I Always Knew There was Something Wrong with People who Hate Cats

On Bethenny Ever After, Bethenny said, "Humor trumps professionalism."

I totally agree.

I have been known to play jokes at work. It is just too much fun. For me.

You would never guess I'm such a menace.

But I am. There is a glimmer in the eye, you see?



Years ago, I decided to play a joke on a previous supervisor on MY birthday. I had heard whispers that people were planning to prank me for my birthday. So, I thought, I'll strike first! Bwa, ha, ha!

Anyone who knows me should know that this is a compliment if I will spend time to play a joke on you. I thought my old boss knew that.

He was quite the family guy with pictures all over his office of his gorgeous little ones - twins! - and his wife.

He hated cats.

On his birthday, I waited around until he was gone to break into his office.

I had printed some really, really great pictures of cats off the Internet with a color printer. Pictures like these:


























I am not a total menace. I CAREFULLY removed his family pictures - every last one - out of the frames and CAREFULLY placed them in a ziploc bag and CAREFULLY placed the bag in my desk.

Then, I put the cat pictures in all of his frames around his office.

I came into work the next morning, giddy, excited for the absurd hilarity to cause loud laughing and guffaws from everyone, including my boss.

The front secretary was near tears. "Kristy, he's looking for you. He is so upset. I didn't even want him to know that I knew about it!"

"What?! Are you kidding me?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No! He's pissed!"

I was incredulous, and I felt bad that I had involved our poor, dear secretary in the heinous act.

I went to my office, still not believing anything had gone wrong. Who wouldn't think that filling a cat-hater's picture frames with ridiculous pictures of cats wasn't funny?!

He was there to talk to me. He shut the door.

He explained how precious his family pictures were to him. "Of course I know that! Look!" I exclaimed as I got out the CAREFULLY saved pictures and explained just how careful I had been. It didn't help.

He said he felt that someone was intending to be a menace to him. Someone was "threatening him." Giving him the what-for, if you will.

To that, I exclaimed, "No, no, no! Don't you think it's funny that I put CATS in your picture frames? You hate cats! Ha, ha..." I trailed off, as he was not softening and did not laugh along.

Wow, the dude was TOTALLY serious.

In spite of myself, I went on, "Don't you realize what today is?"

He looked at me blankly.

"It's my birthday!" I said.

He looked at me blankly.

"I thought you guys were planning to prank me on my birthday, and I thought I would do this before you had a chance to do anything to me! That's all!" I said.

He seemed to soften his demeanor at that a little. I apologized profusely. He managed to say, "It's ok." I CAREFULLY replaced the pictures.

But I kept the pictures of the cats. I'd take them out every once in a while and have a good fucking laugh.

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This week's RemembeRED memoir prompt at Write on Edge was to recall a prank that did not have the results you intended.



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To my bloggy friends who noticed my absence as of late, I was on Spring Break. But, I'm back. And doing the best I can.

Wine a Bit. You'll Feel Better.

The RemembeRED memoir prompt at Write on Edge this week is to write about wine, coffee, or chocolate.

One of the best vacations my husband and I have ever taken was in the wine country. Are you surprised? I didn’t think so.



We talk about it all the time like it is part of an era gone by. Vacations are a whole lot different nowadays with a child.

We had been to Sonoma before this trip. This particular trip was more off-the-beaten-path, north of Sonoma/Napa, north of Santa Rosa. We were in the Dry Creek and Russian River Valley around Healdsburg and Windsor. We stayed an entire week at a small resort and mostly did biking tours of the surrounding wineries. (It helps that I have experience with biking and drinking as I explained here.)



Although I would never call myself an athletic-type, I can kick ass physically sometimes. I just typically keep my prowess on the down low.

The hazy memories I can recollect include the fact that a majority of the pourers at the wineries were intoxicated at some level. Rarely, did we pay for a tasting, and the pours were typically generous.

The most memorable winery was Christopher Creek. We happened upon it by accident down a gravel road. The pourer was a warm, friendly man with a generous spirit. The grounds were simple, but the views amazing, so we bought a bottle and picnicked there.



Armida was interesting as well. The vineyard dog greeted us at the entrance and walked us up to the tasting room. Once inside, he passed out at our feet. The pourer inside was blasting Pearl Jam and seemed to be quite intoxicated. He sold us on a special vintage called “Poizin” – a Zinfandel.

We biked over this bridge a few times on our journeys over the Russian River.



We took two days off from biking while we were there to enjoy the resort pool. So, if we were not drinking and biking, we were drinking and swimming.





We had no child at the time. We would roll up to the pool with our cooler and plastic cups. When laying in the sun, I listened to my iPod. At the time, I listened a lot to Gorillaz, specifically Clint Eastwood:

"I ain't happy but, I'm feeling glad
I got sunshine, in a bag
I'm useless, but not for long
The future is coming on...

Finally someone let me out of my cage!
Now, time for me is nothing 'cause I'm counting no age."

I could barely hear Richard laughing at me as I sang and rapped along to the tune no one could hear but me.

I am now totally lost in reverie, hoping for warmer weather and moments of lying like broccoli with ENTIRE VINEYARDS of wine nearby. Sigh. Summer?? Vacation?? I need you now…

Horror Story

Google images

I do not watch horror movies anymore. There have been requests to hear the story behind that.

It was a dark, stormy night in rural New York (ok, maybe it wasn’t stormy or completely rural, but it was dark and…suburban).

I was visiting my best friend. Her husband, two children, and dogs had all retired for the evening, and we were up drinking wine and talking. We decided to choose a movie.

We thought a horror flick sounded fun. We chose High Tension from the list and settled in, ready for the adrenaline rush of boogey-men and things-that-go-bump-in-the-night.

It was the most banal, chilling, and frightening shit I’d ever seen. I think I lasted about a half hour before I insisted my friend turn it off.

It was e-vil. Like the fru-its of the de-vil. (Bonus points for anyone who recognizes that quote.)

I was scarred – for life, apparently.

When we decided to throw in the towel and go to bed, I retreated to the guest room…in the basement. Not only was I in the scary, scary basement (it was actually a very nice room), but there was also a door to the backyard in the guest room.

I was in the bed in the dark trying so hard to be thirty years old and brave. I started to have a panic attack.

I still feel silly admitting it! I had trouble breathing. I felt a loud ringing in my ears. All I wanted to do was RUN. Run upstairs. Find people. Find help. Hug someone.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran upstairs straight into my best friend’s bedroom. I stood by the bed. You know, like a total, crazed moron.

