My Empathetic Sadist

Blogging friend and fellow writer Krystal Jane has mentioned more than once in her posts that she is a character-driven writer. I think this means that she creates her characters first (or they instantaneously leap into her mind and demand to be written), and then she proceeds to find or fabricate the story world that would best serve these larger than life personalities. 

I'm the complete opposite. I guess you could call me a story-driven writer. I come up with my story concept first (which usually starts with a what-if scenario--i.e. "What if there was a society in which everyone could, with a single touch, transfer their pain?") and then proceed to create the characters that would best fit my concept. In other words, unlike Krystal, I've never had a character "demand" to be written (kind of sad, actually). A story concept, yes. A character, no.

Until now.

For the first time ever, I am being stalked by a character. I am so in love with him, but sadly I have nowhere to put him. I am tentatively calling him Grayden, but that might change later. Grayden was partially inspired by Eric's E-mails to Young Damsels (I suspect Eric is also a character-driven author), and partially inspired by a flash fiction piece I wrote last year called The Apathetics. I'm going to give a quick profile about Grayden, but first I have to start by defining two key terms:

em·path noun \ˈempaTH\ (chiefly in science fiction) a person with the paranormal ability to apprehend the mental or emotional state of another individual.  

sa·dist noun \ˈsā-ˌdi-zəm, ˈsa-\: a person who derives enjoyment from being violent or cruel or from causing pain.

Okay, where am I going with this...? Well, Grayden is a sadist in love with my MC, Audrina. He is constantly visualizing the disturbing things he wants to do to her, and is very open and honest in communicating his fantasies with her in conversations similar to this:

Audrina: "Whatcha drawing?" 

Grayden: "Oh, just a little sketch of you tied to a tree and me whipping you with a switch." 

Audrina (leaning in): "Are those needles on the tip of the switch?" 

Grayden (coughing): "Uh, yes. Sorry." 

Audrina: "Oh. Okay." (pauses). "You want to go to the movies later?" 

Grayden: "Sure."

See, the catch is, Grayden is also an empath...which is why Audrina is so inordinately calm with him. He can never act on his sadistic fantasies, because his ability to apprehend the emotional state of others causes him to feel the anxiety/fear his pain is causing them. And sadly, he has no masochist tendencies. That is--while inflicting pain on others excites him, he hates enduring pain himself, so he is unable to act on his primal sadistic urges (kind of like someone who loves chocolate but can't indulge in it due to an agonizing cavity). Audrina is fully aware of Grayden's most-contrary psychosis and has remained his one true friend (though I'm not sure if her caring for him will ever translate to romantic feelings).

Okay, I wrote a whole bunch more about Grayden and Audrina (including some exposition discussing how the two met and how Audrina discovered Grayden was, well, crazy), but realized I was getting carried away ranting about two characters who I probably won't be able to accommodate into a story for another decade. So I'll just sum up by saying I love the impossible complexity of Grayden. I love the challenge of trying to translate his very disturbed character into a protagonist, along with the dynamic of the reader trying to figure out whether he's a good guy or a bad guy. Also, I'll have to decide how far to let Grayden's fantasies go or how often he "slips" (i.e. sometimes I'll push through that toothache to enjoy a piece of chocolate...will Grayden be tempted to do the same?). But his character is way too colorful to not write into a story...someday.

In other news, I'm still trudging through revisions of my MS, and I hereby take back every nice thing I have ever said about this process. I sort of hate revising with a white hot searing passion. I'm getting ready to start my fifth (or is it sixth?) rewrite of DoT's final chapter, and the good news is I think I came up with an approach for that chapter that will solve most of its problems. The bad news is I'll probably end up throwing my laptop off a balcony before I see it through.

My One-Winged Chicken

Remember that post I wrote, Why You Don't Want to Be a Bird in my House? Yeah...here's a new one to add to that list. Our new cloister (is that what you call them?) of baby hens was attacked by...something. I never saw the culprit. But of the five chicks, one of them completely disappeared, and another one lost her entire wing. It's just...gone. Nothing left except for a nasty groove where the wing used to be. It's pretty gut-wrenching to look at.

The good news is the chick is presently recovering in our indoor medic center (aka: cardboard box on dining room table), and is doing surprisingly well. I didn't know if she would make it, because she kept falling over on the first day and was taking a lot of naps. But today--on day 4--she's eating like a pig, chirping louder than should be possible, and the wound is almost completely scabbed over.

I'm going to keep her inside for one more day, and then put her back with her siblings. I hope she is able to adjust to life without her wing. It's not just the flying thing, but chickens use their wings for balance. It will be a huge struggle for her to even run forward on the ground without the benefit of flapping her wings, and I don't know how she will be able to roost with the other hens at night beneath the eaves of their chicken coop. When we first discovered her injury, a part of me contemplated putting her out of her misery. But I couldn't. She was still chirping and seemed to want to live. Big or small, I think every creature has the right to choose life, and to fight for that choice.

Oh, we're calling her Maleficent, by the way. You'll get the appropriateness of that name once you've seen the movie.

I had more profound things to write about tonight, but somehow I blabbed about my one-winged chicken instead. Ooh, I still have time to turn this into some meaningful metaphor about life or struggles or something, or impart some universal lesson. Hmmm. Hmmmmmmmmm. *scratches head*

"Don't lose appendages. It sucks."

The Test from Hell

I took my test, and it was so awful. I would rather have a tooth extracted with no Novocain than go through that again. Or a bone marrow biopsy. Or an ingrown toenail removed. Or a Barium enema. Or all of them done simultaneously. I don't ever want to take that stupid test again.

But I might have to...I think I bombed it.

I arrived to the Prometric Testing Center about a half hour early, so I flipped through some of my study materials and tried to quickly review some of the concepts (in my car). I walked in about 15 minutes before my scheduled time, and I felt fairly calm (no, I did not drink or pop any benzos, although in hindsight, that may have helped). I signed in, and they asked for 2 forms of identification. They had me put all of my stuff in a locker. They also had me empty out my pockets, and roll my jeans up to my calves. The lady waved a hand-held metal detector up and down my body. I wasn't throwing up or anything...So far so good.

