I wanted to share with you all something that has been on my mind over the past few days.
If you've had the chance to read some of my previous posts, you may realize that we recently lost our dog to lymphoma, a cancer of the lymphatic system. We'd gotten the news, a positive biopsy, back in February, so we consider ourselves very lucky that we had an opportunity to say goodbye.
When we knew Lena's health was beginning to deteriorate, we began our search for another third dog. Our other two, a six-month-old chihuahua pup and a four-year-old mixed breed, don't get along very well, and Lena had always been the mediator between the two. We knew we'd never find another Lena, but we needed a third guy or girl (girl) to sort of keep the peace.
I began perusing the online classifieds, really wanting to "give back" to a dog in need as Lena had given us so much during her (too short) life. We looked away from dogs and puppies in foster care, believing that they already had a home-of-sorts, but couldn't find anything in the shelters that looked right for our family. So we waited.
There had been one dog, though, ... one puppy, actually. I couldn't stop thinking about her.
She was a six-month-old lab/pitbull cross that had been born into rescue. Her mother had been rescued, very pregnant, from a county animal shelter and had given birth to nine pups, all of which had long-since been adopted out.
Except for this one, six-month-old pup.
I still kept telling myself, "She's fine, though. She's got a place to live. She's in no danger of being put to sleep. Find a dog that needs you."
But I kept going back to that ad.
We had found our dog, and she did need us.
After a week's worth of emailing back and forth, we made arrangements to meet the foster mom (who runs the rescue) and the little black pup that no one wanted, and it was love at first sight. Not just for me. For the pup, the husband, both boys, ... well, maybe not everyone. The other two dogs haven't quite come around yet, but that's okay. We're working on it.
Back to foster care, however ...
I was almost appalled after the woman left: this dog probably would've been better off in shelter care. I gave her a nice, warm bath in the tub which left me with one clean and shiny pup and a tub bottom that resembled the parking lot of Walmart. Dirt, gravel, dried blood, burs, you name it. We named her "Suki," and Suki is covered in some of the worst scars and cuts I've ever seen. You know those pictures of "bait dogs?" Suki doesn't look much different. Her coat is patchy, the result of healing wounds and scratches. She had a few puncture wounds around her throat and ears. Her skin is awful. The fur on her face is incredibly thin. She was a mess.
And I thought, "This is what foster care looks like?"
I want to make an urgent plea to you: do not think that because a dog is being fostered, it still doesn't need to be rescued. Please don't imagine a foster dog having a cushy bed, a loving hand, a warm comfortable place to call its own. Foster homes are often crowded with dogs trying to find their own loving families, and many of the breeds being fostered are the "harder to place" breeds. Sure, a little cute fuzzball is going to get adopted right out of the shelter, but fosters take the ones that don't necessarily have people "oohing and ahhhing" at the bars of the run.
Just because a dog is being fostered, it still needs a family, a home, a backyard. It needs its own toys, access to its own food and water. It needs its own attention, needs to be more than just a part of a pack. Suki isn't sure about playing, because no one ever gave her the chance to get the tennis ball. She was obviously bullied and picked on a lot by all the other dogs. She is a real sweetheart, but she needed us as much as we needed her.
Check the fosters, too. You can get much more information on temperament, likes and dislikes, activity level, any fears or shyness. And you are saving a life, because you're allowing room for one more animal to be pulled and fostered. Please don't look at the sweet ads of puppies and dogs in their foster home and think that they have everything they need because they don't. They need someone to love just them. They need the chance to be an individual. They need a family to call their own.
Thanks for reading,
Cherstin
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Life, Ongoing.
Everyone says, "Life goes on," and it's true. Regardless of what seemingly insurmountable problem you are facing, there is grass, dirt, land, terrafirma on the other side of that obstacle. Maybe you can't see it from here. Maybe it's going to be rough and rocky. Either way, it's there. Trust me.
We had to have our dog put to sleep Friday morning. For those of you who haven't been through the past blogs, we found out in February that she had lymphoma. She was only close to 6 years old.
We opted not to do the chemotherapy. That was also a tough decision, but here's why. We have two young children, both boys, ages 7 years old and age 15 months. It had nothing to do with the expense or the time (chemo requires a daily shot from the vet for the first few weeks, then every other day for a few weeks, then every third day for a few weeks, for a total of roughly 6 months). It had everything to do with the shitty remission statistics. Since a dog's life is so short compared to ours, "successful" remission is anything over one year, with 80% of dogs succumbing to the cancer again within 2 years. I couldn't do that to my boys. We did one round of steroids, which my oldest son thought were pills that would cure her. Imagine him getting his hopes up with daily shots only to find out six months later that the cancer is back.
