#it also takes her the WHOLE SESSION before she finally commits to an actual trap attempt. which she gets IMPULSE to do

[huggywuggysuppy]

Pearl went “I’m gonna go kill Gem” and then followed her around, asked her if she hates her, tried to defend herself and insist they’re cool, got told pretty much “I’ll be happy once we kill each other, so we wont make up till the end of those season,” spent too long in denial until Gem spelled it out, asked if they could make up now in a 1v1, immediately took it back after Gem just stared at her, let her walk away unchallenged, then wallowed in despair until SKIZZ of all people got the kill on Gem.

[purpleyellow]

The audacity

Seventeen 14th member

Hayun’s masterlist

“Seventeen won’t take bs when it comes to Hayun”

Requested by: two (2) anons    

cw: offensive language

a/n: Feel free to share your thoughts with me. Requests are open! 💙

(to my brazilians around, this gif is svt’s version of ninguem solta a mão de ninguem)

The arrival of dancers made the practice room even more crowded and noisy than usual. It was one of the few times Seventeen worked with an outside dance team, and they happened to have a lot of new faces around, who needed time to figure out the staging and how things were working so far.

After they ran through the choreography a couple of times, the choreographer called in a break, allowing the huge group to instantly clear the middle space and separate themselves into small circles of conversations.

Seungcheol, Jeonghan, and Joshua instantly met each other and began chatting about dinner plans and whatnot. Slowly approaching Jun and Wonwoo, the oldest filled them in on what they're deciding until he starts searching for someone.

“So, we could order it on the next break and have someone grab it for us. Anyway, did anyone see Hayun?”

“Making friends, as usual,” Wonwoo comments, pointing at the other corner of the room where the girl was surrounded by four dancers.

“Hayun-ah” The leader waves her over and waits as she jogs to his side “We're talking about dinner, what do you think about-”

“Oh, those guys were talking about this new restaurant that opened downtown, I was thinking of tagging along with them” She points back at the group and watches as her members nod “But I can cancel, of course”

“No, go ahead. It's just a meal” Joshua goes to wave her off when Seungkwan approaches them with crossed arms.

“Yeah. Just a meal. Until she's suddenly ditching us during the holidays and moving out with her new friends” The boy pouts, turning his face away from the group. Hayun reaches up to ruffle his hair before landing a soft slap.

“Says the dude who is friends with half of the entertainment industry” Ignoring his eye roll, she turns back to the rest of their little huddle “Well, if nobody else will feel betrayed”

“I was kidding” Seungkwan whines and Scoups pushes her away from them “Stop being dramatic and go do your mingling”

Going back to the group of dancers, Hayun resumes chatting with them for a couple of minutes before the break is over.

After more hours of running over every tiny detail for the stage, the rehearsal finally ends and the scattering of people begins. Hayun takes a couple of minutes talking about minor adjustments with the members and just checking up on them before searching for the four friends she had made that evening.

“Hey, how do you guys plan on heading there?” She asks, taking a sip from her water bottle and missing the glances between the two boys and two girls.

“Actually, we might have to do it another day,” The girl closest to her says and flips a hair strand off of Hayun's shoulder. “We got pretty tired from this last session”

“And work tomorrow it's going to start pretty early, you know. It's best to let this go for today,” The boy nods to her before pulling out his phone from his pocket and slightly turning away from the idol.

“Yeah, I get it. That's okay, we'll reschedule it then” Hayun smiles and gives them a thumbs up “I'll head to the dorms, then. Have a good rest, and tomorrow we'll talk more”.

Sending her some quick waves and small smiles, the four dancers waited for Hayun to turn around before sharing an annoyed look and sighing.

The practice room slowly grows empty, only leaving Wonwoo and Vernon who lost an incredible game of rock, paper, scissors, and had to stay behind to clean up everything. Finally turning off the lights, the two boys head out into the hallway and spot a group of four people standing by the entrance.

“Aren't those the people Hayun was talking to earlier,” Vernon asks quietly before a voice from the group reaches them.

“Why is this damn cab taking so long? We should have let that airhead tag along”.

“Agreed. She would have talked our ears off, but at least we would have made it to the club already”.

Sharing a look, the two idols stop walking and listen closely to understand if the dancers are talking about what the boys think they're talking about.

“That was so stupid. Why would you invite her in the first place? She's so annoying”.

“I mean, having an idol considering you a friend would be fun, right? Especially with the Christmas season coming up. Can you imagine the gifts she would buy us?”

“Yeah, dude. We wouldn't even need to worry about paying for stuff anymore. Just have Hayun tag along anywhere and, boom, no more tabs to pay.”

“But also, no more functioning eardrums”

“No, you have a point. She seems like she'd give us her credit card password on the third time we hung out. Not to mention, looking at her position in contrast with ours. You don't even have to befriend her, but be on her good side, and she'll make sure to give us more gigs within Pledis”.

Standing frozen, Wonwoo and Vernon listened to everything they were saying and shared looks of disbelief. Having enough of it, the oldest cleared his throat and slung his bag, making it hit his own back with enough force to make a thumping sound.

“Let's go, Vernon,” He ignored the four people standing before them with wide eyes and resumed walking. Once shoulder to shoulder with one of the dancers, Wonwoo stopped again and said while looking ahead, “Next time, be careful of whom you're talking about”.

Vernon, on the other hand, made eye contact with each dancer before raising one eyebrow and following the oldest. After closing the car door, he groaned annoyed, “Can you believe they had… ”

“… the fucking audacity” Jeonghan places his cup on the table, face showcasing utter disgust after Wonwoo told him what they had listened before leaving the Pledis building.

“Show me who those people are again tomorrow. I'll make sure they never step inside our practice room, ever again,” Hoshi points out.

“Is there a way of not having them tomorrow? I'm afraid Scoups Hyung might commit murder” Dokyeom brought attention to the leader standing on the corner of the kitchen.

Looking like he was plotting an illegal act, Seungcheol scoffs and pushed himself away from the cabinets. “The bare minimum you would expect from someone is that they can be professional. I swear, those people are getting an earful for talking about Hayun within a billion-meter ratio from where I work”.

“It's best to let it rest until tomorrow's performance is done. After we'll probably never see them again, so there's not much point causing any visible disturbance.” Laying a hand on the leader's arm, Woozi tried to make some sort of sense, but all it did was cause Scoups to roll his eyes.

“We can't just act like nothing happened”

“We also can't change anything about the choreography until then” Hoshi butts in and takes a breath trying not to jump in the 'let's hunt them down' train.

“They already know Wonwoo and Vernon heard them trash-talking her, so I'm not letting them have it easy tomorrow.” Jeonghan rolls his eyes and pointed to both Woozi and Hoshi, “I'm speaking my mind the first moment I see those sons of bitches, you're free to wait until the show's over”.

“About that, I don't think we should tell Hayun what happened” Joshua, who had been quiet the entire time, speaks, drawing attention to him. “Not until, as you said, the show is over, and we won't see them again. You know that she's probably going to get disappointed about it”.

“And you expect her to not go running to meet her new 'friends' once we arrive at the venue?” Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, but Mingyu shakes his head and backs the older up.

“We just have to keep her entertained around us. Fill in Dino, Seungkwan, and Myungho later, and have them help with making sure the group doesn't run into her”.

Raising his hand, Vernon casually mumbles “Maybe don't tell Seungkwan, he won't be able to hide his feelings about the whole thing”

“Myungho won't either” Jun comments and the room falls silent at the sound of the remaining members chatting and approaching the kitchen.

“Wow, you make a meeting and forget to call in the main characters” Hayun laughs walking through the room and opening the fridge for a beer “So, when's the food arriving?”

~

Hayun is sitting on the makeup chair, casually watching Scoups and Jeonghan whispering to each other from the mirror's reflection, when a hand lands on her shoulder and another holds out a smoothie for her.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Joshua sits on the chair next to her while Mingyu punctures the drink's lid with a straw.

Without taking her eyes off the mirror, she nods with her head to it. “Those two are up to something”

“Scoups and Jeonghan Hyung? Nah, they're always like that. Sharing secrets and stuff,” Mingyu giggles, shoving the straw inside her mouth and shifting to stand in front of the mirror. “Cute nail polish, when did you have time to get it done?”

“Oh, these are acrylics. This lady was just putting them on” Hayun falls into his trap and began analyzing the design with some occasional comments from the boys.

Peace has seemingly set inside the dressing room, yet it doesn't last long until Dino's loud “Uh?” caught the attention of the members, who turned to see what he and Vernon were doing.

Trying to shut the youngest up, Vernon makes it very obvious to the guys that he had just filled Dino in with the “frenemies” situation. Most of them try to brush it off and not bring more attention to it. Seungkwan, however, approaches them by, very loudly, asking what's up.

“What are you talking about?” He boringly fixes up his outfit. Vernon can feel the burning eyes of Jeonghan on his skull as he tries to deviate the conversation to another topic.

“Did you go see catering already? I heard they had a coffee machine”.

“Wait. Does he not know what happened?” Dino fails to read the room properly and instigates the older boy.

“What happened? Why is everyone sharing secrets all of a sudden? Is the thing you're discussing why Scoups Hyung seems ready to jump someone”.

The timing of events can't be worse, as the makeup artist taps Hayun's shoulder to let her know they were done. Within seconds, the girl gets up and turns to where the three youngest were standing.

“What's with the gossiping? Did Vernon lose his airpods again?” She brushes away from Joshua as he tried to hold her in place and waves off Mingyu when, in a panic, he suggests they should check out the pigeons outside.

“What? No! I mean, yeah! How unfortunate, isn't it?” Vernon jumps around his answers and tries looking for anyone willing to help him out.

“Just tell her about it” Approaching them from the door, Jeonghan, now without the leader's company, shrugs his shoulders, making Hayun raise an eyebrow.

“Jeonghan, at least wait until the day is over,” Joshua speaks through his teeth and the boy rolls his eyes.

“Well, she already knows something is up, and to be fair I don't know what good hiding this will bring. At least, if she feels like doing something about it, she'll have the chance right now”.

“Do something about it? Hadn't we agreed that the best is to wait until the performance is over and just never see them again?”

“What even are you talking about?” Hayun shuts them both up and Jeonghan and Joshua turned to her with annoyed expressions, “Don't even look at me like that. You're the ones mentioning me as if I'm not in the room”.

Placing a hand on her shoulder, Joshua tilts his head a little and speaks softly, “Trust me for a moment here, it's best if you brush it aside. Until later at least, and then we can settle it as you wish”.

“Wha- Just spill it out for fucks sake. I'm going to combust if you don't tell me right now whatever this all means,” Hayun puffs, punching his shoulder. Just as Joshua opens his mouth to say the same thing again, Jeonghan beats him and shoves himself in front of the girl.

“Do you recall those dancers you were planning to go out with yesterday? Yeah, well, turns out they're all little shits who were trash-talking you, and just overall talking crap, yesterday”

“Jeonghan” Joshua repressed the older who does nothing but wave him off.

“Doesn't matter what they said because you're nothing of it, and-” Adverting his eyes for a second, Jeonghan stares to the side, where half of Scoups' body is waving for him through the door. “And, and, you're amazing and all of that. So now go rest your awesome self while I go teach those punks a lesson”.

Zooming past her, Jeonghan runs to the door, where the leader is already back outside. Hoshi, Jun, Woozi, and DK, scream for him before also going out of the door. A very lost, Seungkwan, simultaneously tries to get Vernon to tell him what exactly the dancer said before while shouting for the older to wait for him to also speak his mind.

“I didn't want you to know about this before the performance, but-”

“Whatever, let's make sure nobody dies today” Hayun rolls her eyes and turns around, Wonwoo running from where he was watching everything and holding her by the shoulder.

“Do you want us to go fix that up? It's okay to give them the cold shoulder or just go off if you want to” Nodding, she keeps silent and walks out, bringing the rest of the guys behind her.

The8, who also had just found out about the situation, whispers to Vernon, “Can you believe they had the audacity?”

“I know, right?” The youngest whisper-yelled at him as they made it to the hallway and assessed the situation.

“The next time you even think about opening your mouth to talk about her-” Scoups had his finger pointing at the tallest dancer -who ironically had a few centimeters on him-, while the rest of the members stood next to him nodding and calmly listening to what the leader was saying.

“Oppa, just drop it,” Hayun shouts, walking past them and holding his shoulder.

Annoyingly, Scoups rolled his eyes and turned to her, “What do you mean, drop it?” Thinking for a second, he blinked and turned even more bothered, “Who even told you about this?”

The leader looked around until he found Mingyu, offending the tall guy who made an X in front of his body.

“Doesn't matter who told me. Let's just not lose time doing this” Brushing past him, Hayun now faced the dancers “Look, I'll teach you something right now, so grab it or drop it okay? I don't give a shit that you don't like me, or whatever, but at least be professional because all this situation did was teach me that none of you care about your careers. It's pretty clear by the angry puppy beside me that you just lost any chance of growing inside our brand, so keep this as a lesson and respect the artists you're working with. Also, once we're on stage put on a smile, so my fans won't be able to sense your shit”

“It should be pretty clear by what she said but you definitely don't have a chance to work with any Pledis artist again” Hoshi came from the end of the hallway alongside their manager and choreographer. The latter nodded and added.

“For the sake of the performance, you should all go back to your dressing rooms. You all said whatever was on your mind, so try to refocus during the last few minutes you have”.

“I didn't get to say what was on my mind” While the group was dispersing, DK mumbles on the side and Jun snorts.

“You had a chance, but all you did was stare at them and scowl until Scoups Hyung took the lead”

“I don't care about who said and who didn't say what they wanted” Hayun rolled her eyes, turning to the boys as they arrived in the room. Clasping her hands together, she brings them to her face and smiles, “You all care about me”.

“The fact you still doubted about it after years hurts me” Dokyeom held his chest and frowned, the girl laughs and goes to hug him.

“Group hug?” Seungkwan says uncertainly and Hoshi nods, dragging Woozi with him, “Group hug!”

[curiousconch]

Chase You/Chase Me (Pt. 4)

Part 4: The truth will never lie to me

Catch up here: Series Masterlist

Chapter Summary: Trapped in a conference, Gabe and Alex bask in the afterglow of their interrupted moment by the lake. But before Alex can fully comprehend how she felt, she unravels a truth that may cease the chase altogether.

Book/Pairing: Choices - Laws of Attraction / Gabe Ricci x MC (Alex Keating)

Words: 1.8k+

Rating/Warnings: Mature (16+) / alcohol consumption, language, implied sexual content. Reader discretion advised.

Author's Notes: Surprise! Yep, it's an early release! I made revisions to fit the ongoing narrative and ended up breaking it down into two parts. Also, this series may span longer than I originally intended it to be, not wanting to rush things. It will probably extend until Part 7, depending on what happens at the finale. I do hope you'll still stick around. If not, I'll totally understand. 😉

Disclaimer: Most of the characters as well as some dialogue belong to Pixelberry. I am merely borrowing them.

Late night, Boston

Shoe laces, cool wind and the darkness of the forest enveloping them. His breath shuddering with how close her lips was. His throat running dry.

Wanting, longing.

Just a little taste to find out how intoxicatingly delicious those cherry lips would be in his mouth and to feel the heat of her body against his.

And then a splash.

Gabe blinked as he felt ice cold liquid pouring over his crisp white shirt. He wasn't sure if he was having déjà vu.

"Oh, sorry mate," a man standing nearby had bumped into him, making the glass of scotch he was drinking shake and spill into his impeccable suit. He forced down the tasteless curse words forming in his mouth, groaning in frustration at the dissipating sensations from what he had been imagining.

His mind was stuck in an endless loop, replaying the romantic encounter with Alex just the night before. But very much like after Beau's dive into the lake, his consciousness whipped achingly back to reality.

Gabe was leaning on the mobile bar, set in the middle of the conference reception. Did he just lose himself in a daydream like a fool? He wondered, murmuring through his madness.

The time alone with her provided him a glimpse of what could be between them. And oh how euphoric it had been to have her so near, to watch his body respond to her like no other.

It left him just craving for more.

He was lying to himself if he continued to deny that he has feelings for Alex, and how deep he was already in for her. But he knew it wasn't meant to be, at least until after he admits the truth. Until then, he had to pull away.

Easier said than done.

For now, he settled for a view of her, his eyes scoured the room for the subject of his fancy. When he found her, Gabe couldn't stop his smile and the fluttering of his heart, or the warmth growing between his legs.

There she was, in the far side of the room, shining brighter than any star that they had seen in the night sky. Her audience completely captivated as he was with her.

The sight of her in that blue dress swept Gabe back into his fantasies, and how infuriatingly near he was to giving into them. He had to clench his fist around his tumbler, suppressing any trace of his earlier wild thoughts.

Apparently sensing the weight of his gaze, Alex turned to him, their eyes meeting in silent conversation. He watched as she excused herself before making her way towards where he sat.

Half-smiling, Alex's confident expression as she approached him made him swallow hard.

Gabe summoned all his willpower to rein himself in as she got closer. He plastered his usual cocky smile, once again putting up a wall of professionalism. They were in a conference, he reasoned.

"Still watching your wards, old man?" Alex chuckled as she reached a seat beside him.

"Working the room like a pro like that? Very hard to ignore," Gabe interjected, shaking his head. "Had to say Alex, I'm impressed."

"Glad you noticed," she smiled, clearly enjoying the compliment.

"Frankly, you charming the top tier lawyers were hard to miss," he said, with lips quirking into a grin.

"Were you watching the whole time?" she asked.

"Difficult not to, seeing how you're the best-dressed lawyer in the room," he continued, savoring the easy conversation.

She scoffed before turning around, grabbing a napkin from a bartender. Alex offered it to him, pointing at the light stain on his clothes.

He finally muttered a curse, realizing he had been too distracted not to notice the result of the spillage from his own drink. This was one of my best suits.

Gabe almost jumped when Alex started to wipe the front of his suit.

His eyes narrowed, unable to process what was happening. On impulse, he reached out to her, encircling his palms around her wrist. Alex snapped her head up at the touch, the intensity of her gaze enchanting him.

It took all of his strength to break free from it. He cleared his throat and looked away, before grabbing the napkin from her grasp without warning.

It had always been like this. At first, there was this fluidity, a natural attraction between them while they interacted. Then another goddamn minute passes and it all becomes downright complicated.

Gabe wasn't having it.

He briefly shut his eyes closed and released the breath he was holding. When he opened them, he focused his attention on wiping the stain from his jacket, avoiding Alex's questioning gaze. He decided to divert the conversation, robbing her of any opportunity to re-capture him in a trance.