There she slept with her baby boy close to her, her husband sleeping soundly, and one of the dogs at the foot of the bed.

I considered my options. I looked at the hard wood floor. I contemplated curling up on the rug at the end of the bed.

She sensed my presence, and being the bestest best friend one could ever have, she scooted over and lifted the covers up, silently letting me crawl right in.

I was so grateful. Everything was right with the world again. I took up as minimal space as possible right on the edge of the bed, and I couldn’t remember ever feeling more comfortable.

Next thing I knew, it was morning. I looked up and saw her husband staring incredulously at everyone in the bed.

I was very embarrassed. I laid my head back down and pretended to keep sleeping.

In the middle of the night, her other boy had also crawled into bed with all of us. It was a very full bed and is now one of the fondest memories I have of that precious family.

You may think your life is full enough – with your children, dogs, and husband all in your bed on a weekend morning. But, it is not as full as it could be.

I could be there too. Edging my way in, making myself at home, clutching whatever space I’m given.

Google images

Delivery

I intended to link-up today with Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop. I wanted to write to the prompt that challenged us to elaborate on a story from our "22 Things I've Done" prompt last week. Although the demands of the day got in the way, I still wanted to write this story, no matter how late I got around to it. So, here it is...the story behind my #21: Stayed up all night to help my dad throw Sunday papers on his paper route.

Delivery

I was in bed in the dark, yet the light that came in under my doorway was so bright. It was all I needed to keep my anticipation level high. It was so different to be trying to sleep so early, so soon after dinner. It was only eight o’clock, but it was time to try and get about four hours of sleep before going with Dad on his paper route.

My dad had taken a job throwing papers. He had lost his job, and it was time to do anything to bring in more money. At first it was a little strange that he was throwing papers - a grown man. But, those are the people who bring the big Sunday paper to your door. Not a boy, riding his bike, earning coins and tips, like in the cartoons, but actual men who need to find a way to help feed their family.

I wanted to see what it was all about. I thought that maybe he needed company. I thought that maybe it was a lonely thing.

I always thought that maybe I could try to make something better.

When we drove out to the area where all the paper throwers gathered, we waited for the big trucks that brought the papers. The people – so many people! - stood in the empty parking lot under the glow of streetlights talking and laughing with each other. Dad said “hello” to many of the others and exchanged small talk here and there. A truck/cart near all of the other vehicles sold coffee. They held the steaming cups in their hands grateful for the warmth. Although it was Phoenix, it was the middle of the night in the desert, always chilly.

As we waited for our delivery, a woman with deep lines in her face, a missing tooth, and a warm, cackling laugh called out to my dad. “Who’s that pretty lady with you tonight?”

My dad introduced us. “You gonna throw some papers tonight?” she asked with a smile.

“Yes,” I said and smiled up at my dad.

“Well, it’s good to meet ya,” she said, winked and walked off, calling to her friends.

The rigs came with the deliveries of paper. All the paper throwers lined up and gathered their sections of paper. They would take huge stacks to their vehicles and go back for more. It was our job to sit in the hollowed back of our old, white Chevy van and combine all the different sections – life, entertainment, sports, ads, coupons – into one large Sunday paper. Because it was a night that could see rain, we had to put the whole paper into the plastic bags provided for just that possibility.

Our hands were black. It took over an hour to get all the papers ready for throwing. It was harder work than I expected, but we were warm in the small space of the back of the van.

“You know that lady who had the missing tooth? She’s been doing this for fifteen years! Can you believe it? She knows everyone here. She brings food sometimes for everyone,” Dad said as we worked.

“Really?” I said. “What about that man you said hello to after we talked to her. Do you know him?” I asked. I had thought the man was strange and was interested to know interesting facts about this community of workers.

“No,” my dad said quickly. “He’s new. I don’t know him.”

By his tone, I could tell my dad didn’t like him. There was something “off” about the man who jumped around telling stories and talking loudly while in line to get his papers.

No matter how “off” anyone was, I supposed we were part of them. We were here, doing a job that many people never considered doing themselves. Most people wake up and find the paper on their driveway. Or they find it in their neighbor’s lawn and curse the paper-throwing fucker for missing the target. Again.

It seemed a very long time before we were ready to actually drive and throw the papers, but I pushed that tiredness away and prepared for what I thought would be the most exciting part of the night.

We drove through neighborhood upon neighborhood, dark and sleepy with no signs of life. It seemed we were the only ones awake and alive, doing a job in the still of the night.

It was difficult to get the paper to the right spot. There was a sure rhythm needed in the speed of the van and the toss of the arm. There were many homes to get to, and the route was long. To save time, we threw from both sides of the van on both sides of the street as we drove. My reach and aim were poor, but my dad did not seem to mind. He had his daughter with him. If someone had to walk a few steps for their paper, well, that was okay in his world.

The end of the route was mostly apartment buildings and a retirement community. At the apartments, we had to park the van and run around to various doorsteps and drop papers. The grass between the apartment buildings was wet with dew and the only light to work by was from streetlights and the moon. We saw no one.

We saw no one until we hit the retirement community. By this time, it was approaching four am. The sun would be rising soon. Old men sat on porch chairs in their driveways waiting for the paper. An elderly lady, waved from her doorway. One man, sat outside with an electric shaver, shaving his face in rhythmic circles.

I could not help but laugh and laugh about this. How silly! My dad said that this man sat like this every time, waiting for the paper and shaving his face.

When we had thrown the last paper (my arms were so sore!), we stopped for donuts at a convenience store. Bear claws were always my treat of choice, with milk.

I was tired. So tired. I fell asleep fast and hard upon reaching the house when the world began to wake. I would sleep all day, but I would not join him again on that route. It was hard work. It was hard work for my dad. Eventually, our family dog would accompany my dad in the back of that old van. And then, the experience would be used as punishment for my brother (and his friend who lived with us) when they had been suspended from school. (“You’re going to throw papers with your dad for the Sunday paper!”)

But at one point, it was intriguing. And I tried to be there in some way.

Last Cigarette

Write on Edge challenged us to write about a "season of change":

I loved sitting outside in the dark all alone, smoking a cigarette. “Healthy” types probably don’t think this is very zen, but really, it was almost like meditating.

Everything was so still, and there were plenty of stars to stare at between the clouds. My cat was lit up in the window, staring out at me with contempt.