We did not let her suffer, but noticed her quality of life slowly diminishing. She had a few nights where she'd pant despite the air conditioner being on full-blast inside the house. She began drinking a lot of water, and she didn't seem to want to do much of anything other than sleep. Even that was becoming restless.
The procedure itself was very peaceful. I went alone on Friday morning and the vet gave her first a shot to knock her out as if she was going to have surgery. She fell asleep in my arms and when she was totally asleep, the vet gave her the final injection.
I brought her home with me to bury her here in the yard; I'd dug a deep, large hole the night before but I'd neglected to ask my vet what to do about the other two dogs. I did a quick Google search in the driveway and found support for both sides: should I let the other dogs see her or not? I opted to let them see her. If dogs are as instinctual as we believe them to be, I have to believe that they knew she was sick to begin with. We have a four-year-old mixed breed male dog, and a six-month-old chihuahua puppy, and Lena had been both of their best buddies.
I was very glad I chose to let the dogs see her. Sunset, the male dog, sniffed at her a little bit and then quietly walked away. Pippa, the chi pup, was very upset. She tried licking Lena's eyes and ears and getting her to play, but Lena didn't respond. After a few times of this, she backed up and started barking a frustrated bark that I'd never heard her do before. She tried a few more times to get a response from Lena, and then I think it clicked in: Lena wasn't playing anymore.
I put the dogs inside when I buried Lena in the side yard. I said my goodbyes and wrapped her in a blanket. I cannot tell you how many times I went out to check on her that day, glancing around the yard to see if she'd somehow only been asleep when I'd buried her. I knew that wasn't the case, but I started making deals with myself, that if I went in the yard and she was there, I'd let her live until she died on her own of cancer. I imagined her digging through the dirt, finding the sunlight, rolling around in the grass with this look on her face like, "Lady? What did you do that for?"
By nightfall, I was pretty sure I wouldn't be seeing Lena again.
My son decided to plant some beautiful red sunflower seeds on Lena's grave, and I also planted a crimson mandevilla vine at the headstone portion up against the fence. The seeds and the vine give me a reason to go over there and water now: a reason more healthy and real than just hoping Lena is going to be waiting for me in the yard when I go to water. I miss her so much, being that I am a full-time student taking online classes, a stay-at-home mom and student, if you will. Lena was always here, as was I.
The kids and dogs seem to be doing fine, and I'm doing fine too, I guess. I never thought I'd miss all the black dog hair all over the house, but I do. I miss her little dog smile, I miss having a nap buddy I could count on. I miss seeing her with my kids, or sitting in the man chair with the husband. I imagine all the shelter dogs or all the dogs that have been rehomed or put to the street by their families, and I want to shout at them that if they just loved their dog, they'd do anything to hold on to them until the very end.
So in honor of Lena, I'm trying my best to quit smoking. Too many people (and animals, too) are taken far too soon because of cancer. I know the pain I've felt losing a dog -- I'd never want to be on the receiving end of that, laying in a hospital bed while my husband and children cry for me just because I couldn't give up stupid cigarettes. Maybe if there's one great thing that could come out of losing my dog, it would be that I quit smoking.
Today is officially Day One of using my electronic cigarette, and so far so good. I feel like I can do this. Things in my world are beginning to fall into place: I'm almost finished painting, I had a totally new idea for my book, school is about to start again in a few days, and now I'm not smoking. I've also become much more realistic about my writing, because great ideas for edits are coming to me all over the place. I see now why it can take people months and years to complete a novel. Yes, days when you bang out 5,000 words are wonderful, but you can't be afraid to change your mind on something just because you've worked so hard on one portion. Each draft is a stepping stone. That might mean that each day, you write over (in a sense) what you'd written the day before, but the point is that you're WRITING. You're getting somewhere. Your story is getting on paper.
I guess that's true about life, too.
Wishing you a wonderful day,
Me.
We had to have our dog put to sleep Friday morning. For those of you who haven't been through the past blogs, we found out in February that she had lymphoma. She was only close to 6 years old.
We opted not to do the chemotherapy. That was also a tough decision, but here's why. We have two young children, both boys, ages 7 years old and age 15 months. It had nothing to do with the expense or the time (chemo requires a daily shot from the vet for the first few weeks, then every other day for a few weeks, then every third day for a few weeks, for a total of roughly 6 months). It had everything to do with the shitty remission statistics. Since a dog's life is so short compared to ours, "successful" remission is anything over one year, with 80% of dogs succumbing to the cancer again within 2 years. I couldn't do that to my boys. We did one round of steroids, which my oldest son thought were pills that would cure her. Imagine him getting his hopes up with daily shots only to find out six months later that the cancer is back.