"Don't worry, I don't judge potential partners solely on congeniality. Though I can't speak for Sadie." He then turned and discarded the cloth on the bar. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'll have to speak to a friend who I'm sure will be thrilled to know I'm now a partner."

He finally dared to look at Alex with almost apologetic eyes, before swiftly walking away towards a sea of unfamiliar faces.

Alex was left gaping at his hasty departure, uncertain how it all went south so quickly. She wanted to grab his arm and pull him to her so badly, to pick things up from where they left off last night. From that moment when his lips was inches away from taking hers, before they were interrupted.

Her body ached to be near him. Then again, that's not how she usually operates, so she let him be.

She had never thought her idol was such a tease. Or perhaps, traditional? Alex snickered. Oh how I'll make you beg, Gabriel Ricci. She exhaled, the sultry thought of the man on his knees in front of her suddenly hiking up the temperature in the room. Alex had to fan herself to cool down.

Along with the idea of finally spending some alone time together, conjuring the image of waking up beside Gabe excited her. Well, if ever this chase between them actually culminates to something.

But why was she following this trail of thought? In all her conquests, she had never stayed for what came after. She had that with Julian, and look how that ended. For her, it was always just for the fun. So why does she suddenly liked the notion with Gabe? She shuddered. Ugh, weird.

Maybe it's because it's taking the long game with him? Alex didn't want to know.

Leaving that for now, she resorted to ordering another shot of patron to drown the remnants of her heated thoughts. On her third glass, Alex heard a familiar voice ordering a shot of bourbon. She swiveled towards it and caught sight of Lina Reyes, the opposing lawyer from the Willow case.

"Fancy meeting you here," Alex smiled lazily, remembering how temptingly attractive she was. She also recalled the offer of a hook-up, which she politely declined out of courtesy.

But now, seems like she's getting another chance. And with Gabe being annoyingly hard to get, Alex had to have fun somewhere else. It's not like she and Gabe was committed, right?

Lina scooted closer to her, smelling of a heady mix of alcohol. "Speaking of fancy, damn. You look more incredible than I can remember, Alex," she teased, provocatively arching her brows at her.

Alex quickly picked up Lina's attempt to flirt, stoking her bruised ego. "Gotta be dressed to impress, right?" she waved her fingers as if in curtsy. "Enjoying the conference?"

"At this point, things tend to devolve quickly. But I do plan to have a nightcap back in my room," Lina smirked, Alex feeling the heel of velvet pumps brushing along her bare leg. "Maybe you could join me?"

The woman wasn't exactly subtle, though Alex had to give props to her for her confidence. She liked that in anyone. So Alex returned the gesture, letting her fingers hover an inch over her arm while batting her eyelashes. Two can play that game.

"I think we should stay here."

Wait, what? Did she just say no? Subconsciously? Did hell just freeze over? Or did her brain left her head?

Both women blinked, unable to determine who's more mortified between them. They were both quiet, until Lina broke the awkwardness by a chuckle.

"Had to try, didn't expect I'd be turned down twice," she said consuming the rest of her drink in one gulp. "Worth it though." she shrugged, ordering another round for herself.

Alex struggled to compose herself, brows furrowed in confusion by how that went down.

"Oh don't be so bothered, you're not my first rodeo." Lina poked at her jokingly, clearing up the air. Alex thanked her, and the conversation went smoothly from there.

Several more drinks in, the two women chatted on, venturing into a variety of topics in law and in love. It didn't take long before Lina started to slur in her words, to which Alex found amusing.

"Looks like someone didn't pace herself," she observed as she sipped her cocktail.

"Ah don't mind me, had to cleanse my palate after all the boring sessions earlier," Lina toasted her glass on hers, wobbling as she shifted to face her. "We are a rare breed, us fighters," she leaned towards Alex, lowering her voice to a whisper. "We like-minded women should just stick together, you know?"

Alex was relieved she turned her down the second time. Barely listening to her, she started to drift off as Lina continued rambling on, turning around to face the crowds as her eyes tried to locate that handsome man. Alex smirked when she found Gabe's sexy outline.

"Lot of ungrateful dipshits being freed from prison, even after we work our asses off proving they deserved an earlier release. Khan, Kozlowski, those celebrities involved with the Ivy League admission scandal? Hell, even small town criminal Cornell was released in the last five years alone!"

And with that last statement, Alex froze. "Say that again?"

Confused, Lina stuttered as if she can't remember what she was saying. To Alex's annoyance, she went silent, apparent that more humiliation was on the way. Lina abruptly stood, covering her mouth with her hand as she sprinted to the bathroom. Alex let her pass.

Assured that she'll be fine with her colleagues flanking her, Alex started to obsess over Lina's last sentence.

Was that just the patron? Or am I getting too drunk and starting to hear things? She asked herself, bewildered at how randomly Lina mentioned a Cornell.

With an exasperated sigh, she decided it wouldn't hurt to check. She pulled out her phone from her purse and fired up a search engine, where she typed in the godforsaken name. Alex tapped enter.

As soon as the results loaded, she felt the world crumble beneath her.

No, no, no, no, no. This fucking didn't happen.

She clicked on one of the articles from a local news outlet. The picture beneath the headline shoving her nightmares front and center. There it was, the title written in bold stated loud and clear: Cornell Son Gets Early Release.

Alex bit her lip as she fought to gather herself together, speed reading through the article. This was definitely a surprise, but what really got her reeling was the figure of a man walking behind Maximilian. She'd pick up who that was from anywhere within a mile radius.

Alex tried to keep herself rational, but the shock rippled through her, enough to shake off the alcohol in her system. And why did her stomach churned like she was punched in the gut a hundred times over? Why did she felt fucking betrayed?

Unexpectedly, she knew it wasn't discovering Cornell was now walking freely in the streets.

Deep down, Alex was aware it was because Gabe Ricci was involved. Either way, it looks like her high and mighty boss has some explaining to do.

Her blood boiled, a myriad of questions went through her mind. Resolute, she wanted those damn questions answered. Tonight.

She downed her drink and slammed the empty glass on the bar, sending a text to draw Gabe's attention.

She looked over where he stood, watching the frown in his face as he read her message. She clicked her head, beckoning him outside.

Even he can't fathom the fire storm that was about to come his way.

Author's Notes 2: Thank you for your continued reading! 💖 How do you think things will go down next? Let me see your reactions on your comments and reblogs!

Tag list: @adiehardfan @pixelnutrookie @starryjieun @latinagiraffe @sarcastic01lily @spookycolorpeanut @ophrookie @suitfer @thegreentwin @mkatschoicesblog @made-of-roses @lillijill

@choicesficwriterscreations

[nh20tensin]

Telling the AoT boys you love them for the first time.

⚠️There should be little too no spoilers⚠️

Mostly fluff

Gn reader

None of this is has been proof read

Ft. Levi Ackerman,Connie springer,Armin arlert

Levi Ackerman

We all know that this man is touch-starved so it was hard enough for him to let you even Remotely close in anyway

He would probably deny the fact that he care for you

He wouldn’t know that he loved you till  you said something about it

It was a cleaning day you decided to help Levi and his squad clean (this man forced you to clean)

You didn’t mind I mean as long as you were with him

You knew you loved him for some time,you just didn’t know how to tell him or in fear that he would hate you(who knows why he would) but you only thought about worst case scenarios

“Oí “

“.....”

“Oí”

“....”

“BRAT”

“Huh?”

“What the hell are you doing”

You gave him a confused look

He points down to your feet

You were sweeping with the dust collector facing the opposite way so that no dust is going into the pan

“Oh shit sorry”

“Just pick it up “Levi spoke

The rest of the day went by

It was dinner time you Decided to sit with eren,Armin,jean,and Connie

(The girls where training)

“Yo is she even listen to us “ a buzz-cut boy said

“ probably not” said Jean

Eren threw a small carrot at you

“😐”

“You were zoning out” a blonde boy said

“I’m not really myself right now....I’m going to go to bed”

They all nodded and told you goodnight and bye

On your way to your room you bumped into hange

“AHHH SORRY IM IN A RUSH” they said

“It’s alright are you ok?”

“I’m fin-“

They stoped talking you gave them a confused look

“Why’d you sto-“

They put a finger on over your mouth

5 mins pass the finger hasn’t left

“Sorry i thought I heard something ”

The finger moved

“Thought you where in a rush “you said as you walked hange followed

“Never mind that what’s up with you?”

“Nothing.............How do I tell someone I love them”

(Ofc you would eventually regret asking hange but desperate times call for desperate measures😪)

“oh”

“Oh” 

“OOHHH”

“YOU LOVE LEV-“

You cover their mouth

“Shut up or I will Carve ur eyes out”

Hange nodded

“Will if you really Want my opinion....just don’t make it a big deal”

“Why Not”

“You shouldn’t have to make it special ,anyway if you really do love him and just tell him “

Knowing Levi he would hate it if you made it a big deal so you took the advice and made up your mind

One week passed and you finally thought of the perfect way to tell him

You would make him his favorite tea(you aren’t allowed to make his tea considering you suck at it)

” what did you do” he said in a stern voice

You walk over to his desk and sigh

“ I have something to tell you and besides my tea skills aren’t that bad”

“ last time I drank it I ended up in bed for a week”

“I promise it’s better just trust me” 

He reluctantly put the cup to his mouth and drank

“I love you “you said

He almost sit out his tea he didn’t know what to say or do

How could someone so perfect love someone so....him

“What did you say” he said

You repeated yourself

You climbed in his lap

“I love you Levi Ackerman “

God he loved the way you said his name

He didn’t know what to say but what he did say broke your heart

“Why” he said in a voice below a whisper

“What do you mean why?”

His hand found his way to your waist his face hidden in the crook of your neck

“Why me ?”

You knew he could get insecure but it still hurt

“ Levi I knew from the minute I saw you that I would love you for the rest of my life and I don’t wanna rush you to say back to me because quite frankly I know how hard it is for you but I’m telling you now because this is how I feel you are the one for me no one else do you understand me please say you do”

All memories he thought he forgotten about his mother came flooding back in

And you could’ve sworn you felt a tear but when you looked there was nothing

He looked dead in your eyes and said

“I love you too” in a very soft voices he gave you a rare smile

You brought him in for a very long and meaningful kiss

“Hange Made the tea by the way “

“I know”

Connie springer

 A relationship with this man can be one of two things very fun and chaotic or more serious and loving

Which ever version you happen to be in it won’t matter because it will always be happy

“Hey Connie have you told y/n you love them yet”

He froze up and realized that he never actually told you though he was in love with you he just never thought about telling you because he thought you knew

“What’s it you you horse face”

“Nothing....it’s just The two of you have been dating for six months I’d start to feel a little self-conscious if you asked me”

“Well I didn’t so stop “

Jean and Sasha stay laughing

“CADETS IN LINE” Levi yelled

The next day

“Hey Armin if I hypothetically possibly maybe was in love with someone how would I tell them?”you said while looking at the ground

“ well it really just depends on the person and how far along in the relationship you are with them I can’t really help you how to tell them but I sure can encourage you”

You roll your eyes and sigh

“Thank anyways”

You walk back inside considering you were training outside with Armin(obviously beat him because you’re a bad ass)

You ran into Connie right now I’m going inside you both fell to the ground stared at each other and started laughing like you’ve never laughed before you were mainly laughing because you were nervous as hell to tell him you loved him he was laughing because he loves the smile that was on your face

you both helped each other get back up Connie looked at you and ask

“were you training”

“ depends what answer do you want to hear”

“....”

“....”

“Fine I was “you admit

“ it’s 11 at night”

“ and your point is”

” at the rate you’re going you’re going to end up dead by the time you’re 25”you said sarcastically

“ as if you’d be able to live without me though”

You froze didn’t know what to say or do you just nervously laughed it off and walked away

 he looked at a very confused but I thought you needed space considering you just got done training it was dark out you’re probably tired he thought

It’s around two in the morning you wake up something inside you just burst so you get up out of your room and find your way to Connie‘s room you knock fiercely

“ Open the door Baldy”you say sternly but in the soft voice

“ what are you doing it’s like two in the morning you should go to sleep “he said while opening the door

you force yourself into his room and sit down on his bed

He followed you confused on why you were here but he just stared at you not wanting to say anything basking in your beauty

“ Connie I’m about to say something that I might regret well not regret but do you know where I’m going with us”

“Huh”

“I love you “

his eyes shoot open he thought this has to be a dream right there’s no way that this is real

You pinch his arm so he knows he’s not dreaming

“ say it again”

He couldn’t help but smile so much that he felt like his face was gonna melt

At first he thought he was looking at you in disgusted minutes later it was a face of happiness and he was proud in his own kind away

“I L/N F/N AM IN LOVE WITH YOU CONNIE SPRINGER”

“ I love you too but you know I was supposed to tell you first”

“Oh?”

“ this whole thing with Jean and Sash and our relationship”

“It’s.a long story” 

He brought you in for a tight hug that ended up in a very intense make out session

The both of you woke up in his bed in the morning he looked at him and he woke up

“I love you”

“I love you”

You both said in unison and you ended up laughing you both really did love each other and it was a funny love story . 

Armin arlert

As smart as Armin is he has no idea what to do when it comes to a relationship

True he wants to give you all the love in the world but he’s clueless when it comes to things like that but he will know when he’s in love with you

He will go to Mikasa, Eren,hell even Levi if he will listen

“ listen kid I don’t know what to tell you all right do you love them just tell them I don’t see what’s wrong with it”Levi said while drinking tea

“ but sir it’s not that easy what if they doesn’t feel the same way”Armin spoke

Levi sighs not really knowing what to do

“ The two of you are dating right so of course they feel the same way”

“Damn kids and their commitment issues”he muttered under his breath

Armin saluted him before exiting the room

His mind was in 1000 different places having no idea what to say to you so we did the next best thing any person would

He ignored you

(Asshole)

He didn’t want to ignore you or make you feel bad he’s just caught up in his own brain to actually think about anything

It’s been a week since you guys last talk

“ i’m sure he doesn’t hate you he’s been ignoring us to” eren said

Mikasa nodded

“ it’s been a week did I do something wrong is he mad at me?”

“ even if he was he wouldn’t take it out on all of us at the same time” Mikasa stated

you take a deep breath and sigh

“ The both of us will try and figure out what’s happening OK can’t promise you like the answer though” eren said

“Ok...”

The both of them left the room

Little did you know Armin was listening in the whole conversation he wanted to make it up to you just didn’t know how

” I don’t hate them” armin said

Eren then said “ then why are you ignoring them and us they don’t deserve this”

Eren was pissed off because he knew how much you were hurting

“ seriously Armin there’s no need to lie you’re mad at her just tell them I’m sure they will understand besides you’re also ignoring us did we do anything?” The tall girl spoke

“I love them”

“😮” Mikasa and eren

They spent the rest of the day talking about his feelings and how he should make it up to you or more importantly tell you

“ just follow us it’s not a trap or anything”eren said (this bitch it was FYI)

Mikasa used her scarf to cover up her giggles

“ can I just sleep in peace”

“NO!”

You couldn’t really tell who said it as you saw Armin standing right in front of you

You turn around to see no one‘s behind you those bastards left the room before you could even check

“ look if you’re mad at me I don’t know what I did but I don’t really feel like talking anymore I just want to go to bed please”

“Wait now please I’m sorry i’ve had a lot on my mind I just needed time on my own”

“ and you couldn’t tell me or let me know not even Eren or Mikasa you’ve noticed all week do you know how bad I felt thinking that I did something wrong ”

There was a moment of silence you saw that look in his eyes the one that made you fall madly in love with him you couldn’t be mad at him you loved him and everything you were pissed about steered clear

“ I love you more than I probably should if you were anybody else I’d probably kill you right now”

He looked up from the ground he was staring at

“What “

it didn’t take him long to understand the situation

“I love you too in fact I love you more that’s what I’ve been thinking about all week and how to tell you”

You both ran to each other in a hug tears falling down his eyes making you want to cry as well you really did love each other

The next day

“ i’m guessing you finally told them” Levi said

“ yes Captain thank you for your advice” as he saluted him

“ don’t thank me you’re the one who grew a pair and finally told them”



[ultimatetornshipper]

Steam

A lot of facts could be seen as only opinions. A lot of facts could be seen as flexible depending on one's experiences and perspectives. Facts could change and facts could be more than just the part of it that you're made aware of.

Blossom knew this.

But there was one simple fact that would remain the same for all of eternity.

Blossom Utonium hated Brick Jojo.

And he hated her.

Nothing, NOTHING would change this simple fact. They were natural enemies, opposites made to challenge and contradict one another.

It was simple.

Key word being was.

It's easier to hate and despise one another when your siblings weren't all friends and dragging the two of you along every chance they got.

It's easier to hate one another when your morals are directly clashing on a weekly basis.

Yeah, they still didn't exactly agree on a lot of moral questions but the boys aren't really evil anymore either.

But when the boys stole something the girls would fight them, take it, arrest them, they'd escape and everyone would let bygones be bygones.

By everyone she meant the blues and the greens.

She was pretty sure Brick was the only one who actively wanted to still do that stuff and Boomer and Butch just followed his lead. Or maybe Mojo still had something on them. She couldn't be sure, but the point was that they still committed crimes and that was illegal so it was their job to stop them.

And she wasn't stupid, she knew full well that she and Brick were the only ones who weren't pulling their punches and treating it all like a game.

So like she said. It was simple.

Until her sisters decided to make it complicated by befriending their rivals.

Blossom despised complicated social situations.

In any other context she could handle complicated. Fights? Sure. Science? She adored it. Books? What other kind is there?

But in group and friend dynamics? It annoyed her more than yarn catching on her nail, more than nails on a chalkboard, more than a dirty, uncleanable chalkbo-

It annoyed her a lot.

Why? Because it created situations like the one she was in right now.

Where her sisters and their counterparts were play fighting and joking around while she and Brick maimed eachother.

And it was always followed by a lecture by Bubbles on how she was too hard on him and Buttercup telling her to chill out while Brick and his stupid smug smirk would mock her and wouldn't leave her alone and how his red hair would be messy afterwads and half out of his ponytail and wisps falling into his face surrounding his gorge-

No.

She flew up to dodge a kick and landed behind him, pushing him forward so that he lost his balance.

She was fighting him right now. She couldn't think about his eyes or his pink lips forming a smug little grin and how she just wanted to kiss that stupid little smile off of his dumb face-

She froze in shock.