The lady walked me into the testing section, where there were various computers and multiple intense-looking individuals already taking some test or other. There were also video cameras monitoring each person. The lady showed me my computer, and also held up some headphones and whispered, "These are for you to use if you need to block out the noise." I looked at her with confusion and said, "What noise?" (Seriously, it was so quiet that I thought I heard someone's stomach growl). She just laughed, and walked out.

I completed the tutorial, and then my test began. When the first question popped up, my heart instantly sank. It was about some obscure minority study done in the '90s. I guessed on that one, and hoped the second question would be better. But it wasn't. Out of the first 10 questions, there were 2 that only looked vaguely familiar. The good news is that my heart stopped sinking. The bad news: It was now pounded in my throat. I had this horrible feeling that all the study material I had studied for months was just WRONG. After question 12 or so, the questions began to transition into material that looked a bit more familiar, but by then, my palms were clenched, I was sweating, and my heart was pummeling out of my chest.

Sadly, even the questions I THOUGHT I knew were worded in such a way that two answers seemed correct, or none of the answers seemed correct. The test allows one to "mark" questions that they would like to review later. When I completed all 225 questions, I had 66 marked. I had only reviewed about 10 of them when I ran out of time. So yeah, I feel fairly certain I failed. I went home, locked myself in the bathroom, and cried. I was so depressed and anxious that night. All night, my brain kept ruminating over this damn test. My reaction to this was such a shock to me because I don't normally become this anxious over....anything. My Dad, husband, and Jodi all gave me very reassuring feedback, but nothing they said would resonate. I tried to sleep, but I kept spontaneously remembering questions and fighting the urge to look up the answers. At like...3am that night, I decided to cancel the dinner with Jodi and Kristyn, because I had decided I was too depressed to go, and I didn't want to bring them down.

When I woke up that morning, I was an exhausted mess. It was while I was curling my hair for work that I decided I simply needed to get over it. I even said out loud to my reflection in the mirror, "You aren't the only one who has taken this test before, so get over yourself." I figured I had already allowed myself approximately 14 hours to completely fall apart into a heaping pile of self pity, and now it was time to move on. I also decided NOT to cancel the dinner with Jodi and Kristyn.

And that's where I am at right now. I won't find out my score until the 5th or 6th of August, but I will be okay. If I failed the test, I will fork over $600 and take it again (it would be a different version, unfortunately, so any of the questions I retained are useless).

The good news: I don't have to study right now! I can actually write on this blog again. I can read a book. I can watch something on Netflix. I can go for a walk. I can parent my kids.

Just a random thing: During the dinner with Jodi and Kristyn, I found out an interesting fact about my sister that I never knew (this doesn't sound like a big thing, but when you are a twin who knows pretty much everything ABOUT your twin, it feels pretty cool to discover some novel fact). So the new thing is, my sister is "hard to sedate." This is what she was told by a doctor because she woke up in the MIDDLE of surgery. Jodi was knocked out under general anesthesia while surgeons were attempting to repair her vocal chord. Suddenly, she sits up and nonchalantly starts chattering away. The doctors experienced a moment of alarm, and quickly knocked her out again. When Jodi was told about it later, she had no memory of the incident.

Why You Don't Want to be a Bird in My House

I'm a bit wary when it comes to taking in birds.

When I was a kid, I put my heart and soul into raising a baby pigeon that I had rescued.  Her name was Annie.  Ultimately she died.  I sobbed like a baby for that stupid bird.     

In Silver Lakes I rescued a baby duck whose mother had abandoned it on the street.  I even took that bird to my credentialing classes with me to keep up with its demanding feeding schedule.  It died.

Then there was our parakeet Lewy.  He escaped when his food was being changed, smacked head-first into the stairwell ceiling fan (which was on. Full blast), and fell two stories down.  He looked as dead as a...very dead bird (I'll work on a better simile), splayed out on the floor with his neck twisted all funky.  But as the kids cried over him, he suddenly spun his head around like something in the Exorcist, and stood up.  It was the creepiest thing I've ever seen.  He was like some sort of immortal, vampire parakeet.

A month later, our immortal vampire parakeet died of a heart-attack when the cat stared at him through the cage.

Then, three years ago, one of our chickens escaped her coop and was attacked by our dog.  I tried to save her.  She survived for three days before she got gangrene and her eyeball fell out.

Yes, her eyeball fell out.

A few months after that, the easement in our backyard was struck by lightening, and all of our remaining chickens dropped dead.

A perfect example of having your fried chicken and not eating it too.

Last year Trinity saved up her money for months so she could buy a baby, hand-fed cockatiel.  Dimples.  Remember her?

That's her memorial.  Yeah, she died on the fourth of July, her heart stopping after a particularly loud bout of fireworks.  

Then there was my personal favorite: Loki.  He was not only a beautiful pineapple conure, but he was a sweetheart of a bird.

Loki dropped dead right off his perch.  No apparent reason.  One second he was standing there; the next second we heard a thump, and he was dead.

So yeah.  I feel like I'm the unwitting Grim Reaper of all things feathered.

But I wouldn't be writing all of this if I didn't have SOME good news...so here it is:  We finally--FINALLY--saved a bird!  Remember Brooke, the sparrow Trinity rescued?

Given our history with birds, I had zero expectations of her making it.  But she did make it!  Brooke got past that precarious baby phase, learned to eat solid foods, toughed through the fireworks, learned to fly (practicing all over our house--she gave us a scare last week when she got stuck behind the stove), and as of today, she was finally released into the great big wild. That part was sad.  Trin was super attached, but she recognized that it was selfish to keep her in captivity.     

Here's a sweet little video Trinity made of Brooke's release:

I love the song she chose, Arms by Christina Perri.

It took years and years of trial and error (aka: bird massacres), but we FINALLY got one right.  Thus if you are a bird that finds yourself in my home, the good news is you have a lofty 10% chance of making it.

(That sounds better than saying you have a 90% chance of dying a very grisly death).

From the Real Shannon

This will be a quick post. It has been SO long since I have last written, and I knew it was only a matter of time before my sister started acting like a butthead about it. On the bright side, I learned a lot about my life from Jodi. I guess I spend my days "therapyzing" and working on my "paper thing." (Jodi, what paper are you talking about???! You know I'm not in school anymore, right??). I guess I'm "psychoanalyzing" as well, which is pretty remarkable in an acute facility (average length of stay for inpatient is 5-7 days), considering psychoanalysis takes a minimum of two years.

