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‘First Man’ nailed it. (Movie Review)

Hello Precious Readers!

Before I jump in, a quick BOOK UPDATE from me: The outline for my paranormal is underway. I originally was only going to do 2 books, but the characters refuse to stop talking at me. It may end up being a 3-book series. The outline for Book 1 is done, and I’m working on the Book 2 outline. I’m doing things a bit differently this time. I want to have all (however may) books completed and ready for the publishers at the time of submission. This means, if my proposed stories are contracted, they’ll be released on a nice and steady schedule. Faster from me to you! Whatever happens, it’s the story I’m working on, the story I need to be working on, and the story I can’t stop working on. Whether publisher picks it up is yet to be seen, but I cannot stop writing it.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled program. (Spoiler-free portion of review.)

FIRST MAN

 

Overall Rating: A-

Ryan Gosling’s Performance: A+

Claire Foy’s Performance: A+

Effects: A+

Directing Style: B+

PROS: Strong, subtle, restrained performances, excellent effects. The space training, first person point of view, and space stuff is visually stunning, leaving you holding your breath the entire time as you feel the clock ticking down.

CONS: The director’s handheld film style, while helps shape the performances of its A-List star actors and promotes the “sitting in the room with the actors” style of storytelling, is completely unfocused and nauseating in IMAX view. Be prepared for a slow burn, while the movie’s pacing fits the mood, you will leave feeling exhausted.

Overall Impressions: Last night, the hubby Pilot and I went to see First Man, the biographical story of Neil Armstrong. The movie doesn’t tell us much about Neil’s childhood or youth. Instead, it drops you right into the center of the middle of his life. He’s married, a father, and already a part of the government as a test pilot. If you’re waiting for a tear-jerking childhood trauma story, this isn’t it. Instead, the drama is in ordinary daily life experiences that Armstrong had in his personal life in dynamic juxtaposition of having an extraordinary career and skill. (It’s still a tear-jerker, bring the tissues.)

SPOILERS WARNING
(You’ve been warned.)

Now for the spoilers…

Let’s get the ugliness out of the way. It’s a biography, not a documentary. By now, if you’ve heard anything about the move First Man, you may have heard of the controversy revolving around the director completely skipping over the planting of the American flag on the Moon. If you follow me on social media, you already know how I feel about this, but for those who don’t… Come find me on Facebook and Twitter. You’re missing daily fun! Ok, back to the seriousness: This movie is a biography, not a documentary. There are countless film clips showing the planting of the flag on the moon by Armstrong that you can go and watch if you want a recollection of history.

To call this movie un-American, I’m afraid you will have completely missed the point of the movie. Its focus is not about USA’s attempt to be the first to the moon. While that is a major part of the movie, it’s not the focus. The focus is a human-interest story. The question “At what cost do you keep pressing on?” is asked repeatedly throughout the film, paralleling NASA’s Gemini and Apollo missions, and Armstrong’s dealings, or lack of dealings, with loss after loss of loved ones. It’s about the emotional toll of someone who is so specialized in his field, it takes laser focus and dedication, even at the cost of the life of his own making. It’s about the choices to connect with others, or not, and how those breadcrumb decisions lead you to where you presently are as a person.

Life of a pilot. As you can imagine, my husband Pilot and I were carefully watching the film over the actors’ performances. Would they accurately portray the life of a couple where one is constantly putting themselves at a higher risk of danger than your average person? Would they portray aviation accurately and objectively? Would Hollywood overblow and glorify what should be showing the everyday impact an extraordinary career can have on an ordinary family? Pilot was impressed with the accuracy of the time you sit in “Ground School” learning so much math and science you feel like your head will explode. The in-flight calculations conducted as you adjust your fuel rationing. The calm, cool, and collected mind that a pilot needs to have, even in the face of imminent death. He agreed the director did an outstanding job.

Merely opinion, but as Pilot and I have lived our lives, the aviation community is quite small. Pilots tend to fall into two categories: boisterous and friendly, or quiet and reserved–but still friendly. There’s something about the aviation world that I’ve appreciated. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone involved knows how much time, dedication, finances, and hard work that goes into learning how to fly something. That any miscalculation will affect how long or how far you’ll be able to fly, or if you’ll be able to get off the ground. Overseeing your own fate tends to make you cut the bull and recognize what real priorities are, for flying and in life.

