Children

It’s Simple: Everybody Love Everybody

Precious Readers,

It breaks my heart to announce that over the weekend, another one of the students, a mere sophomore at the area I work in, committed suicide. I regret to inform you that I can no longer count the combined number of suicides and deaths by shooting in my area. My heart and prayers go out to this child’s family and loved ones. Out of respect for the family, I will comment no further on this particular incident.

The environment has been sorrowful, confusing, and heartbreaking. These are our community’s children. They are our future who have dashed their chances of changing the world, to love, and to be loved. They’ve barely scraped the surface of life. I know when I was in school, that felt mostly adult. Now, in my 30’s I can easily say, they’re kids. They’re children.

Let me assure you, we care about ALL of the kids. We care about their home life. We care about preserving their future.

WE CARE.

There are so many behind the scenes planning, processes, and protections in place for students, and even more so for students who ask for help.

WE CARE.

We have a team of counselors, a psychologist, and of course, the well-trained Admin team. Believe me, Admins do not take that job if they don’t have a passion for helping kids.

WE CARE.

It’s hard to be the first face these students see when theirs are soaked with tears, pain, and fear. It’s hard to not want to run over, hug all of them, and tell them that we’ll find a way to get through this together. That the world gets better. Life is so much MORE than high school. That life is worth living and experiencing. We have to be professional, but caring.

But, WE CARE.

I usually can’t do much, but I do what I can. It’s the small things. Listening to a person to vent their frustrations, or talk with them through it. It’s letting someone have a quiet moment to collect their thoughts. It’s offering a tissue when you and they have no words. It’s the little check ins of “Hey, how are you? Haven’t talked to you in a while.” Sitting silently with someone while they process their pain. I firmly believe it’s the little things that make such a difference, and it’s within my power to do so.

I CARE ABOUT YOU.

I come across hyper, manic, and over-interested when I ask how you are. I could blame the caffeine, but I can’t. I truly care about people. Whether we’re longtime friends and family, or if we’re only mere acquaintances, or have only met once, I genuinely care about what is going on in your life. Your adventures. during sad/bad times, and to support and celebrate the good things, both little and big.

I care about you. I care about us. I care about our world. I don’t care if you’re black, white, gay, straight, bi, gender-fluid, male, female, somewhere outside or in between. I want to see who you ARE. I don’t care what you look like. I will always support and do everything within my means to help you.

People, fellow human beings, I ask you one thing: Just love each other. SUPPORT each other, even if they’re different from you. Stop the petty bickering, the passive-aggressive “holier than thou” attitudes, the elitism. Let go of your ego. As of late, it feels like all I’ve heard from people’s mouths are words of disgust and ignorant hateful comments about our fellow human beings. Our fellow people. Our brothers and sisters of life.

Let’s not make a stand against each other, don’t criticize each other, don’t put each other down, let’s not judge each other. No matter your personal beliefs. Let’s end the hate. Let’s end the ignorance. Let’s break down the barrier that prevents us from seeing what is happening with others.

For me, it’s simple: If you respect me, I respect you. If you don’t respect me, I may not spend time with you anymore. But, if you were ever in trouble or hurt, I will willingly help you to the best of my ability. Even if we haven’t seen each other in years, I will always care about what is going on with you.

I am here with you, supporting you, cheering for you, ready to help you, whether you want it or not. I’m standing with you, ready to face whatever it is you’re facing. If it’s beyond my means, I will go out and find someone better qualified to stand with you on one side, with me on the other side. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. When help is asked it is ALWAYS provided!

Let’s travel through life together. With each other. You’re not alone.

Resources:
http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

https://twloha.com/

https://afsp.org/

http://kidshealth.org/en/parents/suicide.html

 

#EverybodyLoveEverybody #LifeLessons #SuicidePrevention #ToWriteLoveOnHerArms

what is the number one piece of advice teachers would give you? (Marysville-Pilchuck High School Shooting)

Dearest, most Precious Readers:

 

Recent news in the State of Washington compels me to write about a tragic event that occurred on October 24th, 2014.

 

Jaylen Fryburg chose to shoot friends and family at his high school.

 

Before you close this page, I assure you that I will not be writing anything political about gun safety/availability or amendment rights. Instead, I am writing on a subject you all know is near and dear to my heart:  children.

 

On posts past, I’ve mentioned that I have never planned to have children, nor any plans for planning a family now. So, why should I care?

 

We ALL should.

 

Why does a school shooting bother me perhaps more than the average blogger or news observer?

 

My husband, Pilot, worked for Marysville-Pilchuck High School in 2012.

 

Please realize that my concern would not be, in any way, lessened should my husband not have worked for the school.

 

School shootings are nothing to glean over. However, I also don’t believe it should be exploited for personal gain by using a devastating event for political platforms.  The safety of children should always be a number one priority for every citizen of the planet Earth.

 

Much of the speculation-

 

…and at this point, that is all we can do: SPECULATE. SPECULATION DOES NOT EQUAL TRUTH.

 

-has been around the question of “Why?”

 

Why did he shoot his friends?  His family?

He was popular!

He played sports!

He was well liked!

He seemed normal!

 

Let’s hone in on that word now, shall we? “Normal.”

 

What is normal? What is your perception of normal?

 

Pilot is not just a teacher, but he is a special education teacher. He has focused the majority of his career on children with emotional and behavioral disorders.  Do you know what “normal” is for this group of children? Juvenile detention, abusive home lives, homelessness, drug dealing/addiction, being part of neighborhood gangs, violent tendencies, social workers, psychologists (if they can afford one), parole officers, etc. This is their “normal.” The average age of Pilot’s students?  15 years old.

 

The child in question in the Marysville-Pilchuck High School shooting was considered coming from a good home, with friends, popularity at school, extracurricular sports activities, etc. This was his “normal.”

 

There is a massive stigma against “loners,” “unpopular kids,” “goth,” etc. children that they are the usual suspects and the ones to watch for “threatening behavior.”

