Welcome to My Worlds: A Bipolar Christian Tells All

So, I’m gettin’ tons of writers wantin’ updates on their submissions. No, you aren’t bothering me. I know you only wanna make sure you’re still in the queue. You’re all being so patient, and I appreciate it. Truthfully [I do that a lot], I’m waaay behind. Like, real far. I told my agent-friend I was only on my end-of-February submissions. She said, “Congratulations–I’m on last fall.”

Truth is, we’re all behind. Submissions are up, and we’re fighting to keep our heads above water. Here’s what I did in the two previous weeks:

Been on 10 planes

Sat for hours in 10 airports

Been in 3 time zones

Stayed in 4 hotels

Gave or taught 5 speeches/workshops

Had appointments with nearly 100 writers

Edited 200 pages for my small press’ November release

Contacted at least 60 editors

Read/edited clients’ work

Spent hours on the phone with clients

Answered 200+ query letters

Toured a printing plant

Worked on a book cover and book trailer

Mentored a teen

Got about 8 hours sleep–total [yes, I’m exaggerating … kinda]

I probably did more, but that’s all I can think of at the moment. That doesn’t include carvin’ out time for my family. I’ve totally neglected my dogs [God, forgive me]. I haven’t been outside in months, which used to be a daily thing for me. So, I’m doin’ all I can for as many of ya as I can, and all agents and editors are. Your understanding is sooo needed. Hang in there. We haven’t forgotten about you. You have my word. [Everyone knows the word of a bipolar Italian is good.]

Welcome to My Worlds

[Written in 2007; update written in 2010]

A mother can only be as happy as her saddest child. When your eldest daughter’s a homeless methamphetamine addict, “happiness” isn’t in the dictionary.

I remember the first time I held The Free Spirit Child, Gina; in my arms; wiggled her tiny fingers; kissed her chubby cheeks. What would she be when she grew up? I wanted her to lead a happy, healthy life—not end up cold, alone, depressed … high. A tweaker, the name for meth or “ice” users.

I should’ve remembered my adolescence and warned her. When my parents divorced, it not only broke up our family, it broke me. Instead of turning to Jesus for comfort, I chose drugs. I did a stint on the streets: a month, although my addiction to cocaine and speed lasted longer.

My transformation came on a wicked [the bad wicked] night. I went on a cocaine binge and snorted so much, my mind and heart raced like I was driving my Mustang at NASCAR. I couldn’t stop shaking. My head pounded; I thought my skull was gonna explode. Every time I closed my eyes, the world spun in a terrifying whirlpool, ready to suck me under.

I prayed for rescue, and God came through. I used His help and my stubborn, bull-headed nature for a positive cause. No rehab, no therapy, no patch, no AA. I remembered my roots and went back to church. Victory in Jesus. Would there be the same for my baby, whom I hadn’t seen in years?

She followed my lead in all the wrong directions. What did I expect? I divorced her dad, starting her on the same Yellow Brick Road I ventured down. I know how she feels: we’re still looking for our, “Over the Rainbow.”

My thoughts stray to a stormy day when I got a call from Gina’s preschool teacher. They’d assembled the children in the auditorium because they couldn’t play out in the rain.

The kids sat in groups on the floor, coloring. Then, the lights went out. Many of the tots wailed in fear, among them, the kids in Gina’s group. To her teacher’s amazement, Gina stood up and said, “Don’t be scared. Jesus is here. He’ll protect us and keep us safe. Let’s hold hands and sing ‘Jesus Loves Me.’” And her voice rang out clear and strong, “Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong. They are weak, but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so.”

My eyes misted with joyful tears. The teacher added she’d like Gina to play the part of Mary in the school Christmas pageant. I have a picture tucked away somewhere of Gina dressed in that costume: a blue gown and head covering. I’d hunt for it, but anguished tears would come, and how would I stop them? I blamed myself. Like mother, like daughter.

When had the change occurred? I couldn’t specify a date, but I knew unhappiness was her BFF, and I was too busy trying to cope with my own problems. If my tank showed empty, how could I fill up hers? I still think I should’ve tried harder. [Can ya spell “guilt”?]

When she turned twelve, she asked to move to her dad’s in Texas. He wanted her to come, and I thought mayhap that’s what she needed. I gave my ex-husband and his wife three conditions: they’d keep Gina for at least one school year so he wouldn’t uproot her in the middle of a term; she had to be in some kind of counseling program; and Gina needed to attend church. Then I sent her away with a new wardrobe, clothes in shades of her favorite color: purple.

They shipped The Free Spirit Child home six months later. Her stepmother gave Gina’s father an ultimatum: either Gina left, or she would. She had a young daughter, and said Gina was a bad influence on her. Gina came home wearing all black, Gothic-style clothes. My little girl in lavender changed dramatically. She used to like country music; but grunge rock replaced Garth Brooks. [Actually, I don’t have a problem with that.] After playing Nancy Drew, I learned Gina never went to counseling, nor to church. O-for-three. [Thanks, Dad.]

Great. I could blame everything on my ex and the wicked stepmother. But I knew my daughter’s behavioral problems didn’t rest on their shoulders. I’d left her dad for greener pastures. I broke up the family, shattering Gina’s heart in the process. What a selfish thing to do, especially after knowing how I felt when it happened to me. I made some horrible choices, and boy, howdy; did they come back to haunt me.

Gina found a way to forget her tough life, same as me. Drugs are an enticing side dish, like creamy mashed potatoes. They allow the user to forget how miserable they are and travel to a better place. A place where one can’t feel. Having been in the same position, I saw the signs, but didn’t want to face them. Soon, I had no choice….

I arrived home with Gina’s sister, Nicole [Nikki]. What a mess! Furniture broken and overturned, plants ripped up and scattered throughout the house, vandalism at every turn. But the worst?: Nikki’s room. Gina and her gang of “friends” ruined most of Nikki’s things. The place looked like Club Med for Satanists. Twine made into nooses held partially charred, mutilated dolls from the ceiling. Taped to the walls: pictures of Nikki, and in each, they stabbed her eyes out. They made warning signs, one of which read, “We’re going to kill you!”

I squeezed my eyelids closed. I couldn’t be seeing what I thought I saw. Impossible. When I peeked: reality. One daughter apparently lost, and one in danger. I had Gina in counseling, but obviously, it wasn’t working. I couldn’t “fix” my daughter either, so I prayed. I once heard the prayers of mothers for their children are special, and I didn’t stop. Then I made a tough call: to the police. When Gina sauntered in, they arrested her.