My husband had left out of town that morning, and I could come out here as often as I wanted without judgment.

The only problem was, I was smoking my last cigarette.

In the morning, I will go and buy some more, I thought.

I took a drag.

If it’s positive, I won’t go buy any, and that will be that.

The next morning, the first thing I did was pee on a stick. I didn’t buy any cigarettes.

Burning Soles

My feet are killing me! I really just want to go home! I thought, but I dared not say anything. I wanted my visiting friend, Jen, to have fun. I did not want to be a fun hater, the party pooper, The Debbie Downer.

We maneuvered through the crowd to get to the dance floor. People pulsed and bounced to the popular, local band all around me. I tried not to wince in pain with every move. I tried to look like I was having fun, but I uncharacteristically could not wait for the song to end.

The balls of my feet pressed down into the unforgiving, hard soles of the cheap high heels. I looked down at my burning feet as though I would see smoke coming from my toes. Instead, I saw freshly manicured pink toenails. The turquoise and brown sandal heels with delicate straps still looked perfectly cute with my jeans.

The damned shoes had betrayed me. I had worn them many times before, dancing the night away. I had just always been too drunk to feel the pain. Tonight, I was sober, very sober.

As the song ended, I shouted over the noise to Jen, “Let’s go outside for a minute!”

“WHAT?!”

“Outside!” I practically shrieked and motioned her with me toward the door.

As we pushed in between people, I actually felt scared. A bar was usually a playground for me! Tonight, I looked at the wasted faces constantly passing by and thought, These people are capable of anything! Look at them. They are operating on the lizard part of their brains! They have no good sense. No good sense at all, and god knows what could set them off!

We got to a patio table and sat down. “I’m sorry! I just need to get some air for a couple minutes. My feet are killing me!”

“That’s ok!” said my good, dear friend.

“Hey, what’re you ladies up to?” a boy stupidly asked while taking a seat at our table.

I decided to be amused by this boy (well, I guess he could be called a “guy,” but certainly not a man). I looked at him with a small smile on my face and just shrugged my shoulders a bit.

“Well, I gotta say, you’re lookin’ good t‘night!” he slurred at me.

A loud, guffaw of a laugh burst out of my mouth. I couldn’t help myself. It all seemed so absurd. Jen sat back in her chair, watching with a smile on her face.

“Wha?” the boy said.

“I’m pregnant,” I said.

There was a moment, just a moment, of silence.

“So?” he decided to say.

“Listen, thank you for the compliment, that’s very nice. I’m just out with my friend, I’m married, I’m pregnant, I’m sober, my feet hurt, and I’m not in the mood for any shenanigans,” I said. Pregnancy is like truth serum! I thought.

Without another word, the boy pushed back the chair and walked away. I looked at Jen.

“You want to go home?” she asked.

Oh thank god! I thought. “Yes. I’m so sorry, but I really do just want to go home,” I said.

I have never worn those shoes again.


This post was in response to the Red Writing Hood prompt: Shoes.

Tough Bitch

photo from here

“Uuuuggghh,” I uttered.

“I know,” said Jen.

We sat in the uncalled-for bright room, victim to our hangovers. Trying to concentrate on whatever god-awful daytime television show was on.

Because we knew it would all begin again soon, Jen and I had margaritas in our hands. A special recipe shared among our friends.

I was ecstatic to have Jen visiting me in Iowa. This was the era known as pre-child, pre-Colorado, pre-30’s. Ahhh, the life of a 20-something…and my husband and I were in the midst of many celebratory parties – farewells and good-byes before our big move to Colorado.

I looked over at Jen. She slowly looked over at me.

“Jen,” I started, a bit dramatically. “Could you please do me a really big favor,” I said as I mustered my most pitiful expression. This kind of expression works if you have loyal and lovely friends like Jen.

“What?” was all she said, a little put out. Who wouldn’t be put out a little bit when being requested to assist in a big favor while monumentally hung over?

“Will you please get me some ibuprofen?” I asked sweetly. “I will love you forever.”

Jen smiled and said, “Yes.” Like I said, she is a good, dear friend.

Jen rummaged around in my room and then brought me the ibuprofen. She then sat with a sigh on the couch. I’m sure it took all the energy she had to perform this task for me. I had not the heart to tell her that I needed water. There was no way I was going to stand and do anything for myself. I grabbed my untouched glass of margarita, took a giant swig, and swallowed my ibuprofen at once.

“Ugh,” I said after it was over. “I just took those ibuprofen with my margarita.”

“I know,” Jen says. “I thought about getting you some water, but I didn’t because I thought, ‘Ack, Kristy will take these with margarita. She’s a tough bitch.’”

“Yes,” I said, agreeing. “Thank you.”

Little Kid, Big Trouble

Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop prompt: Write about a time you got in BIG trouble when you were a child.


Someone had ratted us out. Someone broke under pressure and told an ADULT what we had done.

I was in big trouble. For the first time in my life. Big trouble.

This kind of stuff didn’t happen to me. It happened to my brother. How would I live through it? The shame was overwhelming.

In a huff, the P.E. teacher marched us out through the hot, grassy field to the new gym equipment that had been installed at the school. All of us, a small group of fourth graders, hung our heads as we went to fess up to our wrong-doing.

Once we got to the wooden climbing wall, we each had to identify what we had written in ink pen.

The gym teacher barked orders at us. “Before I give you a piece of sand paper, I’ve got to tell you. I don’t think this is going to work. You wrote in INK PEN. If you are not able to get the writing off, you are going to have to PAY A LOT OF MONEY to replace this. This is BRAND NEW equipment that costs a lot of money. You better hope the sand paper works!”

The worst part for me was identifying what I had written. I had the longest, the most foul, and the worst of all the graffiti to claim. At the time I wrote it, I only felt the most clever. Now, I felt the most vile.

Thankfully, the sand paper worked.

Next stop was the front office. We were each taken into the principal’s office one by one, yelled at, and told to call our parents and tell them what we wrote.

I cried the entire time I waited for my turn.

I cried in the principal’s office.

When I got on the phone with my mom, I cried so hard I could not say what I had written.

That night, at home, my brother was very, very happy. So pleased to see the goody-goody sister in trouble. This was a special occasion.

My parents were trying to decide my punishment. Grounded for a week? No TV? No phone?

My dad asked me about what I wrote. “Where did you hear that? Who told you that?!”

