011-12-02T20:48:00.005-05:00

Last year I took a course called Buddhist Memoir Writing, taught by James Kullander. It was a different approach to writing and it helped me find my voice. Now, I stalk James on facebook. He posted this article on his wall. He lives in France now. It's been over a year since I've seen him and still...he teaches me.

Top Five Regrets of the Dying

xoMonkeyME

Me and Mr. Phillips

2011-11-29T08:25:00.003-05:00

This story picks up after King and Queen and Why ends. Chester and I sizzle before we rocket, and agree that we are better off as friends.

Me and Mr. Phillips

I am barely 16 when I meet Rick. I lie to my mother about an urgent Girl Scout meeting and instead, sit pretty in the back seat of my best friends, boyfriends car - a 1969 Lemans blue, 4-speed, Chevy Camaro convertible. It has a white soft-top, two wide, white stripes down the hood, and pristine, pearl white leather interior. Damn, that car is pretty.

We are headed to a drag race. His opponent drives a plum purple, Plymouth Duster with a black hard top. It is jacked up high in the back, has open headers, and in my opinion, it's ugly.

It is summer and I am shivering. I stand in the shadow of my best friend and watch her kiss her gallant boyfriend good luck. They are racing title for title and I am urgently trying to figure out how we are going to get home if he doesn't pull off a win.

I am focused on the piercing sound and smell of dueling, high powered engines, and the sick feeling in my stomach as they peal down the road.

When it is over, the Camaro comes in a distant second. The winner approaches us and says, "Keep your car, I'll take the girl." To my surprise, he is pointing at me.

It feels like a scene from a movie. Boy wants girl, boy gets girl. Only he is no boy. He is brazen and tenacious. At 20, it is clear to me that Rick is a man.

I decline giving him my number but my best friend gives him my name. He knocks on my door the following day, with a single red rose in his hand.

Our courtship is fast and furious. Our game plan is simple - I will get pregnant on purpose. It is the only way my father will sign the parental consent forms - legal requirements for a minor to marry in the state of Pennsylvania.

After the papers are signed and before our wedding, we move into a trailer Rick rented deep in the countryside. His best friend Alex, lives across the road along with his bride, Debbie. They are childhood sweethearts. She was their high schools Homecoming Queen and he, her only prince. She is tall, thin, blond, and gorgeous. I hate her.

A week before our wedding, Rick and Alex go hunting. I am home cleaning when I begin hemorrhaging. We had yet to hook up the phone, and Rick took our only car. I am overcome with fear when I pound on Debbie's door - begging for help. I have no idea what is happening, all I know is that I am in terrible pain. Debbie leaves a note on her kitchen table before driving me 45 minutes to the nearest hospital.

Get Rick

at hospital

with Shannon

I am in the recovery room by the time Rick arrives. I wake to find him kneeling beside me. His hands cup my hands. His downward gaze weighted in guilt and sorrow.

We cry for a long time after that.

It is the first day of spring when we marry, in the little white church at the bottom of the hill - a short walk from his parents house. Here, Rick swears he will love me forever and I believe him.

Rick is more present in my life than my father has ever been. He is gentle, nurturing and devoted.

To make certain I attend high school, Rick buys me my first car and teaches me how to drive. It is an orange, Ford Pinto station wagon with wood-grain on the side.

Later that summer, I am driving windy roads with my windows rolled down and my radio up high - wearing nothing but a rainbow striped bikini. A police car pulls me over. I am ordered to exit the vehicle and after a brief search, accused of being a communist.

"Why do you think I'm a communist?" I ask.

The officer points to the upside-down red, white and blue,"USA 1" Chevy license plate on the front bumper of my car. This is Ricks way of expressing his disdain for the baseball, hotdogs, apple pie and Chevrolet brand.

"My husband can't stand Chevy's" I explain. "Says they're nothing but a pile of shit."

"Really....who's your husband?" asks the officer.

"Rick Phillips," I tell him, with a smile full of pride.

"Ricky's your husband? He's a great guy. Well then, we'd better let you go. We don't want Ricky wondering where you are."

Everyone knew Rick. Everyone respected Rick. And I felt like I had struck gold.

Rick was the first man that cooked a meal for me. And he was the first man I cooked a meal for.

Rick taught me how to fish - which meant more than just catching a fish. He made me hook the worm, hold the fish in my bare hands, and remove my catch - even if it swallowed the bait.

Rick taught me how to play cards - how to bluff and when to bet it all.

Rick taught me patience, how to sit in silence, how to breath deeply, and how to appreciate simple moments.

Rick taught me kindness. He was considerate, generous, and loyal. He defined what a good man meant. Because of him I expected these qualities in all men, later realizing they were few and far in-between.

Rick was a good husband. I was not a good wife. As much as he wanted me to stay, he knew I would leave him. I wanted to see the world and he was comfortable in his back yard.

We lived together for less than two years but we stayed married for almost twelve. Our deal was simple - we'd leave things as they were until the next big catch came along. The time it took to finalize a divorce would give us enough time to make certain it was the right choice.

I was 4 months pregnant when I called him - the same as I was when we lost our child. I had no intention of getting remarried but I knew I owed him an explanation. Rick was still, legally, my husband.

After a long drive into the countryside, we parked in a desolate baseball field where Rick offered to raise my child as his own. "Come home," he said. His eyes focused on mine. I could feel the pulse of a full moon. "I'll make a wonderful life for us," he promised, and I believed him.

I did not go home to Rick instead, determined to raise the child on my own, settled in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. Eventually my mother persuaded me to contact Terry, the father of my unborn child. "He has a right to know," she said. He was living in Southern Florida at the time and was not happy to hear the news. Towards the end of my pregnancy he moved to Pennsylvania and we agreed to raise our child together.

I went into labor at the tail end of Valentine's Day, while watching the Johnny Carson show. We borrowed my mothers car and drove through a snow storm to reach the nearest hospital. It was an hours drive across icy, back country roads. Once there, my labor stopped. When it didn't progress after twenty-four hours, I was induced. My son, Kerry Ryan Magann was born on February 16, 1979.

Filling out the birth certificate was... complicated.

Mother: Shannon Kennedy Phillips

Married: yes

Age: 19

Father: Terence Allen Magann

Married: no

Age: 31

Rick was the first to remarry. I never met his second wife. I wouldn't see him again until 1997. By then he was single again. I was in town for my 20th High school reunion. We bumped into each other at a bar where his brother Paul was playing the guitar. Rick and I talked for hours in the parking lot. We were honest about ourselves and about the mistakes we made along the way. We cried about our unborn child - Ricks only child. I asked him to stay with me. To sit in the car with me. To hold me. But instead he left me, shaking.

I wouldn't see him again until the summer of 2009. He had bought his parents house - just up the hill from the little church where we married. He was happy, he was in love, and the object of his affection - his girlfriend, Phyllis - was at his side.

It was their families annual, Forth of July party. I showed up with Miss Lucy - my 5 pound shi-tzu, and a big smile. I know I was invited but I'm not certain if Rick knew I was coming.

Again, it felt like a scene from a movie. His country cozy home looked exactly as I remembered it. Still vibrant and full of life - only the color had changed. True to form, Rick was surrounded in loyalty, laughter and love.