Nikki pleaded with me to send Gina away. What a horrid position for a mom to be in. I agreed, and drove Gina to her father’s, as he made a move to Central California.

Then Gina’s dad called with the news of her first pregnancy. I urged her to put her child up for adoption. Gina knew she couldn’t care for a baby, and said yes. But her father talked her out of it stating, “you don’t give away family.” So, Gina and her son bounced from place-to-place. Finally, she simply left the boy with his grandfather, and never went back.

The Free Spirit Child turned up crying on her godmother’s doorstep. She said she wanted her life back, and her son. She begged for help, and my family and friends gave it to her. We pitched in several thousand dollars for a beautiful, private rehab facility. Two weeks later, Gina found out she was pregnant again, and ditched rehab to move in with her boyfriend, another meth addict, but she didn’t stay long. Gina disappeared.

Months later, she called from the hospital. She had a healthy baby girl. [The doctors couldn’t assure us the baby wouldn’t have learning disabilities]. I begged Gina to give this baby up for adoption. But my daughter inherited my obstinate behavior, and said no. So, I called Child Protective Services and they took my granddaughter, Serenity. I lived six hours away and wasn’t able to drive to the hospital, and Gina took off to roam the streets again.

Then I got the call. “Mrs. Mortimer, we have a Jane Doe in the morgue who fits the description on the missing persons report we have for Gina Esteras.”

I tumbled into a pit of despair. “Yes,” I eeked out, “but in such a large county, you must have other missing girls who fit her description.” I held my breath.

His pause negated the need for words, but I got them anyway. “I’m sorry, we only have one report for a young female matching her characteristics.”

My heart curled into a little ball. “Do you need me to drive up there and I.D. the body?” Then a thought occurred to me. “Wait; just turn her over. Her entire back has a huge tattoo of a butterfly on it.”

Another pause. Now what?

“Actually, it’s been really hot here, and there were a lot of scavenging animals around. We only have bones and hair. But the skeleton measures to her height, and the hair is brown, coarse, and wavy.”

My knees gave way. She inherited the wavy hair from me. I’m not sure how I held onto the phone.

He continued. “We’d appreciate it if you could send dental records.”

I nodded, as if the man could see me. “We’ll overnight them to you. How soon will you know for sure?”

“Once we get the records, it won’t be long—less than a week.”

I mumbled a quick thank you, and hung up. Then I got to work. I called my childhood best friend, who served as Gina and Nikki’s godmother, and she’d take care of the dental records. Next, I put out the word to all my family and friends to pray for strength.

I phoned the coroner again, and again. Each time they had an excuse, telling me to check back the following week. [Note to all: don’t get lost in Fresno.] Once they even remarked, “Oh, the anthropologist took the skull, so we can’t check the teeth.” [Don’t know if I’ve ever wanted to commit murder more.][Sorry.] Nearly six excruciating weeks later, the answer came: the skeleton wasn’t The Free Spirit Child’s. I thanked God, relief flooding me.

Still have no idea if Gina is okay. All I can do is trust in the Lord to deliver her, as He delivered me. I heard her voice on Christmas day, 2006 on my message machine. She said, “Merry Christmas, Mimi. I miss you. Tell everyone I love them.” [Sigh. As refreshing as a cool gulp of mountain water on a blistering day.]

I don’t know where Gina is, but each night I pray she remembers I love her more than I can express—and Jesus loves her even more than that.

Update – 2010

Gina is alive and well. Now sober, she’s one of the sweetest and most compassionate people I know. She’s 28, has tons of piercings and tats, has custody of her son, met a man in rehab who looks like a skinhead [and whom I adore], and they have a baby girl. [Dori is the first of my three granddaughters we get to keep.] Gina attends church, and often counsels others on the dangers of abusing drugs, and how the love of Jesus can deliver every lost soul—no matter how far away they are.

And me? I accepted God’s forgiveness, and I’m making sure my youngest, The Genius Child, grows up with two parents who love her, and each other. Sometimes, there is a happy ending.

Welcome to My Worlds.

[Nikki, Gina, Michaela]

On May 12, 2010; the day discussion started on Assembly Bill 1934 – Firearms [or should I say, taking away firearms], I decided to exercise my rights before they disappeared as fast as a dog with a piece of bacon. Before my post on May 11, many didn’t know in the state of California, unless you live on Elm Street and somebody half-dead is tryin’ to kill ya, a concealed carry permit is impossible to acquire. [Well, ya never know. I saw a unicorn the other day….] Buuut, we do have a way to pack heat: in the open.

I haveta give the credit to my gal pal, Susie Mather, for informing me. She lives in Arizona, but she knew about open carry in CA before I did. [Gun-totin’ agent now stands in the corner and hangs her head.] Then my hubby [he’s such a sweet man] said he knew, and that really made my tinder crackle. How could he know and not tell his pistol-packin’ bride? [Probably because he knew said bride would immediately go to town and strap on the Christmas present he gave her, the new Betty: a Smith & Wesson, scandium-alloy j-frame .357 Magnum M&P 360. [Yeah, I know I already mentioned what my sidearm is in the other post, but it sounds so kewl, I couldn’t resist.]

I tried to get someone to follow me around with a video camera, but everyone within shootin’ distance [no pun intended …well, maybe] was busy, so I decided to go it alone. I did my research. You can get a big, fat felony if you open carry in a few select places, like the post office. That’d actually be efficient. They could snap your picture and put in on the wall with no lag-time. I despise lag-time. I avoid it at all costs. [Now, if I could just figure out how to live without sleep…. Yeah, I know; I’m already darn close.] I’m gettin’ off-track again.

Someone recently told me I seem to have ADD. It never occurred to me, but it fits. I’ll go in the bedroom to make the bed and see a hanger. So, I take the hanger toward the back porch, and notice there are three dishes and a pair of scissors on the kitchen counter. I throw the dishes in the dishwasher, and trot into the fabric room to put the scissors back. Shoot! I have four fabrics to put away that I haven’t cataloged. I go to the computer in-between the living room and the kitchen and boy, howdy; my mailbox shows 35 messages came in since I’d gotten up. [Have to answer them.] One is a link to a Web site, so I go there. That reminds me I need to look up something, so I Google it. I get the info, print it, and go to my bedroom to get an envelope. That’s when I realize I never made the bed, the hanger is on the kitchen counter, I never cataloged the fabric, and only answered half the e-mails. And, yes, I plan to get back to the reason I’m blogging.