 

Earlier this year, the world lost an incredibly talented entertainer, Robin Williams, to suicide incurred due to depression. How many other countless celebrities can we name? Another loss last year, was Glee’s leading actor, Cory Monteith. From the 1990’s beloved actor Phil Harman was murdered by his wife. His wife shot their children, killed Hartman and committed suicide. Another local Washington state school experienced a shooting earlier this spring, Seattle Pacific University, a private college.

 

So what about last Friday? I am not going to propose any theories on this child’s life.  I’m not going to demonize him and continue calling him “shooter.”  He was a child. A child who made a horrible, irrefutably horrible and gruesome choice that has destroyed the lives of his family, the victims and their families, his classmates and the school’s faculty and staff, and anyone who is remotely connected to the school and the people of that school.

 

Based on new evidence coming to light, aka Twitter, it has come to the attention that several of Fryberg’s tweets from Twitter indicated disturbing “warning signs” that (in hindsight… and we all understand how hindsight works) should have indicated that there was major dissatisfaction with Fryberg.

 

Depression and pain doesn’t have a single type of face.  It’s a feeling.  It doesn’t hit one type of personality, race, gender, age, or background.  It can occur in anyone.  Stop making excuses and stop being an ostrich.  A shooting could happen anywhere, and it could be caused by any one going through pain.

 1

 I’ve gone through and suffer depression myself.  After a series of events between 2007-2009, I went on antidepressants.  I was in great denial.  It was after those closest to me suggested I talk with someone about the events during this two-year period (a post for another day) and that I should try to get help, it made me realize that if everyone was asking me to at least try it, I wasn’t being my normal perky, snarky self.  I was in such denial about it, that it took several of my loved ones to talk bring it to my attention before I actually sought out help.  Realizing I had a strong support net, even from people I’d least expect to be encouraging, is what pushed me forward.  I couldn’t realize it for myself, it took others’ efforts to get through to me.

 

One of the things I’ve learned after watching years of Pilot navigating the delicate tightrope of emotional turmoil that his students face every day, boils down to a few key things:

 

Involvement

Understanding

Support

 

Involvement: The key factor that unites all of the different problems these children face is lack of involvement from their parents/guardians.  Either the parents/guardians are too busy to help their children, or they have no interest in how their children spend time.

 

Understanding: I don’t like to believe anyone is a lost cause. Adults seem to forget that children are much sharper than they’re given credit for.  A child doesn’t necessarily need to be book smart to be intelligent. Many of the children I’ve seen Pilot work with are sharp, aware, and hyperaware of their environment.

 

Support: America has its priorities messed up.  There, I said it, and I’ll say it again.  America has its priorities messed up.  We do not put enough value on education.

modern schoolteacher

(http://thegrumpyvoter.ca/site/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/the.modern.school.teacher.jpg)

 

America does not put enough funding into our social work systems, the foster care system, education, mental care, medical facilities, and programs to assist with those who are homeless/jobless.  Many of these children do not receive the necessary resources required to assist with their advancement.

 

Continuing with the support idea, many parents and those not involved in the school systems ask, “What are schools doing to prevent a shooting from happening again?”

 

The answer?  You can’t.

 

I know that’s not the answer you wanted to hear.  Sorry, you just can’t.  No more than you can stop a corner store armed robbery from occurring.

 

Education lives in a rock and a hard place right now.  All schools can do is have good security staff on hand, an emergency drill plan, clear communication channels to local law enforcement, and train their faculty/staff in self defense and classroom management in case a situation like this occurs.  Faculty of every educational institution has to go through some type of psychology training.  Some schools in rougher neighborhoods have metal detectors and body search wands (like at the airport).

 

Nothing is going to deter someone from wanting to inflict harm in others, except for one thing: Someone taking notice of that person’s behavior.  You can have all of the training and preparation in the world.  Taking control of how to handle a situation like that and executing routine practice drills is all of the control you can provide in that situation.

 

Silence is what kills.  Not acting upon that piece of instinct within you to ask the tough questions.  If you notice behavior is off with someone you know, it is worth the risk of creating an awkward situation by asking if something is bothering that person.  I would much rather risk a friendship and dealing with an uncomfortable conversation, than no conversation occurring at all –with dire results as the aftermath.

 

I would rather risk a friendship and push conversations into the “tough stuff” so that the other person knows that I’m always there to listen, open mindedly (that’s key, here people), to what their thoughts are.  You may not agree with their morals or ethics, you may not agree with their opinion, but being willing to listen in the first place and letting the person know they’ve been heard is usually the first step in alleviating anxiety, stress, pain and depression for the other person.

 

If you don’t feel comfortable confronting the person in regards to their change in behavior, speak with someone else close to that person.

 

Again, silence is what kills.

 

Kids today in general have so much more pressure. One key factor I believe causes this, is our world is smaller.  Cell phones, internet, instant messaging, social media, texting, instagram, etc. has made our world more connected, yes, but it has also made each user be placed dead center under literally a world of scrutiny.  Add in the typical pressures of a teenager, growing up, being an adult, still being a kid, academic pressure, extracurricular activity performance pressure, getting into college/not getting into college, home life, jobs, friends, boyfriends/girlfriends/in-between, now you throw in gender identity, dating, sex, love, marriage, hookups, breakups, SAT’s, GED’s, drugs, drinking, expectations/lack of expectations… the list goes on and on.  It’s enough to make anyone cringe at those few, intense years that very few can say with 100% certainty that they survived unscathed.

 

Even the “normal” kids face incredible amounts of pressure I can barely keep up with to try and understand, and I wasn’t a teenager/young adult that long ago.

 

Break the silence.  It’s better to have checked in with someone than let it go.  I don’t know what was going through Fryberg’s mind leading up to and during October 24, 2014.  I can guarantee, that child must have felt severely alone, desperate, angry, resentful and/or any combination of those emotions.

