Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Devious Passion

People who left a comment, thanks for taking the time to say what you were feeling. I appreciate it--and your concern.

I write about my life because it helps me examine my reality, which also helps me make better choices.

Your reactions surprise me because I am numb to it after so many years. I am terrified during the moments when he is in a violent rage, but when it's over I can pretend that it didn't happen.

He is extraordinarily sweet and tender at times, which made it all the more shocking when he turned into a monster. I am not shocked anymore, but I’m still usually surprised at the intensity of his anger and his ability to go from 0-100 in about five seconds. I don’t understand that kind of high voltage ferocity. I’ve never felt that way in my life.

I’ve learned to surrender to it and try and coach him down a few notches or to even beg and plead.

After I began telling some of the truth about my relationship to my family, it made me have to accept the truth. Writing about some of the episodes from recent recall forces me out of denial too. It's all part of being honest with myself. I’m forcing myself to see the truth on my computer screen instead of forcing myself to delete certain things.

I was so afraid of the powerful feelings that I had when I thought about it that I just chose not to allow myself to face them. The few times that I did face them I became an insomniac.

At this point, I am mostly past losing sleep over it. I use exercise, writing, reading, watching movies and activities with my kids to look past my less-than-pretty marital issues.

I have planned to leave on many occasions and have even done so a few times. He apologizes, and I see how physically attractive he is--and think about our intense and fulfilling sex life and cannot imagine living without it.

Sex with him feels like I’m kissing a serpent. I feel like I’m sucking on danger and tasting evil parts. I wonder why I’m addicted to it. I wonder how an orgasm can feel so good when it’s laced with contempt for the person who is pushing and pulling my core. I distrust him, but he pierces me with pleasure.

He provides me with plenty of money. He came in second place in a poker tournament last Saturday and he gave me more than half of his winnings. (I paid bills with it because I’m a practical to the point of boring.) He also hands me a generous amount of cash each week to deposit in our checking account.

He’s also the father of my children. I wanted to be a family. I could not imagine ever sharing them—taking turns with them. They are the reasons that make my life important--everyday. I am deeply in love with my son and daughter. I wanted to protect them and provide for them as a unit.

I never gave up hope. I never wanted to quit trying. I tried so hard to be a loving, seductive, supportive wife. I didn’t want to admit that I failed to make him happy.

I am at the point where I realize that even more anger management therapy cannot change his innate temperament.

I love him very much, but I don't feel safe living with him. It makes me very sad.

I don't want to go to a women's shelter. I want to do it on my own. I am hoping that by this summer I will have negotiated a friendly split. I also hope that once we are living in separate homes we can be friends. I am not bitter and I hope that his life will be happier when he is free of me.

I want to move on with my life and find a healthy and sexy relationship with someone who doesn't have a hot temper.

I don’t want to be intermittently afraid and numb anymore. I just want to be a good mother.

Monday, November 28, 2005

A Dangerous Explosion

I woke up this morning nestled up next to my daughter. I felt like the glowing red light on a charging battery. She felt so warm and soft and smelled so sweet. I kept thinking, “I’m in love with her. I’m in love with her.”

I also felt quiet tears trickling down my cheeks, as scenes from last night played in my mind. I thought, “This isn’t what my mother would have wanted for me—this isn’t what she would have wanted.”

I felt relieved when I heard the front door close at 6:30 AM, as my husband left for work.

My husband went on a fishing trip yesterday with a buddy and a guide in hopes of catching stripers. He called me midday to tell me that they were on their way to another location. He explained that, so far, the morning had been fruitless, but he felt like they learned some good fishing tips from the guide. He was eating some lunch, while they drove to the next spot. He said, “I love you.” I replied, “I love you.” And then I went back to working out in my living room.

He left before sunrise and came home after sunset. They didn’t catch any fish. He was tired and disappointed when he came home. He watched the rest of the Eagles game, while I read next to him on our bed. He began snoring after the final minute of football.

Three hours later, it was time for me to tuck our kids into bed. I got them settled and snuggled. I came back to my room and put my book on my nightstand and turned off the light. I realized that he was laying on top of the covers when I tried to pull them over me. I gently touched his shoulder and asked him if he could get under them, so I could do the same. He growled and rolled over onto his side.

I got up and went to look for another blanket. I realized that they were in the laundry, so I got back into bed and softly nudged him and repeated that I wanted him to get under the covers. He scowled, but didn’t wake up.