Alex, forever his right hand man, was by his side. Mocha, his chocolate lab, was at his feet. Phyllis was gracious and attentive to everyone, including me. His nieces and nephews were playing baseball in the backyard and everyone wanted Uncle Ricky on their side.

The only thing I remember Rick saying to me that day is,"Tell your dog to stop chasing my rooster or I'll sick my cat on him."

I laughed. We all laughed. Rick looked me in the eyes and smiled.

Rick died of a massive heart attack a year and a half later. He was 56 years old.

The night before he died I dreamt we were together again - in the parking lot outside the bar. I thanked him for all he had done for me and then I hugged him, hard. It was a long, deliberate embrace. I could feel his tears on the nape of my neck and I knew not to let go.

Later that day, in the classified section of the local paper, I spotted a 1972 purple Duster - in mint condition. It was listed at $25,995.00. What a deal.

WINE and WEAPONS

2011-11-27T11:01:00.001-05:00

This is one of those silly stories that I say I'm going to write, but never get around to it.

A day or two ago, I left it as a comment on Monkey Man's blog. I've tweaked it so I can retell it here. Thanks Monkey Man for pulling it out of me.

I live in a condo complex composed of 6 units. We all have sliding glass doors that lead to a balcony that overlooks a river. On the opposite side of the river is a restaurant housed inside a converted felt mill.

view of restaurant from my deck

One lovely spring day my neighbor, a single man in his late 20's, invites two girls over to his condo. He attempts to WOW them by showing off his new rifle. It is a hunting rifle with a super cool scope - a laser scope.

After he shows them how cool his super cool rifle is, he locks it inside a gun safe.

I am outside, on my deck, enjoying a leisurely bowl of wine when I see a SWARM of men, dressed in black - helmets on, guns drawn.

I almost spill my wine.

(monkey dramatization of what happened next...)

They surround my neighbors unit. Some scale the walls and leap onto his deck. Others are on the roof. All at once they burst into my neighbors condo, knock him to the floor and arrest him. They then parade him out, in handcuffs, and stuff him into the back of an armored truck (okay, it was a squad car, but the armored truck makes for a better story).

Despite the fact that everything is in order - his rifle is licensed and safely stored - he is charged with endangering the welfare of his female guests (or something along those lines).

But he, my neighbor, was not the "danger" - his rifle was not loaded and there was no ammunition in the house.

Because my neighbor foolishly chose to WOW his lady friends with his rifle, while INSIDE his house, it was his actions that caused the SWAT team to arrive - with their loaded, fully automatic weapons drawn. That is what puts the girls in danger.

Is it just me or is that NUTS.

Little did my neighbor know that at the exact moment he was showing his female friends his rifle, a Marine (recently home from Afghanistan), was eating dinner in the restaurant across the river. Halfway through his linguini, he notified police that there was a man, on his balcony, pointing a riffle at him.

My neighbor was not on his balcony. I was on my balcony.

I will admit, my wine glass was LARGE, but in no way did it resemble a rifle. A pistol perhaps, but not a rifle.

xoMonkeyME

Want even MORE monkey?

See Monkey Man, a wildly entertaining blog.

He's "lost somewhere between knuckle dragging and upright"

For Monkey Man's post
that fueled this post
click HERE

My GUARANTEED Delivery

2011-11-25T10:02:00.009-05:00

Due to a hurricane, I was two days late for Burning Man when I arrived at Westchester County Airport.

My camping gear was already there - I shipped it out weeks a head of time.

My giant VooDude doll was already there - I shipped him out weeks a head of time.

A dear friend of mine (a first time Burner) was already there - waiting for me in Reno.

(7 ft tall voodude doll)

To aid in efficiency, I packed all my costumes and Burning Man survival items into one giant duffle bag.

The luggage store warned me that although it was labeled a "body bag" it was not large enough to carry a set of golf clubs, or a cello, or for that matter, an actual adult sized body.

Good to know.

What I didn't know was the cost to check an oversized, overweight item.

Take a guess...

What does American Airlines charge for

overweight (by 7 lbs)

oversized (by 4 inches)

luggage?

If you guessed...

$50.00

$100.00

$150.00

you guessed wrong.

The cost to ship an

oversized,

overweight,

body bag is

$400.00

(gasp)

Here is where it gets silly...

If there were golf clubs in my body bag the cost would have been $150.00

If I was shipping a musical instrument, such as a cello, the cost would have been $150.00

A bike, $150.00

A hand glider, $150.00

A javelin, $150.00

Scuba gear (with tank), $150.00

A surfboard, kite board, wake board, wave ski, $150.00

Actual body in body bag... that, I'm not sure of.

I tried to buy a seat for my body bag, but the flight was sold out.

I tried to get a later flight but none were available.
It didn't matter if I took 7 lb. of stuff out, the bag was still oversized.

I had no choice but to pay the fee.

So I did.

But Monkey is no fool, after Burning Man I didn't lug my body bag back to American Airlines - instead, it went in a campmates pickup truck bound for southern California with the understanding that I would have it picked up by a carrier service.

UPS won't pick up items that aren't properly boxed but FedEx does. Because its luggage, they simply put a tag on it and ship it back.

The pickup was scheduled for the following day. The package was scheduled to arrive 5 to 10 days later.

According to my tracking number, my body bag is on its way home.

According to my campmate, my body bag is sitting on his front porch.

I feel like a little kid at Christmas!

What is FedEx bringing me?

Take a WILD guess.

I'll update you when the package arrives.

Winner gets a kitten.

One kitten per household.

Offer good while supplies last.

xoMonkeyMe
p.s. I'm not feeling sorry for myself today.
Thank you for allowing me to feel safe enough to vent.
And thank you for your kind, heartfelt comments.

I am the Turkey

2011-11-23T22:07:00.014-05:00

I have a mother. Her name is Joan.

My mother married a man named Leonard. They had a daughter. They named her Lenore.

My mother married another man, his name was Lawrence. They had one son and two daughters. They named them Kerry, Colleen and Shannon.

Kerry died shortly after his birth. My mother did not go to his funeral.

My mother lived with a man long enough that it was considered common law. They had a son. They named him Mark.

I called my mother today, on the eve of Thanksgiving. I called her today because tomorrow is all about football. My mother loves football. I love football.

My mother lives in Vermont.
My sister Lenore lives in Vermont.
My sister Colleen lives in Vermont.
My brother Mark lives in Connecticut.
I live in Connecticut.

Today when I called my mother, I asked her if she was cooking.
My mother is not cooking.
My mother is going to Mark's house.
My sister Lenore is going to Mark's house.
My sister Colleen is going to Mark's house.
Everyone is going to Mark's house.
But me.

Today, on the eve of Thanksgiving, my mother let it slip that Mark lives in Vermont.
Where and when did Mark move to Vermont?
My mother will not tell me.

My mothers family will be together on Thanksgiving.

And I am now, finally, astutely aware that I am on my own.

My mother did not go to my son's funeral.

My mother will tell you, "I don't go to funerals."

They won't see this because they don't read me.

And you will never hear me speak of them again.

WHY

2011-11-18T07:27:00.051-05:00

This story begins in a post titled KING and QUEEN

I need to tell you why - why I didn't see him before he died. Of course I had no idea he was going to die.