We did not let her suffer, but noticed her quality of life slowly diminishing. She had a few nights where she'd pant despite the air conditioner being on full-blast inside the house. She began drinking a lot of water, and she didn't seem to want to do much of anything other than sleep. Even that was becoming restless.
The procedure itself was very peaceful. I went alone on Friday morning and the vet gave her first a shot to knock her out as if she was going to have surgery. She fell asleep in my arms and when she was totally asleep, the vet gave her the final injection.
I brought her home with me to bury her here in the yard; I'd dug a deep, large hole the night before but I'd neglected to ask my vet what to do about the other two dogs. I did a quick Google search in the driveway and found support for both sides: should I let the other dogs see her or not? I opted to let them see her. If dogs are as instinctual as we believe them to be, I have to believe that they knew she was sick to begin with. We have a four-year-old mixed breed male dog, and a six-month-old chihuahua puppy, and Lena had been both of their best buddies.
I was very glad I chose to let the dogs see her. Sunset, the male dog, sniffed at her a little bit and then quietly walked away. Pippa, the chi pup, was very upset. She tried licking Lena's eyes and ears and getting her to play, but Lena didn't respond. After a few times of this, she backed up and started barking a frustrated bark that I'd never heard her do before. She tried a few more times to get a response from Lena, and then I think it clicked in: Lena wasn't playing anymore.
I put the dogs inside when I buried Lena in the side yard. I said my goodbyes and wrapped her in a blanket. I cannot tell you how many times I went out to check on her that day, glancing around the yard to see if she'd somehow only been asleep when I'd buried her. I knew that wasn't the case, but I started making deals with myself, that if I went in the yard and she was there, I'd let her live until she died on her own of cancer. I imagined her digging through the dirt, finding the sunlight, rolling around in the grass with this look on her face like, "Lady? What did you do that for?"
By nightfall, I was pretty sure I wouldn't be seeing Lena again.
My son decided to plant some beautiful red sunflower seeds on Lena's grave, and I also planted a crimson mandevilla vine at the headstone portion up against the fence. The seeds and the vine give me a reason to go over there and water now: a reason more healthy and real than just hoping Lena is going to be waiting for me in the yard when I go to water. I miss her so much, being that I am a full-time student taking online classes, a stay-at-home mom and student, if you will. Lena was always here, as was I.
The kids and dogs seem to be doing fine, and I'm doing fine too, I guess. I never thought I'd miss all the black dog hair all over the house, but I do. I miss her little dog smile, I miss having a nap buddy I could count on. I miss seeing her with my kids, or sitting in the man chair with the husband. I imagine all the shelter dogs or all the dogs that have been rehomed or put to the street by their families, and I want to shout at them that if they just loved their dog, they'd do anything to hold on to them until the very end.
So in honor of Lena, I'm trying my best to quit smoking. Too many people (and animals, too) are taken far too soon because of cancer. I know the pain I've felt losing a dog -- I'd never want to be on the receiving end of that, laying in a hospital bed while my husband and children cry for me just because I couldn't give up stupid cigarettes. Maybe if there's one great thing that could come out of losing my dog, it would be that I quit smoking.
Today is officially Day One of using my electronic cigarette, and so far so good. I feel like I can do this. Things in my world are beginning to fall into place: I'm almost finished painting, I had a totally new idea for my book, school is about to start again in a few days, and now I'm not smoking. I've also become much more realistic about my writing, because great ideas for edits are coming to me all over the place. I see now why it can take people months and years to complete a novel. Yes, days when you bang out 5,000 words are wonderful, but you can't be afraid to change your mind on something just because you've worked so hard on one portion. Each draft is a stepping stone. That might mean that each day, you write over (in a sense) what you'd written the day before, but the point is that you're WRITING. You're getting somewhere. Your story is getting on paper.
I guess that's true about life, too.
Wishing you a wonderful day,
Me.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
On reading.
Point of view is killing me.
I don't even have the first draft of my novel down, yet I've already made more POV changes than I have cups of coffee over the past two weeks. I am having a terribly hard time choosing my protagonist out of two characters who are relentlessly fighting over the spotlight, and I don't want to end up with a "he said, she said" novel, changing from "his" to "hers" with each chapter.
I'm finding now that I wish I'd paid more attention to the mechanics of all the books I've read over the years, but I haven't. I haven't, and I still don't. I'm a sucker for a story, so I'm realizing now that as a reader, I care only about plot plot plot. I couldn't tell you from whose POV my favorite novel is written: I'm going to go back to it today and take a look just to squelch that question once and for all.
I'm terrible at overthinking, and I'm afraid I've gotten myself out of just enjoying the process and more into the technicalities and trivialites of the whole thing. My gut tells me to just write write write and worry more about the fine-tuning later on down the road, but once I hit chapter 16 or so, it seems fruitless for me to continue on without knowing exactly whose story I'm telling. I'm thinking about sitting my two characters down and having them arm wrestle it out.