“Scott (my brother) told me! It was a punch line to a joke he tells!” I exclaimed. It was the truth, but I was more than happy to try and shift the focus off of me for a moment.

“Go to your room. Both of you!” My dad told both my brother and me. My brother was infuriated to be part of a punishment that was FINALLY supposed to be mine.

To this day, I will never forget the punch line of that joke. I will never forget the whole joke. It is burned in my memory forever.

“I’m a mean mother fucker from Sesame Street gonna kick your ass from street to street.”

Blurred Edges

I had the apartment to myself. Well, almost. Everyone else was sleeping. I had just returned from my early morning class. The only thing enjoyable about having an early morning class was coming back to the quiet apartment and having some silence to myself. With nights full of people, laughter, music, and other illegal activities, I needed the alone time. I have an insatiable need for it.

People marveled at my ability to take care of my shit, like get my ass out of bed for an early class, amidst all the late nights and hangovers.

Something drove me out of that bed. Something drove me to do what needed to be done, graduate on time, and graduate with Magna Cum Laude honors.

Something drove me besides the big, yellow Vivarin pill I took with my coffee on my walk to class. Something drove me besides the nicotine in my veins, puffing as I strolled among mountains in the Flagstaff morning.

Slowly, slowly, my friends dropped out of school one by one. But, I wanted it all. The late nights, all the fun to be had AND the good grades and a future career.

My life at the time was a give and take, a yin and yang. Wild nights, quiet mornings. Darkness in the evening, responsibility in the day.

I lay back on the couch, watching the smoke swirl through the room by the light of the window. It hung there with nowhere to go. I had just smoked my last cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray. Soon, I would begin picking out the cigarettes that had a little bit left to give and relight them, so I would have something to smoke.

Everyone was sleeping. Soon, it would all begin again.

This was a memoir piece for The Red Dress Club in response to this picture:

Are You Fixable?

I am participating in the memoir link-up sponsored by The Red Dress Club:



The prompt is to describe a scene from your life that would help show a person your true self.

Are You Fixable?

In a quaint and cramped Mexican restaurant, my husband and I sat across from each other, hardly knowing what to talk about.

So, we talked about our son. Our baby. Our beautiful, colicky, screaming baby.

“What do you think they’re doing right now?” my husband asked.

“Crying. They’re all crying,” I said cynically.

My husband nodded silently and took another sip of his margarita.

We had a night away on my birthday. Our son was with babysitters. We should have been partying down like our old carefree selves, but instead all we needed was a moment of silence.

We hardly knew how to speak to each other anymore without shouting at each other over the screaming of our son. I judged myself, as always, too harshly for feeling confusion and helplessness when mothering my own child. I was scared that I wouldn’t survive it. I was scared our marriage wouldn’t survive it. The emotion of it all sometimes seemed too much to bear.

I needed some reassurance from my husband. I needed to know that we were in this together. I needed to know that HE thought I was ok, even if I wasn’t so sure about myself.

“It’s been really hard,” I started.

“Yeah,” was all my husband said.

“I don’t know how I could do it without you,” I said. “Can you imagine people who are alone and have an infant?”

“No, not at all,” my husband said while shaking his head.

My husband looked up at me. He looked straight in my eyes. His eyes were filling with tears. He looked away, and then down and rubbed his face.

“It’s just been really hard,” he said, not able to speak anymore, trying to choke back the tears.

My entire insides shifted. I could not believe that my husband was so affected. It surprised me that he was showing himself to be so vulnerable. At that moment, I knew I was not alone. I knew this was all way more than just about me and my feelings. Instead of needing reassurance, I needed to reassure. My energy changed and all I yearned to do was comfort. And fix.

“Oh, honey,” I said, leaning forward, “You know what I tell myself sometimes when it all feels too hard?”

He looked at me.

I continued, “I tell myself that maybe God gave us Parker because we can handle it. You know?”

He nodded and kept looking at me.

“We CAN handle it. Just think. If Parker were given to a different family and they couldn’t handle it all – the reflux, the colic, the allergy, the crying – God knows what would happen and how someone else might handle it. But God didn’t do that. He gave him to US. Because we can handle it,” I said.

At that, my husband began openly crying and reached across the table to take my hands.

We held hands at a restaurant table for the first time in years.

Sweet Nothings

The Red Dress prompt this week was to pull out an item from your pantry and incorporate the ingredients in a story. Hey, I may have pulled the easiest thing (organic honey), but I just couldn't make my brain hurt too much this Friday!


“You never call me a pet name. You ever notice that?” He asked.

“What are you talking about?” I said, puzzled.

“Well, most boyfriends and girlfriends call each other things like ‘Baby’ or ‘Sweety,’” he explained.

Eww. I thought. “So, what are you trying to say?”

“It would just be nice to hear you call me something, you know, affectionate. It would show that you loved me,” he said.

“I don’t see why I need to call you some kind of ridiculous name like ‘Honey’ or ‘Sugar’ in order to show that I love you,” I said hotly, starting to feel irritated.

It just didn’t feel right. Nothing about this relationship felt right.

“Can you just give it a try?” he pushed.

I was incredulous. “You want me to say something, even though I find it silly, just because you think it shows that I love you?”

“If you really loved me, you wouldn’t find it silly, honey.” His voice was tight. He enunciated each word carefully. Like I was stupid.

“Oh, come on, you know I love you!” I said in a bright voice, trying to lighten the mood.

He stared at me.

I considered my next move.

“Well, which, uh, name do you like best?” I asked.

“Baby. I’d like you to call me ‘baby’ sometimes,” he said. “Like, you could say, ‘How was your day, baby.’ It sounds so loving.”

He was completely serious.

“Um, ok. I’ll try,” I said. I knew I wouldn't be able to do it.

Nothing about this relationship felt right.

First Love, True Love

This week, Red Writing Hood provided this prompt:

Write a short first-person story about your first love, or write a short fiction piece about a character's first love.

Mysterious Ways

I noticed him right away. He was new blood in this soul-less place. He looked kind. That was why he was so…noticeable.

I approached him with all the bravado and confidence that I had honed over the past few years.

It looked as though I wasn’t even relying on liquid confidence, as I held a diet Pepsi can in my hand. But, little did anyone know it was filled with spiced rum and hardly even burned anymore every time I took a sip.

“Hi,” I said, an actress, using my body and my eyes to say a little more than just “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said with a smile.

