Gallery

Client Introduction

Tonya Spivey is a beautician based in Seattle, Washington.

Project Overview

Tonya wished to provide useful hair care and beauty information to her clients in the form of a blog. She also wanted to raise awareness of the variety of her services by rotating a featured service and provide photos of her work. She needed to be able to update everything on the site herself so that updates could be made as frequently as possible with no wait.

What the client said

“I have worked with Natalie for the last year on my website and I have been very happy with her work. She has great design ideas if you need a starting point as well as open to expand on what you bring to the table. She has a great sense of color and flow of the website. I have been extremely happy with my website and have gotten many compliments on it. Natalie has been a joy to work with and I look forward to working with her on future projects.”

Technologies

Tonya’s web site is a highly-customized WordPress template that allows her to update virtually the entire site without assitance from a web developer. Design by Alex White of The Creative Isle.

Client Introduction

Touch of Class Car Wash, located in Hesperia, California, is a full-service car wash and detail center.

Project Overview

Touch of Class needed an easy way to post regular coupon specials and updates on their services.

What the client said

Our web site has gotten a great response from our customers. We’re integrated with Google Maps so that travelers who use their GPS to search for a car wash find us. It’s really easy to update the coupons so that there’s always something new and a reason for our customers to come back.

Technologies

A custom theme was created for WordPress to allow the client to easily post coupons and news items for their site.

Client Introduction

S&S Auto Brokers of Huntington Beach, California offers a personal shopper service for cars. They take their clients’ requests to auto auctions where they bid for the best prices on behalf of their clients.

Project Overview

Because their service is unique, S&S Auto Brokers needed a web site to explain their services to potential clients. They also wanted to be able to provide timely tips on buying used cars and notify their customers of special deals.

What the client said

“Natalie did my site about two years ago and it is still great. Her work is totally professional and her prices are the best.”

–Fred J Speaker President S&S Auto.

Technologies

A custom theme was created for WordPress to provide an easy-to-use interface for adding tips on car buying and specials to the site.

Client Introduction

Ninno DePatrick is an actor.

Project Overview

Ninno was in need of a simple web site that would give casting agents easy access to his resumé, headshots, and a sample video reel.

What the client said

“I am amazed by the due diligence in Natalie’s originality of creation, customization, and up to date service accessibility in the development of my website.

“Soon I am need of another website and would be doing myself a disservice with the mere speculation in thought of not having Natalie ‘create’ for me yet again.”

Technologies

Ninno’s web site is a simple static HTML web site. Flash is used to play the sample video reel.

On an autumn afternoon, the sky is bright and clear and it makes you remember why people call days like these “crisp.” The air is cool and the brilliant colors of the leaves stand out against the perfect sky. It’s as though you’ve just put on some 3-D glasses and you’ve been looking at a flat, dull world until now. The sky somehow seems higher up and further away than usual, yet at the same time the treetops seem closer. Maybe you’ve just grown.

You walk past a house where the leaves have been neatly raked into great piles, leaving the green grass exposed. You are reminded of this awful chore and the blisters from using the rake too long. But when you were younger, your father was the one who would rake up the leaves and you would run and jump into them, and hear them crackling and rustling all around you. You remember the nutty, mossy smell of the leaves and the way the smell clung to your hair and clothing. There’s an old photograph of you buried in a huge pile of leaves with just your head sticking out. You would have been about four then, too young to have been in kindergarten yet.

You haven’t been enjoying the autumn this year. You’ve been too busy dreading the long, dull winter ahead; months of white and gray and freezing cold. But, today, walking, it starts to come back to you. At the age of 8, you pronounced autumn you favorite season. It’s been so long since you’ve seen a real autumn. Ten years, to be exact. Ten years in Los Angeles that feel like fifty. Ten years that made you forget who you were and where you came from. Ten years that made you give away your coats and boots, sweaters and sweatshirts, little by little to the Good Will. Ten smoggy years that made you forget what clear, clean air can look like and how it feels when snow falls for the first time.

You walk through a rarely used stretch of sidewalk and the leaves rustle up past your ankles, almost to your calves. In fourth grade you learned that leaves don’t actually change color in the fall. Leaves are full of those colors all summer, and it’s just the sun that makes the green dominant, makes the leaves seem like green is the only thing they want to be. You regard these brilliant leaves with the green of jealousy, and you wonder when you will let it all go.

You’ve tried to see this return home as a new beginning, a fresh start, a return to your roots. You’ve been afraid to admit to yourself and others what it really is: admitting defeat. You are admitting that the world is too much and the trials are too difficult. You did okay for a while, but now you have to admit it: you can’t make it alone.

You walk past a house decorated for Halloween and you remember endless parades of children ringing your doorbell. Some shouting “Trick or Treat!” others just mumbling it and some just holding up the bag and waiting. You buy candy every single Halloween, but you haven’t seen a trick-or-treater in years. You end up eating the candy yourself for the first half of November, then throwing the rest away when you start to feel guilty about the calories. Is the holiday really that different now, or is it you that’s changed?

Everything about autumn, about the town seems familiar, and you remember it all, little by little. There were bonfires where the smell of wood smoke and burnt marshmallows hung thick in the cool night air. And then the parties flavored with apples, pumpkins, cinnamon and nutmeg. It was a time of simplicity, when things were so certain and you were optimistic and innocent.

But even though you remember and can reminisce with the locals about county fairs and maple sugar candy, you still have an outsider quality. You wear the clothes and shoes that were popular somewhere else, and have a haircut that was trendy there. Subtle differences, but they add up. Your car still has license plates from another state and you see the way people stare at you when you get out of your car, trying to figure out what you’re doing here.

You don’t fit in now. You never felt you belonged here, which is why you left in the first place. You now realize that you belonged here more than anywhere you’ve been since.

You come to a park and sit on a bench beneath the ancient oak trees. You stare at the ground, deep in thoughts and memories. Gradually you realize that you’re staring at acorns and there’s something unusual about them, and you squint at them, trying to figure it out. You lean forward, pick one up and examine it before you realize what it is: they’ve sprouted.

They all have one greenish-white root or sprout poking through the shell. You scoff at the absurdity of this, realizing they’ll all die when the weather turns colder. But at the same time, part of you wants to take them home, protect them, and baby them. You picture your whole apartment full of yellow-green baby oak trees come spring. Little pots of dirt and hope surrounding you.

But you drop the acorn, shake your head, and move on.

“That game is for little kids,” he says, dismissing the idea.

And I think, Then why are we still playing?

On a Sunday night, he asks me if I want to go to the beach. I’m a little surprised by the offer, but I decide to take him up on it anyway. It’s been so long since the two of us went anywhere together.

We slip on our sandals and head out the door, throwing our designated beach blanket into the trunk before we take off.

Even though it’s late September, the air is still warm and we open the sunroof to let the salt-laden moonlight into the car. The tourists have all left by this time of year, so we can count on quiet solitude. We take the big, arching drawbridge over the intercoastal waterway and we slow down as the car eases onto the flat, sandy island. He parks the car in its usual spot, under the young Queen palm and wordlessly we get out, me grabbing the blanket from the trunk and him locking up the car and dropping change into the meter. A slow and silent dance of mediocrity perfected now after years of practice.

