Sleep Before Waking

There. Within this picture lies the source of my gaming joy. What will I be doing next Valentine’s Day?

That’s right. Much to the chagrin of my honey, I will be ensconced in murder-death-killing. Ain’t no doubt about that.

Now…I should probably go buy Mass Effect to tide me over until then. Though let’s be honest, if it doesn’t involve dwarves, elves, Dragon slaying kings and sexy Leather chick armor, I’m not sure I’ll be satisfied.

Thank god I write novels, otherwise, how would I survive without the escape for ten whole months!?

(As republished from March 21st, 2009 at Blogger)

Despite knowing with complete certainty that I will be mocked mercilessly for this confession, I hereby pour forth my soul.

I watch AFV.

Now, not religiously by any means, and not AFV solely (AFV stands for America’s Funniest Videos. There is a British version I saw while in London that was quadruple hilarious due to it being British people falling down) but if it is on when I am scanning the channels, I WILL stop. Now, the host is a buffoon, the segues are infantile, and the narration is often borderline nauseating, but none of that can deter from the timeless funny that is someone falling down.

I’ve been accused of being unfeeling due to the uncontrollable response I have to someone eat it. It isn’t my fault, gravity is the oldest comedian on this planet. Combine that with the right attitude towards stumbling or the right face plant and I may very well pee my pants.

Now, here are some examples of the true nature of the beast. If you laugh, you understand. If you don’t at least smile, you are a robot, an automaton of the worst kind and I spurn thee.

(The senior citizens biting it on the kayak was a tear jerker for me.)

The rumors are true, I read this book. And let’s be honest, this book fucking schooled me. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we.

I have refused to read a single word written by Stephen King my entire life. The older family members were raving about his books when I was a kid. When I was writing and telling scary stories for the joy of it, everyone said, “go read Stephen King, you’ll love him.” I refused.

Why?

Because my great Aunt Doris once told me a story about Stevie King that made the man seem a little too close to home to worship as the rest of the horror world seemed to. My Aunt was the Matron of Tabitha King’s college dorm house and as a result, she interacted with the courting Stevie King on several occasions, noting him to be a sweet boy, with a strange mind (As evidenced by his college magazine short stories). Hearing him referred to by my sweet Aunt stole his mystique for me and I just couldn’t get past it. So I boycotted. Not violently, but vehemently perhaps.

Until this book. It wasn’t horror or the size of The Stand, by any means. It was good, from what people told me so I thought, why not give it a try.

And now we’re back to the fact that this book effing schooled my ass. Stephen King slapped me around with a ruler in this book. I cried three times while reading this, twice with the spirit of inspiration and once while reading the internal turmoil of a man declaring love for his wife in the moments that he believed preceded his death. By some strange act of divine providence, events unfolded in Stephen King’s life while writing this book that resulted in a marinade so tasty you couldn’t replicate it with a hollywood budget.

Now, the real power this book had for me was as a writer. Several sections spoke to me in ways I couldn’t deny.

Though I will not quote him, I will paraphrase the meaning in my own words in order to share my experience.

Firstly, King states that if you aren’t willing to dedicate your time to working (ie writing), if you’re not willing to treat it like a job, a responsibility, then go suck a hose. He goes further by saying a true writer should be dedicating 5-6 hours a day to writing and/or reading. At first I thought, six hours a day just writing, my poor brain! Then I realized reading was a tolerable side hobby and I sighed. A little. Since reading this book, I’ve kept a book by the bedside for reading every night before bed. Am I getting old?

No wiseass, but I’m getting awesome.

Secondly, and this was the one that punched me in the face, was a passage on the outputs of other great writers. King mentions writers who produced dozens, if not hundreds of books in their lifetimes. He then mentions the classic by Harper Lee, “To Kill a Mockingbird.” One of my favorite books, it was the only novel Harper Lee ever wrote. King said, and a fine novel it was, and all the power to you if you only write one great novel, BUT (and here he slapped me in the face) he wanted to ask those great writers of ONE fine novel a question.

What were you doing with your time?

Were they knitting, learning to juggle, pressing wild flowers?