Little did he know I was damaged goods. Not worth much more than a, “Hi,” but I no longer had much to lose.

“How’r’ya tonight?” I asked, coyly.

“Good, and you?” he asked, politely.

The conversation quickly, surprisingly, became interesting. We talked excitedly and lost track of time. We spoke of our current situations and future dreams, and he never passed judgment, only showed curiosity, only gave me the attention I craved. I didn’t want the night to end.

……………………

His eyes, his eyes, always looking, looking for a connection. I was not used to a connection. There was only warmth there. Instinctively I knew I could trust him.

We looked at a map of his home state, his home town. We listened to music. We talked a little more about what was deeper beneath the surface. The sun was rising.

I gave in. I finally held his gaze and was just beginning to learn that I deserved it. Could I really trust this? Would there be another time? Was he really…kind?

The next day, and the next – a phone call, some letters. He cared. I started falling in love.

A Moment of Magic

Mama Kat has challenged us this week with a prompt:

If you could relive any moment in your life…

A Moment of Magic

When Grandma came to visit, she stayed in my bedroom because I didn’t sleep in there anyhow. To my brother’s embarrassment, I slept with him until he grew too old, had enough, and kicked me out.

One Christmas Eve, I left my brother’s bed in the middle of the night. I crawled into my own bed, with Grandma.

Grandma was not like other Grandma’s I knew, and I wanted more of her. She was beautiful, ladylike, wore sparkly jewels, hummed to herself almost all day, had boundless energy, smelled good, and took me to exciting places like New York and San Francisco.

Grandma always made this little “pooh” puff-of-air-sound when she slept. It made me giggle.

As I giggled, Grandma started to wake.

“Grandma,” I whispered.

“Kristy,” she said with a smile and held me close. “Has Santa come?” she asked.

“No, it’s the middle of the night!” I whispered excitedly.

“Oh, well, we better get to sleep then so that Santa can come,” my grandma urged.

“Yes,” I said and snuggled against her warm body, waiting to hear the “pooh” sound from my grandma’s lips.

Moments passed. I was a little startled when my grandma said, “Do you hear that?” she asked.

I thought she was falling asleep.

“No,” I said, “What?”

“Listen. Listen close. I think I hear reindeer hooves on the roof,” she said.

Grandma continued, “There! Right there – did you hear it that time?”

I was straining my ears. I couldn’t believe it! Was Grandma serious? I wasn’t even sure if Santa really existed, but maybe…

“Yes! I hear it,” I almost shouted, “I hear the little sounds of hooves, Grandma!”

“Keep listening. You may be able to hear the jingle of bells soon,” my grandma suggested.

Amazing what you can make yourself hear if you want to. Amazing what you can make yourself believe if you want to.

I swore I heard the hooves on the roof that night and the jingle of bells. For many years, I would think back on that, holding onto a childhood’s dream of Santa. Remembering a night, close to my grandma, that only she and I shared.

A moment of magic.

A LIttle Abandon Goes a Long Way

This post was inspired by The Red Dress Club's Red Writing Hood prompt to write a story based on a song...

A Little Abandon Goes a Long Way

“WOOO HOOO!” wailed my brother as he raced down the top of our roof on my scooter. He flew through the air while I held my breath, and he landed in our pool.

My brother’s best friend, Garrett, was jumping up and down in excitement. “Yeah!” he shouted and jumped in the pool after my brother.

It was the summer of 1988, and my brother and his best friend were like two misfits looking for trouble wherever they could, especially while stuck at home in the summertime, and our parents worked.

Although, nothing would have kept them stuck at home. They pretty much did whatever they wanted to do.

I was in awe of them, particularly when they took my scooter and rode it off our rooftop and into our pool.

I was twelve years old, and I was so pitifully UNCOOL in my desire to be liked by them. They were a Very Cool Age of fifteen.

They, of course, hated me. And the fact that I was The Younger Sister, hanging on every word. Following every footstep really did not afford me any points in The Cool Department.

I was just glad to have them around, just for a little bit. They were usually off, like I said, getting into any trouble they could. Increasing the number of gray hairs on my parents’ heads. This added to the already sometimes stressful household of a father who was a recovering alcoholic and a mother trying to keep it all together and working very hard at it.

Ignoring the stress of the adults, a lot of focus was placed on my brother and the trouble he was getting into.

I learned to worry about everyone around me at a very young age.

…………

My parents came home from work, tired and tired of the heat. I kept my mouth shut about the scooter on the roof because I knew what was really good for me.

My brother and Garrett called everyone to the family room.

“Come here, Come here! We want to show you something!” they shouted.

We all came to the family room and sat on the couch, not sure what to expect.

“We’ve been practicing something and you’ve got to see it!” they said as they got a record ready on our player.

My parents and I were silent. Obviously my brother and Garrett were getting ready for a performance. This was a little uncharacteristic for them. This would display a vulnerable side, something they were not used to in The World of Cool. We were tense as we waited for what they had planned.

They took their places. My brother acted as “drums.” Garrett acted as “guitar.” (Nothing better than air instruments, right?) They both sang…er, lip synched.

As the music began, it evoked a slow and sad kind of feeling. Wistful, emotional…

“On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair…” the song began.

My brother and Garrett were impressively accurate with their timing – in their lip synching and in the movements of their instruments. My parents and I all smiled and had our mouths open, at the same time.

Eventually, we started moving our bodies to the music a bit, showing our appreciation. We all shared in the moment. Even my brother and Garrett could tell we were impressed. This increased their confidence with the performance, and the pure emotion and movement they gave to it was…beautiful.

The song did its crescendo into the more aggressive guitar and drums in the instrumental last half of the song, and the energy in the room was of pure fun.

Finally, a moment, a break from all the exhaustion, from the heat of our day-to-day.

The misfits got something right. And they knew it. They ended their song with great emotion and gusto, and we exploded into applause and adoration for the uncanny performance.

There would be many more times and other nights that we would demand, “Do it again!” And, they would. Perfecting their timing every time. And, we would marvel at the joy it brought to us, at the moments we were all brought together by something.

In those moments, we were a family. All of us. (Even Garrett – absolutely. Shortly thereafter, he would live full-time with my family for years.) Nothing pressing on us, no needs to chase or fill. Only a little fun. Only a little music…

“…And still those voices are calling from far away,
Wake you up in the middle of the night
Just to hear them say...

Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely face
They livin’ it up at the Hotel California
What a nice surprise, bring your alibis…”

A Friendship is Born

I will be linking up to Mama Kat on Thursday for this prompt:
What made them so interesting? Remember a unique classmate from your past. Write about him/her.


At a large high school, it was scary to be like a lone Nemo freshman among all the sharks. Just like in Napoleon Dynamite, you need a Jose. You need protection.

It was very important to always have a partner to walk with from class to class. I had a close friend with me during all the right times, except walking to math class. I needed to find someone to walk with to math class.

I don’t even remember how we began talking, but we did, and I was all set.

She was so confident. If you didn’t have her attention, she would breeze right past you with her head held high. She was usually alone, and fine with it. She was beautiful, with curls in her hair. She was daring, with high heel pumps almost every day. Even through the feminine grace, you could tell that she had an edge. She carried herself as though she chose her own feelings. She carried herself with a hell-be-damned attitude. It was probably a bit of a wall, a bit of a defense against what had hurt her before, but at the time, it just came off as very impressive.

From our “honors,” smart-kid language arts class, we would walk together to our math building. We would chit-chat, make small talk, nothing much of importance.

There was one condition. Upon entering the math building, we would have to stop at her boyfriend’s classroom on our way to our math class.

She was that cool. She even had a boyfriend. He was older. She got to stop everyday and be held and kissed in front of others.

I would hang back and wait, trying not to look like I was watching. But, I found her, and her whole world, so interesting.

At the end of that school year, we never spoke through the rest of high school. We never again had classes together and had no reason to walk together. A friendship had not been born, yet. Her boyfriend was enough for her. I would see her walking, and wonder and marvel…

……………..

Unlike other college students who may turn their noses up at living in a dorm, I was heady with the excitement of living away from home, no matter that I was confined to a small boxy room and a strange roommate. I welcomed the independence and fresh start. I was tired of the labels and confines of the high school social structure and ready to break out of my shell.

One floor below me, she was moving in to the dorms. Gone were the heels, grunge was in style. But the attitude was the same, and her charisma pulled me to her.

We met, again, and a beautiful friendship was born.

Sixteen years later and still going strong. My best friend, Juli, and me.

The First Fight is SPECIAL

Disclaimer: Although the writing that follows is a “memoir” piece, many details may have been…adapted, or created (in my favor) because, at the time, I was quite drunk.

This is a prompt from Mama Kat's Writer Workshop: Write about a fight you once had that you were very passionate about, but now you find it silly.

In the summer of 1998, I was 22 years old and almost engaged to be married. We had picked out the ring and were waiting for it to be made, so really, I pretty much was engaged.

What a romance! When my now-husband and I fell in love, we fell in love hard – with much love and energy and positivity. It was obvious when we met that there were forces beyond our control bringing us together.

We went an entire year after we met in the summer of 1997 before we had any argument. There was not one fight…

Then, one day, we were on vacation.

We were tent camping in Estes Park, Colorado, and having a grand time, enjoying the outdoors, and the little town of Estes Park. One day, we drove into town to find a nice spot for happy hour. We felt like having some drinks before returning to our campsite and campfire.

We found a cute, little Mexican restaurant on the “main strip.” We sat at the bar, ordered our margaritas, and assessed the situation around us.

There was a group at the end of the bar that had possibly been there all day. They were loud and laughing and talking with the outgoing, feisty bartender. Soon, of course, they asked where we were from, and we all began talking and laughing together. Our spirits were high, and it was like we had started to create our own little party.

These people had been travelling all over. They INSISTED that we HAD TO hike in Bryce Canyon and pretty much the entire state of Utah very soon. Our lives depended on it. We shared that we were waiting on a ring to be made before The Proposal occurred. One of the men piped up, “I have an online pastoral certificate! I can marry you right now!”

Hoots and hollers all around!

Richard and I got married right there in this little bar of a Mexican restaurant in Estes Park, Colorado, almost a full year before our “official” I do’s.

The jolly group of people started buying us drinks. There was probably a congratulatory shot.

The woman in their group kept insisting that I MUST have one of the strawberry margaritas because they were the BEST EVER. My life depended on it.

I do not like sweet drinks. I do not have a sweet tooth. I do not even eat chocolate. Hardly ever. The last thing I wanted, at that already very drunk moment, was a strawberry margarita, and I needed it about as much as I needed a hole in my head.

“Oh, no thank you, I’m fine. I bet it is good!” I would tell her every time.

It seemed the group suddenly decided they needed to leave. Our little party dwindled. The gracious bartender told me, “Here, I’ll make you one of those strawberry margaritas on the house!”

I was starting to spin. I had had too much to drink. I was hoping to leave soon after the other group left, but here this bartender just whipped up a strawberry margarita and plopped it down in front of me, expectantly.

Just looking at it made my stomach churn.

I leaned over to whisper in Richard’s ear, “I need to go.”

Richard sat back, looked at me, and with shock and horror hissed, “We can’t leave! You have to drink that drink! She made it SPECIAL for you!”

Here began our first fight ever, and it probably goes down in history as our worst one ever.

Obviously, Richard had forgotten that he was travelling with his future wife (or actual wife, depending on how liberal you are about Mexican bar weddings officiated by a drunk Internet pastor). He must have been mistaking me for his bachelor roommates who consider it “alcohol abuse” (the worst social disgrace) to leave any alcohol behind.

I sternly hissed back, “I DON’T CARE that she made it for me, that was her choice, and I don’t have to drink it. I should be able to say no thank you, and leave. I am too drunk to have anymore!”

He said, “No! That is so rude! You have to drink it!”

I sat there in disbelief. This was my future husband (or husband, depending…) telling me that I HAD TO DRINK something that I DIDN’T WANT TO? That I clearly COULD NOT drink because of the state I was in? Did he not care about my health and well-being?! Why wasn’t he on MY SIDE and letting me do WHATEVER I WANT?!

Richard paid the waitress. We left. We got outside. It was still light outside! We were raving drunk. We could not drive back to our campsite. We saw a park across the street and decided to go sit it out.

As soon as we sat down at a park bench, we started bickering still about The Drink. Our bickering escalated to all out yelling, and then you can probably guess what happened. I started crying. We were a scene. We were fighting with passion, completely convinced that our own side was right, and the other person was VERY WRONG.

In the midst of all this, about 20 feet away, a group of teens from a local church start singing Christian songs for passersby.

