These People Try to Fade Me

My Writing Territories:

Fears- Failure; enclosed spaces
Annoyances- Squandered intelligence/potential
Accomplishments- Guts and Mr. Burns
Confusions- A mission
Sorrows- Fake Plastic Trees and wasted time
Dreams- The Fighting Pines
Idiosyncrasies- Nail biting, cedar wood, bourbon balls, hands
Risks- a very sketchy Moon Pie
Beloved Possessions, Now and Then- “Ginny” [gin-e], Mickey, and the “Other Blanket”
Problems- Standardized tests, Great Expectations


Ever since I was a wee tot, I would gnaw my fingers to bits. I have no idea how I managed to develop that nasty habit, because honestly, my fingers were covered with paint or mud most of the time. Regardless, they ended up in my mouth one day and an irreversible, cataclysmic chain reaction was set into motion. My mother eventually came down on me in the 4th grade. She doused my fingers in lemon juice. That didn’t stop me. She put little latex caps over my fingers. I took them off and proceeded to chew. Every day, I was scheming of ways to put my fingers in my mouth without her knowing. About three years later, I unknowingly broke the habit. Unfortunately, that only lasted for about another three years. Now I’m back at it—a finger-chewing maniac.

And now time for a short anecdote: “Olivia and the Mystery of the Wooden Chest”: My mother owns this grand, wooden trunk that she uses to store her bulky, winter-time sweaters. It’s not often when she wears them. However, one day she decided to wear one of her old-folksy snowman sweaters. This, obviously being a seasonal garment, was tucked away in that chest. She put in on, and went off to work. When she returned that evening, I greeted her with a hug and resumed my evening of AFV. About 10 minutes later, I resembled a mildly mutated heirloom tomato. It’s difficult to put a visual into words. So I have generously provided one here for you:




With this in mind, you can probably imagine why I was promptly rushed to the ER, and put on some antihistamine and steroids. At the time, we had no idea what triggered the reaction. It was later identified that I am terribly allergic to cedar wood. And my mother’s chest is, in fact, made of cedar. This wouldn’t make a very good Nancy Drew Mystery Story, because I totally gave away the ending in the title. But nevertheless, a mystery it was.

Why cedar? I DON’T KNOW.


Lastly, I have rather small hands. I cannot open things. This is really all there is to it. There are a number of other idiosyncrasies and mannerisms about me, but this is all I am willing to share with you today.