“If God gave you the ability to do something, why in God’s name wouldn’t you do it?”

I cried.

Why?

Because I answered his question. I’m not doing a damn thing. When I’m NOT writing, I’m sitting on my ass, doing karaoke, watching True Blood, living half a life because my life doesn’t feel complete when I’m not writing. Sure, I’m a single mother and I have a full and wonderful life, but for everyday that I have down time, I’ve had a chance to work on my novel. For every time that I’ve come up with some lame and ridiculous excuse for why I’m not writing, I’ve managed to deny myself success in a pursuit that I’ve dreamed of since I was a tot. That just isn’t kosher.

So, what have I done to combat that asshat tendency of mine.

I made myself a writing nook. (Antique throne chair and writing desk)

I get up in the morning, preferably at nine, (though I make no claim to be successful in that everyday) and I write until I reach at LEAST 1000 words. Then I can go about the rest of my day. If I skip a day for whatever reason, the next day I write 2000 words. (King suggests you START with 2000 words a day, but I am weening myself up to that. Thinking of making my quota a weekly quota, but I digress)

Now, I am currently working on my first novel. Started it in January of 2009. I wrote about 160 pages within a year and a half. I’d go months without writing, then pump out a few pages and go back to writing sleep. As a result of King’s grand writer’s memoir, I have written 50 pages of my 210 page novel within the last three weeks. At this rate, it will be done or close to completion by Summer’s end.

So, lesson learned from this novel (and from my own pursuits of writing a novel) is that it is more than humanly possible to create something worthwhile, if you are willing to make that worthwhile thing a priority.

Thank you Stephen King.

I’m still not reading The fucking Stand, though.

Well, after much deliberation with my dear friend Adam, I am posting information for the broad public to contact my pal if you are so inclined.

He loves letters and should be getting more.

This is his prisoner profile, if you want to shoot him some snail mail, he would be more than happy to have it. If you are more of an electronic type, FreeAdamDrake@gmail.com has been created for people who want to write him, but haven’t quite mastered the perpetual pain in the ass that is the post office. So, feel free to email him. The email will be printed out and sent to him with all others once a month, and if you include your address and all that good nonsense, he will write you back.

Well…unless you’re crazy. Then he might politely refrain.

Alright, go forth and propagate.

As Van Halen once said, long before Haggar stole their smooth – Might as well jump.

My blog titles make sense to only me people, let it go.

Let’s just hit and quit it, shall we?

Dominica is all rainforest. No, seriously, it was all freaking rainforest. Mountainous hills covered in lush green, more green than even Gaia expected. Seriously, when she looks at Dominica she thinks, well that’s getting a little out of hand, right there.

Actually, correction. Dominica is HALF rainforest. The other half of Dominica is Hairpin Deathways with Cliff Plummeting chasers. Holy shit this island is the source of all vomit in the world. You feel nauseous right now? It’s because of the nuclear power of Dominica’s mountain roadways. There is no straight road on the fucking island. The only straight route a person can take on Dominica is the one they take careening to their death off one of the thousand gaurdrail – less cliffs on the many mountain roadways.

Even the livestock are dangerous. You can tell he is about to charge in this picture, which is entirely my fault because I did my father’s perfect mooing impression and the cow thought I was asking him out, it was that good. I quickly redirected my attention at that point.

Now, I must be honest, outside of the fear of God that Dominica instilled in me, it was also one of the most beautiful places I had ever been. Despite that two foot deep trench that lines those terrifying roadways (giving you two ways to end up helpless on the side of the road. Dead at the bottom of a cliff, or stuck in a trench), and the roads so steep that our van stalled out and the driver had to back down the mountain in reverse til he came to a hairpin turn big enough to turn around on, it was truly a beautiful place. But yeah, I felt fucking safe as shit.

We went on a Carib Indian Pre-Columbus Historical tour and drove into the far reaches of space practically, climbing these mountains. I was looking forward to a working village, some handicrafts, a little gnosh, tribal style. I got a National Parks style tiki village with freshly squeezed passion fruit juice that has officially ruined me for all other juices. God that was fucking delicious.