Kiss Brick?

Since when had that been an option?

She felt him get a hit in her stomach and her bottom collided with the ground.

She shook herself out of it. Later. She could analise... whatever this was... later.

She started getting up but suddenly he was straddling her waist and pinning her hands down above her head.

She stared at him in silence for a few seconds, because he was really close now and she could see the light freckles dancing across his nose up close and-

Bad Blossom! Now is not the time! You hate him, you despise him, he is the enemy! Stop checking out the guy you're fighting!

He smirked down at her victoriously, "At a loss for words, eh, Pinky?"

She felt him lower his guard and loosen his grip and quicker than lightning she flew out beneath him.

What in the name of Einstein was wrong with her?

She flew quickly and as high as the tallest building in Townsville, then she stopped and turned around and the handsome bastard was right there in front of her-

Wait a minute- handsome?!

Blossom needed to lie down.

Sadly, he seemed determined to keep this going.

They traded blows and each time he said something she didn't reply.

She was too busy freaking out about the fact that she had not only wanted to kiss him but also mentally referred to him as handsome and what the actual frickty frack?!

"What's wrong Bow Pink? You're awfully quiet today, afraid me and my brothers are finally gonna beat you and your sheep?" Brick taunted.

Blossom's brain with all its genius level intellect then decided that the only way to deal with whatever was happening to her heart was to stuff it in a jar and bury it deep, deep down and pretend it wasn't real.

She hated him.

He hated her.

That was a fact that couldn't and wouldn't ever change.

So she did what she did best.

She riled up Brick Jojo.

"I'm not the one here with sheep, Rock," she said mockingly.

He narrowed his eyes, throwing a punch that she quickly dodged, "Oh now she speaks?"

"You finally said something worth replying to. Though I must say, Rick, I'm disappointed, I can't believe you've been reduced to using puns," she replied, kicking his side and pulling away quick enough that he couldn't grab her leg.

"It's Brick and you know it, and don't pretend you don't pun, Pinky, we both know that's a lie," he said with a small growl in his voice. Dodging her once more.

"I still think your insult was just some good old projecting. Clearly if one of us have sheep it's you. My sisters fight of their own violation," she taunted, smirking. He grabbed her and they wrestled midair, each one gaining and then losing the upperhand.

Suddenly they pulled apart, flying in circles, eyeing one another. They were both panting, clearly out of breath.

Anyone could sense the electricity crackling through the air from a mile away. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that her siblings and their counterparts have stopped fighting and were now eyeing their leaders wearily.

She'd deal with it later.

She turned her full attention back to the man in front of her as the silence grew sharper.

His shirt had small tears in places, his hair was all over the place and he sported a few new injuries. She was certain she was in a similar state.

"They choose to fight," he broke the silence, glaring at her, "I don't force them to do anything they don't want to. I don't control them,"

The sharp, delicate silence fell apart and she felt her temper flare. The electricity turned to fire and she launched herself at him and felt her eyes heat up.

"The only reason for that is the fact that you're too busy being controlled," she screamed.

She could almost taste his fury at her words and their fight went to a whole new level.

Neither of them held back anything as they shot lazerbeams and went for one another unlike ever before.

She pushed him against a building, trapping him. And for a moment they locked gazes and time froze. The anger and frustration and denied attraction flared between them like a wild electric cable, their faces only inches apart.

"Are either of us really in control, Pinky? Or are we all just the result of someone else's choices?" he whispered harshly as they gazed into one another's eyes.

She felt her guard lower only for a split second before he grabbed her and pushed her against the building.

"But then again," he said quietly, and she felt his breath mingle with her own, "maybe if we want control we need to take it ourselves,"

He closed the distance between them and she only felt his fire approach for a second before she reacted with her ice.

So that's the was he wanted to play this?

She deepend the kiss and poured all her hatred and love and frustration and attraction into it.

She bundled up his shirt in her hands and felt his own get tangled in her hair. She faintly heard his hat fall to the ground not too far below.

Yet she couldn't care less as she kissed him the way she'd never allowed herself to kiss anyone before for fear of their life.

But she could do this with him because he could counter her perfectly.

He really was her opposite, huh?

Then she registered the fact that the air around them was slightly more humid than before.

She ignored it though, because this was the best kiss she'd had in... well, ever, and she was not going to pull away because as soon as she did that it would be over and it wouldn't happen again because now that they knew that it didn't-

Blossom felt him pull her closer and pushed all her previous thoughts away. She'd worry later, for now she just allowed herself to disappear into the kiss.

A few minutes later she became aware of a rather large amount of water hitting her.

They pulled away from one another in search of the source.

She quickly noticed that Brick was in a similar state as her and they turned to find their siblings staring at them.

Bubbles was holding the hosepipe that was likely the source of the water and Buttercup handed Butch 20 dollars.

"Really?" Her black haired sister asked, "You couldn't have waited just three more days for your murder make out session?"

"Our what?" she asked while Brick replied with a simple, "Fuck you,"

"Actually, Brick, you've got the wrong sister, I'm Buttercup, the one you wanna fuck is in your arms, her name is Blossom," Buttercup replied slowly, in a mocking tone of voice.

The red heads turned to look at each other and when they noticed their proximity, they jumped away from one another like the other had the plague.

Brick turned to them, "I was trying to kill her!"

And Blossom followed suit, "And I was just defending myself!"

"Nothing else!" They said at the same time.

Bubbles rolled her eyes and Boomer smirked. Butch waved them away, "Don't worry we have a completely different bet for when you two will acknowledge and accept your feelings for one another,"

"Yeah, and I can still win it!" Buttercup agreed.

"Feelings? What feelings?!" Blossom screamed, "Bubbles, tell Buttercup she's being ridiculous,"

Bubbles rised an unimpressed eyebrow, "Bloss, you're both redder than Brick's cap,"

"And you just spent 10 minutes making out so much that literal steam started surrounding you," Boomer snickered.

No matter how much Blossom or Brick denied it, no one in all of Townsville believed their denial after that day.

Buttercup won the second bet.

Approximately 3 months after what was dubbed their first Murder Makeout session the two finally confessed to one another.

Those 3 months are another story entirely.

But it was this that proved to Blossom that truly no fact was concrete, facts changed and facts expanded. Facts were flexible depending on your experience and perspectives.

And the fact was that while once upon a time, maybe Blossom did hate Brick and maybe Brick did hate Blossom, things changed.

But that mutual hatred melted away into something new, something beautiful, something flexible.

Something a little bit like steam.

Authors note:

Inspired by this post

I don't plan to continue this but if someone wants to continue or expand this idea or world like tag me I'd love to read it

Thanks to @maltrashdump for coming up with this idea, I love it, hope u enjoy my version of it

Also sorry for not putting a read more thing I'm on mobile atm

[marshmallow-phd]

Innocent Intentions

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Supernatural, Wolf Au

Pairing: Tao x Reader

Summary: There was one thing you couldn’t stand in all your years at college: playboys. And the campus was riddled with them. So when Tao - a player with a particularly well-known reputation - inserts himself into your life, you come up with a plan to get rid of him, whether he makes your heart race or not. But the more he’s the around, the more you just might find there’s a hidden layer underneath all the rumors, including a secret you never could have guessed….

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11 I 12 I 13 I 14 I Final

**

“Honey? (y/n), honey, are you feeling any better?

You groaned, flipping over to your stomach to bury your face in the musky smelling pillow. The scent filled your nose and you smiled happily to yourself. Cold fingers brushed up against your forehead, making you shiver. Reluctantly, you peeled open your eyes to see your mom hovering over you from the back of the couch.

“Hey, there, sleepyhead,” she giggled at you.

With another groan, you pushed yourself up to a sitting position. Did you dream that whole thing with Tao?

No. The bowl of soup was still sitting on the coffee table and your brain was connecting the smell left behind on the fabric of your pillow to the scent that you’d picked up on Tao’s shirt. Where the hell did he go?

“I’m glad you finally got some sleep,” your mom stated as she started for the kitchen. “Do you want me to warm this broth up for you?”

“No, that’s okay,” you said loudly before a yawn stretched out your face.

The fact that your mother wasn’t questioning another person being in her house while she was gone must have meant that Tao left before she arrived. But did he leave because she came home? Or was it because you falling asleep with your arms wrapped around him was already making him uneasy? You snorted to yourself. If it was the latter, then this whole “scaring him away” tactic might be easier than you thought.

However, you were going to have to be careful. You fell asleep too easily in his arms. Sure, it could be blamed on the fact that you were sick and your body was already exhausted so that sleep was inevitable, but you’d been trying to sleep all day and nothing – not even the strong cold medicine – had knocked you out. The way your head just seemed to fit so comfortably against his chest… admittedly, it scared you a bit. You liked it too much.

You’ll be happy when he’s out of your hair, you told yourself. Your life was perfectly fine before you’d ever heard the name “Tao” and it would be perfectly fine after he was long gone.

But a nagging feeling still pulled at your stomach, so you did what came naturally to you once you came to a dilemma, and turned to your mother for help.

When you shuffled into the kitchen – hesitating almost as if you didn’t want her to spot you – your mother was getting started on dinner for her and your father, the broth sitting in a plastic container off to the side and away from the heat.

“Did you change your mind about the soup?” your mother asked as you sat down at the kitchen island.

You shook your head. “No, I’m okay for right now.” After that, you didn’t elaborate, instead swirling your finger around on the shiny, smooth granite, drawing nonsensical pictures out of the different colors.

Knife in hand, your mother set up her chopping board and began to dice the tomatoes and peppers laying off to her left. “Is something bothering you, sweetie?”

Darn that motherly intuition.

“No,” you replied automatically. But that was dumb and counter-intuitive to your object. “Actually, yeah….”

Your mother snickered at your hesitancy. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You blew a raspberry before finally giving in. “Yeah, kind of. I guess….” But there you went, stopping yourself again. Whimpering, you let your head fall down to the counter with a muffled thump.

“Oh goodness,” your mother laughed. “This must be serious. I haven’t seen you this flustered since you found out you had to kiss Devon Trinket in that school play.”

At the mention of your high school theater days, you snapped your head up, eyes narrowed at her for daring to bring that up.

Drama was just supposed to be a fun extracurricular activity that didn’t involve sports in any way. And you enjoyed it, whether you were behind the scenes or on the stage. But the fact that your first kiss had to be fake and on display for the audience to see had been mortifying. Up until that opening night, you’d come up with every excuse to not have to kiss him – from a cold sore to a particularly smelly lunch – but the inevitable could not be avoided forever. To this day, you cringed at how unromantic and awkward it had been. There was supposed to be a silent pact within the family to never mention it again, but apparently your mother had forgotten that.

“What’s on your mind, sweetie?” your mother asked in a more serious tone.

“Well-” How the hell were you supposed to explain this? “There’s this guy….”

Your mother’s eyebrows jumped right up to her hairline. “A guy?” She teasingly felt your forehead. “Wow, you must be sick.”

“Stop,” you whined as you pushed her hand away. “I’m being serious.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she sighed as she patted your head. Even as you were about to graduate college, she still treated you like her little girl, teasing and affectionate gestures and all. “So, is this a guy you have feelings for?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” you countered quickly. “But… he did say that he likes me. Very bluntly, actually.” That had certainly never happened to you before. There was an incident where one of you classmates in your second year of high school had slid you a note, but since you didn’t feel the same way, you took the awkward way out and just pretended that it never happened. He never said anything to you again about it either, so it was probably for the best.

“And you’re not sure that you like him back?”

You shook your head. “I don’t. I know I don’t like him. Or… at least, I don’t think I do. I don’t know him well enough. But I do know that he’s a total player. Like, his reputation is infamous on campus.”

“And so you don’t know if he was being sincere when he told you?”

You nodded. “I mean, it seemed sincere, but I don’t know how good of an actor this guy is. I could just be another notch in his belt and I refuse to allow myself to become a laughing stock.”

With sympathetic eyes, your mother smiled at you. Unfortunately, that look didn’t seem to be meant for you. “I’m not going to say that a guy can meet a girl and just magically change. I will never say that… but, you are very special, love, with a warm heart. It’s possible that – while not completely changed – he might have genuine feelings for you.”

“So you want me to just dive head first into this thing?” you exclaimed.

“No, no,” your mother chuckled. “I’m saying don’t completely dismiss him. Keep him at arm’s length, but maybe also give him a chance to try. You might be surprised. Guard your heart, but let him show you his. If he ends up not being genuine, then you do what you do best – pick yourself up, brush it off, and hold your head high.”

You let out a long sihg, taking in every word.

She had a point. She had several points, actually. And – at a base level, at least – she was basically telling you to do what you’d already decided on.

Okay, so the whole you kind of overdoing it and making him feel trapped in a committed relationship until he ran for the hills thing didn’t exactly line up with what your mother was saying, but still. She was telling you to let him try. So, you would. But there was no way in hell Kendall was to find out about this. At all. Even if you tried to explain that you weren’t really seeing Tao like that, she’d explode. Her feelings were hurt easily whether she pretended to be over something or not and in the long run, you’d rather have your friend than a boyfriend who’d just leave anyway.

As you slipped off the stool and gave your mother a hug, your mind was swirling in every direction. For now, you decided it was best to not dwell on it in your current sickly state. Trudging back to the living room to maybe try and go back to sleep, you couldn’t help but think about how sweet Tao had been towards you. Being babied and fussed over was something you hated and yet, you let him do exactly that. And you kind of liked it. Even now, the thought of him holding you while you drifted off to sleep was making your cheeks warm.

You were absolutely losing it.

**

You were not the least bit surprised when you walked into the lab and saw Tao’s name scribbled in for your entire session for the day. What did surprise you, however, was the fact that he was early, already sitting at the table, book cracked open and eyes scanning the page. Or at least, he was making it look like he was reading the book. You couldn’t be too entirely sure whether he was really studying or not.

Whoa. You took a metaphorical step back. Was that too harsh? Thinking that he most likely was just pretending to be looking over the textbook instead of actually reading it? Did you already have that bad of an impression of him?

To be honest, Tao didn’t seem as lost as the other students you’d helped in the past. From what you experienced during your last session, after you explained it once at a slower pace than the teacher normally would, he seemed to understand and you moved on to the next section. Was he-

Shaking your head, you started towards the table. Whatever. He could do what he wanted. You got a small check from it anyway.

“Are you feeling better?” Tao asked in a warm voice as you sat down next to him.

You nodded, keeping your eyes down as you pulled the textbook closer to you. “Yeah, much better.”

“Good.”

Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, you fought against the urge to smile. Tao’s voice conveyed a relief at your acknowledgement of getting over whatever ailment you had as if you’d just gone through a major surgery without any hiccups. It was just the flu. And he was the one who ditched you while you were sleeping.

“Why did you leave without waking me up?” you snapped, a little more forceful than you’d anticipated it being. You weren’t hurt that he didn’t say goodbye… not at all! It definitely wasn’t something you found yourself stewing over throughout the weekend.

Indifferent, (y/n). You’re supposed to be indifferent.

“I didn’t think that’d be the best way for me to meet your mom,” Tao smirked.

You let out a fake laugh. “Are you insinuating that at some point you’ll be meeting my parents?”

He shrugged. “It’s bound to happen at some point, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” you scoffed. He would never get that far. Right? “Okay, homework time.”

“That’s right,” Tao shifted his chair so he was angled more towards you, “you’re stuck with me for the next three hours.”

A triumphant smile flashed across your face. “Actually, our session’s being cut in half today. I have to leave before three.”

Tao’s face fell, a strangely cute pout forming on his lips. “What? Why?”

“Since I was sick last Friday, I’m picking up a few extra hours at the shelter,” you explained. When he huffed at the statement, you rolled your eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ve already signed up for my entire slot on Friday.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Now it was your turn to be confused. “Wait. What?”

Chuckling, Tao leaned in close to you. “Gonna miss me if I decide to skip?”

With a single index finger against his forehead, you pushed Tao back until he was out of your bubble again. “No, not really. In fact, I think it’ll be kind of nice.”

Grumbling under his breath, Tao turned to the textbook and started reading aloud. You pressed your lips together tightly to keep from laughing. This constant push-pull, rile each other up contest going on between the two of you was becoming a little too much fun. Tao’s reactions to your rejects and dodges were the best entertainment you’d come across in a long while.

For the next hour and a half, the focus remained on the homework that Tao was supposedly struggling with. As time went on, Tao didn’t seem to be putting in much effort into pretending he didn’t get it. In fact, at one point, you found a problem that was done so perfectly that you’d just assumed it was done wrong and ended up with an incorrect answer yourself. Tao grinned brightly, but if any sarcastic remarks were bouncing around in his head, he kept them to himself.

It was strange, how much you were actually hating the fact that the minutes clicked closer to the time you needed to leave. This was definitely a side of Tao that you enjoyed. With him being… normal, not flirty or overly caring or snarky. Just being himself.

Or what you hoped was himself.

“Tao? What the hell are you doing in here?”

Both of your heads jerked up at the intrusion, Tao’s face remaining stoic and uninterested while your own pinched in confusion.

A very tall, leggy, super-model-type girl who you vaguely recognized as one of the volleyball players was standing on the other side of the table, hand on her jetted-out hip. There seemed to be an air of superiority radiating from her, but more than likely that was you and your ill-conceived prejudices projecting it on her. For all you know, she was probably a very nice person. However, you kind of wanted her to go away.

“What do you mean, Anica?” Tao asked. His voice was lower than normal, almost growl-like. “I’m here to get a better understanding of my mathematics lesson.”

“Since when do you need help with math?” the volleyball player named Anica snapped back. “You aced every test last semester even after spending the entire night with me.” A feline-like smile curved up one of the corners of her lips as she leaned in extra close to Tao as if you were completely invisible. “Speaking of which, I kind of miss those nights. And it’s not volleyball season anymore, so I’m free any time.”

Tao seemed completely unfazed. “Not interested.”

Anica straightened up with a huff. Her eyes zeroed in on the lack of space between you and Tao. “So, what? You’re sinking this low now? Whatever.” She turned her icy stare towards you. “Have fun screwing Tao. Just don’t expect much once he drops you. Poor thing gets bored very easily.”

Tao’s chair nearly flung across the room as he jumped up to his feet, a strange growl rumbling in his chest. Anica blinked, a little bit of fear in her eyes, but not as much as you conveyed. You wouldn’t even had thought it possible for Tao to explode like that. While her words certainly cut deep, there was no faliable reason for Tao react in this way. Anica rolled her eyes before walking away.

