2012. I wish I could say with any sort of conviction that I'm ready to see you go. The truth is, I'm not. A new year brings yet another milestone that puts distance between me and a best friend lost. Yes, milestones work in reverse.... Instead of triumphing in growing and becoming, I am painfully aware of the minutes as they tick away and disintegrate what we once had. The holidays are a time to spend with loved ones, a time to remember loved ones departed. I can tell you, for me, it's true. There is an odd comfort in missing him, in remembering and letting the tears come. The sadness means a part of him is still here. Maybe when he crosses my mind, it is because he is thinking of me. I realize perhaps that's a ridiculous notion, but I cling to it anyway.
Hand-in-hand with the passing of my dear horse, this has also been the year of perseverance. For so long I thought I would never have the opportunity to have a passion other than horses, something that I could pour myself into and possibly support my family... eventually. We should all be so lucky--to find that thing we love to do so much we would do it for free. Last year I realized I wanted to write something, just to see if I had it in me. As the words found their way to the page, a long-dormant part of me awakened. Purpose. Life.
And then I lost Moe, and, for a while, my purpose, too.
For so many weeks--months, even--following his passing, I stared at my laptop, fingers frozen in place. It would take me an entire day to form a few sentences, and even those lacked the spark of joy. Still, I pressed on, knowing there was no choice. I kept at it until I completed my second draft in October, took a week off, and dove back in to my next installment. There was no other choice. I could never be happy with this story left in limbo, one more thing to mourn.
2012 has been a year of dramatic change in my life and in myself. I've not figured out how to spin it all positively, because some things simply do not have a silver lining. But I am still here, and I'm glad you are, too.
May 2013 be a year of restoration and blessing for us all. I think most of us could use that.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Snippet
“Yeah, I was totally robbed.” A voice behind me sneered. “Claire only won champion because of that stupid flat class. Oh, and because she’s a Darling, obviously.”
The sudden, crushing power of my grip on my boyfriend Liam’s hand caused him to glance over at me. I didn’t turn to meet his dark eyes, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of even a twitch of response. Instead, I riveted my gaze to the uneven surface of the path we were traveling towards our stabling area.
She raised her voice, obviously wanting to be sure I heard. “It’s so crazy what you can buy these days.”
Your new boobs, for one, I smirked. If I hadn’t been representing my family’s riding stable, Hope Creek, at the horse show, I would have said it out loud. Her reaction would have been worth the catfight that was sure to follow.
“But I guess I’d be winning all of my classes, too, if daddy dearest bought me any horse I wanted.” The others giggled, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to identify them. Celestine (though everyone on the circuit knew her as “Tini”) Lowenstein and her her stuck-up shadows Ariana Llewellyn and Maria Gaudio.
I couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from me at the sheer craziness of her statement. Tini, of all people, was in no position to point fingers and accuse anyone else of being spoiled rotten. She was practically the poster child for privileged children. And, besides, I knew for a fact her horse, Sloan, cost more than most of the homes in my hometown. I knew that because her daddy waltzed into my family’s place, Hope Creek Farm, and plunked down a small fortune--Sloan’s purchase price--without so much as batting an eye... but who was keeping score?
“Yeah, “ one of the other girls offered. “Claire could be dead and Tally would still make her look amazing.” The three of them giggled.
Even though it was meant to be an insult, I nodded my head in agreement. Finally, they’d gotten something right. My Thoroughbred mare, Tally, could make anyone look like they knew what they were doing. Too bad for Tini and her henchwomen, I guess. As long as Tally was around to make up for my atrocious riding skills, they would continue finishing behind me in the rankings.
Before Tini could spout off anything else ridiculous or hateful, I steered Liam to the right, down the long row of temporary stalls that led to Hope Creek’s stabling area. The three girls kept walking, but I could almost feel the burning from their demonic eyes on my back.
“What’s their problem?” Liam asked when he was sure the girls were out of earshot. The thickness of his Irish accent made him sound way more irritated than I knew he really was, and I found it completely adorable.
“There’s no problem. That’s just Tini,” I sighed, releasing my grip on Liam’s hand so I could recapture the wayward strands of sandy brown hair with a ponytail holder. At least, I didn’t think there was a problem. With a petty girl like Tini, it was hard to say. The fact I was currently breathing the same air was probably enough reason for her to be ticked off.
Until last week, Tini and I didn’t need to worry about each other. Last week I changed all of that by standing up for myself. After 18 years of riding and working for my parents and their clients, I decided that it was time for me to compete and make a name for myself in the horse world. It’s a funny thing about following your dreams--most people would rather you didn’t because it messes with theirs. People are selfish.
****
Felt like sharing a little bit from the first draft of my second [untitled] book. It's rough because it hasn't yet been edited, so forgive its imperfection! Hope you enjoyed it! <3
The sudden, crushing power of my grip on my boyfriend Liam’s hand caused him to glance over at me. I didn’t turn to meet his dark eyes, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of even a twitch of response. Instead, I riveted my gaze to the uneven surface of the path we were traveling towards our stabling area.
She raised her voice, obviously wanting to be sure I heard. “It’s so crazy what you can buy these days.”
Your new boobs, for one, I smirked. If I hadn’t been representing my family’s riding stable, Hope Creek, at the horse show, I would have said it out loud. Her reaction would have been worth the catfight that was sure to follow.
“But I guess I’d be winning all of my classes, too, if daddy dearest bought me any horse I wanted.” The others giggled, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to identify them. Celestine (though everyone on the circuit knew her as “Tini”) Lowenstein and her her stuck-up shadows Ariana Llewellyn and Maria Gaudio.
I couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from me at the sheer craziness of her statement. Tini, of all people, was in no position to point fingers and accuse anyone else of being spoiled rotten. She was practically the poster child for privileged children. And, besides, I knew for a fact her horse, Sloan, cost more than most of the homes in my hometown. I knew that because her daddy waltzed into my family’s place, Hope Creek Farm, and plunked down a small fortune--Sloan’s purchase price--without so much as batting an eye... but who was keeping score?
“Yeah, “ one of the other girls offered. “Claire could be dead and Tally would still make her look amazing.” The three of them giggled.
Even though it was meant to be an insult, I nodded my head in agreement. Finally, they’d gotten something right. My Thoroughbred mare, Tally, could make anyone look like they knew what they were doing. Too bad for Tini and her henchwomen, I guess. As long as Tally was around to make up for my atrocious riding skills, they would continue finishing behind me in the rankings.
Before Tini could spout off anything else ridiculous or hateful, I steered Liam to the right, down the long row of temporary stalls that led to Hope Creek’s stabling area. The three girls kept walking, but I could almost feel the burning from their demonic eyes on my back.
“What’s their problem?” Liam asked when he was sure the girls were out of earshot. The thickness of his Irish accent made him sound way more irritated than I knew he really was, and I found it completely adorable.
“There’s no problem. That’s just Tini,” I sighed, releasing my grip on Liam’s hand so I could recapture the wayward strands of sandy brown hair with a ponytail holder. At least, I didn’t think there was a problem. With a petty girl like Tini, it was hard to say. The fact I was currently breathing the same air was probably enough reason for her to be ticked off.
Until last week, Tini and I didn’t need to worry about each other. Last week I changed all of that by standing up for myself. After 18 years of riding and working for my parents and their clients, I decided that it was time for me to compete and make a name for myself in the horse world. It’s a funny thing about following your dreams--most people would rather you didn’t because it messes with theirs. People are selfish.
****
Felt like sharing a little bit from the first draft of my second [untitled] book. It's rough because it hasn't yet been edited, so forgive its imperfection! Hope you enjoyed it! <3
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Social Interaction for Dummies
Something strange has happened to me. I have become content being by myself in social situations. If I am sitting alone somewhere, staring at the ceiling, please don't feel bad for me. It's probably the most peace and quiet I've had in days. In fact, if you come talk to me out of pity because I look lonely, you probably ruined the zen of the moment. Thanks for that.
Deep inside there is a comedian... I enjoyed him for lunch with some fava beans and a nice chianti. Just kidding. But, really, I enjoy making people laugh. I will beat every ounce of life out of a joke, and then give it one more really good swat because, heck, I can. That's my personality, love it or hate it. Lately, though, I have been more than happy to be a fly on the wall, listening and observing vs. working the crowd.
If I'm being truthful, I've never felt like working the crowd. I've always entertained others out of necessity and, eventually, force of habit. When it all boils down to it, I'm much too slow to craft my speech, and I hate how little dexterity there is with the words that come from my lips. In a perfect world I would want to live life with cue cards with the option of ad-libbing a particularly witty one-liner whenever the opportunity arises. Maybe I missed my calling--maybe I should have been a sitcom actress. Even then, I probably would have been cast as the quirky, awkward neighbor or the harried mother screaming at her kids in the middle of the supermarket.... An extra.
I don't want to worry about being myself, socially clumsy as I am, or about giving myself a free pass to get lost in thought when you think I should be doing the limbo or Macarena or something. I don't mind if you don't mind. If you mind, well, you've just become the topic of my next cue card.
Deep inside there is a comedian... I enjoyed him for lunch with some fava beans and a nice chianti. Just kidding. But, really, I enjoy making people laugh. I will beat every ounce of life out of a joke, and then give it one more really good swat because, heck, I can. That's my personality, love it or hate it. Lately, though, I have been more than happy to be a fly on the wall, listening and observing vs. working the crowd.
If I'm being truthful, I've never felt like working the crowd. I've always entertained others out of necessity and, eventually, force of habit. When it all boils down to it, I'm much too slow to craft my speech, and I hate how little dexterity there is with the words that come from my lips. In a perfect world I would want to live life with cue cards with the option of ad-libbing a particularly witty one-liner whenever the opportunity arises. Maybe I missed my calling--maybe I should have been a sitcom actress. Even then, I probably would have been cast as the quirky, awkward neighbor or the harried mother screaming at her kids in the middle of the supermarket.... An extra.
I don't want to worry about being myself, socially clumsy as I am, or about giving myself a free pass to get lost in thought when you think I should be doing the limbo or Macarena or something. I don't mind if you don't mind. If you mind, well, you've just become the topic of my next cue card.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Just the Facts, Ma'am.
WARNING: Letting my geek flag fly uninhibited for this one. I usually try to be a little bit more covert. Moving on....
I began this blog back in June of this year as a way to write about things that come up that are too long or personal for Facebook fodder. Also, as I go through the process of writing my first (and now my second) book, I wanted to get my feet wet, in terms of building a following with readers and other authors.
I'm ridiculously horrible at Math, but I love analytics. There's something addictive about checking on the statistics of my blog and my business website and seeing how many people visit, where they're coming from, what pages catch their eye, etc. It's humbling too, because I am aware that more than half of my blog posts are mindless babbling and the other half are me mourning my horse. Certainly there are better uses of one's time, but I appreciate that so many have spent a little of theirs here anyway.
Over the past six months my blog has received 1701 pageviews. I'd hoped to hit 2k by the end of the year, but there was really no reason for that number in particular. Most of my 70 blog posts receive an average of 20 views, with the highest ever being 120 views for my entry the day I lost Moe ("Broken"). For successful bloggers, 1000 views is a slow day, but I'm happy with where I am. Maybe someday I will be interesting enough to hit triple+ digits.
Thank you for stopping by and bumping up my numbers--for humoring my inner geek on this one thing. Even though you guys rarely comment, I know people are reading, which encourages me to keep sharing (and oversharing).
If you've stuck with me this far.... I'd love to hear from you, the twenty-or-so peeps who take the time to at least blindly click to this blog every few days--what do you like about this blog? What would you like to see more of?
I began this blog back in June of this year as a way to write about things that come up that are too long or personal for Facebook fodder. Also, as I go through the process of writing my first (and now my second) book, I wanted to get my feet wet, in terms of building a following with readers and other authors.
I'm ridiculously horrible at Math, but I love analytics. There's something addictive about checking on the statistics of my blog and my business website and seeing how many people visit, where they're coming from, what pages catch their eye, etc. It's humbling too, because I am aware that more than half of my blog posts are mindless babbling and the other half are me mourning my horse. Certainly there are better uses of one's time, but I appreciate that so many have spent a little of theirs here anyway.
Over the past six months my blog has received 1701 pageviews. I'd hoped to hit 2k by the end of the year, but there was really no reason for that number in particular. Most of my 70 blog posts receive an average of 20 views, with the highest ever being 120 views for my entry the day I lost Moe ("Broken"). For successful bloggers, 1000 views is a slow day, but I'm happy with where I am. Maybe someday I will be interesting enough to hit triple+ digits.
Thank you for stopping by and bumping up my numbers--for humoring my inner geek on this one thing. Even though you guys rarely comment, I know people are reading, which encourages me to keep sharing (and oversharing).
If you've stuck with me this far.... I'd love to hear from you, the twenty-or-so peeps who take the time to at least blindly click to this blog every few days--what do you like about this blog? What would you like to see more of?
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
She Should Be Ashamed.