Someday, yes

Sooner than later, maybe

But not this soon, not this young.

I tried to convince myself that I didn't need to tell you why I didn't see him but I do. Not to justify my actions (or lack thereof) but to paint a true image of the whole man. It is not my intention to bash the dead. I don't want to taint an already somber image of a father, a grandfather, a brother, a son.

It would be easy to blame it on my husband because he asked me not to see him. This coming from a man who never says, "don't." But that's not why I didn't see him.

S.K., You should get in that nice car of yours and come visit me. tell your hubbie a little white lie to go out of town for a day. It won't be the first husband you had to tell a little lie about me. think about it. I just want to make you laugh again and see the smile on your face.

It's true, I lied to my (first) husband when I met up Chester at a bar back in 1977. After a few beers, we left to see the movie Star Wars. I hated it and insisted we leave after 30 minutes. On the way out I saw the marquee for A Star is Born and pulled him in. Chester was tripping and would enjoy any movie as long as it was in color, but I was desperate for romance.

To this day, A Star is Born remains one of my all time favorite movies. I loved her intoxicating voice synchronized with his rugged good looks. I loved what they forced out of each other - how her rising success gave him pride and pain. I loved the way he looked at her. I loved that she loved him despite his addiction.

The next day, I told my husband I was leaving him. A week later I moved out of our trailer and back home with my mother. Two weeks after that, Mom and I piled everything we could fit into a car and took off in search of our star. We had no idea where we were going, all we knew is that we had outgrown our tiny town.

Chester stayed behind and agreed to clean out the contents of our house. The home I had grown up in - spent 14 years of my life in. "Get rid of everything," Mom told him. "I don't care what you do with it."

It would be another five years before I would hear from him again. By then he was in jail for selling pot and mescaline.

I know what you are thinking - that he wrote to me because he had plenty of time on his hands. But I know it was more than that.

One of the things that struck me about his letters was his contentedness. He never asked for anything and he never felt sorry for himself.

You know S.K., I would not change a thing, except the jail time. I have two great kids and a beautiful granddaughter that I am going to spoil the hell out of. I have to stay clean for myself but she will help a lot.

And, he was very entertaining.

I ran into a man here who is from Greenwich, and it made me think of you. Walter Forbes, his name is. His picture was on the front page of the New York Times a few weeks ago with Bernie Madoff. Walter is one of the top rip-off artists in the country. We work up at the chapel. Well, we don't work. Walter and I go up there 4 hours a week and talk about the good old days...

When I was young, I wrote to him about my son. When my son died, I wrote to him about my pain. As I healed, I wrote to him about what my pain taught me.

I wrote to him about my belief in soul pacts - an agreement between souls to learn lessons like honesty, modesty and generosity, or to correct mistakes made in past life's.

In fairness, my letters where pompous and perplexing at best. I wrote about attending writing seminars in Paris, music festivals in New Orleans and of course, I wrote to him about Burning Man.

How do you explain Burning Man to someone who has spent a big chunk of his life in prison?

Your letter was very confusing. You are obsessed with this Burning Man thing and green monkey. When I get out send me the whole book.

It was impossible for me to deny that, like all things, we had changed. We no longer had a common thread - the thrill, rush and passion of our youth was gone.

But even that's not why I didn't see him.

Towards the end of his incarceration, the tone of his letters started to change. He sounded defensive and insecure. He judged me for what I had, not for who I was.

You might not like what I am about to say, which I do not even have the right to say. Everyone I seem to meet from the New England States - Connecticut, Vermont, New Hampshire, seem to be very snobbish (not that there is nothing wrong with that). It just seems like all you people care about is material things. Who has the better of this or the better of that. We grew up on two different sides of the road. To me material things mean nothing. We live two different lives you and I. You live the life of the Rich and Famous. You are very well off I am very happy for you. I am just a poor, broke, country boy. I have lived a life of crime and danger...

I don't know if the time in jail was beginning to get to him or if, as his release date grew closer, he was apprehensive about joining the real world.

When he got out in 2009, his letters where uplifting and filled with hope.

It is x-mas day the first x-mas out of jail in a very long time. I am in a half way house for a few months but it is cool here. I had x-mas eve diner with my Mom and 2 Brothers. It was good. I have been with my kids and their Mom doing shopping and things. Their Mom and I are like best friends. I will get ready for the real world if it is ready for me. I would say that I have nothing but that is so wrong. I have love, faith and hope and one or two real friends. There is nothing in the world, on gods green earth, better then that. I have found peace with myself.

And then something happened - something went terribly wrong.

I wish I could tell you what it was, but I have no idea why he changed.

His euphoria took a bitter, cruel twist. There was rage in his words - they were vicious and meant to sting.

The reason WHY I didn't go to see him is because I no longer recognized him.

"Stick that in your pipe and smoke it you fatass bitch" is my interpretation of the last thing he wrote to me. What he wrote was...

i gussu dont have enofe ballsto talk to a old friend on the phone or mead them face to face about the way we live are lifes u hide on a computre grow up rich bitce uhad it all handed doweto u try having to get it all on your one u do what u hae to do i hope u have a better glase of wine then the johesones did this week u and your douthers yankey boy toy or condo in new orl landes conn. shobes are all the same so stick that in your pip and smoe itfack ass bitch.

It's hard to read. Not just because of the misspellings, but because of the pain that oozes onto the page.

Like my son, now that he's gone, his words are all that I have, and I savor them. All of them.

And like my son, I was not the cause of his death, but I was a catalyst. Maybe that was part of our soul pact.

In his final message, I am focused on a string of correctly spelled words...

"the lord and we have a lot of love"

You truly did have a lot of love Chester. You shared your laughter and love freely. This was who you were, this is who I knew. This is who I choose to remember.

(((LOVE ALWAYS)))

S.K., I am so glad you are still alive. Not 6 ft under. Most of the people I grew up with are no longer. I have to see you before something happens to one of us. You know what... we have been writing to each other for 37 years. Do you no anyone else that can say that. That is off the hook! I have to stop for a few, my arson friend got me an ice cream. Today is store day. Write back soon. With love always, have fun, Chester

p.s. ask your husband if I can come up and spend a day with you.

Annie says it best...

11/17/2011 WORD COUNT 12, 931

Green Monkey Tales © 2011 Shannon E. Kennedy

GREATFULL

2011-11-17T09:25:00.016-05:00

Hello Everyone! I'm feeling very excited about the day. Today is Miss Pegged's BIRTHDAY!!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MISS PEGGED

Miss Pegged is an angel in so many ways.

One of my favorite posts involving Miss Pegged is Free at Last if you haven't read it please do! It's very silly.

You may remember how, last week, Miss Pegged saved my ass! If you missed it, it's in a post called BUSTED.

Miss Pegged listens to my stories before I write them. In this way she's sort of like live bait. I put it out there then...wait...wait to see if she nibbles on it. If she laughs (out loud) I know I've got her! That's how I know I should write it. Well, thats how I know I should write the silly stuff. I try to make her cry during my sad stories.

Sometimes she laughs at me when I'm trying to be serious - like when I told her about being run over by a pedicab. Thats how I know I'm taking myself too seriously. Bold Choices turned out to be one of my funniest posts ever.