You wasted no time gathering up your notebook and papers, shoving them into your bag and rising to your own feet. You didn’t want to be here anymore. Not even looking at Tao, you started for the door.

“(y/n), wait!”

Tao caught up to you, blocking your way to freedom from this embarrassing scene. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the other students sneaking glances at the piece of entertainment happening in their vicinity.

“Move,” you ordered through clenched teeth. “I have to get to the shelter. I’m going to be late.”

“Listen to me first-”

But you had no intentions of listening to whatever nonsense he was about to spout out. You managed to squeeze through the space between Tao and the door frame, out into the hallway where you were practically running across the tile.

Tao didn’t catch up to you until you jumped into your car, roaring the engine to life. He slapped his hand against the window, calling out your name repeatedly. He just wouldn’t give up, would he?

You sped off, tires squealing and vehicle vibrating as you headed out of the parking lot, probably cutting off a few other motorists who really had the right-of-way. When you reached the shelter, you killed the engine and fell back into your seat, releasing all the tension that you’d been storing in your muscles with a heavy sigh. What Anica said really shouldn’t be bothering you like this. But it just made the whole ordeal with Tao even more confusing.

Why had he honed in on you? You weren’t anything like any of the girls he’d supposedly been with in the past. Hell, you weren’t even like Kendall. So why did he target you? If this was really some game, then you just wanted him to stop. You wanted him to go away. Because keeping him at arm’s length, staying guarded and not giving in trusting him completely was becoming too hard.

You just didn’t know how to handle something like this. You weren’t equipped with the tools to navigate this sort of board game; you were hardly good at checkers and so far this felt like the world championship of chess that you were just thrown into as a last minute replacement. All the pieces were in Tao’s hands and you had no idea what your next move should be. Running away seemed like your only option. Being done with the whole seemed to be the only way to save yourself.

Letting out another sigh, you took the keys out of the ignition and willed yourself to out of the car.

“So, are you ready to listen now?”

“Shit!” You jumped at the sound of Tao’s voice coming from behind you.

He was leaning against the hood of a red convertible that definitely didn’t belong to any of the employees inside the shelter. Why were you not surprised at his car of choice?

Out of pure instinct, you looked around the parking lot, knowing full well where he came from, but still stunned at his presence. “Did you seriously follow me all the way here?”

“Yes,” Tao stated before pushing off the hood and stalking up to you. “Because you need to know that Anica is full of crap. Did we hook up once or twice? Yes, but that has nothing to do with us now.”

“Us?” you scoffed. “Tao, there is no us. I was tutoring you in math, but you obviously don’t need the help. If you keep insisting that you need help, then I know several other tutors in the math lab that have open slots.” Not wanting to hear any sort of response, you turned on the balls of your feet and headed for the entrance. But Tao stopped you with a hand around your upper arm, whirling you back around.

“Whatever happened to giving me a chance to prove to you that I’m telling the truth?”

Teeth clenched and fists balled at your side, you snapped, “I’m done playing whatever kind of game you have going on, whatever fake intentions you have. There are plenty of other women on campus who will gladly take you back, go to one of them!”

“I’m not playing a game! My intentions are sincere!” But even at his own insistence, he let you go, telling you that maybe he wasn’t as in this as he was expressing in the moment. Until he passed you and walked right up to the shelter’s front doors.

Now it was your turn to stop him. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What do you think you’re doing?”

He smirked at you, leaning in close with his gaze steadily on yours. “Proving it.”

And then he just swung the door open and marched right on in. At least he waited for you in the hallway instead of waltzing in to a random classroom. He stayed close on your heels, not letting you get too far away. Fine. There wasn’t too much you could do about the situation, anyway.

When you walked into the room with Mrs. Choi and your favorite kids, you waited for the possible fallout of your unannounced visitor. Mrs. Choi was picky about the volunteers who worked in the shelter. She wanted to make sure they’d be good influences on the kids, leading them down productive paths and bettering themselves outside of their circumstances.

“Well, I don’t believe it,” Mrs. Choi gasped.

You cringed. “Mrs. Choi, I am so sorry-”

But she walked right on past you to Tao, throwing her arms around him and rocking him back and forth happily.

“Tao, you’ve grown up so much!” she chuckled. Pulling back, she kept her hands on his shoulders, staring up at him with pride-filled eyes. “Why haven’t you come to visit sooner?”

You stared at the two of them slack-jawed. This was so not happening right now.

“Oh, you know,” he shrugged shyly. “I went traveling for a bit, came back to finish school.”

“Well, at least you’ve finally came to say hi.” Mrs. Choi turned to you. “Do the two of you know each other?”

“(y/n)’s been helping me with homework,” Tao loosely explained.

Mrs. Choi was smiling more than you’d ever seen her do so before. “Oh, how nice! You are welcome to stay as long as you want. None of these kids were here when you last came by, but feel free to introduce yourself. And don’t be a stranger!” She looked to you. “(y/n), the kids are working on their multiplication tables if you want to go around and check their work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” you mumbled, walking off in a daze. Tao followed you and the children seemed to light up at the new potential. They were fascinated by the blonde stranger who would crouch down to their level and genuinely listen to them as they rattled on their cute stories.

At one point, you were so engrossed in trying to explain how to find the multiples of nine on their fingers to a table of very excited and talkative children that you didn’t notice at first when Tao had walked away. It wasn’t until Tony kept looking over your shoulder at something that you noticed the absence.

Following Tony’s gaze, you gasped quietly. Tao was off in the corner of the room, slowly walking up to Daeyoung. You watched with anxiety-ridden nerves as he approached the boy, crouching down and waving.

Daeyoung ignored him at first, keeping his focus on the crayon on his hand as he drew random shapes on the construction paper. Instead of forcing a conversation, however, Tao simply picked up another crayon and started drawing on his own piece of paper. A few minutes went by of just the two of them coloring in their own separate worlds until Daeyoung picked up a pink crayon and handed it to Tao without a word. Tao thanked him and went on coloring.

Then Daeyoung pointed towards the door that lead to the playground outside. No one else was out there since recess time was long over and it would be another hour or so before free time started. Taking Daeyoung’s hand, Tao led him through the door. You jumped up and ran after them. Daeyoung was a delicate child and you were worried that he might go into one of his fits if Tao wasn’t careful. But as you leaned against the door frame, you stared in awe as Tao simply helped Daeyoung onto the swing and gently pushed from behind.

Fifteen or twenty minutes went by with you just standing there, watching the two of them play on the swing, Daeyoung even letting out a few giggles that you hadn’t heard before.

Mrs. Choi came up behind you and whispered, “He was always good with the kids who had special needs.” At your questioning look, she explained, “He used to volunteer here several years ago, when he was in high school. I think his older brothers wanted him to stay out of trouble. But I don’t think that boy could really get into anything bad. He’s too soft. His heart is too warm. He was always a little guarded, but it's nice to see him smile like that.”

“He has a nice smile,” you admitted a little shamefully.

“He’s a nice boy.”

There was no missing Mrs. Choi’s indication behind her words, but she walked away before you could reply. Perhaps… well, maybe she had a point. Seeing this side of Tao was throwing you off. When he declared that he’d prove to you that he wasn’t simply the playboy the rumors made him out to be, you didn’t think he’d actually succeed in doing it. And yet, here he was, showing you another side that you were finding attractive. Very attractive, indeed.

At the end of your shift at the shelter, you were still a little speechless at Tao’s ability to connect with Daeyoung so quickly, so easily. You hadn’t said a word to him when they came back inside just before free time, but he’d certainly caught you staring when he helped Daeyoung eat his dinner.

Outside, Tao stopped you before you could reach your car.

“Still think I’m a bad guy?”

You huffed, biting down on the inside of your cheek so harshly you were sure you’d draw blood. But you didn’t want to smile like the giggly school girl that was bouncing around in your mind at the moment. “I never used the words ‘bad guy’.” You kept your gaze down on your keys that you were fiddling with in your hands. “But that was really sweet how you spent time with Daeyoung.”

“He’s a good kid,” Tao smiled. “Smart, too. You just have to know how to communicate in their way.”

“Mrs. Choi said you’ve had a lot of practice with that.”

“Just a little.”

A silence fell between you two. What was supposed to happen now? You kind of wanted to get in your car so you could have room to breathe again, but you also wanted to stay right there with Tao.

Actually, you didn’t want to just stay there. You kind of wanted to hug him, placing your head against his chest again. He was melting you right there on the asphalt without even trying. But you fought the urge, surprising yourself at not giving in.

“(y/n)?”

You looked up at Tao. “Yes?”

With a hesitant hand, he reached up, the very tips of his thumb and fingers barely brushing against your cheek. His face lowered, coming closer to yours. Was he actually going to kiss you?

In a panic, you dropped your keys, quickly bending down to get them and dodging the possible lip-lock. Disappoint was evident all over his face, but he didn’t push or try again. No matter how sweet he’d been over the last few hours, you weren’t ready for that little step.

“I’ll see you later,” Tao sighed as he took a step back. “Drive safe.”

You nodded. “You, too.”

Shaking his head, Tao walked away and hopped over the door into the driver’s seat. Admittedly, that move kind of made your heart jump, but you were able to recover as he drove away.

It was time to be honest with yourself. You were falling for this boy. All it took was a few sweet moments and you were doomed. He was more determined than you’d previously thought. At this point, you didn’t think he’d run away as easily as you’d planned. And, staying on that honest train, you didn’t want him to run away. You wanted him to run towards you, only you.

Yeah, you were in trouble big time.

[alitheamateur]

The Grind- Chapter 16

Warnings: Language.

We parted ways in the café parking lot, only for a brief hour or so, giving me just enough time to swing by my building to swap into the proper apparel, and shove some small essentials into a ratty gym bag from high school.  I was whispering regretful murmurs to myself as I pulled into the lot of Temple Fitness.  I draped the bag over my shoulder, water bottle in hand, and hesitated towards the main entry. It was a newer structure, but it’s reputation of cleanliness, a well-stocked weight room, and a staff equipped to provide nearly any fitness services on the market had flourished by word of mouth throughout the tristate. The atmosphere of this establishment leaned way more pristine than the damp, mildewed basement ambiance at Mac’s place. Skylights haloed the front lobby with welcomed July sunlight, and I heard the whine of a juice machine in the corner where I turned to discover a small juice bar. Teal round arm sofas lined walls down each side, and what I would assume were artificial potted plants were carefully arranged about. Clearly, this place had a woman’s touch.  

“Hey Elliott, you showed,” I heard the familiar voice of the very person who had suckered me into this plan. “C’mon, I wanna introduce you to a few people.” 

She motioned me to follow, and we marched down a narrow, quiet hall that eventually opened up revealing what seemed to be a training room of some sort in the back of the building. There were a couple guys going through the motions of what my very amateur opinion would’ve gathered to be Muay Thai, or perhaps Jui Jitsu? I was clueless in that moment, but something told me by the time Tia and her crew were done with me, I’d be able to effortlessly distinguish the difference between the two, along with most likely being able to demonstrate them as well. I was lagging behind Tia’s strides trying to get a handle on all the yoga studios, and the saunas cutting the halls, as she greeted a woman, and two men she was waiting to introduce me to.

“Ok, so Austin, Cal, Willow, meet Liv,” she pointed down the line naming out the strangers. “Liv, meet my team.”

“Nice to meet you all,” I indirectly smiled, making friendly eye contact with each individual set of eyes, and wiping my clammy palms over the slick spandex of my joggers.

“I gave them a little play-by-play on our chat from lunch LC, and we decided it’d be best to stick you with Cal here first for a while. A while will be determined by how long you think you’re gonna stick this out, ya’ wuss. He’s my personal trainer. He’ll be essentially laying the ground work here to see what you’re made of. Doing some basic cardio, and weights, oh, and gettin’ a meal plan in place for you, too.” Tia’s laugh turned dark at her ending remarks, and mockingly menacing. She knew what a hopeless, dedicated foodie at heart I truly was, and that I wouldn’t take kindly to someone limiting my calorie and carb intake all the live long day. “How much do you weigh, anyhow?”

She didn’t waste any time, ay?

“Um, I don’t really know like, exactly. Around 130, I guess? And 5’3”.” I spoke back to the peanut gallery hanging on my every word.

“Okay, okay. So that’ll put her at bantamweight, I think. Right, Cal?” The sculped man towered over me by nearly a whole foot, dressed in black from dri-fit shirt to sneakers.

“That’s right. We’ll start there at least, then I’ll leave the final decision to you and Willow once you guys see what she can do in the ring. Liv, you feel comfortable with cutting some weight if need be?” Cal rubbed his palms flat together. These guys weren’t playing pretend with all this, it was clear. But, I elected if I was going to step into this world, I might as well commit fully, and skip the lazy dabbling. “You guys are the experts, I’m just the silly girl behind the computer.” I saluted them lightheartedly.

…….

The first two weeks I spent under the watchful eyes of Tia and her three ruthless minions wasn’t a walk in the park by any means, but I made it through with only two bouts of splintering muscle cramps, and one upchuck all over the crisp white tile floor of the weight room. My past in athletics familiarized me closely with cardio, so the 3 miles a day on the treadmill, along with 30 added minutes on the stair climber hadn’t killed me. Definitely wounded, and maybe caused me to develop asthma, but hadn’t killed me. My visits to the weight room however might as well have been sure fire, mortal combat. Cal had precisely mapped out a specific regime to suit me, and scheduled each day to target a specific area. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays were upper body strength, leaving us to work on muscles such as bicpes and traps, and some brutal core exercises as well. Wednesday and Friday, had very abruptly became the very most dreaded days of my always demanding week. Legs. Cal seemed to get particular delight in leg day. He and Tia would watch idly by and smile like Cheshire cats as I grunted, and sobbed my way through 3 sets of one-leg barbell squats, and 4 sets of lying leg curls.

“You’ll thank us when you’ve got a fine ass man pinned between those legs of steel, Liv.” Tia piped and cheered alongside Cal as he coached me through the punishing onslaught.

As much as I wanted to break both of their smiling jaws for dropping the bombs of leg day, I was very much mastering the 4,000 calories a day he’d laid out as my goal to keep building my muscle mass. It may not have been the ideal menu, but eating was one step in this whole process I felt I wouldn’t falter. I carried what felt like pounds of almonds in my purse to work daily, snacking them with the power bites I discovered online of peanut butter and oatmeal. I should’ve bought hefty amounts of stock in chicken farms considering the quantity of eggs I cooked for myself. Scrambled. Poached. Tia even pressured me into downing a raw one if I needed a quick intake.

My new team of the 3 amigos decided to settle with a game plan of at least a month of basic training with Cal before I was passed on Willow and her Muay Thia, and fight training. During the given time that had passed the first few sessions, I began to notice miniscule results as I dressed in front of my floor length mirror. Only a slight thigh definition, and a barely there tightening of fabric through the spans of my blouses over my biceps. I was happily surprised in the progress I was making in adventuring this previous unexplored territory. In the short days spent in shadowing Tia, the respect and admiration I already had for her, flourished immensely. And although I was losing sleep due to the nerves that had commenced in thinking about actually stepping into a sparring session possibly sometime sooner than later, was also a growing thrill in the thought as well. I contemplated what the danger, and power, and adrenaline, and ferociousness would feel like swimming through my own veins, and it caused carnal arousal to flicker to the center of my belly. I understood now the orgasmic energy of command that Tia and Colton must feel when they step toe-to-toe with an opponent.  The fuming high fell quickly at the thought of him. What would he think of me now? I blushed a little, and surging tears burned into my eyes wishing Colton was walking this quest at my side.

 It was day one of expedition with Willow and Tia on the mat. I made sure to fall into bed at a decent hour the Friday night before. We determined the Saturday day before a Monday holiday was the most appropriate day to dive into the more rigorous aspect of my training, in case I took a face to the mat, or hyperextended some sort of body part from incorrectly executing a kick to the punching bag. The long weekend would give me time to recover if necessary, and soak in lots of Epsom salt and ice baths, as Tia said I would definitely be needing it, along with making a trip to the market to hunt down some Turmeric, a natural inflammatory she suggested. I had taken a shopping trip earlier in the week only in search of some seemly attire for the kickboxing I gathered I’d be learning, and that particular morning I pulled on a thin gray spandex short, and tossed a lightweight zip up over my elastic sports bra. Chocolate almond milk protein shake in hand, I headed in pursuit of the Temple. It was barely 6 a.m., and traffic on the commute was next to none at this weekend hour, so the drive was soft and refreshing. The brown-noser in me, I arrived a little over half hour early, just minutes before Tia turned into the spot beside me. I gathered my necessities to head inside with her to the torture chamber, but halted opening my door when Tia jumped enthusiastically through my passenger side.

“Morning, you. Ready for this?” she sighed with a toothy grin.

“To be honest, I’m not really sure,” I cocked a look of genuine contemplation toward Tia. “But, I think I am. I mean, I’m excited, but I feel like a could hurl up those two raw eggs I smashed down this morning.”

“You’ll probably do that anyway before the day is done, my dear.” Swarms of busy butterflies flapped inside my nervous, roaring belly at her harsh truth.

“God, I saw Colt project some barely digested broccoli right in the face of his partner during an intense sparring session the before his championship match. I’ve hated the color green ever since.”

I reminisced aloud to my friend next to me swiping through her phone. She turned her attention to me at the mention of my missing other half.

“You heard from him lately? I mean, does he try to reach out to you?” she pried, more with concern than displeasure this.

“Nope, haven’t seen him since the conference that night. He doesn’t have any cards coming up though. News usually travels fast around the city when he’s got a fight. Why? I mean, is there something I shoud’ve heard?”

My peculiar, shaky tone didn’t go unnoticed by Tia, I’m sure. Did something happen? What had she heard, and why I hadn’t I heard it too?

“No. Not really, I guess. Cal…uh, he just mentioned that he ran into him at some bar last weekend. They apparently went to high school together, strangely enough.”

Then, she just, stopped. Didn’t make another peep, just peered blankly out the window, watching the parking spots fill up as the city woke up.

“Oh, gotcha. Well, did he say anything else? Like, did Cal talk to him? Was he alone, or…?” I was waiting timidly for my lecture, like a child who’d just said a curse word to their mother.

“He was with his trainer, and a couple other guys, Livvy. And yes, Cal said they talked briefly……” The look in Tia’s eye gave away that she had more to say, but she was stifling it with much reserve.“I don’t know that I should spill the rest though.” She chewed her lip.