I really just wanted to offer a brief explanation of why I haven't written for a while. It has been brutal the last few weeks. It started about a month ago, with our Vegas trip. The trip was actually REALLY fun. However, I started to get sick that weekend, and that bug clung to me for about 2 1/2 weeks (extreme fatigue, chronic headache, sore/burning throat,and acid reflux IN my throat, which was really freakin' weird). After taking every OTC med possible (including Prilosec for a couple weeks), it finally disappeared.

 In the meantime though, I rear-ended a brand new Camaro (still had dealer plates on) on the 60 FW. My car was fine, but hers was pretty jacked up (on the bright side, I discovered my car kicks ass in a crash...I had like...ONE tiny scratch, while her bumper was falling off). She got herself an attorney, and she is claiming injury now (although she didn't look that injured when she was running around her car road ragin', screaming, and dropping F bombs...but hey, I'm not a medical doctor). Luckily, it seems as if my insurance is handling the lawsuit and all that.

Then my son's school calls to tell me he is having an asthma attack. I was like, my son has asthma? So I had to take time off work to get him an exam, blood work, chest x-ray....Jeremy also had to take time off work to take him for an echocardiogram, because the doctor wanted to rule out a rare heart condition. He has an inhaler now (which I like to take hits off of sometimes because...well...it's fun). Adding to this was trying to enroll Shelby in Kindergarten. The school wouldn't accept her physical exam from February because it was supposed to be done after March, so that was another appointment. AND Samantha got some infection on her head, which was ANOTHER appointment. I feel pretty sure our family doctor can put his own kids through college now.

I also got a flat tire, but that is nothing new. I am cursed when it comes to tires.This was actually a nice one. Rather than the tire violently blowing off my rim and leaving me stranded somewhere with no cell signal (which is what typically happens), this one just calmly deflated into a pancake.

In the midst of all of this, I have been trying to study for this nightmare test (the only part of my life Jodi got right). And that's all. I am going to try and write another post over the weekend, because I still have more I want to write, but I'm too drowsy right now.

Anniversary Tattoo

I'm so glad Shannon wrote her blog entry below so that it's finally my turn to post.

Look what I got yesterday!

(Picture removed due to student creepers) :)

Yesterday was my and Clint's 15th anniversary.  To commemorate the event, we thought it would be fun to get each other's initials tattooed on ourselves.  The problem?  Clint already has my name tattooed on his forearm.

So tattooing my initials on there would be pretty redundant.

Thus, my super corny cliche romantic vision of getting each other's initials carved into our skin turned into just me getting his initials.  Here we were supposed to be side-by-side in our tattoo chairs, suffering together, but instead it was just ME suffering.

I told Clint I didn't want his initials floating around in space, so he helped me to pick out a simple little peacock design from google images to compliment some initials (yes, my tattoo is from google).  I decided I wanted it on my hip.

As it turns out, the hip is an awesome place to get a tattoo.  Compared to the cherry blossom branch on my ankle/foot, the pain for this one was much more manageable.  The first five minutes, as usual, was the worst, because your body has to adjust to being assaulted with a needle without being able to move around, tense, or squirm.  That's the hardest part.  HOLDING STILL, when all you want to do is flail out and kick the tattoo artist in the face.  But after you get past the first five or ten minutes, your brain starts to come up with coping strategies for holding still and dealing with the pain.  You pick speckles on the ceiling to count, or a picture on the wall to zone in on.  The thing that works the best for me is to picture muscles in my body--ones that are far away from the needle--turning into water.  I don't know why that works, but it's become my magical formula for getting through these things.  Somehow it takes the focus away from the needle.  It still hurts like hell, but I can manage it.  But what was awesome was that for this little hip tattoo, I only had to use my coping strategies for about the first 45 minutes.  After that, I no longer cared about the needle at all, and at one particular moment toward the end I even felt a little bored and was thinking about what I was going to eat for lunch.  That's how I know the hip area is a much less painful area to get a tattoo.  There was NO WAY I could think about lunch for the cherry blossom branch.

Here's a little more close-up of right after it was done:

(This picture removed too)

And here it is today, without all the red:

If you look on the bottom left of the tail, you can see the initials "CP."

'Til Ink Do Us Part

Look at what Clint got tattooed on his arm today!  This is the underside of his forearm.  We thought the whole process was going to take about an hour, so Clint dropped off the kids and I at Starbucks, and then drove himself to the tattoo parlor.  He ended up being gone for two hours.  It was all good until Elijah's laptop ran out of juice, and he started to get hungry and bored.  So I walked the kids to a nearby Burger King, and then all was right with the world again.  When Clint finally joined us, I was dying to see his new tattoo.  I was absolutely shocked.  I think I might have hyperventilated a little. I knew he was going to get the image of the Menora, Star of David, and Ichthus on his forearm, tied together as one image, but I had NO idea he was going to have my name added.  We had jokingly talked about him getting a tattoo that included my name or initials a few years ago, but his overall response was a big fat hell no.  I have no idea what prompted him to do this.  Even now, it trips me out to see my name emblazened on his flesh--and not itty-bitty, either.  It takes up his whole wrist.

So it's official, if we end up not working out, he'll have to find himself another Jodi.  I started looking up other Jodis on facebook, and most of them are pretty cute, so he should be fine.

But seriously, it's hard to feel even remotely irritated with someone who has your name engraved on their arm. 

Oh, one more thing.  He said my name was the most painful part of the tattoo.  Is it wrong that I feel a tiny sense of pride over that?

Rain Clouds in the Hot Springs

Okay, Monday.  Just like the weekend, it was both really crappy and pretty wonderful--with not much in between.  That morning I woke up, expecting to enjoy a relaxing morning with Clint, whom I hadn't seen in three days.  Instead we got into a nasty argument.  I won't get into the whys, but it ended up monopolizing our entire morning.  We did eventually make up, but the whole thing left me feeling emotional for hours. 

The day wore on, and I started feeling more upbeat as we began packing for the Hot Springs (although my eye infection was coming back, which was really aggravating--guess I should've followed the Rx's directions).  As I mentioned in my last post, Matt and Alana were visiting from Nor Cal, so all of us decided to hike up into the Hot Springs again.  But this time we planned to stay the night.  I had been excited for this excursion for the last three weeks.  I kept fantasizing about soaking in nature's jacuzzi beneath all of those bright stars, enjoying  late-night wine and conversation with good friends. 

