Halloween

My friends hosted an 80's themed Halloween Party. At first I didn't know what I wanted to be, but as soon as I spotted the Elvira wig in the costume shop, I knew I was going to be transformed into that vampish, sexy, horror movie hosting diva, Elvira. After all, she and I have a lot in common!

Red did my make up! She did a great job creating Elvira eyes!

Jason killed the Camp Crystal Lake Counselor. I am sure that it she weren't so drunk that might've actually hurt!

Totally 80's! (Totally gay, I say!)

The party hosts, Mario and Princess Toadstool, who just happened to have gotten engaged this night! Congrats you, two! :)

This is Red dressed in the scariest costume at the party. She is dressed as one of the clowns in one of the worst 80's horror movies I have ever seen, Killer Clowns from Outerspace. She will argue with me that it's not THE worst. But I am sorry to disagree. I do think it's one of the worst and my opinion counts.

After all, I'm Elvira, your horror flick queen!

Why do you blog?

Every blogger must have had a reason for starting his or her blog. I can't imagine that anyone would just radomly decide 'Hey, let me start up a blog even though I have nothing to say!' I believe we all have something we want to talk about, something to share. Perhaps your blog is about a particular subject you are interested in. Maybe you write stories. Or you may journal your whole life or post photos or share your comedic effects with others or maybe your friend has one and you thought, why not?

I did not start my blog as a journal, to share details about my life before total strangers. To tell the truth, I don't really feel that comfortable opening up to strangers nor care for anyone to think that they really know me. Of course, there have been times that I have written some very personal thoughts (especially as of late), but my blog wasn't intended for that. At least it wasn't intended to share that type of personal information (love, personal problems, etc.) However, there was a part of me that I did want to share or I wouldn't have started this blog.

I began blogging to share a part of myself that no one around me, except Best Friend could fully grasp. You see, I am a wanderer, a drifter, a girl continuously reaching out for a new taste of the world yet coming back home hungrier than ever. I long to travel and experience new things. I long for adventure and thrills. I like to push my physical limits sometimes and see what I can accomplish. And every now and then, I like to find myself lost in a strange place.

I get strange looks and comments when I say things such as I think I will go to Germany next week, I am going to backpack for a week through Montana, I want to stay in a tree bungalow in the Costa Rican rainforest for a few days, or Anyone up for a weekend in London?. For better or for worse, I have no fear when it comes to jumping head first into things like this. Other aspects of my life are a completely different story. But this blog is about my wanderlust, so I digress. It has been brought to my attention more than once that I must be crazy to live my life like this. Yet I can't see any other way to live my life.

To my surprise, I actually have come across other bloggers who appreciate this aspect of my life and enjoy reading about it and even a couple who say they feel the same way. It's a good feeling to know that I am not the only drifter out there.

Speaking of...I have a few things that I am planning with Best Friend that I am very excited about! We are planning a trip to Costa Rica soon, going back to Europe in the spring, and backpacking the John Muir Trail from Yosemite to Sequoia/Kings Canyon National park over about 5 days. Who knows? We might even have time to climb Mt. Whitney before calling it a done trip!

So what part of yourself do you share through your blog?

Scary Story

Two years later, I returned to the place that had haunted me with memories of disembodied voices, ghostly figures, and odors from a battle that had taken place (at that time) 142 years ago that I knew would be impossible to smell, yet left my nostrils burning with the pungent, sulfury smell of gunpowder.

My stomach lurched as we exited I-75 and I read the brown sign which pointed the direction to Chickamauga National Battlefield. This was a place I had sworn to never return. Yet here I was, two years later (and now 144 years after the battle), finding myself starting down a trail through the dark woods after sundown. In these same woods, which thousands of men shed their blood and took the lives of their enemies in the second grisliest battle in the Civil War, second only to Gettysburg. I jumped at every sound, not because of the knowledge of what happened upon this land but because of the images and sounds that embed my memory from my last trip here. Not even the comfort of three other friends—Red, Super Villain, and Sue--could console my palpable fear.

After taking a wrong path or two, we finally found ourselves approaching the familiar clearing of the gently sloped field of Snodgrass Hill. Fear mounted inside me and I felt my throat close off and my breaths become more shallow and rapid. It was as if a pair of invisible hands were closing in around my neck. Still, we marched forward into the clearing. I did not want to look, yet I could not tear my gaze away from the areas that I had previously witnessed so many frightening sights. Somehow, I unknowingly had walked almost upon the same place as I stood before when I had heard a disembodied woman’s voice crying miserably out an indecipherable, one-syllable name.

Suddenly we all noticed and commented on an orange light resembling candlelight moving about the trees atop the hill. It reminded me of the woman’s voice and I reflexively brought my hands to my ears, covering them with hopes of blocking out, or at the very least, muffling her voice. However, we (thankfully) never did hear her voice crying out. We stood expectantly and transfixed when only a short time later we did hear a noise. And it was right behind us.