 

It isn’t a “type” of person who feels those things.  Every human being has felt one or more of those emotions at some point in her/his life. Maybe his friends and family might have even talked to him about it leading up to it.  A decision to kill isn’t born into someone. It’s caused.

 

We need to be made more aware of the people around us. Not with a discerning, skeptical, calculating eye, but with a caring, respectful, and genuine sense of community for each other.

 

For parents, all Pilot and I can both suggest as a method to staying Involved, Understanding, and Supportive:

 

  1. LISTEN to your kids. Don’t talk AT them, talk WITH them.  I don’t always succeed in my execution of this, but my efforts are still noted. Even if the conversation doesn’t work the first time, keep at it.  It may not get easier, but at least your kids will know they have safe place to share their thoughts.

 

  1. BE AWARE of your kids’ internet/cell phone use. DO NOT SNOOP.  Establishing at the beginning what the rules are for using computers, cell phones, and other methods of communication are within your home (setting expectations) are key to understanding the world your child has created for herself/himself.  Believe me, you may not have full access to whom /where your kids are spending their time, but Facebook/Twitter sure do.

 

cheating vs social media
http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/236x/7f/06/b4/7f06b4fd9eb38ce67b25b30379628933.jpg

 

  1. CARE. I once heard that 99% of parenting is showing up.  Being physically present, or even a phone call (NOT TEXT.  I SAID CALL.  A voice connects you to each other far more than reading letters on a screen) to wish your child good luck with their next activity when you’re not able to attend.  Let them know you’re taking them out afterward to celebrate (whether it goes well or not, especially when it does not).  You have a child in your life. This is a precious gift. Be involved, or get involved.

 

I asked Pilot what the one piece of advice he would give parents/guardians and I’ll paraphrase it here:

 

Be consciously involved in your child’s education and life.

 

Going back to the question of, “What are schools doing to prevent a shooting from happening again?”  There is a mindset becoming more prevalent in parent/teacher conferences:  That the kids spend all of their time at school, so the teachers are responsible for their child’s behavior.

 

This is ass backwards, and here is why:

 

Children spend 6 hours a day in school.  Let’s say 7 hours total to include commute time (assuming your child goes to a nearby school).  I ask you, how many hours are there in a day?  How good are your math skills?  Mine suck, and I can tell you that 7 out of 24 hours is not a lot of time.

 

changes in time

http://pjmedia-new.pjmedia.netdna-cdn.com/lifestyle//user-content/36/files//2014/01/funny-parents-grades-teachers-comic.jpg

 

Children spend 1/3 of their day at school.  Estimate the average 8 hours of sleep at their place of residence, and where is the rest?  With their family or chosen extracurricular activity/jobs.  Do you know where your child works?  Who they work with?  These are questions you should already know the answer to, don’t you think?

 

The point of all of this:  Be there for your children.  Be involved in your children’s lives.  It takes effort, time, and patience, but it’s worth it.  They won’t be children for long, and it’s a tough world.  Not to sound corny, but who they are and how they interact with the world is every person’s responsibility, and they will be our future leaders.  Their choices will shape our future.

 

Be Involved.

Be Understanding.

Be Supportive.

 

What are your methods for staying involved with the children in your life?

How do you monitor your child’s use of technology and social media?

Have you talked to your children to keep an eye out for rash behavioral changes in their friends and peers?

Do your children know where to go at school/work/extracurricular activities to report concerning behavior safely?

For those in the education field, what are your tips for keeping your classrooms safe?

i wish that i knew what i know now, when i was younger

Happy, happy, happy… happy… happy… oh, forget it.

By the time this post is added to the airwaves, I will officially be one year older.

Today is my birthday. Lucky me. <rolls eyes.>

That’s right. Pilot and I have our birthdays four days apart. (I would like to point out that he is one year older. Sorry, Pilot.) I’ve compiled a list of things I wish someone had told me when I was younger:

5. Question everything.  In school, I would greatly annoy my teachers by constantly asking questions. I wasn’t one of the kids asking “why” six or seven times in a row. They were legitimate questions due to my ever-growing curiosity.  Somewhere along junior high through mid-college I had stopped learning to ask questions. In my current job, asking questions is actually encouraged. Not always at the time I ask it, but the question is still appreciated. I had to slowly gain the confidence that it is all right to want to understand the bigger picture. How is one supposed to improve themselves and others around them, if they have no fucking idea what’s going on?

4. It’s ok to not know what you want. Talent and skill knows no age, race or gender.  So many youngsters and teens are bombarded with the question, “So what do you want to be when you grow up?”  Honestly. How many of you actually enjoyed this question?  I know I hated it.

I spent years trying to come up with some job title to impress and even went as far to convince myself that I wanted it.  But in reality? I felt completely clueless. I think it’s because I denied wanting to be a writer/artist.  I had grown up with the phrases, “those jobs don’t make any money,” “You’re wasting your time,” “Hope you enjoy being homeless,” etc.  Well guess what?  I’m on the wrong side of my 20’s, married, and I STILL rent an apartment, have a decent job, but don’t make any money due to our crapshoot of an economy, and I STILL ended up pursuing a job focused on writing and art.

Do you know how much angst, migraines and stress I could have avoided if someone had just said, “Cool, go for it. Do what you must to keep a roof over your head while you pursue that goal, but go for it!”?  If someone had just acknowledged that pursuing those goals was “OK” but that I just might have to do some other work while I go through this journey, I might have avoided years of denying my love of the written word being seen by the world. Perhaps I would even be published by now.

Did you know the book P.S. I Love You was written by a 19-year-old?

3. You don’t have to want the American Dream.  The typical American wants marriage, a house, a yard, 2.5 kids-

You’ve got to feel sorry for that poor kid who was sliced in half. I mean, really. That has to suck major ball sack.

