I pick up the remote again.

"Oh, c'mon! The game is on!" His yell was familiar.

"There is always a game on. I'm bored with the games." Yeah. I was in a crappy mood.

I put the remote down again. Reluctantly.

"How was work today, honey?" I ask. Pointedly. He ignores me. Finally, I give up and put my bag down. It has been a long day for me, but he has only had his games to watch. "It was fine. Thank you for asking." Even that comment wasn't enough to get a reaction.

Enough.

This time, he grabs for the remote in an attempt to get it before I do. He misses.

"Enough," I tell him. "You can watch games later."

I push a button.

The screaming fans around us, the bleachers, the field below us disappear. I look around, very pleased.

He looks around in disgust. "A museum?"

"Oh, c'mon. It's the last weekend for the Hopper exhibit." I head for the line, happy with myself that I had been generous enough to wait my turn. "The gift shops are downstairs in case you don't want to go in."

The following is an exclusive excerpt from thisdaydreamer's memoir Gathering the Days Like Nuts, the most recent addition to the ever-popular Oprah Book Club.

There comes a time, I suppose, in every life when everything becomes clear.

I was working on a crossword puzzle when the pieces came together, in a wave that took my breath away, drowning me in a sea of almost Russian discontent. I looked at the scars on my arms, the legacy of all the decisions that would haunt me always, and wondered at their complexity, so ironically symbolic of the simplicity of the whole thing. I wanted to close my eyes and lose myself in the memories of the all-too-brief encounters that brought me to this bleak place. This dingy life in the dark canyons of Manhattan, trapping me in a vapid nightmare.

I wish I could forget.

The memories would flood my consciousness with sullen waves. The squirrel incident would trickle into my mind's eye with the immediacy of a snowflake, melting into my emotions again. The angry words echoing in the bleak, dark forest of my heart. They would come back with the sight of a scrap of lace.

Nothing else haunts me like this. The memories of my family, the endless parade of foster homes, the time in rehab, the violence in my relationship with Ken, Eric's abandonment, my rise and fall in the music business, my time in jail for a murder I did not commit, my disastrous haircut all pale in comparison to the one moment that showed me what I had ultimately become. I am torn by the knowledge of my ultimate weakness in the face of fate herself in a time of upheaval for all of us, the realization that I could never again be free to follow the call of my heart, trumpeting in the green distance.

So I sit at the table, listening to the dull hum of the refrigerator and staring blankly at the puzzle, trying to put my soul back together. Once again, I let my eyes drift to the box on the bookshelf, where I still keep the yo-yo, the stark reminder of the moment that had so irrevocably changed everything. The night of the squirrel that cuts my heart whenever I remember, that I will always long to return to, if only for one breathless moment, that leaves me pondering the viscous nature of redemption.