Friday Nostalgia

Ah, the exquisite noise of Clackers! We could listen to it for hours--or until our mother took it away from us. Then we had to play with Dee Dee's down the street.

Stolen from www.toynfo.com:
It was essentially two large marbles attached by a sturdy string with a ring in the center. You would put your finger in the ring allowing the marbles or balls to hang below. Here is where the fun starts. The idea was to get the two balls tapping (or clacking if you prefer) against each other by pulling up on the ring lightly. Once you got the hang of it, you could get them going faster and faster until they were smacking each other above and below your hand in a stunning arc.

These toys are now legendary. They started finding their way into the schoolyards in the early seventies and in 1971 were yanked from shelves because kids were suffering eye injuries when the fragile, glass-like balls were shattering from the violence of contact with their mates. I believe a plastic version may have been released after the original and the more menacing version was pulled, but I don't think that it enjoyed the same popularity.

****Here are the Romper Stompers--another favorite toy-- Collin referred to in the comments:

Cerberus: Three-Headed Guard Dog of Hell

Harpy, Minus-Five, and last, but not least, Mary



So here's the story Biggy told Lola:

Instead of going to work today (for which he risked getting fired), he drove a hundred miles to the Cobb County dump and spent hours--in the hot sun and pouring rain--sifting through egg shells, dirty Q-tips, and dead bodies until he found Spiderman, whereupon he took the toy to a special superhero drycleaner who removed the blood, coffee grounds, and baby poop (and who, unfortunately, removed as well Lo's lovely glitter-paint-decorations) so it looked BRAND NEW.


Yes, everything is back to normal.

Early A.M. Conversation

TR: I think I'm going to post a screen shot of the FJ Cruiser forum and show everyone what you do all day.

Biggy: Whatever. Maybe I should be visiting Poetry Daily.

TR: Yeah, well if you were camped out on Architecture Today I wouldn't bust you for it. That would make sense.

Biggy: That's because I make my living that way--actual money. It's not just a hobby.

TR: Nice.

Biggy: Why do you always leave yourself open for that? You know I'll take advantage of it every time.

TR: Which shows your extreme lack of imagination.

Biggy: I'm not a "creative writer." [He makes the quote gesture with his fingers.]

TR: You're not coming to my reading at Georgia Tech. I don't want you there. Just so you know.

Biggy: Oh, not only am I going, I've already ordered the t-shirt I plan to wear.


Ruins Of The Day

When we moved into our house, we didn’t have the furniture for a formal dining room and didn’t feel the need for one anyway. Since Lo was only two, we decided just to use that space as a playroom for her until we got in the mood to entertain anyone besides our closest friends and immediate family, something that never happened.

Lo rarely actually plays in there these days, but the toys continue to pile up and I continue to throw them into the various boxes, crates, and wagons, or to create little stacks against the wall. And every so often, Biggy goes through and sneaks out a few items—games with missing pieces or stuffed animals she’s lost interest in or should have outgrown. Ideally, he shoves these deep in the curbside trash, and Miss Lo is none the wiser.

If only things had gone so smoothly this time.

Yesterday’s toy box casualty was a three-year-old stuffed Spiderman doll, about four feet tall, that Lo had decorated with glitter paint back when she got it. She never plays with it anymore, but it must move itself around the house, because I’m always tripping over it—in the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the closet.

Biggy placed the doll in the big Waste Management receptacle, making sure to cover it up good with pizza boxes and newspaper. She’d have never missed it, either, if the garbage men hadn’t decided to make it their mascot.

As luck would have it, the garbage truck came while the elementary school kids were all standing around the bus stop with their parents (Biggy’s job, in our case), waiting for their ride. Once the truck had finished loading up in the cul-de-sac, it headed back out, past the bus stop, whereupon one of the dads, Steve, exclaimed, “Look, it’s Spiderman!” Indeed, Spiderman was hanging on the back of the truck, hooked where a shovel might ordinarily go.

Lo was horrified. Biggy was panic-stricken.

But wait—there was hope. The truck made some progress but was in sight, when Steve shouted, “Hey, Spiderman fell off in the street!” Biggy would be saved. With the bus pulling up, he promised Lo he’d go rescue what had now been promoted to Favorite Friend status. With Lo still in shock but snuffling her relief, the bus took off for school, and Biggy started walking up the road.