The village was in the middle of nowhere, with pristine and unscathed views of the sea. Still, the tribal ladies were wearing embroidered polo shirts and jeans so I felt a little denied. We walked through the rainforest, which has its perks, mos def, but wasn’t quite what I was looking for. When she showed me a grand tiki hut and told me, “We use this for receptions and people can rent it for weddings,” I kinda threw up in my mouth a little.

The passion fruit juice washed it away nicely though.

Oh, and did you know the cashew nut is actually just the stem of a fruit?

It’s true. I met the cashew fruit, with its unroasted, raw stem hovering there, mocking the monocle clad Planters nut guy with its natural state. The lady informed us the cashew fruit was, indeed, edible. So we tried a bite.

Weirdest fucking thing I have ever tasted.

It assaults your mouth. Literally. It is exorbitantly juicy and has a mild nutty taste to its fruity deliciousness, but then a second and half passes. Why is that second and a half important, you ask? Because it is the last milliseconds of comfort you will feel before the juicy cashew fruit does a number on your taste buds. I have NO idea how this works, but the juicy as sam hell cashew fruit causes instantaneous dry mouth. I’m not kidding. It’s like something out of a sci-fi movie. It just feels unnatural.

This is me ogling my recent fruit escapades with scientific curiosity. The cashew fruit is a practical joke waiting to happen. If anyone knows what causes this, let me know. I theorized that it was the far opposite of a lemon or some such. As in, instead of being super sour and acidic it is the polar opposite; a base so foul that it assaults you orally. I have no clue though. Just theories.

No worries though, the fruit that followed completely negated all negative aspects of the Cashew fruit from memory.

Our tour guide explained to us that the island has more Mangos than they have the mouths to feed. They can’t get rid of the fucking things they have so many. They grow wild all across the island and in just a few weeks, a world’s worth of mangoes that are NOT being exported, will be rotting all over the island of Dominica. So, of course I asked if I could have one.

The tour guide took us to her home where her mother ran a small shop, sold my cohort a Kubuli beer and gave me a SACK of mangoes.

For free.

So, knowing I wouldn’t be able to bring them back onto the ship I started handing them out to fellow guide travelers as we sat to lunch. Eating Coconut pumpkin soup (Fucking Delicious!!) and Green Banana Salad (also fucking divine!) wasn’t enough Dominica for me. So I tore into this mango like a Pre-Columbus Carib Indian Cannibal (yeah, we heard they were cannibals. Not from the Carib Indian descendants, but from the guides on other islands. Interesting…).

That mango was the juiciest, most delicious load of epic I have ever encountered. I ate two and doled out the rest to my fellow tourees. That mango made me realize all I need is the money to BUY the house on an island, from there, necessities like food will totally be taken care of by the world’s failure to import these magical fruits. I will be a mango goddess, sitting by the pool gazing over my private beach with a mango in each hand and a permanent bib sewn into all of my clothing.

Delicious goo!

By the way, this is the black hummingbird that came to nestle in the trees near our hut as we dined on local cuisine. The eco-village where they served lunch also had River tubing, the other excursion I had been most interested in. I now know what I will be doing the next time I cruise. Not that the wedding reception tiki hut wasn’t lovely, it just wasn’t as historical as I was looking for. I learned a lesson after this tour (and one following it in St. Lucia) about historical tour cruise excursions. (I will share that lesson in the next post) Proudly, this was the last time I chose crowd over going alone and doing what I was more drawn to do. Once I made that first solo venture, this trip became life changing.

So, before I finish the tale of this arduous trek of an island, I leave you with why Dominica is worth getting off the boat and suffering the sound of people vomiting into their shopping bags as your van finally pulls back up to port. (Yes, that did happen.)

The views…

God I fucking love Mini Eggs…

But I digress!

Traveling. It’s an art form, a past time, a necessity in my highly fruitful and satisfying life (As evidenced by that whirlwind trip to Belgium I took last November). A truly satisfying trip includes surprises, action, scenery, photo-ops, and a shit ton of Nachos! These reasons, and many others, are why I am officially and mercilessly from here on out, PRO Cruise.