Maybe it's time to peruse a few of my favorite books to see what jumps out at me.
On a side note, while I haven't been writing, I did paint the inside of my house. Perhaps this is part of my problem.
Back to the manuscript. Thanks for dropping in! :)
I don't even have the first draft of my novel down, yet I've already made more POV changes than I have cups of coffee over the past two weeks. I am having a terribly hard time choosing my protagonist out of two characters who are relentlessly fighting over the spotlight, and I don't want to end up with a "he said, she said" novel, changing from "his" to "hers" with each chapter.
I'm finding now that I wish I'd paid more attention to the mechanics of all the books I've read over the years, but I haven't. I haven't, and I still don't. I'm a sucker for a story, so I'm realizing now that as a reader, I care only about plot plot plot. I couldn't tell you from whose POV my favorite novel is written: I'm going to go back to it today and take a look just to squelch that question once and for all.
I'm terrible at overthinking, and I'm afraid I've gotten myself out of just enjoying the process and more into the technicalities and trivialites of the whole thing. My gut tells me to just write write write and worry more about the fine-tuning later on down the road, but once I hit chapter 16 or so, it seems fruitless for me to continue on without knowing exactly whose story I'm telling. I'm thinking about sitting my two characters down and having them arm wrestle it out.
Maybe it's time to peruse a few of my favorite books to see what jumps out at me.
On a side note, while I haven't been writing, I did paint the inside of my house. Perhaps this is part of my problem.
Back to the manuscript. Thanks for dropping in! :)
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Ain't nobody got time for that.
After putting another 1200 words on "paper" this morning, I was perusing my news feed on Facebook when I came across this video. I absolutely love this woman's attitude about getting sick.
After coming off the sinus infection train that has wiped out nearly my whole town over the past few weeks, I just want to share her optimism. Maybe we all have a thing or two to learn from Sweet Brown.
After coming off the sinus infection train that has wiped out nearly my whole town over the past few weeks, I just want to share her optimism. Maybe we all have a thing or two to learn from Sweet Brown.
Bronchitis: Ain't nobody got time for that.
It's my new mantra.
I'm trying to wrap up this semester at school, but I'm completely lacking in any sort of motivation. After deciding to change my major, I feel like a fool wrapping up my courses on Education. The finals involve questions like, "Now that you've learned about the different philosophies of teaching, explain what your philosophy will be in regards to your own classroom?"
Or the ever-popular, "What are the most important things you will continue to learn throughout your educational career in regards the dynamics in your future classroom?"
And I'm thinking, "Jeez, lady, didn't you get the memo? I'm not going to be a teacher. I've changed my mind."
But they don't seem to care.
On a positive note which I'm certain is somehow related to my lack of motivation, however, the novel is coming along well, but the writing is sort of an addiction. How do you keep yourself sane when you are working on a novel? How do you not let it consume you? Don't get me wrong, I'm incredibly happy for the wild nights of writing abandon, but I'm starting to fall behind in the rest of life.
Happy writing!
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Busted: An A to Z Dropout.
I have no idea what letter of the alphabet I'm supposed to be using as today's prompt, but that's okay. I'm sure somewhere in this post I will include each individual letter anyway, so let's just call it even.
Quiet, zebra.
(Covering all bases.)
The blog took a dive for a few days when I was sick, and bouncing back can be tough to do. Of course it doesn't help that I continue to smoke when I'm sick. Yes, I'm one of those people, hacking their brains out (from the sinus problem) while kicking back with chest-Vicks radiating throughout my passages, while lighting up. I'm fairly certain a fruit fly has more common sense than we who call ourselves "mankind" (or "womankind," if you're into that sort of thing). It's quite ridiculous.
In the meantime, another common mistake made by folks who swear they're "starting to feel better," I moved the living room furniture out to the porch AND planted a vegetable garden. Not at the same time though. I may be a domestic wonder, but I haven't figured out how to multitask that well yet. I also changed my whole life's dream around, changing majors a mere month before I was to begin my bachelors in Education, but I feel really good about it.
Much to my dismay, getting a degree in Education became like pulling teeth. And not just like pulling teeth, but pulling teeth and then going out and buying yourself some $2000 toothpaste. Suddenly you look in the mirror and have that moment of, "Why? Why am I doing this?" The $2000 toothpaste tastes great, but you've got no teeth. Similar concept. I graduated with my AA last summer, then decided to go into Education, only to find I still needed four classes to get into the program I'd wanted: Middle Grades Language Arts. So I register for those four classes I needed and then come the classroom observations. They make it sound so easy. "Here, just print up this letter and take it around to each school you want to observe." Fine. Except it's like pulling teeth to actually get in to observe. I found a way to beat the system was to simply "volunteer" in the classroom and write my observations later. The schools are always looking for volunteers, because they are in dire need of assistance. What they are not in dire need of, apparently, are people to sit in their classrooms and simply observe. Point taken.