My hubby [he’s such a sweet man] came home early unexpectedly, as his day wasn’t all guns ‘n roses. So I thought, hey, The Genius Child can take the still shots and run the video camera. [Kewl beans.] We picked her up and off we went. First stop, the post office.

That reminds me, I never finished the list of “don’t go there” places for open carry. [I think I do have ADD, as does The Sassy Child.] Other than the post office, you can’t wear a gun in any state building, or a building with state offices, nor at the Governor’s Mansion [I suppose the Terminator will haveta live without the Mominator], the airports, and within 1,000 feet of any K-12 schools.

That school rule can be tricky. I’m about to contribute to a legal defense fund for a guy who got hammered because of that rule. He was on private property in a Laundromat, and someone called in a “man with a gun.” The law officers arrived, questioned the dude, then left. Following that, said man got a nice letter from the District Attorney in the mail telling him they were gonna prosecute as a school was about 700′ away. This guy was doin’ his freakin’ laundry [at a place I’d certainly wanna have a firearm], and has to pay thousands in legal fees to defend himself [too bad he couldn’t just use his gun] because wore a handgun in plain view, not loaded, as per the law. My state is so worthless. Honestly! They’re usin’ taxpayer money [Last time I checked, our governor “terminated” all of our funds.] to charge this law-abiding “criminal” and convict him of a felony, so now he can never legally own a gun.

That just chaps my hide. We have a Constitution in this country, and “judges” try to make it a “living document” so they can let people burn the Stars and Stripes, murder unborn babies, and deny us our right to keep and bear arms. [I know, this is a state issue and doesn’t involve federal law, but I’m on a roll.] What’s next? No freedom to worship where and what we wanna? I guess we may haveta go back to England for that. [Well, at least I’m a Mortimer.]

I trotted to the computer [no, I didn’t catalog the fabrics, but I did answer the e-mails] and found a district map with locations of all the schools. I then figured out the names of the pertinent streets [the words were so faint, not even the Bionic Man could’ve read ‘em] and put a red dot on all the places I wanted to go. I figured out how many miles were in 1,000′ [it’s 0.1839], grabbed a ruler, and measured. Looked like I’d be in the clear. I took the map, ruler, a copy of the open carry law [since it seems many officers aren’t aware of it—mayhap they missed that day at the academy], tucked my ammo in my custom-designed handbag [take a peek at my designs at www.4galsdesigns.com. Don’t forget to type in “designs,” or you’ll end up at a porn site] whipped out my fuchsia belt, got my gun case and lock, and I was ready. Oh, should mention they can get ya if you drive within 1,000′ of a school and your firearm isn’t empty and locked down. [Nah! They’ll never catch me on that kind of technicality.]

I went several places: Wal Mart, Costco, Trader Joes, and the giganto Regal Movie Theater to see Iron Man 2 at 5:00. The Genius Child took some still photos outside of the places for me, and took some video inside. All I can say is, “Dull much?”

I wore a sage green shirt, my belt is pink, and my holster is black. I did everything but jump up-and-down to make people aware of my sidearm. Wal Mart: nothin’. Costco: nothin’ [and I was pickin’ up bipolar medication]. Trader Joes: nothin’, although I wanted to get a mention of what I was doin’ on film, so before I left I actually pointed my gun out to the checker and told her why I was wearin’ it. She got nervous for a second, until I told her Betty wasn’t loaded and I was operating within the law.

But the most ridiculous [the bad ridiculous] reaction was at the movie theater. I figured worse case: they’d call the cops, as there’s an escalator into the Promenade Mall a few feet away, and the Temecula Police have a sub-station there. Or, they might make my hubby [he’s such a sweet man] take the gun and trudge back to Blue Thunder. [Third in our line of mini-vans. One of these days I’ll haveta tell y’all about the demise of The Silver Bullet on Black Friday; and The Green Machine, which went out in a blaze of glory. [So many Lucy Ricardo moments, but no time to write about ‘em. Sigh.] So, I braced myself. They let me buy a ticket, but when we opened the glass door and piled in, the man taking the tickets put up his hand. [Here it comes. Finally, some action!] His eyes grew wide. “Stop!” he said. “You can’t come in here with that … video recorder.” [Sigh.]

Welcome to My Worlds.

Not the year, the Ass-embly Bill: AB 1934. And it chaps my hide! For those who don’t know it, I live on the Left Coast where illegal aliens have more rights than I do. That’s right, I said illegal aliens, not “undocumented workers.” They’re here because they broke our laws, and who can prove they all work? Many of them are tuberculosis-carrying murderers, rapists, and pedophiles. [Beastly!] And you can stop prattling behind my back, as I’m NOT a racist. I love all people. But I don’t cotton to criminals. If you’re here illegally, that’s what you are. Period. If I rob a bank, am I a bank robber, or “someone who helps others withdraw their money for my personal use”? Okay, somehow I got off track. [Sorry.]

Tomorrow, May 12, 2010, is discussion day to add yet another restraint on the law-abiding citizens who, by law, have the right to protect themselves.

Most already know getting a concealed carry permit in California is harder than getting a book deal and landing on the NYT best-seller list. But, we can strap on a gun in plain view provided it isn’t loaded, and is transported correctly. This bill will make that illegal. [There’s that word again.] The problem is, the criminals DON’T follow these rules. So us regular folks take the beating [often literally.]

Here’s the bill:

AB 1934 (Saldana)
Firearms.

LEGISLATIVE COUNSEL’S DIGEST
AB 1934, as amended, Saldana. Firearms.

Existing law, subject to exceptions, makes it an offense to carry a concealed handgun on the person or in a vehicle, as specified. Existing law provides that firearms carried openly in belt holsters are not concealed within the meaning of those provisions. This bill would delete the exception pertaining to firearms carried openly in belt holsters. The bill would also establish an exemption to the offense for transportation of a firearm by members of specified organizations going directly to or from official parade duty or ceremonial occasions, as specified. [Great, so if anyone tries to mug me while I’m riding a horse during the Rose Parade, I’m safe.

By expanding the scope of an existing offense, this bill would impose a state-mandated local program. [Last time I checked, our governor “terminated” all our funds. How are we gonna pay for this?]

Existing law, subject to exceptions, makes it an offense to carry a loaded firearm in specified public areas. The bill would, subject to exceptions, make it a misdemeanor to openly carry an unloaded handgun on the person in specified public areas.
By creating a new offense, this bill would impose a state-mandated
local program. [Last time I checked, our governor terminated all our funds. How are we gonna pay for this?]