It wasn’t always like this. There were days when the game was just beginning, and the base was still stable. Days when we cheerily took turns setting up the blocks, ignorant that in playing the game, we were bringing on our own destruction. Days when we went to the beach in the daylight during the summer, listening to music, singing along, laughing and happy to be where we were.

But the game has gone on too long and we are bored. Grudgingly, we take our time when our turn comes, tapping and poking at the pieces, trying to find the one most easily removed, always dredging up the past into the uppermost layer of the present. The tower is wobbling and the game is tense and quiet. Neither of us wants to be the one to blame when it all falls down. Neither of us realizes that both players lose when the game is over.

We trudge quietly across the sand and without conversation mutually agree on a spot. We’ve moved too far beyond, “Where do you want to sit?” “I don’t mind, wherever you pick is fine.” We’ve learned to choose our battles carefully and this is one that doesn’t matter. No energy, no noise, no words are wasted on these pointless decisions.

I spread out the blanket, and he automatically grabs the two corners closest to him to help smooth it out. We slip our sandals off and set one at each corner of the blanket. As we both sit down, he places his chosen block on top of the tower. We stare out at the water in silence. I sense the subtle shift in power and feel his expectation. He’s brought us here, now it’s my turn.

I take a deep breath and say, “Do you want to go for a walk?”

He shakes his head and I respond, “Well, I’m going.”

I’m not sure if he acknowledges me or not, because I am up and heading toward the water before he has a chance. I have taken the easy way out; have chosen to remove the obviously loose block from the tower and then stall, waiting before I place it on top.

I walk along under the beautiful full moonlight and breathe the fresh sea air. The light from the moon is reflected in a long brilliant ribbon on the water’s surface and it gives the appearance of a radiant silver river flowing through a flat, black landscape.

I feel him watching me as I roll up my pant legs and let the waves lap at my ankles. I linger at the water’s edge for as long as I can. I want him to come and join me. I want the game to stop.

But he stays rooted to the blanket, and I finally return to him, resignedly placing my block on top of the increasingly wobbly tower. I let myself fall gracelessly to the blanket beside him, carelessly rocking the tower.

When I look over at him, I see tears running down his face.

“I brought you here because I need to tell you something,” he says. He looks at me pleadingly as he recklessly drops his block on the tower.

I hold my breath as the tower leans, threatening to fall, and realize that it’s my turn already.

“Is it something I want to hear?” I ask, stalling, tapping and prodding for a loose block.

He closes his eyes and slowly shakes his head, and I decide to just choose. I pull the block out slowly and say, “What?”

I pause, my hand held over the tower, as we both realize that this is it. This is the block that will end the game. How did it end up in my hand?

“I slept with someone,” he says.

Said quietly. Said gently. Said matter-of-factly.

I freeze. I don’t breathe, I don’t move, I don’t speak, or cry, or ask “why?” The tiniest movement on my part is enough now to bring the tower down. I sit on the beach under the full moon, my lungs full of breath, and I examine the tower we’ve built together: wobbly and full of holes. I hear him sob, and realize that it’s me that will bring it down. The game is out of his power now. It’s in my hands. He’s made his final move.

I hold my breath as I feel the sadness begin to flood in, and finally I can’t wait any more. I stand up, put on my sandals and begin the walk back to the car, with the sound of falling all around me.

“I’m wild! I’m crazy! I’m out of control!” I say to my father. But what I mean is that I want to be wild and crazy and out of control, only I’m not. I’m the same me I’ve always been, only sadder.

We’re discussing my newest tattoo. He wants to know why I would have pictures drawn permanently on my skin. And my only response is to avoid the question. Instead, I joke and laugh, say that all people who are young and fun-loving have tattoos.

But he shakes his head and rolls his eyes and I realize that he will never understand me. He never hears the real me screaming behind my quiet words.

I follow my Dad out the front door and down the steps of my house. Once he is on the ground, he turns around and looks at me.

He says, “Why aren’t you going to California?”

And I hear, “Why aren’t you following your dreams? Why are you settling? I always expected more…”

“It’s a money thing,” I say.

I expect him to nod his head and turn around and keep walking to the car, but he nods and stands there looking at me, as though the conversation is going to continue, as though he has something else he wants to say or something else he wants to hear. Hope wells within me that we’re going to have an actual conversation.

Until I realize he is only waiting for me to move so he can sit down on the steps to put on his shoes.

A year ago, my father moved in with a new girlfriend. He’s has been so wrapped up in this woman and her teen-aged daughter that my sister and I have started referring to them as his”new family.” The three of them are supposedly here to visit me for the weekend, but they have so many things they want to do that I feel like an excuse for taking a trip to the beach. When he called to tell me he was bringing them for a visit, I realized that it was the first time in my life he’s ever called me. I remembered that it had always been my stepmother who called and, after our conversation was finished, she’d ask if I wanted to talk to my dad.

His new family is excited. The daughter has never seen the ocean before. She jokes easily with my father and I remember our relationship, what it was like with him when I was her age and we still knew each other, when he was still married to his second wife, my stepmother. I wonder if the daughter knows what it will be like in ten years when he’s left her mother, too. I want to warn her about the torment of love/hate relationships and the sense of loss when one you learned to love changes beyond imagination. But they’re all anxious to leave and head to the beach.

I never go to the beach on a summer day. That’s just about the worst time to go. For one thing, it’s hot and the sand sticks to you and for another thing, it’s when everyone else goes. I don’t bring my swimsuit. I lie and tell them it’s packed away and I couldn’t possibly find it in time, all the while I know it’s neatly folded on top of the clothes of my third dresser drawer. The truth is that I can’t get saltwater or sunlight on my new tattoo. I don’t feel much like swimming anyway.

I almost feel lost at the beach in daylight. Everything is so different. I watch my dad swim in the water with his new family. There are people everywhere. Little kids run at the water shrieking until they’re hoarse.

I walk to the edge of the water and look out across the ocean. I close my eyes and try to ignore the people and the noise and try to remember what the beach is like on a warm night in early spring or late fall, when there’s a full moon and you can be alone in the world. When you are the only person there and the only sound is the relentless repetition of the waves, you can look out across the water and see the stars just above the ocean’s surface. You can put yourself and your problems, your hopes, and your fears in proper perspective with the universe.

But there are too many distractions, and after awhile, I give up and walk back to their towels and sandals and sit. I draw pictures in the sand with my finger and listen to the band play on the deck of a nearby restaurant. The lead singer has a great voice – he sings Jimmy Buffett and James Taylor and finally a Chris Isaak song. I imagine he’s handsome and sexy like Chris. I imagine him a couple years older than me with sandy hair, ocean eyes and surfer clothes. I think I about going up and getting a margarita, sipping on it, flirting with him while he sings.