I settled onto my back using what little blanket I could get, since moving them from under 200 pounds is impossible, when I felt my five-pound puppy land swiftly onto my face. He swatted her off of his chest. I didn’t know such a small poodle could pack so much wallop. I petted her and turned over mumbling to myself, “He’s such a jerk.” I didn’t realize that it was audible or that he was awake enough to hear me, but I found out that he did when he sprung up and his hands grasped around my throat. He yelled, “I’M A JERK? I’M A JERK? YOU FUCKING CUNT! I’M A JERK? I WORK HARD ALL DAY SO YOU CAN GO TO THE GYM AND GET YOUR NAILS DONE AND HAVE CLEANING LADIES AND A ROBOT FOR A VACUUM CLEANER, AND I’M A JERK? I felt his hands stop squeezing my neck, as spit continued to splash down onto my face. His pressed his gigantic fist against my cheekbone and nose and threatened to punch me. I could feel him trembling and more saliva was spewing as he repeated, YOU CUNT! YOU CUNT! I heard myself apologizing, “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it. I was just angry because the dog hit me in the face and it hurt. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Please stop, you’re hurting me. Please, I didn’t mean it.”

He got off of me when he heard our kids coming down the stairs. He stood in the bedroom doorway pointing and yelling at me, “ONE OF THESE DAYS I’M JUST NOT GOING TO COME HOME. THEN YOU’LL BE SORRY! YOU’LL LOSE EVERYTHING! YOU BETTER HOPE THAT BOOK OF YOURS IS A NUMBER ONE BEST FUCKING SELLER! WHEN I DON’T ANSWER MY PHONE TOMORROW, YOU’LL KNOW WHY. Then he addressed our son who was repeating, “Dad, dad, please stop. Calm down, calm down.” He screamed at our son, WOULD YOU KNOCK IT OFF? I’M NOT GOING TO BEAT YOUR MOTHER. JUST GET OUT OF MY FACE! IF I DON’T ANSWER MY PHONE OR COME HOME TOMORROW YOU KNOW WHY!” My son said, “Dad, just go outside and have a cigarette and calm down for a minute.”

My husband paced like a lion waiting to be fed and continued to seethe with hatred. My son continued to block the hallway with his body to deter his father from stomping back into our bedroom. He followed his dad out onto the back porch and tried to change the subject. He was only wearing boxers and a t-shirt.

My daughter was crying. She got into bed with me. I heard her lock the bedroom door. She asked me if the key was in the hallway. She told me to hide it.

I whispered, “It’s over now honey.” I felt her press her little girl body up against my back. She put her small arm around me. We held onto each other tightly. I heard her soft, slumbering breath a few minutes later. I tried to block out the whole scene. I didn’t want to think about it. I could feel my face and neck throbbing. He didn’t punch me, but I was sore. He terrorized me more than he inflicted pain.

I think he stops himself from doing major damage to my face because he doesn’t want to go to jail, not because he doesn’t want to hurt me. He was there briefly once and he doesn’t want to go back.

I tried to go to sleep, but couldn’t relax. I felt the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet sweating. I felt guilty. My kids shouldn’t have to be scared or have to try to protect me.

I went out into the living room out of fear. I was looking for closure and measuring his mood, so I could sleep. He was watching an old movie. He seemed to have calmed down. I apologized for calling him a jerk. I leaned down to kiss his cheek. He turned away and said, “Don’t even try it, Jessica.” You make me out to be such an abusive asshole all the time.” I said, "I’m sorry. Where are you working tomorrow? In New Jersey? He said, “Yeah, Lambertville.” I replied, “Okay, well goodnight.” He didn't reply.

I got back under the covers and told myself that I would be safe for the rest of the night.

Thankfully, my dreams helped me drift into comfort.

Friday, November 25, 2005

Thome, a Phil's Classic

My jaw was hanging open when I caught the news of the Thome trade, while walking on the treadmill at the gym two days ago. I am a major league Jim Thome fan! I'm happy that I have Thome t-shirts and jerseys in my closet. I'll wear them proudly next baseball season, while rooting for my boys in red and white!

I copied this post from TrekMedic251. He worded it so well...

Goodbye, Good Luck, Godspeed

Phils to get Rowand for Thome
Tentative deal has Phillies sending cash to White Sox

Well,'re only as good as your last at-bat, but let me be one among many to wish a fond farewell to Jim Thome.

Jim was a consummate professional and a gentleman. He was a paragon of good sportsmanship and we all wish him well in Chicago. And,..if the White Sox get to Philadelphia, the first cheesesteak at Tony Luke's is on me. Thanx!