Back to the movie…

Ryan Gosling’s performance was exceptional. Again, I am not a die-hard Gosling fangirl, but I appreciate his acting skills. Known for playing the ‘silent type’ he evokes a constantly running tickertape of emotions that flash in his eyes in a matter of a few, brief seconds. Deeply rooted pain, determination, failure, selfishness, and a desperate draw for connection that is severed within the first ten minutes of the movie, you can feel the one-two punch of every blow to Armstrong’s journey to the moon. (Sorry “Goslings” out there, I don’t remember him ever being shirtless in this movie. Personally, I’m grateful. Sucks to be you.)

10Reasons

Loving a Pilot. I have the utmost respect for and pride in my husband. He started flying at the age of 13 years old (before the FAA changed the rules requiring aspiring pilots to be a bit older) and achieved his private pilot’s license at 16 years old. Long-term blog readers know that we are college sweethearts. He was studying Flight Technology at Central Washington University and obtained his instrument rating for his pilot’s license. (For non-aviation people: this means he can fly without any visibility out of the windows, using only the instrument panel.) It almost literally means he can do it blindfolded. The training that comes with an instrument rating makes the student wear gigantic blinders over your face, only allowing him to see the gauges and dials in front of you, and topographical maps to fly. It doesn’t change the fear of being on the ground while a loved one defies gravity for suspended amounts of time. Nor does it quell the fear that the few minutes I see him before he heads out the door might be the last interaction I ever have with him.

It will never change the fact that for each moment my husband is in the air, whether piloting the aircraft himself, or he’s flying with other pilot friends, that a part of my mind and heart will unendingly worry about his safety until I hear he is on the ground.

I am forced to put 100% trust in my husband, his hours of experience in the air or most recent training, his training instructor(s) from over the years agreeing his skills are what they should be, that the weather will cooperate perfectly, and the FAA regulations. I must trust that bird won’t randomly fly into his plane that day. I am forced to trust that for however long he will be in the air, that he will land safely. I am forced to trust that a pine cone that is blown onto the runway will not make a multi-ton metal coffin, with the potential to ignite, to flip, crash, and/or cartwheel on the runway during takeoff or landing.

splos

Am I being overdramatic? Let me ask you: Does the love of your life hop into a small plane or helicopter, like a bug in the wind, several times a week? Sometimes flying through the mountains, being midair when a patch of fog rolls in, or landing in the middle of a forest with no cell reception? Smaller planes and helicopters don’t have parachutes. There are no computers guiding them. For my husband, it’s just him the yoke, pedals, and a rudder. If he’s riding in a friend’s helicopter, it’s the helicopter pilot, a stick, and pedals. That’s it. Is this considered a part of your daily life?

No?
Then, you don’t know.

You can tell me until you’re blue in the face that flying is safer than driving. I agree with you. I know the statistics as well. Millions of people are in the air right now, miraculously not crashing into each other, going from point A to point B and back. This summer, when Pilot considered going into agricultural aviation, and we had the fortuitous opportunity to talk with the owner of an Ag Pilot business in Quincy, WA. The gentlemen explained with ag flying, it’s not a matter of if you crash, but when you crash. Ag pilots fly within 100 feet of the ground, working hard to avoid phone lines and poles, trees, birds, buildings, etc.

This last August, John Sessions, founder of the Historic Flight Foundation in Everett, WA, was injured in a crash at the Abbotsford, B.C., Canada airshow and due to injuries, doctors were forced to amputate one of his legs below the knee. The airplane had passengers, but thankfully there were no fatalities. My husband knows and has worked for John in the past, and we were relieved to hear that was the extent of his injuries. It won’t stop him from flying. It shouldn’t stop him from flying. But, we need to acknowledge the crash happened. Crashes happen. This wasn’t the first crash to occur during an airshow this last summer. There were two, with Sessions’ crash happening later in summer.

Over the years, he and I have agreed that he not give me fine details about when he takes off for a flight. I only want to know when he’s landed on the ground. He messages me every single time, whether he has a signal or not – so the moment he is within range of cell phone bars, I can see he landed safely. Sometimes it will be the middle of the day and I receive a message from Pilot saying a friend offered to take him up flying that afternoon and he’ll be home late. I’m forced to think back to the morning and hope we had a good one together.

Claire Foy’s performance as the rock of the Armstrong family, heading things at home, and keeping her cool for her children while listening to the radio of Armstrong and Houston’s (NASA command) communications, even when things are going wrong, is the most perfect depiction I’ve seen on screen. She’s not a crybaby, she’s not a drama queen. She knows that it doesn’t help. She is not unemotional, she’s not a robot. She visibly worries, dreads, fears, patiently waits during excruciatingly long periods of time for her pilot to return to the ground and back home. If I could ever meet Foy, I can’t wait to thank her for portraying a steadfast strength and equal vulnerability in the same moment that comes when something has gone wrong and you’re merely a bystander.