But I look out at the water and my dad and his family are walking toward me. They’re done swimming. I wait while they dry their hair and pull street clothes on over their wet bathing suits and try to brush all the sand off their damp skin. I stare into the mirror of the daughter and see myself on my first trip to the beach, sneaking sly glances at the lithe teenage boys and rolling my eyes at the stupid jokes of the adults. The three of them are already discussing what they want to buy in the touristy gift shops and talking about what to eat for dinner. They want to know where they can buy some saltwater taffy.

Finally, they’re ready to go. We all turn toward the boardwalk as though we were a single unit. I think about how we must look like a happy mom and dad with their two daughters, just taking a weekend vacation at the beach. I search the boardwalk for the singer and my heart sinks as I spot a short and unattractive middle-aged man with thinning dark hair singing into the microphone.

Good thing he has a great voice.

I am introduced to Tia the way people usually are, through a friend of a friend. She is kneeling on her kitchen floor, scrubbing her refrigerator, with all the contents of the fridge around her in a rough semi-circle on the floor. Her husband Brad and our mutual friend sit on the living room couch. Brad has the remote control in hand, flipping channels.

After we exchange pleasantries, Tia turns her face up at me and says, “Do you know what I’ve always wanted to do? I’ve always wanted to crawl into an empty refrigerator and close the door behind me. You know, because everyone always said you shouldn’t.”

“Well, how often is your refrigerator empty?”

“Do you really think I should?”

“I dare you. I’m here to open the door if you start to suffocate or anything.”

Tia proceeds to climb into her fridge. She gets situated and says, “Okay, close the door.”

I laugh at her as I push to door closed because she is so excited. Tia, a grown woman with a child and a husband, excited by being shut in a fridge.

I wait for the door to open. After a second, I realize I am holding my breath in anticipation. The door remains closed and quiet just long enough for me to begin to wonder if she is trapped. But a second later, the door swings open and Tia bursts from her fridge, laughing. I exhale and laugh along with her.

“What’s so funny? What’s going on in there?” Brad yells from the living room.

Tia’s laughter quiets and she answers back, “Nothing.”

We both jump a minute later when we hear his voice directly behind us. He is standing in the kitchen doorway. “No, seriously,” he says. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, Brad. Go watch TV,” Tia says curtly.

Brad shifts his weight from foot to foot, deciding. He puts his hand up to the doorframe as though he’s going to lean there, but then seems to change his mind. As he lowers his hand, he fixes me with a glare, then retreats to the living room.

I don’t want to give you the impression that my marriage was always terrible. I wouldn’t have married someone who didn’t love me. Sometimes, staying in love is an uphill battle. You have to protect love. You have to defend it from the world.

We decided to get married while we were lying in bed one morning. It was sweet. No cliché stuff like engagement rings hidden in desserts or him beseeching me on bended knee to be his wife. We had a rational conversation, debating the good and the bad of getting married.

We decided on a small ceremony, six weeks away. I started making plans. Or, more accurately, trying to make plans. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to plan a June wedding, even a very small one, on six weeks notice, but it’s impossible. After fifteen straight nights of holding me while I cried about the latest plans gone awry, he suggested we just elope. Why not? After all, I wanted to be married, not buy a dress.

So, we went to the Justice of the Peace to get our marriage license. We had asked Judge Black, a kindly man near retirement age, to perform the ceremony in his living room. We didn’t understand how the whole marriage license thing worked and the clerk had no patience with us. Each time we asked a question, she’d answer sarcastically and follow it up with a snide “…of course.” It was humiliating.

There was one other couple applying for a license. A middle-aged woman was marrying a very young man, having just that day obtained her divorce papers. Every time the rude clerk would insult us, the woman would giggle. My future husband, my hero, eventually turned to this obnoxious woman and said, “Some people haven’t done this before.” I was waiting for my knight to put on shining armor and carry me into the sunset on the back of his white horse.

On our wedding day, we sat in an idling car outside Judge Black’s house. He killed the engine and said softly, “Last chance.”

I sighed and smiled. We got out of the car. We held hands as we walked up the steps to Judge Black’s front door. The ceremony was quick; we barely had time to absorb what was happening. Afterward, we ate fried chicken at a little restaurant and had an hour-long conversation about the five-minute ceremony.

When we arrived at my apartment, it was to find one of his friends passed out drunk on the front steps. Beside him on the stoop sat two empty six packs. I grimaced as my husband carried his drunken friend across the threshold.

I walk through Tia’s door and she’s dancing and hopping around her living room. Turns out, she bought a box of crackers and there’s a contest on the label for a recipe contest. She’s convinced that if we work together, we’ll win. The prize is a dream kitchen, some money, and a trip to Los Angeles to make your recipe on camera for the viewing public.

Now, if it had been me, I would have bought the crackers, maybe noticed the contest and ignored it. But Tia’s different. Tia believes that people win recipe contests that are announced on the backs of cracker boxes.

While Tia laughs and shouts and negotiates the best way to divide the dream kitchen between us, Brad stares blankly at the TV, rolling his eyes at Tia. He makes it very clear that he thinks Tia is being stupid and naïve, so I decide to go along with her. I let Tia’s enthusiasm catch. I want to give her a reason to believe in miracles. I would do anything to see that smile.

We go to the kitchen to get away from Brad and to decide what recipes we’re going to invent. We decide to try tropical chicken. We’ll each concoct two recipes. We brainstorm together for a few minutes and make a shopping list that includes mangos, coconut, bananas, pineapples and limes. We decide to head to the grocery store right away so we can start cooking.

We walk through the living room and Tia says to Brad, “We’re running to the grocery store. We’ll be right back.”

Brad says, “You’re taking Hannah, right?”

“No, I hadn’t planned on it,” says Tia.

“Tia, I’m busy. I can’t watch her.”

“Brad, you’re just watching TV. Hannah can stay here so we can go to the store.”

“I was going to mow the lawn. I can’t mow the lawn if I have to watch Hannah.”

“You weren’t going to mow the lawn. And even if you were, you can do it in 15 minutes when we’re back from the store.”

“You’ll take longer than that. Take Hannah with you so I can get my stuff done.”

I want to yell at him, What about Tia? But instead I watch Tia, angry in defeat, as she grabs a clean outfit for Hannah from a nearby laundry basket, and begins changing Hannah’s clothes. “You’re supposed to be folding this laundry,” she mutters.

She changes Hannah’s diaper and neatly wraps the dirty diaper up into a ball. Tia gives Hannah to me and asks, “Are you ready?”

I nod, and Tia turns back to Brad. She hurtles the dirty diaper at him and says, “Throw that away for me,” before turning abruptly to head out the door.

Tia stomps ahead of me to the car, and by the time she takes Hannah from me to put her in her car seat, she is calm, talking to Hannah in her silly baby voice.

We keep this act up for the whole trip, clowning around the grocery store, making Hannah laugh at our outrageous antics. We add animal crackers for Hannah to the cart.

When we get back to Tia’s house, Brad is gone. He’s left a note. Tia reads the note, summarizes its contents to me and throws it away. He’s supposedly helping a friend work on his car.