Do you want to know what I consider success for myself by the time I’m 70?  Being published and continually successful, (duh), living in a non-traditional home-

You can imagine Pilot’s delight when he heard this statement from me. He then proceeded to show me “Residential Hangars” on the interwebs. Yes, my name is Katherine and I choose to live in a residential hangar someday.  Other pilots: jealous, much?

-and maybe kids.  That’s right, you heard me. MAYBE.

When I first met Pilot, I didn’t want any children. Don’t misunderstand me. I love kids. I’ve babysat more than my share, worked in summer camps, and have 13 nieces and nephews ranging from infancy to 16-years-old, whom I love dearly and would give my life for without hesitating. I think children are our most precious resource, because without well-educated and supported children, this country has no future.

I just didn’t want to have my own children. (My reasons are long and tedious, much longer than this post will allow. Those points will be for another day.)

I love that 99% of my graduating high school class is married and on their second or third child by now. They seem truly happy in their choices

However, if I look at my life as it is today:

I work a soul-killing job to support Pilot and myself until writing is full-time for me and Pilot earns a multi-year contract in teaching, had a thyroid cancer scare during Christmas, and Pilot’s large, baked-potato-sized tumor (which was right next his spine) removal surgery, and barely able to cover all of our bills. Tack on an America with foreclosures, bankruptcy and dealing with one of the worst economies the U.S. has seen in decades.

The idea of bringing a child into the hot mess of life while Pilot and I are just scrimping it together after all of this crap has only just settled would probably have pushed us both completely over the edge.

I thank God everyday for birth control.

2. Be confident in your own skin, whatever shade it may be. Being an adopted Korean with German parents attending schools where I was one of five TOTAL minority children in the entire school was bound to give a girl a complex. Add in prescription glasses needed at the tender age of five, during the ‘80’s (an era I like to describe as a Fashion Decade of Hell we did not experience, but humanity survived through), and I was a walking target, complete with bulls eye and zoom-goggles for my bullies.  (Yes, I was bullied a lot as a child, that’s a different issue for another day.)

With my time either being split between people trying to guess “what” I was-

The kicker with these interesting conversations, was after someone asking me if I was Chinese or Japanese, I would answer that I was born Korean. To which, I was promptly met with the answer “No, that’s not right. That doesn’t sound right. You must be [enter more commonly-known Asian ethnicity of your choosing here].”

-or asking if I was an exchange student-

Asking such question in loud, slow voices, I might add.  America, as much as I am proud to be part of this country, and proud that I am an American citizen, we have a seriously long way to go on how we treat Asians (or any other minority) in this country. It is assumed that if one is not Caucasian, this is equivalent to the automatic inability to speak English. In addition, there is the bonus concept that if one does not speak English, one is obviously deaf as well.

What’s that? Yes, please speak slower and louder. That will magically make someone understand the English language instantaneously in comparison to the pacing and volume of your sentence two seconds prior.

-I was also dressed in turtlenecks, plaid skirts and yarn tights with buckle shoes, with the addition of pigtails.

Side note to parents: Just because a look is “cute” to you does not give you permission to purposefully add fire to the flame of having your beloved child’s ass kicked.

It took me years to learn that I was never going to be 5’10”, blonde or blue eyed, (or at least without some considerable and pricy cosmetic surgery and hair dye), and to accept my body for as it was. A (barely) 5’5”, somewhat stocky stature with black hair that grows curlier by the year. (Yes, I am an Asian with black, curly hair. That photo you see of me in the corner? That’s after a lot of work with mousse, a hair dryer and flat iron.)

I’m much happier in my skin and learned to look at the more positive things about my outer-appearance than I was as a teen, desperately waiting for the second round of braces to be complete.

My husband, Pilot tells me I’m the best of both worlds. I’m his hot Asian wife, but I’m technically German because of my family, who surprises people and helps break down stereotypes with a goofy, but approachable, intellectual attitude.

I prefer the term German-By-Association-American.

1. The one you love may not love you. Poor Pilot, I put him through complete and total hell because I was actually in love with another man when we met. (NOTE: I was not in a relationship with someone else when I met Pilot. Pilot was and always would be, my first boyfriend.)

There was a boy I was in love with growing up. We were best friends from junior high through our first year of college together. Our families were close, and they even vacationed together. Now that I’m older, I wish someone would have stopped and shook me, saying, “If Randy* hasn’t recognized that you love him after [enter any number between 2-7 years of your choosing], he never will be.”

*Name has been changed for privacy

Our first year of college changed everything. He ended up leaving college and getting into the party scene. I channeled my heartbreak into not eating, not sleeping and studying like crazy. (Although I will admit, I earned a place on the Dean’s list my first quarter at college.

A feat never to be accomplished again throughout my college career. <sigh.>

No, I don’t think the heartbreak would have been any considerable amount lessened, but I would have gotten over him eventually, and perhaps opened my heart up sooner to Pilot. Pilot had been a great friend and practically a literal boy-next-door for me during this whole ordeal, being patient as our relationship grew closer over time.  (Pilot lived about five doors down from my dorm on the same floor, while my heart was torn out by my best friend in a dorm literally above me on the upper floor.

One of the things I will be sure to teach my children is: Do not to be afraid of love, but be prepared if they might not love them back. And to think about how they will handle this realization.

As my all-time favorite film, Sabrina (the Julia Ormond, Harrison Ford and Greg Kinnear version), there is a moment where Sabrina is talking with her mentor. Her mentor, Irene advises thoughtfully:

Irene:  Is it this David you mentioned casually 30, 40 times when you first came over? He sounds perhaps very much like an illusion.

Sabrina:  He keeps me company.

Irene:  You think so? Illusions are dangerous people. They have no flaws. I came here from Provence. Alone, uneducated. For eight months… No, more than that, a year… I sat in a café, drank coffee, and wrote nonsense in a journal. And then somehow, it was not nonsense. I went for long walks, and I met myself in Paris. You seem… Embarrassed by loneliness. By being alone. It’s only a place to start.