And to Ryan Howard: these are big shoes you'll be filling in 2006! Please,..don't break our hearts!

"Hear! hear!", Trek!


I’m exhausted. I woke up at 5:30 am. I showered and then put on a pink, Marilyn Monroe babydoll tee, khaki shorts and my favorite running shoes and headed to the gym. I spent 90 minutes trying to burn off an overindulgent Thanksgiving--then came home and straightened up my house, drove my son and his buddy to the football field--and then continued to my sister’s house to help paint her spare bedroom. It has been an ongoing project.

Thanksgiving dinner was delicious in every way. My uncles announced that it was their 25th Thanksgiving dinner as a couple. They still seem to fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle. Their home is beautifully decorated, as my uncle is an interior decorator. It is also filled with books, as his partner is an avid reader.

They seem to have all of the latest technologically advanced gadgets. They showed us how to use TiVo. We cooed over how cool it was, while we sipped sweet white Bordeaux. They gave us several copies of newly released films--and fed us a meal that was I-dare-you-not-to-purr-and-moan-while-you-chew yummy. My family is really great at putting together a fantastic meal as a team. Everyone got along well and the conversation between all 16 of us was lovely. My aunt noticed that I have lost weight, which I appreciated. There were enough desserts for at least five more holidays. I cherish my family!

My dad brought along a photograph of my mom, which was featured in an old newspaper. She was the president of a woman’s club and the local paper covered a meeting in which they prepared fancy cuisine. My mom’s pretty fingers were flared, as she was decorating a turkey with special spices and garnish. She was pregnant with my little sister in the photograph and her luminous, big blue eyes were fringed by her long lashes, as she gazed at the glazed bird. We miss her. My dad said she was “hot stuff”. The article was my dad’s way of bringing her to the table with us.

Speaking of anniversaries, my 13th wedding anniversary was last weekend. I scheduled an appointment for me and my hubby to have full body massages. My husband is having problems with his lower back, so I was hoping it would relieve some knots and tension from his tired muscles. I thought the idea of having them at the same time would be romantic.

The massage was sensational. The woman danced her dexterous fingers all over me, until I felt like I was floating.

My husband really enjoyed the experience. He fell asleep while his feet were being tenderly kneaded.

Afterwards, we went out to dinner. We ate quietly, since we were in a relaxed haze that rosé wine, fresh sourdough bread, garden salad, buttery seafood, well-done steak, rich chocolate mousse cake and hot coffee didn’t diminish. For some reason, the dinner date felt like we were going through the motions of a typical anniversary--the adoration, the spark, the connection felt like it was missing.

The massage was the highlight of our day.

We exchanged gifts in the morning. My husband shoveled down his breakfast and rushed away from the table. He came back and placed two extravagantly wrapped boxes in front of me with a card and strode into our home office to play in a poker tournament. I followed him into the room and left a large bag of presents on the floor next to his big basketball shoes. He opened them while he waited to catch good cards on the river. His reaction was muted compared to the highs and lows of each hand.

I ate my breakfast sandwich slowly with my children, as I unwrapped the ribbons. I like to savor food on Sundays, since I skip breakfast during the week. It felt kind of empty without his interest in my reaction. He was engaged in fishing for a flush, while I opened a romantic card and a large box of my favorite candy, Swedish fish.

Next, I opened a necklace. It was a white gold butterfly encrusted with white diamonds and a canary diamond was its centerpiece. It was a pretty choker. It sparkled on my neck, however I was feeling lackluster.

There were no hugs and kisses afterwards. No smiles. His attention was focused on breaking everyone at the table.

I’m used to receiving dazzling jewelry and gifts. I’m also accustomed to being forsaken for his hobbies. I have learned that he is not willing to share much of his time with me.

My husband is playing in a poker tournament tomorrow at a local club. On Sunday, he and his buddy are going fly fishing with a guide who they found on the internet. They plan to use waders. I think that they will freeze their butts off at this time of year. I hope they don't fall in the chilly water.

He will probably play cards online or Xbox live during most of his leftover free moments this weekend.

I am married, but companionless. I know that my husband loves me, but I don’t feel like we have a real bond. There is no fire to spend time together unless our parts are coupled. It makes me sad that the only time that he sees me, feels me is when I’m naked.

Our sex life is spectacular. Our friendship is lifeless.

This weekend, I’ll probably take my kids to see a movie, do some Christmas shopping and go the gym.

I need to make new friends. Loneliness feels comfortless and boring.