All four of us nearly jumped out of our skin. We quickly fell to the ground. I could see some type of lights moving along the trees. I held my breath in anticipation, listening to the blood rushing through my ears. And then it happened.

A loud voice rang out over the night, “State Police! Do not move!”

Crazy thoughts ran through my head... Are you kidding me? All the other times I have done some breaking and entering or trespassing on historical sites and this is how it’s all gonna end? Oh my god! I hope I won’t get a huge fine for this. OH MY GOD! I hope I don’t get arrested! I am a teacher! I can’t get arrested! Who the hell will bail me out anyway?

Luckily, the rangers were extremely nice and even shared a couple of stories of paranormal terror among the battlefield on our ride back to the car. That’s right. They gave us a lift! But that was only after we were in handcuffs. Yes, handcuffs! Can you believe that my friends and I were handcuffed like common criminals? I have never been so embarrassed nor laughed so hard in all my life.

My giggles only ceased when we came upon the roadside where we had left Red’s car before tromping off into the dark woods only to find it now surrounded by police cars with their lights flashing. Apparently the sheriff found the car and sent the rangers into the park to find us. My heart sank... Oh. My. God. I was going to be arrested. I just knew it.

Fortunately, that wasn’t the case. After being uncuffed, our vehicle was searched for drugs and weapons, our licenses scanned, and we were each handed a $75 citation for being in a closed area on federal property. Then we were sent on our merry little way where we laughed hysterically for the entire two hours it took us to drive back to Atlanta.

It was an interesting time to say the least. And now I can truthfully say that I know what it looks like to see my friends being handcuffed. And I know how it feels to be handcuffed. (It hurts by the way. I still have a bruise on my left hand to prove it.) The old joke about friends and jail came into my mind as I rode away with my partners in crime (literally) in our recently declared drug-free car. A friend will bail you out of jail. A good friend will be beside you saying, “Man, that was fun!”

So I wasn’t terrified by any gouls on this night, but I still firmly stand by my opinion that nothing good can come out of Chickamauga Battlefield after dark. I am never going back there. And this time I mean it!

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

I thought about that movie as I drove along the winding roads in the North Georgia mountains yesterday. What a concept, I thought. Yet until this weekend, I never would have thought that something as extreme as having someone erased from your memory would be a good idea. It would have had to have been quite an unbearable pain to make one want to forget even the good things and happy times spent with that person. It would make that time invested with that soon-to-be-forgotten someone a complete waste and time is something too precious to throw away.

As hot, tears rolled continuously down my cheeks yesterday I decided that a treatment which could wipe clean my memory of this one person would be the perfect solution. I only had a couple of months invested in this person so the destruction of my memories should only affect my life in minimal ways. Yet this short time of investment in this particular relationship is killing me.

I have been through this many, many, MANY times before. But this time is different. This man in not a jerk. This man is incredible. This man is very much like me and we completely get one another. We are being torn apart by circumstance. He is joining the army and going away for many years and this is why it ends.

I don't even want to remember the good things because they hurt too much. And I think they always will because of that regret that nothing was wrong with our relationship yet there is nothing that can be done to salvage it. And that is a shame. I am sure I will always feel like that. And I don't want to.

Of course there is no computer that my brain can be hooked up that will pick through my brainwaves and detect painful links to him and delete them, so I guess a spotless mind is not really feasible. I still tried to take matters in my own hands, though.

I remembered Jim Carrey's character as his memories of his beloved Clementine were fading away. Regret settled in and he desperately began to fight the procedure and hold on fiercely to any memory of her that he could. If it were me in that chair, I think that if I knew that a second chance would end in the same result, I would let it fade completely, but if there was any chance for a do-over with a different result, I am sure I would be calling out, "Meet me in Montauk", too. I then wrote his first and last name on a piece of paper (on the off chance this would work and I came across him again in the future), tucked it between the pages of a book, and prayed desperately to forget him or at the very least not care anymore.

As soon as my NyQuil-groggy mind awakened this morning, I remembered him and my heart sank. It didn't work. I dragged myself out of bed to get ready for work. As I slipped out of the warm covers and onto the floor, I tripped on something and fell. I mumbled an obscenity and hit the lightswitch to see what attacked me. I had kicked the book and lying on the floor beside it was the paper I had written on and his name glaring back at me. I laughed to myself. His memory is determined to cause me pain in one way or another.

While sitting in traffic on my way home from work, it occurred to me that I don't need a spotless mind. Bit by bit, I feel my heart shutting down again. But this time, probably for good. Your mind does the thinking; your heart does the feeling. So it looks like I will be okay in the end anyway...well, as long as my mind doesn't tell my heart to whisper out, "Meet me in Montauk."
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I guess this explains my sketchy/absense of blogging lately. Anyway, there's good news on that! I am about to get back in my game of traveling and fun. I have some things in the works now and I can't wait to share the experiences.