Whether its work or play, Miss Pegged and I are a good fit and I take full credit for that. I know good people and I consciously choose to align myself with good people.

And speaking of good people...

If you read one of my stories soon after I post it, you'll notice it is littered with typos. I have two wonderful (and super smart) friends that edit me. Ponder lives on the west coast and my Jay lives a stones throw away.

((((THANK YOU BOTH))))

Jay Ponder

Let's face it - I'm a grammatical mess! There is zero chance that I'm ever going to get the "possessive" S's stuff. I typically can't wait for them to edit it - must post immediately, must get that gratification - I'm like a crack whore in need of a fix.

Today, I'm going to try and wait.

I finished writing WHY (part 2 of KING AND QUEEN) thanks to your encouragement. It was difficult to write. I felt like a little girl sitting in a confessional box - stuttering through her sins. I'm going to email it to Jay and Ponder and hope that they will have time to read and edit it (before I post).

Yesterday I wrote at the library and I LOVED it! I have not been to the library since my daughter was young. My first reaction was....WOW, this place is full of smart people and they read BOOKS, these are my people, of course I should be writing here!

On my way to the library I spotted two chipmunks heavily engaged in a fight. At first, I thought it was a brown ball, rolling across the grass. Belly to belly, teeth exposed, claws drawn - twirling around and over each other. What could have happened that caused such furry? Are they fighting over a nut?

It made me realize how silly I was being, getting annoyed by all my writing distractions - people texting me, telemarketers calling me, wood-chipper outside my window, the THUMP from my grumpy neighbor as he SLAMS the front door...

Yesterday I was cranky, but today all that has changed. Today I'm feeling grateful. Grateful to all of you who support me with patience, love and genuine kindness - especially those of you who read me!

xoMonkeYme

TO BE CONTINUED

2011-11-16T10:10:00.004-05:00

I haven't posted in a few days. Still working on my piece about WHY I didn't see him before he died. Damn this is hard. I'm also still pimping out KING and QUEEN - desperate for readers. I get so insecure when it comes to my real writing.

I wish my writing flowed... but that almost never happens. It comes out more like a hiccup - one sentence at a time.

QUESTION - What makes a person who plays an instrument a musician, and is it the same as what makes a person who writes a writer?

Is writing a skill or a talent? Can you learn to be a talented writer or is it a gift?

As you may have guessed, I'm still struggling with believing in myself.

Because I'm getting REALLY annoyed at home, I'm going to try writing at the library today - after I get my car out of the shop and before I head to the office. So from now on, DON'T TEXT or CALL ME from 8am to 1:00pm, unless it's a REAL emergency!!!

e·mer·gen·cy/iˈmərjənsē/

Noun:

A serious, unexpected, and often dangerous situation requiring immediate action.
Arising from or needed or used in an emergency.

See... I'm cranky again. Like I was on the day of the marathon. I think I'll stay this way until I finish telling you WHY I didn't see him before he died.

xoMonkeYme

King and Queen

2011-11-13T22:09:00.057-05:00

The last thing he said to me was, "stick that in your pipe and smoke it you fat ass bitch.” And that’s why I wore a double layer of Spanx to his funeral.

James P. Newhart, 55, of Shavertown passed away suddenly on Tuesday, October 4, 2011...

After learning about his death, I spent my morning reminiscing about my badass boyfriend - a man who weaved in and out of my life for 37 years.

My memories of him are so vivid, one snapshot after another. I do not however, remember why I called him Chester. I thought it was his middle name but his obituary proves otherwise.

The only reference I can come up with is that as a kid, I had a make believe pony named Chester. In an effort to form friendships, I would invite girls over to ride on him - then make excuses for why he wasn't there. Eventually, I told them my mother sold Chester to punish me, and they took pity on me.

He called me by my initials, “S. K.” Until then, only my father gave me nicknames. Pistol Pete and Buttercup were two of his favorites. I liked this one better. It made me feel grown up.

I spent most of my afternoon reading letters he had sent me over the years.

Dear S.K,

You have been a significant part of my childhood. Back then, we were young and free to do what we pleased. I thought I would never get old and the party would never end but it did. I have to see you before something happens to one of us. The best memory I have of you is you laughing. I bet I can still make you laugh...

I spent most of my evening regretting my decision not to see him. That’s why he was mad at me. No one would blame me for not visiting him in prison, but I didn't see him after he got out - even when I was back in our hometown.

I still have that picture you sent me of you and your girlfriends. You were a hot bunch of girls. I went out with a lot of good-looking girl but for some reason I can never forget the pretty little girl with the beautiful smile, even with the braces - the one who picked me up at the West Side School dance.

I was not allowed to go to that dance, so I made up a story about spending the night at Kim's house. My mother didn't like Kim's Mom - said she was a "do-gooder" - so I knew she wouldn't call. I scripted it as a sleepover but had no idea where I was going after the dance.

I was 14 and he was 17, it was a huge difference back then. I remember what I wore - a black, bell sleeved blouse that I made in home economics class and kept hidden in the garage. I was not allowed to wear black back then. My friend Camille wore black and my mother said it made her look "spooky."

He hid in the shadow of the bleachers - next to the boy's locker room.

When the Stones best selling single, Brown Sugar, came over the PA system, I took "yeah, yeah, yeah, WOOOO" as my cue to strut on over.

I knew before I reached him that he was bad and I was tired of being good. It was something about his hair and the way he stared, not just at me, but at the world. He kept both hands deep in his pockets, his chin low, and his legs spread wide.

He was hard to understand, even when the music wasn't playing. His tone was low and muffled, and he chuckled at everything I said.

He chuckled when I asked him to dance but when I turned away he grabbed my hand, hard, and pulled me to the center of a freshly polished gym floor. I think he wanted me to notice the intensity of his eyes. Magnified by the overhead florescent lights – they were fierce, gritty, and alive. When the song began he watched, and I danced.

It was another Stones song, Dead Flowers -"and when you're sitting back in your rose pink Cadillac, making bets on Kentucky Derby Day, I'll be in my basement room with a needle and a spoon, and another girl to take my pain away."

He took me home with him that night, where he lived with his mother and brothers. His father had died less than a year before.

His bedroom was in the basement, directly beneath the staircase. It looked more like a large closet then a bedroom. The door opened out and you were immediately greeted by a single bed pushed against the wall. Above it was a thumb-tacked poster of Lou Reed. To the right was his stereo and record collection. To the left, on a small dresser pitted with burn marks, was a homemade lava lamp.

His mother never came down to greet him, but his brother Rick was waiting for him in a yellow upholstered chair. Without speaking, he handed him a sandwich bag full of pot, Acapulco Gold, and then he led me by the hand - back to his room.

He kicked off his shoes, put an album on the turntable and rolled a joint. When he lay down to smoke it, I curled up beside him. After a few long hits, he balanced the joint off the lip of his dresser and wrapped his arms around me. When I woke, the song was over, a roach remained, and everything else was the same.

His hands never left my shoulders. Our lips never touched. I’m not sure if "what didn’t happen" was out of respect, or because he knew the ramifications of being with the legal definition of a “child.”

...I can do no more time S.K. the time is starting to do me in. This is the second stretch of time I have done. I have a few pals in here I hang with. Not many. You do not know who is a petafile or not. Sex offenders - I can not stand them.