I’d trade my queen sized, overfilled jewelry box with all of its sparkling contents for genuine affection and attention. I crave intimacy embraced by an amiable alliance.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Rosy Ballyhoo

Lately, I haven’t been posting with my usual regularity because I’ve been busy with putting my book together, working out, helping my sister paint and preparing new recipes for Thanksgiving. I miss having the time to sit down and write and reflect on my life. I also miss exploring my blog pal’s thoughts. I am kind of sad that I lost so many readers when I chose to delete my old blog, but I’m thankful for the cool people who are still part of my little world.

Yesterday, my sister and I tried a new recipe for Cranberry Chutney and Banana Crème Pie that we found on the internet. We are also responsible for making carrots and corn with browned butter drizzled over the top. We learned that little trick from watching our grandparents in their kitchen when we were little girls. We are the youngest Swedish chefs on the scene and therefore lack a specialty, so we just make extra stuff. The rest of my family is providing all of the traditional fare.

My uncle is doing the turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing and pumpkin pie. He’s usually our gracious dinner party host, since he and his life partner (or husband, as I think if him) have the most gloriously spacious home in our family. They have been together for over twenty years, so they are my two beloved uncles. My grandparents are making fruit salad, cucumber salad, sweet potatoes, apple pie, pecan pumkin pie, chocolate cake, rice krispie treats, cookies and brownies. My aunt is bringing a veggie tray, green bean casserole and an apple cake. I’m sure that I forgot something, but I think that will be plenty.

This will be the first Thanksgiving without my mother at our table, since we lost her to leukemia last April. My sister and I prepared our dishes in her kitchen yesterday. We used her kitchen tools. We talked about the fact that it will be strange not to share it with her tomorrow. We knew that she would be proud that we were cooking together in her house led by our memories of her examples. Missing her makes every day bittersweet, especially the holidays.

I'm concerned about how my dad will handle his feelings. I know that he misses her as hard as a person can possibly be missed.

I just got home from the gym. I’m sore, but muscle fatigue means progress. I also feel good about dedicating an hour or more per day on improving my fitness level and slimming down my silhouette. I’m happy that my sister and I have been spending more time together. She has even been coming to the gym with me a couple of times per week.
I’ve also met a few interesting people, while sweating in Cardio Heaven. Heaven is really not the adjective that I would choose for the place, but it’s how it was introduced by the trainer who showed me around the place last year. I think of it more as a bacteria infested stink pit with machines meant for body moving.

Body movin' body movin'
A1 sound' sound so soothing
Body movin' body movin'
We be getting down and you know we're crush groovin'
*Beastie Boys

I generally go to the gym during the late morning hours. I usually avoid the evenings unless I’m there to take a class, since the gym is more crowded. The daytime crowd is made up mostly of friendly retirees, a few bored housewives and the occasional second shifter, unemployed person or injury rehabilitator, which means that most of the virile men, who might be curve watching, are at work.

I’m fairly shy, so I’m not usually into socializing with strangers. I’m a loner who usually prefers telling my feelings to a Microsoft Word document rather than talking to my real friends. Besides, I’m at the gym to burn butter so my body stays healthy for hopefully another 60+ years.

With that said, I have met a few friendly faces. My first gym boyfriend was a retired gentleman of advanced age called Milt, who has a knack for kindness and making people smile. He always wears a white t-shirt with gray shorts and keeps a written record of his repetitions. He reminds me of a cute, old turtle with a white head band hugging his balding head and his bespectacled sky-blue eyes. He calls his Monday, Wednesday and Friday gym visits “his religion.” He introduced me to the self-proclaimed midday mayor of the gym, Tom.

Tom calls Milt “Uncle Milty”. He calls me “Jessica Rabbit.” Tom is about six feet tall with an average build, although I’m not sure what he really looks like, since I’m reluctant to really check him out. However, I noticed that he has sparkling blue eyes, a dazzling smile and distracting buns. My impression is that he spends almost as much time getting to know everyone as he does getting physical. He seems to greet most of the people in the gym. I’ve heard him repeat, “I’m glad to see you.” to several gym buddies. I guess that it makes people feel good, which seems to be his specialty, as he is a massage therapist.

Today, I was treated to a surprise back and neck rub while riding the stationary bike. I knew that it must be Tommy Blue Eyes' well-trained hands sending chills through me and melting me into the seat. He politely inquired about my Thanksgiving plans and after a brief conversation, he left the scene for an appointment--and left my body aching for his skilled fingertips. Hormones were coursing through me faster than the 85 reps per minute that I was pedaling. I’m still not sure whether I’m attracted to him or whether it was just the relaxing endorphins that rushed through me at his touch. It felt like lusty cranberry cocktail. I would call it a Cosmopolitan--tart and tinged with pink like my blushing cheeks.