A pilot needs to be able to go into a flight with a clear head, whether to fly for pleasure, work, the military, or in Armstrong’s case, space exploration. Pilots need to know home is a calm, settled, undisturbed bubble, and taken care of by those left behind on the ground, so they can focus on their flying. Sometimes it’s easy to be this rock. Sometimes it’s not. Pilot is not a toxic male. He does not ignore or bulldoze over my feelings or emotions. He respects my opinion and often, if not always, seeks it. We decide things together versus him “taking my opinion under consideration,” or vice versa. We talk about anything and everything. We laugh about almost everything. We joke, we fight, we support.

astro

Pilot and I had a long talk after the movie. We agreed the director and actors portrayed the pride, joy, elation, accomplishment, concern, strain, and the tiny sprout of fear of death that connects two people over the gravity-defying drive and skillset one has that can impact a couple at home. Watching the connection between Ryan Gosling and Claire Foy grow, stretch, strain, and watching how they moved with or around each other, how they discussed, blatantly ignored, or fought about their emotions that surround an aviation-based household… well, it hit a bit too close to home. Granted, we are the ant-sized micro to their macrocosm, but this movie was starting to feel a bit too much like transcription from our own lives.

There was an evening about five years ago. Pilot and a friend decided to go fly up in Northern Washington. There was no greater sound than when my heart fell out of my chest, and I received a phone call. Before I even said anything, the words, “We needed to make an emergency landing,” came through the receiver. It was immediately followed with “Everyone is okay,” but the infinitesimal seconds between those statements I felt a piece of my soul die. A thick fog had rolled in, and they decided to land in an empty, abandoned field with no lights or street signs around to give me an idea of where they were. I spent the next few hours with a friend of mine back and forth in the same area trying to figure out where they had landed. After about three hours, I found them, we all went to dinner, and when the weather cleared again, they both went back to their starting airport. (Pilot still had to pick up his own car.)

Again, I ask you: Do you feel that I’m being overdramatic? Does the love of your life hop into a small plane or helicopter, like a bug in the wind, several times a week? No? Then, you don’t understand the feelings involved.

Practical Effects. The effects used for the space scenes, are without question, some of the most stunning depictions of outer space I’ve seen as of late. The effects used for the training of the pilots/astronauts, and when the actors were inside of each vessel, made each person feel as isolated, claustrophobic, and tripled the intensity. Pilot had mentioned to me that this director prefers minimal CGI. The horrifying and engulfing sounds of metal stretching and yawing, scraping, skittering all around the tight confines of each manned vessel will scare the pants off you more than any horror movie ever will. Probably because it realistically sounds like the last noise you ever hear. I was blown away by the effects, and always prefer practical effects over computer generated.

Length of movie. You’ll feel it all. One thing I will give this movie, is the time spent on experiencing the above-mentioned effects. However, that doesn’t help the slow pacing of the movie. Though it is worth every minute, you will feel every minute of this movie. Be prepared to feel tired, and a little melancholy after this one.

Filming style: Bring out the in-flight vomit bags! We paid money to see this movie in IMAX. Personally, I wouldn’t have, but for Pilot, this was important we do this. The director used a handheld camera style, along with the texture of the film being in a vintage style appropriate for the 1960’s. What does this mean? A lot of bouncing and shaking, along with a lot of fuzziness on the outer parts of the screen. The outer space scenes were filmed statically so the shaky experience isn’t present during the space-y stuff. While unsure if the cost is worth the few minutes of outer space scenery sprinkled throughout the film, die-hard space exploration fans will get a visual treat in crystal clear IMAX format.

Final thoughts. Powerful and restrained acting, a not-so-steady-hand style of film, and the emotional pull and toll life has over a regular person with an anything-but-normal day job will leave you holding your breath until the last minute. Letting go of that single breath in the same way our characters do at the end. If you’re a science/NASA/space exploration nerd, it’s up to you if IMAX is worth it for you. For a “normal” like me, maybe see it on a regular screen and save yourself a few bucks. If Gosling and Foy don’t at least receive Oscar nods, I’ll be highly disappointed in the Academy (even though we all know awards ceremonies are complete shams).

“To most people, the sky is the limit. To those who love aviation, the sky is home.”

Status

Do I have something on my face? Oh wait, it’s just me.

facing life

It’s Friday, Precious Readers!