Randy was such an illusion. Never losing my belief in true love, it gave me a wiser approach to falling in love. This experience allowed me to be realistic and not indulge an overinflated crush, but open myself to a real love and a real relationship with Pilot. Recognizing his endless list of good points, some of his flaws, and accept him exactly as he is, eyes wide open, no aftermath surprises. I am actually grateful for that heartbreak. I was young, naïve and in a one-sided relationship that clouded my judgment for several years.  Looking back, I recognize now, Randy and I would never have been a good fit. Although I believe that opposites do attract and can have successful, healthy relationships, I much prefer being with Pilot who I have endless things in common with, along with each of us being stronger in the areas the other is weaker in. We build each other up together, instead of one of us building up the other all the time.

But all in all, I think the biggest thing for me to recognize is that without these experiences, they would not have shaped me into who I am today.  A confident, honest, and moral person who happens to have a touch of a ridiculous and dry wit humor that would make any civilized patron shoot pop out their nose.  So maybe having all of those things happen when they did, learning those lessons in the amount of time they took and experiencing them with the people I did was just as important as the lesson themselves.  What do you think?

What are some of life’s lessons that you wish you had known at a younger age? Do you think it would have made a difference?

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 17: Your character has fallen in love. With who? Is it serious? Are they in a relationship with this person? How did they meet? Write a scene of your character either contemplating this significant other or directly interacting with them.

Hmm… These DWC’s are beginning to sound similar to each other.

After hanging up the phone, Josh checked his hair in the reflection of his monitor.  Crap.  His hair always seemed to be sticking up in the back, a cowlick that he was born, and cursed with.  His mom had always called it his rooster tail.

“Oh sweetheart, don’t worry about it,” she’d say with a wave of her hand.  “Besides, it makes you look taller!”

Seated at his gray desk, in his gray cubicle, in the gray room, (or the Pit, as he liked to call it), the Information Technology wing was pretty bland with ten cubicles grouped together in the center of it with harsh fluorescent lighting.  The blisteringly dull and blue-toned light fixtures always seemed to flicker at just the right frequency to give someone slightly more than a headache, but not seizure-inducing.  Mostly the people that worked on the team spent their days playing various types of MMORPG’s, blogged about how uneventful their lives had turned out hoping somewhere amongst the world wide web that someone was listening, while answering the most basic, inane questions for the bigwigs over the phone.  What amazing use of his master’s degrees in computer science and robotics from Yale had made.

But now he had a chance to break his routine; and not only that, but go upstairs and talk to Sydney.  He smoothed his hair out the best he could and stood up, only to spill coffee on to his shirt.  He held his shirt out and looked at it, shaking his head and sighed.  He attempted to clean the large brown spot that was starting to grow by swiping some of his neighbor’s clear soda onto it, but realized it was losing battle and gave up.

Being thirty-three and still single, he had tried dating other women, but it was hopeless.  Sure, they were all nice girls: friendly, polite, and into computers and understanding the connection people had with each other through technology like he did; but, they just weren’t Sydney.  He couldn’t get her out of his head.  As her computer seemed to shut down on a regular basis, he would fix it and she would take him out to coffee afterward as a thank you.  At least he got to chat with her once in awhile.  The always had a good working relationship, but he had wanted it to be more.  Over the last couple years, he’d grown fond of her and was heartsick.  Most of his dates ended up him sitting across the table from a perfectly good, and sometimes willing, woman, and all he could do was think about how different she was from Sydney.  He thought back to the first time they met.

It had been a frosty January morning and Sydney arrived at the Pit in a calm, but frantic manner.  The contrast between her very professional and pulled together outfit with the darting of her eyes back and forth, sweeping across the room looking for someone to help her was amusing.  And cute.  She had worn a sleek red pencil skirt and a black knitted turtleneck that hugged her curves in all the right places.  Her shoes had one of those toothpick-like heels to them.  Stilettos?  Is that what they were called?  Josh was never really into fashion.  The last time he’d been “shopping” was his birthday when his mom and sister had given him a bunch of shirts and some pants.  He was thankful they’d provided a belt because stuff usually fit pretty loosely.  At least it was comfortable.

He recalled her striking long black hair that grazed her shoulder blades.  In the times he’d seen her walking through the lobby and into the elevator, she’d usually kept it sleek and tied back into a tight ponytail.  But that day, she had it flowing loosely around her face; he’d thought about how much it had softened her and he wanted to reach out his fingers and feel what it would feel like between his fingers.  She was so quintessentially female, soft and curvy, and lovely against the harsh lines of the boxy, gray cubicle-land he worked in.  Thinking about her hair tangled in his fingers, made him think other ways he’d like his body to be tangled with hers.  This caused him to become hard, and was grateful she wanted to sit down an explain her problem (in some great detail he might add), which gave him time to focus on work and calm the rush of heat that had spread to his body so he could actually stand up to go to her office later.

Raising his arm to signal her, she had peered across the room, her eyes settling on his gaze.  Noticing her deep blue eyes, he thought he had caught a hidden twinkle he couldn’t really describe, and thinking about that little glimmer of trouble had left him mesmerized, and admittedly turned on, thinking about what it would be like to gaze into them in a dimly lit room… Say his bedroom… for the rest of that fateful day.  Taking a deep breath and straightening her shoulders, she walked straight towards him and he’d managed to take a glance at her long, sinuous steps that caused her hips to sway ever so slightly, a look of relief washing over her face.  She explained how she was new to the company and had just been issued a new laptop that wasn’t turning on.

Normally, he’d ask her the same series of questions, “Is your computer on?” or “Is it plugged in?” and so on.  But after a few minutes, he realized she was really sharp and not one of those flighty bigwigs that normally ran the company.  Following her to her incredibly huge office (almost the size of the Pit, and all for one person!) he sat at her desk, fixing her computer the first of what was to be many, many times in the future.  He knew she cursed the damned thing, but he was entirely, internally, grateful.  Sydney invited him out for coffee to thank him for his help, the first in a long line of coffee breaks they would share.  Apparently his help saved her from almost losing a major account on a marketing campaign she was leading.  At the time, he had been thrilled she asked him out.  It wasn’t until halfway through their conversation he heard about a new guy she had met named Michael.  They weren’t serious yet at that point, but he could tell her focus was definitely not on himself.