Tia puts Hannah to bed after songs, dances and stories. We set to work chopping, marinating, stirring and baking. We spend the entire time we are working talking about what we are going to do with the prize when we win. An hour later, we have four tropical chicken dishes, seasoned and ready to be sampled.

We each take a bite and without even chewing, spit it out in horror. The stuff tastes awful. We look at each other and laugh. We dare each other to try the two remaining dishes. Neither one of us is brave enough. Sheepishly, we call Tia’s dog to the kitchen so we can feed her the evidence.

While we’re cleaning the kitchen, Tia asks, “Do you think they have to taste-test every recipe that gets sent in?”

“I don’t know. Probably most of them. Why?”

“I was thinking we should send in our recipes out of spite. Just for the perverse enjoyment of knowing someone else has to eat them.”

We laugh and I help Tia write all four recipes neatly on recipe cards and address the envelopes. I take the envelopes, promising to mail them on my way home. When I leave it’s late, but Brad hasn’t come home yet.

When we were seventeen, he had already named our children: twin boys named Toby and Tyler followed three years later by a daughter named Morgan. I, on the other hand, had decided that the planet was over-burdened and over-populated and had decided never to have children.

One year out of high school, we were married and he immediately began asking when. “When are we going to have a baby?” Every night, he followed me into the bathroom to watch me swallow the little blue pills with a mournful expression. Sometimes he’d even go so far as to say, “Come on, stop taking those,” as though he were trying to talk a drug addict our of her habit.

I held out for years, only occasionally asking myself if I was doing the right thing. Was it really fair of me to always put my wants ahead of his? No, I decided, it wasn’t fair, but I didn’t want to be a reluctant mother.

He devised elaborate schemes, which involved me quitting college for various amounts of time. One night we sat talking and he presented another one of his plans with yet another new twist. I would quite college and resume when the baby was two years old.

He can’t be serious, I thought.

“You quit, well, you would finish this semester, then get pregnant. I’ll work, you stay at home, be pregnant. Then have the baby, stay home, and take care of the baby until he’s two. Then, you can go back to school, finish your degree, get a job, and I’ll stay home with the baby.

I didn’t even know what to say. Since we had met, I had been telling him about my dreams of traveling the world, having a successful career, finishing college and graduate school. I sat in silence, frantically trying to compose a response, when suddenly, it occurred to me: he was joking.

I laughed and said, “Oh right. Like I’d quit school to have a baby. Good plan.”

“No, I’m serious,” he insisted. “It would work and we’d both get what we want.”

Still laughing, I said, “Oh, sure, it’s perfect. It’s so easy to go to college when you’ve been away from it for three years and you have a two-year-old at home. And you’ll stay home with the baby when I graduate college and start working. Like a six-year-old is a baby. He’d be in school by then. Why stay home?”

I didn’t stop laughing until I looked up at his face. He sat quietly with the saddest expression I’d ever seen on his face. I immediately fell silent. It occurred to me that he was serious.

“Oh my god. You weren’t kidding. Oh, I’m so sorry.” I was grasping for an adequate explanation of my behavior, and I was failing miserably.

After all, how do you apologize for ruining someone’s dream?

On a sunny afternoon, Tia and I decide to hit the flea markets and see how much junk we can get for $10 each. Tia adores flea markets and is an expert at discovering treasures. Hannah has countless Baby Gap and Osh Kosh outfits that Tia found, often with the tags still attached, for a dollar or two each.

We walk past the tables piled high with mismatched china, lamps that don’t work and crazy souvenir ashtrays from places like Niagara Falls and Tijuana. We take turns pushing Hannah’s stroller. Hannah is in a good mood, having slept late that morning.

We pass a table piled with children’s books and I stop to browse, telling Tia to go on ahead. I search through the tattered books and find two Dr Seuss books. I buy them for Hannah and job to catch up with them. I present Tia with the book sand tell her I bought them for Hannah.

“Oh, thank you!” she says. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course I didn’t silly. If I had to do it, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.”

We laugh and show the books to Hannah, who smiles toothlessly and tries to eat one.

“Don’t eat the book!” we both shout at the same time. Both of us laugh as Tia takes the books from Hannah and puts them in the diaper bag. It’s then that I realize what it’s like to raise a child with someone else, laughing together at the antics, sharing responsibilities, working together. I start pretending in my head that Tia and I are a couple, raising Hannah, our baby. This is what will make me happy, I think. Tia seems to go along with my game as we continue walking through the flea market.

We stop to browse through some beautiful hand-made jewelry being sold by a very prim older woman. I can picture her wearing white gloves and a matching bonnet to church on Sundays, and that she was given a debutante ball at the age of 16.

I stand with my hands on Hannah’s stroller, as Tia tries to choose a necklace. The jewelry woman walks around the table to coo at Hannah. Hannah answers her by drooling a trail of spittle down her chin and smiling. The old woman compliments me on my beautiful baby. I laugh, not really sure what to say, but Tia immediately speaks up and say, “Thank you! We like her.” And then a minute later, “I’ll take this one,” as she holds up a necklace.

The jewelry woman looks from one of us to the other with a disapproving look on her face. I look at Tia from the corner of my eye and see her fighting not to smile.

Could you just grab my wallet, lover?” Tia asks me.

“Sure thing, sweetness,” I answer. We let our hands touch and linger as I hand the wallet to her.

The jewelry woman is clearly uncomfortable as she counts back Tia’s change. The two of walk around the next corner booth and double over laughing.

In one of the strange coincidences of life, his older sister got pregnant followed only two months later by his younger brother’s wife. Baby fever hit his family big time. It seemed like his parents were calling us every day, asking when we would conceive. His answer was always the same: “As soon as she decides she’s ready.”

We planned a trip to visit his family after the babies were born. His entire family was convinced that seeing, smelling and holding babies would change my mind. They were all sure I’d return home ready to have a baby.

We saw his brother’s baby son first, and I felt so big and clumsy and awkward that I refused to hold the baby. Then we traveled to his sister’s house to see her new baby daughter. I refused to hold her, too. I was partly afraid that the Baby Fever would catch and partly afraid that they’d all see how weird I was with babies and encourage him to leave me on the grounds that I had no motherly instinct whatsoever.

His sister got angry that I wouldn’t hold her baby and started yelling at me. I’m not exaggerating. Yelling. I took the baby, and sat rigid, afraid to move for 20 minutes before someone else finally declared that it was their turn to hold her. I collapsed into my chair with relief when she was lifted away from me.

But, to be honest, that trip did change my mind. I decided that on his birthday, with nine months left to college graduation, I would wrap up my pills and the refill prescriptions and present them to him for his birthday. I figured we’d be lucky if I was pregnant by graduation and then I could have the baby, leave it in his care, and find the career that would allow me to conquer the world.

But it wasn’t holding or seeing or smelling babies that changed my mind. It was seeing him with the babies. He was a natural. Loving and cooing as he held them easily. He didn’t want to leave. I realized he was going to be a great father. The time had come to stop being selfish.