Alas, before he could get within shouting distance, the garbage men, having discovered Spidey missing, returned to retrieve him in the nick of time, then disappeared, leaving only the stench of sour milk, dirty diapers, and rotten potato peelings.

I wouldn’t want to be Biggy when Lola gets home.


Whatever Turns You On

After Lo's first softball practice of the season, she and Biggy stopped off at Target to buy a present for a b-day party she's going to this afternoon. Biggy scored big with these--on clearance for four bucks!

Later, as they were leaving the house again, with him planning to drop her off at said party and run some manly errands:

TR: Why are you wearing your new cleats to Home Depot?

Biggy: From now on, I want you to call me Coach.


Picked up this free Creative Loafing knock-off at the local pizza joint last night. Wow, have we had fun with it--especially given the remarkable resemblance.

Not even a chuckle, though, out of Miss George.


Late For Work Again

Every morning, from the time I wake up and walk down the stairs to make coffee, I'm stepping over--or on--the dogs. I take them out before feeding them their "wet" food, which doesn't keep them from begging for Pringles as I make Lo's and Jack's lunches. They scratch at my knees while I eat breakfast, and then, after they watch me shower, they lick the water off my ankles.

But around the time I'm applying mascara, they disappear. I never really notice until I have my keys in my hands and I'm ready to walk out the door. This is when I start looking for Daisy and Stella to put them out on the screened-in porch--somewhere they don't want to be. Until today, I could always find Daisy sleeping on Georgia's bed or on my own pillow. I'd put her up and start screaming for the little rat, Stella. I have to search closets, pat down blankets, and look under furniture. She gets better with practice too.

Evidently, Daisy's been taking notes, because today, they both hid. It was 8:35 when I found them--Daisy under JackMan's bed and Stella under Lo's--so far back in the corners I had to crawl on my belly to drag them out by their tails. I had a 9 a.m. meeting to make--and a 40-minute drive to get there.

Friday Nostalgia

Yep. We were a two-Pinto family, with both me and my father driving Ford's engineering disaster. My father's was emerald green. Mine was the classic color--white with a black gas cap.

A little history from the Web: There was strong competition for Ford in the American small-car market from Volkswagen and several Japanese companies in the 1960’s. To fight the competition Ford rushed its newest car the Pinto into production in much less time than is usually required to develop a car. The regular time to produce an automobile is 43 months Ford took 25. Before production however, Ford engineers discovered a major flaw in the cars design. In nearly all rear-end crash test collisions the Pinto's fuel system would rupture extremely easily. Because assembly-line machinery was already tooled when engineers found this defect, top Ford officials decided to manufacture the car anyway, exploding gas tank and all, even though Ford owned the patent on a much safer gas tank. Safety was not a major concern to Ford at the time of the development of the Pinto. Lee Iacocca, who was in charge of the development of the Pinto, had specifications for the design of the car that were uncompromisable. These specifications were that "the Pinto was not to weigh an ounce over 2,000 pounds and not cost a cent over $2,000." Any modifications even if they did provide extra safety for the customer that brought the car closer to the Iacocca’s limits was rejected.


Ten Rules For Visiting A Pregnant Woman

In spite of the fact that I violated every single one of them when Minus-Five and I dropped by Anne's on Saturday, I offer you the following guidelines, carefully formulated during my own four pregnancies:

1. Don’t call at the last minute and ask to come over. Give her plenty of time to change out of her sweat pants and pick up the Snickers wrappers.

2. Arrive when you say you will. She has to wait 6, 720 hours for the baby to get here. Don’t dare make her wait for you too.

3. Do not show up empty-handed. A lady’s gotta eat. Gourmet pickles are nice. Or chocolate.

4. Be sympathetic; don’t wear heels or anything with a belt.

5. Don’t argue with your sarcastic sidekick about whose fault it was you got lost. You are not Sonny and Cher.

6. Do not tell divorce stories.

7. No dead dog stories either.

8. When a pregnant woman asks to take a picture of your armpit, indulge her willingly. It won't kill you to smile.

9. Don’t stay too long. After twenty minutes, she’ll need to pee or eat a jar of peanut butter, and she’ll want to do it in private.

10. Be a giver, not a taker; don’t ask her for directions to the airport.



Georgia Waxes Philosophic

G: You know how I used to have it every two weeks? Now it's every two months.

