DWC

the story of life is quicker than the wink of an eye, the story of love is hello and goodbye… until we meet again

Here it is!  Day 25!

Ahh, Jimi Hendrix. You were The Man.

We did it, precious readers! We did it! With your encouragement, I actually made it to Day 25!  From now on, it’s going to be weekly or bi-weekly posts.  Hope you’re looking forward to more concise, well-thought-out and (hopefully) error-free postings!

I’m not even sure if this deserves a separate post. Perhaps we should just live in “The Now” and enjoy 25/25 Daily Writing Challenges.

Yes. Yes, I think so!

Thank you, Precious Readers! I love you all!
Here’s to the dawn of a new day!

LAST (!!!) Daily Writing Challenge

Day 25: Today, your character is saying goodbye to someone. Who are they saying goodbye to? Why? Are they emotional? Are they going away or is the other person? Write the scene.

Today’s post is about goodbyes. I’m not saying goodbye to you readers, but since today is a momentous day, we’re using today’s DWC to say goodbye to someone who deeply inspired me to continue writing.

Erma
Aug. 19th, 1907 – Mar. 15, 2007

Grandma went to college to study journalism in a time when college wasn’t necessarily a common thing for women. She is one of the many voices in my head (one of the good voices) who continues to support me in spirit.

The nurse handed us papers and we blindly signed them. For all we knew we could have been signing over our spleens for the next transplant scheduled.  Or signing off our firstborns for an ice cream cone.  To this day, we don’t know what the papers said, only that we had to sign them.

I watched life leave your body.  In a single moment you went from a living, breathing human being to nothingness.  Standing over you in the hospital I looked at this lifeless shell.

We stood in the hallway, not more than a foot from each other. As if the fear of being separated beyond that, would separate us entirely for the rest of our lives. The hospital staff forced us out to sign papers.  Those stupid papers.

You were left in the room.  Someone will come get her.

After a few minutes, no one was coming. People were supposed to be coming.

Where the hell was everyone?

Is this really what happens when you die?  You’re left in a cold, stark, sterile room with no one watching over you?  A crew comes to sweep up your body, making room for the next tragic victim?

No. No, it’s wrong.  IT’S WRONG!  No one deserves this.  THIS IS NOT OK!

I couldn’t bear the fact you were alone.

Each time I saw her, there had never been any hesitation to hug.  A kiss on the cheek.  A grasp of the hand in support.  Never had there been a moment’s hesitation to show affection love.

Separating from my parents I quietly walked back into the room.  I’d never been more afraid to move in my life.  I had never been so scared to go near her.  When she needed us the most.

Shaming myself for my lack of courage, I stepped over, wiped some stray hair from your face.  I gave you kiss on the forehead and held your hand.

We were told she was brain dead.  All three days you were gone, making it a three-day waiting game for your body to shut down.  It was as if your own body rejected the idea that you were gone.  Your soul, spirit, essence, whatever you want to call it, was no longer with us.

“We love you. You will be missed. I hope you’re ok now.”

You were placed next to your husband. I could rest easy because you will never be alone again.

I love you. I miss you. Wherever you are, I hope you’re ok.

whenever i want to all i have to do is dream

“All human beings are also dream beings.
Dreaming ties all mankind together.”
– Jack Kerouac

“I dreamed I was a butterfly, flitting around in the sky; then I awoke.
Now I wonder: Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly,
or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?”
– Zhuangzi

There were so many good quotes, I couldn’t pick just one. Luckily, blogs hold no boundaries, except for the fact that I can’t type HTML code to save my life.

Are you someone who dreams?  My mother is someone who never does.  When I was a child, they were impossibly ridiculous and made no sense, bordering the idea of a bad LSD trip.

(Not that I’ve ever partaken in drug use, or condone its usage, but keep reading and you’ll understand the comparison.)

Pilot (the lucky shit) dreams about (what else?) flying airplanes, confirmed by the airplane noises he makes in his sleep.

Understandably, those who newly share a roof have all types of quirks to learn about, and get used to, with each other.

Having said that…  You can imagine my surprise when I discovered I was sleeping next to an FA-18 Superhornet every night.

I eventually learned how to sleep again after a few short months.