The bill would make conforming and nonsubstantive technical changes.
The California Constitution requires the state to reimburse local agencies and school districts for certain costs mandated by the state. [Oh, good. So the schools don’t have to pay for it, which is a relief, as all the illegal alien children have sucked the oxygen outta the classrooms, and the budget.] Statutory provisions establish procedures for making that reimbursement.

This bill would provide that no reimbursement is required by this
act for a specified reason. [Huh?]

***

In protest, tomorrow, on the day they mull this over [That’s a joke, it’ll be signed faster than I used to run the 100-yard dash.], I’m goin’ to town and strappin’ on my sidearm, a Smith & Wesson scandium-alloy J-frame .357 Magnum M&P 360. Sucker only weighs 13 ounces. [Sigh.] It was a Christmas gift from my hubby [he’s such a sweet man]. I can see the headline on the Drudge Report now: Pistol-Packin’ Grandma Arrested While Grocery Shopping for Wearing a Gun in the Produce Aisle…

[I made the above handbag, and used the snake’s rattle as an embellishment.]

I have no idea what’s going to happen, but I simply don’t care. I have a right by law to carry a firearm that’s not loaded and in full view, and I’m exercising that right before they take it away from me. I’m standing up for what I believe in. At least when this bill passes, I’ll know I contacted all my representatives and told them how I felt, and I took a position on the issue, for better or worse.

One of the things I can’t stand is when people whine and complain about things in our government they don’t like, but yet they haven’t voiced their opinions, and often don’t even vote. If you’re one of those: save it and move over for those us who back up our words with actions.

Top 10 Reasons I Loved 2009

Well, 2009 is over. There is a God. [Although I wondered about that.] I’m so glad I’m shakin’ the dust of last year from my sandals, and marchin’ forward into 2010. I’m fired up! But first, I thought I’d try to find a few positive nuggets from what had to be one of my worst years in modern times. [Can’t count the way-back past. Can’t remember most of it, anyway.] Okay, I just lied. I really just wanted to take one more poke at last year, and then I’m forgettin’ it. [Hopefully, for life.] So, here are the Top-10 Reasons I Loved 2009….

#10 - I learned a new language: Latin.

Yep, I became quite familiar with the sentence, “Et tu, Brute?” [Caesar’s last words, meaning, “You too, Brutus?”]

#9 - Although I love game shows, I won’t be trying out for Survivor.

[Couldn’t make all those alliances, then turn around and do “the blindsides.”]

#8 - I implemented what I’d learned in my fave book, How to Win Friends and Influence People.

A certain person in a certain organization shrieked at me over the phone. My hubby [he’s such a sweet man] was a witness. [I didn’t know a man’s eyebrows could stretch so high!] After this person called me unprofessional [as if!] and several other choice words, I remained so calm it was frightening. While I so wanted to point out that person needed a Xanax while I did not, I just said, “I appreciate your time. Thanks.” [MAJOR, dudes.]

#7 - I have a high tolerance for pain, [I’m married.], but I increased it.

I was so upset near the end of the year; I tore off all my fingernails. No, not just the white part, most of the pink part as well. [Saved money on nail polish too.]

#6 - I learned a new skill: how to be a contortionist.

[Had to pull an entire set of Ginsu knives outta my back.]

#5 - I bought a new wardrobe.

Due to stress and sleep-eating [that’s a blog in itself], I gained 20 pounds.

#4 - I learned God chooses clients and friends for me, better than I can.

[No further comment needed.]

#3 - I learned there is a sucker born every minute.

[In 2009, I was born 525,600 times.]

#2 - After a 2-year battle with the IRS, the Christian-hatin’ IRS dude actually showed up knockin’ at my front door…

…which I never answer without strappin’ on my sidearm. [Never seen a man in a cheap suit back up so fast!]

And the #1 reason I loved 2009…

I can get battered, beaten, and bloodied … and Get Off the Mat.

Boo-Yah! I’m comin’ up swingin’! In 2010: I’m. All. In.

To sum it up, I’ll use the words of one of my fave Christian bands: SuperChick…

Follow the leader, stay in the lines
What will people think of what you’ve done this time?
Go with the crowd, surely somebody knows
Why we’re all wearing the emperor’s clothes

Play it safe, play by the rules
Or don’t play at all - what if you lose?
That’s not the secret, but I know what is:
Everybody dies, but not everyone lives. Everybody dies, but not everyone lives

I’m gonna ride like I’ve got the cops on my tail
I’m gonna live my life like I’m out on bail
I’m gonna be out front, gonna blaze a trail
I’m gonna, I’m gonna, I’m gonna, I’m gonna cross that line

Everybody freeze - don’t step over the line
Don’t stand up, they’ll shoot down the first one who tries
Try to change the world, they’ll think you’re out of your mind
Revolutions start when someone crosses the line

They want us to lie down, give in to the lie
Nothing has to change, and no one has to die
That’s not the secret, but I know what is:
Everybody dies, but not everyone lives. Everybody dies, but not everyone lives

I’m gonna ride like I’ve got the cops on my tail
I’m gonna live my life like I’m out on bail
I’m gonna be out front, gonna blaze a trail
I’m gonna, I’m gonna, I’m gonna, I’m gonna cross that line

[Come with me. I dare ya….]

by Kelly Gottuso Mortimer

“Mom, I’m here. I’m safe.”

Ah, music to a mother’s ears, at least in part. For “here” meant Kuwait. And safe? For how long? Her next stop—Iraq. I’m speaking of my then eighteen-year-old daughter, Private Nicole Giovanna Mortimer—known to family and friends as Nikki. [The Sassy Child]

Her vibrant blue-green eyes gazed at me from a photo taken in her senior year of high school, hand resting proudly on her Bible. And the snapshot from her prom, dressed in her billowing gown, her lovely figure swathed in pale pink lace and tulle. A rhinestone tiara perched proudly on her shiny, light-brown hair, and the glittering necklace that once belonged to her grandmother dangled from her swan-like neck. Next to that, her latest picture.

Nikki dressed in fatigues, cradling an M-16.

Why would such a happy, carefree girl want to spend her summer at boot camp in the unbearable heat and humidity of South Carolina’s Fort Jackson? Then the trek to the windy desert over Iraq, followed by a jump out of a helicopter in 130-degree heat?

Because I asked her to.

I know what you’re thinking, “Come again?” Yes, for better or worse, her old mom convinced her to enlist when a war raged in a foreign country.