Because my mother forbid me to see him, he would visit me late at night. He’d climb the apple tree and tap on my bedroom window. It was the same routine night after night. Dressed in mod print, baby-doll pajamas, I’d fall asleep, nestled in his arm. When I’d wake, he’d be gone.

This continued from late spring to mid December - until a neighbor noticed him climbing in my window. In an effort to escape, he stole a bike from the house across the way, and peddled off into a bitter cold night.

I still feel bad about taking that kids bike to get home the night your neighbor called to tell your mom I was climbing up your apple tree. That was me, always climbing up your apple tree even though things did not turn out the way I wanted them to be. But it was a lot of fun trying...

Because we lived more than 10 miles apart, I assumed he drove and hid his car on an adjacent street. To me, this made him even more James Dean.

Eventually he moved out of his mother's basement, to a small apartment in the center of town. The windows were covered with sheets. A tattered twin mattress and box spring rested in the corner of his living room dressed in a crocheted afghan and a half dozen pillows.

In the kitchen were two metal folding chairs and a rusted aluminum legged table with a glossy, aqua and spattered white formica top - pitted with burn marks.

He opened the refrigerator and with one hand, pulled out a cookie tray stacked with sheets of purple construction paper. With the other hand he pulled out a bottle of Stegmaier beer. Despite having a well-placed opener screwed into the wall, he used his teeth to pop the top, and then spit it in the direction of the sink.

He took a switchblade from his back pocket and cut the construction paper into hundreds of tiny little pieces.

"What do you think I'm doing here S.K.?" he asked.

I had no idea, and I was too afraid to ask.

I watched him take the tiny scores of paper and pile them into a round, red plastic container - a prize once hidden in a cereal box. The top was embossed with the General Mills trademark phrase, "Trix are for Kids'

"Take this to school and give it away," he instructed.

"The container?" I asked.

"No S.K., the acid! Give one to everyone you know and tell them where you got it."

And so I did. First thing Monday morning I passed out hundreds of minute pieces of paper that to me, looked more like tiny-sized Chiclets than drugs.

I kept a dozen or so for myself - tucked them inside the silver wrapper of my Newport lights and hid them, along with my forbidden black shirt, in the garage behind our house.

Before long everyone at school was tripping and everyone was asking “S.K” where she got her Trix.

You know S.K., I was not in prison all these years. I got out in 2001 and came back in 2005. I was doing well making good money. My brother Rick passed on around the same time as a good friend of mine named Lenny, and that was all it took to start shooting dope again.

Being out of control scared me, so I opted out of the school dazed acid trips and instead, watched closely for fits of chaos. I never witnessed any delirious behavior. These day-trippers displayed only mild spouts of carefree, illogical laughter. They kept their dilated pupils hidden behind wire rimmed, aviator shades. They sat through algebra, biology and history class with their eyes closed - enjoying uninterrupted streams of kaleidoscope colors. Trails, endless trails that rippled to the beat of their breath.

By Wednesday the acid was gone and I was in high demand. I skipped first and second period - spent my morning in the girls bathroom - smoking cigarettes and playing cards. When the bell rang and I exited, I was greeted by two police officers who escorted me, handcuffed, to a centralized, fishbowl cubical that served as the principal's office.

I was led past my exposed locker - disheveled by an ongoing search. I was led past a congestion of classmates with raised brows, wagging tongues, and convicting stares.

My mother was waiting for me in a stiff, wooden chair. Her perfect posture compromised by a downward, disappointing glare. She wore a trench coat over her sweatshirt, well-pressed jeans, dark glasses and pale blue keds. Her hair was freshly curled and she had taken the time to apply a thick layer of scarlet red lipstick.

"You're up early," I said.

The investigation was grueling. I counted 6 bells in all - the beginning and end of third and forth period, and the start and completion of lunch. I could tell Mother wanted a cigarette and I took pleasure in watching her twitch from the withdrawal.

"Quite an honor," said officer # 1, “Acid Queen of your school,” you must be proud of yourself."

"I was hoping for Prom or Homecoming Queen, but I’ll take any crown you want to give me," I boasted.

"Tell us where you got the drugs and we'll make this all go away."

I never told them where I got the drugs and I never want this to go away. I was enjoying the attention and knew my wickedness would catapult me into a hip clique known as "Heads" - a posse of long haired, Deadhead, deviants.

A quarter century later, I would stand in front of an esteemed panel of high ranking law officers and, without a college degree or a military or police background, plead my case to obtain a license to run a security guard and private investigation agency - a necessary ingredient if I was going to take over my father's company.

“According to your High School transcripts, you maintained a strong B average, you were student council Vice President, and Head Majorette,” announced Commissioner Reynolds.

“Actually, no, I was co-head. They made me share the title with Lynn Wolff. I was a better majorette but she was better behaved,” I confessed. (way too much information, I know)

“Apparently so. It also states that you were accused of being the Acid Queen?”

“There is no evidence to justify that statement Sir.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“And in the summer of 1975, while your mother was away, you had a party at your house.”

Before I had a chance to explain he continued.

“And you filled a soda machine with beer and charged everyone .25 cents for a can of Stegmaier?

“Yes sir, that is true,” I admitted.

“Where did you get the soda machine?”

“My mother had a ceramic studio in our house. The machine was on the back porch.”

“Where was your mother?”

“At a ceramic convention.”

“And you rented your bedrooms out at an hourly rate?”

(I had forgotten all about that.)

“Were you running a brothel Miss Kennedy?”

"I was renting out the rooms, not the women Sir."

“And, it says here that you are in contact with a federal prison inmate.”

(Man, they’re good.)

“Miss Kennedy, why have you stayed in touch with a convicted felon?”

“We are childhood friends Sir. He’s not a bad person, he just made some bad choices.”

“Was he your Acid King Miss Kennedy?”

“No comment,” I answered.

When I get out of here maybe we can go roller-skating or something. It doesn’t matter, I just want to see your smile. We’ve been pals for a long time. I forget a lot of things but I promise you I won’t forget our deal. "

Our deal stemmed from another Rolling Stones song…

"Send me dead flowers every morning, send me dead flowers in the mail, send me dead flowers to my wedding, and I won't forget to put roses on your grave."

Every morning wasn’t practical.
It was impossible to send flowers from prison.
He didn’t send flowers to any of my weddings.
But I knew, whoever died first would get roses on their grave.

It wasn't until I reached the cemetery that I realized I forgot his roses.

I was standing outside the chapel, waiting for the hearse to carry his body up a long, winding, dirt road - pitted from recent, heavy rain.

Oh, he’d get a kick out of this, I thought. Here I am, in a black shirt and a double layer of spanx under stretch jeans – my failed attempt at looking the same as I did the night we met. And I forgot the fucking roses. How the hell did I forget the roses?

Only his children knew who I was. His son looked exactly like him.

My little girl Shauna is all grown up and has a baby girl of her own named Nevaeh. (That’s “heaven” spelled backwards). Shauna looks like her Mom but she is just like me. She is always getting into trouble. My son is a great kid, he looks just like me but he is nothing like me. He was an eagle scout, now he is in the National Guard. He is in Chile right now. He is a tattoo nut. I tell him some of my stories and he tells me I should write a book. He says it would be a best seller. Maybe you can tell me how to go about doing it…”

Despite his incarceration and their years apart, both of his children held a genuine, unconditional love for their father.