In a moment of clarity, we realized what a mess we were. The sun was starting to set. Park people were possibly planning an intervention for us. We started laughing. And then, the laughing didn’t stop. We were so over it. We got up and started walking.

We got back to our campsite and started a fire, and we were back to having a grand ole time, listening to music, roasting marsh mellows, talking, and laughing through the night. (That night is also marked by my eventual falling into a hole in the darkness, and we, literally, rolled on the ground laughing about it.)

This argument is like a historical story now in our relationship. We laugh about it still. At the time we were both, SO MAD and OFFENDED at the other. Truly. And, now? We see it as so silly. There are many times you can hear one of us say, as an inside joke, “But they made it SPECIAL for you!”

And then I panicked...

Around a year ago at this time, I was sitting in a training about helping children deal with tragedy and loss. As a mental health professional in a military school district, I was participating in some professional development around the grieving child. It was excellent and engaging material.

But I had something on my mind at the same time.

I had received a voice mail the night before from the dermatologist. They had asked for me to call them back. They had said that they would call whether it was “good news or bad,” but I was feeling a little anxious when all the message said was, “Please call us back.”

Now, I know that my biopsies could come back with that “harmless” skin cancer type or a very fatal one. That was really the extent of my knowledge about it.

I knew that I had grown up in the 80’s in Phoenix and no one used sun screen at that time. I also discovered the evil joys of the tanning bed in my 20’s, loving the deep color it gave my legs and the little boost in confidence come summertime. Fucking vanity.

There was a nagging thought in my head as I sat and listened to the effects on a child when experiencing the stress of a fatally ill parent in the home.
I would never want my child to experience that…

My phone vibrated. I excused myself. My heart was beating out of my chest. I figured it was the dermatologist’s office calling me back in our second round of phone tag to give me the results.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Kristina?” The receptionist asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Hi! This is (for crying out loud, I don’t remember her name) from the Colorado Springs Skin Cancer Specialists, and I’m calling to schedule your surgery.

…(empty space and time)…

And then I panicked.

Surgery? Specialist? Cancer?

What the fuck was going on?!

“Um, have you not heard from your doctor yet?” the perky receptionist asked.

“No, I haven’t,” I said, my voice tight.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Well, I can explain what is going on…” And she went on to say that I had basal cell carcinoma on my neck, and I would need something called Mohs surgery to have it removed.

After I got off the phone, I looked in at the people in the training. I could not go back in there. I started crying. I. Freaked. Out.

All these people told me, “Basal cell! No big deal! It will get taken care of. You are fine.”

I believed them in my heart. I was thankful it was basal cell and not something more difficult or life threatening to deal with. But at the time, I still felt fear and all I could think of was that I didn’t want to feel that way around my child.

I didn’t want my child to suffer in any way that I had been hearing about in my training. I only want my child to be happy forever. For us to be a happy family forever. Isn’t that what every parent really wants?

When something, anything threatens that, it’s only natural that the hair on our neck is raised.

Looking back on the whole experience, I regret having panicked so much in the moment and in front of co-workers. Of course, everything worked out ok. Of course, the basal cell was not too big of a deal in the long run.

I am so grateful for that.

And, here I sit, about a year later, with a bandage on my toe and on my face. Another biopsy. Waiting again. Staying strong. Hoping for good news.

This post was written in response to Mama Kat's writer's workshop. The prompt was "And then I panicked."

A Safe Place

One of Mama Kat’s writing prompts this week asked about a time that you pushed yourself out of your comfort zone.

Some background before I write to the prompt:

I am a school psychologist at an elementary school. Last year, we had a self-contained program for students with emotional and behavioral disorders. I knew that it would be challenging to get a program like this started and there would be so much to learn about in working with the children. How would I be a positive influence in their lives? How could I teach them coping skills that could help them? These thoughts were only the tip of an iceberg of worries and fears I had.

At the same time, I also knew that I absolutely, with all my heart, love children. I relate to children well and have had so many successful and positive experiences over the years with children and their families, so I was pretty confident in my abilities to build meaningful relationships with the kids in this program. I figured - the rest? Well, I would have to take things as they came, remember my past learnings, and trust my gut on what was right.

What I learned over that year was more than I could have ever imagined possible. I came to fondly call the group of students in that program, “the boys,” or, “our boys” since they happened to be all boys (which is, unfortunately, common in programs like this).

I learned that some of our students come from unimaginable backgrounds and have already, at very young ages, withstood some of the most traumatic abuses possible. In some, if not all cases, they have been hurt deeply physically and emotionally, have been abandoned and bounced around, and have built thick, almost impenetrable walls of defense around their hearts as a result. All of them carried multiple medical diagnoses like juvenile bipolar, intermittent rage disorder, attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder, oppositional defiant disorder, etc., and had medication “schedules.”

I came to understand that the best I could do was attempt to understand these children and their families, learn from them, and help them learn from each other. The best I could do was BE with them. To be a constant and stable force in their lives. To help them re-learn trust. To help them re-learn safety. To help them use their words and communicate their experiences and thoughts. To help them use creative outlets of expression. To help them learn about and embrace their feelings rather than only reacting to their feelings.

I usually do not write too much about work-related things on this blog, but here I will write a story from my experiences in the most confidential, careful way I can. Names have been changed and no identifying information exists.

A Safe Place

I was called over the intercom to assist in the Affective Needs room. This usually meant that at least one child was “in crisis.” While walking as quickly as I could to the room, I was not sure what I would find there. Whenever I was called to the room during a crisis, I pushed worry and fear (“Will I be able to handle this? Will I know what to do? Will the child respond to me? Will the child attack me? Is somebody hurt?) out of my head and tried to convey a feeling of calmness and stillness within.

I took a breath before opening the door.

The classroom was no longer a classroom. It was chaos. It was a tornado of paper, pencils, chairs, desks, tables, stickers, erasers, folders, cubbies, and any other material you can think of that exists in a classroom. All the children, except one, had been taken to work in the library. Sean was in the middle of the chaos, the creator of the chaos.

Everything had been ripped off the walls andhad joined the pile of debris that filled the room. All tables and chairs and desks had been thrown or overturned. All contents of all desks had been spilled.

Sean slowly paced the room, breathing heavily, eyes darting around looking for damage to be done.

I thought he was ignoring my presence. I had slipped in quietly and was taking a quiet moment to assess Sean’s actions and the environment. A teacher’s assistant stood in an adjacent corner, supervising.