Sigmund Freud said that dreams were repressed desires and emotions.  As much as I appreciate the theories Dr. Freud has provided for countless students of psychology to analyze for the rest of their lives, I have to disagree with ol’ Siggy here.

Personally, I don’t really give much significance to dreams. I’m a believer that dreams are an amalgamation of recent events in your life, things you’re worried about, people you’ve seen, etc.

As an adult, half of my dreams end up being either about my time at work from my Daily Life, or simply somewhat-normal conversations with people in/from my life, like living a second life in my sleep, then waking up bummed because now I have to “re-live” a normal day that was similar to my dreams.

The other half?  Well, sometimes the dreams are just about random, crazy stuff.

What about color?  I’ve heard that those who dream in color tend to be more creative, but I’ve never met anyone who dreams in black and white, (or for you Techies, grayscale).

Also Freud mentioned that dreams can be suppressed sexual desire.  Again, not to belittle the great Doc Siggy’s advice, I have to, again, discredit this theory.  (Also, gross!)  If this proves true, I think I’m screwed. Pun intended.

Case in point: When I was eight, during a time of little stress in my life, family was healthy, school was pretty good, etc., I dreamt about being chased by a puma through a grocery store, while I parkoured myself over the checkout stands to safety in the rafters of the building.  Basically spending the entire dream scared shitless.

Analyze that.

If dreams are about repressed sexual desires, then the dream I had about sitting at a school desk in an empty room realizing I’ve left my wallet in my locker has a much deeper meaning than me just being my normal (if somewhat forgetful) self.

Below are some interesting articles and websites dedicated to analyzing why we dream, dream interpretations, and the great theorists who studied this field.

As for me? I think I’ll just take a sleeping pill tonight.

What are you dreams typically like? Are they the ones you hear about in studies such as the ability to fly or some other superpower?  Are they somewhat like random drug trips? (Not that I have ever done drugs, but jus’ sayin’.) Are they typically happy, scary, depressing, etc.?

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 24: Write, in second person, a dream your character is having. Whether it be a nightmare or something happier, describe the dream in its entirety.

The dense fog not only engulfed the streets, it hid you from view. You were standing alone by the bus stop, waiting to be picked up. Main street was completely deserted except for the beacon of red your soft knit sweater gave off, its color cutting through the thick layer of emptiness.

After pulling up to you, you raised your eyebrow at me.

“It’s you,” you said.

Nodding in reply, then gesturing for you to climb in, you skeptically accepted the quiet offer of being driven home.

Not speaking for several seconds, your fingers played with the drawstring of your hoodie while gazing out the window. Taking in your soft brown hair, your faded, holey jeans.  You were wearing a pair of gray Converse sneakers.  Your old lime green backpack resting in your lap, no doubt holding two or three books that you always seemed to carry around.

“Why’d you come back?” you whispered at the window.

Turning the wheel, the car was placed on the side of the empty road. Turning to your face were the only three words that mattered. “I needed you.”

Recognizing a flash of pain you, narrowed your eyes, analyzing any slight tremor of my hand which never came, any faltering glance of my eye which never wavered, watchful of every potential emotion that might escape the blank stare I gave you.  Anything to try to catch any false meaning of those words.  You were dissatisfied with the truth.

“You neededme,” parroting, but giving an annoyed acknowledgement of the choice of words.

A slight nod and simple acknowledgement of “Yes” was all that could be offered.

You blew out a breath you apparently had been holding and stared at the condensation on the window.  After several heartbeats your face snapped back to my gaze.

“Where the hell have you been for the last year?  I haven’t seen you since graduation and now you decide to roll into town without so much as a phone call or postcard the entire time you were away?”

Tears appeared in your eyes, and it was every ounce of strength to not touch your face. You wouldn’t have wanted me to, even though it would have made you feel better.  Your voice was strained as you spat out the words as if they tasted sickly in your mouth as you said them.  “I don’t know what you’ve been doing, where you’ve been or who you’ve been with. I’m not sure I want to know or even care. All I do know is that you owe me an explanation, and that I don’t want to listen to it.”

You waited for a response.  You didn’t get one.  A heavy silence filled the space in the car as you stared at me.  Your hand raised up to strike me, catching you wrist, feeling your warm skin and your elevated pulse ricocheted under my fingers.  I kissed your fingertips, then took your face in my palms.  Pulling you close, we kissed. An angry kiss, all too painfully aware that although there was much to talk about, oh so much, we weren’t ready to face the truth. Sitting there, feeling you again, none of it mattered.  For the next few moments, everything would wait while I was holding you.