“My father is my hero,” said his son during his eulogy.

In my hand I held an envelope filled with the letters he had sent me over the years. Last year, for Christmas, he sent me a letter I mailed to him on August 28, 1983 - a four page, hand written letter filled with stories about my son.

Kerry is such a cutie! I wish you could see him. He’s into music. He likes Phil Collins and wants to learn how to play the violin. He’s always singing! School has really been a positive experience for him. His teachers tell me that once shy and timid Kerry, now raises his hand to answer questions and volunteers to sing.

(This part broke my heart)

I have to be careful not to let him know how special he truly is. It would go to his head.

Half way up the hill that led to his waiting grave, the hearse got stuck. Carrying the coffin was NOT an option, so instead they lifted him into the back of a pick up truck.

(Oh man, he is loving this!)

I returned the next day with his roses - still alive.

Me being the only sign of life, I climbed along a blanket of gravestones and located his plot in the far back corner - in the shadow of mature maple trees. It was easy to spot. His fresh mound of dirt was marked with a wreath of red and white carnations that said “DAD.”

Buried beside him was his father and his brother Rick. When I took a few steps back, I noticed there were Kennedys buried directly in front of him. And a Chester was buried to his left.

(There really is some sort of master plan going on, and I can’t get over the details.)

Because I'm weird, I brought my 35 mm camera with me - took pictures of his grave, surrounding headstones, and the picturesque, autumn bloomed mountains in the background.

I was crying hard as I let go of his flowers. I had a lot to apologize for. I let him down by not visiting him.

To calm myself, I took a long, deep, open mouth breath – and got a misguided fly stuck in my throat.

It must have been some sort of super fly. I couldn’t cough it up and I couldn’t get air in.

I tried to give myself the Heimlich, but it didn’t work.

I opened one of the rusty graveside spigots hoping to get some water, but it was dry.

I knew if I didn’t do something soon, they were going to find me, face down in his dirt.

Hopeless, I ran to a giant statue of an open bible and sat beside it. I felt the sun on my forehead. My palms were sweating and my heart was beating fast. I closed my eyes and waited, fully expecting this to be the end.

Nothing flashed in front of me. There were no tunnels of bright light. Instead, I heard the rustling of leaves. When I opened my eyes a giant, 12-point buck stood before me. His fierce, all knowing eyes, pointed directly at me. And then, my throat cleared.

Despite what his rap sheet looked like, Chester was not a bad person. He was an addict, a recovering junky, who went to prison for selling heroin – a lot of it.

Like depression, addiction is a mental illness, not a choice. It is a complex brain disease that - despite being aware of the devastating consequences - is overridden by compulsive, uncontrollable drug cravings.

We made a choice to stay friends for over 37 years. He was always honest with me. I don’t know why he died and I didn’t ask. I’m hoping it was a heart attack. I want to believe that he went out clean.

Giant open bible statue in the background - his grave in front

So bizarre, I needed proof - Kennedy in front of him

Chester to his left

and roses on his grave

I love how we wrote this story together - Chester and I. I imagine him chuckling as he reads it.

For Part Two of this story see WHY

11/13/11 WORD COUNT for GREEN MONKEY 11,227

More Mind Clutter

2011-11-12T13:53:00.007-05:00

I'm really behind on my writing but once again, its impossible for me to focus when there is clutter in my head.

So, lets get to it.

I got a chance to spend quality time with my grandson this week. On Tuesday we shared lunch at my office and he was thrilled with his chicken fingers. "Look Nanny, my chicken looks like Africa!"

It certainly does Jackson. I love how your mind works. You inspire me. I need to remember to look at things more closely - to be present in the moment and to be aware of my surroundings.

Later that day I spotted this tree at the park. Isn't it gorgeous!

Let's take a closer look

I want to know the story behind that tie. Since I don't, I'll make one up.

A business professional, enjoying a leisurely lunch in the park decides, "Fuck it, I hate ties and I'm not going to wear one anymore!"

Or maybe someone decided, All this tree needs is a blue and red striped tie, then ran to Brooks Brothers and picked one up. I checked the label. It is a Brooks Brothers tie and the store is right up the street.

Miss Lucy made a friend at the park yesterday. His name is Baxter. I told his owner that we had a dog named Baxter when my daughter was very young. I asked if he had any children. He did - a one month old baby girl.

"Oh, just wait till she starts to talk," I told him. "All you'll hear is, Come here Bastard. Sit Bastard. Give me your paw Bastard. Get the ball Bastard." It got so bad, we changed our dogs name. To make the transition smoother we allowed our daughter to pick the name. She named him Pig.

Across the street from the park is the Art Center. There are several large animal sculptures on the front lawn. Because of this they put a sign on one of the trees. I caught this rebellious squirrel breaking the rules. On second thought, he may simply be confused.

(do you see the squirrel? he's right there to the left of the tree)

This magazine was part of our Wednesday mail. It's actually a catalog disguised as a magazine. It's from a local jewelry store called Lux, Bond and Green.

Towards the back is their wedding section.

This is the first time I have seen a gay couple featured in a wedding section and I must admit I was bothered by what I saw. Lets take a closer look.

It's not the Charlie Sheen bowling shirts that bother me, but if you're going to go as far as to match the blues in your shirt, why not the pants? Stone and white? REALLY? You couldn't find white pants? I don't even see stone in his shirt. I see white, grayish taupe, and blue.

While I was in Brooks Brothers, inquiring on whether or not anyone had purchased a blue and red stripped tie that week, I asked the sales associate for his opinion on the pants. He was horrified.

Look what I found at the wine store!

I was going to give up drinking wine during the month of November, but this changes everything! It's a sign I tell you. I'm certain of it.

One of the things I wished for on 11.11.11 was financial freedom. Later that same day I spotted this ATM machine at the local drug store.

As you can see it is open. It is also loaded with cash. I did the only thing an almost ostracized security specialist could do. I notified the manager.

I need to learn to be more specific about my wishes.

Hope you all have a glorious weekend. Time for me to focus on writing...

xoMonkeYme

11.11.11

2011-11-11T09:19:00.002-05:00

It is a magical day.

A day where wishes come true!

The moon is full and the forces of nature are in tune.

It is a day to celebrate the joy, power, and eternal path of the human spirit.

We've packed our wishes in a bottle and are about to set them free.

Why not join me.

Close your eyes, make a wish

Inhale it deeply

Hold to the count of three and set it free...

Later, when you're ready,

Listen with your eyes closed.

This is the pure imagination that is in YOU!

xoMonkeYme

BUSTED!!!

2011-11-10T12:03:00.008-05:00

It took close to two hours for them to complete their "inspection."

I insisted Miss Pegged not be present. I had no idea how ugly it was going to get and I didn't want her to see me grovel, plead or cry.

They arrived on time with a strict directive - inspect EVERYTHING.

As I mentioned in my last post, never in the 52 year history of the company has their been an inspection, let alone a surprise inspection.

Is my state issued license clearly displayed on the wall?
Do all guards have a current security guard license?
Are all guards registered with the State of Connecticut?
Have all necessary forms, photo's, fingerprints, and fees been submitted?
Was the State notified of all terminated employees within 5 days of their termination?