TR: I should make you a doctor's appointment. Would you rather see a gynecologist or the nurse practician at the pediatrician's--since you already know her?

G: I don't want anybody I know all up in my junk! Then next time we run into each other, it'll be all, "Oh, hi, I've seen your vagina."

TR: OK. You could go to my regular doctor. He's very cute.

G: HE is cute--I don't want to go to a man. I want a woman who looks like her name should be Helga.

TR: I don't think I can find that out in the yellow pages.

G: This is all bullshit, anyway. You should get one period in your whole life. Period. One chance.

TR: Like when you're 28-and-a-half?

G: Yeah. And there'd be a test before, to tell you the week you can get pregnant. And if you don't feel like having a baby that week--well, it sucks for you.

Quality Time

Watching "Cops"


Another Lucy and Ethel Moment

After a whirlwind weekend of hanging out in my office at work, watching Lo play with the turtle at my house, and having lunch with my mother and grandmother at Doc Green's, it was time for Minus-Five to return to her much less exciting life in New York. Her flight was at 9:10 p.m., and we left in plenty of time to stop off at Anne's, buy a year's supply of cigarettes in Hapeville, and still get to the airport by 7:00. Which we did.

Biggy had planned to take Lo for pizza, so I had another hour to kill keeping MF company while she smoked a carton of cigs. We sat on a bench outside, near the AirTran baggage check, and enjoyed some stellar people watching and problem solving, such as one woman's Ford Tempo dying curbside and three twenty-somethings trying to figure out how to get themselves AND their Buick-sized luggage into a Mercedes McLaren. In the meantime, we discussed everything from how feet get so dirty in Manhattan to why women wear thongs, during a conversation that lasted until I noticed it was 8:45 and suggested MF should probably head toward the terminal.

I was about twenty minutes into my drive home, reliving the finest moments of the visit (showing her the courthouse where I got my divorce and driving by the Big Chicken) when my phone rang:

TR: You did NOT miss your flight!

MF: Oh yes I did.

TR: You've GOT to be kidding.

MF: Are you going to make me spend the night in the airport?

TR: I'm turning around now.

When I pulled up right beside where she was standing on the sidewalk, she was too busy talking and smoking with her new best friends to notice, so I had to call her. She got in the car, and I waited for her to tell me what I already knew--that her bags were headed to LaGuardia, and we needed to stop by Walgreens to get hair products.


Look Who's In The Crying Chair

Friday Nostalgia

This vampire soap opera ran from 1966-1971. I'd rush home from the bus every day after school so's not to miss it. Barnabas Collins, the main character, is the reason that, until I was a sophomore in college, I couldn't sleep at night unless the sheets were pulled up over my ears, covering the soft bite-spots on my neck.



While we were having Georgia's senior pictures made this weekend, I was stunned again by how much like my sister she looks. (Of course, Miss George straightened her hair for this occasion.)


Preparing for Our Houseguest

Tonight, I'm folding laundry, and Stella's helping as always. These are some of the towels Sarah will be using.

Off to a Great Start

Georgia got home from work around 9:30 last night, went straight to the kitchen, prepared an enormous fruit salad with yogurt, and proceeded to hit the books. She had an essay to write for Geography, already, and that was “just the beginning.” I didn’t try to talk to her at first, because she turns into Sybil when she’s hungry. Better to wait until she’s spooned a few bites of banana in. Then:

TR: Are you cranky 'cause you're starving?

G: I don’t have any time to eat at school. I mean none.

TR: Why don’t you take a Cliff bar or something?

G: What part of NONE do you not understand?

TR: Something you could eat walking to class…

G: And that’s another thing! We have exactly seven minutes between classes and it takes fifteen minutes to get from one side of the building to the other. And that’s on a good day--no police dogs in the doorways, no band geeks carrying tubas, and no cheerleaders making pyramids. Most of my classes are on C Hall, and my locker is on T Hall…

On the opposite side of the school.

The farthest locker.

The one near the exit.


True Gourmet

Tonight, I was bragging to Biggy and JackMan about the fact that I'd cooked two nights in a row. Last night, hamburger casserole. Tonight, Chicken (Helper) Alfredo.

Mamoo's Tattoos

Here's what my mother (I'm 43--you do the math) picked up on two recent trips to Mexico. She's about to leave for her third cruise and plans to get another.