We are sitting on Tia’s couch, watching Oprah. It’s almost a tradition for us now. After work, I go to Tia’s house, and hang out until Brad gets home.

Tia is breastfeeding Hannah. Hannah makes little contented suckling noises. Her eyes are closed, the lashes soft against her cheeks.

Today is a special episode, where Oprah is interviewing a big movie star. Tia and I like the days she talks about heartwarming little stories. We both cry. But today, we have to listen to a plug for an upcoming movie. They’ve packed the audience with fans, so every time the star speaks, there’s screaming and applause. Tia and I grow impatient with the show very quickly, but we don’t turn it off.

“Do you know what I think my perfect job is?” Tia asks, running her hand over Hannah’s peach-fuzz head.

“Besides being a mom?” I guess.

“A kindergarten teacher,” she answers.

As soon as she says it, I can see that she’s absolutely perfect for the job. She’s so animated, she loves kids, she sings and dances. I would have loved having a kindergarten teacher like Tia.

“Tia! You should go for it!”

“No, I couldn’t,” she says, dismissing me.

“What? Yes, you can! You really should. It would be perfect.”

“I don’t think I could make it through college,” she says.

“Tia, don’t be crazy. I made it. You’re smarter than me.” I’m trying to be encouraging.

“I don’t think so,” she says. Then, “Could you hold Hannah for a minute? I have to go to the bathroom before I burst.”

“Sure.” I take her baby into my arms and before Tia even makes it out of the room, Hannah is screaming.

“I’ll hurry!” calls Tia over her shoulder.

I bounce Hannah and sing to her the way Tia always does. Hannah quiets down a bit and I settle back into the couch, pulling her closer to me.

Her cheek brushes against my breast and she instinctively turns her head to nurse. I giggle and tell Hannah that it’s not going to work.

“What’s not going to work?” asks Tia, walking back toward the couch.

“She’s trying to nurse.”

Tia laughs as she settles back into her place beside me on the couch. She takes Hannah and asks her, “Are you confused?” in her baby voice.

I stand up and stretch. I tell Tia I have to go, but that I’ll see her tomorrow after work.

I walk down the front steps to my car in the driveway. As I pull the car onto the freeway, I notice that the wind feels cold on my chest. I look down and realize that I have a round wet spot over my left nipple. I touch the spot in wonder. Maybe Hannah wasn’t so confused after all.

The thing that was so funny about my marriage was the way I became obsessed with little things. I was absolutely opposed to having a TV in our bedroom. I was sure that having a TV in our bedroom would mean the end of our sex life. Never mind that the sex life had already ended. I stood vehemently opposed, refused to budge in argument after argument. The night he finally put the TV in the bedroom, I cried myself to sleep.

And the king-sized bed. I was absolutely against that too. I was convinced that it would mean no more snuggling up together during the night. And even though we hadn’t slept cuddled up together for years, I threw a fit the day the mattress was delivered.

A lot of good all the screaming got me. I wasted my energy on all the wrong things. It wasn’t a TV in the bedroom or a king-sized bed that made it all fall apart. But I had to fight because I had to do something. I was railing against my own powerlessness. I fought for silly things because all the fighting in the world wouldn’t make him love me again.

Tia and Brad are having a barbeque. Brad and the guys are out back, standing around the grill, beers in hand. I am inside with Tia and Hannah and the other women. I am the only one without a baby. I am trying to figure out how people find a whole new set of friends when they have a baby. It seems that suddenly, all their friends are married with babies.

Tia pokes her head out of the kitchen to say she needs more soda. Do we mind watching Hannah while she runs to the store?

I offer to go to the store for her.

Tia looks at me and says, “Why don’t we both go to the store?”

Tia grabs her keys and pulls me out the door.

“Woohoo!” she shouts as she starts the car. “I never get to go anywhere without Hannah!”

As we pull onto the highway, we hear a clunk as something hits the trunk of Tia’s car. We both look back, puzzled. Suddenly Tia yells “Oh no!” and hits the brakes. She pulls over. “That’s our cell phone. I forgot I set it on top of the car when we were leaving.”

I watch Tia walk back to where her phone lays, in the middle of the right lane. I watch as several cars pass, their tires straddling the phone. Tia waits for the last two cars to pass. A car changes lanes and crushes Tia’s phone. There’s not even enough to pick up. When Tia gets back to the car, she is sobbing and nearly hysterical.

“I can’t believe this happened! Brad’s going to kill me!” she shouts through tears and sobs.

“Tia, it was just an accident.”

“No, it wasn’t an accident! It was me! I’m just stupid. This is such a Tia thing to do.”

I’ve never seen her cry except at Oprah. I reach across the seats to put my arm around her and comfort her. She cries herself out and we continue to the store.

By the time we get there, she’s back to her usual self, laughing and playing games. I play along with her, pretending to juggle fruit and putting adult diapers in her cart. But the whole time, I’m thinking of Brad. I get so angry with him for being so hard on Tia. It breaks my heart to see her tears. I would do anything to make her smile.

His friends and I planned a party to celebrate his birthday. The day before, I found out I was going to have to work. I couldn’t get out of it. I was so disappointed. I could be home by midnight, so I made plans to head to the party after work.

I had two hours of free time the afternoon of the party. I spent them running around like a mad woman, shopping and then dashing home to bake and decorate the cake, blow up a mountain of balloons and hang paper streamers and Happy Birthday banners. I even put on music before I left, knowing that he would arrive home only ten minutes later. I left a note promising to leave work as soon as possible to go to his party.

Two hours later, my phone rang. “Why did you do all this at the house? I’m just going to leave. You did realize the party was at Vicky’s house, right?”

“Happy birthday!” I shouted. It was too much to explain that all of that had been for him, not the party.

“You’re crazy,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’m really busy. I’ll get to your party as soon as I can,” I assured him.

“You don’t need to come.”

“What? Of course I do! You’re my husband. It’s your birthday. I’ll be there.”

“I’d really prefer that you didn’t come,” he said.

I paused. “Are you kidding?”

“No. I’ll celebrate with you tomorrow. Why don’t you just go home after work, and get some sleep?”

I pictured our home, empty and quiet, me lying alone in the king-sized bed. “No way. I’m coming to the party.”

We argued for a few minutes. He said it was his birthday; he should be able to say if I can come. I ask whoever heard of a wife not being invited to her husband’s birthday party. I think the argument is absurd and ridiculous. Even as I hang up the phone, I decide to crash the party.

I rushed through things at work. I was determined to see him before midnight to wish him happy birthday.

I arrived at Vicky’s house and it was like stepping into an 80’s teen movie. People were laying all over the lawn and the inside of the house. Many people had gotten sick.

I found him huddled into a ball on the back porch. He, too, had been sick. He was angry with me for coming. I swallowed my nasty comebacks and helped him shower and change his clothes. I lead him to the master bedroom, thoughtfully vacated for us by the other party guests.

I didn’t sleep. I laid in the dark beside him and cried. I couldn’t figure out which one of us was wrong.