Matt and Alana had already hiked up to the Springs earlier that day, so Clint and I decided to meet up with them sometime after 4:00.  The first little problem arose when Clint's mom called us around 1:00 saying she was sick as a dog and couldn't watch our kids, but luckily, she arranged for Moo (Clint's sis) to watch them.  So all was fine.  But then at 3:00, Moo called and told us that Lucas (my nephew) was projectile vomiting, so she couldn't take the kids.  We now had no babysitter.  We tried several other options, but nothing panned out.  I was starting to panic, because I knew Matt and Alana were already at the Springs, and there was zero cell service up there.  We had no way to call them and tell them what was going on.  I couldn't bear the thought of canceling our plans and not only leaving them hanging all night, but losing out on an experience that I had been looking forward to for weeks. 

Clint agreed that we couldn't leave the two hanging, and bringing the kids along was definitely not an option.  Thus one of us needed to do the hike.  Of course I volunteered.  Initially he was opposed to the idea, but he was still so sore from the black belt test that it didn't take much to convince him.  He filled my backpack with all sorts of little survival stuff, plus I took my .38 special and Yang (my dog) in case I needed to ward off any crazies (it is the Hot Springs).  He dropped me and Yang off at the trail head and off we went.

Now I say this casually, but at this point I need to mention that I have a teeny-tiny fear of going to unfamiliar places by myself, and a big fat fear of getting lost.  I used to have recurring nightmares as a kid in which I was deserted in unfamiliar places.  It's one of my worst fears.  I'd rather cuddle with a black widow than get lost alone.

Okay, so back to hiking.  The trail I was on was one I had never taken before and was much more vertical than the other option, but was only two miles from the Springs instead of six.  So of course I decided to take this route.  I was about ten minutes into the hike when my trail went into two opposite directions, and I realized I had no idea which way to go.  Of course there was no one around.  I knew this was a possibility, so I kept calm.  I pulled out my cellphone to see if I could pull up some sort of map, but I had no service.  I remember just standing there for a few minutes, looking back and forth, feeling utterly helpless.  Then it started pouring.  I actually laughed outloud at this point, because I live in the desert, and it might be self-absorbed but I knew that fucking rain cloud was there just for me.

I eventually figured out where I was going, and at that point the hike was amazing.  It smelled so wonderful, and once I found the right trail I was able to just relax and enjoy the scenery.  It also felt so liberating to conquer that fear of exploring unfamiliar territory alone.  After such an emotional day, those two miles were such a soothing therapy.

Once I reached the Hot Springs, Alana saw me right away from the river and hollered for me.  I explained to them what had happened with the babysitting, but Matt spent most of the day not believing me.  The eye infection had given me a case of the sniffles, so he was convinced  that Clint and I had argued about going to the Springs and I had stormed off without him.  All day long, he was like "Why are you crying Jodi?" and my answer was always the same: "Because I have a damn eye infection Matt."  It was pretty funny.

So we enjoyed a day at the Hot Springs, met lots of interesting people, collected wood for a fire that evening, and everything was going great.  Until night came.  Matt slipped from a rock, fell about ten feet, and ended up dislocating his elbow and breaking his arm.  At first he didn't think it was that bad, but then he held it up under what little moonlight was filtering through the clouds to show Alana, and it looked all contorted with a round ball sticking out from his elbow.  When Alana saw this she took a few steps back and told me "Oh my god, I'm going to pass out."  She didn't, so good job there Alana.

Alana and I, along with a dozen of nearby hippies, tried  for hours to convince Matt to let us hike him out, but his answer was a resounding "Hell no."  There was no way he wanted to risk a treacherous six mile hike in pitch dark (there were no stars due to the cloud cover and barely a moon), with us girls having to carry a bigger burden since his arm was useless.  Of course this made sense, but sitting there all night with his injury seemed so wrong.  Ultimately, all we could do was keep Matt's arm in the cool water all night and wait it out until morning.  He did take some Excedrin to help deal with the pain, plus we bummed some mystery liquor from one of our neighbors, so all of this helped a bit. 

Obviously we didn't get much sleep that night.  Matt constantly wanted to be in the water, but neither Alana nor myself were comfortable with the idea of him navigating the rocks in the dark with an injured arm.  Alana was pretty exhausted by 1 or 2 in the morning and could barely keep her eyes open, so I told her I'd watch out for him and ended up staying in the springs until 4 or 5 in the morning.  It was beautiful in those springs.  Even though the stars were hidden, the moon came out at one point and was so bright that it was reflecting off of the clouds.  There were a few people here and there with us, and they were all so easy-going, friendly, and relaxed.  Okay, they may have been stoned. Anyway, we spent most of the time in a spot that the three of us discovered earlier; a river pool containing cooler water, but if you lean against the rock, a hot waterfall spurts down your back.  It's wonderful--a non-stop back massage.  But in this case, it was a nice compromise; it gave Matt the cool water he needed for his arm, but gave me the nice hot water that I was craving.  

Eventually we came back to camp and I finally curled up in my sleeping bag, which was on the ground outside because I forgot to bring a tent.  Matt and Alana insisted that I sleep in their little two-man tent, and had it been necessary, I would've had no issues with it.  I'm not one with worrying about personal space.  But the temperature that night was so beautiful and perfect, and I actually felt excited about the prospect of sleeping under the stars...even if I couldn't see them.  So I tried to fall asleep, but I remember I felt so, so silly.  I think I was delirious with fatigue, but I didn't feel tired at all.  I started chattering to poor Alana who was trying to sleep, until eventually I passed out.  It was more of a doze though...I could still hear all the noises around me.  I do remember that the ground and the backpack I was using as a pillow felt like the most comfortable thing on the planet, so I must have been pretty tired. 

I woke up at first light.  Not because I was ready to wake up, but because my damn eye was super-sensitive to the sunshine even behind the closed lid.  Soon after, Matt and Alana woke up, and we spent time preparing breakfast and breaking down camp.  Matt's injured arm was now very swollen, with purple marks forming around the joint, so Alana and I felt pretty concerned about getting him to a doctor.  Right after breakfast, Matt threw up, and he seemed to be running a small fever, all of which didn't help our worry. 