I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am about that. For those who follow me on Facebook and are a part of my Facebook Group: Katherine Bacher’s Happy Hour (hint hint), you may already know that this has been a week from the seventh circle of hell.

After weeks of (not) adjusting to our new neighbors’ schedule, we are pretty much sure our new neighbors are drug dealers and/or gang members. For longtime followers of this blog, you will know that often, the life of an author is not glamorous or even lucrative. We write because we love to do it. It’s not for the money or the fame. I write because it’s what I was born to do. I would write even if I was never published. (I’ve written this blog for over 5 years, so what does that tell you?) However, due to not having achieved 100% world domination, I still live in an apartment in a ghetto area of Washington State. This includes dealing with people who choose to make less lawful-based career decisions. Due to my neighbors’ nocturnal and nefarious activities, my husband Pilot and I have not had a good night’s sleep in several weeks.

To help report this activity to local police and to our landlord, my husband setup a camera to take photographs every 5 seconds. The video footage was quite astounding, showing over 10 cars coming by and being met by our neighbors (after 11:50 pm, mind you) within the first few minutes of footage (first full 10 minutes of recording.) This continued on from 11:50 pm well into the wee hours of Monday morning at 5:30 am. I wish I was kidding, but my lack of Z’s is proof otherwise. An unexpected result of recording through the night added to our stress: my car was broken into on Monday morning around 3:30 am. On the plus side, the perpetrator got The Cranberry’s door unlocked and partway open instead of busting the window open. Which happened last year. And, several other times to both Pilot and I before. Between both Pilot’s and my vehicle combined, this will be the 6th time our cars has been broken into while living in this apartment complex.

To add insult to injury, that same Monday, Pilot’s car battery died in the middle of the day. He managed to get it charged, but it died again around 5:30pm Monday, requiring meeting him at his stranded location, dealing with tow trucks, and dropping the hunk of metal with a mechanic. It is still currently at the mechanic’s, who informed us his vehicle, War Machine, needs a new alternator and an entire new electrical system. So there’s that.

This can take a toll on a person’s sanity. Operating on 1 vehicle is difficult for two workaholics like Pilot and myself, but the morning commute has been filled with quiet laughter together while both of us trying not to take our frustration with life out on each other.

One thing that has gone by the wayside is my personal self-care. While I still have several things to follow-up with (the mechanic, the local police, our landlord, and now attempting to find a new place to live as we consider vacating the apartment we’ve called “home” for the last 8 years and our entire marriage), I plan to make time for some rest and rejuvenation this weekend.

Speaking of rejuvenation, I take the time to fill out surveys, in Hopes of products suited to me will fill the shelves. Plus, it’s a great time passer.

I was asked to take a survey today about facial skin care. The survey did not provide a progress bar (which annoys the heck out of me), and ended up being more in-depth and scientific about the product itself rather than just “do you like label A or B?” The experience ended up making me face a mental mirror about a deeply rooted insecurity and fear that I was unaware of floating around in my psyche.

While filling out this survey, a sense of dread bloomed into a dark, gray cloud that hovered over my head for a good half hour after completing it.

welcome to your face

Those nearest and dearest to me know that I have an above-average concern regarding sun exposure. Living in the Pacific Northwest means that sun exposure is limited compared to other parts of the country, but it can actually be more dangerous for PNW dwellers than your average Californian. So many of our days are gray and overcast that many in the PNW do not wear sunblock leading to spots, advanced skin aging, and the looming skin cancer. I don’t know if it’s in my Asian DNA or mental paranoia, but I fight the sun like a mother f-ing heavyweight champion. (Insert favorite fat joke here, says fat blogger.) Although I don’t wear sunblock everyday (longtime readers know I am not a morning person), I do my best to wear it when I know I will be outside for extended periods of time. I’m better at keeping my arms covered, I wear my Bubble Run hat or travel (crush-able) visor, and weirdo that I am, I wear driving gloves to keep my hands sort-of youthful looking (thanks to a lovely requested Christmas gift from my Mom. Thanks Mom!). I tend to splurge on facial products and nail products. This includes night creams and daily moisturizer with SPF. I have a gentle scrub face wash, toner, moisturizer, and a night cream.

