Chapter of Hope

Just for you Kirsten, a teaser of what is to come... If I don't edit it out. 

***

Heart pounding. The roaring in her ears gets ever louder. Eyes widening in fear as adrenaline pumps through her veins. 

There is someone there. Someone at the door. Someone who will kill her to get what he wants. 

She won't let him. She can't let him. The fate of her whole world rests in her arms. 

"Kitty, Kitty, Kitty! Why are you hiding?" He taunts from behind the door. "Time to come out and play."

Her eyes dart from the fireplace to the door. How much time do they need? 

"Kitty, I know you are in there. I can feel you in my head."

She sees it in his head, how she can get them out. She runs to the fireplace clutching onto hope that she can free them. It's all she can do before it ends. The wall at the back of the fireplace should move. It should give way to a staircase. She pushes it; it doesn't move. Two pairs of little hands join hers, pushing until it budges an inch. Then two. Three inches. 

The pounding on the door halts and they stop pushing to silence the scrape of rock on rock. 

"What are you doing, Kitty Cat? You are taking too long to come to your senses."

The pounding begins again. This time it's louder; he is using something to bust through. The splintering of wood tells her it's an axe. There is a foot of space now in front of her. 

"Go! Just keep running," she tells them. Their scared faces are covered in soot. Maybe they won't be recognized. Their small frames disappear through the opening just as the center of the door gives way. His head pops through with a suspicious stare. He realizes he showed her exactly how to get out. 

"Guards, to the east wall!" he yells. 

He'll deal with her later. 

Ham Bone Refrigerator Soup Recipe

Quick meals are what I am all about lately. That and not wasting all the fresh vegetables that I convince myself to buy and never do anything with. I came up with this recipe to keep the fresh veges from going bad in my fridge. So this is what I ended up with:

Ham Bone

Baby Carrots, diced

Half an Onion, diced

10 Golden Potatoes, halved 

10ish grape tomatoes

2 Red Sweet Peppers

1 Orange Sweet Pepper

1 Can Creamed Corn

2 tbsp rosemary

2 tbsp thyme

1 tbsp white pepper

1 tsp of garlic 

4 tsp of Better than Bouillon 

4 cups of water

First chop the peppers, carrots and onions with the Slap Chop (which I love!).  Cut the potatoes in half. 

Then (wait for it... This is the hard part...) put all of it in a crockpot and stir.  After 8 hours on high, you get deliciousness.

Ta da!!

My Not Quarter-Life Crisis

It's terrifying, that moment that you recognize that time slips away like sand through your fingers. In the last couple months (honestly since my 25th birthday), I've been coming to grips with my adulthood. I don't want to call it a "quarter-life crisis" because I'm not in crisis. I'm actually happy and not questioning where I want to be. I have a mostly functioning vehicle, (rental) house, good job, great love, and wonderful friends and family.

Is my life different than where I pictured it at age 10, when I had just begun seeing the world for what it could be? 

Absolutely. I haven't written a bestseller teen fiction novel, don't have my dream mansion, nor did I become Amish (at least the kind portrayed in Lurlene McDaniel novels). But I'm okay.

While I understand that my generation has dreams, I don't understand the urgency of getting there. It seems like we are in such a rush and the world wants to rush us. Rush to graduate school; rush to get a job; rush to the alter, buy a house, have babies. Then what? Die. Not really, but you catch my drift. 

And no, I am absolutely not saying that my friends who are hitting these milestone moments are doing it wrong. Far from that! I am thrilled to celebrate each and every moment with them; I will be at every party, shower, move, and DIY or furniture building project they throw at me. What I am saying is, I'm 25 and I am no closer to knowing all of who I am as a person than I did when I was the little girl with the mullet in the first grade.

What I do know is I want to have what I have now. No, it's not perfect. Yes, I do still want my mansion, a bazillion dollars, and a movie deal based on my bestselling series. I'm just trying to do it right. So you wonder, how do I do it? Hence my plan for living in the now:

1. Make plans but not deadlines. (Boyfriend isn't getting pressure from me for that ring, but I know it's in our plans. I haven't set a date on finishing a novel, but plans are in motion to do it.)
2. Don't hurry through the moments. (With Boyfriend working some nights, I have been spending a lot of time getting to know what I like and don't like, and teaching myself things. I like to run, although I pretty much hate it while I am doing it. I like yoga and grilling. I like the feeling of sitting on the couch knowing you've earned it because you kicked ass that day. Like Aristotle said, “Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.”)
3. Be present. (When I am with my friends and family, I am going to make a conscious effort to put my phone away. I was just Pinterest-ing anyway. I dare you all to do the same.)
4. Get active and make the memories count. (Who cares if the house is a little messy? Do you want to remember cleaning the house or taking an adventure? We are half-marathon training, soon-to-be kayaking, camping, create-our-own-adventurers... even on weeknights. I've spent too many nights or weekends sitting on my butt.)
5.  Be happy right now. (Stop wanting for "life to start.")

