JOURNAL NO. 25
April 1979 - September 1979
Age 21

"At 21, I suppose everyone is 'certain' of something or other."








Monday morning
April 9, 1979

Monday morning ... beginning of a new week, beginning of a new journal. Spring is all things beginning.

Afternoon:

This morning there wasn't time to write - too many people bustling in and out of the office - but now, this afternoon, there is. I just got home from work and am perched on the kitchen counter with a small glass of wine, listening to the stereo and watching the rain outside, waiting for Scott to get home.

Later:

Still perched, but Scott is home and bustling around in the kitchen behind me, preparing to go out again ... he's going to drive down and "see" our friend Bill (to buy coke). He asked me to come along but I declined for a number of reasons: the rain, for one, and my stomach is still feeling queasy as hell, and I just want to take a hot shower and climb into bed and watch the Academy Awards. (My predictions, based on nothing more than what I've read - John Voigt, Best Actor; Ingrid Bergman, Best Actress; Jack Warden, Supporting Actor; Dyan Cannon, Supporting Actress; "The Deerhunter," Best Movie. If I made my choices based on who I like and what I've actually seen, I'd pick Warren Beatty, Jane Fonda, John Hurt, Dyan Cannon and "Heaven Can Wait," but my opinions don't count for much because I haven't seen any of the other movies nominated.)

Anyway. A slow quiet evening sounds delicious. Tomorrow night is the Jethro Tull concert, and that should be a real burn-out, so maybe one quiet night in advance is a good idea. Looking forward to the concert mightily!

The coke is all gone ... damn. I should have asked Scott to leave me more, but I was sick when he left an hour ago and I didn't think I could stomach it. Now I feel fine and I want to continue going up, but the plate is empty and I'll come crashing down any minute. Too bad.

 






Tuesday lunch
April 10, 1979

I only have time for a quick scribble ... home for lunch, making preparations for tonight's concert. Rolling some joints, working on a couple of lines of coke, laying out my clothes, patching up my makeup. Everything is in a rush. Looking forward to the show tonight - hoping that Ian Anderson does the songs I love most ("One Brown Mouse," "Too Old To Rock & Roll, Too Young To Die," "Skating Away On The Thin Ice Of A New Day," "War Child," "Bungle In The Jungle," "Wond'ring Aloud" ...)

After work:

Perched on the counter, waiting for Scott to take his shower and dress so we can leave for the concert. I'm fucking nauseous again but trying to ignore it, hoping it will go away. Bruce and his date are meeting us at the Coliseum. It's raining ... I hope we don't have to stand in any lines.








Wednesday night
April 11, 1979

Nervously buzzing, as usual ... vacillating between too hot and too cold, fighting the beginning twinges of nausea, wanting to write something but not having the mental organization to make any sense ... isn't cocaine wonderful? I don't even see why I bother with it - it makes me feel lousy.

 






Saturday afternoon
April 14, 1979

The day before Easter. Sitting on the couch with Scott, listening to my new U.K. album ("Danger Money" - I also bought the new Blondie album, "Parallel Lines").

We had an addition to our "family" today ... a new kitten we've named Tootsky, or Toot for short - so named because she has a line of white fur running down her belly that looks just like a line of toot.  She's seven weeks old and completely black, except for the while line and white paws and chest. And she's totally fearless! Already she's conquered Scott and I, as well as the apartment ... she's made herself completely at home, and I love her madly already. Right now she's on my lap, swiping at the pen in my hand, snuggling her head into the sleeve of my sweater. I can feel her purring. I feel like Toot and I are going to be good friends.

Scott is going out to a poker game tonight, which means I'm going to be home alone. Strangely enough, that doesn't bother me ... I'm actually looking forward to it. I have Toot to keep me company, a mad array of drugs and food, books, new albums, TV ... I mean, it's not like I'm going to be starving for entertainment. I may survive. (Ha)

Growing evening-ward. Scott is taking a shower and getting ready for his game ... Toot is angry with me because I won't let her onto my lap while I'm writing. Benji was never this forward this early, was he? As I recall he just trembled and hid a lot at first.

I got a letter from Dee Dee - the first since her trip to England - and one from Grandma V., which I have copied on the next few pages.

 

With my new cat, "Toot"
1979

 

 

9:48 p.m.

Stoned out of my MIND. I can barely write, let alone think or function.  This isn't just ordinary mescaline ... it must be acid. I'm deathly sick, buzzed, hallucinations (tactile as well as visual). I think I'm dying, I think I'm flying, I'm up and down at once - I wish to God that Scott was here. I don't know what good he could do me at this point, but I just wish he was here. The logical, functioning part of me, lodged in here behind the high, can't stick this out much longer.

Someone else watch Terri's body for a while, huh? I can't bear to watch.

 





Morning:

Semi-OK now. What a horrible experience that was. I guess that the mesc hit me in a bad way. Never again!

 

 

 

 

Letter from Grandma Vert:

April 13, 1978
Good Friday

"Dear Tae Lin -

In lieu of a bouquet to you please accept a little letter of news from your gramma.

We had such a wild storm here yesterday and all night - about all we got done was talk about it, and Grandpa drove us over to see Dr. Smith for our "check-ups." He insists on driving now and I am glad he is brave enough & doesn't let it go as I did - but I fasten my seat belt!

Your letter was very much appreciated. Nothing is surer than change and we wish you all the good that God intended when you were blessed with so many talents.

We never regretted the years with you, and actually I think they came at a time when grandpa and I really needed you both. You couldn't have been more scared than we were, and from hassling our own kids into the straight and narrow it soon came to me to just take time to remember my own feelings as a child, and then I could understand your problems with more compassion than I had our own children as they grew up. It isn't always a case of love and give in when you raise a family - nor of demanding and punishment. We both were happy to have those years, and I wasn't working then so it really meant more to me. We love you and always will.

We love Dick, but something beyond us is involved there and it hurts. (We can only pray, I guess.)

Grandpa was in the hospital 10 days and Leona came and stayed here with me. We renewed old times, went out for dinner (I drove!) and had a couple delicious lunches at the hospital. Grandpa lived in three worlds and never knew this one.  Family members tried to convince me it was the RX, but after consultation with two specialists I knew better. Besides, sometimes I think they (the family) forget my own background. The doctors diagnosed his post-operative mental attitude as post-op psychosis, which happens occasionally - especially in elderly people.They had him restrained for a while and I can't go into all the adventures we had in a short letter. Vena (his step-sister) was in a nursing home for a month with it, but the doctor thought he would be better home among familiar surroundings.

Now occasionally he has a little slip but most of the time he is so very clear and gratefulit is over with. He has angina and so we sort of divide up our jobs and do as little as necessary. We haven't been to church yet and I did hope to go on Easter Sunday but don't know if we will make it. I have newspapers to turn in. I miss church and all the friends we made there. We will go back when he feels like it.

I took Bear for a walk down to the park a couple days ago. The sun was warm between showers and we walked about a mile. Someone said Boulevard Park is to be closed this fall but I think it is next year maybe. When school hours are over & on weekends there is a lot of activity at the park as new games are added, but when Bear and I went it was quiet and the greening of spring was spreading everywhere. New colors in the weeds and bushes and birds of different species are creeping closer. They don't seem to mind the airplanes either and it's as close to nature as we can get. We often think back on the trips we took with the trailer and wish we had gone oftener and could do it again ...

... Your dad comes over once a weekend and spends some time visiting. He is the only one grandpa asked to see when he was in the hospital. Uncle Bob went to see him and the doctor happened to be there, and then grandpa introduced Bob to the doctor as his son Roger! He never asked for Paul Jr. or Bonnie ...

... Well dear I must hush now. I've really scratched it up for you! Hope you can make it out. We would love to see you - you know that - or even a phone call.

Lovingly, with prayer and thankfulness for a loving association through the years with more to come.

Grandma V.

P.S.  Your dad would love to hear from you anytime.

I miss my Grandma.

 




 

 

Tuesday afternoon
April 17, 1979

Wanting to write ... not knowing what to write about.  Writer's block?

