My favorite deejay of all time has passed away. Coyote McCloud will be remembered fondly by many. If you never got to hear him, you missed something special.
There are no words. Well, not now. Later.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Ky-ote, Ky-ote, how'd ya get to Tennessee?
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Chewy, my babies, and my room
In the old Victorian house where I live, there's a northeast bedroom that used to be my room. From the time I was eleven years old and waiting to enter the seventh grade, through three children and two divorces, from the time I stood only 4'5" tall, until only a few years ago, it was my haven.
First, it was painted blue -- my choice because blue was my sister's favorite color, and it was my way of sharing it with her. Eventually, I went with green, my own favorite color. Then, a few years ago, I relinquished the room. I don't know why. I moved into the slightly smaller southeastern room next to it. We had painted it an odd mauvish pink to match a bedspread and sheet set I had gotten for my daughter Cathie, who actually ending up living with her dad instead. But that room was a catch-all for stuff that didn't have a home downstairs, as well as a place for my first computer. One summer, while I was still working at WKU Campus Child Care, I slept in there a lot. I think the sounds of the crickets at night and the pool filter outside through the open windows was soothing to me. I was writing a lot at the time. Are you surprised that I was writing the great American novel? I'd been working on it since the age of thirteen.
But I think the most breathtaking thing about the pink room was the sunrise. When daylight hit those pink walls, the room was aglow. It was magic. In a house with 11- and 12-foot ceilings and several north-facing windows, it was filled with light. It was amazing.
Maybe that's why I wanted to be in there. There are other reasons which I frequently ponder, but no one can tell me if my answers are correct. I do not know.
When Cathie and E.J. moved back here, they moved into the green room. The green room is pretty cool, but it is filled with boxes, old clothes, books, video tapes, old albums, and who knows what else. It is like an attic, only worse. I think my mother's pack rat tendencies have been contagious. Well, that and the fact that any time there wasn't room for something downstairs, it usually ended up up here.
Things are a bit rough for us, currently. Cathie, of course, lost her job. Actually, she gave up her career. She has had a hard time both emotionally and financially since then. My hours at the track were cut. Rumors are that after live races this September, they'll be closing us down, and I'll have no job. Paul was laid off, so he has no job. He moved back to the house, too, until he can figure out what to do and where to go from here.
So the house has seen better days. It was built about 1868, remodeled in the late 1960s, and has seen tough times. Who would know that better than Cathie's ex-husband, who used to pretend to be interested in helping do repairs and make improvements? While they were still married, after making a show of caring, he privately informed Cathie that he thought she should just give up and let it crumble around our ears.
A couple of weeks ago, Cathie was suffering from a really persistent case of poison oak. The house became infested with fleas. My mother, who is 86 years old, thought the dogs should be indoors at all times, and all of us had trouble convincing her otherwise. We finally put Dusty, Winky (Bullwinkle) and Chewy outside, along with the cats. They seemed happy to be in our yard for the most part. Then we tried to bomb the fleas. I've never seen such a bad infestation. I couldn't sleep at night. The chemicals in the flea spray were making me sick. Cathie was spending the night at either my brother's or her aunt's quite a lot. My mom spent the night at my older brother's house in Portland, though she hates being away from home.
During this time, E.J. had vaccinations, and he felt ill. He stayed home from his new day care center because he was running some fever. I was in my mom's room, trying to get him to take a nap, when the front doorbell rang. It was someone from social services. She couldn't tell us that Ian called them, but we knew by something she said about Paul's former roommate being a caregiver to E.J. Of course, that situation had been very brief, but Ian knew about it. He doesn't want the baby, but he wants to cause Cathie as much trouble and pain as he can. The truth is that he is over $1,000 behind in child support to both Cathie and Amanda, and he knows he's going to be arrested. He thinks as long as he is attacking them in some way, he can frighten them into submission.