After.  Only after would you then be ready to hear, but not before.

giving good advice and hoping it’s the best

I encourage you to inspire someone today.

“Some of the worst things imaginable have been done with the best intentions.” Got to love the endlessly quotable Jurassic Park. Today’s DWC is about influence. When we question something, are we truly seeking advice in the first place? Some say when we go searching for answers, we already know what our answer is. Instead, we’re looking for validation for our decision.

Words are a powerful motivator. Whether it be positive or negative advice, it can generate repurcussions far beyond our expectations.  In the film The Shawshank Redemption, the film touches on whether “hope” is good or dangerous, and the fallout of believing both.

After reading my instructions for today’s DWC, I began to wonder about influence and another word often used interchangibly for seeking enlightenment, “encouragement.”

What is the difference between influence and encouragement?  Hmm…

Merriam-Webster’s dictionary defines “influence” as:

1. an ethereal fluid held to flow from the stars and to affect the actions of humans
2. an emanation of spiritual or moral force
3. the act or power of producing an effect without apparent exertion of force or direct exercise of command
4. the power or capacity of causing an effect in indirect or intangible ways
5. one that exerts influence

“Encourage” is defined as:

1. to inspire with courage, spirit, or hope
2. to spur on
3. to give help or patronage to

I began to think about “advice” and how so many of my life’s decisions were for issues falling under some shade of gray rather than black and white, and praying that the decisions I’ve made were the right ones.

Not all of them were the right decisions… Oh, well.

Influence is motivation from an unknown source (whether it be a thought referencing to an earlier conversation or decision, signs from ‘up above’ or whatnot). Where as encouragement is a suggestion from a direct source.

Identifying my DWC’s grammar is wrong, that’s a different different post for another time.

The scene I wrote below is dealing with some very difficult issues. Murder, abuse, drunk driving, and most of all, parenting. What guidance do you give someone who has suffered a horrible tragedy?

Advice can be good, but is it always the best?  Check out today’s DWC and let me know if our protagonist, Roger is receiving good advice.  If separate, is Roger receiving the best advice?

What were some encouraging words that you’ve held onto in your life?  Were they helpful or did they cause more trouble than the advice was worth? 

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 18: Your character has a conversation with an influential person in their life. It can be a parent, a teacher, a mentor, anyone your character looks up to. Why are they having the conversation? Write the scene.

The steel gate shut, the sound of the lock settling echoed through the cement hallways.  Next was his least favorite part, but a necessity of the procedure.  After walking through the metal detector, he spread his arms and legs.  Roger let the security guard pat him down, check his driver’s license and walk up to the check in desk.

“Nice to see you again, Roger,” Lorraine greeted him with a slight nod.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” returning the nod as he signed the paperwork and turned over his personal belongings. 

“Got a new pic of that darlin’ girl of yours?” Lorraine asked.

“Yup. Won the school spelling bee this year!” he said proudly.

“Now ain’t that nice,” Lorraine winked. Giving a nod to the row of seats she said, “She’ll be out in just a few minutes. Go to number six.”

He sat at the cement table, its cool hard surface chilling his hands. Through the glass, Roger saw a flash of orange appear at the doorway.

She looked thin. Her cheeks used to be full and pink with color. Now, after three years of being in Willow Creek County Correctional Facility, her face was sallow and worn. A blue bandanna was tied around her head, her hair wiry and raw from the harsh soaps.  He remembered she used to spend an hour in the morning, making sure every hair was in place, with a shellac of hair spray over the top. If she’d set her hair correctly, Mother Nature herself wouldn’t dare ruffle that hairdo.

As the correction officer led the woman into the room, Roger grabbed the wired phone and tapped the window with the receiver, then placing it to his ear.  The woman grabbed the receiver on her side of the glass, and her voice funneled through the earpiece with some slight static.

“Hello, baby,” she said warmly.

The same calm voice that comforted him when he was sick, that helped guide him during his baseball games, that same voice who would read him bedtime stories when he was little.  It was always difficult seeing her through the safety glass.  Not even able to give her a hug of support during her time in this horrible place.

