Soppy post alert–not this the one below

I was missing my mommy when I wrote that one. She was one beautiful lady, in every sense. I’m not taking the post down as it is well written with good sentiments, she says modestly.
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I tracked part of my parent’s family. Both my grandfather’s came on the same boat. Couldn’t find my paternal grandfather. Knowing that side of my family, he probably used another name, just because. But I will never be able to find half my birth family, and there are questions I would like answered. As long as all adoptees are considered children in the eyes of the law adoption will always be a mystifying experience–if your adoptive parents weren’t told the truth either. My parents told me everything they knew, and didn’t try to make it into a “your birth parents died in a car crash the week after you were born” thing. I adore and love them for so many reasons. They were so unselfish in their quest to help me find my birth family. They were honest with me. I was honest with them–except the rebel years which my father considered necessary for emotional growth.

To want to go back to the beginning of the last century seems almost selfish to me, when so many of us can’t go back one generation. If genealogy is so important, and I’m not sure it is, all people who search for their ancestors should cry out for adoptees rights.
Though of course if you find out you have Native American blood you can get involved in a casino–and what’s more important? Helping people find out who their parents are? Or making money? Sorry but this one is personal and does hurt.
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Wow, John Baker has a series where asks many published authors this question: What phases are involved in the creation of a text? It was too much for me to take in at once but I will be back, often.
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I’m writing a book that begins in Senior Year in high school when I had one thing on my mind and it wasn’t school. Or the boys in my high school. Nor the teachers. I have never been attracted to girls, though I can understand why some girls are–if I pretend that they’re boys with boys. Oh I am sick today. It wasn’t drugs, liquor, sports or politics. If you think you know what it was, and aren’t the Wombat or Gangsta Bonsta, Lucia, Rafe or anybody I might have mentioned this to, you have a truly depraved mind. Please leave a comment.

I will give you BE credits or something. Many of my blogging friends have been banned for life from BE; I so respect them. My friends not BE; just getting that straight. Though BE’s been so good for me….

Recently I reconnected with people from high school–and junior high as we went to the same school forever. Largest in land area in Nassau County and smallest in student number. Not a hint 🙂

We had dinner in a restaurant all of us have memories of. It was on a road I still somehow spend too much time in, and is in the next community. The big restaurant in our community is the oldest in America and kinda too cute.

They gave us our own room and I thought that this is truly fun. Doing high school over without classes or teachers. This time I was one of the popular kids. How immature is that? Actually it’s not. It’s learning that ones personality isn’t rigid. It’s giving up old grudges. Finding out that most people carried some hurt. Finding out that one was uh more liked and respected than uh one thought. This paragraph is soooo moralistic yet real.

So we’re going to have a reunion in Las Vegas. One of us lives there and was a poker dealer at Ceaser’s ; then she was a floor supervisor. I’m going to ask her to do a post because she has great stories.

I know nothing about poker other than my father played every week of my life when he wasn’t traveling. His game was the oldest high stakes game in New York. Money Magazine wanted to do a feature on them, but the other players didn’t want to be unmasked. My father was 77 and as always on the verge of retiring. His clients knew he played poker and loved him anyway. Most of his clients came from that game or somebody in it, and that somebody would know somebody and so it went. He was a memorable CPA.

My dad could never understand why I sulked my way through high school. He didn’t find my pout charming though others did. I don’t pout anymore as I no longer find it charming or cute.

I lost “class individualist” by three votes. I’m demanding a recount. While I’m at it, I want “class wit” and “person I would most like to be stuck on a desert island with.” Our class song was “Cherish.” I want “Nights in White Satin” or “White Rabbit” as being more reflective of the times.

Yes I know how sick this is. In high school I wasn’t a nerd. I was the girl nobody knew well. The girl who stood in the corner, pouting, in her black clothes, brown Fred Braun shoes, and Raybans. I was so beyond cool, I had no idea that I was.

High school is what’s wasted on youth. One weekend, that’s all. We’re going to relive it for one long weekend almost 3,000 miles away. I doubt that my best friend–when we were actually in high school will come. She’s sort of an intellectual. According to my sister, who is a good friend of hers, I chose pop culture.
“Pia and Noah could have been intellectuals. But they chose pop culture.”
Yes it’s true. Music was us. I have a great story about him and his record collection, my freshman year of college, that will hopefully never be written in this blog.

When we were married our living room resembled a record store with alphabetical dividers and life size poster cut-ups, basically of Donavon. His choice, but he, not I worked in a record store.

I met Noah my first day of college. While I was writing about my Senior year in high school, I realized that the whole year was a set-up to get me to the stage where I could meet a good/bad boy.

It amazes me that I lived through my Senior year. I always thought of myself as a sweet yet misunderstood girl. No way. It wasn’t until I began to write this book that I realized me bad, very bad. I always knew that I was a bitch in college. Sweet but a bitch.

I thought that I was getting my revenge on people from my high school, when if anybody demanded revenge it should have been them. I have learned that you never really know yourself until you write it down. The story as it happened without editorials. I have this horrible ability to remember exactly how I felt at every stage of my life. It’s good for writing. The book is called Space Chick with the Electric Hair The reason for the title will be very obvious by the end of the chapters on my freshman year at college.

It’s a true don’t try this at home or anywhere story. I owe many apologizes to people in high school and college. Fortunately I have the opportunity to give the apologize. Will see people from high school, and almost everybody worth knowing from college stays in touch with Noah. Now Noah might owe me some apologies. We fight about this constantly. We’re both so eager to take the blame. Really he might owe me many. I’m just beginning to write our story. You can judge who owes whom whatever when the book comes out. Don’t judge me harshly. It was a different time in America. No, it wasn’t a more innocent time. It was the late 60’s-70’s. Yes, it was a fun time to be young. I’m forever blessed because I lived to tell the tales.

No matter what, I’m demanding a recount for “class individualist.”

Read John Baker’s blog if you’re a serious writer. It was the best writing advice I have found on the blogosphere. Wish the series had been out when I went through my existential writing crisis, but Noah claims that every writer goes through that at one time or another. And he is a New York Times best selling writer.