We decided to hike the six mile trail out, because the trail I had taken the day before would require us to hike vertically upward for two straight miles...not an appealing option for someone with usage in only one arm.  Once ready, we set off.  The hike was long and hot, and we were quite the pitiful group.  Sleep-deprived, hungry, and a third of us crippled (two-thirds of us if you count the fact that Alana's hip was giving her issues).  When we finally reached three or four miles, I at last had cell service.  I called Clint to tell him what was going on, and he immediately drove to the trail head and started hiking our direction.  When he reached us, he took Matt's pack and hiked the rest of the way with us.   

Alana took Matt to the ER while Clint and I grabbed Del Taco for everyone.  We were all famished.  In two days, I had eaten one can of tuna, salami, and a packet of oatmeal.  Clint delivered the food to Matt and Alana in triage, where Matt technically wasn't allowed to eat, but he said "screw it" and crammed a burrito down anyway.  Then Clint drove me home and I crashed for three hours.

Matt's arm (with the elbow popped back in):

He is now doing much better but is still not quite up to par. We're still planning to get in one more visit with the both of them before they leave on Saturday. For this next visit, maybe we should stay at home and play Boggle.  

Mother's Day & Chopping Tables

I'm determined that I must write a post today, lest the quality of this blog be utterly reduced to my sister's rants. 

It's been a busy week, so I'm trying to decide what to include and what to leave out.  I think I'll go ahead and write about Mother's Day, the lizard, and the rat.  I think I'll leave out my Builders Club Award's Night and all of the stuff I've been doing to prepare for my summer job, which I find interesting but you'll find boring.

Okay, Mother's Day.  As Shan mentioned, we took my mom and dad out for an early dinner on Saturday.  It was so much fun.  We ordered this incredibly delicious wine called...crap, I can't remember what it was called.  But it was crisp and smooth which just the right touch of sweetness.  We ended up going through two bottles.  After dinner, we decided to walk the mall for a little while.  The text I sent Clint at this particular moment said "We're walking the mall attempting to sober up. :-)"  At the mall we met up with Jeremy and the kids, and somehow we all wound up in a shoe store where I'm pretty sure everyone in our party bought shoes.  After leaving the mall, I went back to my car to discover that I had locked my keys inside.  No surprise there.  I called Triple A and one of their guys came out and retrieved my keys.  The guy was very chivalrous and a little flirty.  Later, I was thinking how great a profession AAA would be for a man.  90% of the time, they're rescuing females from stupid mistakes like draining our batteries or leaving our keys locked in our cars, and they come out of the whole thing looking like knights in shining armor.

On Sunday, Clint, the kids, and I did a little shopping, and then went to my favorite sushi restaurant (the one half-way up the mountains in the middle of nowhere).  After we came back, I reupholstered six dining room table chairs.  It was supposed to be eight, but I ran out of fabric.  This job was grueling.  My Fiskars wouldn't cut through the fabric (it was ivory-colored vinyl), so I ended up having to use a bare razor blade.  Since the razor had no handle, this meant having to push hard into the top edge of the blade with the pads of my fingers.  I managed to cut out the pattern for six chairs without any accidents, but just the force of pushing on the top of the blade over and over again put all of these nasty little lacerations onto the pads of my fingers.  I eventually had to put band-aids on them because they were bleeding, but the thing that sucks the most is I can't text right now with these band-aids in the way.  I should be able to take them off by tomorrow and be back to merrily texting away.  But if anyone wanted to take my fingerprints right now, they'd be screwed.  You know, cuz there's such a huge probability of that happening.  Either way, my fingertips look like minced meat, but the chairs look great!  The previously stained-to-hell fabric is gone.  The next step in this project is a little more drastic...I'm going to saw off the legs of the table and chairs to make them shorter.  We have a tall bistro-style table, and Clint refuses to sit at it during dinners because his ass falls asleep since his feet can't reach the floor (his words, not mine).  So I figure a few little swipes of a chainsaw will take care of that problem.  I'll be sure to post a follow-up entry when we're out shopping for a new table because I got a little chop-happy--or hormonal--with my chainsaw.   

Oh yeah, Clint got me a beautiful little wine rack for Mother's Day.  It's sort of rustic-looking and has these metal spirals that holds four bottles of wine upside-down, sort of like bananas.  Okay, that's a terrible description.  I'll have to take a picture of it later.  The kids made me five bookmarks, but they are not your run-of-the mill bookmarks.  These ones are really hilarious and creative.  Again, I'll have to post a pic, because I can't really explain them with words.

Okay, the lizard and rat will have to wait for another time because somehow I ended up rambling about our stupid table.

Set Fire to the Rain

Great week, but my head feels like it's splitting into two pieces right now. 

Here's another recent hit by Adele.  I just love her voice...it's so rich and full of emotion.  I dedicate this one to my fellow teacher, Tilli, assuming she can pull her head out of "Rolling in the Deep" for two seconds.  ;)

Student Teacher and Deadly Doors

Today was my first day with my student teacher!  Wait--did I ever talk about that?  Hold on, let me go check----

Okay, I'm back, and from what I can see, I never explained the whole student-teaching thing.  I'll make this quick.  Student teachers are university students who have just finished their credentialing classes, but they now need "on the job training" in order to apply for their credential.  They are assigned to work with a master teacher for an entire semester.  In the beginning, they start off by observing only, but little by little the master teacher relinquishes control of the lessons and classroom management to the student teacher (that part is a little scary for the control-freak in me).  My principal asked me if I would like to be a master teacher for the second semester of school, and of course I agreed.  It was such a complement to be asked...it's not like principals choose the crappy teachers to represent their schools.

