Well, I have left my failed (abusive) marriage to Mr. Williams and have been forced back to California after living with my two children in New Zealand for over 7 months, trying to seek refuge there while failing to win the right to stay in New Zealand High Court. (I mentioned in Crossing the Chemo Room that I did not write all about my life--some things are too hard to write until we are free of them).

The children and I were living in a big, affordable house in a nice Maori town by hills and the sea, going to local schools, wearing uniforms (a slightly different kilt for Jessica), making friends, and facing up to a life that didn't turn out as we had hoped. We battling the International Hague Convention to stay safely in New Zealand, where we have been coming for four years now, and where the air is pure and the water so fresh you can drink from the streams as you hike (not to mention the Southern Alps for skiing, sheep farms, lakes, rivers, forests, The Lord of the Rings settings, and the hospitable Kiwi spirit).

Some call me crazy. Others call me brave. You decide. I left a place and person I did not feel safe near for a land beyond the sea. I feel in love with a wonderful Kiwi man who would not think of screaming at me for hours, let alone smashing my laptop or hitting me or the children. Now we are back in our California mountain and fighting a huge court case, abusive man, social stigma, and financial problems.

Any emails from friends, family, and website readers are welcome (as are any donations, large or small, toward our new life here as I struggle to sell the books I have for so long given away).

I also need a bigger publisher, literary agent, and filmmaker to promote my amazing survival story.

I will be finishing the Selah Trilogy (book two, Selah's Sword is nearly done, set in New Zealand, with Maori words, nature names, and customs) and my 3rd nonfiction book--Tomorrow in New Zealand, about my life as a spy, abused wife, International refugee, Court battler, etc.).

Thanks to all of you who visit my website. My offer of a free cancer survival book to a cancer patient who cannot afford to buy one still stands, as my Rich Father (as you know, my earthly one died before I was five) provides--with help from generous Kiwis (New Zealanders) and American family & friends.

Last year my family went to New Zealand, which is
located East of Australia, one of the closest places
to the Antarctic. In New Zealand, there are two
islands: the Northern Island, home of the capital of
New Zealand (Wellington), and the Southern Island,
where my family was there longest and where I had my
first public school experience (I have been
homeschooled my whole life in America--both of
my parents are college professors).

Two of my most memorable moments in school where
probably my funniest. The first took place on my
first day of school. I was very nervous and wearing a
Scottish kilt uniform, just trying to fit in as a kiwi and
awaiting the dreadful name I hear everyone gets at their new
school. All the people did the first day when I was
introduced as an over-seas visitor was gather around
me in a large circle and all talk at once with a bunch
of questions about my home.

For the time I was there, which was about a month, I
was known as "The New." I was quite hoping for
an original name, but I guess "New" was probably
better than some.

But on with the memory; each time I would step out in
the hallways kids of all ages, 12-16, would beg me to
speak. "Say 'California'!" Was the most common
request I would get, for they seem very obsessed with
the American accent and Hollywood, which
is located in California, and rightfully, my home.
Every time I would say "California," they would giggle,
then try to mimic my accent, but it always came out as
a "CAL-ifornia," like a Texan. No one could copy my accent.

The second funniest was even more amusing. It took
place with my least favorite teacher, Mrs. Gibbs, in
English class. I did like the class, but I started to
understand why kids think their teachers are either
insane, or they just decide that they like substitutes better.

Mrs. Gibbs was very strict, and throughout the whole time

I was there; the only time
she smiled was for a photograph I took. What happened
in English class was everyone was quiet (and supposed to
be), for we were all doing an assignment in class--
creating a poem with a particular structure.

Naturally, Mrs. Gibbs--who was and still is British
at heart - seemed to like to pick on the new American
whenever she could. While I was writing my poem, Mrs.
Gibbs was hovering over my shoulder and glaring at my
work, as if she could (and would) tear apart it with
her gaze. Suddenly, in her stern and strict voice,
she said, "You spelled 'grey' wrong." I looked up at
her from my chair with an eyebrow lifted. "But, Mrs.
Gibbs, that is how Americans spell it. I can change
it if you would rather." Mrs. Gibbs held her
glare/stare, then walked over to the chalk board
quickly, grabbed a piece of chalk, and heavily wrote
down the word "G-R-A-Y," as I spelled it. One of my
friends at my desk said, "It's spelled G-R-E-Y, Jess."