The long and short of that visit was that the social services lady said Cathie and E.J. must move out, and that we could not provide his care in the house while she was working. My mother was stunned by the news. I was not surprised, but I wasn't happy, either. I had become so accustomed to my little cutie coming to my room to watch his favorite movie with me, Disney/Pixar's "Cars." We had been trying to teach him my nickname, but his own name for me sounded like "Meme." Even though they didn't take my daughter's son away, I felt as though my heart had been torn from me.
Cathie and E.J. went to stay at her father's house. Her stepmom, naturally, had to tell her that she told her so. Eve came home to visit, and she and they stayed at a friend's house for a couple of days. In the meantime, Cathie hunted for an apartment she could afford. Eventually, she found a little rental house not far from my brother's, only a few blocks from us. She's in the process of getting things cleaned out and moving their things in. She will be splitting the rent and the space with a friend. It's a little house, but it has nice rooms and plenty of potential.
Since the dogs have now been pretty much de-fleaed (is that a word?), Cathie was going to request that her landlord let her take Chewy, her chocolate Cocker Spaniel, to live at the new house. I knew he probably wouldn't care for the idea, and I reminded her that Chewy would be lonely when no one was home. She relented, commenting to her landlord that I had become very fond of Chewy.
Today -- well, it's early AM on Friday, as I finish writing this, so that's yesterday -- I was working on my shops, twittering, modding the CP board. Chewy had been making little worried noises, over on the bed Cathie had temporarily left here, on the other side of my monitor. Those flea allergies -- even one bite could cause grief. I decided I needed to give her another bath soon, although she looked better than she had in months. Cathie had clipped her shaggy hair and given her a bath a week or so before.
"Chewy's a good baby," I said softly, and she wagged her stumpy spaniel tail at the sound of my voice. Chewy has been developing cataracts, something I hadn't expected for her age. She is the fourth cocker we have owned -- no, the fifth, since we owned one when I was a baby -- but this was my first encounter with cataracts in my dogs.
About 3:30, I heard Cathie's voice calling upstairs to me, with a note of alarm in her voice.
"Mom!"
I responded, but I went to the stairway, knowing she wouldn't hear me otherwise. Sometimes I think my voice is "invisible," except to E.J.
"Chewy's dead!" Cathie shouted. I knew it couldn't be true. She'd just been there a bit earlier. I hadn't even heard her leave the room. I rushed downstairs. Barefoot, I went outside to see her across the little one-lane steet from our driveway. Chewy was lying in the grass next to the pavement, still warm, but not breathing. I lifted her head, felt her silken chocolate curls beneath my fingers, and didn't want to believe she was gone. I wanted to hold her and comfort her.
Dusty is our cute little Shih Tzu/Peke mix, mostly white with buff-colored points, who can be seen in my shop here: Too Cute for the Dog House. And Winky is the handsome Basset/Beagle mix who posed for this design: Love You Forever. I just hadn't ever gotten around to doing a drawing of Chewy.
As nearly as we can put together, Mom had gone outside to look for Dusty, and Chewy had gone along to take care of her business (so to speak). Mom didn't notice her go out. Then Chewy followed Dusty, who has a bad habit of squeezing out from under our ancient chain link fence. Dusty can see fairly well, though. Chewy could not. A neighbor woman saw an old man driving through hit Chewy, then get out to see if she was okay. He moved her out of the road, but didn't ask around to find her owner.
I guess I should be glad it wasn't one of the children who live in our neighborhood, like my grandson. But I can't find anything about this situation to make me feel glad.
Paul and I spent over an hour digging a hole in a grassy area of the back yard where we buried her beneath the tall trees. I wept intermittently.
I would be going about doing things the rest of the evening and suddenly tear up again. There has been too much sadness and death in the world lately -- much of which touched me -- without its coming into my own personal life.
Now I'm sitting at the desk in the green room, typing at the keyboard, expecting to feel the soft furriness of my little brown shadow rub against my bare feet, thinking I might be required to fuss at her for accidentally turning off the power strip. But that isn't going to happen tonight. I came across her fleecy little doggie bed out in the hall just a while ago, and I haven't yet stopped crying since. Maybe after I post this, I'll try to go to bed. I have to work at 1:30 Friday afternoon. And maybe in a few days or weeks, I'll try to draw a picture to remember her by.