Mamoo: It's true, what they say about it being addictive.

TR: Just say no.


Bow To The Big Yellow Bus

Today, I'm celebrating the start of a new school year. What kind of miracle is it that my kids disappear each morning to be entertained--taught even!--by the someones whose sole job it is to lead, supervise, and discipline them ALL DAY LONG. Hooray for teachers! Hooray for the monstrous brick buildings! Let's hear it for the principals with their ugly tie tacks, the lunchroom ladies with their little hairnets, and the custodians with their muddy mop buckets!

Georgia got up extra early to make the chocolate chip pancake batter so Biggy could make Lo's breakfast. Nice teamwork.

For their LAST first day of high school, the senior girls wear black dresses and attend a special breakfast of their own. Here's mine and Biggy's conversation this morning concerning the event:

TR: Apparently, some of the moms are going over to the breakfast to take pictures.

Biggy: Who has time for that?

TR: I'm guessing those moms don't have six-year-olds AND seventeen-year-olds.

Biggy: They don't have jobs either, because their husbands are loaded.

TR: True. I'm going to try not to feel guilty.

Biggy: I'm just glad it's free.

Our first-grader. Biggy tries not to cry.

We couldn't find her a bigger book bag.

Look how excited JackMan is about his first day of high school.


Classy Clarinet

That's the headline in the ad for the Atlanta Symphony orchestra in today's AJC. To make matters worse, they put a b&w version of this photo in an awful layout with an even more atrocious font combination. Classy indeed.


My First Modeling Gig

Gary W, the Illustration advisor here at PC, asked Georgia to pose for his students today, so she came in at 1:00 and sat until 4:30. I started worrying about her driving home in traffic (She had JackMan with her!), so I offered to sub for her during the last half hour, something I am loathe to do. At this very moment, I'm typing as I pose for six artists who had better NOT spend too much time sketching around my eyes and who had better be kindly blind to the crow's feet between them. Most of these guys are my students, too, so I imagine they're getting a big kick out of my embarrassment. I'll take a shot of their work when the session is up.

In the meantime, what to write or rant about? The only real news is that I started Celexa last Thursday, after twenty years of staunchly resisting boarding the anti-depressant bandwagon. My biggest concern has always been that medication would affect my writing. But since I haven't written a single poem anyway since I finished my manuscript in January, I figured I've got nothing to lose. I'm hoping the meds will help not only with depression, but also offer some relief from the anxiety that keeps me awake at night, wondering whether I should have bought 1% instead of 2% milk, as well as the obsessive thinking that drives me to google the kid who stole my Donnie Osmond lunchbox in fifth grade.

So far--9 days into it--I feel calmer, less anxious, if slightly blue and flat. Still, I'm sleeping better, and yesterday when Biggy and I had a bit of a "conflict," I was able to go about my day and function pretty happily until he got home from work. In other words, I didn't call and email him, seeking an immediate resolution, which always just compounds the issue. That's a major improvement from where I stand. I haven't gained any weight, which was also a huge concern, and I haven't lost the desire to jump my husband's bones--so far. The good outweighs the bad, then, at this point. It's supposed to take a month or so to really tell if I'm on the right pill.

We've sure come a long way since Valium and Xanax, the mother's little helpers of the late 20th century. When I was in college, suffering from bulimia, I saw a shrink at the UGA clinic. I had a difficult time trusting she could help me, because she was an obese chain smoker who looked and sounded like Jabba the Hut. Anyway, she made me keep a food journal and prescribed Xanax, which turned me into a zombie. Zombies don't eat anything but human flesh, though, so hey. It made the journal-keeping easy. That was my last venture into mental health pharmaceuticals. Until now. I'll keep you posted.

Well, time is up in the studio. Their sketches make me happy.

MORE Friday Nostalgia

Stolen from Wikipedia: The 1989 [cult classic] Heathers centers on a high school student named Veronica Sawyer (Winona Ryder). Veronica is part of the most popular clique in Westerburg High School in Sherwood, a fictional suburb of Columbus, Ohio , made up of three pretty and wealthy girls with the same first name: Heather Chandler (Kim Walker), Heather Duke (Shannen Doherty) and Heather McNamara (Lisanne Falk). The girls play croquet with each other, are mean-spirited, use their own unique slang, and play cruel pranks on people. Even though they are worshipped and adored, the Heathers despise everyone who isn't in the clique, and continuously bully socially awkward classmates like the overweight Martha "Dumptruck." Veronica finds her "friendship" with the tyrannical Heathers both tempting and repellent, as it is mostly based on peer pressure, domination and vanity. She even says that they're not really her friends, just people she hangs out with because it's her "job" being popular.