Since deciding to pursue writing last year, I have been anxious to learn more about the practice of writing--the habits, struggles, and other odd things that make up this calling. I enjoy reading other books now to see how authors describe characters and paint their worlds. Lately I've been reading nearly as much as I've been writing, which I consider refueling and instruction. As I was riding home from a family Christmas meal this evening, I began re-reading Stephenie Meyer's "Twilight" on my Christmas present, my awesomely awesome Kindle Fire HD.
Tonight I found myself thinking specifically about Stephenie Meyer's writing process, so I did what anyone curious about any topic would do--I Googled it. Turns out, she literally dreamed up the story for "Twilight" and wrote it down once she took care of her errands for the day. The fact that it was a dream is probably the best explanation for the storyline: Sparkly hot vampires and buff werewolves? Nah.... Totally not a dream.
What I loved most was reading about her background. Stephenie was a novice writer, with "Twilight", the first book of the series, being her first completed work. She is a mother, and completed much of her writing at night when her kids were supposed to be in bed sleeping so there would be less interruptions. That sounds vaguely familiar.
While reading about her process, I stumbled across a blog where the blogger was exploring how many writers completely dismiss or downright loathe Meyer's writing. The one and only time I read the series (four years ago), I was merely a reader, totally unaware that I would be writing a young adult novel of my own not that far off in the future. Reading back through the book again now that I've studied more on the art of writing, I find that I do still like her and the story--though I now find her a bit more wordy and repetitive. Lots of words, that's the best way to make a 200-page novel 500 pages, I guess.
And, yes, I've already embraced the fact that the Twilight franchise is my guilty pleasure. For sure, I know it's not the basis of good writing, but I always enjoy finding a book I can't put down... no matter what the reason.
Anyway, someone on the blog said, "McDonald's has sold tens of billions of hamburgers, but all those sales don't make them a gourmet meal or even a gourmet hamburger. It's the same with Meyer's writing. It's not art. Sure, art has a subjective component, but it also has objective components and Meyer didn't meet those.... I would NOT have wanted to be in Meyer's shoes. Oh, the money is nice, but one has to be able to hold one's head up about how he or she made that money, not that Meyer did anything illegal. Had I written the "Twilight" books, I'd be ashamed, not proud."
Ouch.
Critics are everywhere, and with any measure of success there will be haters. I have been guilty of mentally picking apart others' novels (even though I still generally support the writers in question), but I try not to. Writing is difficult and intensely intimate work. Hearing that you should be ashamed of something that has consumed you for years, characters who have become close as family, locations that feel like home.... well, that has to hurt deep down to your core.
Do I have thick enough skin required for putting myself out there? I fully intend to find out, but right now I am a swirl of self-doubt.
Tonight I found myself thinking specifically about Stephenie Meyer's writing process, so I did what anyone curious about any topic would do--I Googled it. Turns out, she literally dreamed up the story for "Twilight" and wrote it down once she took care of her errands for the day. The fact that it was a dream is probably the best explanation for the storyline: Sparkly hot vampires and buff werewolves? Nah.... Totally not a dream.
What I loved most was reading about her background. Stephenie was a novice writer, with "Twilight", the first book of the series, being her first completed work. She is a mother, and completed much of her writing at night when her kids were supposed to be in bed sleeping so there would be less interruptions. That sounds vaguely familiar.
While reading about her process, I stumbled across a blog where the blogger was exploring how many writers completely dismiss or downright loathe Meyer's writing. The one and only time I read the series (four years ago), I was merely a reader, totally unaware that I would be writing a young adult novel of my own not that far off in the future. Reading back through the book again now that I've studied more on the art of writing, I find that I do still like her and the story--though I now find her a bit more wordy and repetitive. Lots of words, that's the best way to make a 200-page novel 500 pages, I guess.
And, yes, I've already embraced the fact that the Twilight franchise is my guilty pleasure. For sure, I know it's not the basis of good writing, but I always enjoy finding a book I can't put down... no matter what the reason.
Anyway, someone on the blog said, "McDonald's has sold tens of billions of hamburgers, but all those sales don't make them a gourmet meal or even a gourmet hamburger. It's the same with Meyer's writing. It's not art. Sure, art has a subjective component, but it also has objective components and Meyer didn't meet those.... I would NOT have wanted to be in Meyer's shoes. Oh, the money is nice, but one has to be able to hold one's head up about how he or she made that money, not that Meyer did anything illegal. Had I written the "Twilight" books, I'd be ashamed, not proud."
Ouch.
Critics are everywhere, and with any measure of success there will be haters. I have been guilty of mentally picking apart others' novels (even though I still generally support the writers in question), but I try not to. Writing is difficult and intensely intimate work. Hearing that you should be ashamed of something that has consumed you for years, characters who have become close as family, locations that feel like home.... well, that has to hurt deep down to your core.
Do I have thick enough skin required for putting myself out there? I fully intend to find out, but right now I am a swirl of self-doubt.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
It's Not the End, But If It Were....
If this were the end, I'd want you to know:
I cared a lot more than you knew. So many times I bore your burdens around my shoulders and let them press heavy against my throat. Sometimes I made seemingly foolish choices trying to help you or protect you, and the scars remain red on my flesh. Just because I hurt myself--and perhaps you, the one I hoped to help--doesn't mean I would change a thing. We all need friends who will come beside us and carry us through; at times, there is a toll taken on beasts of burden. And that's okay.
You matter to me, and others, in some way. If you ever reach the end of a day where loneliness is your only companion and it all seems so worthless, I pray that somehow you remember that you add meaning and color--no matter how subtle--to all around you with every breath.
There is a hope for each of us. My hope has a heavenly name, God. I do not know if He is your hope, as well, but it is my deepest longing that you have a hope of your own.
You are loved.
I cared a lot more than you knew. So many times I bore your burdens around my shoulders and let them press heavy against my throat. Sometimes I made seemingly foolish choices trying to help you or protect you, and the scars remain red on my flesh. Just because I hurt myself--and perhaps you, the one I hoped to help--doesn't mean I would change a thing. We all need friends who will come beside us and carry us through; at times, there is a toll taken on beasts of burden. And that's okay.
You matter to me, and others, in some way. If you ever reach the end of a day where loneliness is your only companion and it all seems so worthless, I pray that somehow you remember that you add meaning and color--no matter how subtle--to all around you with every breath.
There is a hope for each of us. My hope has a heavenly name, God. I do not know if He is your hope, as well, but it is my deepest longing that you have a hope of your own.
You are loved.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Balance
My apologies for the silence. There hasn't be a lot to say lately. Or, more correctly, there just hasn't been a lot of energy with which to say the things I'd like to. It throws me into a spin when I go days without any forward progress on my novel or even taking a few moments to write here.
Several weeks ago I was hired by a family to help with overnight care of newborn triplets.
Yep, it's as hard as it sounds.
And it's not because the babies are difficult. They are great, really, other than a little reluctant to burp now and then. But it's that whole quantity vs. quality thing.... The other morning (3 a.m., really) I was scrambling to finish the 2 a.m. feeding so I could go home and finally close my eyelids for the kind of sleep one cannot get when subconsciously remaining alert to the stirrings and chirps of three little ones. Baby A finished eating but had yet to burp a second time despite ten minutes of patting and repositioning. I know he needed to burp because he curled his legs up and squinched his face together, throwing in a whimper every so often. Baby B had begun eating, and before I could finish with him, Baby C was squirming. Between those three babies at one feeding, I ended up changing at least seven diapers. Because the babies were small and spindly, they are in multiple layers of clothing to help keep their temperature regulated, meaning there typically is a couple minutes of snapping, zipping, and coercing limbs into layers of fabric. Somewhere between trying to feed two at once, coordinating burping, and waste management, I traveled from freezing to dripping with sweat... That was just one feeding, one of the hardest I've had so far. Thankfully, they usually run a bit more smoothly as long as they're not having a competition for who can poop the most in teeny increments.
All of that to say I've been more sleep-deprived this past week than I have in a while. Even when a feeding goes smoothly, I often only have an hour, maybe a skoch more, to catch a nap before it's time to warm bottles and start it all over again. So, I've been surviving on an hour of sleep here, an hour of sleep there.... You know, like the parent of a newborn (or three) would. It has not been good for my creativity, really, because every time I find myself in a quiet spot with no babies to care for or alarms to answer to, I konk out.
In terms of my writing, I was supposed to have 50,000 words by the end of December and what I have is more like 31,000. I'm getting a trickle here and a trickle there. Times when I could write--my brain is mostly awake--the nagging thought in the back of my mind is that I should sleep because I'm going to be really sad about skipping that nap when I'm on the other side of 2 a.m.
I don't know whether to relax on my goal because it's not worth killing myself over while I'm doing this doula job, or what. It seems like there will always be an obstacle in my way to either hurdle or hinder. What is the right thing to do?
There is no question in my heart what I want to do with my life, and it's taken me a very long time to come to the conclusion that it's possible. Finding the balance between my dream and my day (or overnight) job is the trick.
Balance sometimes seems like a mythical creature.
Several weeks ago I was hired by a family to help with overnight care of newborn triplets.
Yep, it's as hard as it sounds.
And it's not because the babies are difficult. They are great, really, other than a little reluctant to burp now and then. But it's that whole quantity vs. quality thing.... The other morning (3 a.m., really) I was scrambling to finish the 2 a.m. feeding so I could go home and finally close my eyelids for the kind of sleep one cannot get when subconsciously remaining alert to the stirrings and chirps of three little ones. Baby A finished eating but had yet to burp a second time despite ten minutes of patting and repositioning. I know he needed to burp because he curled his legs up and squinched his face together, throwing in a whimper every so often. Baby B had begun eating, and before I could finish with him, Baby C was squirming. Between those three babies at one feeding, I ended up changing at least seven diapers. Because the babies were small and spindly, they are in multiple layers of clothing to help keep their temperature regulated, meaning there typically is a couple minutes of snapping, zipping, and coercing limbs into layers of fabric. Somewhere between trying to feed two at once, coordinating burping, and waste management, I traveled from freezing to dripping with sweat... That was just one feeding, one of the hardest I've had so far. Thankfully, they usually run a bit more smoothly as long as they're not having a competition for who can poop the most in teeny increments.
All of that to say I've been more sleep-deprived this past week than I have in a while. Even when a feeding goes smoothly, I often only have an hour, maybe a skoch more, to catch a nap before it's time to warm bottles and start it all over again. So, I've been surviving on an hour of sleep here, an hour of sleep there.... You know, like the parent of a newborn (or three) would. It has not been good for my creativity, really, because every time I find myself in a quiet spot with no babies to care for or alarms to answer to, I konk out.
In terms of my writing, I was supposed to have 50,000 words by the end of December and what I have is more like 31,000. I'm getting a trickle here and a trickle there. Times when I could write--my brain is mostly awake--the nagging thought in the back of my mind is that I should sleep because I'm going to be really sad about skipping that nap when I'm on the other side of 2 a.m.
I don't know whether to relax on my goal because it's not worth killing myself over while I'm doing this doula job, or what. It seems like there will always be an obstacle in my way to either hurdle or hinder. What is the right thing to do?
There is no question in my heart what I want to do with my life, and it's taken me a very long time to come to the conclusion that it's possible. Finding the balance between my dream and my day (or overnight) job is the trick.
Balance sometimes seems like a mythical creature.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
My Reach Is Too Short, For Now
Here I am, the first morning of December. Up too early on a Saturday despite having only one child in the house at the moment (two if you count Mr. Ohboy) who is still sleeping under a thick cover of Angry Birds and purring kitties.
I've been awake for an hour on the insistence of my bladder and that of the doggers. I don't mind because I have much to unravel from the knotted plot lines of my novel. My brain is not yet caffeinated enough to dig in fully, but the day hasn't stolen away all of my energy, so I'm not fighting drowsy-brain, either. All week I've struggled to write because I've been the only adult in the joint, and by the time I get everyone settled enough so I can sit down and think it's 10 p.m. and I'm nodding off at the computer.
So... National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) ended at 11:59 p.m. last night. Participants were supposed to hammer out 50,000-word novels in 30 days. I was participating in NaNoWriMo, therefore I was supposed to ring in December with 50,000+ words for my latest novel. Somehow I squealed into the finish line with a blistering 28,036 words, just over half of my goal. On the one hand, I'm disappointed that I fell short by so much. It's not like I had unrealistic goals--I wrote a book in a month last year, so I knew that it was a huge undertaking but something I'd been successful at previously. This time around, I guess I wasn't as interested in writing just to write, and maybe I stifled my creativity by trying to plan things out too much. My second draft from last year's NaNoWriMo novel is mostly unrecognizable from what I spewed out onto the page the first time around, and it took, literally, blood, sweat, and tears to make it into something more, well, less crap-like.
And, confession-time, I rode my ponies a lot more than I probably should have and soaked in as much sunshine as I could before winter hits and the ground freezes and thaws, then freezes all over again. There'll be plenty of hours to write then, hermitted in my house in my bubble of fleece. I welcomed two doula babies this past month and met with several expectant families. When friends asked me to go places and I wanted to take part, I did. No regrets--well, except for missing my goal. Ha.