Tia is not the kind of girl who likes to be alone. She is too outgoing, too involved in other people to be able to enjoy time alone. Brad is sent out of town frequently for his job. This time he’ll be gone for 2 days. Tia asks me if I would spend the night with her. We decide we’re going to have the best slumber party either of us has been to since junior high.

I pack magazines, a manicure kit, fun pajamas, makeup, hair accessories and even hot rollers. I am determined to show Tia how wacky and fun I am. When I arrive and start unpacking, I worry that maybe I’ve gone too far, but as soon as Tia sees everything, she is thrilled. We spend the night doing makeovers and watching musicals, singing along at the top of our lungs.

When we are ready to go to bed, Tia leads the way upstairs as we joke and laugh, and try not to wake Hannah, who’s been in bed for hours.

“If I snore, just smack me,” she says as she turns on the bedroom light.

Suddenly, she turns around, and very seriously asks, “You don’t think I’m gay, do you?”

“What?”

“Oh, if you don’t want to sleep with me, you can sleep on the couch, or we can get a sleeping bag. I just thought it’d be like a slumber party…”

“Tia,” I deadpan. “I know you’re a lesbian and completely in love with me, so just cut it out and sleep with me already.”

I can only hold out for a few seconds before I start laughing. Tia laughs too, and soon we hear Hannah from her bedroom. We’ve woken her up.

“I’ll be right back,” Tia whispers as she goes to settle Hannah.

I sit on the bed, ready for a long wait, but Hannah is back in just a minute.

Tia crawls into bed and rubs my back. She says, “Okay, I’m ready now, lover.”

We both hold our breaths to keep from laughing too loudly and Tia turns off the light. We talk for a long time, about nothing in particular. Tia drifts off to sleep, but I am awake most of the night listening to Tia’s deep, even breathing.

Now that it’s over, I look back and I see all the things I should have seen before. I see all the warning signs, everything I should have noticed, and everything I should have paid more attention to.

But how was I supposed to give any special significance to these things when there were really sweet and wonderful things in between?

There were a few times when we were forced to spend time apart. The first separation passed with daily phone calls and letters. The second with a few letters and several phone calls. The final time, he was on the West Coast, I was on the East Coast, for two weeks. The score: 0 letters, 0 postcards, 1 phone call. But what a phone call it was.

It was late at night, and the ringing phone woke me up.

“Get the cordless phone and go outside,” he said as soon as I’d answered.

“What? I’m in bed. I was sleeping,” I whined.

“I know, but I want you to go outside,” he pleaded.

I whined and complained, but eventually, I stepped out onto our back porch wearing only my pajamas and holding the cordless phone to my ear.

“Okay, I’m outside,” I said.

“Look up at the sky.”

“I’m looking. It’s beautiful,” I said. “But not really worth getting out of bed in the middle of the night.”

“Just look,” he said patiently. “Do you see Orion?”

I stepped further out and turned, located the three bright stars of Orion’s belt.

“Yeah, I see Orion,” I said.

“Me too,” he answered.

On a languid summer day, Tia and I take Hannah to a new fifties-style restaurant to eat. They have carhops on roller skates and speakers play bubble gum rock. It’s too hot to sit in the car, so we take our food to a picnic table.

Hannah is growing fast. She’s already beginning to talk. Tia has taught her animal sounds. After we eat, we make requests. “Hannah, what does a doggy say?”

Hannah responds with two yips.

Tia asks, “”What does a kitty-cat say?”

Hannah answers with her interpretation, “Now, now.”

After Hannah’s repertoire is exhausted I ask, “What does Mommy say?”

Hannah tips her head to the side for a minute. Then she shakes her index finger at us while sternly saying, “No, no, no!”

Tia and I laugh until our eyes water. Hannah laughs along with us, watching our faces, wondering what the joke is.

We order sundaes for dessert, and they arrive complete with stemmed maraschino cherries and whipped cream. I pick up my cherry by the stem and offer it to Tia. Rather than taking the cherry from me, she tips back her head and opens her mouth. She pulls the cherry from the stem with her lips. I try to catch her eye, but she focuses her attention on Hannah, wiping ice cream from her little mouth.

We’d been married three years when we ran out of things to talk about. I remember sitting across from him at a restaurant. I was staring at him eating and thinking that there wasn’t a thing in the world I wanted to say to him at that moment. More and more frequently, our time together was quiet, both of us going about our business, oblivious to the other person.

Somehow, we discovered that taking walks together stimulated conversation between us. There was something about being in motion that brought us back to the long conversations about our hopes and fears and our philosophical discussions.

For several months, we made it a point to go for a walk together at least once a week. But after awhile, the walks tapered off. Our walks run together in our memory as happy, pleasant times. Only two stand out in my mind: the first and the last.

When we took the first walk, we were barely scraping by. We were sharing a tiny studio apartment and eating only generic potpies. We must have decided to go for a walk to escape the claustrophobia.

We started talking about our dreams – all the things we wanted from our lives. He wanted family, a dog, and a house of his very own. My dreams were more specific. I wanted a white house near the beach in California. I wanted a recreation room in the basement with thick, soft carpet, a wet bar, and a pool table. I wanted a kitchen with hardwood floors, stainless steel appliances and…

“That’s impossible,” he interrupted. “How do you expect to find anything that specific?”

“Why does it have to be believable? It’s only my imagination,” I said.

“We’ll never be able to have a house like that.”

“Why not?” I asked. “And what difference does it make?”

“You shouldn’t waste your time dreaming about things you can never have.”

Then there was the last walk we ever took. By that time, I felt like I barely knew him. I was taking a philosophy class and was eager to talk about our views of the universe.

I told him that I had decided that Heaven was a different place for everybody. I thought that each person had a unique idea of what eternal bliss would be like and that’s what he or she got when they died. I said my Heaven would be an endless library of books to read, comfortable chairs to snuggle up in, and a small café that served cappuccinos and exquisite chocolates. Friends and family would gather to debate the essence of human beings and theories about time, space and existence.

Then I asked him what his Heaven was like.

“I don’t think Heaven really exists, and if it does, then I think it’s a sin to try and shape it to suit your own selfish wants.”

We finished our final walk in silence.

Tia and I are watching a TV show about celebrity homes and taking turns painting each other’s toenails.

A beautiful white house right on the beach is on the screen. A huge porch wraps around all four sides of the building. Rocking chairs sit in rows on the porch, and there’s a café-style table and chairs on a second-floor balcony.

The camera moves inside the living room. The two walls that face the ocean are almost completely glass, all windows and French doors. Crisp white curtains billow with the sea breeze.

“I could live in a house like that,” Tia says.

“Yeah, me too.” I pause for a moment watching hardwood floors and simple, elegant furnishings pass across the screen.

“Tell you what, Tia,” I say. “I’ll get a really good job in Los Angeles and buy that house for you and me and Hannah to live in.”

“Oh! Okay, thanks!” says Tia as though I’m being realistic.

You and Hannah can spend your days roaming the beach and picking wildflowers, talking to dolphins, and I would come home from my job that I loved and we would all make dinner together and eat at the table and chairs up on the balcony.”