? ? ? ? ? ?

Am I a master procrastinator? YES

Am I methodical and well organized? NO

Am I capable of policing myself? NO

....and this is why I have Miss Pegged. She's brilliant like that.

Did I pass their directives with flying colors? YES

Thank you Miss Pegged.

Once that was complete, my guard uniforms were inspected to make certain they were in compliance with State regulations. THEY WERE

Then each employee's personal folder was inspected to make certain it included a copy of their guards card, drivers license, social security card and a completed I-9 form. THEY DID

I was asked to supply a copy of my company polices, guidelines, and specific post orders.

EVERYTHING was not only in order, but surpassed the standards. I am "the example of how a first rate security company should be run."

Was I carrying my security license - a card that proves I am a professional in good standing with the State and the federal government?

Why, yes YES I AM!

Every two years I am asked to submit the proper paper work, fees, fingerprints and a current photo. After review, I am issued this card...

Wait... there is a problem.
Is that a current photo?

Well...no. I've been resubmitting the same photo for the past 12 years.

Well...there is a fine for that.

Wonder if there would be a fine if I submitted this photo?

Am I annoyed by this? ABSOLUTELY NOT
It could have been a lot worse. Had I not hired Miss Pegged I would have been in serious trouble.

On the eve of my inspection Miss Pegged mindfully neglected to inform me that the penalties associated with not following the States directives is up to a year in prison and no more than a $5,000 fine.

The only positive outcome of a year in jail would be that I most certainly would have completed my book. Well, as long as Miss Pegged was policing me.

And speaking of books, I'm way behind in my daily word count and is it just me or has everyone except ME published a book? Even the kitties beat me to it.

And those clever kitty's have even developed an APP for that.

KITTY WIG APP

As the officers were leaving, one of them turned towards me, smiled and said, "Your father should be very proud of you. You're doing an excellent job running the company."

What a wonderful gift he gave me. Carrying on the family legacy, proudly, is very is important to me. I also appreciate the simple fact that I am an excellent judge of character.

After a well deserved lunch, I informed Miss Pegged that no matter what, I'm taking her with me. If its kittywigs we're making, she's in charge of putting the wigs on the kitties or collecting fur balls for the REAL kittycat hair collection.

And because you "can't con a con man" I'm certain this pretty kitty is NOT a natural blond.

xoMonkeYme

WANT MORE KITTY CAT?

Here is a heartwarming tale of a cat's insatiable lust for proactive dancing.

Special Thanks to Jesse Fowler for planting the kittywig seed in my head.

And Jelly Jessicali for leading me to the kitty dance.

HELP WANTED

2011-11-09T09:28:00.014-05:00

Yesterday, while I was home writing, the State Police showed up at my office. My co-worker in crime, Miss Pegged called me immediately.

Miss Pegged: The State Police are here, what should I do?!?
Monkey Me: Do they have a search warrant?

The only thing I could think of was my daughter who lives in an apartment above my office. Sure, she's adorable, but I imagine she's got a meth lab in her closet.

They did NOT have a search warrant.

Monkey Me: Don't let them in!

Maybe I never told you this but when I'm not writing I run a security, investigation and detective agency. Primarily, I provide uniformed security guard services to high end clientele.

Miss Pegged: They said if I don't let them in they'll shut us down.

At this point, I knew I was going to have to talk to them.

Turns out, they were there to perform a "surprise inspection" to make certain all my paperwork was in order.

All I could think of was THANK GOD this has nothing to do with my daughter! I knew she was a good girl. She would never have a meth lab in her closet. Her mother raised her well!

I explained to them that I was about 4 hours away, that the information they needed was in my computer and Miss Pegged didn't have the security access code.

They said they would wait.

Monkey Me: But I have my grandson with me.

And with that, they agreed to come back the following day..

I can't believe that worked. Why did that work?

I barely slept last night. My mind was working overtime.

I know, I know, I should have just gone back to the office and given them what they want. But, I was in the middle of writing and it was flowing really well. That doesn't happen all the time as many of you know. And never, NEVER, in the 52 year history of the company has there ever been a "surprise" inspection.

What if they shut me down? What will I do? What am I qualified to do? Who wants to hire a 52 year old ostracized security specialist?

Somewhere between 2:00 and 4:20 am, I came up with a plan.

KITTY CAT WIGS....

I'm going to make and market, kitty cat wigs.

To my surprise, its already being done.
KITTYCATWIGS

And, they're spectacular!

How is it that I never thought of this before? I designed a merkin for my dog, Why didn't I think to design a wig for my cat?

Why stop there, lets accessories the kitty's!

Already being done.

Kitty Clown wig?

Done

To prepare for today's not a surprise inspection, I shaved my legs and packed an extra pair of panties. And I'm making the dog wear a dress.

Well dear readers, it's time for me to face the music. Let's hope for the best!

to be continued......

xoMonkeYme

CLICK ON IT, YOU KNOW YOU WANT ONE...

KITTYCATWIGS

The Clichés of Marathon Running

2011-11-07T11:49:00.014-05:00

Before I reached out from under my covers, before my feet touched the floor, I knew I was cranky. Why? It’s not because my cold lingers on. Its not because I slept in the cats room to avoid the annoyance of late night television. It's not hormonally charged. So why was I cranky?

After sitting with this feeling, honoring it, and meditating on it (lessons I’m learning from the book I have yet to complete called, The Sedona Method), I began to understand.

It’s that damn marathon – the New York City marathon. It was underway and I was not in it. It was such a big part of my life for so long and now (heavy sigh), it is part of my past. When did I go from a woman who could run 26.2 miles to a woman who is short winded running to the mail box? Where did that drive and determination go? All those months of training - mile after mile. It hurts to run a marathon. You feel your body breaking down. You know you’re punishing yourself. But why. Why do we run?

My husband Mark will tell you that we are running away from something. For those of us that are middle aged, typically, it’s our marriage. Two of his brothers started marathoning then later divorced their spouse. I am also guilty of this. I was training for my first marathon as my second marriage was ending. And, I ran my third marathon with a man who was running away from his first wife.

When we met, I introduced myself as a recently divorced marathon runner and he introduced himself as a single man training for his first marathon.

Our relationship was one cliché after another. I called him Mr. Wonderful because if you asked him how he was, he would answer, “I am wonderful.” He called me Princess after declaring that I should always be treated as such. He was stylish and sophisticated, and I was impressed with his grandeur.

We met at the “Monkey Bar” a dark, smoky piano bar wrapped in murals of mischievous monkeys performing jovial stunts. Because I chose to keep my head in the sand, we dated for several months before I did a background check on him. LISTEN…you don’t date a private detective and not expect her to dive into your past and present.

He lived in Chicago, but was in New York often on business. He gave me his work, apartment, and cell phone numbers. He talked about his children, his dreams, his goals. He introduced me to his friends and his business partner. He took me on vacations. But as my father always says, you can’t con a con man - I knew something wasn’t right.

Because he was a mover and a shaker it was easy to locate his home address and telephone number. One sunny afternoon I called his wife in their European classic estate and introduced myself. I told her I had met her husband in New York and that I was considering relocating to their area. I asked her for advice on private schools, country clubs and doctors. I learned everything there was to know about this man during our 20-minute conversation. When I had heard enough I asked that she let her husband know I had called. I gave my real name, told her where I lived, and gave her my real phone number. The only thing that I left out was that I was dating her husband.