I'm trying to be more positive about the missing of this lofty goal, telling myself I'll be happier to have taken a little bit more time with it. The process of writing subsequent drafts or revising won't suck quite as much..... but that darn number bugs me a little bit. Okay, a lotta bit. It's just a number, but I knew I was capable of it. I set so very few goals for myself, and fewer that I really care about reaching. To write 28k words on any subject could be considered impressive, I guess. However, the average reader can skim through that many words in the matter of an hour, if they really wanted to.
My new-and-improved goal is to reach 50k (or the end of this novel) by January 1st, 2013, should the Mayans be way off on this end-of-the-world business. This is NaNoTwoMo, and I may be on my own with this, the lone writer striving for that elusive word count amidst the holiday chaos, I don't know.
I will do this. I've got to.
I've been awake for an hour on the insistence of my bladder and that of the doggers. I don't mind because I have much to unravel from the knotted plot lines of my novel. My brain is not yet caffeinated enough to dig in fully, but the day hasn't stolen away all of my energy, so I'm not fighting drowsy-brain, either. All week I've struggled to write because I've been the only adult in the joint, and by the time I get everyone settled enough so I can sit down and think it's 10 p.m. and I'm nodding off at the computer.
So... National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) ended at 11:59 p.m. last night. Participants were supposed to hammer out 50,000-word novels in 30 days. I was participating in NaNoWriMo, therefore I was supposed to ring in December with 50,000+ words for my latest novel. Somehow I squealed into the finish line with a blistering 28,036 words, just over half of my goal. On the one hand, I'm disappointed that I fell short by so much. It's not like I had unrealistic goals--I wrote a book in a month last year, so I knew that it was a huge undertaking but something I'd been successful at previously. This time around, I guess I wasn't as interested in writing just to write, and maybe I stifled my creativity by trying to plan things out too much. My second draft from last year's NaNoWriMo novel is mostly unrecognizable from what I spewed out onto the page the first time around, and it took, literally, blood, sweat, and tears to make it into something more, well, less crap-like.
And, confession-time, I rode my ponies a lot more than I probably should have and soaked in as much sunshine as I could before winter hits and the ground freezes and thaws, then freezes all over again. There'll be plenty of hours to write then, hermitted in my house in my bubble of fleece. I welcomed two doula babies this past month and met with several expectant families. When friends asked me to go places and I wanted to take part, I did. No regrets--well, except for missing my goal. Ha.
I'm trying to be more positive about the missing of this lofty goal, telling myself I'll be happier to have taken a little bit more time with it. The process of writing subsequent drafts or revising won't suck quite as much..... but that darn number bugs me a little bit. Okay, a lotta bit. It's just a number, but I knew I was capable of it. I set so very few goals for myself, and fewer that I really care about reaching. To write 28k words on any subject could be considered impressive, I guess. However, the average reader can skim through that many words in the matter of an hour, if they really wanted to.
My new-and-improved goal is to reach 50k (or the end of this novel) by January 1st, 2013, should the Mayans be way off on this end-of-the-world business. This is NaNoTwoMo, and I may be on my own with this, the lone writer striving for that elusive word count amidst the holiday chaos, I don't know.
I will do this. I've got to.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Empty Stall
He's captive in this little box, tangled among all the little things that made me me. Dew on the morning grass, wings to fly, easy laughter, innocence. Where he has gone, my joy has followed. Each day, I struggle to keep the lid shut tight, to hold too fiercely to something that has long since slipped away. It's all changing--the light, the season, even me. How can there be a spot of my heart that's left to split?
***
Tonight I fed the horses in the dark. They were quiet, not hungry and frenzied as they usually are around dinnertime. I found out that was because they'd already eaten dinner, so the hay I'd thrown out was a bonus feeding. The sweet aroma of pine drifted to me, and I turned to see my mom had thrown some shavings in one of the stalls for the horses to enjoy. The stall we'd kept locked since July 10th had been opened, an open invitation for the mares to come in and explore the straw bedding within. That stall, that very straw was the last place my sweet boy laid his head before we put him down. He groaned and stretched and closed his eyes almost happily, even though he was in unspeakable pain. Even though minutes later he would stand, with my help, and be led from the barn for the very last time.
I never intended it to be a shrine to Moe. It was a waste of straw to be used in the summer for my pasture-kept ladies. I locked it up with a zip-tie that day, and there it's sat for all this time. And, yet, a shrine is exactly what it became, in the end. It was his stall, even though my horses don't have assigned stalls. Every evening he would rush in there with a gruff nicker while I worked on scooping out his Equine Senior, so anxious to eat he would impatiently come back out of the stall and follow too closely behind me to make sure I was coming. He'd been losing teeth in those last years, and gumming his dinner took forever, but I wish he was still here.... I'd let him take five times as long if he was just here again. Soon, the straw will need to be removed, soiled and useless. One more reminder he was here, that it all happened, will break down and disappear forever.
Tonight that open, empty stall peeled back the corner of the scab. I know the wound will never fully heal, but I had hopes that, over time, it would become easier. This is not easier.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Drop In the Bucket
Who am I, that You are mindful of me?
Who am I, that You care for me?
Who am I, that You allow my self-absorbed nonsense?
Day upon day upon day.
I am nothing, blank, zero.
And yet, You love me despite my faults.
***
I am feeling it today, the melancholy that visits me from time to time, even though my life is pretty fantastic. I'm feeling silly, impetuous, and highly imperfect. I'm thinking of these books I'm writing and chiding myself for considering people will ever give a flying Fig Newton what rattles around in my brain. I fail as a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, an aunt, a mother, a wife, and as a friend more often than I don't. I probably need chocolate and a sappy chick flick.
Correction: I need chocolate and a sappy chick flick.
The realization is that I am a drop in the bucket, a humming that is less than a disturbance in the symphony of life. Insignificant. No one cares--I'm not even sure if I care. God cares, and it shouldn't matter beyond that. I'll confess, it matters a little beyond that, but it shouldn't.
I'm sorry if I'm less than you expect. I'm resigning myself to it, this less-ness. For today, at least.
Who am I, that You care for me?
Who am I, that You allow my self-absorbed nonsense?
Day upon day upon day.
I am nothing, blank, zero.
And yet, You love me despite my faults.
***
I am feeling it today, the melancholy that visits me from time to time, even though my life is pretty fantastic. I'm feeling silly, impetuous, and highly imperfect. I'm thinking of these books I'm writing and chiding myself for considering people will ever give a flying Fig Newton what rattles around in my brain. I fail as a daughter, a granddaughter, a sister, an aunt, a mother, a wife, and as a friend more often than I don't. I probably need chocolate and a sappy chick flick.
Correction: I need chocolate and a sappy chick flick.
The realization is that I am a drop in the bucket, a humming that is less than a disturbance in the symphony of life. Insignificant. No one cares--I'm not even sure if I care. God cares, and it shouldn't matter beyond that. I'll confess, it matters a little beyond that, but it shouldn't.
I'm sorry if I'm less than you expect. I'm resigning myself to it, this less-ness. For today, at least.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Higher
Yesterday, as I was on my way to dinner with my nephew and another of his cousins, we were catching up on life. It's been a while since I've seen my nephew, and I very rarely see this other kid. The one guy was telling me he was hoping to get into community college for forensic science. When I asked him what campus, he named one I attended back in the day.
"Oh, yeah. I went there." I said. "But that was back when I still wanted to be something. So glad I got that out of my system!"
We laughed, but I've been thinking about it this morning. The little ping of something when asked to indicate your highest level of education (especially when there is no option for "some college". Oh, the humanity!). The shame that accompanies being "just" a stay-at-home mom or a grocery bagger or what-have-you. The expectation that higher learning somehow shapes you into more of a person.
My thought has always been that college degrees give you a few things us little people don't have: A bigger vocabulary (bonus points if you know lots of words that deal with social injustice), and a debt to society. Okay, so not really society.... But probably Sallie Mae. That kind of burden means you've got to be really good at what you went to school for--or, at least, pretend--because it'll take your entire life to work that baby off.
What if you could be more of a person without a diploma being the end goal? Because what happens when you get that diploma and there's nothing else to reach for? Does life suddenly lose its meaning because you've "made it"?
The world needs people to love what they do--ditch diggers to rocket scientists. People should pinpoint their passions and pursue them, absolutely! But, also, we need to pursue living, even on the most hectic of days, to grasp at the threads of magic hidden in the drudgery of the day-to-day. The day-to-day stuff is valuable, too.
"Oh, yeah. I went there." I said. "But that was back when I still wanted to be something. So glad I got that out of my system!"
We laughed, but I've been thinking about it this morning. The little ping of something when asked to indicate your highest level of education (especially when there is no option for "some college". Oh, the humanity!). The shame that accompanies being "just" a stay-at-home mom or a grocery bagger or what-have-you. The expectation that higher learning somehow shapes you into more of a person.
My thought has always been that college degrees give you a few things us little people don't have: A bigger vocabulary (bonus points if you know lots of words that deal with social injustice), and a debt to society. Okay, so not really society.... But probably Sallie Mae. That kind of burden means you've got to be really good at what you went to school for--or, at least, pretend--because it'll take your entire life to work that baby off.
What if you could be more of a person without a diploma being the end goal? Because what happens when you get that diploma and there's nothing else to reach for? Does life suddenly lose its meaning because you've "made it"?
The world needs people to love what they do--ditch diggers to rocket scientists. People should pinpoint their passions and pursue them, absolutely! But, also, we need to pursue living, even on the most hectic of days, to grasp at the threads of magic hidden in the drudgery of the day-to-day. The day-to-day stuff is valuable, too.
Farewell
I'm freshly-back from the last installment of the Twilight Saga, Breaking Dawn Part 2. And I've got to say, I'm so conflicted. Because so many have not yet seen the movie yet, I am not going to comment on specifics other than: (a) why do I have to pick a "Team"? I'm not that picky, and pretty much everyone on the cast is gorgeous; and (b) it was fan-flipping-tastic. Now for a few random thoughts in no particular order....
I hate endings. I want to grow old with these familiar friends. Eventually Rob Pattinson will lose all of his hair and Taylor Lautner will pack on 80 pounds, so maybe it's better to remember them this way. Still, I couldn't help feeling sad when the end credits rolled and the official good-byes (at least for now) were said.
When I'm feeling particularly low, I flip on New Moon, the second film in the saga. I refer to it as my "comfort movie". Some people have comfort food (okay, I have that, too) or a hideaway. Me, I've got a somewhat-cheesy, totally depressing, co-dependent movie. This goes back to a pivotal winter when this movie happened to be in the theaters. Everything seemed to be changing, and the movie was so melancholy that it just fit. I saw it eight times in the theater. Maybe that's pathetic, but I am still here to tell the tale, and I am only a teensy bit more cynical about life in general. So, well done, New Moon.
More than anything, it makes me long for a piece of what these literary series have done, and done so well: Knitting together a community of dreamers. When we are moved to dream, to imagine, we remember that we are surrounded by wonder. Life is full of infinite possibilities, our own plot to advance and thicken. I pray that someday I will stumble across the characters who will inspire others to create, to laugh, and to love.
Farewell, Twilight. You weren't perfect, by any stretch of the word, but you reminded me that I still have stories left to tell. I'm forever grateful.
I hate endings. I want to grow old with these familiar friends. Eventually Rob Pattinson will lose all of his hair and Taylor Lautner will pack on 80 pounds, so maybe it's better to remember them this way. Still, I couldn't help feeling sad when the end credits rolled and the official good-byes (at least for now) were said.
When I'm feeling particularly low, I flip on New Moon, the second film in the saga. I refer to it as my "comfort movie". Some people have comfort food (okay, I have that, too) or a hideaway. Me, I've got a somewhat-cheesy, totally depressing, co-dependent movie. This goes back to a pivotal winter when this movie happened to be in the theaters. Everything seemed to be changing, and the movie was so melancholy that it just fit. I saw it eight times in the theater. Maybe that's pathetic, but I am still here to tell the tale, and I am only a teensy bit more cynical about life in general. So, well done, New Moon.
More than anything, it makes me long for a piece of what these literary series have done, and done so well: Knitting together a community of dreamers. When we are moved to dream, to imagine, we remember that we are surrounded by wonder. Life is full of infinite possibilities, our own plot to advance and thicken. I pray that someday I will stumble across the characters who will inspire others to create, to laugh, and to love.
Farewell, Twilight. You weren't perfect, by any stretch of the word, but you reminded me that I still have stories left to tell. I'm forever grateful.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Breathe.
My client sent me a text confessing she is scared to leave the hospital and the comfort of having a nurse or lactation consultant one button-press away. I sent a text back to her to reassure her that we'd help her find support if it was needed. What I was thinking at that moment was:
"Sometimes the most important thing you can do is take a deep breath, let go of the hands you've been holding, and trust your intuition."
It can apply to so many areas of our lives, can't it? Along with being terrified of failing, are we also just as scared to succeed?
For me, this is significant because I've buried myself ridiculously deep, 8k-ish words, in my National Novel Writing Month word count deficit. The words seem to be dammed up today, and I don't know why. Is it fear? The complete scariness of letting go of control? Hushing the overbearing voice of that so-called "perfectionist" streak?