This concern did not appear once I hit adulthood. In fact, when I was in elementary school, I was often getting in trouble with the summer day camp teachers for taking too long putting on sunblock before going outside to play. I would use the mirror in the playhouse area to make sure I covered my ears, got the back of my neck and shoulders, etc. Yes, even as young as eight years old, I was concerned about sun exposure and skin care. This is not due to me burning. In my youth, I tanned mostly, probably due to the huge amounts of sunblock I was using. I didn’t get my first sunburn until I was about 19 years old during an unfortunate misunderstanding of how long we would be on Boeing Field for an airshow during the first year of Pilot and I dating.

However, that’s not what I wanted to talk about with you. While answering questions such as Do you look for anti-aging features? or the ever popular women’s questions about concerns over eye sagging and wrinkling, I was confronted with what was my actual fear? Yes, of course, no one wants skin cancer, but this was more than that. I asked myself why I was so concerned about aging beyond my irrational thanatophobia.

Here was my revelation:

I have no idea what I will look like as I age.

I can hear you thinking right now: What the heck is she talking about? None of us know what we’re going to look like as we get older.

Here’s my rebuttal: Actually, yes, most of you do.

(Most of) You have family members you can reference where you got your looks from. Perhaps you’re a “Mini Me” of your parents. Maybe your family’s DNA caused looks to skip a generation and you look like your great grandparents. It could be a situation where you look more like your extended family. My husband is the youngest of three children in his family. My husband looks the most like his father in height, stretched build, and facial features, except he has his mother’s eyes and hair color. His sister has their dad’s height, but looks the most like their mother. Pilot’s brother doesn’t look like either of his siblings, is the shortest of the three (while still tall), has a slightly stockier build that comes from their mother’s side of the family, darker hair, and in looks he is almost a twin of one of their first cousins.

Maybe you have your uncle’s nose and your grandparent’s build. Maybe you have your mother’s eyes and your father’s ears.

For me, this is what I know about myself:
I’m Korean.

That’s ALL I know, and whether that’s 100% Korean is yet to be determined.

I don’t know if I look like my biological father. I don’t know if I look like my biological mother. I don’t know if looks skipped a generation and I look like one or a combination of my grandparents. The unknown is scary. There’s probably some additional tie ins with my Type-A personality about “control issues” due to so much uncertainty in my infantile year(s) and lack of control over the future of my body, but I don’t feel like opening that Pandora’s box anytime soon.

This is going to sound weird, but sometimes I forget that I am Asian. The world sees me as such, but to me, I grew up as a suburban, “white” American, of German descent. Sometimes I’m actually still surprised when I look in the mirror and I see a change in my face. This was exceptionally confusing when I was just hitting puberty as a teen, watching my small, cherubic face lengthen, my height extend, etc. I had nothing to reference from. Every change was a surprise and I had no frame of reference while experiencing it.

About a year ago, I noticed a brown speck near the base of my palm, smaller than the head of a pin. I thought it was a piece of dirt and proceeded to flick it off.

It didn’t.

I realized it was a brown spot that had appeared on my skin and IT WAS PERMANENT.

While this wasn’t earth-shattering news, or a symbol of something more unhealthy going on, it was a realization that I am well into my 30’s and not getting any younger, and that if I wanted my face to be even close to resembling what I know it to be in this moment in time, I needed to up my game from daily SPF moisturizer and face washing. (Hence the night cream(s).)

All I know about Asian aging is that we age slower than some other ethnicities, but we also have delicate skin. I have the hooded (flat) eyelid, so my eyelids may be prone to drooping as time goes on. I may develop jowls and end up looking like a Korean Winston Churchill. Maybe I’ll develop osteoporosis, which is more prevalent in aging Asians than other races, or shrink down an entire foot as I age. I’ve already lost some hair on the top of my head near my forehead. To be fair, I think that was resulting of a medical condition that is now more under control… but it hasn’t grown back.

Most people who are 60+ years in age say that they sometimes don’t recognize the person in the mirror facing back at them. I can genuinely say that the person I meet in 30 years will most likely be a complete stranger to me unless I do my best preventive and maintenance methods, that I can afford to do, right now.

It was one of those psychological jabs poking insecurity into my brain, causing a moment of that loneliness that reveals itself to me from time-to-time, making me feel different than my family, different from my friends, different from my own celebrated German-American heritage. I experience the following jabs:

  • I’m a phony
  • I don’t belong with my family
  • I’m not a “real” Asian
  • I’m not a “real” American
  • I’m not a “real” anything
  • I don’t deserve to celebrate my American and German roots

Another thing that pops into my brain, as a woman, I have no idea what my children would look like. If I had married an Asian man, I would be able to say my children will look Asian and most won’t question that they’re my or my husband’s kids.