Nikki didn’t know what she wanted to do after high school, so, like any good daughter, she asked her parents for suggestions. I’m so patriotic; I bleed red, white, and blue. Nikki’s a girlie-girl, but “fearless” is her middle name. Why not the Armed Forces? She could help those less fortunate than herself, master an interesting trade, learn self-discipline, and garner a healthy respect for those in authority.

Of course, the decision would have to be hers. She’d turned eighteen, a legal adult in California. Eighteen! Could a random set of numbers comprised of a simple “one” and an “eight” make her an adult? Nikki couldn’t be an adult. Wasn’t it yesterday morning I dropped my baby daughter off for her first day of kindergarten? Okay, I guess my dates are off, but that’s to be expected, considering my advanced age.

Regardless, I’m sure I was more mature at eighteen than Nikki, wasn’t I? She’d spent good money on an “In Sync” CD. At eighteen, I listened to Aerosmith.

Shock enveloped me when she took my advice. What was up with that? I didn’t listen to my mother when I was eighteen, or ever, for that matter. Of course, I didn’t need to, as I already knew everything. Sorry, Mom. Seriously, what soon-to-be-a-woman takes it to heart when her mom tells her to enlist in the Army? I know, I know. Apparently, mine.

My friends and family asked if I worried about Nikki coming home safely. I said no, as a giant angel in body armor guarded her back. And if the angel needed a rest, she had the finest soldiers in the world next to her. So, off she went with the family’s blessing.

I couldn’t wait to speak with her. When I finally did, I asked her how many cities she’d stormed, and what interesting trade she’d learned. Computer processing, air-traffic control, public relations perhaps? Nope, no storming. And her trade? She decided to be a cook. I taught her how to cook; shouldn’t I get the credit for that? Did she need to enlist in the Army to learn something she already knew? She didn’t have the joy of cooking for hundreds of people here at home, but she did have access to more spices.

Then her superior offered her a different position: driving her commanding officer on missions. My heart thundered in my chest, then stopped. Did the poor man realize he was in more danger from Nikki driving him around Iraq, than from fifty homicide bombers? Within a

month of having her first car, Nikki crashed it. She wasn’t hurt, but I’m afraid the T-bird didn’t make it. And her driving skills never improved with age. I visited her on base in Colorado. In the span of fifteen minutes, she parked and left the headlights on, ran a stop sign, and if I hadn’t intervened, she’d have driven the wrong way down a one-way street. I know; she’d be driving in the desert. Not much there to plow into. Trust me. If there was anything to hit, Nikki’d find it.

Nikki had one minor mishap while in Iraq: A piece of shrapnel scored her shoulder when her camp came under attack. I told her I’d put it on a chain and make a necklace out of it. Her reply? “No, Mom, it’s radioactive. Just stick it in the drawer.” I thank her angel for protecting her. No missing limbs, no gunshot wounds. True to form, as soon as she became a civilian, Nikki broke her ankle, but you should’ve seen the other guy.

So, Nikki’s not the best driver in the world. She has a lot of good qualities. While stationed in Iraq, she started a Bible study with her friend. By the time she left, nineteen soldiers attended. Could a mom melt? I was so proud of her. Even in the blazing desert, Nikki remembered what we taught her. Jesus should always be the most important thing in her life. Leaving to rescue defenseless Iraqis ran a close second.

In her last letter to me before she came home Nikki wrote, “Mom, I’m proud to be doing something really important with my life. I’m making the world a better place, and keeping America safe for my little sister to grow up in.”

So, did I make a huge mistake putting my teenaged daughter in harm’s way? I think not. What more could a mother ask for than to have a daughter who was happy, healthy, and out there saving the world?

Welcome to My Worlds.

Now This Is Romance

So, I told y’all about the horrors (for me) of the RWA conference, 2008. This installment covers the good stuff. Unfortunately, the good things aren’t funny, but what the heck? Just didn’t want ya to think everything was gnarly.

Once I made it on the plane, I thought, I must be on the Space Mountain ride at Disneyland…. I flew Virgin America. Their planes are Phly! (No pun intended … well, maybe.) The side lights overhead are neon amethyst, the seats are black leather (yeah, even in coach), the seatbacks are slick, pristine, white high-gloss whatever-they-make-’em–out-of (I realize I only allow my authors two such descriptive words, but I’m an agent, and this is my blog. Oh, the power…). Great leg room too.

They had lots of spiffy flight attendants, and I knew my other, other business (4 Gals Designs) was well on the way to making it big, cuz when I trolled down the aisle, flight attendant Brad took one look at the briefcase I made (not the one I nearly lost a thumb over), stopped me and said, “Oh, my. I love your bag!" (Sigh.)

The plane arrived on time and without incident: no crashes, no turbulence, no warning of a possible water landing—what a letdown! But at least the pilot and co-pilot came out to say goodbye, although neither commented on my bag. (Sigh.)

Hotel check-in was a breeze, unlike a few years ago at the Adam’s Mark when it took two hours of waiting in line. Some genius decided to book RWA and Mary Kaye at the same time. (Beastly!)

Since I was still incognito, as I was too late to register and get my name badge, two gals strollin’ toward the elevator didn’t know who I was. They were commenting on the ribbons on one of their badges. One gal was explaining what the PRO ribbon meant, (means you’ve submitted a full manuscript to an editor/agent and received an answer, even if it’s a rejection) and that as a PRO member, she was supposed to get a better shot at an agent appointment. I asked who she booked with, and she said she couldn’t get anyone. So, I got to play Santa. I whipped out a business card (from the sassy handbag I’d made in addition to the briefcase) and told her to show up fifteen minutes before my scheduled appointments. Man, she looked stunned. I love helping people. (Sigh.)

Next, I met my fantabulous roomie, Jennifer. Thank you, God. She’s great. Most agents don’t offer to share their room, and it wasn’t until later we found we were sharin’ more than that. The “Executive King Suite" not only had an “open floor plan,” but it only sported one bed! (I wanna know why they call it a suite when it had one room with a half-wall that hid the bed if you’re in the bathroom. Sheesh.) No worries. We managed nicely.

I had a great time at the Death by Chocolate Party, even though my clients didn’t win Daphnes. (Yeah, I agree, they were robbed.)

Friday mornin’ rolled around. I had no choice but to skip the showcase (editors from major houses tell everyone what they’re lookin’ for) I wanted to attend, and go buy some shoes, drat the luck! Of course, one pair wouldn’t be worth my time, so I bought three pairs (or would that be “three pair”?).