I wish I could have stopped her.
First, it was painted blue -- my choice because blue was my sister's favorite color, and it was my way of sharing it with her. Eventually, I went with green, my own favorite color. Then, a few years ago, I relinquished the room. I don't know why. I moved into the slightly smaller southeastern room next to it. We had painted it an odd mauvish pink to match a bedspread and sheet set I had gotten for my daughter Cathie, who actually ending up living with her dad instead. But that room was a catch-all for stuff that didn't have a home downstairs, as well as a place for my first computer. One summer, while I was still working at WKU Campus Child Care, I slept in there a lot. I think the sounds of the crickets at night and the pool filter outside through the open windows was soothing to me. I was writing a lot at the time. Are you surprised that I was writing the great American novel? I'd been working on it since the age of thirteen.
But I think the most breathtaking thing about the pink room was the sunrise. When daylight hit those pink walls, the room was aglow. It was magic. In a house with 11- and 12-foot ceilings and several north-facing windows, it was filled with light. It was amazing.
Maybe that's why I wanted to be in there. There are other reasons which I frequently ponder, but no one can tell me if my answers are correct. I do not know.
When Cathie and E.J. moved back here, they moved into the green room. The green room is pretty cool, but it is filled with boxes, old clothes, books, video tapes, old albums, and who knows what else. It is like an attic, only worse. I think my mother's pack rat tendencies have been contagious. Well, that and the fact that any time there wasn't room for something downstairs, it usually ended up up here.
Things are a bit rough for us, currently. Cathie, of course, lost her job. Actually, she gave up her career. She has had a hard time both emotionally and financially since then. My hours at the track were cut. Rumors are that after live races this September, they'll be closing us down, and I'll have no job. Paul was laid off, so he has no job. He moved back to the house, too, until he can figure out what to do and where to go from here.
So the house has seen better days. It was built about 1868, remodeled in the late 1960s, and has seen tough times. Who would know that better than Cathie's ex-husband, who used to pretend to be interested in helping do repairs and make improvements? While they were still married, after making a show of caring, he privately informed Cathie that he thought she should just give up and let it crumble around our ears.
A couple of weeks ago, Cathie was suffering from a really persistent case of poison oak. The house became infested with fleas. My mother, who is 86 years old, thought the dogs should be indoors at all times, and all of us had trouble convincing her otherwise. We finally put Dusty, Winky (Bullwinkle) and Chewy outside, along with the cats. They seemed happy to be in our yard for the most part. Then we tried to bomb the fleas. I've never seen such a bad infestation. I couldn't sleep at night. The chemicals in the flea spray were making me sick. Cathie was spending the night at either my brother's or her aunt's quite a lot. My mom spent the night at my older brother's house in Portland, though she hates being away from home.
During this time, E.J. had vaccinations, and he felt ill. He stayed home from his new day care center because he was running some fever. I was in my mom's room, trying to get him to take a nap, when the front doorbell rang. It was someone from social services. She couldn't tell us that Ian called them, but we knew by something she said about Paul's former roommate being a caregiver to E.J. Of course, that situation had been very brief, but Ian knew about it. He doesn't want the baby, but he wants to cause Cathie as much trouble and pain as he can. The truth is that he is over $1,000 behind in child support to both Cathie and Amanda, and he knows he's going to be arrested. He thinks as long as he is attacking them in some way, he can frighten them into submission.
The long and short of that visit was that the social services lady said Cathie and E.J. must move out, and that we could not provide his care in the house while she was working. My mother was stunned by the news. I was not surprised, but I wasn't happy, either. I had become so accustomed to my little cutie coming to my room to watch his favorite movie with me, Disney/Pixar's "Cars." We had been trying to teach him my nickname, but his own name for me sounded like "Meme." Even though they didn't take my daughter's son away, I felt as though my heart had been torn from me.