Restless. All my nerves are standing on end. I hate this feeling of being full of nervous energy with no outlet in sight. To make it worse, Scott is so damned placid and calm, while I'm practically jumping out of my skin. We're definitely mismatched this afternoon.

No cigarettes, and only one line left. Life is such a bitch.

ONE YEAR AGO, this was the state of Terri's mind:

"... Isn't it terrible how much I dislike going home? It certainly doesn't say much for the state of my home life, does it? Actually, I don't have it all THAT bad at home; it could be a lot worse. It's just that I'm overly sensitive about still living at home at age twenty, when all around me people my age are out on their own or married or whatever. It makes me feel atypical ... and guilty about my lack of independence ..."

I was so impatient then - I can still feel it, the anger over being trapped in a lifestyle I couldn't change. I felt angry and unhappy and cheated. What a terrible feeling that was - no control over my own life.  Do I have more control now? I hope I do. I think I do. In some ways my options are as limited as they were then, but in the ways that count, yes, I do have more control.

This is garbage. I'm writing a bunch of senseless garbage ... why do I write about the same things, over and over? All my journals sound exactly the same. Nothing ever changes. The state of my mind never changes. All of a sudden I'm horribly depressed and I don't even know how it happened.

It's 6:15 and Scott is in bed already. Hell, I guess I might as well join him.

 






Thursday night 7:45
April 19, 1979

What can I say? Perched, as always, on the kitchen counter while Scott bustles around behind me (playing with his new scales, fixing our meager dinner of hot dogs and old Tater Tots). Ray M. just left; Bruce is now on his way over. Toot is scampering around the apartment, absorbed in her own little world of exploration and games. She scratched me savagely on the hand this afternoon, and it hurt like hell, even from such a tiny kitten. She's not at all sweet tempered and gentle, the way some kittens are ... she's a spitfire.

Yesterday Scott's divorce was final ... at last! It hasn't showed up in the newspaper yet, but I don't need the public acknowledgment to FEEL that it's official! Jokingly I told Scott that now we're not adulterers anymore ...  it's just basic, garden-variety living in sin.

9:30

Later, and I'm just buzzing along on some dynamite coke. At times like this I could just go forever, I think.

 







Friday night
April 20, 1979

... And now all of a sudden it's Friday night and I'm doing it all over again. It's amazing how much coke I put up my nose these days ... it seems like I'm continually on one kind of a buzz or another.  Lately I haven't been able to eat beans, and too much alcohol or too many cigarettes make me sick to my stomach, but I can tolerate a certain amount of coke.  Within reason.

Guess I'd better brush my hair and put on some shoes. We're going to drive over to Mercer Island and see Bruce, for a quick visit.

 






Early Saturday afternoon
April 21, 1979

Our "quick visit" with Bruce last night turned into a 2:30 a.m. affair ... we all got high (Bruce had a couple of his buddies over to watch the Sonics playoff game) and Scott was amply generous with his coke, so it turned into one hell of a long night!  I felt like shit physically, and still do this morning, but in spite of all that I had fun. Bruce was kind and considerate of me all evening - he knows I'm not feeling well - and I felt a little mellower towards him than I have in months. I still think he's callous and unfeeling in some ways, but in the ways that count, he can be a nice person and a good friend.

Today is another springlike day ... Scott and I are going to go for a ride, I think.

A little later:

We haven't left yet ... I've been throwing up, and Scott has been making phone calls, and in between all that we've being doing a bunch of that funny white powder again and most of my motivation is gone - not to mention any feeling in my left nostril, which is totally frozen.

 







Late Sunday afternoon
April 22, 1979

Toot is vertically scaling the sofa, eyes glued on the world outside the patio screen door ... I'm playing my long-lost Who "Who's Next" album, sipping a grape soda, bare feet propped on the coffee table. Clouds filling the sky after another spring day. Scott is going out to the store to get hamburger & buns so we can grill our dinner on the patio.

I took some of that acid a little while ago and already everything is starting to melt.

 








Early Monday night
April 23, 1979

Scott and I just took a shower together; now we're lying in bed, watching TV, relaxing.

QUICK piece of news:  saw a house tonight that Scott is thinking about buying from Kirk ... wondering if that's where I'll be living in October 1979.

No time, no energy to write.

 







Wednesday 5:30
April 25, 1979

Stiflingly hot in this apartment. Waiting for Scott to put away his scales and dress so we can make a run down to Pizza King, do our business & get back home. Bruce is coming over tonight to watch the Sonics playoff game on TV with us later. Maybe I'll write more when I come back. I probably should, on the eve of this momentous occasion. Bye.

One hour later:

Home ... feel like writing ... don't know if it's because my nose is full of coke or because my mind is full of thought, but either way I guess I should take advantage of the urge. I'm proud of the way I've been writing so consistently lately, and I want to keep it that way.

 







Friday afternoon 3:30
April 27, 1979

My favorite time of the whole week ... Friday afternoon, with an entire weekend stretched out before me. I love this feeling. Howard let me leave work early, and I've been sitting on the patio in the gorgeous sunshine, listening to music and feeling marvelous.

6:45 p.m.

Scott is home -- we're on our way to see "Up In Smoke" (again!), "Barbarella" and "Little Cigars" at the Sunset Drive-In. I'm in a wonderful mood ... I've been giddy and happy all day, just like a little kid, and never so happy to have my period. What a weightless feeling.  Better things are ahead. I can feel it.

 







Sometime Saturday morning:

Had to crawl out of bed long enough to pathetically scrawl a sentence or two ... I've been up now for 24 hours - I've seen the sun rise today - and my body is so racked with miscellaneous drugs that I wonder if I will ever recover all my faculties again. Acid and cocaine and pot and too many cigarettes, one long continuous high from the time we went to the drive-in until now, 7 a.m. or whatever time it is. Jesus God Mother Mary. Why do I DO this? It's great while you're there, but coming back is such an ugly way to end a good evening of highs and conversation. Guess I'll crawl back to bed and try to sleep until noon, IF I can put my brain (not to mention my nerves) into neutral long enough.

 






Saturday afternoon
April 28, 1979

Writing very slowly and tremulously ... last night was such fun, but such a drain of my strength. I feel sapped. We talked and did coke and smoked pot until 7:30 in the morning, and then slept until 2:30 today. It's almost evening and I'm only now showered and dressed and made up, and Saturday is practically over already. But feeling good, regardless. It was worth it, I think. I was on a total acid high at the movie, this time with no nausea, no bad feeling, and it was weird and unreal and exciting. And then when we came home, we went on a cocaine binge that lasted until the night (and the drugs) were gone. What a night. I just want to keep going forever while we're doing it, and then I always suffer the next day because I don't know how to say "Enough!"

I'm not sure I actually enjoy the agitation coke gives me. Is agitation "fun"? It makes me talk, it makes me write pages and pages in my journal, it made me clean up the kitchen at 2:30 a.m. last night. But does it actually feel good? And if it doesn't actually feel good, why do people spend so much money on it? Scott says we went through $300 last night alone ... I don't know if I can rationalize that much money for a little white powder on a plate. Think of all the clothes you could buy with that kind of money!

Evening:

Around 7:30 or so ... cloudy, warm, muggy night, dressed in shorts and one of Scott's floppy old shirts. He is padding around in the bedroom, getting ready to go over and take a sauna. He doesn't feel too good tonight. I don't either. Too many poisons in our system, I suppose. We just got back from a shopping expedition to Fred Meyer ... for some reason we just went hog wild with our money tonight and spent over a hundred bucks on clothes and toiletries and food and miscellaneous junk. It's so fucking expensive to spend a weekend at home!! It would probably be cheaper to just go out drinking & dancing, like the rest of the world, instead of holing up in our apartment snorting coke and going on shopping binges.