I need to let go of those things that are holding me back, to trust I can do this because, deep within, I know how to do this... and I want it more than anything. Just like this new mama, convinced she doesn't have the wisdom she needs to be the mother she was divinely designed to be. We both need to stop and realize that God has not given us these gifts without the necessary tools to enjoy them.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
"Sometimes the most important thing you can do is take a deep breath, let go of the hands you've been holding, and trust your intuition."
It can apply to so many areas of our lives, can't it? Along with being terrified of failing, are we also just as scared to succeed?
For me, this is significant because I've buried myself ridiculously deep, 8k-ish words, in my National Novel Writing Month word count deficit. The words seem to be dammed up today, and I don't know why. Is it fear? The complete scariness of letting go of control? Hushing the overbearing voice of that so-called "perfectionist" streak?
I need to let go of those things that are holding me back, to trust I can do this because, deep within, I know how to do this... and I want it more than anything. Just like this new mama, convinced she doesn't have the wisdom she needs to be the mother she was divinely designed to be. We both need to stop and realize that God has not given us these gifts without the necessary tools to enjoy them.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Perfectly Imperfect
I'm taking a break from writing about my writing to breathe my thoughts onto the screen about something that's been bothering me lately. Forgive me if this is a rambling collection of nonsense. I've been trying and failing to make it more cohesive, to narrow down a main point and stick to it, but apparently that's not my strong point. Moving along....
As many of you know (and it so succinctly puts it in my "About Me" thingie over on the side of this page), one hat I wear is that of a doula. No, it's not a part of the brain, the part that alligators are missing, according to Billy Madison's Mama. It's not round and you don't have to gyrate to keep it from bouncing onto the ground. Quite simply, I support a family as they prepare to give birth to their child, attend to their emotional and physical needs as the baby makes his or her way from the womb, and help ease them into the adjustment from couplehood to parenthood or from parenthood to three-ring-circushood.
This year has been trying for me in my doula practice. It has been a series of strange events and decisions made based on poor or shaky information. I have jokingly (and not-so-jokingly) referred to 2012 as "The Year of the Induction" because I've had more than I care to add up on my fingers and toes. While most have been medically-indicated, at least a couple of those weren't. This isn't judgement, it's just me hitting my head against the wall for the hours these families spent trying to make something happen when clearly no one was ready for that birth. A stumbling heart rate, a failing organ, fear--those things were ready. A mother's mind, her natural hormones, BIRTH--those things were missing.
I'm supposed to trust birth, and I want to, I do. Where does that idealistic trust meet and meld into a healthy respect that things have changed in our bodies and our environments? Perhaps it's not so much birth I distrust, but the myriad of factors that make up a perfectly imperfect individual, a pregnancy, a birth. That fall she took off her bicycle at age 12; the chemical cocktail of convenience foods and sodas she's been ingesting for 30 years; the baby who has decided to run back and forth through his umbilical cord while doing laps in utero; the doctor who is weighing a recommendation on a borderline result, fearful of litigation. We can't take our time machines back and make better choices or coax our baby into cord awareness. All we can do is do the best we can with what we are presented with.... and it isn't perfect, and at the end of the day we're still left scratching our heads.
Is this talk of "your body was designed to birth this baby" and then women ending up with c-sections or without babies in their arms stealing away confidence and trust in themselves, in this process? Women are walking away from birth feeling broken and inadequate, and fingers point in all directions. Certainly, the medical model of care is to blame for much (not all), but at times, it is a mysterious recipe and maybe nobody's the clear culprit.
In the several years I have worked with families, I have been drastically altered as a person. I can feel it deep inside, and I know that my closest friends can feel it, too. Is it from the tears of frustration and heartbreak when plans slip from fingertips? Is it the betrayal women sometimes feel from their own flesh, blood, and sinew? I don't know.... but I wish I knew how to make it stop. It is a heavy weight on my heart when I cannot save the world--and I usually can't.
Most of all, I wish I could shout out loud that you aren't broken, no matter what you've been told and what you've told yourself. You are just an individual, perfectly imperfect, doing the best you can.
As many of you know (and it so succinctly puts it in my "About Me" thingie over on the side of this page), one hat I wear is that of a doula. No, it's not a part of the brain, the part that alligators are missing, according to Billy Madison's Mama. It's not round and you don't have to gyrate to keep it from bouncing onto the ground. Quite simply, I support a family as they prepare to give birth to their child, attend to their emotional and physical needs as the baby makes his or her way from the womb, and help ease them into the adjustment from couplehood to parenthood or from parenthood to three-ring-circushood.
This year has been trying for me in my doula practice. It has been a series of strange events and decisions made based on poor or shaky information. I have jokingly (and not-so-jokingly) referred to 2012 as "The Year of the Induction" because I've had more than I care to add up on my fingers and toes. While most have been medically-indicated, at least a couple of those weren't. This isn't judgement, it's just me hitting my head against the wall for the hours these families spent trying to make something happen when clearly no one was ready for that birth. A stumbling heart rate, a failing organ, fear--those things were ready. A mother's mind, her natural hormones, BIRTH--those things were missing.
I'm supposed to trust birth, and I want to, I do. Where does that idealistic trust meet and meld into a healthy respect that things have changed in our bodies and our environments? Perhaps it's not so much birth I distrust, but the myriad of factors that make up a perfectly imperfect individual, a pregnancy, a birth. That fall she took off her bicycle at age 12; the chemical cocktail of convenience foods and sodas she's been ingesting for 30 years; the baby who has decided to run back and forth through his umbilical cord while doing laps in utero; the doctor who is weighing a recommendation on a borderline result, fearful of litigation. We can't take our time machines back and make better choices or coax our baby into cord awareness. All we can do is do the best we can with what we are presented with.... and it isn't perfect, and at the end of the day we're still left scratching our heads.
Is this talk of "your body was designed to birth this baby" and then women ending up with c-sections or without babies in their arms stealing away confidence and trust in themselves, in this process? Women are walking away from birth feeling broken and inadequate, and fingers point in all directions. Certainly, the medical model of care is to blame for much (not all), but at times, it is a mysterious recipe and maybe nobody's the clear culprit.
In the several years I have worked with families, I have been drastically altered as a person. I can feel it deep inside, and I know that my closest friends can feel it, too. Is it from the tears of frustration and heartbreak when plans slip from fingertips? Is it the betrayal women sometimes feel from their own flesh, blood, and sinew? I don't know.... but I wish I knew how to make it stop. It is a heavy weight on my heart when I cannot save the world--and I usually can't.
Most of all, I wish I could shout out loud that you aren't broken, no matter what you've been told and what you've told yourself. You are just an individual, perfectly imperfect, doing the best you can.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Day Five
I'm 5071 words in to book #2, cleverly titled "Hope Creek Book 2" until I come up with something better.
Nevermind that I should be 1500 words further.
Nevermind that I have no clue where I'm going in the immediate future with this.
Nevermind that the inner editor won't shut her yap because I'm still in editing mode.
Nevermind I shouldn't be blogging because there's a novel to be fleshed out.
I hate playing catch-up, but I love the feeling of that goal number.
Monday, October 29, 2012
T Minus Two Days
A year ago I'd not quite finished the first draft of my novel. If I recall correctly, the bulk of my writing took place near the end of July and most of August 2011. The draft wasn't complete, so I dribbled bits and pieces here and there until I finally felt it was complete in December. Nearly 69k words, a surplus from the 50k I'd been shooting for initially. Thousands of attempts to make something readable--a feat considering I'd sat down at my tiny HP netbook with no story and no direction. Crazy what has happened in my life since then.
This year I'm going into National Novel Writing Month with an improved second draft under my belt. This time, my biggest fear is going into this thing blind again. I love writing, but forcing myself to spend months ripping apart and stitching back together the old with the new feels less like writing and more like playing Dr. Frankenstein. Outlining and planning are two of my weakest points, I'm already aware, but even the crudest of ideas are a step up from blank pages and an oppressive deadline.
Scrivener is a snazzy program for writers who are in the drafting/research phase of a novel. They offered a nice discount for 2012 NaNoWriMo participants (and something like 50% off for those who meet their 50k goal), so I hopped onto that bandwagon. This blustery, miserable day was spent navigating the tutorial in an attempt to demystify the program. Now I kind of have a clue what some of the features do instead of being convinced I'd wasted my dough on something I'd never figure out. Plus, the guy who compiled the tutorial wrote like he was British, which is always fun to read.
Another positive: This morning the name of the next big antagonist came to me, I don't even remember how. Out of curiosity, a few minutes ago I looked up the meaning of her name and it means "heavenly". That's pretty funny because she certainly believes she is God's gift to mankind.
I wish those minor accomplishments were enough to say I was ready for the start of this next journey, but I know it's not.
Two days to make some plans. Scary.
This year I'm going into National Novel Writing Month with an improved second draft under my belt. This time, my biggest fear is going into this thing blind again. I love writing, but forcing myself to spend months ripping apart and stitching back together the old with the new feels less like writing and more like playing Dr. Frankenstein. Outlining and planning are two of my weakest points, I'm already aware, but even the crudest of ideas are a step up from blank pages and an oppressive deadline.
Scrivener is a snazzy program for writers who are in the drafting/research phase of a novel. They offered a nice discount for 2012 NaNoWriMo participants (and something like 50% off for those who meet their 50k goal), so I hopped onto that bandwagon. This blustery, miserable day was spent navigating the tutorial in an attempt to demystify the program. Now I kind of have a clue what some of the features do instead of being convinced I'd wasted my dough on something I'd never figure out. Plus, the guy who compiled the tutorial wrote like he was British, which is always fun to read.
Another positive: This morning the name of the next big antagonist came to me, I don't even remember how. Out of curiosity, a few minutes ago I looked up the meaning of her name and it means "heavenly". That's pretty funny because she certainly believes she is God's gift to mankind.
I wish those minor accomplishments were enough to say I was ready for the start of this next journey, but I know it's not.
Two days to make some plans. Scary.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Love Languages
Tonight I came to a conclusion.
The Love Language my husband speaks to me is Cookies. This explains why I've been on a perpetual diet for the past 13 years. All of my woes can be solved with the sweet union of sugar, butter, and flour. Nevermind the immediate guilt, ever-expanding muffin top, and four-pound weight gain the next day...
Somehow I trained him to do this, to answer my frustrations with food. Maybe it should be a good thing, but for an addictive personality such as mine, notsomuch. If I'd put any thought into his training at all, I should have taught him the way to my heart was to buy me horse tack or books or something. ;-)
If you have a significant other, what do they do to make you feel loved or comforted? Even if you don't, have you figured out those things that make you feel cared for? Please share!
The Love Language my husband speaks to me is Cookies. This explains why I've been on a perpetual diet for the past 13 years. All of my woes can be solved with the sweet union of sugar, butter, and flour. Nevermind the immediate guilt, ever-expanding muffin top, and four-pound weight gain the next day...
Somehow I trained him to do this, to answer my frustrations with food. Maybe it should be a good thing, but for an addictive personality such as mine, notsomuch. If I'd put any thought into his training at all, I should have taught him the way to my heart was to buy me horse tack or books or something. ;-)
If you have a significant other, what do they do to make you feel loved or comforted? Even if you don't, have you figured out those things that make you feel cared for? Please share!
Friday, October 26, 2012
Voice
I have a voice, even though I rein it in so often it has become barely a whisper. You have a voice, too, and sometimes it is all I can hear in this room. It's okay, though. This isn't a request to make your voice quieter, but to make mine loud.
The spoken word is a betrayal to what I truly feel. I need to spend some quiet time, glorying in the ink as it seeps into the page. I need to rest in the calm of letters, punctuation, and emotion. Speaking, I fumble and reach for ideas out of grasp.
It is better this way. This is my way.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
The End Is Here
First of all, I know every one of you is sick of hearing about this novel (and most of the other things I go on about). Word counts. Chapter numbers. The rather strange experience of having people living inside your head. All of that.
Thank you for looking past that.
I realize that half of you will like what I've written, and half of you will think it is rubbish and will make fun of me behind my back. It's okay. What I've written isn't earth-shattering, but very few things are. For me, it is a journey, a challenge, a dream.
Thank you for letting me be excited about my dream.
I'll probably never be a best-seller. My book isn't about vampires, werewolves, zombies, or post-apocolyptic kids thrown into a death match. There's no swearing, no sex, no drugs, no booze.
Thank you for letting me be PG.
I just can't believe it.
Thank you to Courtney and Tim who have stuck with me to the end of this one, and Rosie who suffered through the atrocity that was Draft 1. Thank you to my muses, Moe and Ish. And, most importantly, thank you, God.
Thank you for looking past that.
I realize that half of you will like what I've written, and half of you will think it is rubbish and will make fun of me behind my back. It's okay. What I've written isn't earth-shattering, but very few things are. For me, it is a journey, a challenge, a dream.
Thank you for letting me be excited about my dream.
I'll probably never be a best-seller. My book isn't about vampires, werewolves, zombies, or post-apocolyptic kids thrown into a death match. There's no swearing, no sex, no drugs, no booze.
Thank you for letting me be PG.
I just can't believe it.