Josh remembered meeting Michael a week later at the company holiday party.  The corners of his mouth turned down slightly at the memory.  Michael Ross was tall with brown hair, but Michael had those weird, cheesy blonde streaks in it and he had that sleekness to him.  Michael was one of those guys that made life look easy, like each person naturally walked out of bed looking like a model everyday, worked an overly-well paying job and went home with women like Sydney as if it was the natural order of things.

One of his suits probably cost more than Josh’s car.

He pushed the up button on the wall and waited for the elevator.  He felt a slight tug on his heart at being able to spend a few minutes with Sydney, but it was soon overshadowed by longing and loneliness as he stepped into the cold, gray elevator.  He was lovesick over a woman who didn’t love him, but had ruined him for other women as well.

The gorgeous ones always seemed to be taken.

death to the early bird and hand me my fucking coffee!

Just pass the coffee, will you?

If you haven’t noticed already, I’m a bit of a night owl. And that suits my purpose just fine. Some of my best work has happened at the odd hour of 3 o’clock in the morning. The blog says I may have made multiple posts on the same day, when in truth, I was up until the wee hours of the morning (also known as deep night, those hours between 12:00am-4:59am), writing a post, only to turn around and do another one later that evening.

Although, again noting no siblings, I look back on my youth. Remembering that I spent quite a bit of time in bed staring at the upper bunk.  My mind would drift as soft Christmas lights would change their blinking pattern and alternate their color combinations.  (Strung up Christmas twinkle lights were my version of a night light, and much prettier.)

Note to parents: Twinkle lights are awesome for dark-fearing children, because they can use the excuse that they love Christmas to their friends.

 Also, this was before the ‘fad’ that stringing up white lights along the edge of your ceiling was delegated as a ‘hipster’ thing to do.)

Many evenings were spent just lost in my thoughts. (Well, as deep a thought a youth can have, I suppose.) Replaying recent TV shows or movies in my head.  You could say this was the time I first began making up stories. Just me, under the safety of my Smurfs blanket making believe I was a princess, a spy, a farmer, whatever. There was a brief period of time when I aspired to become a fire truck.  Not a firefighter, the actual truck. (What, can I say? Sirens are awesome.)  Never had any issues with monsters under the bed.

Note to parents: The way to keep monsters out of your closet and away from under the bed? Show the kids how their closet is full. That the children themselves can barely fit in there, so how can a monster?  Roll out drawers for storage of off-season clothing fills up the space underneath the bed.

Monsters? What monsters? There’s no way a monster can fit under your bed with the enormous Christmas sweater Aunt Mabel knitted for you to wear next year.

What?

Yes…

Yes, you’re wearing the sweater…  Don’t argue with me young lady!

Aunt Mabel worked very hard on that sweater. Just because she has cataracts and made one sleeve a half of a foot longer than the other is not reason enough to ignore such a gift!

Bring back the sweater and those matches to me this instant, young lady!

Mornings, however, are the bane of my existence. I’ll admit to having the slightest, fleeting moment of homicide upon initial waking.  You know that woman, stumbling around in her bathrobe, hair sticking out worse than Einstein on a bad day, mumbling to herself and others around her the gentle, harmless sentence along the lines of:

Slowly hand me back my f****** coffee NOW and no one will be permanently scarred!

Yeah… Sorry about that. I was… um… not myself.

My ever faithful and dutiful husband, Pilot (sadly finding out he was part of THEM. The oh-so-dreaded “Morning Person” people), learned quite quickly that I require at least one hour of no agitation upon waking. On a time-crunched day, a reduced and painfully necessary reduction to 59 minutes of no agitation upon waking.  Don’t worry, he’s survived stitches before.

<Lightly shaking me awake to the vibration standard of 10.5 on the Richter Magnitude Scale.>

“Sweetie, it’s time to get up.”

Mmmm…

“Sweetie, your alarm is going off.”

Mmmm… <pulls covers up tighter, bats hand away from my shoulder>

“Sweetie, your alarm has been going off for ten minutes now, and… we have neighbors.”

Mmmm… <rolls over, shoves pillow on top of head.>

As you can tell by the timing of this post, I’m burning the midnight oil once again.

So, readers, I want to know!  Which are you?  A morning person, or a night owl? Are you the early bird who catches the worm, or a evening person who doesn’t have to deal with worms?

What are ways that help you get up in the morning?

Mine’s an alarm that sounds like an H-bomb warning system going off and provides a mild cardiac arrest each morning. Pilot has learned to accept this as exercise and getting his heart rate up a little bit extra each day.

Oh, and coffee.  Lots and lots of coffee.  (Did I mention I live in Seattle?)

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 7: FREE DAY! Write any scene you want!

The dry leaves crunched beneath their sneakers as the girls wandered along a compact dirt path. Hand in hand, they continued listening to birds chirp throughout the empty branches, beginning to settle in to their nests for the evening.

It was nice walking, Margaret preferred gentle quiet. Lorelei, not so much.  Usually Lorelei was babbling on about a new rock band or her friends from school. Whatever was bothering Lorelei tonight must have been weighing heavily on her mind. Margaret was patient. She knew that her sister would share when she was ready, and if it was causing Lorelei to be quiet for a change, it must have been serious.

“Mags?”

Lorelei’s voice appeared in Margaret’s mind familiar, but tonight was subdued. Her voice did not carry the cheerful spirit it typically held. Instead, tonight it was pensive and thoughtful.

“Yeah, Leelee?” Margaret looked over to her sister; eyebrows raised and tried to keep her face open.