 






Sunday morning
April 29, 1979

Sunday morning, dressed and showered, sitting on the couch with the beginnings of another buzz. Smell of bacon and eggs and potatoes. Scott's brother Randy - bearded and barefoot and 25 years old, as of today - is in the kitchen, cooking our breakfast. He showed up at our door at 5:00 this morning, drunk and depressed, and Scott coaxed him into spending the night in the spare bedroom. I'm not sure, but I think Scott is going to ask him to stay with us for a few days. He's temporarily jobless and doesn't have a place to stay since he left Pam's. I hope he does stay.

After breakfast:

Nothing to say. I have run out of material ... there is nothing left to write about.

I wonder what it will be like, living with TWO men for the next couple of days? If Grandma V. could only see this ...

Evening:

Scott, Randy and I drove down to Burien to see Bill Vernon  - we stayed long enough for a beer and a couple of lines - and now we're home and waiting for the most recently ingested drug to take effect (a microscopic amount of that mescaline). Life is just one continuous high, ain't it?


WORRIES, APRIL/MAY 1979:

1. Five months non-communication between Dad & I

2. Haven't seen Gram and Gramps since November

3. Need to lose 20 lbs.

4. Haven't sent Dick a letter or $ yet

 






Wednesday
May 2, 1979

Scott and Pam's divorce announcement appeared in the Seattle Times tonight!  I've been combing the Vital Stats page every night, waiting for it, and tonight it finally showed up. It was officially final two weeks ago, of course, but seeing it in print is somehow reassuring. Somehow it seems more "legal" now.

Why am I so burned out tonight? Work wasn't any more tiring than usual, but I feel really worn down. Scott is taking a quick shower and then we're going to go out and grab a bite to eat.

Owe letters to: Sparky, Michele, Melinda, Tammy, Marie

Today I've been thinking about: the dream I had last night, when we all put the funny white powder in our coffee and were instantly able to read each others' minds - and how uncomfortable it made me feel, because Scott could see every terrible or embarrassing thought that crossed my mind, regardless of how desperately I tried to hide what I was thinking. I had never felt so vulnerable and EXPOSED. I wonder what it meant?

I've also been thinking about: possibly moving to Portland in two years, when Lusk Metals opens its Oregon branch and Scott is named General Manager ... a possibility that isn't much more than a possibility at this point, but nevertheless is something to think about.

At this point I'm certain of a future with Scott, including marriage and children and all the other things that go with.  At 21, I suppose everyone is "certain" of something or other.

11:00

Bill and Carol are over ... coke, pot, too many cigarettes, conversation, music in the background. Scott and Bill are comparing military experiences; Carol and I are inattentive and quiet. Comfortable. I like these people. Some of Scott's aluminum/drug buddies leave me cold, but Bill and Carol are genuinely likable. Everyone is sniffling. It's getting late but you just want to go on forever.

 

 

Part of me says - don't feel guilty about the things you do. You only live once ... your turn in the world is too brief for recrimination. You won't be 21 forever, so live it to the fullest and don't regret anything.

Another part of me says - The things you are doing are wrong. You're letting yourself become of the world instead of building up treasures in God's kingdom. Whatever happened to the old, Christ-centered Terri V.? Where did she go? Is she still in there somewhere, buried beneath all the temporal ... ?

 

 

RANDOM THOUGHTS ON A SNOWY NIGHT IN MAY

This is the beginning of a poem:

We were children
Before the heart of the world turned

The rest of the words haven't come to me yet.

Owe $5.32 to Pacific Bank

NEED FOR MY CAR:  Wash (exterior) -- Wax -- Vacuum & clean (interior) -- Registration -- License tabs -- drivers seat -- transmission (?) -- oil light -- new mats -- carpeting on top of dash

Books I'm ordering: Thesaurus, Rhyming Dictionary, 5 blank books, Time-Life Cookbook, Erotic Dreams

 

 

 

Now it's midnight and we've been doing coke with Bill & Carol for hours. I don't know how in the world I'm going to get to sleep tonight ... getting up for work tomorrow is going to be abysmal. Every nerve in my body is quivering. I'm racking my brain, desperately trying to think of a way to get out of going to work tomorrow. A car accident? Death in the family? Appendicitis? It would have to be something BIG and something believable - but nothing plausible comes to mind. Howard would never buy it.

Cocaine. Pot. Beans. Acid. Vodka. Beer. Mescaline. PCP. Hash. Cigarettes. All the garbage I put into my body. Why do I do it? Why does anyone do it? Good God in Heaven, why do you let your little people play with drugs ... ?







Friday lunch
May 4, 1979

Perched on the counter with my meager lunch of two chocolate chip cookies and a Pepsi on ice ... halfway through one of my more nerve-wracking days at Ridgway. Only three more hours and the day will be over and the weekend will begin ... thank God. I felt so rock-bottom horrible yesterday morning, after our late night coke binge the night before, that I did stay home from work (I used the vague & flimsy excuse of a sudden "family illness"), and I've been on tenterhooks all day today, waiting for Howard to come down on me. I've been absent so much lately. Fortunately he hasn't said anything yet, and if I can just manage to stay out of his way this afternoon, I'll be home free.

We've got to pick up Brittany & Mindy at 8:30 tomorrow morning, and Scott has to do some "running around" tonight that may or may not include me, but other than that there are no plans for the weekend.

Evening:

Almost 9:30 - sitting in bed with Scott, watching comedy specials on TV (Steve Martin, Best of Saturday Night Live) -  trying to go up, but feeling more run-down than usual. I don't know why. I worked hard today ... I typed 20 purchase orders and a handful of Carton Form Orders, straightened out and re-filed all the Carton Item Cards from G to K, typed several letters and memos for various people, put together a machinery quote for John Rea, etc. etc. - but that kind of work isn't physically exhausting, by any means. So why am I so run-down?

Who cares. I'm just so relieved that it's Friday night, and that I have a whole long beautiful weekend to relax! ... and I'm relieved, too, that Howard never made a big scene about my absence yesterday. If anything, he was friendlier towards me than usual! I guess I went to bed last night all wound up in knots for nothing.

 





Saturday afternoon
May 5, 1979

Late Saturday afternoon, and we are all cooped up in the bedroom together - Scott, Brittany, Mindy and me - because a man is cleaning the living room carpet (after a minor mishap this morning resulted in an overturned potted plant). A whole afternoon confined to a room with two restless little kids has left my nerves dangerously frazzled.

 






Wednesday lunch
May 9, 1979

Feeling miserable, physically, for the second work day in a row. Yesterday it was a hangover and lack of sleep, today it's some kind of cold or flu. One of the kids must have screwed around on the thermostat on the waterbed last weekend, because when we got up this morning the bed was freezing cold - now my muscles ache from it.   I've got another fucking cold and sore throat, on top of everything else ... I can't seem to get my body to cooperate lately ... if it isn't one thing, it's another. I ate a couple of beans this morning and they're keeping me alert enough to answer the phones and type at work, but as soon as I get home I'm going right to bed with Vicks on my chest.

 





Friday lunch
May 11, 1979

Still fairly "under the weather" ... the sore throat has given way to a racking cough, my nose is running like crazy, and I feel like I have a little fever ... but I feel GOOD, emotionally. And not just the usual "Friday-afternoon-thank-God-the-weekend-is-here" type of good, but a crazy, irrational buoyancy. Scott is going out for drinks with one of his customers tonight, but it hasn't even got me fazed. I'm actually looking forward to time spent alone tonight!

ITINERARY FOR TERRI V.'S FUN & EXCITING FRIDAY NIGHT!

Arrive home at 5:00
Change into jeans and blouse
Pick up apartment - make bed
Put laundry in

7:00 p.m.

Home ... wearing scruffy jeans and one of Scott's shirts, barefoot, hair in rollers, stereo playing, sun shining on a cool evening. Rhonda just called and sounded lonely, so I told her to come over. Scott should be home in the next hour, and he said something about maybe bringing Bruce and Tom and some booze to watch the Sonics game on TV. A party ... whoopee?

The coke just didn't do the trick tonight. I wailed through almost half a g. and finally gave up. I guess I'm just too run-down from the flu this week. Reading old journals, sipping a beer, waiting for a knock at the door.