So today I met my student teacher for the first time (since I might talk about her again in the future, I'll dub her S.P).  S.P's a little on the shy side, but after introducing her to several different teachers and talking her ear off all day, she did start to warm up.  She's supposed to be in on everything I do as a teacher, so that's going to take some getting used to.  I love the solitude of coming into my warm classroom in the morning, turning on my iPod, making a cup of hot tea, and checking my e-mail.  It's that quiet before the storm.  Now I have to come into my classroom in the morning and make small talk with another person.  It's not a bad thing, it's just a break in routine that I'm going to have to adjust to.  Honestly, it feels like going from living alone for a long period of time, to suddenly having a room-mate.  There are lots of benefits to having a room-mate, such as always having someone to talk to and the general feeling of camaraderie; but it still takes time to acclimate to such a huge change.  Even the physical environment of my classroom has changed.  I had to pull out a row of three desks in order to fit in a nice, large teacher's desk for S.P, which resulted in some tweaking of my seating charts.  That was something I did out of the kindness of my heart--I figured since she was going to be with me for the rest of the school year, she'd like to have her own space.  I stocked it with a bunch of supplies (pens, post-its, etc.), and even made her a name plate.  I also had my students make her a giant "Welcome" card on Friday, and they all wrote really sweet messages on it.  That gave her a huge smile this morning.  Overall, I really like S.P. and I'm excited to have her in my classroom for the rest of the year.

On a somewhat related note, I've had a few accidents in my classroom the last seven days.  Last week, as I left my room, a student (thinking I was another student) slammed the door on me HARD.  When I reeled back from the impact and he saw it was me, he was immediately sorry.  He had been trying to play a prank on one of his fellow classmates.  But I still had to give him a referral because it was a purposeful act that could have caused injury (I was wearing boots that day, or else it would have thrashed my toes).  On Friday morning Ms. Whatsit's tail got trapped in-between two desks while students were cleaning up, and when a student shifted his desk, it squished her tail and ultimately she lost the tip.  That was a gory little mess.  She's healing up nicely though and should be back in the classroom this Wednesday.  It's sort of cute because the students are SO concerned about her and ask about her every period.  You would think it was their pet dog whose tail got circumcised.

Then today I slammed a student's head with the door.  What is up with that door?  It was right before homeroom, and I swung the door open to usher the remaining students inside the room.  Adrian was inside the deadly red circle right behind the door, and it hit him head-on with a loud crack.  I have no idea what he was doing back there, but the impact knocked him almost completely backwards.  His friends were standing around and he immediately tried to play it off as "no big deal", but it was obvious that he was feeling dizzy as he walked into the room.  I had him escorted to the nurse's office, despite his protests.  I called ahead, and when the counseling department picked up, I said, "Hey C, it's Jodi.  I just slammed a door into a student's head and--" but before I could finish, she started laughing so hard.  I wailed out,  "Wait, why are you laughing?!"  And she's like, "It just sounds typical!"  At any rate, Adrian is fine (parents planned to check for a minor concussion after school) and he has had a really good sense of humor about it.  He was the same student that shifted the desk that cut off the rat's tail that...(I just wanted to say "that" one more time. It was beginning to sound like a nursery rhyme), so he claims that I was subconsciously wreaking my vengeance on him.  I told him, "Yes Adrian, I sneakily peered out the window for twenty minutes waiting for you to walk up, hoping you would step into the red circle so I could clock you with the door."  But I have to admit, it WAS fun telling students all day, "Hey, get crackin' on your work lest I decide to bean you with a door too."  

And of course S.P. is watching all of this, taking notes.  Glad I'm not privy to the conversation she'll be having with her university mentor later.

New Tattoo

After a lot of research last night, I decided I wanted a cherry blossom branch as my new tattoo.  I'm sure it's no coincidence that a cherry blossom branch happened to be the first real painting I did, too.  I guess I must be partial to that particular tree.  I also decided that I wasn't going to get some dainty little thing that was just going to be floating around in the middle of my ankle like my rose--uh uh; it was 'go big or go home' this time around.  Today, we went to the tattoo parlor, and I told my artist (who was absolutely awesome--same guy who did Clint's) what I had in mind, and he was able to sketch out a design on my foot/ankle pretty quickly.  Once I approved it, he got to work.  It took almost exactly an hour-and-a-half.  He had estimated two hours, so shaving that extra half hour off was sheer bliss. 

The pain of getting this tattoo was much more intense than I expected, but maybe I'm just wimpier than I used to be.  The top of my foot was the worst.  The skin is so thin there, and there was just no barricade against that needle.  Nonetheless, I held it together the entire time...I spent the entire time joking around with Clint and the tattoo artist, singing songs in my head, counting spots on the ceiling, etc.  When the pain got real bad, I would just focus on relaxing my hands and arms (both of which kept tensing up), and I would try to imagine that they felt like water.  For some reason, doing this temporarily took me away from the pain.  One positive thing is that, although the first ten minutes is the longest (endorphins still waiting to kick in, maybe?), the time flies after that.  Those ninety minutes felt more like thirty.

Okay, enough chatter.  Here's the new tattoo....

My tattoo artist had just finished the tattoo when we took these pics, so my skin was still pink and raw.  Now that it's nine hours later, the flowers have more white in them that makes them pop out more and look much prettier.  The two largest blossoms closer to the top are what's actually covering up my old tattoo.  Overall, I am SO happy with the final product!  It's simple but dramatic.  And other than some initial shock I'm receiving from the older relatives, I'm getting a ton of positive feedback on this one.

After leaving the tattoo parlor, Clint and I were both feeling pretty famished.  Apparently self-mutilation works up an appetite.  Steve was stuck at Starbucks all day waiting for his car to be fixed, so we decided to meet him for lunch.  Much to my delight, he chose sushi (it's ridiculous how much I love the stuff now).  Clint had never tried sushi before, and he and Steve both ordered the all-you-can-eat special and pretty much ate themselves into a coma.  I, on the otherhand, ordered sane proportions of food, but that's neither here nor there.  Overall, lunch was definitely my favorite part of the day. 

Tomorrow I will be decorating Rose Floats in Pasadena from 1:00 p.m until 1:00 a.m (yep, A.M.!) with 25 middle schoolers and about 15 high-schoolers.  Wish me luck!   

Black Belt Test

Tonight Clint starts his black belt test!  I say "starts" because the entire test takes four days.  At 6:00 this evening, all of the black belt candidates will leave for the mountains.  At this point it's hard to say what will happen once they are up there, because all of the black belts who took this test in the past were sworn to secrecy.  But this is what we do know:

• There is very little--to no--food (I think they get one energy bar a day).
• The black-belt candidates wear ONE karate uniform for the entire four days, and are not allowed to bring a change of clothes (not even an extra pair of underwear).  The only article of clothing they are allowed to bring is one extra pair of socks.
• At least one part of the test involves swimming.
• At least one part of the test involves crawling around in the dark (they were required to pack a head-lamp).
• If they bring anything that isn't on the approved list, it gets thrown in the trash.
• They will be sleeping on the ground.  A "pillow" is NOT on the list.
• Last year's black belts came back from the test blindfolded, filthy, and exhausted.