To top it all off, I found that out of the three grade-level schools at which I "volunteered," the one I disliked the most was middle school. I remembered middle school English as analyzing the great classics. Stephen Crane, Jack London, some Wordsworth thrown in for good measure. Robert Frost, Emily Dickenson, William Faulkner. Instead, I sat in an 8th-grade English class where they read a piece of crap story from their piece of garbage textbook and had to answer some questions. The story was something about ladybugs. Non-fiction. WARNING: MIDDLE SCHOOL HAS COMPLETELY DUMBED DOWN FROM THE DAYS WHEN WE WERE THERE. It was an embarrassment.
So now I'm stuck paying for four classes out of pocket because I am not considered a "degree-seeking student" because I'm not yet enrolled in the College of Education because I needed these four prerequisites before I can apply, AND, as if that weren't horrible enough, I just found out I've got no desire to teach 8th-grade students to read, or how to find the main idea, or John please turn off your iPod. That absolutely was not what I'd had in mind.
I've got a son in 2nd grade. There is a program at my school for Early Childhood Education, which would allow me to teach anything up to 3rd grade. Okay, maybe I'll give that a shot. Well guess what. Now I've got another seven prerequisites I need to take before I can get in. Thanks but no thanks. That's not going to cut it, either. I cannot go to school full-time and not receive my GI Bill. Someone's gotta live around here, right? I mean, I've got vegetable gardens to build, for crying out loud.
I put my thinking cap on and came up with a plan. If all goes well, I'll be double-majoring in Homeland Security and Criminal Justice. My fingers are crossed.
So yeah, maybe it wasn't the sinus garbage that kept me from blogging. Maybe, in addition to writing my novel, I just got a bit too busy to pay attention to what letter of the month it was. There's always next year. For now, I'll leave you again with my thought for the day: "Quiet, zebra."
Good zebra.
Quiet, zebra.
(Covering all bases.)
The blog took a dive for a few days when I was sick, and bouncing back can be tough to do. Of course it doesn't help that I continue to smoke when I'm sick. Yes, I'm one of those people, hacking their brains out (from the sinus problem) while kicking back with chest-Vicks radiating throughout my passages, while lighting up. I'm fairly certain a fruit fly has more common sense than we who call ourselves "mankind" (or "womankind," if you're into that sort of thing). It's quite ridiculous.
In the meantime, another common mistake made by folks who swear they're "starting to feel better," I moved the living room furniture out to the porch AND planted a vegetable garden. Not at the same time though. I may be a domestic wonder, but I haven't figured out how to multitask that well yet. I also changed my whole life's dream around, changing majors a mere month before I was to begin my bachelors in Education, but I feel really good about it.
Much to my dismay, getting a degree in Education became like pulling teeth. And not just like pulling teeth, but pulling teeth and then going out and buying yourself some $2000 toothpaste. Suddenly you look in the mirror and have that moment of, "Why? Why am I doing this?" The $2000 toothpaste tastes great, but you've got no teeth. Similar concept. I graduated with my AA last summer, then decided to go into Education, only to find I still needed four classes to get into the program I'd wanted: Middle Grades Language Arts. So I register for those four classes I needed and then come the classroom observations. They make it sound so easy. "Here, just print up this letter and take it around to each school you want to observe." Fine. Except it's like pulling teeth to actually get in to observe. I found a way to beat the system was to simply "volunteer" in the classroom and write my observations later. The schools are always looking for volunteers, because they are in dire need of assistance. What they are not in dire need of, apparently, are people to sit in their classrooms and simply observe. Point taken.
To top it all off, I found that out of the three grade-level schools at which I "volunteered," the one I disliked the most was middle school. I remembered middle school English as analyzing the great classics. Stephen Crane, Jack London, some Wordsworth thrown in for good measure. Robert Frost, Emily Dickenson, William Faulkner. Instead, I sat in an 8th-grade English class where they read a piece of crap story from their piece of garbage textbook and had to answer some questions. The story was something about ladybugs. Non-fiction. WARNING: MIDDLE SCHOOL HAS COMPLETELY DUMBED DOWN FROM THE DAYS WHEN WE WERE THERE. It was an embarrassment.
So now I'm stuck paying for four classes out of pocket because I am not considered a "degree-seeking student" because I'm not yet enrolled in the College of Education because I needed these four prerequisites before I can apply, AND, as if that weren't horrible enough, I just found out I've got no desire to teach 8th-grade students to read, or how to find the main idea, or John please turn off your iPod. That absolutely was not what I'd had in mind.