After having read where I was a year ago, I guess I'm pretty damned lucky ... sitting in my beautiful apartment with the sun shining, playing my favorite music on a nice stereo loud enough to shake the people in the next building, waiting for my friends to come over. The ultimate irony, as it just occurred to me, is that now Rhonda is the one living with Mom & Dad, and I'm the one who is out on her own.   I guess that everybody gets a turn sooner or later.

 






Sunday afternoon
May 13, 1979

Waiting for Scott to get out of the bathroom, and then we're going to take a ride over the bridge and get half a g., just for the hell of it. I'm still sick. My cough is racking, choking, rasping, gut-squeezingly painful ... but at least the worst is behind me now & it's only a matter of ditching the cough. Sunny, quiet, lazy day.

Later:

Back at home ... we went to Bruce & Craig's instead, had a nice little ride in the sunshine, felt good. Scott's going back again in a minute ("as a favor to a friend") but I don't have the strength to do it all over again. The sun is just too fucking hot & bright for a sick person to bear! I look and feel lousy, and the fact that it's a gorgeous day just makes me feel unbearably grumpy. Sunshine and a hacking cough do NOT mix!

Evening:

Slightly buzzed ... sitting on the couch with an anemic screwdriver and a box of throat lozenges, watching a beautiful sunlight, listening to Scott & Bill (G.) talk about tequila and Bill's pizza restaurant and drugs. Peaceful. Wish I didn't have to work tomorrow, but that's nothing new, is it? Summer is almost here and I'm itchy for a vacation. Thinking back to those long, lazy three month summer vacations between school terms ... weren't those the days?? Nothing to do but sleep late every day and sunbathe and read until 2 a.m. every night.  At the time I always seemed to be depressed because of the inactivity, but I'd KILL for a little of that "inactivity" now.

Guess I should call Mom - Mother's Day and all.

 





Monday lunch
May 14, 1979

Feeling good, emotionally ... my throat is still raw, and I sound ragged on the phones ... but my spirits are up, at least. Today is another gorgeous, sunny day. From my perch here on the kitchen counter I can two guys in cut-offs tossing a frisbee back and forth in the fields across the road. I'm wearing a pink cotton skirt and a light, pink-striped top, and I feel pretty. That always helps my mood. I wish I had a couple of lines, but I've got to wean myself off it.  Too expensive, and who knows what it's doing to my body.

The apartment is cool and dark and neat ... a breeze is blowing through the open patio door. Scott has a sales meeting tonight so he won't be home until late. I think I'd like to go somewhere after work - I've got a full tank of gas and a little money - but I'll wait and see how I feel at 5:00, I guess.

Home:

Fairly drunk. Just drunk, nothing else. God, I haven't been like this in eons. I'm not sure I like it. Alcohol (all by itself, without a little c. to energize me) makes me feel sloppy and out of control, and I don't trust myself.

 






Thursday lunch quickly
May 31, 1979

Haven't written in you, Journal, for a couple of weeks, and I'm SORRY! No excuse, really, except that life has been very full lately, and sometimes it's easier to just live it than write about it. I always regret it when I lapse like this, but that's just the way it is. I have a lot to tell and I'll try to do some good catching-up when I get home today ... but right now it's time to head back to the office.

Later!

Evening:

HOT. Almost 80 degrees today, sweltering, stuffy, uncomfortable. My nose is burning from the first cocaine I've had in days ... last weekend was one of the most mind-boggling five days of my life, drug-wise, that I've ever had, and I've been cooling it since then, trying to get Terri's poor little bod back to normal. I'll talk about it later. We're on our way to Pizza King for dinner and a beer and there's no time.

Randomly on my mind:

All the world is tanned and beautiful, and I look like an albino ... staying at Randy Taylor's house last weekend: Bruce, Pat Love, acid on wheat bread, hot tubs, water beds with mirrors on the ceiling and the craziest weekend ever ... 



"The Acid Weekend"
Spring 1979

...  my white shoes are falling apart, and I'm thinking about getting a new pair tonight ... Scott's surprise gifts last weekend - two sexy new bras (one black, one white) and two new negligees (one blue, one white) ... The Moody Blues concert last Friday ... Toot turning from a kitten into a CAT, right before our eyes, and waiting for "Bob" to be weaned so we can bring her home to join the family ... our on-again, off-again roommate Randy, and Scott's mom calling this morning to say she's flying out to live with us ... new summer hours at Ridgway - getting to work at 7:30 in the morning and getting out at 4:00 ... my hair grazing the middle of my back ... a haunting new song on FM radio that I've only heard three times - I don't know the name of it or who does it, but the refrain goes, "Don't ever wanna lose ya"* - knowing that it will always bring Spring 1979 to mind ... the gas shortage, and waiting in lines to fill up my tank ... meeting Dan F, DJ from KING-AM, at the Redmond Post Office, and finding out that he lives in our apartment complex ... new pen pals Charles C. (another Sparky??), Mala K., Betty V., Bonita A., and more to come ... Scott's new haircut, and me teasing him about it ... a madly-scribbled note on a Black Angus coaster on a drunken Friday night ... two clams fighting over breathing holes ... life, going on and on ...

I'm so happy. Tomorrow is the first day of June 1979, and the sun is shining, and I'm 21 years old and pretty and talented and I have the greatest boyfriend in the world. I have a tolerable job and a beautiful apartment and my drivers license and a car, and the best thing of all is that there's so much more ahead to look forward to. Scott and I will move into a house in the fall, and within the next couple of years we'll get married and we'll have children and I'll write books and poems and live happily ever after.

Geez ... I'm not being too optimistic, am I?

Gotta go. More tomorrow, if I get a chance.

 







Friday lunch
June 1, 1979

First day of June, and it's got to be in the 80's, at least. Beautiful, hot, clear, sunny. Scott gave me a couple of toots to take to work and I'll probably do them in a minute, but first I'm busily shoveling several pieces of cold pizza into my face ... lately my appetite has been just enormous, and I always seem to be hungry.

Looking and feeling good today. My hair turned out OK, I'm wearing my two-piece rose colored dress and the new shoes I bought last night, and I feel attractive. Besides which, it's Friday and I only have two more hours to work and then the weekend will be here again. I wonder what we'll be doing tonight ... ?

 






Monday lunch
June 4, 1979

Another crazy weekend come and gone and today it's back to the old grind once again ... absolutely ravenous, waiting for my leftover chicken to warm up ... now that summer hours have started at the office, the morning seems interminably long. Scott and I partied heavily on Friday and Saturday, mostly at a few nearby taverns that have become our favorite haunts - The Towne Crier, The Irish Rose, The Somewhere Else, Pizza King. Last night we were going to go the drive-in and see "The Exorcist" - we even went so far as to buy tickets and park in the theater - but we were just too burned out and we left before the movie even started!

 





Tuesday night
June 6, 1979

Buzzing like crazy. Just spent a nerve-wracking fifteen minutes trying to find you, Journal, and now I don't have a damned thing to say to you. I feel:  tense ... high-strung ... cranky. I have the motivation to write something, but basically have nothing to say. Cocaine makes me sweat and grind my teeth and sniffle a lot ... it hardly seems worth it. Parts of me are starting to hate the stuff, but I can't leave it alone. Neither can Scott. If it made me feel wonderful I could understand it, but more than half the time I feel like absolute shit. It doesn't figure, does it?

Just did my last toot. C.C. is on his way over - it's 8:15 now - dumb old Beach Boys record on the stereo. Gray, cloudy, shitty night ... and all I can think about is C.C. getting here so I can put more of that fucking white powder in my nose ...

 






Wednesday night
June 6, 1979

All three of my "current roommates" - Scott, Randy and Ray McGowan from next door  - are sitting in the living room, passing a joint around, talking. I'm in the kitchen with my back to the three of them, thinking, trying to scribble a couple of pointless letters, fighting that horrible end-of-the-coke feeling. The apartment is hot, smoky and over-crowded. I need a bath and a four year vacation from cocaine.