The irony is Clint just opened up a fortune cookie yesterday that said, "Get away from home awhile to restore your energies."  I'm not sure, but I'm thinking this getaway sounds like the exact opposite of "restorative." 

On my end, having Clint gone for four days is nothing out of the ordinary, but the fact that we can't communicate the entire time is something new.  He's not allowed to bring his cell-phone, so I will be left in complete mystery as to how he is holding up.

On Sunday, at 6:00 p.m., Clint and the other guys will arrive back to the dojo for the Black Belt Promotion Ceremony (and no, they do not get to shower first).  At this time, all of the candidates who passed the test officially receive their black belt, and then they are required to take a punch in the stomach from every sensei in the dojo, which can range anywhere from a dozen to twenty.  The ceremony concludes with family and friends enjoying a potluck.

I told Clint this morning that "Today is your day.  Anything you want to do, we'll do it."  He's laughing because he says I'm treating him like he's about to die.  At any rate, "Clinton's Special Day" includes World of Warcraft, Chinese food, and ice-cream, so I better get my butt moving.

Cajun Sunblock

I went to the lake today with my sister.  It was a gorgeous day: bright blue sky, beautiful pine trees, the whole works.  After getting settled on the beach and sunblocking the kids, Shan asked me if I would spray her down with some of my sunblock.  I asked, "Are you sure?  It's SPF 50," thinking that she might want to get a little bit of color on those albino legs of hers.  But she insisted that she didn't care about a tan, so I coated her with sunblock.  Meanwhile, I misted tanning oil all over myself (which only has an SPF of 4), because I'm more shallow and not health-conscience when it comes to things like that.  I just want the tan.

A few hours later, as we were getting ready to leave, I noticed that Shan's arms and legs were sunburned as all get-out.  She was absolutely fried.  I, on the other hand, was sportin' a nice golden tan without the slightest trace of a sunburn.  How the hell did that happen?  She was wearing SPF 50.  I was wearing SPF 4.  

So just a quick word of caution: If you're looking for a reliable sunscreen, you might want to stay away from Banana Boat's Ultramist Spray-On Lotion. When they say "SPF 50", what they really mean is "Sun Penetration Factor 50 times worse than you'd expect." Or in layman's terms, "Scorched Pretty F***ing bad" (the 'b' is dropped for posterity).

I think next time we'll just slather Shan's legs with good ole' saturated beef fat.  Or maybe spray her down with some non-stick canola oil.  Maybe THAT will work out better for her than Banana Boat's cajun-style "sunscreen".

Last Weekend: Part 2

Blogger has been out of commission for the last few days, which has been sort of a pain.  Not so much for me personally...I've been completely entertained in the evenings reading yet another new book.  But I use Blogger for my students, and this week many of them were unable to finish their online assignment because of all the maintenance issues.

At any rate, Blogger's back online, and I'm stuck in our office right now because our carpet is being cleaned, so I thought I'd finish talking about Mother's Day weekend.

Where did I leave off again?  Hold on, let me check....

Oh yeah, so we left the bar and returned to Shannon and Jeremy's house right after 1:00 a.m.  Shan and I were famished, so Jeremy made us grilled ham and cheese sandwiches.  After eating and chattering for awhile, we all went to bed.  I slept in the downstairs family room on the couch, and I think I must have gone unconscious as soon as my head hit the pillow.  Sometime a few hours later, I woke up feeling incredibly thirsty.  I fumbled my way to the bathroom, but didn't want to turn on any lights because I'm weird about that.  I feel like turning on lights in the middle of the night shocks my system awake, so I like to keep things as dark as possible so I can go back to sleep right away.  Plus I was worried that the light would wake up the kids.  So I reached across the bathroom counter in the dark, and my fingers touched a nice, heavy-duty glass tumbler.  Convenient, I thought as I filled it up with water and guzzled it down.  I then refilled it about half-way and took it back with me to the couch, just in case I wanted more water later.  The rest of the night passed uneventfully, other than the fact that Charlotte (the pig) started squealing through the window like some insane demon-possessed banshee at about five or six in the morning because she was hungry.  Madi ran outside and fed her pretty quick though, so all was quiet again.

At around 8:00 in the morning, I woke up to the smell of good food cooking.  I crawled off of the couch and reached down to take a drink from the glass tumbler, but it was no longer there.  Instead, there was a candle.  In a jar.  Half-filled with water.  That's when I realized that there never was a tumbler.  I had drank water from a candle.  With a wick and everything.  Yeah.  Remind me to never quench my thirst, partially hung-over, in the dark, ever again.  Or better yet, just tell me to get over my weird paranoia of flicking on switches at night.

When I went upstairs, Jeremy was up cooking breakfast.  He came up to me and gave me a giant hug and told me Happy Mother's Day.  Then he continued to make Shannon and I a delicious breakfast.  It was awesome.  With Clint gone for the entire weekend (karate tournament in Oregon), it felt good to have a surrogate husband around, making me feel special on what would have otherwise been sort of a lonely day.  During breakfast, the kids all woke up and came tearing up the stairs.  Trinity and Elijah gave me big squeezes since their gifts were at home.  I was planning on driving home after breakfast, but it started to rain, and the fog around the lake was getting so thick, so I ended up staying until late afternoon.  Sometime around 4:00, we all drove down to the desert to meet my parents at Red Robin for dinner.  The dinner was okay.  I had a good time, but my mom told us this really sad story that left me feeling pretty depressed.  I won't get into that.

That night, after being gone for four days, Clint finally came home.  He won two third-place medals during his tournament, so he was feeling pretty upbeat.  The first one was for a nunchucks routine, and the second one was for sparring. 

In other news, one of my students swallowed a thumb tack yesterday in class.  He was sent to the doctors for an x-ray, but it was already "too far" for anything to be done.  The doctors gave him some medicine, and he was instructed to stay home today and wait for it to pass.  Not that this really changes anything, but this was one of my honor students.  He was very upbeat about the whole thing, and doesn't seem to be in any pain...yet.  I, on the other hand, can barely keep a straight face typing about it.  Middle schoolers truly are a unique species.  I'm surprised they aren't endangered by now.