Oh how I wish I could have been there when she told him - witnessed the look on his face, felt the dampness of his palms. Listened to his stomach churn and watch him take a deep, deliberate breath as his mouth went dry. I imagine he poured himself an extra strong martini that night.

We continued to see each other off and on over the years. He had lost my trust but not my affection. I understood why he didn’t tell me. I understood that he was unhappy and trying to find peace within himself. I knew I was a master at stroking his ego. It was the drug that he needed. I also knew that I would never again feel like a princess in his arms.

We did not share a life but we did share a marathon. We also shared a ceremonious pre marathon dinner with my father and my then fiancé, now husband, Mark. I remember what Mr. Wonderful wore – a blue cashmere pinstripe suit, white shirt, charcoal grey vest, and black suede Gucci loafers adorned with an opulent crest – and no socks. “It takes balls to wear those shoes,” my father said.

In the middle of all this monkey business my son died. Without knowing, Mr. Wonderful called to check in on me. I was sitting on the side of my son’s bed when I took his call. Kerry had been dead less than 24 hours and I was trying to cope with the formality of his funeral. I asked for his opinion as I wrestled with what I would bury him in. I gave him two options. His new unwashed jeans - something he only started wearing recently, or a blue pinstripe, custom tailored, Italian suit that he wore once to a business meeting. A meeting he nailed. I was so proud of him.

"Definitely the suit," he answered.

“White shirt?” I asked.

“Yes”

“Tie?”

“Absolutely”

I completed his assemble with a silk, ice blue tie that matched his eyes, and a crisp white shirt that accentuated his chiseled jaw line and GQ looks.

“What about his shoes?” I asked.

“No shoes, Princess”

“Socks?”

“No Princess, no socks”

And that is how I buried my son.

Mr. Wonderful and I are still friends. Time has taken him to where he needs to be. He is dignified and direct. He has since remarried and she is lovely, and I am happy for them both.

But back to running…

11/7/11 WORD COUNT for GREEN MONKEY the novel 7,420

Green Monkey

2011-11-05T16:26:00.015-04:00

I consider myself an excellent storyteller. I know this because I can hold your attention when I talk. I am not certain if I can hold your attention when I write. I am particularly sensitive to this because seldom can another persons written words captivate me. And therefore, I don’t read books. Wait, that’s not right. I don’t finish books. I start lots of books, but almost always I lose interest. It must be some sort of undocumented learning disability. I used to think I was stupid but I’ve decided you have to be smart to be entertaining - unless, people are laughing at you, which happens to me more often then most.

For years I convinced myself that because I don’t read books or because I don’t take direction well, or study well, or retain information well – that I cannot write a book. All this is changing…today.

Today I started my book. I started about four hours ago. My goal is to keep it honest and simple.

To convince myself that this is a book and not just me journaling, I googled the proper format for a novel and applied it to a new word document titled (you guessed it)...

GREEN MONKEY

I don’t want to stop blogging. I don’t want to lose YOU because you feed me creatively and emotionally. So I’m going to take you with me.

I’ll warn you when I’m doing it. This way, if you don’t want to follow along, you can close your eyes or look the other way. I won't post EVERYTHING, just excerpts that I hope will hold your attention. I’ll still post the quirky things that happen to me, my mental clutter, and my lucid dreams.

I have no idea how to write fiction. I admire those of you that do. I’m convinced a lot of the things that happen to me happen so that I have something to write about. But I also know that in order for me to honor my talent (wow, I'm calling it a talent - thats a BIG step for me) and my journey here, I must write about my loss and what it has taught me.

This I’M WRITNG A FUCKING BOOK mode is fueled by an agreement I made with myself to participate in National Novel Writing Month. In doing so, I am committing to writing 50,000 words in one month. The month began November 1^st. I’m already 5 days late but it’s okay, I’m not panicking. I am cutting and pasting past projects into my word document (sounds perfectly logical to me). At the end of this month, my 50,000 or more words will magically turn into a book.

I’m also giving up ~~wine~~ vodka during this writing challenge. Sounds crazy, don’t you think!

I have always known that my story starts small. My story begins with Kerry’s wallet. I zero in on this immediately following his death. I have written this before. I go back to that, expand on it (just a bit) and lay it out there for you to see. In doing so, you can feel my pain, my longing to understand, to stay connected to him, and to heal. And then I tell you something I have never admitted to anyone before. Not even to myself.

CHAPTER ONE

I keep Kerry’s wallet in a ziplock bag. Seven years later, it still smells of worn leather and stale Marlboro Reds. I can’t remember where it turned up or how I got it, but I have it. I think he left it in his unlocked car along with a duffel bag filled with notebooks, newspapers and dirty clothes.

The first time I opened his billfold, he had $137.00 dollar tucked neatly inside. A one hundred dollar bill, one ten, two fives, and the rest singles. Days later, the hundred dollar bill was gone. I don’t know why someone took it. Maybe Kerry owed them money. Maybe they needed it more than Kerry. It bothered me a lot back then. I’m sort of numb to it now.

Along side his cash, are four photos of his year-old son Jackson, dressed in red. In three of the photo’s Jackson is smiling, a big, toothless grin. In the other, he is peaking out from under a blanket - his eyes full of wonderment and awe.

Kerry saved his ATM receipts. His last withdrawal of $20.00, posted on May 24^th, left him a balance of $87.81. Two, double folded metro north train receipts show he and a guest rode from Greenwich to Grand Central - one way, off peak.

He kept evidence of pensive purchases made in the weeks leading up to his death. Cashier Marnie noted that it was “A pleasure to serve him” and that cash refunds were with receipt only.

In the center of his top-grain, cowhide wallet, directly behind his drivers license, he kept a Detectives Endowment Association Card issued by the City of New York’s Police Department, Zig-Zag papers, a Blockbuster rewards card, three bank cards, and a Chinese, “good luck” red envelope with his name written on it.

To the side he tucked a few business cards from notable people or places he had been, along with an original copy of his fiancée’s, second trimester sonogram; a first glimpse at his son, in utero, sucking his thumb.

A drug store receipt proves his intent to obtain over the counter sleeping pills. On May 27^th, 2002 - less than two hours before his recorded time of death, he spent $31.77 on two, 32-capsule packages of rapid release Unisom, and one, 72-capsule package of quick release Nytol.

On March 26, two months before his death, Connecticut held a classic lotto drawing worth 6 million dollars. Kerry purchased two, $5.00 quick picks - which tells me that, on this day, he had hope.

I stopped doing laundry after Kerry died. I stopped going to the grocery store. I stopped wearing my contacts. I didn’t want to focus on anything other than my pain. I held his wallet at the center of my chest – rocked, moaned, screamed, and cried. How could I live without my son? There are no words to express my sorrow. This is MY son. Seven years later and still so many tears. It is difficult for me to think or write about his death. So I will go back. Back to a time when life was simple and sweet.

But life has never been simple and seldom sweet. So I will begin by telling you about my father. Because I blame him, still.

11/5/2011 WORD COUNT for GREEN MONKEY the novel: 3,167