10:00 p.m.

Now I'm sitting in bed, freshly showered, shampooed, shaved, powdered, manicured and nightgowned, watching "Vegas," waiting for Scott to leave the guys in the living room and join me here in the bedroom so we can do a last toot and slip into sleep.

Randy has been staying with us, on and off, for three weeks now ... and while Ray is between houses, we've somehow inherited him, too. One sleeps in the guest bedroom and one sleeps on the couch, depending on who gets "home" first. At first it drove me crazy - no privacy, all the phone calls, all the noise and intrusion - but Scott keeps assuring me that it's only temporary so I'm bearing up. Sort of.

10:30 p.m.

And now I'm sitting in bed with my "family" (Scott and Toot) ... Ray and Randy, ever the night owls, have left to find something "better" to do, and we're sitting in the seclusion of our bedroom, doing toots and watching TV, smoking and relaxing (or trying to: cocaine isn't exactly conducive to bodily relaxation).

When it's good, it's very good - I write like crazy and think clearly and feel tremendously motivated, and I can drink like a fish all night and never get the least bit drunk - but when it's bad, it's the pits. But ENOUGH about that.

I had an interesting thought while I was taking my shower - the beginning of a poem, maybe? - "To find yourself, you must first be lost." It's probably been said many times before - I don't claim sole authorship! - but it's a start, anyway, and I can work on it and expand it.

Question: Would it work out if I try to fix up Ray and Rhonda this Friday night?

Am I going to feel rotten in the morning again?

Too buzzed to write.

 







Saturday afternoon
June 9, 1979

Another auspicious event worthy of record ... Scott and I became adoptive parents again today. "Bob" has joined our little family. We picked her up this morning and I love her already! She looks a great deal like Toot, but she's less volatile, less frantic.

8:00

Waiting for Rhonda to show up ... buzzing like crazy, looking reasonably good. We're double-dating with Rhon and Ray tonight. God help us.

Sick and tired of too many people in this apartment!!

 






Sunday night - LATE!
July 2, 1979

Geez ... almost a whole month since I wrote last!! I'm getting pretty lax, aren't I? Bad sign ...

As my handwriting shows, I'm really in no condition to write anything in my journal - good old c. all evening long, and I'm just cooking. I feel great but my handwriting is a mess. All kinds of stuff whirling around in Terri's brain ...

1. Almost midnight.
2. Standing in the kitchen, freshly-showered, bathrobed, flushed, twitching, full of energy.
3. The trip to Portland w/Scott this weekend ... great fun! Just got home tonite.
4. A call from Rhonda tonite, out of the blue ... she's got a new boyfriend, some VIP at KJR radio, and she's head over heels.
5. Wrote five letters tonite - Dee Dee, Beth May, Clifford, Dick, Tammy.
6. My new car!!!!!!!!  (a '79 Chevy Chevette).  A gift from Scott.
7. Scott's mother staying w/us.

More tomorrow maybe?

Me during our first house-hunting trip to Portland.
I didn't realize it would take me another eighteen years to get there.
Age 22 ~ Summer 1979

 

3:55 a.m.

Never mind ... ! I've fucked up again and I'm too ashamed to write about it! In three hours I've either got to call Howard with another implausibly phony excuse, or else I've got to look spritely and lively and ready for work. (Sure.)

4:30 in the morning and oh my God I'm still sitting here on the kitchen counter, every kind of high, 2-1/2 hours until it's time to report to Ridgway Packaging ... and I am scared shitless!! The coke supply is frighteningly low, so I've kinda painted myself into a corner, haven't I? Somebody ought to shoot me before I hurt myself.

 






Tuesday afternoon
July 3, 1979

Skipped work.

 






Wednesday
July 4, 1979

'Bout an hour ago we had no plans ... now we have too many. Mom is expecting us, and so is Bill. Hmmm. Sitting on the counter. Randy and his mom are talking in the bedroom.

 






Sunday evening
July 8, 1979

Seems like I've gone into another of my periodic, unexplained writing slumps ... can never seem to find the time or the motivation to scribble a word or two anymore. I don't know why. With Scott's mother staying with us the past two weeks, I've taken pains to keep this journal - along with any other personal writings - out of sight, stashed under the sofa or in a closet. Afraid that she might pick it up some day when Scott and I are away at work and she's here alone in the apartment. And then when I don't have my journal handy, I tend to forget about it. That's maybe one reason I haven't written. Another reason ... laziness? Lack of interesting material to write about? Lack of free time? Too coked up all the time? Not coked up enough ... ??

Whatever the reason, I feel bad about the lapse. I always do whenever this happens. A huge chunk of Spring and Summer 1979 is going to go unrecorded, and I'm not happy about that. I know that right now I'm living a very important and special part of my life, and for my own sake I should be keeping track of it.

But enough recrimination ... and on to a quick word-portrait of where I am & what I'm doing at this moment. A stuffy, humid evening in early July ... 10:00 p.m., July 8th. I'm sitting on the bed in a woolly bathrobe, clean hair pulled back into a ponytail, freshly manicured and feeling clean. Scott is just out of the shower and sitting beside me, naked, clutching a magazine, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, a cigarette burning in the ashtray beside him. The TV is on across the room - "Prime Time Sunday Night" with Tom Snyder - but neither of us is paying attention. Very warm in this room, although this was a generally overcast day ... a light sweat is breaking out on my nose and chin.

 






Wednesday night
July 11, 1979

My "word portrait" was interrupted for one reason or another. Now it's Wednesday night and, of course, the buzz is on again. Isn't it always?

I want to write but I don't know what to write about. So many things have happened in the days and weeks that I haven't written, and it would be impossible to catch up now. So maybe just a quick run-down on the bigger things ... my feelings on the more important subjects in my life in July 1979:

HOME

This apartment is my home. For a long time I wondered if it ever would be, but it is. This is where everything is for me.

MY JOB

Sometimes I love it and sometimes I hate it. I'm torn ... part of me would rather not work at all - I hate the regimentation - but I would probably go crazy without a certain amount of "schedule" in my life. On the minus side, I hate the condescending attitude of some of the men in the office. A receptionist is just an extension of the telephone to them, more or less. On the plus side I'm good at my job, I love talking to people on the phone, I like being in charge of my own work schedule.

ME (PHYSICALLY)

I weigh 140 lbs., which is the heaviest I've ever been. My clothes don't fit and I feel dowdy in public. I haven't tanned at all this summer and I'm white as a sheet. This is all bad. HOWEVER, my hair is growing quite long and I love it. Besides, Scott thinks I'm beautiful and that helps.

ME (EMOTIONALLY)

Happy. Stable. More or less secure.

SCOTT

The most important topic of all. Describing him to a stranger, I would probably say something like this: medium height and weight. Thick, sandy colored hair, fairly short. Neatly cropped moustache. Startlingly blue eyes, very beautiful and intense, long lashes, arched brows, gold rimmed glasses. Quite attractive, not only in appearance but in demeanor and attitude. Words to describe him: self-confident, self-assured, confident of his abilities. Arrogant, stubborn, argumentative. Knowledgeable - retains information and uses it to his best advantage later. Social. Approachable, easy to talk to, articulate. Monopolizes the conversation sometimes, but never to the point of being a bore. Impulsive, but with a streak of prudence that eats at him sometimes ... recklessness vs. restraint. Easily absorbed. Capable of utter concentration, irritated when interrupted. Strong. Not easily swayed. Not easily moved by tears, hysterics. Not prone to emotional outbursts. Tender. Prone to guilt. Aware of responsibilities even though he sometimes ignores them - hence the guilt. Sentimental. A romantic at heart. Respects women on the whole, me in particular. Tolerant of faults. Impatient with slow changes. Sensual, atmosphere-aware.

The rhythm of living beats in this man, and he celebrates every day.