“Do you remember mom and dad?” Lorelei had stopped and turned to face her now.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you remember them? What color their eyes were, what their voices sounded like?

Margaret thought for a moment. “Yeah, I do.”

Lorelei’s voice was small, and she was looking down at the ground now.  “I don’t sometimes.  Remember, I mean.” Margaret’s heart sunk deep into her chest.

“I was only five at the time.  Sometimes I try to think back, but their faces are starting to get fuzzy. Things like their noses, or their ears.”

Margaret put her other hand on Lorelei’s cheek and began to speak and try to console her sister. “Leelee-“

“What if by the time we’re adults I’ve forgotten them completely? It’ll be like they never existed or something!” Lorelei burst into tears and sniffed. Sliding her sleeve over her thumb, she wiped her nose with it.  Margaret pulled her handkerchief, their mother’s handkerchief, from her pocket and gently dabbed at Lorelei’s face.

“Leelee, do you remember when we were little and you took that entire bottle of caramel sauce and sprayed all of the walls in the house with it?”

Sniff. “Yeah.”  Lorelei looked up at her sister, her eyes puffy and slightly reddened from her tears.

“And what did mom and dad do?” Margaret looked pointedly at Lorelei with a small smile.  Lorelei burst out laughing.

“Daddy took my had and walked me over to mom and said, ‘Well, at least we know she’s determined! I was chasing her for a good ten minutes!’ And mom said, ‘I guess she just wanted the house filled with sweetness just like she is!’ ” Margaret and Lorelei were doubled over laughing at the memory, Lorelei wiping a tear away, this time not from sadness.

“You see?” Margaret put an arm around her sister.  “You haven’t forgotten them. As long as you remember they loved us no matter what, they’ll always be with us.”

gotta fill up those blanks!

Not much to post. I’m working on my outlines for my two-part series. Because trying to balance my need to write with a full time job definitely takes up most of the evenings! So here’s my DWC! (AKA, the prologue to Book 1!)

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 6: How was your characters childhood? Write a scene about them as a child. How was their home life? Their family? Their upbringing? Where did they grow up? What friends did they have? 

May 12th, 1996

Ahh, sweet bliss.  Liesle settled into her overstuffed chair pulling a book Abbreviated Potions: Shortened Spells for the Witch on the Go! up to her nose.  It was her scheduled day off from her shop The Bubbling Cauldron, and she welcomed the break.  The girls were helping Mrs. Stevens clean out her garage today.  Yes, a quiet morning to catch up on modernized spells.

Whirr! The sound of a blender pierced through the manor, shattering any temporary moment of peace, followed by the sound of giggles. 

“What are you two little imps up to? I thought you were at Mrs. Stevens’ house,” Aunt Liesle asked, crossing her arms across her chest and raising her infamous ‘don’t mess with me’ eyebrow.

A spatula that seemed to be swirling a mixture of gooey chocolate icing on its own fell back into the bowl with an anticlimactic splat. Eyes looking up and widening slightly, Margaret who stood behind the bowl, stopped twirling her finger, leaving it stuck in midair as if she was interrupting someone to make a statement.  Lorelei gasped, turning around to look at Liesle, losing concentration on the blender she had been staring at. The blender had a surge of energy before stopping altogether, its lid flying off causing the contents to shower the three of them.

“Of all the boiled rats!” exclaimed Lorelei, as she wiped the strawberry milkshake from her eyes.

“Language, Lorelei,” said Liesle as she looked down to examine the pink globs that now stained her sweater.  Rolling her eyes as if to gain power from an unknown source, she sighed and looked back down at the girls.  “Now what is so important you had to turn my kitchen into a bomb testing site for?”

Margaret glanced at her sister. Lorelei just shrugged, and Margaret made a face at her.  Then, turning back to Liesle, squaring her shoulders, she replied matter of factly, “We thought you’d gone to the store to do inventory today.”

“Claudia is doing the inventory, and that is not an answer.”

Lorelei glanced at Margaret again and whispered not very successfully, “Come on, tell her. Our cover’s blown anyway.”

Margaret’s shoulders sagged as she sighed in only that way a twelve year old could. Looking back and forth across the now ruined kitchen, she spread her arms wide, palms up and said flatly, “Happy Mother’s Day.”

Liesle blinked at them for a moment. All tension melted away and she felt the prickling of tears at the back of her eyes.

“Oh, come here you silly ninnies,” she leaned down and opened her arms.  Margaret let a small grin show and ran over to the welcomed hug. 

“Well that was close.”  Lorelei blew out a breath she’d been holding, wiped more strawberry milkshake from her forehead, and ran over too.

“But your kitchen…” Margaret’s lower lip started to quiver.

Liesle smiled warmly at her niece.  “Nothing we can’t fix. Or haven’t you noticed, it’s already clean?” Liesle nodded pointedly behind them.  Margaret turned to look at the kitchen, whose cleaning sponges lapped at the walls, and the mop started swirling soapy suds across the floor.

Lorelei put her hands on her hips. “Hey, no fair! How’d you do that?” An indignant look of frustration crossed her face.

“I’ll teach you that one when you’re a little older and your powers are stronger.  You girls still need to do your chores.”

“Hmph.” Lorelei now crossed her arms across her chest.  She mumbled, “I still don’t see why I have to wash the dishes by hand when we have magic.”

“Darlings, you know what I always say…”

Lorelei dropped her arms as she and Margaret both answered in bored, singsong voices, “Magic is a gift and must not be abused.”

“Right. You need to understand that we’re lucky to have magic, and you must always appreciate it.”

Margaret’s grin spread a little wider.  “Well, we appreciate you, so that’s why we wanted to surprise you with your favorite chocolate chip brownies and strawberry milkshake for Mother’s Day!”

“Thank you girls,” Liesle laughed. “You’ve certainly made it a memorable one!”

if I could turn back time

Nostalgia is the name of the game today. Yeah, it caught me off guard, too.