Everyone then looked up at the chalk board, and I'm
almost sure I heard audible gasps. In her booming
voice, Mrs. Gibbs spoke with a slight drag in her
words: "Now, what is wrong with the word MS.
WILLIAMS (she made sure to emphasize the name)
used?" Everyone in the room went off like an
automatic response: "She spelled it wrong." By then,
I was sunk down in my chair a bit. It seemed
everyone's gaze was on me, and I SWEAR they had red
eyes and evil grins. Perhaps it's just my
imagination, but really, the stares and things were
quite embarrassing.

Once that was out of the way, though, I made sure to
never touch the word "gray" in New Zealand. I kept it the
way Americans spell it, just as a trade mark and to make
fun of everyone. America, as I know it anyway, is a
free country. But after I left MacKenzie College, I
was very sad but thankful people cared about me. I
got several hugs and goodbyes and good lucks on my way
home, and they hoped I would come back ASAP.
Thankfully, though, we've already been to New Zealand
twice, and I'm going back this summer (their winter),
just like last year. I'm very excited about it, and
I'm sure my friends will be too. They've been
faithfully e-mailing me and can't wait for even the
possibility of me coming back. It is very different
in New Zealand from America, but that's just the way I
like it.

But, no offense intended, I'd rather spell it

"G-R-A-Y." Sounds more poetic to me.

Well. Yesterday was an interesting day...

I was awakened by my favorite sound--an alarm clock blasting. I was so tired from the day before, even though I went to bed at 10:30 p.m.. I just haven't been getting deep sleep lately. I also heard something like it was part of growing up. Being an adult must SUCK if you can't even get deep sleep at night! (If you're starting to wonder why I'm being so humorous and whacked-out, it's because I started blabbering yesterday to my mom about how humorous I could make the day as a journal entry. Of course she took advantage and ordered me to write it in a word document for Lord knows what. If it requires a computer though, I'm in. Quite an awful weakness).

Anyway, I slapped my hand over to the dresser beside me, right where my alarm clock always rests, and soon felt a pain rushing through my hand. I moaned, and slowly opened my eyes, the alarm clock buzz getting even louder (it does that over time), and I saw it was not in its place. I growled (yes I growl at things that annoy me) then went searching for it by sound with my eyes closed. It turned out to be resting under my pillow. It runs on batteries, so there are no wires. I looked at the time, then over to my brother, innocently "sleeping" in the bed across the room. My clock was "magically" set half an hour early. In annoyance, with eyes very heavy, I turned over, facing the wall. Turns out, I couldn't fall back asleep. For 15 minutes I lay on my side and thought about what was going on in my life and what the "Carnival" my mom was FORCING me to go to would be like. Suddenly a voice boomed behind me, clearly someone (my little brother Jonathan) singing:

"Jessica is so stupid, Jessica is a jerk! Come right on over and watch her; she's so fat she can't scream! Her pimply face looks so ugly, I'm sure you'll die . . . just seeing her pimply, stupid and fat . . . FACE!"--the daily morning routine.

He knew I was awake, but I kept my place, pretending to ignore him. He came really close behind me and repeated the song as loud as he could without our mother hearing--she was 2 rooms away. (Yes, The Thing knows how loud he can get without an adult hearing).

Jonathan returned to bed quickly, suddenly hearing footsteps. My mom came into the scene. "Okay. Jess, Jon--get up! We've got to be there at 8."

Jonathan sprung up (like always) as she left and started making more lyrics about me to well-known tunes. He got dressed, then after a very long time got me to tumble out of bed by force. His little thing is to tangle my covers. *Sniffles pathetically* And it always takes me forever to make my bed. After everything else goes wrong at home, with mom complaining I didn't make her tea or get up...

We arrived at the Carnival. It started at 10, but the pancake breakfast was from 8-10. We got there at 9:50, not bad for my mom. An hour and . . . *pause* . . . uh . . . 50 minutes late, right! *Nervous smile as she points to the huge sign over her head saying "Feels stupid" with an arrow pointing to herself*

After that, mom bumped into the main coordinator. Meanwhile, I'm dazed out watching the pathetic girls who dress like they're desperate for guys and very good-looking (even though they're not, sorry). After my brother skipped off with a friend, I started walking towards the field where the Carnival is getting started; my mother comes up behind me quickly. "You're going to be helping out with the Carnival. They need helpers. Go see the lady with the clipboard."