Even though it’s 2018, there are still many who frown upon interracial marriage. White supremacy gangs are the leading type of gang activity in Washington State, and despite living on the coastal side of it, there are still areas where Pilot and I will encounter hate and/or racism merely for looking the way that I do. It’s rare, and the situations are few and far between, but they do happen.

I have, what I feel is, a legitimate fear that if Pilot and I were to have children, chances are they’re going to look mostly Asian instead of Caucasian. Based on other Asian/Caucasian couples that I know and have met who have children, their kids tend to take on more Asian features than their Caucasian parent counterparts. (The Asian genes are incredibly strong.) I fear that if Pilot and I were to have children, and he’s watching them by himself, that someone will call CPS on them fearing he’s kidnapping them. Or that a stranger will make a comment that may hurt my husband and/or those children because of ignorance, hate, or a misunderstanding. I don’t look forward to those questions, potential tears, and conversations of having to explain human stupidity to a child in a way that they understand and doesn’t hurt them further.

My parents had to give me a lot of educational and grown up discussions about adoption, racism, what it means to be a family, parenting, the parent-child dynamic, etc., probably far more discussions than the average family about us: What could/could not be said at home versus in public, how to act when meeting people for the first time as a family, how to make sure that I am always making that extra effort to make sure that I keep the offender comfortable after they’ve insulted me, my intelligence, my race, my assumed heritage, my actual heritage, and whatnot. I never remember them offhand, but something will trigger one — a comment someone said, witnessing institutional racism, seeing a parent of interracial children get questioned, etc. and I remember a certain “family meeting” I had shared with my parents for whatever ridiculous screwed up thing had happened that day in my childhood. I do have hope that maybe the world will change into a less racially charged place where it’s not assumed that children of a different appear race to the adult means that the kids were “rescued” or “kidnapped,” depending on how the offender is feeling that day.

I had no idea that a survey about face cream would stir up all several emotions that I haven’t felt in… well, frankly, in almost twenty years. I suppose I could look at it from a different perspective: I get to meet someone new in the mirror about every 10 years who likes and hates all of the same stuff that I do. If Pilot and I were to have kids, maybe they’ll take on features of both him and I so I won’t have to try to guess who they look like.

Probably a bit heavier for a Friday post, but why not throw out an existential question for the weekend? While War Machine is in the shop and Pilot uses my car, The Cranberry to meet with clients for work, maybe I’ll spend a nice quiet Saturday using one of those home facial masks.

TGIF everyone!
– KB

Aside

Time to travel for a virtual field trip! Guest blogging on Night Owl Romance, Friday, December 22, 2017!

Hello, Precious Readers!

I’m excited to announce that on Friday, December 22, 2017 I will be guest blogging on the Night Owl Romance NOR 2017website to talk about my two-week trip to South Korea back in August 2016 — including tons of PICTURES for your viewing pleasure — and talking a little about my most recent book release, Crush On You (a Roxy Summers Mystery #2).

 

My blog post will be titled Born in Korea, but seeing it for the first time by Katherine Bacher #AuthorTravel.”

Consider yourself forewarned, my look in those photos are not exactly my best for traveling, but it was hot, exhausting, and one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. I’m excited to be able to share some of my experiences with all of you.

I’ll be logged in the day of the blog post responding to comments and answering any questions you may have.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it (and I hope you do) is on December 22nd, don’t forget to do a mini field trip and hop on over to leave a question or a simple “Hello!” to me and all of the wonderful people at Night Owl Reviews.

Looking forward to seeing you there!
– KB

#NightOwlRomance #NightOwlReviews #Blog #Blogging #GuestBlog #GuestPost #SouthKorea #Korea #Seoul #Pusan #Busan #Daegyu #Vacation #VacationPictures #VacationPics #Vacay #Travel #Traveling #InternationalTravel #Adoption #IKAA #IKAAGathering2016 #IKAA2016 #InternationalKoreanAdopteeAssociation

Aside

How mad would you be? [Re-Blog from Patricia Johns Romance]

wedding

Source: Patricia Johns Romance: How mad would you be?

There has been an article circulating about a wedding that was interrupted by the groom’s best friend/officiant. The BF decided to interrupt the ceremony to propose to his own girlfriend, and then forced the band to play a “special song” for him and his bride-to-be to dance to during the wedding.

Friend and fellow author, Patricia Johns (look her up, she’s amazing) commented on this event on her blog with an post called How mad would you be? I don’t know about you, but I would’ve been pretty upset. Here is the comment I posted on Patricia’s blog and I stand by it. What do you think?