Cathie and E.J. went to stay at her father's house. Her stepmom, naturally, had to tell her that she told her so. Eve came home to visit, and she and they stayed at a friend's house for a couple of days. In the meantime, Cathie hunted for an apartment she could afford. Eventually, she found a little rental house not far from my brother's, only a few blocks from us. She's in the process of getting things cleaned out and moving their things in. She will be splitting the rent and the space with a friend. It's a little house, but it has nice rooms and plenty of potential.
Since the dogs have now been pretty much de-fleaed (is that a word?), Cathie was going to request that her landlord let her take Chewy, her chocolate Cocker Spaniel, to live at the new house. I knew he probably wouldn't care for the idea, and I reminded her that Chewy would be lonely when no one was home. She relented, commenting to her landlord that I had become very fond of Chewy.
Today -- well, it's early AM on Friday, as I finish writing this, so that's yesterday -- I was working on my shops, twittering, modding the CP board. Chewy had been making little worried noises, over on the bed Cathie had temporarily left here, on the other side of my monitor. Those flea allergies -- even one bite could cause grief. I decided I needed to give her another bath soon, although she looked better than she had in months. Cathie had clipped her shaggy hair and given her a bath a week or so before.
"Chewy's a good baby," I said softly, and she wagged her stumpy spaniel tail at the sound of my voice. Chewy has been developing cataracts, something I hadn't expected for her age. She is the fourth cocker we have owned -- no, the fifth, since we owned one when I was a baby -- but this was my first encounter with cataracts in my dogs.
About 3:30, I heard Cathie's voice calling upstairs to me, with a note of alarm in her voice.
"Mom!"
I responded, but I went to the stairway, knowing she wouldn't hear me otherwise. Sometimes I think my voice is "invisible," except to E.J.
"Chewy's dead!" Cathie shouted. I knew it couldn't be true. She'd just been there a bit earlier. I hadn't even heard her leave the room. I rushed downstairs. Barefoot, I went outside to see her across the little one-lane steet from our driveway. Chewy was lying in the grass next to the pavement, still warm, but not breathing. I lifted her head, felt her silken chocolate curls beneath my fingers, and didn't want to believe she was gone. I wanted to hold her and comfort her.
Dusty is our cute little Shih Tzu/Peke mix, mostly white with buff-colored points, who can be seen in my shop here: Too Cute for the Dog House. And Winky is the handsome Basset/Beagle mix who posed for this design: Love You Forever. I just hadn't ever gotten around to doing a drawing of Chewy.
As nearly as we can put together, Mom had gone outside to look for Dusty, and Chewy had gone along to take care of her business (so to speak). Mom didn't notice her go out. Then Chewy followed Dusty, who has a bad habit of squeezing out from under our ancient chain link fence. Dusty can see fairly well, though. Chewy could not. A neighbor woman saw an old man driving through hit Chewy, then get out to see if she was okay. He moved her out of the road, but didn't ask around to find her owner.
I guess I should be glad it wasn't one of the children who live in our neighborhood, like my grandson. But I can't find anything about this situation to make me feel glad.
Paul and I spent over an hour digging a hole in a grassy area of the back yard where we buried her beneath the tall trees. I wept intermittently.
I would be going about doing things the rest of the evening and suddenly tear up again. There has been too much sadness and death in the world lately -- much of which touched me -- without its coming into my own personal life.
Now I'm sitting at the desk in the green room, typing at the keyboard, expecting to feel the soft furriness of my little brown shadow rub against my bare feet, thinking I might be required to fuss at her for accidentally turning off the power strip. But that isn't going to happen tonight. I came across her fleecy little doggie bed out in the hall just a while ago, and I haven't yet stopped crying since. Maybe after I post this, I'll try to go to bed. I have to work at 1:30 Friday afternoon. And maybe in a few days or weeks, I'll try to draw a picture to remember her by.