"Mom! You ALREADY volunteered me?! You ALWAYS do that! All I wanted to try to do today was have fun, perhaps fit in!" She looked over my outfit, which was all black (like my mood) then smiled. "Consider this an added punishment." Then she walked away. I grumbled and walked off to what she told me to do . . . and guess where I was stationed.

The giant blowup whale! And what joy I got in finding my mother would be working with me. I was told the instructions to the large blue whale, where you go inside through the mouth and out the other end, a maze and several objects inside for the littler kids. "Make sure there's no more than 6 children in it at a time, and that they all keep moving. No shoes or hats allowed inside, since there are high winds and things. Keep them in line. One stands at the front, and one checks the side continuously."
You should have seen how serious the Carnival Guy sounded. I almost laughed and went insane knowing I was going to help a whale--who had a human's legs and fins left over from a scuba diver sticking out of his mouth, mind you--digest children. Mom got the front, and remarked at how hot a day it was and that I was wearing black. Really, the whole thing I hated, but it was nice seeing children so happy. And hey. I got a free hamburger and cotton candy. I didn't even get sunburned, but my mother did, even though she was in the shade with sunscreen almost the whole time . . .

This has been my longest journal entry, most likely. I'm feeling quite stupid and hyper . . . and today has not been as exciting as yesterday . . . not that yesterday I had fun . . .

Ugh. Whatever. There was yesterday . . . *Glares at mom* And there was your journal entry you wanted for Lord knows what. *Growl*

Go into your child's bedroom just before she falls asleep (this works really well on a twelve-year-old girl). Start looking under her nine-year-old brother's bed (yes, I know she needs her own room--we're working on that--got to kick the cats out of the spare room first). Use a flashlight. Move things around under her brother's bed.

Child: "Mom, what are you doing?"

Mom: (using a tactic often used by children on their parents) "Nothing."

Puzzled silence. Start looking under the dresser that lies between the two kids' beds. Move papers around. Find a toy soldier and throw it out from under the dresser.

Child (in an elevated voice): "Mom, WHAT are you DOING?"

Mom (in a normal voice): "Nothing."

Sit on the brother's bed and start waving the flashlight back and forth while giggling hysterically.

Child (in a very elevated voice): "Mom, what is WRONG with you? I am trying to sleep here. Tell me what you WANT before I throw a stuffed animal at you!"

Mom (in a pathetic voice): "Where is my brain? I seem to have lost it since I had children."

Child (in a sleepy voice): "Outside in the tree. Now, will you please leave me alone?"

Mom: "Oh, thank you. Maybe I'll find it."

Wave the flashlight a few more times and exit the room, still giggling.

**That's It, Parents!**

1. Have you ever been too tired to brush your teeth?

2. Do you like eating cold cereal with milk for dinner?

3. Do you sometimes want to throw your beautiful new silver Mac Powerbook laptop computer through your window and scream "I hate to write, my neck hurts, and I'm tired of paying for a chiropractor!"

4.Yes, I typed every single word in this huge website which I designed and maintain myself. Thank God for high school touch-typing courses. Webmasters to be, get out your "Mavis Teaches Typing" CD-ROMs.

5. Why do people have parrots as pets? Is being being bit on the ear fun?

6. Why do movie stars (who basically look good and can speak lines) get paid more than teachers (who are enlightening the next generation)?

7. Why do stay-at-home Moms (who work 24/7, have a job they do out of their home, and don't get two-week cruises to Hawaii) get looked down on by a society that pays actors more than teachers?

8. Why do Homeschoolers not get paid at all?

9. Why isn't there an Oscar (or something like it) for fathers who diligently take their nine-year-old sons to Little League baseball practices--and don't spit, swear, or throw gloves like some people we could mention?

10. Why does my kitchen keep attacking me (stuff falling out of cupboards, refrigerator expelling contents, sodas exploding on the floor)?

11. Why do rich people from the valleys drive shiny new red Hummers up our mountain? Are they going into combat against the mountains?

12. Why are Hummers even made when they get 9 miles per gallon during gas price hikes and air pollution warnings?

13. Why is my lovely mountain more crowded, polluted, still covered with dead trees, and ready for a new fire season--yet the prices of houses have gone way up?

14. Why did I lose my heart to New Zealand?