Video doesn't do much for me, but this song makes me feel silly and happy..."like a fool." 

Homemade Chemical Peel

Clint is finally home!  Absence really does make the heart grow fonder, because I'm so happy to have him back.  Of course, in three weeks he'll be going to yet another tournament; this one in Oregon.  I'm thinking that maybe I'll invite Sarah and her kids to stay with me that weekend.  I'll cross that bridge once it gets closer though, because I really do love having the occasional alone-time with the kids. 

Trin's slumber party was insane last night.  It took me nearly two hours to clean the kitchen and dining room from all of the manicure/pedicure/facial mask wreckage.  The girls loved every minute of their pampering, although we did have a little bit of an issue with the facial masks.  We made our own masks from a "Princess Spa Cookbook" that Trinity owns, and the ingredients were very mild stuff, like oatmeal, bananas, almond milk...that kind of thing.  Yet almost immediately after applying the masks, the girls reported that their faces were burning.  Of course we immediately had them wash the sticky gook off, but their faces continued to feel hot--which eventually downgraded to warm--for probably a half hour after they washed them off.  I tried to put a positive spin on the whole thing; I told the girls that celebrities pay top-dollar for chemical peels, and weren't they so lucky to get them for free? Plus, as of today, all the girls were in awe over how soft their skin felt (that's what happens when you burn the first layer off, haha).  But I'm still half-expecting a disgruntled parent to call and complain that I tried to scorch their child.

Gotta go now...I'll try to post a few pictures of Trin's party sometime this week.

Girly Complaints

Yesterday was rough. I woke up with pink-eye again. I wish I could figure out why I have such wussy eyeballs. Just opening the curtains yesterday was enough to get me to shield my eyes and yelp like a wounded vampire. On top of that, Aunt Tidal Wave (Aunt Flow's evil twin) decided to pay me a visit, and along with her came cramps so excruciating that I was forced into a self-induced coma (in other words, I made myself take an un-needed nap just to escape).

In addition, the muscles in my side and stomach area were in agony yesterday from Thursday's kickboxing workout. The dojo was closed for a couple weeks during the holidays, and Thursday was my first day back. Sensei Brandon had us do these circular-crunch-thingies, along with these leg-swinging-thingies, and both really tore up my stomach and side muscles after they had been on break for so long. For some reason, I felt only mildly sore on Friday, but by Saturday I felt like I had just been in labor for 17 hours...and yes, I do have a basis for comparison.

Today I woke up feeling 100% better and am no longer shuffling around the house like an old lady. =)

Don't Drink the Water

Last night Clint and I had mapped out our day for today.  For the first half of the day we would go to Costco and buy all of the essentials for our Christmas feast, not to mention all the plasticware, etc., for the kids.  For the second half of the day we would clean the house spotless, steam clean the carpets, etc.

So one little bump in our plan.  Clint decided that blacking out in the kitchen, cracking his head on the tile floor, and getting five staples in his head would be a much more appealing way to spend our day, rather than shopping and cleaning.

So it started this morning.  I was asleep in bed when I got whacked in the head with a hairbrush.  It was Clint, sitting on the toilet on the bathroom (with the lid down, just to clarify), immobilized with confusion because he was bleeding from his head and he couldn't quite figure out what happened.  He tried to holler at me to wake me up, but I didn't hear him, so he flung a brush at me.  After some initial confusion, we finally *sort of* pieced together the events that led to his head bleeding all over the place.

Clint woke up before me this morning and went into the backyard to feed the dogs.  When he came back into the house, he chugged down a 20 ounce bottle of water.  This isn't anything out of the ordinary; he always drinks a ton of water.  After slamming down the water, he had a dull ache in his chest; that small stabbing sensation that's typical of drinking too fast.  He leaned over the counter for a second, and that's the last thing he remembers.  When he woke up, he was lying on the hard tile floor in a puddle of blood.  He was very disoriented; at first he thought he was still in bed.  Eventually he made his way into the bathroom, but was still unsure of what was going on.  Enter: Hairbrush.

So I woke up this morning to a nice polite brush clobbering me in the head, followed by walking into the bathroom to see blood running down my husband's head.  My first exclamation was, I believe, "Oh my God!  What happened?!"  He tried to explain it to me, but he was still confused himself.  He kept mentioning the dogs...I was beginning to think he had gotten attacked by a dog.  After piecing it together, the next sentences were (and these I remember clearly), "Okay, we have to...well, oh shit.  We have to get you to the hospital.  Shit.  I'll call your mom and have her pick up the kids, and, oh shit, let me get my contacts on.  Shit."

The emergency room ushered us right in.  They tested Clint's blood sugar, and also did an EKG and a CT on him.  Everything came back normal.  They're not sure why Clint fainted, but the doctor thought it might have something to do with drinking the cold water too fast.  He said that there's a chance that Clint cooled down his "inner-core" too quickly, causing his blood vessels to constrict and temporarily ceasing oxygen flow to the brain.  In other words, just a freak-thing. 

I have refused to let Clinton do anything today but rest, so this has resulted in us being seriously behind schedule with our Christmas preparations.  After dropping Clint off at home, I went and did all of the shopping.  Clint's mom came with me to help, because she knows I'm a scatterbrained shopper.  With her help, we flew through all of our shopping in about an hour, and that counted going to two different places.  Once home, I cleaned the master bedroom completely, which is a miraculous feat in of itself (the master bedroom is the pack rat room).  I was going to keep going on to the rest of the house, but I felt physically drained.  So Clint and I popped in a movie, which brings me to the present.

So tomorrow, I have to finish everything that we were supposed to finish today, all before 4:30 in the afternoon, because that is the time we celebrate Christmas with Clint's side of the family. 

I should feel overwhelmed, but I don't.  I don't know what my problem is, but I can't seem to muster up any stress or anything.  I just feel very oh-well-ish and even a little serene about everything right now...maybe because I'm just glad that Clint's head wound wasn't anything serious.  But hopefully this feeling isn't that deceptive calm before the storm.  Gotta just keep this smile plastered on until after the holidays.