I wish I could have stopped her.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Don't Forget
While I'm thinking about it, Demi Lovato's video "Don't Forget," currently getting lots of play on the Disney Channel, will always remind me of New Moon. I read that Demi has expressed a willingness to record music for the movie. I wondered if she was thinking about Bella and Edward when she co-wrote this.
This is the full version. The one I'm accustomed to watching is much shorter.
This is the full version. The one I'm accustomed to watching is much shorter.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Catching Up
Hi again. It's Lorilei.
Yeah, I know, I haven't written. I really meant to, but I've been so busy, out having fun.
Yes, I know. I'm a terrible liar.
So, what have I been doing? Let's see....
I've read the first two books in the Twilight Saga. Yes, I enjoy them, though I still prefer Harry Potter. But that's apples & oranges, to me, because no other books are HP, any more than they are Jane Austen.
Doesn't matter. I can't wait to read Eclipse. I just can't figure out how it will all end. I believe in love, but I think the unabated obsession from New Moon is just downright unhealthy. Yeah, I know what I'm talkin' 'bout, Willis. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. It still didn't stop me from crying for Bella. I'm a terribly empathetic person.
But, good golly Miss Molly, that chick is a magnet for pain, grief, and all kinds of bad news. And isn't there enough drama here? Sheesh, Simpson County could be the Forks of the midsouth. I just can't decide which are the werewolves and which are the vampires around these parts.
For a while, my daughter Cathie was trying to be a kind person, and to head off future repercussions with EJ, by setting up supervised visitation with He Who Must Not Be Named. (Oh, sorry, I've already mentioned his name -- Ian the Terrible.)
First, the visits were to take place at Cathie's dad's house in a nearby town, since Ian said he got along fine with Jim. Ian refused to have any contact with either my brother Bobby or my son Paul, since he openly acknowledges his contempt for them both. For some reason, Ian still tried to use this exchange as a chance to talk to Cathie and pressure her to drop the order against him. After this happened once, I became the person to bring EJ to Jim's house. I did not speak to Ian. I'll talk to my ex, but I don't have to talk to hers.
Sometime after supervised visitation had been going on, every Friday morning at Jim's house, the Incredible Dork decided to have everyone return to Family Court to prove something happened which actually had not. Ian swore that on the occasion of his first visitation, Cathie had admitted to him that she'd lied about his threatening behavior, and he said both Jim and Christy (Cathie's stepmother) could swear to it, since they'd both been present. Needless to say, Ian's cause went down. He did not get the order revoked. He couldn't care less about the child involved. But why should he? He doesn't pay any attention to the other children he has fathered, either.
There should be a term for someone who is neither a parent nor just a sperm donor. I mean, there should be a specific term, and one that is acceptable in polite society.
We had several appearances in both family court and district court during the next few months. Between Ian's gleeful disregard for the order that he stay at least 300 feet away from Cathie (and family), and his mother's and his accusations that Cathie was stalking them, we were regulars at the Justice Center.
Jim no longer wanted Ian in his house, at all, so we made arrangements with Community Action Agency to provide supervision for visitation. I transported EJ to the local library, where a woman from the agency took him to spend the allotted two hours in a meeting room with said sperm donor (whatever).
Unfortunately, according to the Family Court schedule, visitation rapidly progressed to un-supervised visits. Exchanges were to take place at the Sheriff's Office. Also unfortunately, the Simpson County Sheriff's Office closes at 5:00 PM, isn't open on holidays, etc., so it still didn't feel like a safe place to meet the jerk. I won't go into all the details about my trips there, but I wasn't happy. EJ smelled like an ash tray after the first visit. I suspect Ian dumped EJ on his mother for the four hour visit, since she is a chain smoker, and Ian denies ever smoking. (Paul says he has seen Ian smoking, but Ian says that is a lie.)