ME (A SUMMARY)

Medium height, slightly overweight but not enough to matter yet. Large breasts, thick waist. Long, thick, straight brown hair. Blue-grey eyes. Light clear complexion. Fairly pretty when she tries to be. Introspective, familiar with workings of her own mind. Intelligent, although she doesn't utilize it to the fullest. Rhythmic. Artistic. Religious, deep down inside. Aware of God. Sensitive to moods and feelings of other people. Intuitive. Creative. Idealistic. Easily swayed, easily manipulated. Not entirely honest. Indirect. Emotional - given to violent outbursts. Guilty. Irresponsible. Careless - "looks before she leaps." Inconsistent. Sensual, pleasure-oriented.

 






Thursday night
July 12, 1979

Barely dragged myself through this day at work ... totally burned out from late-night tooting and talking. Tonite we're doing more of the same, but on a vastly smaller scale. I've been in a good mood, though, and that helped a little. A salesman from Pacific Iron & Metal came in to talk to David K today - Bruce G - and later in the afternoon he called and asked me out. That raised my self-esteem about ten notches. Then when I got home and told Scott about it, it turns out he & Bruce have been BUDDIES for quite some time!! Scott got on the phone and pretended to be really pissed. "Hey, what're ya trying to pull, hitting on MY WOMAN?" he snarled at Bruce. It was hilarious.

 






Friday lunch
July 13, 1979

Friday the thirteenth ... good thing I'm not superstitious. I just ate two chocolate eclairs within the space of about one minute.

 





Thursday night
July 19, 1979

I've been scouring this apartment for my journal for an hour now, and of course now that I've found you it's impossible for me to write anything that makes sense. Isn't it always the way? I'm embarrassed about the way my writing looks ... I'm embarrassed also, thinking that anything I write at this point will sound like Dr. Seuss at his worst ... when in fact I feel MENTALLY as sharp as ever and desperately desiring to have a good "write" in my journal, but PHYSICALLY incapable of writing anything that won't embarrass me in the morning. But fuck all the emotional/physical/paranoid stigma!! I've been having FUN tonight, and I feel like writing about it!

Scott called me at 3:00 at work and told me he would be home at 9:00 because he had big dealings to take

(interrupted)

 






Monday evening
July 23, 1979 9 p.m.

Scott is on his way home from Burien ... I THINK ... I HOPE! ... and I am perched here on the kitchen counter, waiting patiently. A new desk sign is sitting beside me on the counter, "Terri V. - Receptionist" - a Blue Oyster Cult album is on the stereo, previously played a million times - waiting for Scott and the half a g. of toot he promised. I "entertained" Toby for over an hour while he waited for Scott to show up, but the business deal failed to materialize and, like dominoes, we have all been knocked over and left flat.

Maybe after a toot I'll be able to write more.

 






Wednesday evening
July 25, 1979

So much on my mind. We've been having a virtual heatwave the past week or so, and although it seems to have broken somewhat today, it's still too warm, and I feel hot and cranky and totally devoid of energy. We met Craig at the Pike Place Market downtown and picked up a g. - just got home with it and it's already half gone. Don't really feel much like writing, though. I owe letters to Bonita and Sparky and Roger and Sue P., but in my present frame of mind my penpals are more a burden than a blessing.

 







Friday afternoon (lunch)
July 27, 1979

Waiting for my hotdog to finish broiling ... sipping a beer. Cloudy, overcast day. Not particularly looking forward to this weekend. Scott is leaving on a fishing trip with his Lusk Metals buddies & co-workers, which means that I'll be left behind, alone here in the apartment all night Saturday and all day Sunday. Shit. I'm hoping that Scott can get a g. for me - so I can numb my sorrows! - but it's not looking too likely.

I flash hot and cold about the prospect of being alone all weekend. Scott told me about it on Monday, and I've been vacillating between dread ("What am I going to DO all weekend?") and almost-anticipation ("A whole weekend to myself, to do whatever I want.") Sadly enough, it mostly depends on my drug supply and what he can come up with for me.

 

 

 

What happened next is both embarrassing and infuriating for me to remember.   I got drunk and goofy the night Scott was gone and made a pass at one of his friends at a party.  When Scott got home from his fishing trip, his friend told him what I'd done.  Scott went ballistic.  It was almost the end of our relationship.  What infuriates me about the whole thing, even so many years later, is the fact that he'd been sleeping with his ex-wife behind my back, off and on throughout the year, yet he still made a big deal out of my comparatively minor indiscretion.  

 





Tuesday lunch
July 31, 1979

Sometimes when something really awful happens to me, I go into a state of emotional shock and can't really write about it for a week or so. That's the way I am now ... numb.  Shocked. Frightened. My heart is split into a million pieces, and as much as I want to write about it -- as much as I need to write about it -- I can't. Scott and I are through, and there are no words to describe how my heart feels right now.

 






Thursday at work
August 2, 1979

Surreptitiously sneaking in a word or two as I sit here at my desk. So much to say. So much on my mind ... I'm going to short circuit from mental overload. Scott and I may or may not be back together. It's too soon to tell ... but then, I haven't even had a chance to write about us breaking up, have I?

I'm walking around on figurative tip-toe right now.

 






Friday lunch
August 3, 1979

Some day-old Wendy's chili is bubbling in a saucepan on the stove ... Toot is intently watching my every move from her spot on the floor, hoping a stray chili bean or two might fall her way. It's cloudy and cold today - the mood at work is tense and irritable. Pete and I were talking this morning, and he made the comment that everyone at Ridgway is in a bad mood this week. He's right - everybody is extra touchy - but I hadn't noticed it until now. I thought it was just me. This has easily been one of the hardest weeks I've ever lived through, and it has left me drained. I'm so thankful that it's Friday. The pressures between Scott and I, combined with the sour mood at the office, have really been a strain, and I need two days of rest and relaxation if I want to remain sane ... !!

I'm still pretty much in limbo as far as Scott and I are concerned. On Monday and Tuesday he told me that I should start looking for a new place to live, because the relationship was over as far as he was concerned. Later he relented somewhat and said that I can stay until he goes to Portland, but that I am definitely not going with him. He doesn't want to get married again, he doesn't want any more children, he's not looking for another long-term relationship, and we are the wrong people for each other. All things he said during the two day siege. It was the most horrible 48 hours of my life. I can't even begin to describe how I felt ... devastated, destroyed, ripped apart, humiliated and scared to death ... but the worst part is that I deserved every word of it. I earned every bit of it. I was totally dishonest with him and I humiliated him in front of his friends ... eventually I will tell you specifically what it was I did ...   he was more that entitled to cut me off.

The past couple of days things have been more or less back to normal. We cooked steaks on the grill last night, showered together, sat in bed watching TV, made love, said "I love you" ... all the little things ... but I sense an undercurrent of something, and undoubtedly another confrontation brewing.

Evening 8:30

Scott is at the Lusk Metals inventory.

 






Early Saturday evening
August 4, 1979

Scott his taking his shower ... I'm waiting for Harris and Marsha to come over so we can leave for our evening of drinks and dinner. I'm happy tonight ... tranquil.

 






Monday lunch
August 6, 1979

Dying for a cigarette, but I've turned this apartment upside down and can't come up with one. AARRGGH! Seems like the only time I crave one is when I don't have any.

This weekend was strange - late partying on both Friday and Saturday nights, and staying in bed all day Saturday and Sunday. A regular night owl, right? Saturday night with Harris and Marsha was pretty wild. We ate dinner at The Butcher, then went to The Towne Crier for one dance, and then came here to our apartment and partied until dawn. Total craziness.

 






Wednesday evening
August 8, 1979

Feeling a little "punky," as Scott would put it ... I think my period is preparing to start, and I feel slightly depressed and hollow and unaccountably sad. Today at work Jerry Foley and I had an unpleasant scene: I forgot to give him a phone message for one of the girls in the plant, he hopped all over me for it, I told him to stop "harassing" me, he threatened to report me to Howard ... I ended up bursting into tears. The guy is a real jerk and no one at work gets along with him, so I shouldn't feel singled out  ...   but the timing was just bad, I guess. I took it to Howard, so things are straightened out with my boss, but it's going to be a LONG time before I'm civil toward Jerry. The whole episode was so ridiculously petty, but who knows ... maybe I needed the emotional release.