———– START OF COMMENT ———–

I have a major problem with this, and it’s not because of the financial factor: The friend did this during the ceremony.

I don’t care how small or big your budget is for this event. The ceremony is about the people involved and making a commitment to each other. Interrupting their ceremony, which is their declaration in front of their loved ones, is narcissistic, disruptive, and completely overstepping the boundaries of friendship with someone. No matter how small the budget, how casual the environment, perhaps this was the one time in their lives when all of their friends and family will be in one place. To hijack that intimate setting during of one of the biggest emotional events of your life is a horrible thing to do. My husband and I aren’t well off people. We’re not at the poverty line, but not above it by much and live in a quasi-ghetto area. This was a special moment for us and having so many friends and family from out of town in one place made it all the more special.

I can understand getting caught up in the emotion of the day. It makes guests and participants reflective of their own relationships. I think if any type of declaration had to be made by the officiant/best friend/narcissistic idiot, it should’ve been made during the reception, after the speeches and first dance are done, when the environment is more casual and collaborative. Then, maybe requesting a special dance also would’ve fit more in with the festive ambience. Everyone’s (hopefully) feeling the good vibes and wanting to celebrate in this life event. Guests make music requests of the band/DJ/jukebox, what have you, all of the time at these events. Making a declaration taking the spotlight off of the main people involved before the milestone moments of a wedding would be extremely hurtful. I’m not saying don’t do it, but have some respect for the people involved and wait for the right time during the event if it absolutely has to be done.

Also, Judy above [first commenter] makes a good point. I can’t possibly believe if someone had the gall to do this during the ceremony that it was the first time this kind of stunt has occurred. However, even if it was due to shock, neither the groom nor the bride stepped in to say, “Hey, can this wait until later?” Then, if the officiant/best friend/narcissistic idiot continued to try and move forward, I would’ve been more upset and say “bye bye” to that friend. There had to have been, for lack of better phrasing, warning signs that this guy was capable of pulling a stunt like this out of thin air. He would’ve had to have done this before with other life events.

————–*END OF COMMENT*————–

What do you think, folks?

Would you be angry or upset?

Should I shut up and enjoy the festivities?

Are the bride and groom completely justified?

Would you stay friends with someone like this?

Share in the comments below!

it’s like picking a favorite child

Everyone has a few.

Well, my first was out of my control. I was shipped UPS-style at the age of six months, traveling internationally to meet my new family.

I still wonder if I should tattoo a bar code on the bottom of my foot with the words “Made In Korea” on the other.

Fun Fact: All photos of my airport arrival had a gift shop in the background. The top of each photograph said, “Tax and Duty Free.”  My mother claims this was a major false advertisement on the adoption agency’s part, and demands a refund from them.  If I can find the photo, I’ll post it.

Another was betting on my future by not applying to the UW.

Besides, as a very strong, high B-average student, I doubt my GPA would have gotten me in.

Letting go of the past and opening my heart to Pilot.

One of the best decisions ever.  I finally have someone who will attend hockey games with me and thinks my ridiculousness is “cute.” I would prefer he had said something more along the lines of “genius,” “trendsetting,” or “Pulitzer-worthy,” but hey, you can only ask for so much, right?

The night my dad passed away.

I can only hope that I bring a small amount of happiness to my mom, even though I know I’ll never be enough to fill that loss.

Being diagnosed with thyroid cancer.

I’m not going to compare my lame-ass experience with those of true cancer survivors. Mine was caught very early, thanks to a great doc and new technology. I am in no way a cancer survivor. Cancer survivors are true heroes with more courage than I can imagine. I was… grazed (?) by cancer, if that makes any sense.

The day I said “Really?”  (That’s a story for another day.)

And, my absolute favorite day, and each day since then, was the day I said “I do.” (Also a story for another day.)

Aww… More sappy moments.  Are you sick of me yet?

I’ll warn you. Pilot and I are the smoochy “Bewitched”-like couple. The Samantha and Darren Stevens couple who makes everyone else want to hurl.  (Except the baby talk. I can’t stand people who “baby talk” each other. I don’t even “baby talk” babies.  Their brains are like sponges, they absorb everything. Do I really want to be responsible for the person who thinks “ga ga goo goo” is a phrase? Bitch, please.)

These are moments that not only tested me, they made me surprise myself and others.  Included in these experiences is the day I began this blog and made a dedication to myself and to you, my very precious viewers, that I would write and do everything (morally and legally) within my power to become a good, succesful, multiple-times-over published author.