“What if it’s rainy? Or cold?” she asks.

“Then we’d light a fire in the fireplace and cook our dinner in it, then eat it picnic-style on the living room floor,” I answer.

“Cook dinner in the fireplace?”

“Sure. And everyday when I come home, I would bring a present for both of you.”

“When are we moving?” she asks. “I have to give my landlord 30 days notice.”

“Oh. How about in 30 days?”

“Sounds good to me. Can you hand me the phone? I need to call my landlord.”

Instead, I reach for the remote and turn the TV volume down. I explain my idea of Heaven to Tia. I don’t tell her about the café and library mostly because my Heaven is quickly becoming a large white California beach house with wraparound porch and rocking chairs. I do, however, as Tia what her Heaven is like.

Without hesitation, she answers, “You and me and Hannah, living in that house, wandering the beach and talking to dolphins.”

I smile at her and hope that I’m right about Heaven.

I was so busy all the time, it seemed I didn’t have time for a social life. I got pretty lonely. So, one Saturday, I convinced him to stay home, instead of going out with his friends. I invited two other married couples over. I thought being around married people instead of single guys would be good for him, good for us. I was so excited.

That evening, things fell apart. First one, then the other, of our guest couples called to cancel. So long as they weren’t coming, he decided to go out with his buddies as usual.

My rage and frustration swallowed me whole. I sat on the floor of our spare bedroom, crying, screaming, and sobbing while he got ready to go out. Negative emotions were coming at me so quickly; I didn’t know what to do with them.

Finally, he knocked on the door, and was soft and sweet. He eased me off the floor and on to the bed. He sat beside me and put on his best psychologist’s voice.

“Tell me why you’re crying.”

“What’s wrong with me?” I moaned.

“Nothing. Why?” he asked.

“Because there were supposed to be five other people here tonight. Five.” I held up my fingers like a toddler. My face and body crumpled as I continued, “Now I’m going to be alone as usual.”

I fell against him sobbing, his cheek felt cool against my hot angry forehead. He wrapped his arms around me to comfort me and there was a knock at the front door. It was his friend, picking him up for their night out.

I sighed, pulled myself into a ball and simpered.

A minute later, I jumped as I felt a hand on my back. I turned quickly. It was him.

“Goodbye. Have a fun night,” I said flatly.

He smiled at me, grabbed both my hands and pulled me up, saying, “Come on, Lady. I’m not going anywhere.”

The two of us sat on our living room floor until sunrise, playing board games and eating the food I’d made for the party.

See, I thought to myself. He still loves me like crazy.

Hannah is going to spend the week with her aunt. Tia was looking forward to the time off, but as it draws nearer, she gets sad and begins to doubt her decision.

Brad is mad at Tia. He doesn’t approve of Tia’s sister taking care of Hannah. But he’s out of town, and Tia has decided to do what she wants.

So I’m sitting at Tia’s house the night before, keeping her company while she sifts through huge piles of toys, clothes, and books, packing what she thinks Hannah will need. Over and over again she outlines her trip: 6 hours to her sister’s house, there she will visit for an hour, them make the trip back home by herself. That last part is what she doesn’t like.

Finally, I say, “Tia, what if I call in sick and just go with you tomorrow? I could help you drive if you needed me to, and I could keep you company.”

“Would you really?”

“Yes, I would.” I smile at her.

I rummage through Tia’s drawers to find something I can wear tomorrow. It’s already late and I don’t feel like going home to pack.

Tia finds me a toothbrush. I lay awake deep into the night listening to Tia’s deep breathing and Hannah’s murmurs on the baby monitor.

We set out first thing the next morning. We entertain Hannah with puppet shows, songs and stories until she falls asleep, then we play silly car games until we get to Tia’s sister’s house.

I don’t like Tia’s sister. She is impatient and critical of Tia, but she absolutely adores Hannah. She worries Tia by making jokes about feeding Hannah candy and ice cream for breakfast. Tia grows more and more quiet. We eat a quick lunch of soup and sandwiches. As we leave after saying our goodbyes to Hannah and Tia’s sister, Tia starts to cry. I hug her and remind her that we are free now. “We should stop at a strip club on the way home,” I tell her.

Tia laughs and starts the car. We stop at a shopping mall in the first town we come to. Tia is giddy. “This is the first time I’ve been in a mall without a stroller since Hannah was born!” We run through stores, try on clothes, and rummage through clearance bins.

We stop a short while later to buy ourselves a nice dinner. “We don’t need a high chair!” Tia announced to the bewildered hostess. We play checkers in a lounge after dinner. I begin to get a sense of who Tia was before she met Brad.

In the car after dinner, Tia says we should play Truth or Dare to pass the time. We get through about four “Truths” before a serious conversation about the state of Tia and Brad’s marriage begins. Tia tells me that she wishes she could leave Brad. “I know he doesn’t love me,” she says. “And really, he doesn’t help me out with the house or with Hannah. I don’t need him, I just need his money. And the court would give that to me if we got divorced.”

I had always thought that it was sad that Tia was trapped in a loveless marriage and didn’t even realize what she was giving up. Now I was sad to learn that she knew and lacked the courage to leave. I couldn’t blame her. She did have Hannah to think about.

I always want to believe that things are more than they seem. I want to believe that there’s something else beneath the surface that I can get to if I only look hard enough. I frequently have dreams that there are extra rooms in my house, more windows, or more closets. One time I even dreamed about a hidden staircase leading to a previously undiscovered floor. I refuse to recognize lack in my life and exaggerate what is there to fill the spaces.

This is probably the reason that the end of my marriage was such a shock to me. I’d been so busy looking for the couple that was closer, more romantic, more in love than we actually were. It took him a long time to make me see the truth.

In my own defense, in some ways we did stay romantic until the end. He quit bringing me flowers and writing poetry before we were even married, but we never called each other by our names. He always called me Lady and I always called him Mr. Man.

I was always telling him, “You should bring me flowers,” or “You should write me a poem. You used to write me poetry and bring me flowers.” I hated myself even as I said the words. I hated how they made me sound like a stereotypical housewife. I’d never imagined the hurt and frustration behind those theatrical clichés.

I’m standing on the balcony of my apartment, staring at the stars and moon reflected in the ocean’s surface. I made it to California after all, though not to the big beautiful house Tia and I had dreamed about. The apartment is tiny, but it’s on the beach and has a balcony that faces the water. That’s all I care about.

I search the stars for Orion out of habit and once I find him, decide that I need to move on to something new. I decide on Cassiopeia. There’s something comforting in that perfect “W.” This will belong to Tia and I.

I tried to talk Tia into coming with me. I think I was actually pretty close to convincing her, but in the end she decided to stay with Brad. I made her promise that she wouldn’t let him make her forget who she really was. He loved something that she was not, and I knew that it was tempting to become that thing, to earn love at the cost of self-respect.