I've got a son in 2nd grade. There is a program at my school for Early Childhood Education, which would allow me to teach anything up to 3rd grade. Okay, maybe I'll give that a shot. Well guess what. Now I've got another seven prerequisites I need to take before I can get in. Thanks but no thanks. That's not going to cut it, either. I cannot go to school full-time and not receive my GI Bill. Someone's gotta live around here, right? I mean, I've got vegetable gardens to build, for crying out loud.
I put my thinking cap on and came up with a plan. If all goes well, I'll be double-majoring in Homeland Security and Criminal Justice. My fingers are crossed.
So yeah, maybe it wasn't the sinus garbage that kept me from blogging. Maybe, in addition to writing my novel, I just got a bit too busy to pay attention to what letter of the month it was. There's always next year. For now, I'll leave you again with my thought for the day: "Quiet, zebra."
Good zebra.
Friday, April 13, 2012
The Letter of the Day is L.
I wanted to write a whole post about lentils, but I know nothing about them so I decided to write about something that doesn't require a ton of research, and that's lovvvve. In honor of L day, I'm pulling an old blog off my livejournal site. It's about Poker Night, which has a P and an N but still no L, but be patient. It's there. :)
From April 19, 2010.
I love when my dog sits down while eating her breakfast out of her dish, as if the whole standing thing is just completely overrated, and also, exhausting.
I'll be the first to admit that there have been times in my life when I've been quite cynical. I've never been a relationship-basher, necessarily, but I've found myself in enough bad relationships to know that, sometimes, a person is better off alone.
Then someone comes along that changes the whole perspective, and it's wonderfully scary.
Better still is when the one who comes along is nothing you were looking for, nothing you were planning on, yet they come into your life and from day one, you can't get them out of your head. Even better than THAT is finding out they feel the same way about you.
There's a saying or something that says that the right person comes along when you aren't looking, or when you least expect it, and it's the truth. It's the premise to almost every sappy romance movie out there, but I'm beginning to think that maybe those writers had it right, after all.
You're in a relationship with a guy who doesn't seem to care, and you reach a point where you've given up as well, but you just need to play out the last hand and make it official. It's a Saturday night, and you'd planned on going out with this guy for a few drinks, some lively banter, and a few more drinks. Typical. Only, as is also typical, he calls you at the last minute and bails. Something about being tired. Again.
You're dressed and ready to go out, literally. Pants and make-up are on, your hair is just right. And then you remember an invitation. Your best friend and her boyfriend had invited you and YOUR boyfriend down to their place for poker night. It had been a well-received invite to you, but you'd written it off as something your part-time boyfriend wouldn't really be interested in, so you'd closed the door on it. Now, however, it's a different story. You wonder if you could still go solo, despite the late hour and the long drive ahead?
This internal decision takes minutes, so you're still standing in your bedroom when you call, feet planted in the very same spot you were standing when you got the voicemail from part-time boyfriend. Your best friend answers the phone on the first ring.
Trying to hide the desperation in your voice, you ask her if poker night is still a go. You tell her about the fucked-up voicemail from the part-time boyfriend, and she gives you directions to the new house you haven't yet been to, seeing as you've been busy wasting your time with other things. The best friend isn't truly certain you're going to make it, which makes you that much more determined to go see her. You Mapquest her address and you're out the door.
After an hour's drive, you arrive at best friend's house, and there he is. He. Him. In a room full of people, he's there alone. Your best friend doesn't yet notice your attraction as she introduces you to everyone. Richard. His name is Richard. You tell yourself not to forget that.
You pick up bits and pieces about him, sifting thru the other information you're getting about the other people who, at this point, barely exist. He's sitting alone at the poker table. Not alone as in he's the only one at the table, but he's not there with anyone. Richard. You can't make eye contact with him for more than a few seconds at a time, because you're feeling something. And you're telling yourself that you shouldn't be feeling something, because technically you have a sometimes-boyfriend. But, then again, isn't that just a technicality?
A few times, Richard asks you if you're going to come play poker. You're standing in your best friend's kitchen, you might've even been in the middle of a conversation, who knows, but eventually you say yes. Yes, you'll come play poker. See you later, best friend. Wish me luck...and I'm not necessarily talking about the poker game anymore.
Now you're sitting next to him. NEXT TO HIM. And your best friend is right...he really is cute. He's from Alabama, you got that. It makes sense with that accent. Oh my God, that accent, and those eyes, Jeez. You still can't make eye contact with him for more than a few seconds at a time because your heart starts beating fast, it's this physical connection that you can feel, and it's making you crazy because you don't even feel that way toward your own boyfriend, so what the fuck is really going on?