Thank you to Courtney and Tim who have stuck with me to the end of this one, and Rosie who suffered through the atrocity that was Draft 1. Thank you to my muses, Moe and Ish. And, most importantly, thank you, God.
Chapter 20
I am seriously going to be sick, I'm so excited to be done with this draft. Here is it, my last chapter.
Mr. Ohboy, my biggest fan, has also been very skeptical when it comes to this whole novel ordeal. He believes in me, I know. It must seem that all I do is write, and it's been so much of what I've done for the past 16 months. This shouldn't have taken that long, it's true. My horse shouldn't have died, either. The writer's block following that was incredibly frustrating. Even now, I know that I haven't made my way back to the level I was at before. Maybe I never will.... but I've learned a lot in the process.
It's not over yet -- these last words have to find their voice, and I think, first, I need to go ride a horse and give my hands (and mind) a break.
But I draw closer to it with each word I type. That's nice.
Mr. Ohboy, my biggest fan, has also been very skeptical when it comes to this whole novel ordeal. He believes in me, I know. It must seem that all I do is write, and it's been so much of what I've done for the past 16 months. This shouldn't have taken that long, it's true. My horse shouldn't have died, either. The writer's block following that was incredibly frustrating. Even now, I know that I haven't made my way back to the level I was at before. Maybe I never will.... but I've learned a lot in the process.
It's not over yet -- these last words have to find their voice, and I think, first, I need to go ride a horse and give my hands (and mind) a break.
But I draw closer to it with each word I type. That's nice.
The End Is Near
This could be the last chapter of draft two, which is pretty darn exciting! I had to threaten myself with a Facebook hiatus until I wrap this thing up, which seems to have been effective.
Chapter 18 was awkward and I still don't love it. I see revisions in the future, but at least I'm more at peace with where it is now.
I might be done with this just in time for National Novel Writing Month, where I would undertake another 50k-word novel during the month of November. The question is: How much do I hate myself? ;-)
Chapter 18 was awkward and I still don't love it. I see revisions in the future, but at least I'm more at peace with where it is now.
I might be done with this just in time for National Novel Writing Month, where I would undertake another 50k-word novel during the month of November. The question is: How much do I hate myself? ;-)
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
He Is
He is...
Spindly legs.
They say he will learn to put each one in proper place as he grows.
They were wrong.
He is...
A velvet nose.
He is sniffing, touching, testing, mouthing all the world has to offer.
And even some things it does not.
He is...
The perfect heart
Child-like, forgiving, trusting, loyal to the final flicker of life.
And loyal even yet.
****
I have been looking at baby pictures of some friends and recent clients. I am led to flip back through some of my older Facebook photos, where little Ohboy's age could be counted in weeks and months rather than years. His smile is the same in those photos, only now it is deepened with words and experience.
It makes me wonder about my Moe-Moe. I've never seen him as a foal, but I imagine him much the same: Gangly and awkward, hungry and inquisitive. The idea of my beloved guy as a beloved little guy brings happy tears to my eyes. What a character I know he was. These things seldom change, even with age.
Miss you, as always, Moe. Where you are, a big piece of my heart has followed.
Friday, October 19, 2012
12:12
A kiss on the cheek.
A kick in the teeth.
A face is much too frail a place
To receive such love and grief.
****
I don't know what this means, and, again, poetry ain't my thang... But it popped into my head a few minutes ago.
A kick in the teeth.
A face is much too frail a place
To receive such love and grief.
****
I don't know what this means, and, again, poetry ain't my thang... But it popped into my head a few minutes ago.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Thursday, October 11, 2012
The Messenger
Last night I said goodbye.
It was on her terms, as always, but it was still closure. A year is a long time to speculate about the hows and whys, to wonder if you could have done something differently.... At the same time, a year passes in the blink of an eye, here and gone before you can miss it.
Albus Dumbledore, beloved Hogwart's headmaster from the Harry Potter series, was outed in 2007. It caused quite a stir, especially among the religious folk who had already been dishing out hate because of the story's basis on magic/"witchcraft". Now, this was long before I knew I'd ever pursued something as crazy as writing a novel, but it made me shake my head--not because I am homophobic, because I am most certainly AM NOT. Rather, I just couldn't understand why it mattered. Why would J. K. Rowling share something that had such damaging potential when it never was mentioned in the books? I think I get it now.
At the risk of confirming how crazy I really am, I'll admit that what I put to paper first plays out like a movie reel in my mind. There's no guessing, and usually the movie is kind enough to replay itself enough to give me time to jot down a reminder. For example, when my main character goes from one room in the hospital to another, the room layout changes without my having to consider it. I know where people are sitting in these rooms, etc. And that's true for most of what I write. The people in my story rarely need my help figuring things out, and I am assuming that's because I'm not really all that bright... Or maybe it's because they are quite aware that my mind doesn't function well in straight lines and logistics. They probably have rightly deduced that the only way I will be able to bring this story to life is if they work it out themselves and then hit me over the head with it.
The people in my story have their own personalities, their own rich pasts full of triumph and trauma. They listen to some of the same bands I do, and turn up their noses in disgust at others. Maybe someone somewhere in their story is a fan of the same sex, but, to date, no one has raised their hand. It's weird to me how much it's beginning to make sense. I'm afraid that someone will tell me this is possible because I have multiple personalities. If that's true, shhhhh! I don't want to know.
This isn't my story, and these aren't my lives. I laugh. I hope. I fall in love. I get angry. I feel their despair. I sit on the edge of my seat wondering what's going to happen next. I'm just the messenger.
It was on her terms, as always, but it was still closure. A year is a long time to speculate about the hows and whys, to wonder if you could have done something differently.... At the same time, a year passes in the blink of an eye, here and gone before you can miss it.
Albus Dumbledore, beloved Hogwart's headmaster from the Harry Potter series, was outed in 2007. It caused quite a stir, especially among the religious folk who had already been dishing out hate because of the story's basis on magic/"witchcraft". Now, this was long before I knew I'd ever pursued something as crazy as writing a novel, but it made me shake my head--not because I am homophobic, because I am most certainly AM NOT. Rather, I just couldn't understand why it mattered. Why would J. K. Rowling share something that had such damaging potential when it never was mentioned in the books? I think I get it now.
At the risk of confirming how crazy I really am, I'll admit that what I put to paper first plays out like a movie reel in my mind. There's no guessing, and usually the movie is kind enough to replay itself enough to give me time to jot down a reminder. For example, when my main character goes from one room in the hospital to another, the room layout changes without my having to consider it. I know where people are sitting in these rooms, etc. And that's true for most of what I write. The people in my story rarely need my help figuring things out, and I am assuming that's because I'm not really all that bright... Or maybe it's because they are quite aware that my mind doesn't function well in straight lines and logistics. They probably have rightly deduced that the only way I will be able to bring this story to life is if they work it out themselves and then hit me over the head with it.
The people in my story have their own personalities, their own rich pasts full of triumph and trauma. They listen to some of the same bands I do, and turn up their noses in disgust at others. Maybe someone somewhere in their story is a fan of the same sex, but, to date, no one has raised their hand. It's weird to me how much it's beginning to make sense. I'm afraid that someone will tell me this is possible because I have multiple personalities. If that's true, shhhhh! I don't want to know.
This isn't my story, and these aren't my lives. I laugh. I hope. I fall in love. I get angry. I feel their despair. I sit on the edge of my seat wondering what's going to happen next. I'm just the messenger.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Not Forgotten
My dear human friend,
A door called death has closed between us for the moment.
But could a little thing like that
break the bond of love and understanding between us,
Who have been so close? Of course not.
Having left behind the body which no longer serves me,
I can be with you always and everywhere;
On long delicious walks, at quiet times, and lively times,
Alone, among friends new and old.
Let my excitement with life still brighten your days.
As long as there is a place in your heart which is the shape of me,
I will be with you.
One day you too will come through the door,
And we will be together in glorious ways we have yet to understand.
--Alexandra Day
Friday, October 5, 2012
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Release
It was time.
And, no, the photo above is not really from the Ohboy home. Google "hoarders" and take your pick.... I guess people will put ANYTHING on the Interweb. Gasp! I know! I was shocked, too, when I found out.
I couldn't honestly tell you the last time I'd reached all of the nooks and crannies of my kitchen counter. We had run out of space to make lunches and prepare meals because there was a teensy little glitch in the feng shui of my Leaning Towers of Paper.
In the living room, I moved the Christmas tree (yes, the Christmas tree. In my defense, it's small and white, but, obviously not a Halloween tree) and thought I'd spotted Bigfoot, there was so much pet hair under there. The not-so-fine layer of dust coating everything made me feel all nostalgic like we were still passing through the deserts of Nevada and Arizona--if the deserts were wall-to-wall with bins of Legos and Angry Birds.
Okay, so I'm being a skoch dramatic.
Over the past couple of years, we've decided that Mr. Ohboy probably has some form of Asperger's. He's a fixer of things, but not at all neat. I think he used to be neat. He also used to be a tree-hugging Democrat, but then he married me and I flip-turned all of that upside down. Must've been my cheery disposition, huh? Anyhow, he's messy. And, lucky me, I have a few more boys up in this hizzy who are varying shades of the same incredibly sharp and yet very fragmented mind. Whether I nag for something to be tidied or he takes the initiative himself (which only happens in the garage), the results are always puzzling.... Usually a twisty-turny path lined with piles of things, leading to an eventual bottleneck. Straight lines and angles? No way! Navigation through even the most mundane room should be an adventure, and even a little bit dangerous! Where is the excitement in placing things against walls or--gasp!--throwing it away? Nowhere, that's where.
If you've ever seen one of those t.v. shows dedicated to hoarding, you'd understand that my family was just one major life event away from never washing another dish or throwing away a food wrapper. Again, I'm being dramatic, but, at the same time, I'm sure that lots of those people on those shows probably didn't see it coming, then BAM! They wake up six feet deep in used adult diapers and fossilized cats.
Last Saturday four of the six of us came down with some stomach thing, so we decided, come Sunday, to hang out at home close to facilities and far from other persons who probably didn't want what we had. That's when we (I) began Operation Declutter. Spurred on by some organization my mom had done in the boys rooms while we were on our trip, we began by dusting our room. To dust our room, we had to fold roughly 15 loads of laundry that had been dumped in the corner, file papers, throw away boxes.... you get the idea. From there we moved to bathrooms, crusty floors, my walk-in closet nightmare, the living room toy explosion, and, finally, the kitchen (a.k.a. filing cabinet with a stove).
Five days, I've been at this nearly from morning till night, taking the odd break to sit down, go to a prenatal appointment, or ride a horse. I estimate I clothed a plus-sized army with all of the clothes I lugged (literally) from the house--a mini-van full. In one load of garbage/recycling, the weight of all of those broken, boring toys lifted from my shoulders. I love the way my house looks, and the ease at which it takes to clean things now that I don't have to shift so much junk to unearth the surface below.
I've not completed my mission. I still have three toy boxes to sort through, and a few baskets of boy clothes to move into bins, which will be exiled forevermore in the plastic bin catacombs. The catacombs are next; and, while my soul is itching to tackle (and annihilate) the Rubbermaid abyss, I know I am tired and anxious to make some forward progress on the novel. The clutter was a snare to my creativity, the words finding themselves buried in unimportant things.
Releasing means receiving peace. I'll take all the peace I can get.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Misplaced
My heart is not a keepsake box.
It clicks open and closed, no safety locks.
With flutters and pauses until it stops,
Love is not secure as it ought.
Instead, I'll keep you in my mind
To whirl and dance in dreams of our design.
Any better place would be rare to find,
Than this hiding place of yours and mine.
~~~
Poetry is not my thing, but I was struck with this thought today, as I considered a few close friends who have been struggling with heart issues. Please don't criticize me too harshly.... I believe the last poem I wrote was something forced by my College Lit professor back in 1997. Enjoy, if you can.
It clicks open and closed, no safety locks.
With flutters and pauses until it stops,
Love is not secure as it ought.
Instead, I'll keep you in my mind
To whirl and dance in dreams of our design.
Any better place would be rare to find,
Than this hiding place of yours and mine.
~~~
Poetry is not my thing, but I was struck with this thought today, as I considered a few close friends who have been struggling with heart issues. Please don't criticize me too harshly.... I believe the last poem I wrote was something forced by my College Lit professor back in 1997. Enjoy, if you can.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Rollercoaster Days
I rode my horse this afternoon while waiting for Ohboys 2 and 3 to be dropped off by the school bus. The bus driver won't let them off the bus unless she sees someone from our family, so I've taken to riding while I wait. What other kid gets picked up from the bus via horse?
My horse has been amazing lately. Today, for the first time in years she decided that she was okay with riding close to the border between the yard and the road, a mass of dark overgrowth chock full of boogey monsters and unspeakable terror. I've taken to putting pom-poms in her ears to block the noise, which seems to help her from jumping out of her skin but doesn't get us any closer to the bushes. It's also really helpful if the older gentleman across the street (hidden behind these trees and bushes) isn't out weed-whipping or dragging things around his driveway. I swear that man has spidey-senses and can tell as soon as I put my foot in the stirrup. The street could have been completely quiet when I go to the barn, and as soon as I go out to ride, he pops up like a really loud mosquito you're not allowed to swat. He's a nice man, but I know I've cussed him out in my brain more times than I can count. Today I won some kind of "perfect conditions" lotto--all things were in my favor. She did what I asked, even throwing in an automatic lead change as a bonus, until we both ran out of steam.