I think it would be wise for me to avoid him. If he approaches me to say hello, I’ll be polite, but I don’t intend to initiate a conversation with him. I don’t like the idea of having a crush on a gym buddy. I don’t like the power that it might have over me. I don’t want to think about sex while I’m working out. It’s too distracting.

I wonder what his shaft would feel like if I were to guide my hand up his inner thigh and into the leg-hole of his shorts. I wonder what his hard tool might feel like if he were pressed up against me, caressing my curves.

See what I mean?

My imagination is getting carried away. I don’t even know him--and besides who wants to get naked with a guy who gets off on knowing everyone’s business at the gym? Who cares about all of that gabbing and gossip?

Oh, I met this older guy named Willis last week. He sat down on the bike beside me and asked me to race him. I giggled and told him that he’d probably win. I hear him talking with several guys in his age group whenever they visit the gym. In my head they are the black Manny, Moe and Jack pack. Remember those guys from the old Pep Boys commercials? (I love that place. I want to go buy a new winter white, sheepskin steering wheel cover. My steering wheel is cold in the morning!) I told him that their laughs make me smile. They have such a good time just chatting with each other. They are an endearing bunch of men. I shook their hands today and asked, “What’s your favorite thing to eat on Thanksgiving?” They agreed on turkey. I told them that I liked everything, so I’d be at the gym every day next week. They laughed.

I’ll have a little taste of everything tomorrow. It’s only one day out of the year. I like to splurge on the holidays. I’ll go back to my regular diet routine on Friday. I'll also be back at the gym. I don't like to go shopping on Black Friday. Do you?

Friday, November 18, 2005

Painting and Political Profiling

I am posting quizzes since I don’t have time to write anything with more depth today. This morning, I am going to the gym after I take my daughter to school. This afternoon, I’m helping my sister paint her guest room. This evening, we plan on making Swedish meatballs with buttery egg noodles and broccoli sautéed in sesame oil and fresh garlic. I’m saving up all of my calories for our family dinner.

If you read my old blog, you know that I was exploring my political views and trying to understand what it means to be Liberal or Conservative--or a Democrat or Republican. Whenever I come across a little political quiz, I like to take it. I thought that I was a conservative republican, but I learned that I was wrong about how I defined myself.

What were your results and what are you planning for dinner?

Your Political Profile

Overall: 35% Conservative, 65% Liberal
Social Issues: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal
Personal Responsibility: 50% Conservative, 50% Liberal
Fiscal Issues: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal
Ethics: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal
Defense and Crime: 75% Conservative, 25% Liberal

You Are a New School Democrat

You like partying and politics - and are likely to be young and affluent.

You're less religious, traditional, and uptight than most Democrats.

Smoking pot, homosexuality, and gambling are all okay in your book.

You prefer that the government help people take care of themselves.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Blog On!

Special thanks to Andy of amusing Andyland for his latest post, which announces my return!

Thank you Karl of Philly Future for putting me back into Philly’s greatest information center!

Thanks Bud my favorite singer/songwriter buddy for fixing my link!

Tack Melissa, my Square Peg fellow Philly blogette!

Merci Frank of the politically informative iFlipFlop.

Gracias TrekMedic, my conservative buddy with the cool quizzes and maps.

Dank u JacUnivac for the painting, the mention and attention.

Danke Karl from your corner in NJ!

Grazie Space Coast Musings in sunny Florida!

What’s up down south, Texas Yankee!

Shout out to Taorist!

Yo Pal to Howard of the eclectic and informative Smedley Log.

Holla to Jeff from behind the lens of The Thing.

*Update 11/20
Thanks for fixing my button on Romano's Ramblings, Pax!

*Second Update 11/24
Hey Mat, tanks fer puttin me new blog on yer Journal of Doubt!

Thank you everyone on my Luring Link list for putting my new blog on your list! Those of you who haven’t, I’m still hoping that you will get around to it. I’m glad that I saved my old template, so that I didn’t lose all of you, too! Let’s keep an eye on each other.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Yummy Little Thanksgiving Quiz

This quiz is appropriate, since it's just a few days until Thanksgiving. What food are you? What are your favorite things to cook or eat on Thanksgiving?