Before it could escalate to the point of all-weekend visits every week, Cathie took him back to Family Court. Our judge had really hoped things were progressing nicely and all bad feelings were healing, but that wasn't the case. Cathie had photos of eczema where Ian had put EJ in diapers he was sensitive to (disregarding what was in EJ's diaper bag). Ian made many rash -- and often contradicting -- statements in the courtroom, including the counterattack accusation that EJ had a black eye on one occasion. Odd that he would take photos at the Sheriff's Office of this alledged black eye, but not think to mention it in court until he got mad. And he got mad a lot. He had to be reminded to stick to the subject at hand, not to get into hearsay, and to avoid other verbal transgressions.
Finally, boy genius (please note my sarcasm) said he wanted to completely forgo visitations with EJ, because Cathie was never going to give him any peace as long as they continued to take place. The judge looked somewhat disbelieving, but then he agreed it could be arranged. So EJ no longer has to go spend time with Voldemort. Trust me, the dude is neither brilliant nor magical, but he has about as much love in his heart.
Yes, there's more. But the divorce is final, and EJ doesn't have to go over there anymore. Now the rest of the drama in my life can assume its usual place. Like the issues with my son and his former roommate. Ah, yes. They were introduced by Ian. She was obsessed with Ian after she slept with him, while Cathie was deployed, and Ian decided to foist her off on someone else. But that's a story for another entry... or two....
Yeah, I know, I haven't written. I really meant to, but I've been so busy, out having fun.
Yes, I know. I'm a terrible liar.
So, what have I been doing? Let's see....
I've read the first two books in the Twilight Saga. Yes, I enjoy them, though I still prefer Harry Potter. But that's apples & oranges, to me, because no other books are HP, any more than they are Jane Austen.
Doesn't matter. I can't wait to read Eclipse. I just can't figure out how it will all end. I believe in love, but I think the unabated obsession from New Moon is just downright unhealthy. Yeah, I know what I'm talkin' 'bout, Willis. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. It still didn't stop me from crying for Bella. I'm a terribly empathetic person.
But, good golly Miss Molly, that chick is a magnet for pain, grief, and all kinds of bad news. And isn't there enough drama here? Sheesh, Simpson County could be the Forks of the midsouth. I just can't decide which are the werewolves and which are the vampires around these parts.
For a while, my daughter Cathie was trying to be a kind person, and to head off future repercussions with EJ, by setting up supervised visitation with He Who Must Not Be Named. (Oh, sorry, I've already mentioned his name -- Ian the Terrible.)
First, the visits were to take place at Cathie's dad's house in a nearby town, since Ian said he got along fine with Jim. Ian refused to have any contact with either my brother Bobby or my son Paul, since he openly acknowledges his contempt for them both. For some reason, Ian still tried to use this exchange as a chance to talk to Cathie and pressure her to drop the order against him. After this happened once, I became the person to bring EJ to Jim's house. I did not speak to Ian. I'll talk to my ex, but I don't have to talk to hers.
Sometime after supervised visitation had been going on, every Friday morning at Jim's house, the Incredible Dork decided to have everyone return to Family Court to prove something happened which actually had not. Ian swore that on the occasion of his first visitation, Cathie had admitted to him that she'd lied about his threatening behavior, and he said both Jim and Christy (Cathie's stepmother) could swear to it, since they'd both been present. Needless to say, Ian's cause went down. He did not get the order revoked. He couldn't care less about the child involved. But why should he? He doesn't pay any attention to the other children he has fathered, either.
There should be a term for someone who is neither a parent nor just a sperm donor. I mean, there should be a specific term, and one that is acceptable in polite society.
We had several appearances in both family court and district court during the next few months. Between Ian's gleeful disregard for the order that he stay at least 300 feet away from Cathie (and family), and his mother's and his accusations that Cathie was stalking them, we were regulars at the Justice Center.
Jim no longer wanted Ian in his house, at all, so we made arrangements with Community Action Agency to provide supervision for visitation. I transported EJ to the local library, where a woman from the agency took him to spend the allotted two hours in a meeting room with said sperm donor (whatever).