“Hi Mama,” he said.

“Did you get that fancy job in Chicago?”

“I did, Mama. I got it. We’re supposed to leave next week.” His heart sank. How could he move on with his mama living in this shithole?

“How’s my little angel?” she asked, glancing at his shirt pockets.

Roger took the picture from his shirt and held it up to the glass.  “She’s seven now, Mama. She looks just like Whit. More, every day,” he said, giving her his best smile.  “She won the spelling bee.”

“Oh she’s so big! And she has her daddy’s smile!” His mother ooh-ed and ahh-ed at the picture for a few more minutes. “Anyone can tell after meeting her for two seconds that that girlie is goin’ places!”

In the photo, stood his beautiful little Jenny. A spotlight on her, with her shaking hands with the school’s principal. Sure enough, she had her daddy’s ear-splitting grin, which was wide as the Mississippi is long, despite missing a couple of teeth. Standing up straight with her chest puffed up, holding her certificate proudly on stage, you could just feel the joy emanating from the photo.

Returning his smile she replied, “There now! That’s what I like to see!  A smile looks good on you. And yet…” her brow furrowed. “Now what’s troublin’ you, baby boy?”

Roger’s smile fell slightly, “How did you know something was wrong?”

“A mother always knows when her baby is hurtin’.”

Roger wiped his face with his hand and sighed.  After a few moments of silence, he decided to just get right down to it.  “I don’t know what to do about Jenny, mama.” He shok his head. “She’s getting big now, and she’s smart. Smart as a whip.  But that means she’s starting to ask questions I don’t have the answers to.”

His mother just sat, patiently listening to him, letting him gather his thoughts. She had always been a good listener. Hopefully she’d know what to do.

“She wants to know why Whitney is gone, and I can’t…  I just-” he voice faded, pausing as an ice block settled into this stomach like every other time he remembered his wife.

“You don’t know how to explain why her mama’s gone,” she said more as a statement rather than a question.

He looked up at the ceiling, hesitating before responding.  “What am I gonna do, mama? How do I tell my little girl.. How that idiot was too drunk to know his ass from his elbow and crashed into Whitney’s car? It’s a miracle Jenny even survived the crash herself, let alone having to explain to my girl that he killed my wife?”

His mother gave him a stern look and pointed her index finger firmly at him. “Roger, your daddy made his own decisions and ruined this family. I let that nonsense go on for far too long, and I will not let you continue to feel guilty about your daddy’s sins. It was not your fault.”

“Mama, if I had just been there instead of off the coast for work, Whit would never have gone to pick him up at Two Snake Jake’s.”

His mama raised an eyebrow. “Roger, you listen to me and you listen good. What’s done is done. You can’t change the past. But you can build a newer and brighter future for you and my granddaughter.”

“But what do I tell her?” he exclaimed. “How do I explain Whit-… And you bein’ in here?”

“This is what you tell her. Life is all about choices. That the ones you ignore are just as powerful as the ones you make, and hope you have the sense to know the difference.”  Her eyes softened.  “You tell her that she had a beautiful mama who died trying to do the right thing. And a nana who-” her voice caught and she paused a moment. “A nana who made sure that her granddaddy couldn’t hurt anyone ever again.”

She blinked back some tears.  After taking a moment to compose herself, she said pointedly, “You tell my little angel that people make mistakes. It’s part of being human. That I made mistakes too, and I have to live with them, and that’s that. She’s only a little girl. That’s all. She. Needs. To. Know.”

Roger felt a huge vice clamping down on his heart, immobilizing him.  “You shouldn’t be in here. It’s not fair. It’s not your fault that daddy was a no-good sonfabitch.”

“It was my decision. I did a bad thing, and that’s why I’m here.  This had nothin’ to do with you,” she said firmly.

“It had everythin’ to do with me! With us!” he was shouting now.  “Daddy drank till he was blue in the face, and any time he wasn’t drinkin’ he was smackin’ you around!”

“Hey!” the guard said in a steely, cold voice. “If you don’t simmer down right now, you’re gone. Understand, son?”

“Sorry. Won’t happen again,” Roger grumbled under his breath.