Amara is the first baby to be born on my side of the family.  Last Tuesday, my cousin gave birth to a healthy, gorgeous, snuggly and lovable little girl. (Perhaps one could say I’m biased, but I don’t think so.) Watching my cousin, we’ll call her Red, go through the wonder of pregnancy and incredulous concept of childbirth has been amazing.  I couldn’t be more proud of Red. I’m in sheer awe and so full of joy I could burst from my desk chair right now.  Being the second-youngest of all my cousins, it’s strange to recognize we’re all adults now.  Amara’s birth sort of cinched that concept to me. We have reached the end of a generation in our family, and a new one has begun.

You’re probably wondering why I’m saying, “cousins” instead of siblings. That’s because I have none.  I’ve always wanted a younger sibling, to protect, teach, (and of course) bug the living daylights out of.  It wasn’t in the cards for me and my parents.  I’m adopted, myself. During the adoption process for a baby brother, my father was diagnosed with an inherited heart defect and diseases, negating their ability to adopt anymore children.  Now that I am an adult, married and receiving the daily interrogation from my mother, demanding why I have yet to give her a grandchild, it brings new perspective on how difficult that whole process must have been for my parents.

As a woman, I try to imagine being part of a young, happy couple ready to take on the world, (not too difficult to imagine anymore), and being told that becoming pregnant could endanger my life.  Not only was starting a family one of the dreams my parents had for themselves, but to be told that this particular dream could kill one of them? Coming to terms with that… Making the decision to spend what little money they had to adopt instead?  Wow.  In case you didn’t know, adoption is a long, arduous process with unending interviews, red tape, home visits.  And it’s a hell of a lot better than it used to be.  Basically every step’s purpose is to tell you EXACTLY what you’re doing wrong and need to fix, otherwise some stranger will deem you’re unfit as a parent.

For the mothers out there, I’m not trying to compare childbirth to adoption. Childbirth is an experience that nothing can compare to the torturous pains of contractions. The point of all this, is the idea that life is so much chance and opportunity.  Sure, you can have all the talent and skill in the world, but if you’re hit by a bus the next day, where does that get you?

I think of my parents sitting across a desk from a stranger, being told that because of a medical condition, they’re not allowed to have any more children. Again. First because of my mother’s health, the second time, my father’s.  It took my parents several years of patience and waiting before winning the jackpot with Pilot. Pilot is part of an enormous family. He has an older sister, 10 years difference, and an older brother, 12 years difference, both married with three children, each. Our parents meshed well, even finding out my father’s family and Pilot’s mother’s family come from the same small village in Germany.  (Pilot’s eyes became round as sauces as he turned to look at me during this conversation of family enlightenment, to which I quickly dissolved his fear saying, “It’s ok, honey. I’m adopted. Even if we were technically related, it’s not by blood.”)

My mother and Pilot get on well together, and l believe she’s come to accept him as her own son. The son she never had.  You’ll notice I don’t mention my father here. He passed away a little more than a few years ago from his heart defect, but he lived to age 60. I think of all those years, another little boy could have had my dad as a father. Whoever was at that agency made a huge mistake. I can recall countless fishing trips on Lake Washington (including the time we ran out of gas, but that’s another story), learning how to change my first tire (yes, girls don’t have to be helpless when it comes to the dreaded automobile), tasting delicious smoked salmon he’d just brought in. These are experiences I wish I could have shared with an “automatic” buddy. My never-was-brother.

Don’t worry, it’s not all doom and gloom.  Pilot and I have been together for 10 years now. We were lucky he and my dad had their own healthy relationship, along with mutual respect before my dad passed on. I will always be grateful for that. The older generation is moving on, I’m (hopefully slowly) merging into the older generation, and a new generation is blooming.

So, now what?  Holding baby Amara this weekend, and definitely not getting enough snuggles and forehead-kisses in, I think about her having two amazing older step siblings.  I wanted to be able to learn more about this deep connection. These Daily Writing Challenges (DWC’s) sparked the idea of a siblings-focused story.

Of course, they’ll both be romances, but the heart of each book is about these two sisters’ relationship.  Here’s a bit that I might be incorporating into the stories later on.

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 5: Your character is getting ready in the morning. Write a scene of their morning (or even mid day) routine.

Feeling the warmth of sunshine touching my cheek, another cheerful Saturday greets me as I slowly open my eyes. Taking a moment to let them adjust from the bright white that first appears, right before everything warps back into focus. The sound of my clock radio is tuned to a station that plays classics. Ah, Summer Breeze. Yeah, it definitely makes me feel fine. Pushing back the covers, setting my feet down, I feel worn, familiar yarn under my feet.  It’s a rug my sister made for me as a Christmas present. A hook-and-latch kit with Snoopy on it.  (Did I mention my sister was 10 at the time?)  I glance at the clock. Eight fifteen. I have to meet Margaret at the Suds & Duds to help open by nine.

Filtering sunlight into the room, I gently nudge the sheer Tiffany blue curtains apart and peer out. A sigh escapes my lips as I lean my chin on my fist. Same old Saturday mornings. The mailman driving off, Mrs. Stevens is tending to her rosebushes, Old Man Matthews picking up his newspaper in his bathrobe again… Ew.

Suddenly, loud rock music starts blaring from next door.  August Brandt steps out from under the shadow of the raised garage door, carrying a sloshing bucket of suds and a scrubbing mitten. I can’t help but stare as he moves over to his Jeep. Bobbing his head lightly in tune with the beat, he sets the solution down. Reaching for the hose, he’s about to start rinsing it off when he glances up in my direction. Oh, crud. He saw me staring.

I can feel the blush raising up my neck, as I straighten up quickly. A slow, knowing smile starts making its way across his face, and before a I know it, he’s sending me a big grin, oh great he’s sending me a wave now. Quickly wiggling a few fingers, I step back from the window.

Great. I’m supposed to leave and meet Margaret in… now half an hour, and he’s probably still going to be out there.