With a gaggle of family in tow, including my five year old daughter, I boarded the Carnival Victory in San Juan, Puerto Rico on April 25th and a week of gluttonous joys and careening death cabs commenced. It was epic, it was rad, it was ultra violet and resulted in serious sunburnery, but holy shit it was worth it.

Before I break down my Caribbean explorations in photo blogs, I will say this. Carnival gets the reputation from many cruise snobs as being the “cheap” cruise line. Well, let’s be honest, it is definitely cash friendly in comparison to say, Disney Cruise Lines or Princess. The cost does NOT however make the trip less worth while. Carnival aficionados consider Carnival to be the family cruise line. A couple from Mississippi with three kids and permanent farmer’s tans will fit right in on Carnival. That isn’t a bad thing, snob!

First of all, my daughter made a thousand friends, spent most of her time in Camp Carnival (the kid’s program, which is MADE OF WIN, might I add), and swam til she was pruny, and that was before she ever got off the boat and was accosted by monkeys.

Our first stop out of San Juan was St. Thomas, an island I have visited in the past, back when I was thirteen, suffering from a sinus infection, and St. Thomas still had a Hard Rock Cafe. (They no longer do. Fuckers.) I almost didn’t get off the boat that morning because my Scopalomine patch had the “Zombie Drug” effect on me and my head was swimming more than the boat. After removing the patch for an hour, I was back in buniess (keeping that typo. It was epic) and off the boat, getting into altercations with the locals.

Yes, I got feisty with a shop worker, but it wasn’t my fault, she came at me like a crazed bull. I can’t help it, when someone takes a tone with me I retaliate. All I wanted was to buy a fecking dress, lady. A simple transaction for a simple dress, one would think.

This dress to be exact.

Light, airy, beautiful. I freakin loved the dress on the little display, with its blue hibiscus flowers and its simple island allure. I checked the price tag like the bargain shopper I am.

$14.99

The love bloomed further. Searching the hanging options I found the same dress with bright berry colored Hibiscus and only coveted further. Yet again, $14.99. There was no question this dress would belong to me. So, I snagged a hat, a silver necklace of the Caribbean stone, Larimar, (pictured as well, with matching earrings. I have no control) and headed up to the check out.

Fuck yeah I was buying the dress. Yet as the woman, the surly, burly islander with a serious grump long before I ever arrived, checked the tag of my dress, she announced that it was incorrectly marked and mumbled about how she was “done fighting with customers.”

She lied. Suddenly she cut the tag off my dress and informed me my dress would cost $20 if I still wanted it.

“Uh, what?”

“It’s supposed to be $20, it’s mismarked. For some reason, every time a customer comes up they have the ONLY one that is mismarked, I wonder why dat is, but it ain’t my problem. So, it’s $20. You still want it.”

“Yes, but does the tag say $14.99?”

“Yes, it did.”

“Well, then I would like it. For what the tag says.”

She was pissed! Demanded the manager of the shop come over and everything. Manager looked at her like she was a fucking lunatic. “Give it to her!”

She rang me up mumbling further about how she questioned my integrity and I paid her pleasantly, said thank you kindly, and walked away thinking, this dress better look fantastic on me!

It did, especially when I was lounging on the deck with the fam as we left the dock of St. Thomas. Notice the rainbow? Epic win.

This disembarking was one of the strangest of the trip. The vessel of infinite size was well away from the dock when a tiny speck of a person appeared on the dock in a golf cart, trucking a suitcase close behind. The boat fucking reversed direction, pulled back into dock and picked her up. I’m pretty sure she was Queen of Shiva.

Now, despite the gorgeous views, pristine palms, and cloud kissed mountains it regales you with, Carnival does have some quirks. For example, during dinner, when you can order seventeen Filet Mignon and your waiter won’t bat an eyelash, the waiters put on bizarre dance numbers and sing strange songs during your meal every night. Seriously, waiters climbed up on platforms and swung napkins around over their heads on the regular. I laughed at the silliness and the utter ridiculousness, but my daughter loved every fecking second of it. She got up and learned their dance numbers with them, laughed, giggled, wiggled to Apple Bottom Jeans just before our dedicated waiters began folding my daughter her first origami animal of the trip, a frog that actually hopped.