When I ride, littlest Ohboy sits in the yard with one of his beloved Angry Birds and the iPad, content to watch. Or at least he's being patient enough to wait without complaining. That little guy is better to me than I deserve. I always ask him if he wants to ride. Usually he says no, today he said yes. While we waited for the bus, I walked my mare around with little guy holding onto the front of my saddle. He was happy; she was ready to be done with all of us and eat some grass.
As soon as the bus dropped off 2 and 3, they came squealing into the yard. Ohboy 3 was mad because I would not drive him to the house (because I was still putting my horse stuff away), and he was not interested in walking to the house. He was jumping and throwing fits, slamming his backpack into things. I demanded (by counting to three) he ride the horse--poor horse--for four loops around the yard. It settled him down enough so that by the time we finish he was no longer screaming, but humming to himself instead. His feet touched the ground and he was okay for a few minutes until he realized that Ohboy 4 had the iPad and he wouldn't get a turn. At the end of the yard, next to the path that runs up to our private road, I saw Ohboy 3 and 4 in a pathetic competition of who could throw themselves onto the ground and wail the hardest. My horse was loose, but she was happy to eat the green grass, so I walked to them and tried to figure out what the problem was. I stopped having workable solutions years ago.
I sent Ohboy 3 home with the iPad, and Ohboy 4 was reduced to random grunting in lieu of words. The only thing that broke him out of his funk was asking if he'd like to give the horsey a treat. He did! Smiles abound!
When I reached the house, Ohboy 3 was famished. I made them all popcorn for a treat, but it was not enough. He wanted something else. I was not fast enough and he laid down to sleep in his room. I shouldn't have let him sleep, but I did for a little bit, anyway, because it was quiet. He'd been this way all day, based on word from his first-grade teacher.
Teenage Ohboy (1) was playing video games in his room. He was a couple days behind on his school work, and bolted from the house when I confronted him about it and confiscated his technology. Fourteen is a miserable age, and I wonder if we will all survive it with even a sliver of sanity remaining.
Ohboy 2 had spelling homework. He hates spelling (but loves writing, like his mama!), and he growled and kicked the cabinet the whole time. They are only learning six words at a time, and except for transposing some of the letters, he's got this. Spare me the drama.
The boys were all picking on each other, playing with toys they don't actually want to play with just to hear the other kid scream. Mr. Ohboy had been gone for 11 hours today, with no sign of return. The zen I had from riding was sucked from my soul, and I'm suddenly acutely missing Moe again, which is random. I realize that, on some very basic level, he was the steady person in my life. I could always count on him being the very same, all day every day, and always excited to see me and spend time with me. He never hit me with a backpack or called me an idiot, not even once.
This will all pass. Someday I'll be missing this. Riiiiight?
My horse has been amazing lately. Today, for the first time in years she decided that she was okay with riding close to the border between the yard and the road, a mass of dark overgrowth chock full of boogey monsters and unspeakable terror. I've taken to putting pom-poms in her ears to block the noise, which seems to help her from jumping out of her skin but doesn't get us any closer to the bushes. It's also really helpful if the older gentleman across the street (hidden behind these trees and bushes) isn't out weed-whipping or dragging things around his driveway. I swear that man has spidey-senses and can tell as soon as I put my foot in the stirrup. The street could have been completely quiet when I go to the barn, and as soon as I go out to ride, he pops up like a really loud mosquito you're not allowed to swat. He's a nice man, but I know I've cussed him out in my brain more times than I can count. Today I won some kind of "perfect conditions" lotto--all things were in my favor. She did what I asked, even throwing in an automatic lead change as a bonus, until we both ran out of steam.
When I ride, littlest Ohboy sits in the yard with one of his beloved Angry Birds and the iPad, content to watch. Or at least he's being patient enough to wait without complaining. That little guy is better to me than I deserve. I always ask him if he wants to ride. Usually he says no, today he said yes. While we waited for the bus, I walked my mare around with little guy holding onto the front of my saddle. He was happy; she was ready to be done with all of us and eat some grass.
As soon as the bus dropped off 2 and 3, they came squealing into the yard. Ohboy 3 was mad because I would not drive him to the house (because I was still putting my horse stuff away), and he was not interested in walking to the house. He was jumping and throwing fits, slamming his backpack into things. I demanded (by counting to three) he ride the horse--poor horse--for four loops around the yard. It settled him down enough so that by the time we finish he was no longer screaming, but humming to himself instead. His feet touched the ground and he was okay for a few minutes until he realized that Ohboy 4 had the iPad and he wouldn't get a turn. At the end of the yard, next to the path that runs up to our private road, I saw Ohboy 3 and 4 in a pathetic competition of who could throw themselves onto the ground and wail the hardest. My horse was loose, but she was happy to eat the green grass, so I walked to them and tried to figure out what the problem was. I stopped having workable solutions years ago.
I sent Ohboy 3 home with the iPad, and Ohboy 4 was reduced to random grunting in lieu of words. The only thing that broke him out of his funk was asking if he'd like to give the horsey a treat. He did! Smiles abound!
When I reached the house, Ohboy 3 was famished. I made them all popcorn for a treat, but it was not enough. He wanted something else. I was not fast enough and he laid down to sleep in his room. I shouldn't have let him sleep, but I did for a little bit, anyway, because it was quiet. He'd been this way all day, based on word from his first-grade teacher.
Teenage Ohboy (1) was playing video games in his room. He was a couple days behind on his school work, and bolted from the house when I confronted him about it and confiscated his technology. Fourteen is a miserable age, and I wonder if we will all survive it with even a sliver of sanity remaining.
Ohboy 2 had spelling homework. He hates spelling (but loves writing, like his mama!), and he growled and kicked the cabinet the whole time. They are only learning six words at a time, and except for transposing some of the letters, he's got this. Spare me the drama.
The boys were all picking on each other, playing with toys they don't actually want to play with just to hear the other kid scream. Mr. Ohboy had been gone for 11 hours today, with no sign of return. The zen I had from riding was sucked from my soul, and I'm suddenly acutely missing Moe again, which is random. I realize that, on some very basic level, he was the steady person in my life. I could always count on him being the very same, all day every day, and always excited to see me and spend time with me. He never hit me with a backpack or called me an idiot, not even once.
This will all pass. Someday I'll be missing this. Riiiiight?
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Writers Gotta Write
My head felt crowded, jammed full of cotton instead of flickers of creativity. My eyes were hot and burning, like the tear ducts had closed up shop for the evening. This sickness was finally showing me who was boss.
All was quiet in the house--it felt safe, at least for the moment. I turned off the lamp and crawled beneath the sheets. My bedtime story was a podcast from fellow writer/blogger Jeff Goins. Jeff and host Erik Fisher chatted for nearly an hour on how to BE what it is that you DO. Of course, this was intriguing to me coming from Jeff because, although his might not be a household name, his passion and insight on this craft resonate.
I wasn't feeling well, and I admit that I slept through half of the podcast, waking up only when Mr. Ohboy stormed into the room and threw on the lights, not knowing or not caring I was asleep (his own personal battle with his work vehicle wasn't going well, watchout!). Before I initially drifted off to sleep, though, Jeff stressed a point that has been tugging at me all day.
Writers write.
Writers write everyday.
It's a difficult thing, to have someone's story unfolding in your mind and to keep it captive. Maybe no one else on this planet cares about the story like I do, but to keep it inside, well, that's an injustice to the whole kaleidoscope of characters who are living and interacting in my imagination. Their voices deserve to be heard as much as you and I. My heart grows heavier each day that passes and they remain real people in much too small of a space.
That might be a hard thing for you to grasp, especially if you're the kind of person who has struggled to so much as write your name on a check post-high school. You have passions likely so different from mine, which is the beauty of being created as individuals. I'm glad that some of you cannot rest until you've painted a landscape or mastered that concerto. Words are my medium, and I'm still fumbling around with them like I'm all thumbs.... but I'll continue to try to make something from them each day until I can no longer string them together.
Writers write.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
I've Been Everywhere, Man
Day 1 – Saturday, September 8, 2012
My husband set his phone alarm for 4 p.m. instead of a.m., so we
were forced to jump into action when my step-dad called to check if we were awake at
4:15 a.m. We left the house at about
4:45 a.m., only 15 minutes behind schedule.
We were able to sit by one another on the plane, and I
leaned on my husband most of the time, sleeping.
We landed in Vegas at about 8:15 a.m. Once we got our rental car, a grey Toyota
Camry, we drove down the strip and ended up at the Stratosphere. I wanted the boys to go to the top and see
the view, as well as ride some rides, but tickets to the top were
$18/person. Yikes. Instead, we opted for the buffet there. I got three plates and a piece of chocolate
cake, which blew the teenager's mind. I
explained to him that the first time I went to Vegas I was pregnant with his now three-year-old brother and had morning sickness, so I wasn’t very hungry then. I needed to make up for that lost time.
We decided to drive to the Bellagio to see how cool the
inside was. The Conservatory was full of
flowers and hot air balloons, a bridge, and a carousel. Then we left Vegas. Sad face!
The Hoover Dam was 45 minutes away, and we walked to the
midpoint to look at that. It was 104
degrees out--super-hot! I changed my
shirt in the car in the parking lot, ninja-like, after having changed from jeans into shorts in the
bathroom. Much cooler.
Early on, the teenager discovered he is really not a fan of
heights, which is ironic, since half of the things we have planned to see
during this trip revolve around extreme heights. We also thought the girl who took our money
for admission looked a lot like Velma from Scooby-Doo. Jinkies.
From the Hoover Dam, we headed to the Grand Canyon. A room had been reserved for us at the
historic El Tovar hotel, which is right on the southern rim of the canyon. We hiked for a little bit, then went to eat
dinner at the Bright Angel restaurant, which was just down the path to the
west. The sun set as we were finishing
up dinner, but, as it turns out, it wasn’t as pretty as any of us imagined it
would be.
After dinner, we took the boy back to the room to let him
relax, and the husband and I went to the piano bar of our hotel and got dessert
(chocolate-mocha mouse in a chocolate taco with some weird green fruit/mint sauce
for embellishment). Our waiter was
trying to do too many things at a time, and it took us FOREVER to get our food,
bill, and etc., but finally we left our money with the girl at the bar and went
back to the room. On our way, we saw our
waiter rushing down the hall, apparently fresh from delivering room
service. I bet he was frustrated,
thinking we’d skipped out on our bill.
I did T-Tapp BWO+, then fell asleep reading a Kindle book. An extremely busy day 1.
Day 2 – Sunday, September 9, 2012
I woke up around 6:20 a.m. The husband had been up for an hour, waiting on a ledge on the south rim of
the Grand Canyon for the sun to show itself.
While he and the teenager took turns showering, I put on my new trail running
shoes and headed off to the east from where we were staying at the El Tovar
hotel. I’m not sure how far I ran…. I
thought it was Grandeur Point at first, but I can’t find that on a map. Maybe Yaki Point? I estimate it was 1.5 miles to where I
decided to turn back, making it a 3-mile trip that I, a non-runner, attempted
at an elevation of over 6,000 feet. No
wonder I was panting like a dog, which I would try to disguise whenever I passed another tourist. Not that any of them were running, but I still felt like I needed to pretend like I was a finely-tuned machine.
I
wandered out to the ledge at whatever the point was where I turned back, and
looked over the edge. Quickly, I stepped
back and returned to the path, thinking that with all of my running and the
altitude that I could easily become dizzy and fall to my death, which would be
such a silly and horrible way to go.
Part of the path wound inches from nothingness, just a small
stone border. Amazing and awful, all at
the same time.
After getting cleaned up and checking out, we drove into
town (Tusayan) to get fuel and breakfast.
Extra value meals were $8 at McDonalds and fuel was over $4.50 a
gallon. It’s expensive out here.
GPS told us to head back through the Grand Canyon National
Park to head toward Bryce Canyon, so we did, pulling off a few times at
overlooks and the Indian Watchtower. I
had been eyeing a book chronicling all of the deaths that had taken place in
the Canyon throughout recorded history [Over the Edge: Death in the Grand Canyon], despite
the boys telling me that it was a sick/wrong thing to be interested in. When they finally admitted that they would
probably both read the book, as well, I gave in and bought it. For the next four hours I read (and read
aloud) all of the craziness that had occurred over the years. When we arrived at Bryce Canyon, I was,
needless to say, extremely paranoid of the guys stepping close to the
edge.
On our way to Bryce Canyon, we stopped for lunch in Kanab at
this odd BBQ place that had all kinds of props for you to take photos with in
the courtyard directly outside the restaurant.
The cook looked like Tommy Chong.
After our meal and exploring the courtyard, we went in the gift shop and
looked around—the boys played a target shooting game they had in one of the
side rooms. Such a fun, weird place.