I loved seeing my clients at our annual Friday night dinner, as I don’t get a lot of face time with them. Some also made appointments with me. Sharp!

I ran into a gaggle of gals (well, not literally) who, boo-hoo, also didn’t get agent appointments. Yes, I already have too much to read, and yes, I wanted to meet with all of them anyway. Imagine spendin’ all that money for a conference and not getting’ an appointment. Not. On. My. Watch.

Poor Marjorie was workin’ a walker, and was last person to reach me. I had no time left. I’d booked every minute I wasn’t already meeting anyone, or attending something. (Yes, literally.) But wait … no obstacle can overcome “the mominator" (what daughter #3, The Genius Child, calls me). I asked Marjorie if she was game to put her walker into high gear and hoof it up to my room at 8:15 a.m. before my Saturday morning appointments. Think she wasn’t? (In Kelly-speak, that means “yes.")

In rolls the Mighty Marjorie. I was dressed, but sans make-up (and the brave lady still came in!) I moved the desk chair in front of the bathroom door for her to sit in, grabbed all the stuff that makes me look human (or close), and applied my make-up while Marjorie pitched. (See, told ya I was a regular gal.)

Skip to the appointment room. (No, I didn’t really skip.) All us “industry professionals" had little tables to sit behind with are appointment lists in front of us, and empty chairs across. No way I was gonna sit there and wait. I got up and moved to the empty-chair side.

I memorized the prospective clients’ names, and when the rigid line of hopefuls marched in with a wee bit of trepidation, I was all excited, leaning in to get a better view of the nametags. It felt like old times, when you could actually wait for your loved-one disembarking the plane to rush out into your awaiting arms—which is just what I did. I opened my arms wide and said, “There’s my Esther!, My Fiona (Julie couldn’t make it)!, My Mary!, My Marsha!, My Cindy!, My Barbara!, My Anne Marie!, My Sandra!" Gave each a big hug and babbled, “I’m honored you had one agent appointment, and ya chose me." (FYI: I meant it.)

Well, as if anything could get better than that, I snagged a coveted spot on Esri Rose’s “Shoe Revue." Only the coolest shoes make the cut. Yep, this proved what I’d known about me all along. I don’t crack under pressure and just settle for any old shoe. I found three gorgeous pairs (or would that be “three pair"?) in forty minutes flat (well, actually, I bought stilettos.).

To view my spiffy lava-like pumps and read my quality quote, go to: www.elvesamongus.com. On the right top margin, click on “Shoe Revue." My foot is under the header, “And I’ll take the even higher road…" I’m foot #1, of course. (Sigh.)

So, I make it home after another uneventful (boring) flight, and finally set foot on my piece of heaven on earth. What could be better?

My hubby (he’s such a sweet man) grins and tells me to sit down, as he has a surprise for me. My anniversary gift was comin’ early. Hmm. I sit, he reaches under the couch, then jostles to hide something behind his back. Hmm.

He jerks his hands forward, and reveals the prize. I jump up, I scream, I shout, “Yes! Yes!" with all the joy I can muster. What was in the box my hubby (he’s such a sweet man) handed me? AMMO! And I knew what was comin’ next. BOO-YAH!

Then it was in my hands, in all it’s titanium glory. A new Taurus, .38 Special (+P) Revolver. I know some of y’all opt for semi-automatics like the Glock or Sig, but a revolver has its place. Recently, a nasty Iraqi terrorist went to a local area and hassled a local chieftain. The chief refused to back down, so the nasty Iraqi pulled his Glock and fired at point-blank range. Oops! The Glock jammed. The chief calmly whipped out his revolver, probably unearthed from 500 A.D., fired, and shot that nasty Iraqi, who’ll never know why he didn’t get a shot off.

Still, I stood perplexed for a moment ’cause I already had a titanium, Taurus .45 Colt. Hmm. This new weapon was lighter, and the handgrip was the perfect size for me. How sweet is that hubby?! (And where’s that interrobang when ya need it?!) But wait, Johnny, that’s not all—no bored holes in the barrel. This puppy not only fires regular bullets, it shoots, you guessed it: SNAKESHOT! (Sigh.)

Now that’s what I call R-O-M-A-N-C-E. My hubby really is such a sweet man.

Welcome to My Worlds. (Sigh.)

A “Welcome to My Worlds: A Bipolar Christian Tells All” Story 

Since the Romance Writers of America’s (RWA) National Conference, 2009 is almost upon us, I thought a look back at my 2008 adventure appropriate. Here’s the tale of when I winged my way to beautiful San Francisco…

Being me, I planned way ahead of time. Overjoyed the conference was in California this year (it rotates from East, Central, West—although it takes less time to get from So Cal to Arizona than to Northern Cal), I realized I could actually avoid going on Wednesday. One extra day home. Double sigh. I guess I should clear something up. Yes, as an agent, I should wanna spend numerous days networking, but due to rampant Bipolar Disorder and numerous OCD’s (I make Monk look like a lightweight), I have juuust a bit of trouble changing my routine.

Anyway, I booked a 5:00 p.m. flight on Thursday, front of the plane on the aisle (for a quick getaway). The flight was only 1.5 hours, so that’d give me time to get acclimated. My agent appointments weren’t until Saturday morning, so I was set.

A few weeks later, I received an invite to the “Death by Chocolate” party. Two of my authors (Kelly Ann Riley, Terry Odell) were up for a Daphne award, and I figured I should be there. Is there such a thing as a triple sigh? So, I called my airline and changed my 5:00 flight to the 1:20 p.m. flight. Cost me $40.00, but I could justify the expense. I gritted my teeth and whipped out my debit card. Grrr.

Some of you know; I have three businesses. One being 4 Gals Designs for my custom line of handbags. I’d been taking sewing lessons at night, and was hoping to finish what I call a “mini-briefcase” to show off at the conference. Technically, it’s a laptop carrier, but I don’t like laptops. Can’t get used to the rollerball instead of the mouse. (Wonder if that would bother Monk?) The size is perfect for a partial or two, and the one I was making was so hot, it was cool.

I have to say, I’m darn good at most everything I try, but sewing? Oiy! I’m an artist. I love squiggly lines that trail off the page. If any of you sew, you know it’s kind of important to cut and sew straight. In my valiant attempt, I sewed through my thumb. Literally. Needle went through my nail and out the bottom/side.