“Oh no you don’t, ma’am! There’s no way you can’t finish what you started now. Go on.”

“I just, I don’t want you to get sucked in, Liv. You’ve seemed so clearheaded the last month. Happy, ya’ know? I don’t want you to get all heavy, and emotional again. You’ve worked hard to get things pretty close to normal.” She was fidgeting. The snarky, loud, poignant spitfire I knew, was brutally stammering on her words.

“Wait a minute, Tia. It wasn’t long ago that you told me, if I’m recalling right, that it was okay for me to love him still. You said that. Your words.” My rebuttal instantly sounded thornier than I had intended once I unleashed my tongue, but it was too late to pull it back in now, so I waited for her comeback.

Tia nearly snapped her head right off her shoulders when she threw her daggering eyes at me. “You’re right. And I meant that, but it doesn’t mean I want you running right back to him either, LC. He’s fucked up. That’s not news to you, or anyone else. He may have treated you like a queen in the beginning, but the way he dropped you, Liv? Damn it, you didn’t deserve that! I just don’t want it to happen again, okay?” Her angry, heeding eyes were visibly softening as she trailed on, the anxious hands that were nearly rubbing the hide right off her sculpted arms, had now slowed. “And I’m afraid once you hear all the shit he was talking to Cal about, you’ll peel outta this parking lot on two wheels to find him…” What could he have possibly said to my now trainer. I firmly settled on the fact that Colt must’ve been incredibly tanked for him to go spilling his feelings to some other dude in a bar. It was the only logic behind the scenario. He wasn’t the man always in touch with his feelings, and he certainly wasn’t the man to let outsiders be involved in his feelings. Unless his feeling being that he was seething, fuming and wanted to smash your orbital bone, he’d let you know that emotion one way or another. Rage and darkness were two emotions he was well acquainted with.

“Please, Tia. For the sake of my sanity, just tell me.” I took a much more pleading, and soft approach with her this time, partially because I felt shitty for being so short with her a moment ago, and partially because I knew she’d cave in.

“Cal just asked how he’d been since they hadn’t crossed paths in a while, then Colton dug into him about how he’d lost to Mendez, but he was keeping the ring hot with all the fights he’d had scheduled, the usual fighter talk, I guess. But apparently the small talk led to him asking Colt if he was with anyone, had kids, how his parents were doing, things like that…”

Okay, T, let’s get to the gist here.

“Cal said he went on for about 10 minutes, spilling about a girl he had fucked over, and he hadn’t been right ever since the whole thing went down. Said he scared the only good thing he ever had away, but she was probably better off. Something about him being too twisted, and mad all the time, and had too many issues to ever truly give any woman what she needed.”

Tia hadn’t looked at me until that second. She finished the details of what she knew, and now waited reluctantly to gauge my reaction. I could almost hear the prayers silently passing through her mind, hoping what she said hadn’t just sent me spiraling back into Colton Ritter’s black magic trance. I situated in the seat to face her, and nudged playfully at her left arm, I wanted to tell her that truth about how I felt hearing the news, and I intended to do exactly that. For the most part, at least.

“I mean, yeah, that tugs at my heart strings for sure. I wouldn’t be human if I said it wasn’t a relief to hear that the first man I ever loved, regrets stomping on my open heart then practically spitting on it. Yeah, it’s good to know he has the balls to finally say out loud what I knew was true all along. He did love me, and it scared the coward shit out of him. He let his emotions from the loss cloud his better judgment, and yours truly just happened to be the weakest link in the chain for him to place that anger on.”

I was muffling the cries I so, so desperately wanted to express, but I was finished, bound and determined to never shed another ounce of salty pain over him.

“BUT, he said those things to the wrong person, T. Where’s MY explanation? My closure? Colton Ritter is going to have to do a lot better than professing his apologies in regards to me, to some dude in a bar, babe. There’s a lot of love for him in here for that foolish asshole.” I stroked open palmed over my thrashing, unsteady heart, “but it’s been smothered and stoned with a harsh hatred. Hate that I don’t know will ever go away. And as long as I’m holding any hate for him, no amount of love can overtake that. And I won’t be with a man who I hold all this resentment toward.”

Tia seemed a bit cautious at my words, hasty to believe honestly what I had admitted to her, but her clouding anger seemed to have subsided.  

“Alright, alright. I’m gonna take your word for it. Only because I love you. And, as a matter of fact, I love you soooo much, that I’m ready to go inside and rip you to shreds in the ring with Willow. Hope you are your Wheaties this morning, Elliott. I’ve got 911 on speed dial for ya’.”

Tia exited the car as quickly, heading inside without so much as a glance back to me. I sat in the silence alone for a moment with the white noise. A smile had snuck like a thief in the night across my quivering lips. I’d never say it to Tia, or Sara, or anyone for that matter, but hearing then and there, receiving the needed conformation that Colton was still with me, heartstrings still intertwined with mine in a steadfast Fisherman’s Knot, made my body temperature rise with hope of what may come. But, the itching question of forgiveness was one that just wouldn’t go away.

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935

[katie-dub]

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year: My Festive Nemesis

“We both bumped into each other under some mistletoe and kissed but it turns out you’re the kid from third grade who would tie my shoelaces together and I still hate you for that”

Last year I wrote The Perfect Gift based on a mash up of Christmas is going terribly prompts and the lovely @kmomof4 begged me to write more of the prompts. I managed The Best Wrapper in the West and started this fic, but I didn’t finish it. So, just one year late, here it is Krystal!

AO3

Day 1 |  Day 2 |  Day 3 |  Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7

My Festive Nemesis

Emma had been at the Nolans’ Winter Wonderland party for an hour and a half when she spots him. A man so handsome he takes her breath away. (Although if questioned, she would blame the chocolate and cinnamon cocktail shots.) And as luck would have it, he was waiting under the mistletoe, with lips that were just begging to be kissed.

Normally she'd be deeply distrustful of anyone loitering under that fucking kiss trap, but honestly she was surprised she'd noticed it herself in amongst the wintery decor. Mary Margaret's decorations actually made Buddy the Elf’s seem tastefully understated and the whole room looked like a children's Christmas craft session gone horribly wrong. So yes, trawling for mistletoe kisses was usually a total turn off, tonight though, she saw nothing but opportunity.

She just had to get to him before anyone else did. She'd already spotted a potential threat at six o’clock, a petite blonde sending very appreciative looks at her target. She had to take action.

She locked eyes with him and noticed there was something strangely familiar about them. She dismissed the thought when she saw to her delight that he licked his lips at the sight of her. Emboldened, she marched right up to him, grabbed his lapels and dragged his lips down to hers.

She heard a little noise of surprise coming from him, but it didn't stop him from responding very enthusiastically.

She kissed him long and hard, at first determined to mark him as hers, but soon all conscious thoughts had melted from her mind. There was only this man and what he could do with his lips and his tongue.

When the need for air became too much, Emma reluctantly broke away from him. Although she stayed close, nuzzling her nose against his and opening her eyes just enough to note how overcome he was by her kiss.

“That was -” he panted, voice filled with awe.

“Traditional.”

He pulled back properly at that, clearly utterly bewildered. He quirked his head on one side, studying her face in confusion.

“I'm afraid I don't follow, love. It's your tradition to pounce on unsuspecting men?”

Emma giggled and pointed up at the mistletoe. She knew she was right about him. He followed the line of her finger then groaned when he finally saw it.

“Bloody hell.” He ran his hand through his hair, “how bloody sad and desperate must I have looked? I swear I didn't know it was there.”

“Oh I don't know, I saw at least one other girl eyeing you up. Really that kiss was a rescue mission, you never know who might’ve kissed you.”

“My saviour,” he murmured into her ear. His voice caused her heart to flutter. “Might I show my gratitude Miss -?”

He had paused expectantly, Emma suddenly realised he was reaching for her name.

“Swan. Emma. I'm Emma Swan.” she supplied, a little breathless from his close proximity.

He moved back, eyebrows shooting up in surprise, “Emma Swan?!”

“Er… yeah?” Emma suddenly felt incredibly awkward. This man whose eyes had been full of sin and desire were now filled with what looked suspiciously like recognition and delight.

“I'm Killian,” he laughed, “Killian Jones, from third grade. Remember me?”

Emma's eyes flashed indignantly, “you!” she hissed. She shoved him hard. “You were my nemesis!”

To her dismay he threw his head back and laughed at her. She shoved him again, irritated by his response.

“I realise I was a little unkind Swan, but I think that's needlessly melodramatic.”

“You tied my shoelaces together on my first day of school! It was bad enough that the teacher picked on me to “tell everyone about yourself”, but thanks to you I fell on my face and broke my nose! I had black eyes for weeks!”

He looked uncomfortable and scratched behind his ear sheepishly. “Aye. 8 year old me hadn't quite learned how to talk to girls he fancied.” Her eyes widened in shock, “Luckily for you that's all changed and I still quite fancy you, when you're not yelling at me, that is. You must allow me to make the proper reparations.” He leant down to kiss her again. She nearly fell for it, but snapped out of it at the last second and shoved him hard.

“Your lips are never touching mine again, buddy. You made 8 year old Emma’s life miserable and I owe it to her to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

He chuckled, “8 year old Emma has grown into a woman with quite the foul mouth on her. 28 year old Emma can surely find a better use for her lips than swearing at me?”

He raised an eyebrow, and tapped his lips with one finger in a silent challenge.

“Please,” she sneered, “you couldn't handle it.” Before he could reply she pushed past him in search of hard liquor.

***

“So you and Killian, eh?” Mary Margaret said brightly as she returned from delivering yet another frightened four year old to Santa. Emma gritted her teeth, trust Mary Margaret to wait until she couldn't speak freely to launch her attack.

“Nope.”

“What?” Mary Margaret’s voice is sickly sweet and her eyes comically wide. She practically looked like Snow White, a picture of pure innocence. Emma wasn't fooled, her friend was a devious bandit on a mission to destroy Emma's love life. (And she'd probably think she was “saving” it, disregarding Emma's complete lack of interest in dating, in her quest to find Emma's Happy Ending™.)

“This is not the time to have this conversation and you know it.” Emma spoke quietly with a grin fixed on her face. She nodded towards the queue of children waiting patiently to see Santa Claus and raising her eyebrows pointedly. “There are tiny humans here who do not need to know about Santa's elves’ extra curricular activities. They think all we do is make gifts and bake gingerbread.”

Emma's cheeks were hurting from the forced grin she had plastered across her face.

“It's just that last time I saw you at my party you were… cuddling… very intently, but I didn't see you after that. Did you take him home to show him your baubles?”

Emma gasped a little and furtively glanced at the next in line. It was a little girl, happily babbling about meeting Santa and a slightly bored looking older boy. It looked like they were with a dark haired man, but it was hard to tell as they were crouched down and mostly obscured by the pair. Luckily whoever they were, they seemed too engrossed by the girl’s chatter to notice their conversation.

“Stop this. Right now.”

“Did you jingle his bells? Perhaps he came down your chimney?”

“Mary Margaret!” she hissed. “Yes, we ... cuddled, but when we realised that we went to school together -”

“Oh! And you found each other after all this time! How romantic!”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Trust you to look at it like that. He was my nemesis.” It was Mary Margaret's turn to roll her eyes.

“Your nemesis? This sounds like an excuse to shut out a handsome m...elf who looks like he knows exactly what to do with a nice pair of baubles.”

“He also gave me two black eyes on my first day at my new school. Hardly perfect elf material.”

Mary Margaret gasped, and Emma couldn't help but feel a bit smug.

“Explain.”

“Shoelaces were tied, there was a face floor interface, and questions were raised about my foster parents for weeks after.”

Emma was irritated to see Mary Margaret breathe a sigh of relief.

“So it was an accident.”

Emma narrowed her eyes, “whose side are you on?”

“I'm not saying he did a good thing, but he didn't mean to hurt you, did he?”

“He meant to trip me up.” Mary Margaret looked entirely unperturbed.

“And how old were you when he committed this heinous crime?”

“8.”

Mary Margaret fixed Emma with her disappointed teacher expression. “Oh Emma,” she shook her head sadly, “that wall of yours...it may keep out pain but it may also keep out love.”

Trust her friend to try to turn this into a “teaching moment”, Emma’s temper flared. “Killian Jones is not my love, I am not going to suck his candy cane and he is not going to make me see twinkly lights when I ride his sleigh.”

“Oh really, Swan? I can guarantee I'd make it good for you.”

Emma's eyes closed in horror, and she took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She forced her Happy Santa’s Helper Elf smile onto her face then slowly let her breath out through gritted teeth as she turned to face her nemesis.

Of course he was the man there with the next two kids in line. She'd been so busy disparaging Mary Margaret that she hadn't noticed that he'd shuffled close enough to hear them.

She should be embarrassed. She should. But all she felt was incandescent rage. How dare he kiss her like that when he’s got kids and probably a wife at home. This was so much worse than the shoelaces.

“How dare you?” she seethed. His cocky grin slipped a little at her poisonous tone.

“How about I take you two through to see Santa?” Mary Margaret's voice was full of enthusiasm as she directed Killian's kids attention away from the scene unfolding. She lead the two kids away sending a sympathetic look Killian's way that enraged Emma all the more.

“I'm not sure I follow love, but if you were to enjoy me as a festive treat I'd return the favour tenfold.”

“And how would your wife feel about you propositioning an elf?” Killian was outright frowning now, busted, thought Emma feeling utterly vindicated.

“My… wife?” he spoke slowly, his eyes full of confusion.

“The mother of your children?” Emma prompted and the man had the audacity to grin at her. “I can't believe you kissed me the other night! Just because you're missing your -”

“Let me stop you before you say something truly offensive, love,” Killian spoke darkly, nearly spitting out the nickname. “You kissed me. I was merely an innocent bystander stood in an unintentionally festive spot. And even if I had been loitering below the mistletoe intent on seducing gullible princesses, I would be well within my rights. I am single. Those two lovely children are my brother's and if you'll excuse me -”

A muffled yelp from within Santa’s Grotto cut Killian off, followed by a shout of “Oh shi-iny baubles!” Emma stifled a giggle, trust David to come up with a swearing alternative suitable for Santa.

Mary Margaret popped her head out of the grotto and called out in an urgent stage whisper, “Emma, Killian, SOS, save our Santa!”

They rushed in after her and saw David pinned to the floor by Killian's nephew. The boy had a triumphant, crazed gleam in his eye. He was waving David’s false beard in the air like a trophy. And all the while he crowed in delight, “Santa’s a fake! Santa’s a fake!” Killian's niece was stood in the corner wailing.

Emma looked on in horror, ever more convinced that Killian really was her nemesis. His latest mission? To destroy Christmas. These “relations” of his were clearly in fact his agents of doom.

He's the fucking Anti-Santa! The thought had just come to her mind, when Killian let out an ear-splitting whistle. The children immediately fell silent.

“Aiden Jones you unhand Father Christmas this minute,” Killian commanded. His forceful tone sent a shiver down Emma's spine, followed quickly after by a wave of irritation at her treacherous body.

“But Uncle Killian! That man is telling lies, daddy says it's naughty to tell lies!” The boy whined, before dropping his voice to say urgently, “he is an imposter!”

Emma could have laughed at the entirely sincere expression on Aiden’s face.

Killian sighed and lifted his nephew off David. He crouched down beside the boy.

“What else is naughty Aiden?” There was a mumble from the shame-faced boy. “I can't hear you, Aiden.”

“It's naughty to be mean to people.”

“Aye, and wouldn't you say wrestling Santa to the ground, sitting on him, stealing his beard and shouting at him was mean?”

More mumbling.

“Aiden…” Killian said warningly.

“Yes Uncle Killian.” Aiden turned to David Claus, “I'm sorry Mr Not Santa, I didn't mean to be naughty.”

“Very good, your father is going to hear about this though.” Aiden stuck his bottom lip out, but otherwise stayed silent. His mischievous nephew dealt with, Killian turned to his niece. “Anya?” the girl immediately ran to her uncle's arms. “It's true that this man isn't the original Santa Claus, he's very busy making your presents right now. He is however, a special Agent of Santa -” Emma snorted a little at the creative explanation of the multiple Santas, Killian shot a dark look her way.

Anya peered at her curiously. “Really, Elf lady?”

Emma knelt down next to her, nodding solemnly. “Oh, absolutely. We help Santa to find out what all the children want - and to distribute presents. But let’s keep that secret between us, it’ll make you a special Agent of Santa too.”

Anya beamed at Emma in wonder, nodding and Emma felt all warm inside. Just because the girl had a tool for an uncle, didn’t mean she shouldn’t get to enjoy the magic of Christmas. “Did you get chance to tell Santa’s agent what you want for Christmas?” Anya shook her head. “Come along then.”

She stood up and held out her hand to Anya, who wriggled free of Killian’s grasp and ran to Emma. David had managed to settle back in his Santa chair, false beard back in place, with a little help from Mary Margaret. Emma led the girl over to David, who instantly scooped her up without the slightest hint that mere moments before he had been attacked by a tiny demon.

“What’s your name, little one?” David launched into the Santa spiel at once and Anya’s little eyes gleamed with unsuppressed delight. Emma felt gooey inside. This was why she did the whole “Santa’s elf” thing. Yes, she could be kind of a grinch, but seeing little kids full of joy made her grinchy heart grow several sizes each and every time she saw it.

She looked up and caught Killian looking at her, wearing his own expression of delight. Emma smiled back, before remembering herself and frowning at him. Her heart shrank back down to its previous size.

So maybe she had been wrong about the married thing. Perhaps it was vaguely adorable that he was taking care of his niece and nephew. And it was possible that there was something about the way he took charge of the situation with a firm hand that made her wonder how he might take charge in other, less family friendly situations … But, still, he definitely broke her nose as a child. If she trusted him now, what else might he break?

***

“Si-i-lent night, ho-o-ly niiight!”

God, Emma wished it was a silent fucking night. Whoever invented the concept of door to door carolling deserved to be stabbed to death with sharpened candy canes.

It’s not that the carollers were exactly bad they just weren’t exactly singing in sync, and at least one of them didn’t seem to exactly know the words. Maybe if she just stayed quiet they would go away?

When they launched into their very enthusiastic version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”, Emma realised that that wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t want to throw open the door and tell them to piss off, but equally she really wanted them to leave. She was struck by a devious idea, she could sneak out the back and throw snowballs at them from the cover of the bushes around the front. That should send a nice clear message of “fuck off”, while allowing her to maintain anonymity.