Things between Scott and I are good again. Last night I had a terrible dream -- the same old dream I've had since childhood, about Grandma and Grandpa dying -- and I woke up when it was over, crying and trembling and scared ... but Scott was laying there next to me, so I reached over and wrapped my arms around him and held him until the fright was gone.

I desperately want to write, but I can't. I keep flying back and forth.

Took a shower and washed my hair ... I feel a little calmer, anyway.

 






Wednesday lunch
August 15, 1979

Cloudy and cool today ... delicious relief from the hot weather. Waiting for my hamburger to broil ... mentally kicking myself for leaving my paycheck sitting on my desk at work ... now I'll have to drive back to the office to retrieve it, then all the way back here to the apartment to leave if for Scott, and then finally all the way back to the office. My gas is low and it's going to be a tight squeeze timewise. What a hassle.

Been feeling vaguely depressed the past month or so ... nothing seems to be in control anymore. I feel sloppy and guilty and harried all the time anymore.

 






Thursday evening
August 16, 1979

Scott is in Bellingham for the night.

 






Saturday night
August 18, 1979

And tonight he's at a poker game at Ken W's. I'm feeling lonely and depressed and angry with myself for my social condition. Lately I've been so down-in-the-mouth about the whole condition of my life, I can hardly stand to look at myself in the mirror. Everything seems so pointless. I've been grappling with the idea of death and the impermanence of things, and I wonder, Why bother? Nothing lasts.

 






Tuesday night
August 21, 1979

Watching the late news ... sitting in bed with my wet hair wrapped in a towel, buzzing slightly from the c. that Scott brought home. He also brought Bruce home with him ... they're out in the kitchen talking, but I've chosen to hibernate. I cooked him a huge chicken dinner with the works, expecting him to be home at 6:30 to eat it, but it was nearly 10 before he finally got here.







Wednesday lunch
August 29, 1979

Lunch today: warmed-over Oriental rice and beef chow mein from last night's dinner, now heating in the oven. Another in a series of cloudy, foggy, grey days ... the type of weather that I love, a prelude to autumn ... but everyone else grumbles about. The apartment is fairly neat from a frenzied bout of housecleaning during yesterday's lunch hour ... a pile of one day overdue library books at my elbow ... the stereo playing softly in the living room ... my paycheck on the counter, waiting to be cashed. I'm in an unusual mood, not particularly up or down. Scott is taking me shopping after work to buy some new clothes - sorely needed. I haven't the faintest idea what to get. I'll just have to wait and see when I get to the store.

Scott's left wrist is broken after a night of drunken debauchery last Saturday ... I'm bruised and scratched EVERYWHERE from that same night.

 






Thursday after work
August 30, 1979

Home from work ... perched on the counter with a toot and a can of Squirt, listening to Scott make business calls in the living room. Glad to be home. Today was one of the dullest, slowest days I've ever spent at Ridgway, and I spent most of the afternoon drinking coffee and reading old "People" magazines.

Fun calls today: Peter Carlander, late afternoon - "Are you as cute as you sound?" ... Rod Markel, early morning - "Hi, accident-prone!"

My clothing purchases yesterday: two narrow, button-front skirts, one navy blue and one brown. An off-white, long-sleeved blouse, and a long-sleeved, maroon print dress. Everything fits fairly well - the brown skirt is a little snug around the waist, but I need to lose weight anyway so this should be incentive. Today I wore the blue skirt and the blouse and actually felt well-dressed for the first time in months. If Scott can work it out financially, he'll give me another $100 this weekend so I can pick up a couple more things ... maybe another dress or two, and a couple of blouses. (And another pair of black pants, since I MELTED mine with a too-hot iron yesterday!!) I'm so fucking tired of looking like a slob around the office, compared to Patti and Max.

Sad news - last week we learned that Dick F. is dying of cancer. He's working half-days now but they say he only has six months left.

People Who Are Mad (Or Mildly-Disgruntled) With Me Right Now:

1. Jerry F.
2. Marsha
3. Bill ("Pizza King") G. & assorted friends
4. Dad
5. Dick

He's bringing me another plate, isn't he? (Nope.) (Yep.)

Beginning to feel really buzzed. What nice toot. Scott and I had sworn it off, once again, but it can definitely become addicting - not necessarily in a physical way so much as a mental way. A few days without it, and it's all we can think about. Going out to a movie or bar-hopping just doesn't seem like much fun without it ... we just get sloppy-drunk and stand around in phone booths a lot, looking for drugs.

I hate to see this weakness in me, but I already have so many other weaknesses that I don't know how one more could hurt.

 





5:51 a.m.
  Alarm goes off. Scott lumbers out of bed, showers, makes coffee. I snuggle under the comforter for a few more minutes.

6:18 a.m.  I crawl out of bed. Visit the bathroom. Blow-dry my still-damp hair; brush my teeth and wash my face. Saunter out to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee, black and bitter. Back to the bathroom to set my hair with electric rollers.

6:30 a.m.  Scott is dressed in jeans and sweater. I'm puzzled, because I know he won't be working today (his wrist is broken). He is in a buoyant mood. Kisses me on the cheek, says "I'll be back in 20 minutes!" and bounds out the door. I carry my wicker basket of cosmetics into the bedroom, turn on the TV ("Not For Women Only" - today's subject is step-parenting), sit on the bed and begin the familiar process of making up my face and eyes.

7:00 a.m.  I am finished making myself up when Scott comes back, carrying a box of Winchells Doughnuts. We eat doughnuts and drink coffee for a few minutes, then I must dress.

7:15 a.m.   I am dressed - new blue skirt and blouse - and I look nice. Scott presses me against the wall and kisses me, hard. I take the elevator down to my car. It is cloudy, overcast and beginning to rain. I drive to work, singing along with the radio.

7:30 a.m.   I am at work. Take the cover off the typewriter, turn down the thermostat, pull up the blinds. My "In" basket is depressingly empty ... this will be another slow day. One letter to type for Dave K.  (Jerry at Puget Sound Refrigeration). I am too embarrassed, in my obviously-new clothes, to go get a cup of coffee, so I sit at my desk and begin a letter to Clif. Dave gives me a $10 bill and asks me to pick up some stamps for him at the Post Office.

8:15 a.m.   Patti comes up to relieve me while I go to the P.O. I walk down to my car, drive the 4.3 miles to downtown Redmond, pull the Ridgway mail out of Box 875, stand in line to buy stamps.

9:00 a.m.  Back at work. I open, sort and date-stamp the mail, and then walk down the hallway to distribute it.

9:15 a.m. - Noon.   A three hour stretch with relatively little to do. I answer the phone. Finish my letter to Clif and envelope & stamp it. Type a corrected Form Order. Several Purchase Orders. File posted acknowledgments, posted Form Orders. Doodle. Start letters to Sparky and Karen. Watch the clock. Pass out job applications to people who come in.

Noon finally arrives.  I hop into my car and drive to Herfys in Redmond to pick up lunch for Scott and I. Patti and Max and Freda and Pam have gone to Black Angus together for lunch, and I try not feel left-out. It is 12:20 before I buy the burgers and make it back to the apartment. Scott is on the couch, surrounded by papers and notes from work, the new white telephone sitting next to him. We eat, talk, kiss. I leave at ten minutes to one. Check the mailbox - no mail yet.

1:00 to 4:00.  Back in the office and bored again. I drink a lot of coffee and read back issues of People magazine. Answer phones - Peter C. calls, one highlight. Buzz W. is another - "You're a sweetheart," he says, and I say "Thank you!"  Scott calls, still in a perky mood, and says that he has a little c. for when I get home. No mail, he says. I doodle, read, yawn, talk to Pete, Patti, Pam, Dave.

4:00.  The mail is all stamped. I cover the typewriter, close the blinds, gather up my things, put the phone on Night Bell and walk out to my car. Semi-heavy traffic on the way home. I sing along to "Don't Ever Wanna Lose Ya." Today I choose not to drop off the mail, come straight home instead.