I yelped, but didn’t cry. (I have a high threshold of pain.) My hubby (he’s such a sweet man) turned from his desk. He saw the blood and nearly fainted, then decided he had to “rush” me to the hospital for a tetanus shot. (The closest hospital is an hour away, so I’d probably bleed-out before arrival.) Besides, we’re too close to the Mexican border. In the Emergency Rooms around here, English is a second language. (Yeah, I know. But we’ll save that for another blog.) My hubby (he’s such a sweet man) froze. I told him to get his behind in gear and grab a paper towel, ’cause if I bled on my mini-briefcase, he was toast.

Then I got revenge on my sewing machine, so to speak—I broke the needle. (No, not with my other thumb.) Happens when working with heavy fabric. I have Brother computerized machines, and I think I need commercial-grade Singers. Grrr. No problemo. Exchange needle and re-thread machine, lickety split. (Wonder where that phrase came from.)

I worked feverishly, doing everything I could at home to save time at my next class. I always get hung up because the teacher doesn’t use the instructions that go with the pattern. She’s been sewing for roughly 100 years (I’m counting her time in the womb), and simply does things her way. Great … until I go home and try to follow the instructions and cute picture diagrams on the patterns. My 400-level finance classes were easier to figure out.

I was sure I’d finish the bag at my last class, the Tuesday night before I left. Nope. All these pesky problems cropped up, so I had to go it alone. No problemo. I was on the second-to-last step when I decided I needed to add a few things. I won’t give you the gory details. I stayed up all night. Well, close. I went to sleep at 4:30 a.m., and got up at 6:30 a.m. Then I tried to fix all the damage I’d caused the night before, but couldn’t. No bag. Grrr.

Lightbulb moment. I knew what would make me feel better. I cut and color my own hair. Not with that boxed stuff. I had to read up on the procedure and learn the process like the “pros.” (One should never stop learning new things. Right? Just don’t ask my thumb that question.) Never had a problem dyin’ my hair before. But a simple application of color couldn’t overcome my feelings of d—de—defeat. Nope. I figured a weave was in order. Didn’t matter that I’d never done one; I used to get them all the time. I had bleach and a dark blond-colored dye in my supply cupboard. I even had pre-cut foil. Didn’t matter that I had to catch a plane in a few hours. I’m a “go for it” kinda gal.

The bleach worked, except the hair at my part and in front processed lighter than the rest. Cool. Those dark-blond highlights around the face would soften the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles. (Wonder who thought that idea up.) Step two: I applied the dye, then looked at the time. OMGosh!

I sprinted to the closet, grabbed some clothes, and tossed everything in my suitcase like it was last night’s soggy salad headed for the garbage. Except my shoes. Sigh. Those, I loving wrapped with tissue and care and placed them into the special bags made to slip inside my suitcase, all snug and safe. Double sigh.

Sheesh. I forgot; I still had to rinse the dye out of my hair! I streaked to the shower (no wisecracks) and shampooed. Couldn’t wait to see the new color. (I shoulda waited.) Orange! Yes, orange is my favorite color, but not on my hair. Grrr. What to do? No time to use more dye, and all I had left was my hubby’s (he’s such a sweet man) jet black. Talk about lookin’ like a walking gothic novel. No thanks. Ingenuity. I could handle this. I took a minute to think up a solution. (Actually, it was half a minute—thirty seconds was all I could spare.)

I rummaged through my used make-up drawer and found a sponge applicator and some chocolate-brown eye shadow. Perfect. My brassy orange turned into a sort of caramel color … kinda. That would suffice for the flight. On the way to the airport I could make a pitstop at the beauty supply store and pick up some non-permanent rinse. I figured I’d get to the conference and have plenty of time to implement the color change before the party. Whew. I felt better. Had to hurry, though.

I dressed in comfy clothes, and being the smart gal I am, slipped my feet into my black mules with the kitten heels. (Still haven’t found a pair of brown ones.) That way, when I hit the plastic containers at airport security, I could shuck the shoes off in record time.

My hubby (he’s such a sweet man) hefted my suitcase and off we went. If we broke Mach 1, I juuust might make my flight. I was already nervous, as I wasn’t flyin’ out of my airport: O-N-T, Ontario, CA. I know where everything is there, have the security checkpoints figured out, etc. They didn’t have a flight to San Fran, so we headed to our default: San Diego Airport.

First stop: Pick up the rinse. I rushed into the store, grabbed some Fanciful (never used it before, but how hard could it be?), a squirt bottle, and a pair of latex gloves, then zipped them in the outside pocket of my suitcase, and we were back in business, baby.

We pulled into the airport and it was late. I mean late. My flight departed in twenty minutes. Did I give up? Think I would? No way. We cruised curbside, but couldn’t find the Virgin America drop-off spot. Grrr. I figured I’d find it inside. My family waved goodbye, and I hustled (not the dance, although that used to be totally fun), trotted up and down, back and forth, but didn’t see a counter for Virgin. Grrr. Thinking it must be upstairs, I hit the elevator. (Not literally—with my luck, I’d anger “Hal” and the darn thing would stop between floors.) I taped my kitten heel, waitin’ for the chute to open so I could charge out like a scared calf.

Glance at my watch: Ten minutes until my flight flew. I looked up and smiled at the nice Transportation Safety Administration (TSA) lady, and waved my boarding pass and ID at her. I glanced at the disrobing line, trying to hide my scowl, and asked if I’d make a 1:20 flight. She checked her watch and nodded. Great. No problemo.

I stood behind four people and my Secret antiperspirant wasn’t keepin’ my secret. (No, I don’t really use the stuff, as they’ve linked aluminum with Alzheimer’s, but it made for a good line, don’t ya think?) At least the nice gentleman in front of me let me cut in front of him. (A last resort, I assure you.)

The nice TSA gentleman looked at the size of my bag, then at me. The depth of his frown wasn’t a good sign. He asked if I had any liquids over three ounces. Of course not; I knew the rules. Drat, my rinse! He told me I’d have to ditch it, or go back and check my bag. Since I had no idea where to check it, and my flight left in eight minutes, I coughed up the bottle. Grrr. If I hadn’t stopped to buy it, I wouldn’t have been so late. Sigh. I passed through the metal detector without a glitch. (I know, but the impossible happens at times.) Could I still make the flight? I juuust might squeak by.

Then another nice TSA lady flagged me and pulled me aside next to an elderly woman leaning on her walker, and a young gal cradling a tiny baby. (You never know; the newborn might be hidin’ an explosive device in his diaper.) I shoulda grabbed that white towel I dry my hair with instead of concentrating on my black mules. If they thought I was from the Middle East, they probably woulda saluted and given me a personal escort aboard the plane. (Yeah, I know. But we’ll save that for another blog.)