She pulled on her outdoor gear and crept out the back door, scooping up snow as she went. She hesitated when she spotted that the group was comprised of two kids and a man, but figured that as long as she only hit the adult that was ok.

She got her first snowball ready, took aim for the back of the man’s head, and let it fly. He turned at the exact moment the snow left her hand. It was Killian Jones.

Of course it was fucking Killian and of course he had caught her red handed.

His eyes widened in shock and he ducked his head - but not fast enough to avoid it and it hit him smack in the nose. She was torn between a feeling of horror and gleeful victory. Finally she had had her revenge.

The feeling was very short lived when she heard him cry out “bloody hell!” His hand flew to his nose, but not before she saw the blood pouring from it. Oh fuck.

She scrambled out of the bushes to help him. The kids were Killian’s adorable niece and monstrous nephew. True to form the niece had burst into tears at the sight of her bleeding uncle, while the nephew had said “cool” with an appreciative nod.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing Killian’s hand away from his face and wincing at the bloody mess she’d made of his face. “Come with us kids,” she added as an afterthought to the little ones. She pulled him inside, and ran to get a face cloth and ice.

It took far longer than it should have to get Killian cleaned up. Not only did she have him to deal with, but also a distraught little girl and a curious demon. She only got them to settle down and let her help uncle Killian by pulling out her stash of snickerdoodles. It was a wrench to give them up, but she might be able to persuade Mary Margaret to make more for her, and this was a genuine emergency.

The kids were merrily drawing when Killian was finally good to go.

“Are we even now?” Killian murmured quietly, “I’m quite impressed by your dedication to the pursuit of your revenge.”

“I didn’t realise that it was you.”

He raised his brows in surprise. “You would have treated anyone coming to your door to spread a little festive cheer in such a manner? I think you may need to have your elf licence revoked!”

Emma reached around for an appropriately witty comeback, but none came to mind. “Yeah, probably. I’m sorry for that.”

“Now you know how bad I felt.”

Killian’s comment made absolutely no sense to her. “When?”

“When you hurt yourself because of me? I really didn’t think tying your shoelaces together would be that bad, and Will had dared me to do it and …”

Emma smiled and shook her head. “It’s ok, I should probably get over it, it was 20 years ago after all.”

“My brother punched me for it when he found out too, said that it’s not ‘good form’ to wound a lady.”

Emma laughed. “I like the sound of this brother of yours.”

“He’s a great guy, never lets me get away with anything, much like you.”

“Can we go yet, Uncle Killian?” whined Aiden, Emma jumped, she had entirely forgotten that the kids were there. “I don’t want to watch you kissing your girlfriend.” Emma blushed a deep red, as did Killian.

“Oh, Miss Swan is not my girlfriend -”

“She should be!” chimed in Anya. “She’s very pretty.” She turned to Emma, nodding at her approvingly. “You’re very pretty, and Uncle Killian fancies you, and that’s why he makes gooey eyes at you.” Anya stage whispered the rest in a way that presumably was very subtle to her childish mind. “That’s what he does when he fancies someone.”

Killian had leapt to his feet and dragged the kids out of their chairs. “All ready to go? Good good,” he exclaimed bustling the kids to the door. “Goodbye, Swan”

And before Emma could respond to anything that had just happened, they were gone.

***

Emma found herself thinking about Killian a lot over the next few days.

She thought about the way he had blushed at the accusation that he fancied her. She thought about how good it had felt to kiss him. She thought about his promise to return the favour tenfold if she were to suck on his candy cane. She couldn’t help but wonder what that might entail.

She was still thinking about him as she decorated her house for Christmas, wondering whether he would like the way she decorated. Not that it mattered. She was decorating everything just for herself. For the first time ever she was going to put up lights outside. She loved the twinkly lights and didn’t she deserve a little holiday magic in her life?

She was up a ladder, concentrating hard on attaching the damn things to her house when she heard a voice behind her. “Need a hand, love?”

She might have been pleased at his appearance, if it hadn’t startled her so much that her ladder wobbled and she toppled from it, pulling the lights down with her.

She found herself in Killian’s arms. He had caught her, like some kind of Disney prince, and man if that didn’t make him hotter. His eyes flitted over her in alarm. It was kind of nice to have someone show that much concern for her. “Are you ok, love? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Her voice came out all breathy, she felt like a starry-eyed maiden in a romance novel. She needed to stop this right now. “The lights probably aren’t though. Could … could you put me down so I can check them?”

“Oh! Of course!” Killian blushed and carefully placed her down.

She looked at the lights and was dismayed to see that she had indeed pulled down every last one. She sighed deeply and decided to just pack them away again when Killian spoke up. “Can I help you put the lights up again?” She looked up in shock and saw him stood there, nervously scratching behind his ear.

“You don’t have to,” she dismissed the suggestion, looking back down at her fallen decorations and reaching a hand out for them.

He covered her hand with his, and she looked back up to see that he was much closer than before, their faces were practically touching. He looked her dead in the eye. “No, but I want to.”

She gulped a little and pulled her hand back. “Sure,” she said with a breeziness that she didn’t feel.

With Killian holding her tightly against the ladder and directing her, Emma was able to get all the lights hung in no time. She flicked the switch and squealed with delight when they came on.

“Thank you, Killian!” she beamed at him.

He beamed back and shrugged a little bashfully, but then she saw something turn in his gaze. In a moment he switched from adorable to seductive. No, not seductive, that was just wishful thinking.

He swayed closer to her. “Perhaps a little gratitude is in order?” he asked, tapping at his lips suggestively. Maybe it wasn’t just wishful thinking.

“Please, you couldn’t handle it.” She smirked at him, enjoying the anticipation of their flirting.

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”

It was an outright challenge and one that she was more than happy to accept. She pounced on him, kissing him hard. For a moment he rocked back startled, but he quickly caught up and grabbed her close to him. She lost all track of time in the perfection of this kiss, she never wanted it to end. Eventually though she needed to breathe and broke apart from him, still holding him close to her.

“Want to come inside and check out my baubles?” she asked with a wink.

He grinned in reply. “That depends, Swan, have you been a good girl this year?”

“Oh no, I’m definitely on the naughty list.”

“Well perhaps we need to see what we can do to get you off.”

“... it,” Emma finished with a smirk.

“I know what I said.” He kissed her neck and murmured straight into her ear, “and I absolutely meant it. Now let’s get inside.”

Emma giggled and dragged him inside her house where she let him make amends for his youthful crimes quite thoroughly. Several times. Well, she did love a good redemption story.

[eponymous-rose]

Talks Machina Highlights: Critical Role Episode 111

Guests are Liam O’Brien and Matt Mercer. Full video on Project Alpha!

Brian: “Hello, welcome to Talks Machina. I am... dressed for success.” Liam: “You are very cute today.” Matt: “I call this look Saturday Darin De Paul.”

Matt is doing much better than he was on Thursday.

Digital copy of the Critical Role comic is out!

There’s now a Talks Machina shirt in the store.

Episode 111 is tied for the most natural ones in an episode.

The show has now surpassed 10,000 d20 rolls. Brian suggests buying @critrolestats​ a yacht for keeping track of all this.

The comic takes place before the game. At the first session, because it was meant to be a one-shot, Matt just had everyone assume they all knew each other and were used to working together as a party. The comic explores how they actually met and started working together as an adventuring party.

Moments they’d like to see from the pre-stream game if the comic continues: meeting Gilmore, finding Percy in Jorenn Village, going after Grog’s dad, the birth of Burt Reynolds, early interactions with the Clasp, the one time Pike and Vax had a solo adventure together. Brian: “Do you think we would have to get rights from Burt Reynolds’ estate to... oh, wait, he’s still alive.”

The pacing of this arc was always going to be different, since it’s epic-level stuff and many of the character-centric arcs have been closed; it’s a lot harder to draw in character backstory the way the previous arcs could. The time-crunch aspect of this particular plot (the villain is actively moving through his to-do list whether or not Vox Machina intervenes) is a careful balance to make sure the players don’t feel too rushed but can still maintain that sense of urgency. Liam: “I am consistently surprised and shocked by everything that’s happened, so no complaints from me.”

If it were just Liam’s decision, he’d want everyone to take a long rest before facing Vecna. He thinks losing Vasselheim might be the cost of actually having a slim chance of defeating Vecna.

Matt’s been slowly been building this last dungeon over the last six months. It’s right up there with Opash’s necromantic lair as his favorite dungeon he’s made. Liam wants to see the dungeon mapped out and described in PDF format at some point, and Matt mentions that, depending on what state it’s in at the end of this campaign, it might be a location in a future Issylra campaign guide.

Matt and Liam talk about how early adventuring in D&D is generally a selfish endeavor, and then later on there are considerably higher stakes. Matt mentions that even in high-level D&D, you want to include obstacles in a dungeon that characters can bypass easily as a reward for quick thinking or just being awesome at high levels. The dungeon is also fundamentally a power-sink where you have to prioritize where you put your resources before the final battle you know is coming.

GIF of the week. Matt: “It’s funny the effect painkillers have on running a D&D game...”

Once the oven had closed, once a round, everyone in the room would’ve taken 1d6 fire damage, then 2d6, then 3d6, and so on. Solving it was meant to be a little more high-stakes, but the party avoided getting trapped in the room themselves.

Matt had half a page of information, a voice, and a name prepared for the nothic that Vax just annihilated. Could’ve ended up being a small encounter or a temporary alliance with a Gollum-type character or an uneasy alliance that could’ve gone wrong. Matt: “What you did was quintessential D&D, and I loved it.”

Liam recently ran a D&D game for his whole family in which his son rolled a d20 on opening a door he wasn’t supposed to go through, forcing him to improvise.

Matt’s been working with Travis to build his next character, and he keeps having to remind him that most characters only have a movement speed of 25 or 30 feet.

Brian: “Like Matt and I, you too can be not in terrible debt and situationally famous without going to college!” Matt: “I cannot support any of these statements at all.”

Vax would be willing to sacrifice even Emon or Whitestone if it meant stopping Vecna, because the alternative is Vecna reigning supreme over the Material Plane... or the Divine Gate coming down and armageddon ensuing.

Fanart of the week.

In-universe flashbulb memory of the campaign: Chroma Conclave attack. Liam: “The goldfish dive will be remembered for millennia.” Matt: “Young druids will be taught from a very young age...”

Matt gave the party the ring to give them a level of comfort in a near-impossible situation, but the risk of fucking it up is what makes it fun.

Liam: “Matthew Mercer is one of the sweetest men I’ve met in my life, but I know within the boundaries of this game that you have this really devilish streak, like an inclination to fuck with us... fucking rakshasa.”

Vax has made peace with everything, but he thinks about the Tomb all the time, especially since the Raven Queen is the goddess of fate. Liam: “As Liam, I loved every dumbfuck thing that I chose to do in this game, ‘cause I’m sitting with my best friends making each other laugh every week, we love each other, we get a fucking kick out of each other every week, and the mistakes are some of the greatest memories of all time.”

Liam’s top priority even way back in the home game has always been that Vax will do whatever it takes to keep Vex alive; Vax still thinks that the Raven Queen will only keep her side of the deal if he does as well. It’s made things extremely complicated, but that’s the fundamental backbone of his character and he isn’t going to mess with that.

Matt has never had players embrace the sibling aspect of their characters to the extent that Laura and Liam have. Matt: “It’s been a gift from a storyteller’s standpoint to play in that space.”

Matt thinks Sam did a fantastic job on his one-shot, and encourages other new DMs to just commit and jump in and see how well it turns out. Liam: “It’s not a religion and it’s not appellate court, it’s just the world’s best game. Just fuckin’ have fun with it.”

Matt was expecting the undead titan reveal to happen in early or mid-July, but it just worked out to happen at Gen Con. Stressful as it was, Matt was excited that he could have such a big reveal at the live show.

Liam wasn’t worried about Simon because he knew it would take more than fire to destroy a magical item.

If the game had continued as a home game, Matt probably would’ve truncated elements of the narrative because they got to play so seldom. Both he and Liam agree that getting to play weekly was the best part of starting to stream the game.

Vax’s "this could be the last time” moments this week had less to do with his imminent death and more to do with Liam processing that in the next few weeks they’re going to be ending this game that they’ve been playing together for four years.

Brian is very sad about the end of the game as a fan of the show; he remembers Ashley coming home after the home game and giving him multi-hour summaries of everything that had happened. The game started around the same time as he and Ashley started their relationship, and he’s really delighted by how close they’ve all gotten since then. Brian: “I mean, we’re practically... I plan on sleeping with both of you on After Dark.” Liam: “I’m open to it.”

Talks Machina After Dark: Liam hosts for the first time!

Liam: “The only reason I agreed to do this Dungeons and Dragons show is so I could sit here, now, and I have you both right where I want you. Undress.”

If Matt could forget everything he knew and join VM as one of his NPCs for the final fight, from a personality standpoint, he’d want to play as Allura or Gilmore, but from a functionally helpful standpoint, probably Kima.

Matt once LARPed World of Darkness and had a very stressful experience where he was thrown into the midst of an extremely political game with no knowledge of what was going on.

Matt’s never had to ban particular items or spells, but there are aspects of the game that require discussion. In a primarily good/neutral campaign, he won’t ban evil characters per se, but he’ll require a discussion to figure out how not to ruin the experience for the rest of the characters. Liam points out that Jayne (an evil character) could easily have killed Clothesline in Sam’s oneshot, but he decided against it because it’d make Ashly’s game less fun and would mess with Sam’s having established that they all survived. It turned out to be more fun having to come up with a reason for that.

Worst possible person for Vax to face as part of Vecna’s undead army: his mother. Liam: “That would fuck his shit up.” Or Vex, if she were killed and then immediately brought back by Vecna.

On the theoretical possibility of a new campaign starting in a post-apocalyptic Tal’Dorei if Vecna wins, Brian: “It would be hard to Transport via Plants.” Matt thinks it’s an exciting prospect, and he has things in his mind if it goes that direction, but he thinks it would be really sad to culminate a five-year campaign with a loss, although planting seeds for the next story could make it retroactively pretty hopeful. 

Liam: “Story-wise, I know that everything’s gonna hurt and everything’s gonna be amazing, and I also trust you to flip my expectations somehow. We just love discovering the story together.”

[maepolzine]

DC Universe: Joker and Harley Quinn are not #CoupleGoals

This is one of those topics that have always irritated me from the DC universe. And really got under my skin when Suicide Squad came out. Joker and Harley Quinn are not #CoupleGoals. Yes they are a couple, but no they are not the couple that you should look up to when you are thinking about what you want your relationship to be. If anything, they should be the example of what you don't want your relationship to be. It is the prime example of an abusive and toxic relationship. I'm not just going to be focusing on their relationship from the Suicide Squad movie but from all of DC franchise (comic books, animated series, etc.).

Suicide Squad has a lot of deleted scenes and considering they had a whole separate movie planned out then changed it to match more of the "Deadpool" aesthic a lot got left out. Such as just how abusive Joker and Harley Quinn are towards each other. One example being Joker trying to kill Harley and then she casts him aside for her new teammates. But since that didn't make it to the final cut, let's look at the other key moments that define their relationship and show just how NOT #CoupleGoals they are together. Though you have to admit they are a match made in Hell.

Arkham Asylum - Harleen Quinzel to Harley Quinn

From the moment Harley Quinn met Joker in their first therapy sessions in Arkham Asylum, Joker has been playing Harley Quinn to his advantage. If you know the origins of Harley Quinn, you know her real name is Dr. Harleen Quinzel and she was a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum. She had became a psychiatrist to understand her abusive criminal father, similar to that of the Joker. So when she is assigned the case of the purple-suited socipath, he manipulates her into falling in love with him by telling her stories about his own abusive father (whether true or false, but likely the latter) in order to gain her sympathy. Thus allowing Joker to escape Arkham and causes Harleen to lose her license. Harleen recreates herself as "Harley Quinn" so she join Joker. This is a prime example of Gaslighting. If you've never heard of the term, it's a psychological term used to describe a form of mental abuse wherein the abuser leads his/her partner to doubt their own sanity, orientation, identity, and/or memory, thereby allowing them to manipulate the victim into a state of dependence.

Chemical Dump - Harley Snaps

In the New 52 reboot of the comics, it is revealed that Joker takes Harley to Ace Chemicals. The very same factory where the Red Hood (Joker) was on a heist that ended horribly in which Joker fell into the chemicals causnig his skin to become bleached. This is the moment that defines when Harley Quinn "snaps." New 52 shows the event from Harley's perspective whereas Suicide Squad shows it from Joker's. In New 52, Joker pushes Harley Quinn into the chemicals taking away much of her responsibility for what she turns into. Whereas, in Suicide Squad Harley jumps in herself.

Dark Knight's Animated Series - Love for Harley vs Batman

Throughout the series you can see Joker treating Harley Quinn poorly. For instance, after Joker is foiled again by Batman and is working at his desk on his next scheme Harley climbs up in her lingerie and says "Aw, c'mon puddin'... don't ya wana rev up your Harley? Vroom, vroom!" To which Joker pushes her off of the desk. When she continues advances towards the Joker, he kicks her out of the hideout.

In this same episode, Mad Love, Harley decides that the only way to get Joker to love her is if she managed to kill Batman. When she captures Batman, and shows Joker what she has done. He is livid that Harley would even try to kill Batman herself. As she is interfering in his relationship with the Dark Knight and throws Harley out of the window. She states that she is done with Joker for good until she receives a bundle of flowers with a "Get well soon" card and her love for Joker is resurrected yet again.

Trapped in a Rockey - Harley Leaves Joker

Pushing Harley off of a desk isn't the full extent of Joker's abuse. On multiple occasions he has attempted to murder Harley Quinn. One of these occassions involved trapping Harley in a rocket and launching her away. Joker mentions to Harley that he hates having feelings for her as it distracts him from his chaotic ambitions. So he decided to rid himself of Harley once and for all. Harley, however, is able to control the rocket's direction and crash land in Robinson Park where she meets Poison Ivy. After becoming friends with Ivy, she decides to leave Joker and began heists with Poison Ivy. Which Joker sees as a sign of open rebellion against him. Though Harley Quinn does not fall out of love with Joker. She also has relationship with Deadshot while she is apart from Joker. And at one point in the comics, after Joker goes insane (even further) and takes off his face. He is presumed dead. Harley Quinn steals the face then puts it on Deadshot so she can talk to "the Joker" and try to understand her grief over his seeming death. Though of course he did not die and returns in the future.