That's it. It's not advice, just my internal mantras. Have I missed any?

Girls' Night Out

"Ten bucks he doesn't remember why he has my name and number tomorrow," I said sauntering out of the restaurant we held girls' night also known as Fat Friday and God-I-Really-Need-A-Cosmo-After-The-Week-I-Had. I know I am in a committed relationship going on seven years, but come on, he was so cute! I had to give him my number...

***

"I love this place," my friend said as we sat down near the hull of the pirate ship. "Let's split something."

Considering that all the food is cooked in a glorified Fry Daddy or is dipped in cheese, we decided on one of each. It all started with three friends sitting at a bar, a seemingly innocuous Cosmo handed to me by a bartender named Lisa, and our own personal fondue pot at 9 p.m. As we fished in the boiling oil for the escaping piece of vegetable or to rescue the meat that sat in there too long, we caught up life, work and love, bubbling over with stories like the hot oil. 

"Oh look! That's Dante!" my friend exclaims. The four of turn in our seats to see a little older gentleman dressed as a sea captain posing in front of his ship next to a guy throwing up deuces and making a duck face. Dante makes his way around the restaurant, greeting patrons, shaking hands and making conversation. He hits our seats at the bar.

"Hello ladies! Are you all having a good time?" he asks. We answered that of course we were.

"Well what are your names and what do you?" are the next questions we answer. He left us for a bit. While he was gone, I got tired of the clips hold my hair. I pulled them out, letting my frizzy waves to fall around my face. He came back, ordered a Coke from the bartender and grabbed some of my hair. "You have beautiful hair!" he said. "I used to cut my sisters' hair for them growing up. I love cutting hair. Your's is so thick. I bet it would be fun to cut."

Then he regaled us with the story of how he got his name (something to do with his music director father discovering an Italian boy for some chorus, then meeting him again in the Great War...). We were enthralled. This socialite man is incredibly interesting, having created a restaurant that stands as a tribute to his networking skills; there are pictures of him with Jimmy Carter and magazine covers with his face on it. 

Next thing I know, we are poking around his office upstairs, which is cluttered with an eclectic mix of bottles, artifacts from trips to Africa, pictures and piles of papers. We were there to meet his giant fluffy white dog, who comes to work with him everyday. 

"I live on a 1920s train car. Beautiful thing. It has a marble bathtub," he said, stories transitioning from his charity work in Africa to save the cheetahs to traveling along the railways in luxury train cars. 

"Give me your number and we'll get together so I can cut your hair. You can come to my house and we'll do it on a Sunday."

I gave him my number and the girls and I trailed out of the restaurant.

"I promise I'll go with you," my friend said on our way to our cars. 

Four weeks later and he still hasn't called. I'm a little bummed that I don't get to hear more of this man's story because he obviously forgot why he wrote down my name and phone number. 

92 Days of Madness: The Life of a Non-Writing Writer

92 Days: how long it takes to settle into life. Three months of moving, unpacking, and reinstating normalcy. My curtains are (mostly) hung and my clothes finally have a place to stay (that is not the floor in heaps). Our dog loves our (rented) backyard, and Boyfriend passed his boards. This year has started out in a whirlwind, a crazy tornado of consumed time.

So much has happened, I hesitate to try to cover it all in one post, which is why I am not.

In the past 92 days, I have worked, visited family and friends, read a bit and ignored my writing. The ways we spend our time reflect what is important to us at any given time, and my writing became the lowest rung on my ladder. This is what I do every year, particularly around the holidays. Good intentions fall away to bad habits. 

In the spirit of the New Year (albeit a little late), I am aiming to reclaim my time and write more, to become less of an enthusiast and more of a writer while still managing to make time for everything else. 

Cheers to the New Year!