Friday Nostalgia

The book was published in 1974, when I was 11. It probably took a year, though, for it to trickle down from the older kids. It taught me everything that little film in 5th grade Health class left out.

Brief Summary: "The Other Side of Midnight" is the story of Noelle, a naïve young French woman who falls for a handsome American aviator during World War II. But when the war ends, Noelle waits in vain for her handsome flyer to return. Alone and abandoned, the young woman finds that she has to make her way by selling her body.


Concealed Weapon

Yesterday, on the way home from Hodge’s Army/Navy, Jack took his new butterfly knife out of its box, ran his fingers lovingly along the handle, and sniffed the metal.

Lo: What does it smell like? Can I smell it?

JackMan: I’m not gonna let you smell it.

Lo: Please?

TR: C’mon, Jack. Just let her smell the dang knife.

JackMan: No way!

This evening, I took Jack to his friend Miki’s to spend the night. Lo was in the backseat. As I was pulling out of Miki’s driveway, I suddenly had a hunch.

TR: Lo, do you think Jack has his new knife with him?

Lo: Yeah, I saw him with it right before we left.

I imagined Miki falling on it, the blade piercing his heart, and JackMan using his socks to stop up the gushing hole with one hand while googling “stab wounds” with the other. I pulled back up the driveway and went to the front door.

TR: Did you bring the new knife?

JackMan: (Slight hesitation) Uh-huh. I wanted to show it to Miki.

TR: You can’t take that out of our house. Give it here.

JackMan: Mom, don’t be such a loser. What’s going to happen?

TR: Someone will die, and I’ll be arrested, because you’re not eighteen. I’m not leaving until you hand it over.

JackMan: You suck.

TR: I know.

He took the knife out of his pocket and slapped it in my palm. I went back to the car.

Lo: Did he have it?

TR: Yes, he did. It’s right here.

Lo: Can I smell it?

Lo's New Tattoo


Yesterday, in the 5:30 a.m. class, during a discussion about their upcoming poster projects, Hank had the students draw sketches of the first time they experienced prejudice personally. This prompted a lengthy conversation about the subject, which reminded me of an incident that is never far from the front of my brain anyway.

I like to consider myself an open-minded person, someone who tries hard not to judge people in general, and especially not according to such things as ethnicity or cultural background. And this despite the fact that I was raised in Powder Springs, back when people of color lived literally “on the other side of the [railroad] tracks.”

When I left for college, I didn't even know what a Jew was. So when I came home one weekend and told my father about my new boyfriend, whose last name was Lichtenstein, I didn’t understand all the questions he proceeded to ask me. In my father’s defense, he didn’t appear to have a problem with it; he seemed more curious than anything, probably about how the boy’s parents felt. (They did NOT approve, by the way.)

All this to say I grew up in a white-bread town and had a white-bread perspective. College in Athens (UGA) opened the world up a little wider for me, and my group of friends was actually quite diverse. Still, I did catch myself crossing the sidewalk when someone “other” was headed my way—someone whose skin was a different color, or whose clothes and hair looked dirty, or, hell, any man who looked like he could take me—that nut of fear lodging in my chest. Pretty much, all men over four feet tall were suspect, unless they looked like ice skaters. Like Flannery O'Connor's Mrs. Turpin, I tended to sort people into categories.

That cross-the-street tendency got worse over time, and more so after I had children. Then I’d have to scramble and fight the wheels of the stroller, sprinting through traffic to get away from whatever strange man I might have spotted a mile up the road. He was probably packing heat, you know, or had some GHB in his pocket. At the very least, I was sure he’d ask me for a cigarette, coughing on my baby.

Then, one day, something happened that turned my fear on its head—something I think about often, rolling it over and over, unable after all these years to determine what it means exactly or how I should apply it to my life in a positive way:

It was a sunny day in the Morningside neighborhood of Atlanta, a very nice, expensive part of town, where the houses started at half a million, in the late 1980’s. We lived in an apartment near Emory University, and every day I’d jog through this area, slightly paranoid that some man in a white utility van would mistake me for a rich socialite and try to kidnap me.