Harley Goes Back to the Joker Time and Time Again

The Joker offers her a bushel of roses. Which would seem like a pretty normal romantic gesture if they had not been filled with lit TNT. Harley is able to escape before the explosion kills her. She then rationalizes to herself that her boyfriend just has “commitment issues.”

While in Brian Azzarello and Lee Bermejo's 2008 graphic novel Joker, Harley Quinn is mistaken as a stripper in front of Joker. To which, Joker rips off all of Monty's skin and throws the skinless body onto the stage in front of the audience. Which we see similar behavior in Suicide Squad, where Joker points a gun at a guy who looked too long at Harley Quinn. In that same graphic novel, Joker openly cries to in Harley's lap further showing that at some layer he does care about Harley if not dependent on each other in some way. Whether just provisive in the Joker's case or obsession as it is in Harley's case. Both of these are shown as well in Suicide Squad and the Dark Knight's animated series. Joker time and time again hates when he doesn't have Harley Quinn around or if she's around someone else. And Harley is overly obsessed with the Joker.

But no matter what they do, they are still abusive towards each other. In another instance Joker drags Harley into a cellar where he has the previous "Harleys" all dawning the same black and red colors. He tells her there have been Harleys before her and there'll be more Harleys after. She is chained up and left for dead with the lie that she's just one of many. Though from what we can gather, she's the only one but he manages to convince her with all the skeletons.

Family for Joker and Harley

There are two key instances in which the dynamic duo start a family. There's the time where they brainwashed Robin into being their son. And the time mentioned in New 52, where Harley Quinn reveals she had given birth to a daughter.

In the first case, during the animated film Batman Beyond: Return of the Joker, Joker and Harley Quinn have kidnapped Tim Drake (the current Robin) and transform him into a mini-Joker. They spent three weeks torturing and brainwashing him, thus turning him into Joker Jr. or JJ for short. Though when Joker tries to have JJ kill Batman, he kills Joker instead... granted Joker doesn't actually die from this.

In the second case, in New 52 some time after Suicide Squad Harley reveals to Black Canary that she has a daughter with Joker named Lucy who lives with Harleen's sister. Apparently she became pregnant and left Joker for nine months so she wouldn't get in the way. When she returned Joker pretended he didn't notice her disappearance.

There are other moments of abuse in their relationship but these are just some of the key ones that show just how NOT #CoupleGoals they are.

[rock-and-compass]

7.02 thoughts

Okay. Here we go. I’ve slept on this but it was written while I watched the episode.

Under the cut because of negativity

The suitably vague “Years Ago” – I don’t think we’re ever going to get an explanation as to why everyone’s ageing is funky and exactly how long has passed since Henry left town…

A bit of friendly sword-play turns into sulky teen pretty darn quickly – Henry doesn’t seem nearly old enough or mature enough to be leaving home… although I guess there is nothing like leaving home to make you grow up quickly. And boy does he grow up quickly!

“This isn’t an ending Emma, there’s more to come.” …You keep trying to tell us that A&E…

Hook and Emma are clearly planning on expanding the family and, I guess, not finding it so simple…. I think this is supposed to reinforce the “Emma is too pregnant to help” discourse that runs under the episode.

Good god, you just happen to have that magic message-in-a-bottle bottle lying around and just happen to mention it now. How many times would that little piece of plot convenience have come in handy?  dark swan; missing hook; wish world; baby Gideon . . . every other freaking time that a character has been missing, lost or trapped. The thing with fantasy is that it still needs rules – to make anything conveniently possible with a new magical item that is then never seen again undercuts the narrative and makes the story trite. If you want people to be summoned to other realms then establish a method via your story, not just produce yet another artefact that can miraculously do what you need done. One of the core tenants of this show was that travel between realms was hard – but they’ve broken that rule so many times while still pretending that it holds true that it has become ridiculous.

Another realm … more “years later” yep. Continue with the vague. And Henry’s “in love” already to the point where others are noticing. So no slow burn for Hella then.

Why would Henry say “Captain Hook” into the bottle? Surely is would be “Emma, Regina and Killian” as Henry has called him for, jeeze I don’t know the duration of the proverbial “years” that have apparently passed. But I guess this is why WishHook is suddenly also in this new realm…

And now we are suddenly in “Today” sheesh. The break-neck speed continues.

“Rogers” asking about Emma complete with CS theme has potential. Well Didn’t that turn out to be a big old tease?

“People should be given a second chance” Hello theme of the day.

Still don’t get why the step mother has so much control over Lucy. It’s annoying and doesn’t assist in building any interest in the Cinderella storyline.  The newcomers acting continues to feel contrived and pantomimic, particularly Lady Tremaine and Co.

Such clunky dialogue – “where’s my other mother?” not “where’s mum?” or even “where’s Emma?” Could they make it any more transparently obvious that this is an explanation session for those legions of new viewers that this spin-off has failed to pick up.  The writing really is subpar this season, even from Jane Espenson who I always thought was better than the rest.

Hmmmm – so Hook when covering for Emma’s whereabouts, lies to Henry, at Emma’s request, about “what really happened” so Henry doesn’t drop everything and go running back to Storybrooke but can “get on with his life”. I wonder when we will find out what this is . . . or is it meant to be the baby news. It’s very vague.  Still, nice to see Regina’s opinion that “Emma is wrong” get shut down so efficiently by Killian. If only people had done that more often in Storybrooke… One must suspect that Regina is not concerned with telling Henry the truth as much as she is desirous of using this information as a way of getting her son home…

What is with Weaver’s voice?

Who are these people???

Ugh. I really really hate that Wish World and everything associated with it – Wish Hook included! This is a massive stumbling block for me. I was on the fence before – if it had been Our Killian, I probably would have continued with the show. But not with this. I can’t go forward with a show when it has just become a mockery of itself. Killian and WishHook are NOT the same person. One is a bad joke taken too far. The other is a character that I genuinely love.  I can’t commit to WishHook even if he is magically made to resemble GenuineKillianJones. As WishHook himself says, with absolutely no logic to underpin his explanation, they may have had similar beginnings but life and experience took them in very different directions so nope, not the same person.

The biggest issue for me is that WishHook was created with a wish just a few “years earlier” in season 6 - he didn’t actually exist before this. HE DOESN’T HAVE THE HISTORY THAT THEY APPARENTLY WANT US TO BELIEVE HE HAS. HE LITERALLY DIDN’T EXIST BEFORE THE WISH WAS MADE. He is a theoretical construct created out of the malicious twisting of Emma’s once uttered wish that she was not the saviour. The Wish World was not factual. Emma would not have actually been that meek little princess if she had been raised by her parents – the WishWorld was an insulting, twisted fantasy that is now infecting the entire show and we are supposed to embrace that caricature, that glib joke of WishHook as our substitute Killian. Others might like it, but it’s not for me.

It’s like, in life, we are all products of our choices…. Let’s say you had a choice between two paths – Path A and Path B - you have to choose one and there is no going back. You pick choice A and follow that road until the next set of choices presents itself. Path A becomes your path and effects and influences the person you become.  All the possibilities from choice B cease to exist. That path is closed and all the potentials it offered become purely hypothetical. There is no alternate “you” walking down Path B. But this is what this stupid premise wants us to accept and the upcoming episode titled “The Garden of Forking Paths” would seem to confirm this. And it might make sense if there had been time travel involved but there wasn’t – it was a wish and a new wish at that.

And didn’t Regina discover that WishRobin was not “her” Robin - HE WAS NOT THE SAME PERSON and he ended up going back to the wish world where he belonged. So sorry, I can’t accept the Killian and WishHook are “the same person” as a justification for reinvesting in the show.  I was invested in Killian Jones, not a very poor wish-born imitation. Unfortunately, it smacks of the writers wanting their cake and to eat it too – they want Colin/Hook in the show but they also want to facilitate Emma’s exit and preserve CaptainSwan’s happy ending.  So okay, I’ll take the slice of CS cake and go away and eat it, but as a consequence, I’m good and full – I can live without the slice of WishHook.  

Colin is great as Killian but his “officer Rogers” is kinda bland and underwhelming. Sorry. I know I’m the minority on that one. Lol.

Ugh Rumple.

No. no one would pay $550 to see a kiddie ballet concert. And all this Hyperion Heights stuff is just a bit . . .  boring.

Gaaaaaaah how could a recently created wish version of Hook have a daughter????? Sorry I can’t buy any level of care for this silly plot contrivance. There is no logic at all.  And it all feels so emotionally manipulative – they tell us Emma and Hook are having a baby but we’re never going to see that one come to fruition so they fob us off with WishHook and his freaking WishDaughter trying to make mileage off the fact that mush of the audience would have loved to have seen Emma and Hook as parents.

Lol. Regina is such a loser. She can’t find a life outside her adult son. One might theorise that she isn’t truly happy living a ‘good’ life… And Henry continues his pattern of being the parent in this relationship when he suggests she stay in the new realm.  Yeah, another reason I exit at this stop. And she was added by CGI into the goodbye scene. Hilarious.

Oh Jaysus… the exposition in that final WishHook/Henry scene at the bar – we didn’t have time to show it all so we’ve got to tell it (and add in a dash of completely superfluous Roni in for good measure)

Final thoughts: The episode was underwhelming and not an appropriate tribute to Emma Swan.  I’m happy that Emma and Killian are happy in Storybrooke – though it would be nice to at least know the name of their baby. I’m glad they are free of Regina and Rumple and that the whole town gets to live in peace and far away from those two utterly horrible people. I wish the story was continuing in Storybrooke, not Hyperion Heights. With no Emma and no Killian in Hyperion Heights, it’s just not a place I’m interested in. But, can I just add that I was prepared to keep watching if it had been the real Killian in Storybrooke. Yep, I know that would have meant that Emma and Killian would be separated yet again, that the CS baby may not have been hatched . . . but you know what it would have given me?

Hope.

…Hope that one day there was a chance, ever so slim or remote, of seeing Emma Swan again. Rogers would have automatically bee an altogether more compelling character because he wouldn’t be an imposter – he would have been our Killian, with an opportunity to have a story outside Emma but also to keep her as an important part of the story, even in her absence. That would have got me back. As the story stands, with the ending we were given, I have literally no hope or expectation of ever seeing Emma and Killian ever again. I do feel the choice not to keep authentic-Killian in the story will cost them in the long run – I think it was a short-sighted narrative choice that allowed them to exit Emma with no fuss or consequence.  So yeah, for me, personally I would have preferred to have seen Killian and Emma as part of the curse (I would have made Emma an inanimate object ah la Beauty and the Beast or as a swan or a cat or whatever – They promised us that whoever cast this curse learnt from the previous one so what could have been a more important lesson that neutralising the saviour.) Yes the fandom would have been furious but they still would have had a reason to watch – I mean, those OQ fans are still begging for Sean to return… but they’ve exited Emma and Killian in a way that effectively silences the fandom.

I’ll accept the nice ending because it means that Emma and Killian get to live on elsewhere, but unfortunately, it also means I’m done with the show.  

[kuriquinn]

Once and Future [7/7]

Title: Sowing Season

Disclaimer & Masterpost

AN: Hah! Finally completed my NarutoWeek2017 fic! Drinks all around! (only, you know, not really, because I don’t drink...)

Kakashi stands on the roof of the Hokage Tower, gazing down upon the village that he is now in charge of.

In the distance, construction has started on Hokage Rock, builders and sculptors etching his face on to the mountain. He’s still not quite sure how to feel about the whole thing – he thinks Obito would have a lot to say on the subject if he were here. As it is, he’s had to deal with Naruto petitioning to have the rock-face carved without Kakashi’s mask.

I’ve got to give it to him, he managed to get a decent following on that front, too. Almost enough people to make it happen.

He smirks to himself, wondering idly if the joke he shares with his former students will ever get old – and then sighs again when it remembers that at least two of those former students are far too occupied with other matters these days to care.

Konoha is a village in transition, with the ruins of the old core being lovingly put back together by its inhabitants. A new business quarter is in the building process on the outskirts, and far above Hokage Rock surveying has already started on another section.

Since the end of the war, migrant workers and refugees have been keen on setting up shop here, lured by the promise of work and raising their children in the same village where Naruto Uzumaki was born. Franchisers and moneylenders are keen to capitalise on this, too. Kakashi personally finds it distasteful, but with the economy still in recovery following Pein’s attack and the War, the village can’t afford to be picky.

A problem for another day, he decides, shrugging his shoulders. He is keen to head home.

It’s rare that he ever gets away from work before sunset these days, and he’s looking forward to eating something that’s actually cooked instead of out of a cup. Either he’ll visit Gai, who has taken up fine cuisine as his latest hobby, or see if Manako wants to go out for a meal. She might not be a fan of cooking, herself, but she has a talent for suggesting the perfect take-out for any occasion.

Honestly, he’s not picky as long as he doesn’t have to make anymore decisions today –

“Lord Kakashi! There you are!” Shizune calls.

So close… Kakashi’s shoulders droop, and he mutters, “Knock it off with the ‘lord’ thing…”

“I know you’re about to leave, but there are a few things we still need to go over first,” his assistant says.

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” he asks, trying not to sound like he’s whining. Shizune puts her hands on her hips, and beside her Ton Ton emits an unimpressed oink! and sighs. “Alright, let’s go back downstairs…”

Once he’s firmly trapped – or comfortably seated – behind the desk, Shizune flips open her ever-present notepad and begins to run through the items.

“We’ve just received another two letters from the Raikage demanding information about Sasuke Uchiha,” she tells him.

“Well, that’s slightly below average,” Kakashi remarks mildly. “He must be cooling off.”

“It seems so. Shall we give him the same answer as usual?”

Kakashi nods. “Sasuke Uchiha will face Konoha’s justice, which will take into account all of his actions in the war. As such, there will be no extradition.”

Shizune purses her lips at this. She’s one of the people who considers this a lax handling of the former missing-nin’s case – she took it to heart that he intended to kill her master – but Kakashi knows she’ll eventually get over it.

He’s seen Sasuke go through hell and fall to the worst darkness imaginable before coming back. If Kakashi has to put every part of himself on the line to ensure the kid has a decent shot at a future, he’ll do it. He owes him that much – he owes all of his former genin squad that much.  

“The Mizukage is requesting a private meeting with you,” Shizune goes on eventually, knowing that any commentary on the issue of Sasuke will be ignored. “Something about nectar imports? Which is sort of odd for this time of year…”

“And not really something I handle,” Kakashi says. “That’s more the business sector, isn’t it?”

“I think she’s angling for a date, Lord Sixth.”

Kakashi shudders. “Uh, I’m unavailable. Forever, I think, if I remember how the vows go. Have Shikamaru take that one.”

“He’s not going to be happy about it.”

“Tough.”

Shizune checks something off in the notebook. “Iwa’s responding to the query we sent out a few weeks ago, about the Chūnin Exam. They’re onboard.”

“Which means it’s only Kiri and Kumo that haven’t responded yet. Have Shikamaru bring that up when he meets the Mizukage. And while you’re at it, add a note about it to the reply to the Raikage.”

“Right.” Another check. “The Elders want to discuss rezoning the village.”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“And what particularly do they want to discuss?” Kakashi challenges, eyes narrowed.

“Well…”

“It’s the Uchiha compound, isn’t it?”

“To be fair, it’s not so much a compound anymore as a bunch of ruins,” Shizune says nervously, “so I can sort of see their point –”

“We’re not touching it.”

“But Lord Sixth –”

“No one in this village is being rezoned without having a say in the matter, and until the Uchiha clan – such as it is – is able to offer input on the subject, the compound stays.”

“Lord Kakashi, they don’t have to wait on your approval,” Shizune reminds him quietly, “you might as well at least try to salvage part of it while you can.”

“I know they don’t have to wait on my approval. But I also have no intention of supporting a decision that ignores the interests of a member of this village. Sasuke might not care now, but in the future he will. Besides, Naruto will nag me about until he drives me insane,” Kakashi replies. “He’s not about to allow the Uchiha legacy to be erased any further. And knowing him, he’ll end up getting the whole village standing in front of construction crews and protesting in the streets.” He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “I can pick my battles. So can the Elders.”

“They’re not going to be happy about that,” Shizune remarks uncertainty.

“And again, I say – tough.”

If he had his way, he’d have removed Koharu and Homura from their positions as soon as he took office. But as he told Shizune, he knows how to pick his battles. Getting rid of the Elders, or the institution that supports them, is something he isn’t equipped for right now. And his goals extend beyond his own simple distrust of them – he intends the next generation of Konoha’s villagers to be safe and unafraid to use their voices.

Not ruled by the machinations of those in the shadows, he decides. If that’s the only legacy he can pass on to Naruto, it’s one he’s totally committed to.

“Uh…moving on. There’s an artist of some sort from Iwa that wants to meet with you. It has something to do with permission he needs to work on some collectable cards? I’m not really sure I understood the message…”

“That doesn’t sound urgent, let’s deal with it tomorrow. Anything else?”

“Captain Yamato sent a clone to speak to you. Updates about his surveillance mission I imagine.”

Kakashi sighs.

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s the last thing on the list and then you can go home.”

“As long as you don’t find anything else for me to do, right?” Kakashi challenges, and Shizune shifts her weight, a guilty expression on her face. “Fine. Send him in.”

As she disappears, Kakashi rubs the back of his head, trying to figure out where the paperwork ends and where his desk begins. In the one corner that isn’t obscured with memos, the photograph of Team 7 offers him a rare reminder of why he bothers with all of this.

Taking the frame in hand, he stares down at the familiar faces, hit once again with the disbelief that they are all still here and alive. He can see any of them at any point if he so chooses (although Sasuke isn’t big on talking these days, which is understandable) and he no longer has to lie awake at night trying to ensure they all survive to adulthood.

Naruto is his usual self once more, resilient as ever. He might be committed to becoming Hokage and enduring Iruka’s private training sessions, but he’s irrepressible as ever. There’s even been some instances of graffiti in the village the Kakashi feels certain he’s responsible for.

Sasuke might not be talkative, but when he does speak it is with candor and a genuine tone of remorse for his actions. Even Ibiki is impressed by the level of cooperation and has even agreed to testify as to Sasuke’s character when it comes time to present his case. It’s a testimony that will go a long way, considering the head of Torture and Interrogation has absolutely no stake in the remaining Uchiha’s rehabilitation.