His mother watched Roger carefully for a few moments before speaking again.  “Now, Roger, you go on up outta here. Give your baby girl a hug and never let her go. You hold onto her with everything you’ve got, take the job in Chicago and don’t ever look back at this town.”

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.

i think mother nature has an evil twin… and she hates me

Take that disgusting thing off of my boobs, thank you!

Holy cow! I can’t believe I’m already on DWC 15! (There are a total of 25, so I’m over halfway through!)

ATTENTION ALL READERS:

Coining a term from my Daily Life, “Scope Creep,” has fallen upon me. Maintaining a lifestyle of a full-time job, dealing with said Daily Life, writing this blog, working on the DWC’s, trying to carve additional time for my WIP’s and trying to obtain a fair amount of sleep each night… Well, it’s becoming all too much and something has got to give. If I’m not careful, it could quite possibly be my sanity.

Let’s face the facts: If the sanity is completely gone, who wants to read the ramblings of a crazy person?

With most of the outline for my first of a two-book series written out, I hope to have at least both outlines completed, along with officially having started to knock out the first book by the end of the month.

With the ultimate goal of getting published someday, (if I’m lucky enough to be selected by an agent, and then, by some miracle have my work picked up by a publishing company), these last two weeks have proven me wrong:

I cannot continue with the mere goal of writing something each day. I need to be focused on my WIP’s each day.

The (mostly) daily blogging has assisted with me getting back into the groove of taking at least one hour to focus on my Real Life work. I need to use my now aging memory for redeveloping my writing skills.

I will try to post as often as possible, at minimum weekly. So bear with me readers, the few but precious you are! I promise to remain faithful as ever to provide a detailed, if slightly ridiculous, report of my progress.

And now, back to our show!

Daily Writing Challenge 

Day 15: Your character is upset. What about? How does it affect them? Does anyone come to comfort them? Write a scene where your character is distraught.

[Today’s DWC and my daily blog post are one and the same. So hope you enjoy!]

Lesson Learned: No matter how much you try, one cannot fight Mother Nature.  Even if you hate it sometimes.

I believe that God has a sense of humor, (don’t believe me? Have you ever seen a platypus?), and although I’m 100% sure He loves everyone, I also believe the caveat of His humor is that He enjoys screwing with me, just a tiny bit, to see how I’ll react.

Case in point: As part of Pilot’s birthday weekend, we went out to watch the IL2, a Russian WWII war bird fly this afternoon. Instead of being part of the museum’s crowd, we made our way to the opposite side of the runway, near the windsock, amongst the tall grass.  After an amazing one-hour show, Pilot and I made our way back to our car.

As I was belting myself in, I felt a presence on my shoulder. Batting the nuisance away, I froze.  The annoying presence fell into my shirt.  Glancing downward, there it was.

A spider.

A really big spider.

Cricket on a cracker, there is a HUGE SPIDER IN MY BRA!!!

As I gracefully scream and tastefully swat at my boobs-

Get it out! Get it out!  Get this fucking thing off of MEEE!

-I end up repeatedly squashing it against my poor, innocent breast.  (Let’s just say some more screeching ensued for the next few seconds on top of the additional swatting and accidental exposure of myself to those within viewing distance of our vehicle.)

Desperate to remove this creepy crawly from my person, I was finally able to dislodge the Spawn of Satan out of my shirt, flinging it unceremoniously onto the console of Pilot’s vehicle where the humongous thing proceeded to lie there… somewhat flatly while twitching.  Bursting through the car door, I stand outside facing the interior of War Machine, (Pilot and I dubbed his vehicle War Machine not too long ago. What can I say? I already told you it’s a tradition that we name our modes of transportation), and pointed directly to Evil Incarnate calmly requesting Pilot to “Get that… that… THING, away from me!”

Pilot, having just sat in the driver’s seat watching this whole ordeal with a look of amusement on his face, (the rat bastard), proceeds to take his hand from the steering wheel, placing his forefinger and thumb behind Satan’s Mistress and flicked it out of the car.

Sadly, I was under the misfortune of not having my wits about me, (remember, I said complete loss of sanity. I never claimed to have full sanity to begin with) and was standing in the direct path of The Devil’s Wrath Upon Humanity.  The spider bounced off of me, causing another Eek! to emit from me, and it landed on the ground.