The decorations of Carnival are flaming. I mean FLAMING! There is no question you are on a cruise ship when you’re on it. I began wondering if I would be able to keep a straight face let alone get in the romantic mood were I to go cruising with my honey and suddenly the waiters burst into their best Christina Aquilera impression. Still, while cruising with my daughter, high stepping food staff was the perfect meal entertainment!

Now, I’m currently carting around ten extra pounds from this trip, but god damn it, it was worth it. Cruising made me face and conquer my fears of endless, all you can eat buffets. Cruising resulted in me eating Escargot for the first time (not my bag, really). Cruising made me aware of my love of a 24 hour ice cream station and chocolate covered strawberry counter. Cruising made me realize I want a towel animal on my bed every night, I want a balcony off my bedroom, I want fresh linens and subtle rocking to my bed some nights, and I want to murder Zoe Deschanel in (500) Days of Summer.

It also made me realize I need to go again, because like a schmuck, I didn’t get off the boat in St. Thomas OR Barbados.

Fail!

I also need to get the old timey pictures taken on the way to fancy dinner, I need to buy an evening gown with matching evening Doo Rag (saw this exact outfit in bejeweled Magenta on a large Nubian Goddess of a woman. It was fucking fierce!), and I need to do wear it whilst draped across a grand piano while a paparazzi style Carnival employee shoots pictures of me with a tacky sunset backdrop. It is a moral imperative.

So, major pros of the first day of my Carnival Cruise:

Baby LOVING the kids playroom, where she spent hours of her day.

Reading on the Lido deck in the sunshine with a nice breeze.

Going back for seconds on the Strawberry Frozen Yogurt machine.

Riding in Glass Elevators to the subtle sounds of slide guitar. (The guitarist shouldn’t sing. He sounded like bad karaoke.)

Eating a perfectly dank Warm Chocolate Melting Cake, despite knowing I would be uncomfortably full afterward.

Watching my whole family act like goofballs with the drink of the day in their hands as the Sailaway party kicked off with the Macarena.

Next post:

Dominica…and the near death of my Equilibrium

Happy Birthday to me.

This movie brings me joy with ever celluloid fiber of it’s form.

I will never get tired of this, jackasses hip-hop dancing in Hawaiian shirts, or the eighties in general. Sigh….aaaah, the nostalgia is strong with this one.

Roaming about the downstairs, getting ready for bed this evening, I decided to partake in a tall drink of water. Literally, not figuratively.

Well, as I sipped and meandered about my kitchen, I smelled this lovely aroma - a clean, soapy sweetness that smelled the way I wish my bathroom, bedroom, dare I say, soul smelled like. I scanned the kitchen with a suspicious eye, wondering what, who, where this clean and wonderful smell was coming from.

Then I took another sip of my water. The smell was stronger for a moment.

Shit, my water smells amazing, but I’m not sure I want to be drinking it. It didn’t taste different – crisp and clean and cool. So what the fuck is that smell?

Check for smelly candles that may have snuck in the room when I wasn’t looking, looked for cleaning supplies, sniffed the hand soap in the bathroom despiting knowing that smelled like pine trees and olive leaves, yet I was so confuzzled, I suspected even my most loyal hand soap.

I resigned myself to the idea that perhaps, unlike any other house in the history of christendom, I was lucky enough to live in the house where the game “Find the Smell” is a treasure hunt for bouquets of roses and sunshine. That just isn’t fucking possible!

I glared at the kitchen, my trust shattered as I flicked the light switch. Then, with derision, I took another long pull on my tall drinkawatah. And then I realized – the source of the smell, the holy grail of my frustrated search for this wonderful scent that I would have killed to bottle and bathe in – was right in front of me the whole time.

It was my upper lip.

…

You can laugh if you like.

Yes, apparently my new face cream smells like daydreams and babies.

If you think I just sniffed myself, you’d be right.