In Bryce Canyon, we stayed at Bryce Canyon Pines, which
didn’t look like a whole lot from the outside, but they turned out to be very homey.
They upgraded us to a big room, though, which had three bedrooms, a
kitchenette, two bathrooms, and a living room.
Not what I expected at all! The teenager was thrilled to have his own room, which is the only time it would happen all
trip long.
We went to Bryce Canyon for a little while, as I said
earlier, just before sunset. We hiked a
trail down from Sunrise Point (elevation of about 8000 feet) down to where a
trail was to lead us to a section called the Queen’s Gardens. Supposedly it was only a .8-mile hike, but
I’m pretty sure they were lying.
Climbing back up was pretty rough (especially after my 3-mile run this
morning) and I felt dizzy. Maybe I
wasn’t cut out for hiking the mountains.
From there, we drove over to Sunset Point. A rock formation jutted out (Inspiration
Point??), and the husband climbed out to the edge for a dramatic photo. I had to go out there with him, all the while
talking to a lady sitting nearby about the Death in the Grand Canyon book I’d
been reading. Ironic.
We ate dinner at the restaurant directly under our
room. They had funny books to read while
we waited, and their food was reasonable, considering everything out here is so
expensive.
We are tired now, even though it is technically only 9
p.m. Early end of day 2.
Day 3 – September 10, 2012
We woke up early in Bryce Canyon and tried to go do some
laundry and get some coffee but the deadbolt on our door wouldn’t open. When maintenance finally opened the door for
us, we walked to the office to figure out where the laundry was (turns out it
was down the road and to the left, in a Chevron station). It was colder, 50, so we decided river rafting
was probably not the best idea. High
temps of 63 and a guarantee to get wet sounded unbearably chilly.
We hit the road, bound for Salt Lake City, UT. Somewhere on the road, the boy said he felt
like he needed to throw up, and he did…. In a paper gift bag from something he
purchased at the Grand Canyon. We kept
yelling at him to get out of the car, not to vomit in the rental car and incur
more fees. They made it a point of
telling us we would be charged more if we left litter in the car, so I’m pretty
sure that applies to vomit, as well.
Once he was done yakking on the side of the road, he tossed the bag out
on the roadside, against our better judgment.
I’d like to see anyone convict us…..
Oddly enough, there wasn’t a trash can on the side of the road at that
particular mountain pass.
We waded through an awful gauntlet of construction to grab a
quick breakfast at a Burger King/gas station in Beaver, UT. There was a jar next to the cash register
that had those Livestrong-type bracelets screaming “I <3 Beaver”. I wanted to buy one, but I didn’t. I know, I’m classy.
When I went to sign my receipt, the clerk handed me a pen
with a flower taped to the end.
“I like your pen.” I
commented.
“Yeah,” She
smiled. “We do that so no one steals our
pens.”
“I guess that if you see a trucker with a flower pen, you’ve
caught him red-handed.” I agreed.
As we approached Salt Lake City, storms were apparent over
the lake. It seemed like our plans to
swim might be hindered. As we didn’t
know where exactly to go to swim in the Salt Lake, anyway, we made our way to a
Target to buy some towels and other things we realized we’d need. This Target also had a Starbucks, which is
something we hadn’t seen since leaving Las Vegas Saturday afternoon.
A Google search led me to a site where people were
recommending Antelope Island as the place to go if you wanted to swim in the
Salt Lake. As we paid admission and
drove across the bridge, the lightning bolts struck the open water in front of
us. Super. Even so, we saw people swimming and walking
leisurely from the water toward the parking lot.
We stopped at the Visitor Center to try to buy ourselves
some time. It was raining, and as soon I
opened the car door, the wind ripped it from my hands and threatened to blow
all of our papers and trash out into the air.
The boys ran to the building, and I tried, but my feet were slipping and
sliding around in my wet flip-flops.
Which was worse? Falling flat on
my face in the parking lot or electrocution?
In a media room at the Visitor Center, we watched a movie
about the island. After the movie
finished, the sun had magically and momentarily appeared, though another storm
loomed on the other side of the island.
In a hurry, we drove down the hill to the beach and changed into our
bathing suits before that next storm had a chance to reach us.
The sand near the top of the beach was soft, then it became
littered with sharp, flat pieces of rock that really hurt to walk on…. Then the
sand packed down a bit, so it was easier to walk. The beach was littered with brine flies and
smelled. The boy and I waded into the
water (the husband didn’t, he only had shorts on) for quite a ways and decided just
to lay down to see if we floated since the lake seemed very shallow and we
didn’t want to have to run back to the car if it started lightning again. The water was cold, but I immersed myself to
my shoulders. I floated without trying. The boy tried, but he didn’t have any success,
calling the Great Salt Lake a “sham”. He
also said he wasn’t fat enough to float.
Jerk.
I showered in a pay-shower (the first one I opened had a
bunch of beetles crawling around in it.
Gross!), then walked out to find that the rental car was nowhere to be
found. Hardeharhar. Annoyed, I sat down at a picnic bench
overlooking the beach and waited for the pranksters to arrive with my deodorant
and hair gel.
From Salt Lake, we traveled to Logan, UT, just so the teenager could say he’d visited his town. We ate
at Chick-Fil-A for dinner. I’d never been
to one before. It was alright, not
something I’d drive to another state for, though.
We drove and drove and drove until the husband was tired of
driving. We drove through mountains and
lots of nothingness and open range. We
came to a section of road where cows were on either side of us and we had to go
slowly through the middle of the herd. I
prayed that the cows wouldn’t dent the rental car, since I’d declined the
optional insurance. At one bend of road, the husband spotted a dark shape off to the right.
It was a moose, just grazing. We
tried to take photos of it, but it was just too dark.
The town of Alpine, WY, was where we decided to find a
motel. The first place we stopped, The Bull Moose Lodge, looked cool…. And empty…. But the guy at the bar inside growled
“look at the sign!” which said “No
Vacancy”. We ended up passing the last
place in town, a motel called The Flying Saddle Resort. Got a nice room for $138. Glad we didn’t have to sleep in the car.
I did T-Tapp BWO+ and read a little bit before bed while the
boys snored. End of Day 3.
Day 4 – September 11, 2012
The husband woke up early to do laundry, and I got up with him so
we could go get breakfast and try to make a plan (ha!) for the day. We walked over to the restaurant at the
Flying Saddle Resort, which had a nice breakfast buffet. When the boy was done showering, he met us
there. While we ate, the waitress came
over and struck up conversation, asking where we were from, etc. The older couple at the table behind me
overheard that we were from Michigan, and told us that they were from Alpena,
in for a bike race a few weeks ago that had extended into a three-week
vacation, and that they had a buddy around us who lived on a road that started
with “Rose”. We talked to them for a
while, and then went back to check the laundry, which wasn’t dry. The husband had to be creative to find extra
quarters for another dry cycle—he, habitually, hadn’t checked the lint trap
before starting the dryer the first time.
After clothes were dry, we set off from Alpine and headed
towards Jackson Hole, and, ultimately Yellowstone. We didn’t stop in Jackson Hole, just drove
through, but the boys thought it looked like an interesting place, so maybe
we’ll head back there tomorrow. On our
way towards our hotel, there was a herd of bison on the left shoulder of the
road, hugged up to a wooden fence.
People had parked on both sides of the road to take photos and get
closer, and the bison were not looking happy about it. I saw a couple bison running or heading in
the general direction of PEOPLE. Welcome
to Yellowstone.
There was a lot of road construction through town and the
stretch between the Jackson Lodge and our cabin at the Flagg Ranch, making it a
slow go.
We finally made it to Flagg Ranch and went in to get info on
the float tour and horseback riding. All
tours left from the Jackson Lodge, and we booked our float tour for the next
day at 4:30 p.m., and horseback riding for Thursday morning at 8:00 a.m.
It was too early to check in, so we headed into Yellowstone
and made the drive to see Old Faithful.
Now, it’s been a while since I’ve been to Yellowstone, but I don’t
remember having to drive so much to get to all of that stuff. They said 17 miles to Old Faithful, but what
I really think they meant was 117 miles. The boy was complaining half the time about no
bars for his iPod/phone…. Seriously
considered throwing him to the bears a couple times there, if only there'd been bears around.
We made it to Old Faithful, finally, and I’d forgotten what
most of the buildings looked like. We’d
missed the last eruption by 20 minutes, but another was expected at around 3:14
p.m. We headed into the Old Faithful Cafeteria to get some lunch while we waited.
There was a table by the window so we could watch just in case it
happened while we were still eating. After lunch, we headed out to get a front-row
seat and waited for Old Faithful to show up right on time, 3:14 p.m. After that, we walked around that area, going
to see some of the other neighboring geysers and odd things that are why I
remember Yellowstone. I noticed the
boardwalks felt rickety. We grabbed cappuccinos and chocolate chip
cookies from a café outside the cafeteria and drove around to a few more areas.
The husband, after having inhaled fumes from all of these sulfuric
attractions, looked at me and said, “I’m allergic to Sulfa, this probably isn’t
the best idea.” I tried to assure him
that Sulfa and sulfur were not really the same thing, and he was likely not
going to die.
We decided, after stopping to see the Paint Pots, to head
back to the hotel and rest. As it turns
out, our room was a cabin (346) with two queen beds, no t.v., and no
Internet. I didn’t care about any of
that because I haven’t been trying to connect to the Internet, just writing
this journal everyday. When I’m not
writing just this little bit, I am reading a book on my Kindle until I pass
out. I’m tired, I don’t know about them!
The husband and I took a walk down to the river, behind our
cabins. I was hoping to see some
wildlife, since all we saw in the park was a few fat crows. Some other walkers pointed out a mule deer
eating just at the tree-line and let us use their binoculars, but, other than
that and a squirrel, nada.
We had dinner at the restaurant inside the lodge, then, and
when we came back outside it was dark.
Very dark. And cold. I don’t think I packed warm enough clothes,
so I might have to buy something before we do our float trip/horse ride.
End of day 4.
Day 5 – September 12, 2012
We woke up and drove into Jackson Hole. The wildfires that had been burning on the other side of the
mountain were still smoking and helicopters were dumping water or chemicals via
bucket all day.
We had a brunch (of sorts) at a place called The Teton Steakhouse. It wasn’t very good (at least, not the salad bar), but it
filled the empty spot. Then we walked
around to all of the tourist-y shops and bought some things for ourselves and
for the boys at home. I was jonesing for
Starbucks, and we found the first one we’d come across in days inside an
Albertson’s (grocery store) on the southern side of town. Knowing we’d have a very far trip to get from
here to Seattle, I also had the husband stop in K-mart so I could pick up some card
games to play in the car. We'd bought a Farkel dice game in one of the t-shirt shops, too.
Our “Wild & Scenic Float Trip” was slated for 4:30 p.m.,
and with the construction that ran off and on through town until we reached the
entrance to Grand Teton National Park, we knew we’d need to leave town by 3
p.m. to make it back to the Jackson Lodge in time. We made a detour at a museum on the side of
a hill dedicated to natural art. We
didn’t have time to make it work paying the $12 admission, but we enjoyed the
art in the lobby and parking lot, and bought a few things in the museum
shop. The boys found me a couple ghost
story books about Yellowstone and Wyoming so I could read them out loud as we
drove.
From Jackson Lodge, we loaded a big van towing our raft with three other couples (an older couple near us from London; a younger, more
brash couple from Illinois; and an older couple from Arkansas. We drove down to Deadman's Bar,
and our float tour ended up at Moose Landing (the beginning of the park).
Our raft guide was Jake, who was probably around my age or
younger, with crazy suntan lines on his face from the sunglasses he wore during his tours. The boys volunteered me to be the person who
made sure Jake hit all of the safety points during our pre-float talk, so I had
to initial things on a clipboard.
On our trip, we saw probably six or seven bald eagles
(flying and in the trees), an osprey, two beavers, ducks, Canadian geese, and a
female moose grazing near the shore. We
passed a huge group of fly fishermen (and women) near the end of our trip, all
waded into the sub-50-degree water with bare legs. Brr!
The guide wondered if it was a
Patagonia [outdoor gear supplier] funded event.
Our bus drove back to Jackson Lodge, then we drove back to
Flagg Ranch, which seemed like it took forever and ever. We then ate dinner at the lodge restaurant
and the boy and I came back and got ready for bed while the husband did laundry so I could
have clean underwear. He’s a good guy. It was super-dark out there.
End of day 5.
Day 6 – September 14, 2012
We woke up between 5 and 5:30 a.m. to check out of the Flagg
Ranch and drive down to Jackson Lodge for our 8 a.m. horseback riding. It was 21 degrees out, and we weren’t really
prepared for that. I bought a big brown
sweatshirt in Jackson Hole yesterday to try to prepare for the mountain temps,
but it was still chilly. Road
construction hadn’t begun for the day, so we managed to arrive at Jackson Lodge
about 45 minutes earlier than we anticipated, enough time for us to eat at the breakfast
buffet.
The buffet itself was annoying because all of the workers
(including waffle station girl and maybe omlette station girl) were standing
around talking to each other instead of bringing us our bill, checking to see
if we wanted something besides water to drink, etc. But whatever, it was breakfast.