When the night is over and all the money's been won, you're out on the porch, smoking, and you don't want him to leave, but his friend is leaving and he's got no ride. For a moment, you share a look, it's all you can risk, you can't possibly ask him to stay, that's crazy, but you give him a look and in your head, you're thinking over and over and over "Don't leave. Don't leave. Don't leave." And you think, just for a split second, that he can hear what you're thinking, because he's hesitating, too, and the night is over and there's really nothing left, but you don't want it to end. And you keep thinking it over and over "Don't leave" as you're telling him goodbye and that it was nice to meet him, and then he leaves.
And no sooner does he get out the door than you say to your best friend and her boyfriend: "Your friend, Richard, is lucky he left."
"Why?" They both respond.
To which, you honestly reply, "Because if he hadn't, I think I would've made out with him."
They both raise their eyebrows in unison. By God, you've just given them a mission. Imagine your surprise when you find out the next day that Richard hasn't stopped talking about you, either.
:-)
Later days, people. A trip to the store is calling my name.
From April 19, 2010.
I love when my dog sits down while eating her breakfast out of her dish, as if the whole standing thing is just completely overrated, and also, exhausting.
I'll be the first to admit that there have been times in my life when I've been quite cynical. I've never been a relationship-basher, necessarily, but I've found myself in enough bad relationships to know that, sometimes, a person is better off alone.
Then someone comes along that changes the whole perspective, and it's wonderfully scary.
Better still is when the one who comes along is nothing you were looking for, nothing you were planning on, yet they come into your life and from day one, you can't get them out of your head. Even better than THAT is finding out they feel the same way about you.
There's a saying or something that says that the right person comes along when you aren't looking, or when you least expect it, and it's the truth. It's the premise to almost every sappy romance movie out there, but I'm beginning to think that maybe those writers had it right, after all.
You're in a relationship with a guy who doesn't seem to care, and you reach a point where you've given up as well, but you just need to play out the last hand and make it official. It's a Saturday night, and you'd planned on going out with this guy for a few drinks, some lively banter, and a few more drinks. Typical. Only, as is also typical, he calls you at the last minute and bails. Something about being tired. Again.
You're dressed and ready to go out, literally. Pants and make-up are on, your hair is just right. And then you remember an invitation. Your best friend and her boyfriend had invited you and YOUR boyfriend down to their place for poker night. It had been a well-received invite to you, but you'd written it off as something your part-time boyfriend wouldn't really be interested in, so you'd closed the door on it. Now, however, it's a different story. You wonder if you could still go solo, despite the late hour and the long drive ahead?
This internal decision takes minutes, so you're still standing in your bedroom when you call, feet planted in the very same spot you were standing when you got the voicemail from part-time boyfriend. Your best friend answers the phone on the first ring.
Trying to hide the desperation in your voice, you ask her if poker night is still a go. You tell her about the fucked-up voicemail from the part-time boyfriend, and she gives you directions to the new house you haven't yet been to, seeing as you've been busy wasting your time with other things. The best friend isn't truly certain you're going to make it, which makes you that much more determined to go see her. You Mapquest her address and you're out the door.
After an hour's drive, you arrive at best friend's house, and there he is. He. Him. In a room full of people, he's there alone. Your best friend doesn't yet notice your attraction as she introduces you to everyone. Richard. His name is Richard. You tell yourself not to forget that.
You pick up bits and pieces about him, sifting thru the other information you're getting about the other people who, at this point, barely exist. He's sitting alone at the poker table. Not alone as in he's the only one at the table, but he's not there with anyone. Richard. You can't make eye contact with him for more than a few seconds at a time, because you're feeling something. And you're telling yourself that you shouldn't be feeling something, because technically you have a sometimes-boyfriend. But, then again, isn't that just a technicality?
A few times, Richard asks you if you're going to come play poker. You're standing in your best friend's kitchen, you might've even been in the middle of a conversation, who knows, but eventually you say yes. Yes, you'll come play poker. See you later, best friend. Wish me luck...and I'm not necessarily talking about the poker game anymore.
Now you're sitting next to him. NEXT TO HIM. And your best friend is right...he really is cute. He's from Alabama, you got that. It makes sense with that accent. Oh my God, that accent, and those eyes, Jeez. You still can't make eye contact with him for more than a few seconds at a time because your heart starts beating fast, it's this physical connection that you can feel, and it's making you crazy because you don't even feel that way toward your own boyfriend, so what the fuck is really going on?