I grabbed my belongings and she gave me the favored parting words, “Don’t worry; you’ll make your flight.” I scooted to the gate where a lone dude with a nametag reading “John John” (no, I’m not kidding) said, “Are you Kelly?” I huffed out a yes and asked if I’d missed my 1:20 flight. Yep. I glanced at my watch, which read 1:15. I looked out the window and there was the plane, just restin’ up before the big flight. Unfortunately, it’d moved about three inches from the narrow hallway where passengers embark.

No problemo. I could jump it. (Have I mentioned I went to the state finals in track? Yeah, as a sprinter, but I was also nasty at the running long jump.) Yep, I’d simply squat into position, pound the ground at a flat-out run like a flamin’ demon trailed me (Or one of my ex-mother-in-laws. The second one, I think), tap my foot on the board, and soar through the air like I was Jonathon Livingston Seagull.

John John crushed my dreams of glory. Even though the plane wouldn’t go anywhere for another ten minutes, once they’d moved, no cigar. He asked if I wanted to be on standby for the 5:00 flight. I answered in the affirmative, but told him he’d have to wait a minute to sign me up, as I had an important errand to run.

I turned and hoofed it back to the security station. I figured if I had to wait 3.5 hours for the next flight, I might as well get my rinse back and check my bag. I’d have plenty of time to hunt for the elusive Virgin American counter.

I moved past the nice TSA lady who’d promised me I wouldn’t miss my flight, making sure my fake smile didn’t morph into a genuine grimace. (Didn’t wanna lose the yogurt she let me keep in the first round.) I politely asked the nice TAS gentleman for my rinse back, to which he informed me one of the lady janitors had just emptied his “rubbish receptacle” about one minute before I re-appeared. Grrr.

I turned away, head down, bag dragging. (Hey, even I have my limits.) Wait! Janitor at two o’clock! It only took me a minute to convince her I wasn’t a nut. (Which proves my theory I shoulda been an actor.) I don’t speak Spanish, and she didn’t speak English. (Yeah, I know. But we’ll save that for another blog.) She said something kinda resembling the word “ticket” and I nodded. (Not a lie, as I had no idea how close the words “hair rinse” and “ticket” were in Spanish.)

I almost grabbed the latex gloves meant for my rinse operation, but opted to go bare, confident in the knowledge my hubby (he’s such a sweet man) put a travel-size container of hand sanitizer in my gorgeous handbag. (Yep, I made that one. Well, that was the second time I made it. The first time I crashed and burned.) I rummaged through the trash, but no rinse. Grrr.

So, I trudged back to John John, and he put me on standby. I didn’t wanna contemplate what I’d do if I didn’t get on the 5:00. I parked it, and did some line editing after I called Gayle Link. (I tell ya, I couldn’t survive without that women. No joke. She’s the life-preserver in my sea of chaos.)

I wore a light sweater, but that infamous air conditioning kicked in. (The airport personnel have to make sure all those nice people visiting from Antarctica stay comfortable.) With no socks on (I was wearing mules; I had no choice!) I shivered. Great. I was a freezing, angry, miserable, bipolarized (if I say it’s a word, it’s a word) orange-haired woman who was gonna blowout two appointments (beastly!) in San Fran, and might miss the party as well. Could anything else go wrong? (Do I haveta answer that?)

A group of six teenaged boys showed up. No biggie until they set up a movie theater with a large-screen laptop and two speakers. I’m not sure, but they coulda been watching Animal House, or mayhap Porky’s. Either way, I found it difficult to give the manuscript a decent edit.

I spotted a row of seats in the high-traffic area. I caught my breath. (No, not literally.) My gaze fell on a skylight complete with a single beam of afternoon sun peeking onto the floor in a criss-cross pattern. (A tiny ray of warmth for the two blocks of ice I once called my humongous feet.) I stampeded my way toward the light like Colin Ferrell was over there, winkin’ at me. (What I really needed was a Xanax, but what if I fell asleep and missed the call for the flight?) Couldn’t risk it, so I stayed in “full manic mode.” Wasn’t pretty. I looked through the skylight to address my Maker. “Okay, God. I get the whole “Job-thing.” (Not job, JOB. Y’know, the guy who ate it, big-time.) “So, God, seriously, do Ya think You can stop now?”

John John approached. He informed me that when I’d gone on standby, there were seven seats available, but now there was one left. Did I want to reserve it? I pondered why he hadn’t given me that choice from the get-go (Wonder where that phrase came from.), but just said “yes.” He mentioned the additional cost: $25.00, oh, and I’d have to sit in the back of the plane, center seat.

Let’s recap, shall we? I’d paid for the 5:00 flight, front row, aisle seat; then paid $40.00 to switch to the 1:20; then paid another $25.00 to get back on my original flight, with a seat in back, dead center. I gritted my teeth and whipped out my debit card. Grrr.

Finally, at 7:35 p.m., I made it to the Marriot, knowin’ I was home-free. Just enough time to unpack and jam on over to the Death by Chocolate party. Went to my executive king suite where I met my lovely and sweet roomie, Jennifer Clark Vihel. (Sharing a room with her was one of the highlights of my stay, even though we soon realized there was one bed, and two of us. At least she can say she slept with an agent at a conference.) Then I unpacked.

No! Waves of shock shook my body. The room spun. I dove for my meds. The horror I found—or didn’t find—in my suitcase vaulted me over the precipice. Somehow, I’d left my separately wrapped, lovingly bagged shoes on my bed at home. “Grrr” didn’t cover it. I peeked at my shoes. Black mules with a kitten heel. Not exactly stylish enough for my RITA ceremony gown, or anything else I’d brought.

I delved deeper into the bowels of my suitcase, praying I was blind instead of bipolar, and my beautiful shoes were hiding under my Godzilla-sized make-up bag. (Gotta disguise all my flaws. Well, at least the ones on my face.) Sigh. No never-worn, fire-engine-red patent leather chunky heels. No black stilettos sporting tiny shoestring bows, toe cleavage, and pointy tips. (No, your toes don’t go all the way to the top. This style elongates the leg.) No copper metallic slingbacks … I can’t go on, it’s too painful.

I didn’t have my glorious shoes, but my extensive suitcase search did reveal three “ball of the feet” gel insoles, two packs of “heel protectors,” and two sets of “firming arch supports.” Grrr.

Welcome to My Worlds.