On this particular jog, though, a car full of young women, twenty-ish, passed me in a gold Camry. There were four of them if my memory serves, and they looked much like me at the time (I was 28 but convinced I didn't look it)—young, white, All-American, good teeth. I waved at them as they approached, the way I’d always wave at old people, or at anyone who reminded me of myself. But when they got close enough to where I was running on the sidewalk, one of them leaned out the back window and swung a big wooden paddle at me, yelling, “Take that, Bitch!” I jumped out of the way, just in time, felt the breeze of it on my face.

I was stunned. At that moment, my reality shifted. How could this be happening? What could they possibly have against ME, a run-of-the-mill white woman with a small kid and an infant at home? I assessed what I was wearing—nothing skanky, nothing trendy, the usual gym shorts and t-shirt, neither grungy nor torn. I wasn’t loaded with make-up and my hair was in a neat ponytail. Completely innocuous. I turned off the main drag and went down a side street. I’d begun to get my bearings again when here they came for another shot. More swinging, more obscenities, and they weren't playing around. I had to cut through several yards to lose them.

Having successfully retreated, I stopped. I walked home shaking, completely defeated. If those girls weren't safe, then who? It would be weeks before I’d run on the street again.

The lesson made me re-evaluate my prejudices. While I suddenly had to fight the urge to Fear Everyone, I clearly understood how ridiculous it was to judge someone is by his or her appearance.


Whatever Lola Wants...

After 48 hours of begging and pecking, I gave in and took JackMan and Lo to the Army/Navy surplus store this afternoon. The cavernous place has no AC, and the propeller-sized fans that blow in the corners serve only to suck more hot air inside. I dragged around behind my son and daughter as they looked at camouflage fashion, gas masks, and the smaller weaponry. I won't confess to what the boy bought, but the girl got the satchel in the picture above. This is the conversation after, in the car:

Lo: When I get home, I'm going to fill my bag with hunting stuff--a flashlight, a compass...Do you have a pocket knife I can have?

TR: I think I know where one is.

JackMan: Are you KIDDING me?! You're really going to give her a knife?

TR: Just a little one. Jeez.

JackMan: When I was six, you wouldn't let me cut my own sandwich.


Two Years Sober Today

Here's a poem from the new manuscript, published in The Chattahoochee Review long before I became poetry editor:


she dreams she’s invited
to a dinner party in Napa,
where mustard flowers
dangle on tender stems,
and wild turkeys amble
close to the road:

the hostess, pretty
as a porcelain doll,
minds a risotto, her slender feet
balanced on the six-inch spikes
her bi-coastal lover,
always due any moment, likes
best poised on his chest,

and their house, perched
like a toy on a sand hill,
looks down on the valley,
has a deck overlooking air,
where guests lean
their loaded whispers
toward one another

as the dreamer
sips a temperamental
’67 Chateau d’Yquem
from Vindel crystal
as delicately blown
and easily shattered
as a marriage, as a redheaded child,
as all the things that matter.


Lola & Tallulah

Our house has an apartment in the basement that we rent out to a nice young couple in chiropractic college. They recently became parents to this Cocker Spaniel puppy and made the mistake of telling Lo she could come down and get it any time.

Lo believes possession is nine-tenths of the law.


Cooter Skirts and Sexercise

We made a rare trek to the mall today for Lo's back-to-school clothes--an incredibly traumatic experience that will take me weeks to get over. All those teen girls dressed like Ho-Bag Barbie causes sensory overload. Then, Lo gets on and rides this "fitness" machine in the window at Brookstone; I can't drag her off it.

Oh yeah, I'm putting that thing on my Wishlist.


And What's Wrong With This Picture?

My car was in the shop, so I was forced to catch a ride with Biggy.

(Yes, we are moving in traffic.)

My Circle of Hell

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Second Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)Moderate
Level 2 (Lustful)Very High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)Low
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)High
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)Very Low
Level 7 (Violent)Very High
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)Moderate
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)Moderate

Take the Dante's Divine Comedy Inferno Test

Friday Nostalgia

Pretty icky, huh?

About Me

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Writer, teacher, student, mom.

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