When the night is over and all the money's been won, you're out on the porch, smoking, and you don't want him to leave, but his friend is leaving and he's got no ride. For a moment, you share a look, it's all you can risk, you can't possibly ask him to stay, that's crazy, but you give him a look and in your head, you're thinking over and over and over "Don't leave. Don't leave. Don't leave." And you think, just for a split second, that he can hear what you're thinking, because he's hesitating, too, and the night is over and there's really nothing left, but you don't want it to end. And you keep thinking it over and over "Don't leave" as you're telling him goodbye and that it was nice to meet him, and then he leaves.
And no sooner does he get out the door than you say to your best friend and her boyfriend: "Your friend, Richard, is lucky he left."
"Why?" They both respond.
To which, you honestly reply, "Because if he hadn't, I think I would've made out with him."
They both raise their eyebrows in unison. By God, you've just given them a mission. Imagine your surprise when you find out the next day that Richard hasn't stopped talking about you, either.
:-)
Later days, people. A trip to the store is calling my name.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Kinetic energy: In other words, poised for take off.
I used to blog in the afternoons, and it showed. Since starting the April A to Z Challenge, however, I'd taken to blogging first thing in the morning in order to get it finished, allowing me to write in my free time throughout the day.
It only took me until yesterday, Day J, to realize that I was no longer happy with the blog output so early in the morning. Turning it into a task was unfair, and I apologize to those of you to whom I've spammed the crap out of such trite reading. (This would be you.)
This morning, I rearranged my schedule to allow me to work on my novel at 6am. This was good. I haven't reached the part in writing yet where the ether has worn off, so I'm happiest when I'm with "my peeps." (Not an Easter pun.) Before I knew it, 12:30pm had arrived. No shit. I greeted it with the same no-nonsense attitude, as in, "Twelve-thirty? No shit."
I had made my way into Chapter Five, which is where I decided to stop for today.
After the baby went down for his nap, I gave myself the ol' pat on the back. Investigation Discovery was showing a rerun on Guatemalan baby selling, you read that right, but I didn't have the mental energy to change the channel. I ate my Dole's Pound o' Salad for lunch (that's not really what it's called) and over my crunching, I couldn't hear the television, anyway.
I pondered chapter five and realized that the minor bit of difficulty I'm having here lies in the fact that I'm introducing a character for the first time, and I think I need to spend a bit more time getting to know her before I proceed. She's important, but she's not quite speaking to me yet.
I plan on getting her tipsy tonight and playing "Spin the Bottle."
Wait. Those were my plans for the husband. Right.
But it's there. It's all right in front of me. The majority of the story is written out longhand in my notebook. The chapters are outlined (in a 6,000+ word outline, which says something, I think, about where this book is headed). I've organized the actual timeline of the book by starting chapters, writing a brief blurb about the action that will take place within each. It's actually happening.
Part of me is so angry for not trying this before. Why, for the longest time, did I simply "want to write" instead of just grabbing this bull by the horns and doing it?
If you'll excuse me, it's time to put on a pot of decaf. My friend is coming over, you know, and I need to get to know her.
Happy blogging!
Cherstin
It only took me until yesterday, Day J, to realize that I was no longer happy with the blog output so early in the morning. Turning it into a task was unfair, and I apologize to those of you to whom I've spammed the crap out of such trite reading. (This would be you.)
This morning, I rearranged my schedule to allow me to work on my novel at 6am. This was good. I haven't reached the part in writing yet where the ether has worn off, so I'm happiest when I'm with "my peeps." (Not an Easter pun.) Before I knew it, 12:30pm had arrived. No shit. I greeted it with the same no-nonsense attitude, as in, "Twelve-thirty? No shit."
I had made my way into Chapter Five, which is where I decided to stop for today.
After the baby went down for his nap, I gave myself the ol' pat on the back. Investigation Discovery was showing a rerun on Guatemalan baby selling, you read that right, but I didn't have the mental energy to change the channel. I ate my Dole's Pound o' Salad for lunch (that's not really what it's called) and over my crunching, I couldn't hear the television, anyway.
I pondered chapter five and realized that the minor bit of difficulty I'm having here lies in the fact that I'm introducing a character for the first time, and I think I need to spend a bit more time getting to know her before I proceed. She's important, but she's not quite speaking to me yet.
I plan on getting her tipsy tonight and playing "Spin the Bottle."
Wait. Those were my plans for the husband. Right.
But it's there. It's all right in front of me. The majority of the story is written out longhand in my notebook. The chapters are outlined (in a 6,000+ word outline, which says something, I think, about where this book is headed). I've organized the actual timeline of the book by starting chapters, writing a brief blurb about the action that will take place within each. It's actually happening.
Part of me is so angry for not trying this before. Why, for the longest time, did I simply "want to write" instead of just grabbing this bull by the horns and doing it?
If you'll excuse me, it's time to put on a pot of decaf. My friend is coming over, you know, and I need to get to know her.
Happy blogging!
Cherstin
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)