I look out across the water and think about Tia and Brad, and about my own failed marriage. I think about all the times I disappointed him and how it weighed so heavily on me. I tried so hard to be the girl he loved. It’s so easy to put the blame on him, but it wasn’t his fault that I struggled to change. From the beginning, I should have stood up for myself, made no apologies for who I was. But it was so easy to let him define me.

I really thought Tia and I could have been happy. I saw her, knew everything she was and loved her for it. I hated seeing her spirit crushed. I imagined that we would treat each other so well, having both known what it was like to be loved as an ideal.

I sigh and pull myself back to the beautiful evening. Moon, stars, ocean. I blow a kiss to Cassiopeia and go back inside. I settle in bed and fall into sleep.

Emily Johnson couldn’t sleep at night, so she bought a sound machine for her bedroom. It didn’t really help. Right away, three of the sounds were no good. The chirping crickets were annoying, the heartbeat was just freaky and then there was white noise. It was sort of like listening to the radio not turned to a station, or TV after sign-off. She kept waking up feeling like she’d just missed the national anthem.

When Emily tried to sleep with the ocean sound playing, she awoke repeatedly to seagulls’ cries. She sat up in the middle of the night and switched to the mountain stream. She was awakened a short while later by the sound of rocks tumbling downstream. Finally, she tried the spring rain, but within minutes she heard a squeaky gate, blowing open and closed in the storm.

Emily decided that a sound machine and an over-active imagination were not a good combination.

So, the next morning Emily awoke feeling even more tired and exhausted than before she bought the sound machine. She stumbled out of bed and caught sight of her face in the mirror while brushing her teeth. Oh God, Emily thought. Do I really look that old? She smiled at the mirror and saw fine lines appear around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were puffy and dark from her lack of sleep. While showering, Emily decided to forgo ironing her pants in favor of lying on her couch for 10 minutes with tea bags or cucumber slices or ice cubes on her eyes. In the decision between wrinkly pants and wrinkly eyes, Emily decided she’d rather have wrinkly pants any day.

On her lunch break, Emily went to the store to return her sound machine. She mumbled at the clerk when he demanded a reason for return. How could she explain creaky gates and seagulls to this man?

Emily decided to visit the shoe store so long as the clerk miraculously returned her money. Maybe the anticipation of wearing new shoes the next day would help her sleep that night.

There was a mother with her young daughter in the shoe store. They were buying new shoes for school. Emily stood with her back to them, deciding which pairs to try on. Suddenly Emily heard the little girl’s squeaky voice say, “Mommy, look at that lady. She’s so big.”

The mother’s voice responded, “Yes, she’s very tall, isn’t she?” The mother put a hopeful emphasis on the word “tall.”

“No, Mommy,” responded the squeaky voice. “She’s fat.”

Emily squeezed her eyes closed and swallowed back tears as she waited for the mother’s reprimand that didn’t come.

“There! I think that’s the perfect pair of going-back-to-school shoes, don’t you?” asked the mother’s voice, bright and strained.

Emily fled the store before she sobbed out loud. Outside, she fantasized turning around to the little girl and giving her a lecture about true beauty being on the inside. But even Emily didn’t believe that, so she switched to a fantasy where the mother soundly spanked her precious little girl for being so uncouth.

Now, it’s not that Emily wished harm would come to the people who’ve hurt her. No, she decided as she walked along. It would be nice if they felt bad, though. Not terrible. Not locked up in their rooms, gnashing their teeth and refusing to eat for weeks at a time. Just bad enough to say, “Oh, I feel so bad. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” Oh, hell, thought Emily, I don’t even care if they feel bad, just so long as they can deliver a sincere apology.

On the bus on the way home, Emily sat next to an elderly gentleman. He smiled at her and asked her name. Emily lied and said “Grace.”

“Oh, Grace. What a beautiful name. Reminds me of the Grace of God. My name’s Adam,” he added.

“Nice to meet you, Adam,” she replied and looked away, hoping this would be the end of their chat.

“Well, Grace, I have to tell you why my name is Adam. See, God has appointed me to start a new Garden of Eden. I’m supposed to get as many young Eves as I can and take them to a beautiful tropical island and, well, spread my seed, so to speak,” he announced.

Grace rolled her eyes and looked to the other passengers for help. The only one who would meet her eyes was a middle-aged woman who was openly snickering.

“Yes, m’am,” Adam continued. “I can invite some other Adams too, if I like. We’re all going to start a new Paradise. God will provide me with an island just as soon as I have 70 people to go with me.”

“That’s nice,” Emily said politely as she pulled the cord to get off the bus. She was only halfway home, but she had decided she’d rather walk.

As Emily walked home, she thought about Adam and she thought about how easy it would be to just relax and let her crazy thoughts take over. What would they do with her? Emily thought it would be really nice to spend the rest of her life in her pajamas, watching TV and building jewelry boxes out of Popsicle sticks. How relaxing, how calm, how free. There were days when Emily’s grasp on reality was anything but firm. The only thing that kept people from knowing anything about it was that she kept it to herself. Emily thought about how it would feel to just let go, to laugh at the moon, scream at the sun, dance under the stars. No inhibitions. Just freedom of expression.

Emily let herself into her sad little apartment. She decided to treat herself to a bubble bath and a glass of wine. It had been a difficult day. She ran the water steaming hot and felt her skin glowing red when she emerged. She wrapped her robe loosely around her and began to wander from room to room. Listlessly, she opened closets and drawers, and cupboards, not really sure what she was looking for. Finally, her eye fell on the old shoebox filled with photographs, half-hidden on her closet shelf. She pulled it down and sat on the floor. She began to flip through the pictures. She hadn’t looked at them in a very long time. Many she had forgotten she even had.

She stopped and pulled a picture from the box, held it up to examine it more closely. It was a picture of herself, nude and in bed, that one of her lovers had taken. She was partially covered with a sheet and they had just finished making love. She remembered him taking that picture, how she didn’t even care that there was a camera in her face. She was 19 and in love and her smile was smugly satisfied. Her face was bright and flushed, her hair, luscious and long and thick was fanned on the pillow beside her head.

Emily had almost forgotten this girl. She took another sip of wine and did a quick internal inventory. Yes, she was still there, her eyes blazed blue from the depths of Emily’s memory.

Emily put the pictures away and returned the picture box to its place on the shelf. She carried her nude picture to the bathroom and clipped her to the bathroom mirror. That way she would remember to look for that girl every morning.

Client Introduction

In this case, the client was me.

Project Overview

A carpenter always builds his own house last, and my own web site was dreadfully out of date. It still used web-safe colors and static HTML pages that were tedious and troublesome to update. I needed a dynamic site that would be quick and easy to update with my latest work.

My to do list had long been the most popular part of my web site, but had been neglected because it was nearly impossible to keep updated, since marking an item completed involved manual updates of at least four different HTML files. I wanted a way to build a community around the list to draw people in and get them involved.

What the client said

I’m excited about the features of the new site. Making it easy to update means it will always be updated and will feature my latest work at all times. I’m also excited to watch the unfolding of the to do list community.

Technologies

Two highly-customized nested WordPress installations provide all the dynamic functionality I need.