What were some of your most defining moments?  The ones that pivoted your life in a new direction? How did they change you? Was it worth the change?

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 19: Today is a day that will change your characters life forever. What course of events occurs? How does your character react? Write a scene from this day.

I’m so sick of waiting…

This is terrifying…

I’m so excited…

Each of these thoughts simultaneously ran through her mind as she tapped her fingernails on oak dining room table.

“All right, honey. I have the suitcase in the car, and we’re ready to go.” Oliver stepped through archway, anticipation twinkled in his eyes.

Sylvie pushed herself up from her chair and he guided her to their sedan.  Well, here goes nothing, she thought.

As they drove down I-5, she watched the buildings sweep past her window.  In a soft voice, Oliver turned briefly to look at her.  “Now, honey everything is going to be fine,” as slipped his hand in hers.

“I know. I just don’t know what’s going to happen.  We’re as prepared as we can be, but…” she looked down at her protruding stomach.  “I’m scared.”

“Oh Sylvie, don’t worry. I’m going to be right there with you.”

At 8:03 am, Pacific Time, Sylvie was induced.

~~~

Seven hours, forty-nine minutes and eleven, now twelve, seconds later…

~~~ 

“It’s not a baby, it’s a damn elephant!” Sylvie screamed.  “Give me the epidural! I want the epidural!”

“Just two more pushes, honey!  You can do it, Sylvie!  Just breathe!”  Oliver was a pillar of calm and she wanted to deck him straight into the New Year.  Focus.  Focus on your breathing. Sylvie bit down and breathed as slowly as she could though her teeth.

“Hoo-hoo! Hee!”

She wanted to boil whoever insisted she not use painkillers. Oh wait, she convinced herself of that.  Natural is best, my ass, she thought. But her thoughts vanished as quickly as they appeared when another wave of pain shot through her body, causing her back to go into spasms unlike anything she had ever experienced before.

“It’s ok, Sylvie! You’re doing great!  Now push! Push!

“I can’t!” she cried, squeezing her eyes shut.  “I can’t do this anymore! Make it stop. Oh god, make it stop!”

“Just one more push, Sylvie. You can do it,” Dr. Gustafson said encouragingly.

“Sylvie, look at me!”Oliver’s voice drifted through the waves of pain that were drowning her.

She opened eyes.  Oliver’s deep brown eyes were full of determination, compassion and love as he held her gaze.

“Honey, I love you. I’ve loved you since the day you threw that Frisbee at my face and knocked out my tooth-”  Breathe. Keep breathing.

“One more push,” Dr. Gustafson ordered.  Sylvie pushed with all of the strength she had left, which wasn’t much.

“-and I know you’re tired, and I know you want to give up, but I won’t let you.” Oliver continued to look into her eyes.  “You’re the woman who never gave up on anything. You’re a fighter! You’ve never let me win anything without a fight,-”

Sylvie screamed as the pain consumed her.  Sweat was blending with her tears now, dripping down her face.

“I can see the head,” Dr. Gustafson commanded.  “Keep pushing, Sylvie! Just one more!”

“-and I know you’re going to fight for our baby!  Don’t you want to meet our baby?”

She barely stopped herself from biting straight through her lip.

“So I know that you’re going to do this Sylvie! You’re going to push because I know you love our baby as much as I love you!”  A searing white light blinded her, tearing her in half.

Silence.

A cry pierced the air.

Sylvie slumped back against the pillow, sobbing.

“It’s a healthy baby girl!” Dr. Gustafson announced as he handed the tiny pink blob to the nurse.

“You did it, honey!” Oliver whispered as tears ran down his face.  He silenced her crying as he possessed her mouth firmly.  “She’s beautiful, Sylvie. She’s beautiful, just like you.”

The nurse handed Sylvie the tiny, crying blob, wrapped in a soft blanket and already wearing a little pink hat that was too big and came to a point at the tip.

“Oh,” Sylvie whispered.  “Oh my god.” Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down at the tiny face, the tiny hands and feet.  Ten little fingers. Ten little toes.

Sylvie barely heard Dr. Gustafson congratulating her Oliver.  All the noise and memory of the pain faded wayside as she looked at the face of the miniscule person screaming in her arms.

She looked wide-eyed up at Oliver.  “You’re a daddy, Ollie.”  He brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.  A warm glow settled on both of them as he beamed at her.

“So what should we call her?” he asked softly, as he kissed the baby’s head.

“Perfect,” she whispered.

“No,” Oliver chuckled softly.  He kissed her again.  “That’s you.”