I maintained my composure by gracefully scrambling into the car, proceeding to lock all doors, seal all windows, securing Pilot and myself in impenetrable cat suits complete with boots and gloves, placing heat-seeking goggles over our eyes, surrounding our vehicle with motion-sensor cameras and setting up a perimeter of an electrified, barbed wire fence.

Pilot: Um, Sweetie? Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a little?

Me: <moves joystick to turn motion-sensor cameras back and forth.>

Pilot: I promised my parents we’d go visit them so they could celebrate my Birthday dinner with us.

Me: <adjusts heat-seeking goggles, searching for unidentified moving entities.>

Pilot: Sweetie, weneed to get going.

Me: <puts finger to lips.>  SHH! They’ll hear you!

you always remember your first

Do you remember your first?

Grabbed your attention, didn’t I?  I’ll tell you what. I’ll even give you his real name.  His name was Bob.  I know, lame-o name for a first, right? But he was a year older than me, slim body, reliable. We went through high school and most of college together. I have so many memories with Bob.  How could I ever forget him or his amazingly bright green paint job?

Oh, did I forget to mention that Bob is a car?

Bob was the epitome of the safest vehicle on my entire high school parking lot.  My father chose him specifically for me.  Him being a car guy, he knew exactly which car would always get me where I needed to go, never crap out on me, and definitely wasn’t capable of being dangerous.

It was so safe, it couldn’t even do doughnuts. It was a great selling point to my dad, by the way.  And I TRIED!  My dad took me to an icy parking lot in January and we TRIED!

NOTHING! ZIP! NADA! Not even a doughnut hole!

Bob was with me every step of the way. Through every job, through every latte stand, through every incident I was late to school on final’s day.  I got to know Pilot in that car.

You might be wondering about the name.  Well, in my family it’s a tradition to name our cars. Ok, maybe I started the tradition.

My mother’s purple soccer-mom vehicle was dubbed “The Grape Van,” (for a family of three, I still question the need for a damn van), my dad’s jeep was the “Beep Beep,” as named by my mother, but the name hasn’t stuck. It’s been renamed to Grease Lightning since then.  Even Pilot’s vehicle was christened upon the commencement of our relationship. His car was named “The Exploder.” (More on the Exploder another day.)

Bob was purchased out of a creepy, out-of-the-way location from a shabbily decorated lot.  After a not-really-trying dealer semi-haggled with my family, we purchased Bob, an ’83 Mercury Topaz, the new addition to our fleet.  (I know, right?)  Within the vehicle we found a dirty chamois, a screwdriver, and a Bob Marley tape.

I know, I know. The story sounds familiar. We named it Bob, the dog taught me a lot out of life and then he tear-jerkingly died.  Don’t worry, this story doesn’t end tragically. Promise.

While vacationing with my parents in Leavenworth, I found an “I Heart Bob” glow-in-the-dark key chain for him.  Unfortunately, our relationship had to come to an end. While in college at CWU, my parents’ growing concern for the two-hour drive over Snoqualmie Pass (especially in Washington winter which is December to March-ish) made them decide I needed a four-wheel drive vehicle instead.  So now I have Grease Lightning.

Mostly, I think my parents just wanted a new car, but my dad didn’t want to part with his Jeep and couldn’t justify having four cars for a family of three.

But don’t worry. Like I said, this story has a happy ending.  (Remember, I love a good HEA, even for an inanimate object.) Bob was still extremely reliable, and fully functional, so we tried to find a good home.  We found his new parents in my aunt and uncle. Now he has new owners, he’s still in the family and I get to visit him whenever I see my aunt and uncle.

What was your first car?  What were your favorite memories in there?

Wait, maybe that’s a bad question. But it’s out there now, so… Oh, well.

Daily Writing Challenge

*You may have noticed I didn’t post a DWC yesterday. The question for Day 11 (ironic, right? ) was “What was a day like for your character at work?” Since the DWC was part of a WIP, I didn’t want to post it here. So here’s Day 12.

Day 12: What does your character do when their day isn’t a normal day? Write a scene where something goes amiss in your characters day-to-day life.

Thud.