In this state, Sean was a like a calculating, scared tiger. If he was approached, he would lash out. So we would wait for a moment, just the right moment when we could be let in, and we would try to diffuse, to calm, to bring safety back. Until then, we could only watch him destroy things that were, in this situation, less important than Sean’s dignity and our safety.

I knew he was no longer ignoring me when he began to throw tacks at me. One by one, each tack was thrown from the box. I would simply move away slowly, calmly from each small missile. I showed no reaction.

I looked at Sean. There was a bit of himself shining through in those dark eyes. He wasn’t completely out of control. He was starting to get tired.

I carefully walked over to the radio and put on some soft music. I knew that Sean liked music. Without words (which can so easily escalate a person), I wanted to show him that, no matter what the room looked like, no matter the anger he had inside him, no matter the mistake he had made, and no matter the tacks he threw at me, I still cared about him and who he was.

Softly, softly, “Sean, will you talk with me about what’s going on?”

A tack zoomed by. Just one tack. Then, more pacing.

“You can handle this. Whatever it is, you will be able to handle it.” I said.

“NO! I WON’T! I’VE RUINED EVERYTHING! IT’S NOT OK! I’M HAVING A RED DAY!” Tears and snot ran freely down his face, he rushed to the desk, to the computer and started to pick it up.

“Sean. Don’t. Put it down. Don’t make it worse.”

He put it down. “IT’S NOT OK! IT WILL NEVER BE OK!”

He ran over to the corner of the room, found some broken wall dividers, created a make-shift tent, and crawled underneath, barricading himself.

This was a good sign. He was starting to think. He had stopped himself from throwing the computer. He talked to me. He was no longer pacing. He would calm down. Somehow, we would work it out.

“Whenever you are ready to talk, just show me your hand.” I said.

I waited. I looked around at all the damage, the physical evidence of a boy who had turned every confusing emotion swirling in him into anger. I had come to know Sean very well, and even though I did not yet know the event that had caused this rage episode, I knew that it had everything to do with him trying to maintain one small shred of his dignity. Sean had many deep fears. Fears of humiliation, fears of failing, fears of abandonment, fears of not being good enough or perfect enough. Anything that threatened him and his fleeting sense of worth was punished swiftly and harshly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the tips of his fingers peek out from under his shelter and then quickly retreat back. This was my signal, this was the white flag.
I approached his make-shift tent. He was laying on his side, curled in a ball. There was really no good way for me to sit with him, so I got on the ground and leaned on my elbow.

The truth was, I had grown comfortable with the floor over time. When I’m called into a classroom, and the students look at me with wide eyes and then point to a corner of the room, I know I will probably be crawling under a table, squeezing into a small place in order to try and reach the child that has given up on the world around him.

Sean began to tightly mumble, almost inaudibly. “Mrs. Schultz, she was mean to me. She corrected me on my paper.”

I just asked him questions about the incident and listened. I never lied to him and told him it was OK, don’t worry about it. I did not sugar coat or ignore the rejection he so deeply felt. I would simply say in kid’s terms, “That sucks. That’s hard to be corrected.”

He went on to explain that he was mostly upset that now he would have a “red day” which holds various consequences within his classroom. I would say, “Yep. It’s a red day, that is true, but you can handle it. Whatever the consequences are, you will deal with them and survive. You’re a strong guy.”

“I know,” he sheepishly said.

This was not a moment for a lesson on anger management and impulse control. We would do that in group time the next day when learning could actually take place and Sean’s mind was not in crisis. This was a time for accepting consequences and trying to make things right for the rest of the day.

“You know what you have to do?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

Sean got up and slowly started cleaning the room. He put up the desks, put the tables right, gathered the students’ folders, reorganized them, and put them in their desks. It was painstaking and slow and quiet. He gathered the torn posters from the wall, put them as nicely as he could on the teacher’s desk and said, “I ripped these down. Maybe I can fix it tomorrow?”

“Yes, just set them there,” I said.

The teacher’s assistant went to find the rest of the class to let them know it was safe to return to the classroom.

By the time the rest of the class came back, Sean was sitting at his desk, quietly working on his math. The boys came in and went to their desks, seemingly unfazed by the events of the afternoon, content that it was not them that time to have lost control.

There was only about a half an hour left in the school day, so I did a few things before making sure I walked with the class out to their own, special bus. The boys got on their bus, and some of them were shouting “Bye!” to the teachers and to me and shouting at each other in fun.

Sean got to his seat and looked at me and gave me a small smile. The bus began to pull away. I waved goodye to the boys, but Sean was the only one still looking, still paying attention to the teachers at the curb. He put his hand up, against the window and never moved it until the bus rounded the corner, out of sight.

We Regret What We Don't Do

The two day trip to Iowa was accomplished in the only way Juli and I know how to do things together – with frivolity, odd-ball antics, and one minor hissy fit. Things started to get really interesting about 6 hours into the trip when we were half-way across New Mexico, and I threw the entire, giant-sized atlas out the window because I discovered a live scorpion inside. We never did buy another map to get us where we were going. We went on instinct alone (and a lot of dumb luck), and after adventures on two-lane highways through Hooker, Oklahoma, a night in Liberal, Kansas, (quite the tourist attraction), and a liquid lunch somewhere in Nebraska, we finally arrived. My 1986 Pontiac LE 6000 bomb of a car pulled up in front of a farmhouse in the dark of the night, and my live-in life with my husband began.

Six years of learning, six years of wide open spaces, yet it is not enough. We are saying good-bye to a place that did nothing but give back to us. The mountains are ahead of us and our destination a constant west. What else lies ahead? My only hope is that our learning is as great as from where we came, and our road always leads us home to each other.

-The above is for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop, that I have written today, even though the link up doesn’t occur until Thursday. I’m wacky like that. Oh, well. (The prompt was to write about a “chapter in your life” with 5 sentences representing the beginning of the chapter, and 5 sentences to represent the end of the chapter.) I chose to write about the years that my husband and I lived in Iowa. I finished college in Arizona and drove out to Iowa in the fall of 1998. Six years later we moved to Colorado. Why? Because we could. So we did.

I actually have a picture of my friend behind the wheel on our drive out to Iowa. Check it out:

Every time my husband sees that picture, he laughs. He thinks we are strange to be able to have so much fun doing anything – including driving across the country to Iowa. But that’s what we do when we’re together. We know no other way but to do it big and fun. Love to you, dear friend.