I think if I had to choose, my plate would be piled with garlic mashed potatoes, my grandma's sweet potatoes with brown sugar and carrots with browned butter--and corn, green beans, and a slice of turkey breast and ham. Then I would probably have some pie, even though pie is not my favorite dessert, but there are lots of homemade pies on Thanksgiving. I love the whole traditional meal, but you can have my stuffing--and the cranberry relish that I'm supposed to make to take to my Uncle's house.
You Are the Stuffing

You're complicated and complex, yet all your pieces fit together.People miss you if you're gone - but they're not sure why.
What Part of Thanksgiving Are You?

Tuesday, November 15, 2005


7:15 am-

As my son walked out of the bathroom this morning wrapped in blue terrycloth, I was inspired to sing him a little song to a Monkey’s tune…

Here comes my son
He’s my number one
I’m gonna pinch his buns

He ignored me, so I went into the kitchen to make some coffee with cinnamon. I decided to make him a microwavable sausage, egg and cheese biscuit for breakfast, since he is injured and therefore incapable of navigating himself to the refrigerator. He sprained his ankle running to a rock concert in Philadelphia on Saturday night. He explained that he and his buddies arrived a little late, so they sprinted from the train station. They didn’t want to miss the opening band. However, his foot hit a pothole and he did a Superman-- and his chest skidded across the pavement. He still managed a three hour concert in which he moshed with the crowd. Teenage determination is amazing.

On Sunday morning, he woke up with a golf ball sized left ankle. My husband took him to get x-rays, which relieved us from the idea of a break. But now I’m stuck driving the superklutz three blocks to school and back every day for at least a month—and he is missing out on playing volleyball with his dad, swimming in gym class and football with his boys. I explained all of that so I could tell you my lame joke…

I handed him his plate and explained that if he carried it to the table he’d be limpin’ with the Bizkit.

He looked at me with glazed up-til-2:00-am-to-watch-the-Eagles-game eyes. The birds disappointed Philly fans with a 21-20 loss after dominating most of the game. My husband watched them lose from club box seats. I was snoring with my daughter by half-time.

Barebreasted and Barefaced

I deleted Jessica’s Journal. It was a bummer, especially since it took me a year to build relationships with readers. However, I chose to do it, since one of my son’s neighborhood buddies found it through a Google search about our township. He told my son about finding it--and two of their other best friends.

I asked him how he knew it was mine, and he said, “Ah Mom, he recognized you from your pictures.” Then I realized it was a dumb question given my name was there, too.

I was not embarrassed by it, however I was concerned that my son might feel differently and be too kind to tell me so. Well, maybe I was a little uncomfortable given that I flashed for breast cancer in October. (Even though my pink protrusions were covered by pink ribbons) My blog had a risqué flair, which I think made it more provocative.

The G-side boys, whom I’ve known since they were in second grade, have likely seen my breasts. That kind of freaks me out. I like to showoff, but I don’t like flashing 15 and 16-year old boys. I never thought about the fact my son’s friends might come across my blog. I realize that I was being naïve.

I knew that I wasn’t writing in a vacuum, but according to my Statcounter, I didn’t have many local readers. That little tool is pretty cool. It shows the reader’s location, time spent on the page, the link or search that they used, how many visits and entries they have made and even their IP address.

I have the feeling that seeing these young men at the pool next summer might be a little awkward. They are well over six feet tall and handsome, but I still think of them as little kids, even though they have low voices and long limbs. Next time I see them, I will just have to be honest with them. I will explain that I know that they had seen it, and just tell them that I was a bit shy about their discovery.

I will also explain that I have decided to publish the first year of my journal from mid- November 2004-2005. I may have lost my blog and some of my dignity, but I still have my files. I hope that it will make a somewhat compelling book. I haven’t decided on a title and I have some editing to do. I’ve been putting it together two hours at a time, usually when I come home from the gym.

I also haven’t decided whether to use a pen name or my real name. However, I think that given that I’m candid about my life, a pseudonym is probably the smarter choice. I plan to at least use my real first name, as I always have.

I have spoken to three publishers this week. I’m trying to figure out which company offers the best services and the highest royalties—that’s assuming there will be any royalties to be had. I’m working on putting my posts into one long, dated document. I hope that someone will buy my book. I hope that lots of some ones will buy it, read it and be amused and moved by it.

I would like to publish one journal per year, if all goes well, or if I don’t get sick of hearing myself type. Hopefully, truth makes art worth reading.

When my book is selling on and elsewhere, I’ll let everyone know. I hope that you all will support my dream. If anyone else has a book for sale, let me know, I’d like to support yours, too!