At 15 minutes to 8, we drove over to the corral and met the
guides and horses. They assigned a
chestnut (quarter pony?) with a flaxen mane named Kenny G to the teenager, who they
called Jogan and Hogan because someone had misspelled his name when making our
reservation. I had a bay mare named
Molly Brown who liked to be up with the leader, so we were first in line behind her. The husband was on a golden brown and cream paint gelding
named Hunter, who was a massive horse.
Also in our group was the couple from London who we’d been with on the
float trip the night before.
Throughout the ride,
the wrangler kept turning and hanging off the side of the saddle to yell
stories--like the one about how Signal Mountain got its name--to our group. It looked painful,
and with all the yelling, it wasn’t really shocking that we didn’t sneak up on
anything but hikers on our ride. It was
still fun, and the trail, for the most part, seemed more tame than I recall from my last long ride on our local trail….
After our ride we got to feed the horses endless
treats. They sent the horses into a
corral and the horses would turn and walk into a chute where we could get to
them and hand them the treats. Of
course, they were all stretching their necks to reach us, and my horse, Molly,
was threatening to kick Kenny G if he crowded her any closer.
We returned to the lodge to get some coffee from the coffee
bar, which took forever because the steamer was broken, but finally it worked.
From Jackson Lodge, we decided to drive back into
Yellowstone to kill some time before our dinner plans. We stopped by the West Thumb Geyser Basin,
which was cool. The husband also found me a
few books on “Death in Yellowstone” and Search and Rescue missions. We drove up a little further to the edge of
Yellowstone Lake so the teenager could do his envelope for the day, then turned back
to Jackson Hole.
I had made reservations for us at the Bar J Wrangler Chuckwagon in Wilson, just a few minutes outside of Jackson Hole. We weren’t going to go there because we were
going to head to Seattle instead, but Mom kind of talked me into making extra time for it.
Once we located the chuckwagon, we drove back into Jackson
Hole to get a few things from the grocery store, then headed back for
dinner. The boy was trying to escape the
entire time, but once the show started and he realized it was funny, not just
singing, he became a quick fan. He even
stated that he wanted to bring his kids back there someday.
We left there at about 9:45 p.m. and headed toward Seattle,
hoping to get some miles in before stopping for the night. That idea didn’t last long because there was
a bunch of 10% grades that made the
miles slow, and driving in the dark with all of the wildlife isn’t all it’s
cracked up to be. We drove through a
town called Victor, ID (tiny town, but the first we’d seen, really). We were about out of town and I spotted
something that appeared to be hotel-like off to the right. It turned out to be the Cowboy Roadhouse Lodge, which the clerk said was the last hotel for quite a while. She rented us their last room, which felt nearly new and ran only about $90.
We were all exhausted from the early start, and fell asleep
quickly. End of day 6.
Day 7 – September 14, 2012
Today we drove from Victor, ID, to Ritzville, WA. I drove for about 50 miles on relatively flat
land until we stopped at a rest stop and the husband hopped back in the driver’s
seat. The boy and I played card games and
Farkel for a lot of the trip. I read
out loud to the husband some of the Yellowstone ghost stories from the book I’d
bought, crying when I read the story about the grizzly bear, Wahb, who had roamed
Yellowstone. Sad bear.
There are apparently a lot of fires happening in western
Montana, which we drove through, and the smoke was so thick it was difficult to
see the mountains or much of anything.
Around Missoula, MT, we took a little detour over to Cabela’s
and bought a few things (multi-tools for me & the husband and a hydration pack I
can wear during my trail rides).
We stopped for the night in Ritzville, WA, and ate at what
we thought was a Perkins, but had been renamed the Ritz Roadhouse or something. There were a couple hotels at the exit, and the husband chose the Best Western because it was next to a Starbucks. Blessed, blessed Starbucks.
It is much warmer here than it was in Wyoming, thankfully.
The time changes are really messing with us. It’s only 9 p.m. here, I guess. I don’t really know. Regardless, I’m in my pajamas and ready to
sleep. End of day 7.
Day 8 – September 15, 2012
We left Ritzville, WA a little bit after 8 p.m., stopping by
the Starbucks next door for a bit of caffeinated goodness we’d been missing for
the past week. The nephew called while we
were driving, trying to figure out when we’d be arriving at their house in
Everett, WA. We had about a
3-hour-and-45-minute drive in front of us, which turned into more like a
4-hour-and-15-minute drive when the GPS took us 30 minutes too far north
because it couldn’t find our street. My niece, who is quite with child, was supposed to work at her job as a
dispatcher for the local district, but she was excited to see us and called in
to work for an itchy placenta. Bonus
points for her.
We finally arrived after 12:30 p.m., and sat around their
kitchen table catching up while the baby napped.
After she woke up, we went to eat a late lunch at Blazing Onion Burgers,
then headed into downtown Seattle. We
parked a couple blocks from Pike Place Market (for right about $30 for two
hours of parking), but we got there just about the time that most of the
vendors at the market were packing up their wares (we did get to see them toss
some fish around, though). After that,
we walked over to the Great Wheel, the Ferris wheel on the pier. The baby had never been on a ride of any kind
and did really well.
A running joke between all of us was that my niece and nephew were developing awesome immune systems
because the baby kept dropping her pacifier and they would pick it up (one time
with my niece's bare foot, on the pier), shrug, and pop it in their mouth before
handing it back to the baby. My nephew would
end up dropping a Starbucks salted caramel cake pop on the ground at the Armory
(like a food court), think about it for a minute, then pop it in his
mouth. Dirty birdies.
My niece pointed out the blatant drug use happening in the park
down near the water. Indeed, the air
reeked of weed and a couple druggies were shooting up in broad daylight. Later, when we were walking back to the
parking lot, we passed a group of men cowered in a doorway, looking around suspiciously, obviously in the middle of some
shady activity. Homeless people were
urinating on the piles of garbage stacked at the edge of our parking lot. Some stretches of sidewalk reeked of
urine. Grrrross.
My nephew, niece, and the baby headed back home, taking the teenager back
with them so we could have some time to explore the city ourselves. The husband and I walked around after grabbing
another cup of coffee from Starbucks, but we decided that we weren’t really
comfortable in the city, so after about an hour we headed back to the
house. We were tired and went to bed. End of day 8.
Day 9 – September 16, 2012
My niece made us a breakfast of French toast and bacon, and we
sat around the table in their front room catching up on family news. There was little syrup, so my nephew had to run
out for some.
We headed over to my niece’s mom & dad’s house, as they were
going to babysit the baby while we went to dinner at the Space Needle. We had a few hours before our reservations,
so we grabbed a quick lunch of McDonalds (blech!) before we headed
downtown. It was a toss-up between the
Underground Tour and the EMP, but, in the end, we decided to go to the EMP
(Experience Music Project), which was basically a Rock ‘n Roll museum with a
section dedicated to Sci-Fi and Horror, as well. They had a great big section dedicated to
Nirvana, which I enjoyed most of all.
There was also a huge room with a giant screen where they played various
music videos or concert clips. There was
a music lab room where you could experiment with keyboards, drums, turntables,
etc., which was pretty cool, too.
After EMP, we walked outside where there was a little fair
going on. They had a zip line ride, so the husband, myself, the teenager, and my nephew zip lined across the parking lot.
We went inside a nearby building called The Armory, which had a food court. Of course,
there was a Starbucks, and we got more
coffee. It was here that my nephew dropped
his cake pop and tested the limits of the five-second rule. There was an arcade/video game museum in
there, too, where the teenager played some classic Nintendo/N64/Super Nintendo games
while we were drinking our coffee.
From there, we were going to go through the Chihuly (blown
glass) exhibit, but it wasn’t free and our reservations were within 30 minutes,
so we just walked through the gift shop.
We ate dinner in the Space Needle. The timing was perfect (6:30 p.m.), so we
were able to see the view during the day, sunset, dusk, and dark. The food was crazy expensive, but it was a
great experience. The teenager enjoyed seeing
the notes come around to us on the windows from other people around the
restaurant. After we ate, we went up to
the Observation Deck and got some photos (and some photo-bombed photos, thanks
to the boy) before my niece had to leave to go into work for a couple of hours.
We picked up the baby from my niece’s parents and headed home. My nephew turned on “The Other Guys” and I, of
course, drifted in and out of sleep the whole time.
End of Day 9.
Day 10 – September 17, 2012
The boy kept leaving his pocketknife out when he’d been asked
not to by my nephew. He had to do 21
push-ups to get it back from my nephew.
Our breakfast plans were to eat at the Maltby Café, I think
it what it’s called. My niece and nephew raved at how amazing their breakfast food was, and, based on how busy they
were, it obviously was a popular place. The
three of us had various omelets, but my nephew had some kind of pancakes with
berries and cream, which was very good despite being against my rule (no fruit
in dessert-like foods). I talked my nephew into a side of bacon, too, which was ah-ma-zing. My niece was supposed to have an OB appointment
that would have made it impossible for her to eat breakfast with us, but she
was able to cancel her appointment and re-join us for her French toast.
We brought the boy, my niece, and the baby back to the house. The husband, my nephew, and I took the dogs to the park to play in the water.
I had to return a call from a potential doula client wile we were there,
but then I sat down on the bank and watched the dogs play fetch and chase
ducks. While we were there, a lady with
a dog came over the hill and asked “Are your dogs nice?” My nephew assured her they were, and when his
dogs ran over towards her dog, her dog turned tail and ran away. Kind of funny. She never returned, so hopefully she found
her dog.
Then we went back home because my nephew needed to get ready
for family pictures. We packed up our
extra clothing and souvenirs, and the husband boxed it up and shipped it for a mere
$80. Whatever.
We left my nephew, niece, their baby, and the dogs at around 4:30
p.m. and headed towards Mt. Rainier after an oh-so-filling dinner at Burger
King. Traffic was rough, being
rush-hour, and the sun set before we made it to the mountain tonight. We ended up stopping at the Nisqually Lodge
in Ashford, WA, just outside the national park, so we can visit the mountain in
the morning before we head down toward Portland to catch our flight home. The
crusty gentleman at the counter gave the husband keys to lock and unlock the lobby
doors if he needed to go out to the car to keep critters from roaming the
hotel.
The boys were happy.
There was good wifi and they were able to watch the series premiere of
“Revolution” while stretched out on their beds.
End of Day 10.
Day 11 (and some of 12) – September 18 (and 19), 2012
The hotel had a tiny continental breakfast (bagels,
danishes, fruit, coffee, and hot chocolate), but it’s the first that we’ve seen
in many hotels. I was also surprised that it was painted baby blue, as it had just looked like a wooden building when we pulled in last night.
After packing up and
cleaning up, we drove into Mt. Rainier National Park. This, maybe, was my favorite park of all
because it was so green, thick with huge, fragrant pine trees that would
trickle down to the rocky beds of the rivers not yet full from coming
run-off. The light would filter through
the trees as our car negotiated the terrain.
It all looked very much like scenery straight out of the Twilight Saga,
though the teenager was irritated that THAT is what I saw when I looked out the
window. In truth, though, the books were
mostly based in northwest Washington, so we weren’t that far off.
We drove through the park, stopping here and there to take
pictures of the waterfalls and the summit off in the distance. We eventually ended up in Paradise, where we
walked up the path a little ways to see what the Chinook helicopter that was
flying around was doing. It turns out
they were moving boulders from one area of the mountain to another using the
helicopter. I stopped in the ParadiseInn to use the restroom and browse the gift shop, and found a few things there
to buy, including a book by a female climbing ranger that satisfied my “Death
in the National Parks” theme I’ve had going all trip long. (The book is “Pickets and Dead Men” by Bree Loewen).
It was time to make our way to Portland for our return
flight back to reality.
On our way down, I thought we might be able to see Mount St. Helens, but unfortunately it was too smoky or we were just too far off. Boo.
We boarded our plane headed to Vegas just fine. But then we waited. And waited.
The pilot told us that they were waiting for something to reboot. When it didn’t reboot, we had to return back
to the gate to try it again. When it
still didn’t reboot, they had to have someone replace the part. We took off two hours late. Half of my fellow passengers had been
drinking prior to boarding and, at this point, were loud and obnoxious. I was annoyed by all of them and just wanted
to be alone.
Our planed landed at McCarran at 10:25, five minutes before
our connecting flight was supposed to take off.
We stepped off the plane and into
a sea of people waiting. The boarding
passes said we were leaving from the gate we had just walked out of from our
Portland flight, so the husband walked up to the counter and asked where we were
supposed to go. The agent at the counter
told us our flight had been delayed until 2:15 a.m., rather than 10:30
p.m. Uuuugh.
You would think a layover in Vegas would be fun, but the
only thing open after 11 was a Burger King, which didn’t sound very good at
all. We took turns wandering the
terminals and laying down along the hallways until we were able to board, about
1:30 a.m.
We landed in Detroit about four hours later, approximately
8:45 a.m. EST.
I can’t believe our Wild West adventure is over, after so
much talking and planning. More reflection--and pictures--later, but for now, this is way too much.
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