Unfortunately, according to the Family Court schedule, visitation rapidly progressed to un-supervised visits. Exchanges were to take place at the Sheriff's Office. Also unfortunately, the Simpson County Sheriff's Office closes at 5:00 PM, isn't open on holidays, etc., so it still didn't feel like a safe place to meet the jerk. I won't go into all the details about my trips there, but I wasn't happy. EJ smelled like an ash tray after the first visit. I suspect Ian dumped EJ on his mother for the four hour visit, since she is a chain smoker, and Ian denies ever smoking. (Paul says he has seen Ian smoking, but Ian says that is a lie.)
Before it could escalate to the point of all-weekend visits every week, Cathie took him back to Family Court. Our judge had really hoped things were progressing nicely and all bad feelings were healing, but that wasn't the case. Cathie had photos of eczema where Ian had put EJ in diapers he was sensitive to (disregarding what was in EJ's diaper bag). Ian made many rash -- and often contradicting -- statements in the courtroom, including the counterattack accusation that EJ had a black eye on one occasion. Odd that he would take photos at the Sheriff's Office of this alledged black eye, but not think to mention it in court until he got mad. And he got mad a lot. He had to be reminded to stick to the subject at hand, not to get into hearsay, and to avoid other verbal transgressions.
Finally, boy genius (please note my sarcasm) said he wanted to completely forgo visitations with EJ, because Cathie was never going to give him any peace as long as they continued to take place. The judge looked somewhat disbelieving, but then he agreed it could be arranged. So EJ no longer has to go spend time with Voldemort. Trust me, the dude is neither brilliant nor magical, but he has about as much love in his heart.
Yes, there's more. But the divorce is final, and EJ doesn't have to go over there anymore. Now the rest of the drama in my life can assume its usual place. Like the issues with my son and his former roommate. Ah, yes. They were introduced by Ian. She was obsessed with Ian after she slept with him, while Cathie was deployed, and Ian decided to foist her off on someone else. But that's a story for another entry... or two....
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Untitled, for now
I know, this looks like it could be a post from my other blog (http://lorilei-tees.com/), but this design just seems so appropriate for my life at the moment.
A lot has happened in my life since this post last March, and much of it has not been for the better.
The one constant has been that my grandson EJ is the light of our lives. He is so very precious to us, I would never give him up or wish him away.
Ian Matthew Norris lost his job with the Franklin Police Department last year. There was an EPO (Emergency Protection Order) against him as of March, 2008, first in Sumner County, Tennessee, then in Simpson County, Kentucky.
The terminology has apparently changed so this is now called a DVO (Domestic Violence Order). It disallows him from possessing weapons or ammunition, and it restricts him as far as physical proximity to Cathie and other family members. He resigned from the police force rather than be fired, after the Honorable Sid Broderson made the order official in our commonwealth.
Unfortunately, the DVO will most likely expire in March of this year, and then the idiot will think he can do anything he wants. Mainly because he has already thought this for a long time, and the legal restrictions placed on him have hampered him very little in the last ten months.
Cathie lost the best job she'd ever had when she took an honorable discharge from the army. She was due to be shipped to Iraq for the third time, and custody of EJ would have reverted to Ian. That was just unacceptable. A female officer Cathie worked with had warned Cathie to get out of the army and protect her right to be a mother, since she had gone through a similar situation. The woman had lost her own son and daughter to her ex-husband while she was deployed in the Middle East; her ex had charged her with abandonment.
Cathie is a strong and sometimes stubborn young woman. She is a natural leader. She did not want to back down and submit to Ian's intimidation, but I have seen the fear in her when he is near. Ever since he found out she had filed her 2007 taxes separately and he would not be getting all the return, when he called her to threaten and yell at her, she has lived with the fear that he'd eventually go over the line and try to hurt her.
He once lost his temper with her (while they were still together) and tried to hit her, but he missed. Frankly, I think in a fair wrestling match, she could kick his @$$, but he doesn't believe in fair fights any more than he believes in the truth.
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