As I wait for my tow truck, the leather steering wheel making what I’m sure is a lovely indentation on my forehead. Sometimes I think that technology hates me. No, seriously. HATES ME. I’m supposed to be leaving for vacation in four hours and not only did my alarm not go off causing me to be late to work, but my computer decided today was a great day to stop functioning, preventing me from printing my boarding pass. After a mad dash to my neighbor’s house to print, sending a quick prayer of thanks for Mr. Rothenburger, I’m now on the side of the highway listening to a strange and ominous hiss coming from underneath the hood of my car.

Well, that’s actually not true. While driving, I heard a whirr plus a ka-thunk with a little dash of glug-a-glug. Then, the hissing.

As I reread the sun visor warning label for the thirty-seventh time, I glance at my suitcase. Poor little suitcase. Sitting there in the back of my car, patiently waiting to be loaded onto a plane to Hawaii.  It’s bright orange with stickers from everywhere I’ve traveled. I hadn’t been to Hawaii yet, and I was itchy to go for some fun in the sun.

There’s a light tapping on the window. As my eye rolls up to look outside, an annoyingly cheerful but yummy looking mouth smiles back at me.  His voice is slightly muffled as he announces himself through the glass.

“Are you Jenny Eppson, yellow Neon JRF-502?”

I nod and straighten up in my driver’s seat, brushing my plain brown hair off my face.  I roll down the window.

“Davis Motors?”

“Yup, Davis Bogart. That’s me.” I pop the hood and step out of the car.  My por little Neon, I grab my poor little suitcase, and set it next to poor little me on the side of the road.  A tall, slightly tanned from working outside, muscled man with dark hair and dark eyes winks at me.

He nods towards my suitcase, “So where you headed?”

“I’m supposed to leave for Hawaii in…” I steal a quick glance at my cell phone. “Make that three hours.”

“Well let’s see what we can do about getting you on your way.”

“Wait a second… Bogart?” I raise my eyebrows at him.  He gave a slight chuckle.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ll tell you what, I’m a huge hit with women over fifty.” He goes over to check my engine.  I watched Yummy Mouth bend over my hood.  Hmm.  Not bad for our generation either.

“Hmm… Looks like your transmission blew. We’re going to have to take it in.”

“Nooo! Could this day get any worse?!” I yell to no one in particular.  When I look back down Davis’ eyes widen a little.

“Bad day, huh?” he said, handing me a clipboard. “Sign here please.”

“The worst,” I grumble to myself, reluctantly taking the pen and sign my name and car away.

“I’m sorry. We’ll get it back to my garage… Unfortunately, my guys won’t be able to work on the vehicle until Monday.”

“Nooo!” I say again as I kick the tire. Shame on me for buying a Neon.

“Here, hop in the front seat.”  He glanced down at the form.  “Look, it’s late, my shift is almost over… and my mother would be shaking in her curlers if I left a young lady stranded without a ride.  I could give you a lift to the airport. You wouldn’t want to pay for those parking fees anyway.  We’ll store your car, free of charge until we can get to work on it.”

My jaw dropped.  “You don’t have to do that, really.”  I wrinkled my nose. “But if you want to stay in good standing with your mother, you might not want to mention the curlers. Oh, and thank you for calling me young.”  He laughed.

“No really, it’s ok.  My garage is on the way. Besides, we can take the carpool lane and maybe make up for the time you’ve lost from this whole transmission issue of yours.”

His logic and generosity was music to my ears.

“Bogey, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

sometimes you have to rip it off like a bandage

Breaking up is hard to do. Or, so I thought.

I love my Macbook. We have been in a relationship for about 5 years.

So what if the Mac version of Microsoft Word has completely different looking toolbars and I have to re-educate myself from PC to Mac every time I open the program? So what if my vision is bad and trying to read a 10-word sentence is difficul-

Huh?  What’s that, Pilot?  You’re willing to help me purchase a new laptop because I’m technologically illiterate and scared to purchase an item with something called 4GB of RAM or GOAT or SHEEP or something? Hmm…

1 HOUR LATER…

Feeling giddy!  Just got back from purchasing a new laptop that is twice as fast, half as heavy and provides a much bigger monitor for myself with Windows 7. It won’t be ready until tomorrow, but I can wait. I’m a somewhat-patient person.

Sorry Macbook.  It’s been a good run.  It’s not you. It’s me.

No wait, it WAS you. Anyone want to buy a Macbook?

The ongoing war of computers.  Which are you, a Mac or a PC and why?