 





7:15 p.m.

I have approximately three toots left, and while I'm still a little buzzed and things are quiet here around the apartment, I believe that I will "scribble madly" for a couple of pages and bring this journal to a somewhat frenzied end. Tomorrow I'll go out and buy a new one - probably after work, and probably at 7-11 or Pay 'N Save, and hopefully I will be more consistent about writing in the next one. I really despise my inability to stick to it and write something, even a paragraph, every day. During my last year at Highline, when I was taking the creative writing classes with Lonny Kaneko, I became really adept at journal-writing, and I was proud of myself - that year is meticulously chronicled, and I get immense satisfaction out of reading it. This year, tho, I became lax and lazy and lost the motivation to write, so this whole notebook is disgustingly inaccurate and spotty. And the things that hurts about that is this year has been one of my best. It was my first year with Scott, for one thing. Whether there will be more years is a question for the future, but the point is that this year was worth recording & I let it slip by. So many things have happened that I'll forget about, and I should have been wise enough to preserve them on paper.

But enough recrimination. On to better things.

It is August 30, 1979, and autumn is approaching. For me, fall has always felt more like a beginning than January does, and I cherish that. I look forward to fall. I welcome it. I guess that it's a good time to move on to a brand-new journal and begin all over again.

Something that I think about - what will happen to my journals after I've died? Who is going to read them? Or will anybody ever care enough to bother? Are they going to wind up in somebody's attic (a son? a daughter? a grandchild?), yellowed and mildewing and forgotten? Will they be destroyed in a fire, or tossed into a garbage bin in the year 2057 by some distant descendant who doesn't want a bunch of ratty old notebooks cluttering up her garage .. ? Curious to think about such things and not know the answers. My fantasy is this: that a grandchild or great-grandchild, late teens or early 20's, sensitive and intelligent and romantic by nature, someone who remembers me only as a withered old lady, or maybe doesn't remember me at all, discovers the carton filled with old journals in an attic one day and begins to read them ...

 






Friday afternoon
August 31, 1979

Home from work, and now I have a whole beautiful three day weekend before I have to face the typewriter and the telephone again. George let us all leave an hour early today (3:00). Next week we go back on our regular working hours, which for me will be 8:30 to 5:00; that means I can start sleeping till 7:30 every morning again.

Scott is sitting in the living room with Ray. I'm here in the kitchen in a Highline College T-shirt and ratty pair of jeans, doing a couple of toots, sipping a beer and trying to get my thoughts organized.

5:30

Making myself too fucking dizzy. Scott is in the shower and Mike is on his way over with a six pack.

6:15

He still isn't here and I'm dying for that beer ... all kinds of shit dribbling down the back of my throat, and I am definitely over-buzzed. I've gotten to the stage where it doesn't even feel good anymore.

 






Monday afternoon
Labor Day 1979

Winding down a lovely three-day weekend. Feeling like I should write something, anything, but I'm so damned lazy anymore that writing is an effort. Doing anything, for that matter, is an effort. I'm pitifully out of shape, just on a physical level. But beyond that, my brain is out of shape. I never get enough mental exercise these days.

But I'm not in a bad mood, despite the gloomy way I sound. This was a neat weekend - relaxing, rainy, spent a lot of time alone and a lot of time with Scott, both. I'm not exactly looking forward to going back to work in the morning, but on the other hand I'm not dreading it, either.

9:37 p.m.
Same night

Scott is in the kitchen (with Randy, this time), taking care of "this and that." I'm here alone in the bedroom, watching a hilarious re-run of "WKRP In Cincinnati" (my current favorite TV show). Just washed my hair and did my nails - layed out my clothes for tomorrow morning (new brown skirt, tan blouse) - and am now trying to wind down enough to go to sleep. I've spent so much time this weekend in this bed that I'm not concerned about how much sleep I get, but rather that I sleep soundly. (Quality, not quantity.) My dreams lately have been strange, involved and exhausting.

Waiting for Scott to bring my last toot in to me. I've got about a quarter to take with me to the office, which has me feeling strangely exhilarated.

I hope I'm not as drug-oriented as I've let this journal sound.

I suppose that I might as well finish everything up tonight, as far as this journal is concerned. I've got a fairly nice buzz on, I'm in a fairly good mood ... and I'm running out of pages!! Tomorrow I'll pick up a new notebook.

Brief synopsis of the weekend: Friday night, buzzing out of our heads, Scott and I headed down to The Towne Crier in Redmond (I drove) for a few beers and to listen to a band called Barney Armstrong. Somehow or another we struck up a conversation with two guys at the next table, Brad and Dick, and they ended up coming home with us for late toots and beers until dawn. Saturday was a day of recovery ... I never even got out of my bathrobe! Early bed, TV and a nice chicken dinner.

Sunday, Scott went to the Seahawks football game with a customer and then out for an early dinner, while I stayed here enjoying the rainstorm and a corny old Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin movie on TV. Sunday evening was, once again, early dinner, bed, smoking pot and watching TV.

Today was "Labor Day" in every sense of the word. I thoroughly cleaned out my clothes closets and drawers and threw out all the old ratty things I know I'll never wear again. We had planned to cook ourselves a big turkey dinner tonight, but that fizzled out when our appetites "disappeared."

At this point in my life - threshold of Fall 1979, 21 years old - I don't even know what's important yet. I have priorities, of course, and a couple of near-future goals, but they don't amount to much as far as a "life plan" goes. I just sorta drift from one life situation to the next, absorbing the changes as they come.

I have absolutely no idea where I'll be one year from now ... who I'll be, what I'll be, where I'll be living The future is one big, fuzzy, uncertain void. I hope that I'll be happy. I hope that Scott and I will still be together, harmoniously, in one context or another. Of course I hope, most of all, that we'll be married, but having him in my life in ANY capacity is what counts.  I hope, also, that I'm still working at a job I enjoy ... if not at Ridgway, then perhaps someplace comparable (and maybe better-paying?) I hope that I have found some new social outlets ... maybe a close girlfriend. On a peripheral level, I hope that I weigh 15 or 20 pounds less and that my hair is waist length.

But ... speculation doesn't really get you anywhere, does it? I've already said this, at different times and in different words -- I'm unhappy with the sketchiness of this journal -- I hate the fact that there are whole giant chunks of my life in 1979 that have been left unrecorded. I realize that I'm not the most important human being who has ever walked the face of the earth, and that the world is going to keep on turning even if I skip entries in my silly little journals ... I don't mean to sound so self-important. The person who cares the most about this journal - and all the ones that have preceded it, as well as all the journals to follow - is me. I'm the one who gets pleasure most out of reading them. That's why I'm the one who suffers when I don't record things consistently. And that's why I want to make a conscious, deliberate effort to write something, at least every-other day, in my next journal.

Now it's 11 p.m. Scott is still out in the kitchen with Randy, but now Toby has joined them. I'm totally buzzed, still here in the bedroom. Fortunately we've got some good pot, so I should sleep OK tonite.

Thanks, Journal. Hope I do better next time.

 

 

Songs I Listened To During This Journal:

"Don't You Write Her Off" - McGuinn, Clark & Hillman
"Music Box Dancer" - Frank Mills
"Fade Away And Radiate" - Blondie
"Just When I Needed You Most" - Randy Van Warmer
"Knock On Wood" - Amii Stewart
"The Logical Song" - Supertramp
"Roxanne" - The Police
"Hot Stuff" - Donna Summer
"Love Is The Answer" - England Dan and John Ford Coley
"Don't Ever Wanna Lose Ya" - New England
"Don't Bring Me Down" - ELO
"My Sharona" - The Knack
"Hot Summer Nights" - Knight
"Sad Eyes" - Robert John
"Does Your Mother Know?" - Abba
"Drivers Seat" - Sniff and The Tears
"Hey St. Peter" - Flash In The Pan
"I Do The Rock" - Tim Curry
"Lovin, Touchin, Squeezin" - Journey









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