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 10: Your character has dreams, ambitions and goals don’t they? What are they? What are they doing to achieve them? Write a scene that shows these aims.

Sparks arched out in a halo of light as the metal changed from a dull grey to a bright white-orange while the piece of steel began to bifurcate.

Just one more cut right… there!

Stopping the flame generating from her finger, Lorelei lifted her welding mask up from her face. Using the sleeve of her coveralls she wiped the sweat from her brow.  Blowing out a breath, she checked her watch. Four eleven. She better stop now if she had any plans of making it to work on time.

The phone rang off in the distance.  While putting the receiver to her ear, she pressed Send.

“Hello?”

“Hey Lorelei, you better get down here quick!”  Lorelei rolled her eyes and sighed.  She took the welding mask off her head and set it down on the hallway table.

“Hey Mitch, don’t worry. I’ll be there on time. My shift doesn’t start until six.”

“Hold on a second.” She heard him cover the phone with his hand as he yelled something inaudible, then returned to speak with her.

“I need you to come in early. We’re supposed to gear up for Hell Outta Dodge tonight, but the wiring’s on the fritz again. Can you come down and see if you can fix the soundboard?”

A local band was making their debut tonight at the club.  It was an old warehouse from the eighties that had been renovated into one of the new hotspots downtown. Although the façade of the building looked good, the wiring was still old and required constant attention.

As thoughts of a relaxing bath began to dissipate, she replied, “Sure, Mitch. I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Thanks, you’re a doll.” Click. The line went dead. Mitch wasn’t exactly for small talk.

She pulled at her hair tie and shook her red hair loose.  Placing it next to the mask, she put her hands on her hips and looked down at her Chihuahua, Blazer.  Blazer’s little pink tongue was sticking out the side of her mouth. Lorelei gave her little dog a small smile.

“Well, looks like I’m going to have to save the day again!” she announced. Blazer’s ears picked up, tucking her tongue back in and wagged her tail in response.

—

Longingly looking at the water flowing into the tub, wishing she could have taken that leisurely soak, Lorelei twisted the knob and stepped into the spray for a quick shower instead.

Hopefully my muscles won’t be too sore later if I turn up the heat. She twisted the knob again to heat up the spray, stretching her shoulders and turning to make sure her back was in the massaging water. As she shampooed her hair, her mind began to wander.

What am I going to do with my life?

The club had been a great job with the best tippers in the city for some extra cash each night. People tended to tip better with a drink in them.  And she couldn’t beat the hours. Having a night job allowed her to work on her sculptures during the day when the noise wouldn’t bother anyone.

A desk job hadn’t suited her. Lorelei had learned that the hard way.  Being cooped up in a stuffy office away from the outside, only able to look at the sunshine through a window was torture.  Apparently her boss recognized that when he fired her.

Lorelei had acquired quite the resume over the years. She had been a short-order cook by using her magic to fire-roast each burger, making them the exact temperature each customer wanted.  At one time she had been a chauffer for a limo company specializing in first-class clientele.  An apprenticeship with a local plumbing company went well for about six months until a pipe she was working on burst and flooded her client’s home causing massive water damage to their kitchen.  After that, no one wanted to hire her. Oh, well. That job probably would have been better suited for her sister anyway, who could use magic to control water.  Now, she was a bartender slash electrician for Headliners, a punk rock club located in South Seattle. 

If only there was a way for her to find what she was good at along with having a schedule with the freedom to work on her sculptures whenever she wanted. Away from neighbors and have a little privacy as well.

Mrs. Walters was great. A woman who allowed Lorelei to rent the basement unit and pay extra for the garage space to work on her art.  But Mrs. Walters was in her early seventies and required a quiet environment in the evenings.  Having direct access to the garage was nice so Lorelei wouldn’t tromp around the house to get to the front door and disturb her.  But she always felt guilty each incident where she lost track of time and Mrs. Walters would have to call from her bedroom asking for quiet.

Turning the water off, Lorelei lightly squeezed the towel around her hair, and put her makeup on. Going to her bedroom, she dressed for work, a sleeveless button down green shirt to match her eyes, black leather pants and black boots.  She took one last glance in the mirror.

Something has got to change, she thought to herself.

Giving Blazer a quick snuggle, she grabbed her keys and left for work.