Sakura isn’t quite back to normal, but whenever she sees him she has a smile at the ready. There was a rough patch in the first month following the end of the war – and a week in the psyche ward that Tsunade refuses to elaborate on – but her work in the hospital keeps her busy. And she’s visiting Sasuke on a regular basis, which is a relief.

Maybe Kakashi’s an old romantic, but there’s something fundamentally wrong with a world where Sakura might not forgive Sasuke. Or where her feelings for him don’t endure. Even knowing that not every story ends happily, and that there is still the possibility of it going wrong, Kakashi continues to bet on them even after all these years.

Literally.

He has an ongoing wager with Tsunade, who says Sasuke is too damaged for them to ever have a future. The Legendary Sucker is his guarantee that his former students – his friends – will one day be happy.

Now it’s just Naruto who needs to get a clue, he thinks to himself as Tenzou’s clone wanders in.

“Lord Hokage,” he says, bowing.

“Knock it off with the ‘lord’ stuff,” Kakashi grumbles.

“Hey, you wanted to be Hokage –”

“No, I didn’t –”

“ – so now you can be ‘Lord Hokage’ with a vengeance.”

“I should put you on latrine duty…”

“You’ve already got me following around a snake, it wouldn’t be much different.”

“You did volunteer,” Kakashi reminds him.

They smirk at one another, and Kakashi leans backward. “Alright. What’s the news?”

“Orochimaru is back in his hide-out.”

“The one close to Konoha, I gather, considering your presence.”

“Yes. He seems to want to stay close, in spite of his recent trip to Suna.”

“Did you check in with the Kazekage?”

“Yes. Lord Gaara said Orochimaru simply wanted access to some old storage. I managed to get a look at the information he was after first – I think the old bastard wanted me to see it, to be honest – but there was nothing dangerous in it as far as I can tell.”

“Fine. Continue to monitor the situation. I’m surprised Gaara allowed him that much.”

“I think Gaara is giving him a chance,” Tenzō muses, “but then again, Orochimaru is sneaky. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was trying to pull something off under all our noses.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Kakashi says, fishing in his slew of papers for a particular memo. Once he finds it, he passes it to Tenzō. “Look at this.”

His former subordinate frowns at the paper. “What is it?”

“That’s a petition sent out by the new council in Oto. They want official recognition as a legitimate shinobi village.”

Tenzō gapes. “Are you actually considering it?”

“It’s a topic of discussion,” Kakashi confirms, taking back the paper. “There would be conditions, of course. Curbing the violence there is a main one. Another is that Orochimaru will no longer have decision-making powers. The fact that they could even demand that without worrying he’d kill them suggests he might be more interested in other things these days. In any case, it will be a long time before anything officially happens.”

He can see that Tenzō continues to have reservations, but he doesn’t air them.

The two of them converse a little longer, but eventually the clone disappears. Either Tenzō has moved out of range, or he no longer has the energy to maintain the jutsu. In any case, Shizune is nowhere to be found and Kakashi doesn’t want to waste another second at the office.

He practically sprints from the Tower to his apartment, and then half-way there thinks better of it.

People know to look for him there, and he just wants a few hours of peace and quiet.

(It’s an indication of how desperate he is, considering there is nothing quiet or peaceful about Manako.)

The tiny flat above the demolition and supply shop is brightly lit when he gets there, suggesting she is still awake. As usual, he bypasses the front door, choosing instead to climb inside through the window. Upon entering, he inhales the mouth-watering scent of food. It seems he was right – somehow, without him even asking her, she’s already brought take-out from their favourite yōshoku restaurant.

He wanders past the spread on the table and into the living room where his partner is curled up on the couch.

She’s wearing nothing but one of his long shirts, boxers and a pair of thick socks, swinging her feet back and forth while she scribbles something on a pad of paper. Probably calculations for a new explosive device or other.

“I don’t care what they say about you, you are a good woman,” he tells her as he falls heavily onto the empty space beside her. He lets his head fall back on the pillow and considers the merits of sleeping now and eating later.

Hot food or cold food…yet another decision…

 “Don’t spread rumours,” Manako tells him. “I just don’t feel like scrounging for food the rest of the week, so I ordered a lot. For leftovers.”

“Oh. Of course,” he allows. “Let me never again mistake your laziness for forethought.”

“Damn straight.”

She pushes away the page of calculations and sits up, appraising him. “You look like crap.”

“I feel like it.”

“The Icha Icha movie is on in fifteen minutes if you want to watch. Might make you feel better.”

Kakashi grunts in agreement. He likes that idea.

“I don’t care what we do as long as I don’t have to think about it. All day long, people bringing me news, expecting me to make decisions – it’s exhausting.”

Manako is quiet for a long moment at this, and he figures there’s a fifty-fifty chance of her mocking him for whining or showing a rare bit of sympathy and offering him a neck massage. He really hopes it’s the latter.

“I guess now’s probably not the best time to tell you I’m pregnant, then,” she says instead.

Kakashi snorts. Figured it would be closer to the first option.

“Yeah, now would not be a good time…”

“Well, too bad,” she retorts, “because I am.”

Kakashi cracks one eye open and glares at her. “Seriously, that’s not funny. I’ve had a long day.”

“Seriously, I’m not joking,” she snaps. “There are about six pee-sticks in the bathroom that can show you how much I’m not joking.”

Silence fills the apartment, and as every second ticks by, it becomes more and more evident that she’s being completely serious.

“So,” she eventually says, arranging herself on the couch with her ankles and arms both crossed, raising an eyebrow at him in challenge, “let’s discuss.”

終わり

Yes, it’s a little bit of a cliffy/open-ended ending, but I thought that was appropriate given the flow of the entire fic. It is all about laying the groundwork for the future, so I hope I’ve managed that.

Thank you all for reading! Reviews and concrit are much appreciated - and if you’re feeling generous, I also accept tips through ko-fi (just scroll to the top and click the button!)

クリ

[bassfanimation]

The Final Problem: Eurus’s crash therapy session

I've written one post talking about how my husband viewed the “I Love You” scene in The Final Problem.  I wanted to write some more, as we’ve discussed TFP in depth together.  We talk a lot about the media we consume because A) we're nerds, and B) our views are usually quite different.  

It's also nice to have a male perspective on things, as it sometimes can shed some light where my female brain just bumbles around in the dark and stubs it's toe on the Feels Dresser.  My husband views things very textually, but he is also fantastic at thinking about stuff on a meta level.  It’s nice because he has no ulterior motives either, no shipper goggles or anything.  I'm going to write a bit about his theories about TFP and what it all meant in his eyes.  I'll add my own views as well, for comparison.  This is going to be a long af post, so strap in!

(Disclaimer: this post may contain more shippy talk than you want, because I am a major Sherlolly/Molly Hooper lover, but you can also disregard my feelings and read for the hell of it.)

My hub said he views The Final Problem as the final case for Sherlock, which is essentially, solving himself.  I remember when Mary's video appeared, and she said she was giving him the toughest case of his life.  I seriously thought it was going to be for Sherlock to solve himself, which is the hardest thing for any person to do...to know yourself.  Instead we got something equally wonderful, but a bit easier to solve: how to mend Sherlock's friendship with John and save him from eternal despair.   Thankfully, Sherlock was a rousing success. He solved it.

"The next one won't be so easy." -Eurus Holmes, The Final Problem

The Final Problem, as my dude talked about it, is about the Holmes family, but mostly Eurus.  It was about Eurus trying to go 'home', only she couldn't.  She had to unlock the one person who could "save her soul", as the song puzzle went.  In order to do that...she had to literally break down Sherlock's walls.  Each major emotional wall he'd built was because of Eurus, so only she could break them down.  Only she was smart enough, and ruthless enough, to accomplish this.  

“You know the problem with disguises? No matter how hard you try, it’s always a self portrait.” -Irene Adler, A Scandal in Belgravia

It's very fitting that Eurus chose to reveal herself while she was disguised as a therapist, because TFP was in essence, a crash therapy session for Sherlock.  Each room in Sherrinford was a self discovery trap.  Now, someone was corresponding with me over the "I Love You" meaning and said it wasn't real because it was manipulation.  That is correct in that it was manipulation...but that is what all therapy really is.  It is someone very skilled manipulating you into understanding your own true feelings.  As a person going through intensive therapy currently, let me tell you, this is exactly what TFP was.  A very elaborate therapy session.  

Room One: Sherlock, John, Mycroft and the Governor.

My hub sees this test as about Sherlock facing the fact that sometimes his actions will hurt his friends and family. Eurus gave Sherlock the choice of giving the gun to Mycroft or John so they could kill the Governor.  He was choosing whether to hurt John or hurt Mycroft. Either of them would be hurt by being forced to kill an innocent man.  Mycroft absolutely could not do it. John thought he could, but he couldn't either.  In the end, their inaction killed two people, but Sherlock was directly responsible for that.  He hurt John AND Mycroft without meaning to.  The consequence was real...the Governor and his wife were killed.  Sometimes your actions will hurt others, sometimes your innaction is just as dangerous. It will happen, and it will hurt you too.  I actually 100% agree with this reading.  My eyes popped out in amazement.

Room Two: Sherlock, John, and Mycroft.

My hub feels this test was to confront Sherlock with his arrogance.  Three brothers, all hanging by ropes, one of them having killed their fourth brother, but which one?  Sherlock solved the crime, but Eurus dropped the two innocent brothers, leaving the guilty one still hanging. The guilty man was eventually dropped as well, but it held a mirror up to Sherlock.  How many times did he blithely solve a crime with no thought as to who might be hurt by that? It never mattered to him. Like Eurus said, "Innocent?  Guilty? Punishing either feels the same."  This is Eurus throwing Sherlock's arrogant disregard for real justice back in his face.  He solves crimes to be "right", no matter what the consequence, no matter who he hurts.  He's confronting his arrogance and his selfishness.

Room Three: Sherlock, John, and Mycroft.  (This one may take some paragraphs, so bear with me.)

The coffin with the words "I Love You" on the lid.  Me and my hub actually diverge a bit here, but I found his reading of it very interesting.  Also, a man's perspective on love is great to have, considering Sherlock IS a man, and this whole episode is about a man’s love.  

My hub was very passionate about discussing this one, which surprised me.  Something he talks about quite often with me is how he feels female fandoms think they understand the minds of guys.  "100 travel brochures do not equal a single trip."  To understand a man’s feelings about love, you really need a man’s perspective.  I can respect that, as I’d want the same kind of respect as a woman with my own feelings.

First and foremost, he thinks Sherlock's words were genuine.  He said Sherlock's reaction was not that of a man who did not mean what he said...in fact it's the opposite, he meant it and it scares the shit out of him, hence the reaction we got.  He said when you like someone, and they like you back but, for whatever reason, you refuse to pursue a relationship with that person.  Often it's feelings of inadequacy.  Sometimes you just don't really know how you feel about that person.  Often, strong friendships can feel like love and if you are friends with a member of the sex you are attracted to, it can be easy to wonder if those feelings are love or not.  The last thing you want to do is pursue those feelings and jeopardize that friendship.

If anything, the "I Love You" test showed JUST (he typed that in all caps in his chat to me) how amazingly important Molly is to Sherlock. He "humiliated" himself just as much as she did. By finally openly admitting that he might have feelings for her, he knows that he has essentially forever altered the nature of their friendship.  Maybe it could grow into something more, but he could have easily destroyed it too. We see in the epilogue that they obviously got past it, but had we not gotten that scene it could easily have been the last time Molly ever answered his calls.  That's why he has been so afraid to even broach the subject before now. The hub added to this that once you understand that Sherlock isn't a "high functioning sociopath" like he claims, then his actions all click and you realize he is a man who is seething with emotions and desperately trying to channel them in order to keep them contained.  

"Sherlock is not all about thinking and rationality. He gets emotional, he lashes out, he shoots the wall. And when he can’t figure something out, he stabs it." -Mrs. Hudson, The Lying Detective

My hub continues on by saying that for someone as obviously traumatized by the loss of a close friend then it makes that scene with Molly so much more meaningful than just a guy telling a woman that he loves her.  Imagine how traumatic it is to force someone like that to risk losing another close friend through their own actions.  Sherlock actually doesn't consider John a friend at this point, he considers him family. They are brothers in arms. There's a special kind of relationship that guys share when they've fought alongside each other. That's what Tolkien was trying to show in LOTR. It's different from a romantic relationship. In some ways it's more intimate and closer. I think Mary saw that.  It's why a lot of cops and soldiers end up divorced. Their wives see that bond that the guy has with his comrades and it puts a heavy strain.  The fact that Mary was able to get past that and even encourage it is a testimony to just what an amazing woman she was. John was INCREDIBLY (his typed caps, again for emphasis) lucky to have her. (yay Mary Watson love)

To dovetail back to how this relates to Molly, my hub believes Molly would also be the kind of woman to be just like Mary.  She would want him to be himself, to be with John, solving cases, being Sherlock and Dr. Watson.  But again, he thinks Sherlock was just so afraid of losing Molly that he never even entertained the idea of being able to have a relationship with her, for fear of losing what they have.  He is really surprised female fans don't understand this. He's heard so many women say that they couldn't imagine pursuing a relationship with a close friend because they didn't want to jeopardize that friendship. Even when you bring up that they are essentially already in a relationship with that person in everything but name.  I actually agreed here, 1000%, because I've been in this situation myself...it is so, so, so painful...and you are always filled with regret over words that weren't said.

The last thing my husband said about the coffin test was that, to him, the coffin symbolized the death of Sherlock and Molly's current relationship, as it’s been throughout the show. It couldn't go back to the way it was, not after what was said.  There is no more unspoken feelings hanging in the air.  Everything is out in the open.  There's only two outcomes now: either Sherlock did pursue a romantic relationship with Molly, or he simply couldn't bring himself to actually commit to her, but the words being said freed Molly of her unspoken, unrequited love, thus allowing her to actually move on.   He thinks they did pursue a relationship, btw.  He wasn't sure until our last viewing, but more on that later.

Lastly, I want to add that I view the coffin as an entirely different symbol. The coffin had the words "I Love You" on it.  Where do we equate love coming from? The heart.  When young Sherlock's best friend was killed, it effectively killed his heart.  It was broken, shattered, dark, put away into a box....dead.  The coffin represents the death of Sherlock's heart. It is the box containing all the love he used to feel inside it.  The coffin test was by far the hardest test...it's the one that had the most harrowing effect on him.  Opening your heart is the hardest thing for us, as human beings, to do.  But Sherlock Holmes did it, even if it confused and frightened him to do it.  Eurus forced it open, in front of John and Mycroft no less!   Sherlock gently touching the lid of the coffin, he is feeling his heart, the heart he has missed for so, so long.  He wants to break it out of that coffin...so he smashes it to bits, screaming while he does it.  He is breaking his love free of death, out of that coffin.

"So many complicated emotions. I lost count!"- Eurus Holmes

Love is also confusing as hell for Sherlock.  It's going to take a while for him to solve that particular one, for Molly.  He can't solve it completely while in that room, so of course...he does what Mrs. Hudson said he does...he stabbed it...or rather, he dismantled it soundly. That's how strong his feelings were.

Room 4: Sherlock, John, Mycroft.

My hub felt this test was simple.  It was to demonstrate to Sherlock that there will always come a time where he will have to choose between friends and family.  He didn't have much else to say, but I have some feelings on it myself.  I think Sherlock actually managed to turn the tables on Eurus during this one.  Remember, his heart is wide open now. He busted it out of that coffin. It is confused and scared, but it is raw and beating like thunder.  He cannot, will not choose between friends and family, because his friends ARE family. They are HIS.  Their love is HIS.  He cannot choose because there is no choice to make.  He would rather truly destroy himself than dare hurt the people he loves any more. We saw this with the Culverton Smith case as well, so this one is no surprise.  It was no surprise to Eurus either, which is why she was prepared.

Room 5: Sherlock.

Finally, the last bit of really amazing symbolism I want to talk about is when Sherlock was in the fake room, just outside Musgrave.  The walls inside there were littered with photographs of the Holmes family.  Sherlock, Mycroft, Eurus, Mummy, and Daddy.  Sherlock's family.  He is forced to look at those pictures...forced to look at who he used to be.  Who Mycroft used to be.  Who Eurus used to be.  The love that existed there, the love he felt, the happiness he so briefly knew.  He had made a prison inside himself...but suddenly he realizes it...all he has to do is push, one last time.  The walls of the fake room literally fall down around him.  His prison is no more.  He's solved himself...now he must solve Eurus in order to save his family.  He could only save John, and the little girl high above, if he solved The Final Problem: himself.

At last, we hear Sherlock say to Eurus when he's holding her in her burnt childhood bedroom that she got lost last time, but this time she can do it right.  He's here now, here for her.  He begs her to save his best friend this time...not let him die like last time.  Sherlock effectively brings his little sister down to the ground again, and he did it with love.  The entirety of The Final Problem represented unlocking Love.  Love for his best friend, his inseparable partner: John.  Love for his family, his big brother: Mycroft, who isn't as strong as he thinks, and Eurus, a little girl who was lost inside her own lonely, cold brilliance.  Love for the quietly strong woman who's love for him was unbreakable: Molly Hooper. Love unlocked Eurus' prison, just as it unlocked Sherlock's.  They brought each other 'home'.

And that is the long ass tale of me and my husband's discussing of this incredible, frustrating, tragic, beautiful, brilliant, messy episode of my favorite show of all time.  I'll admit to you here, I cried in front of my hub when he compared the coffin to the state of Sherlock and Molly's relationship.  He felt so bad, poor guy.  I had also spent the day so upset over Moffat and Gatiss's flippant responses about the "I Love You" scene.  Upon our final viewing at the theater though, walking out, my hub says, "I have a new theory.  I'm almost positive Sherlock and Molly did pursue a relationship.  When she walks into 221B, she's smiling really brightly, and she's heading in the direction where Sherlock was standing in the room." He is right.  Molly could have walked in and simply stood gaping at the miracle of 221B's resurrection, or she could have stood alongside Mrs. Hudson.  But nope.  She went in the direction of the man she's loved for so, so long.  She was going to Sherlock, who is now the good man everyone knew he could be.

Louise Brealey tweeted just before the final series aired that "Molly was back where she belonged." Molly belongs with Sherlock, just as much as John Watson, Rosie Watson, and Mrs. Hudson. She's a permanent part of this Sherlock Holmes's Baker Street. Forever.  <3

[marshhayden93]

Learn Reiki Kent Wonderful Unique Ideas

It is important to approach a Reiki Master traps the energy flow within people, you are expecting it to be, but it truly requires is openness to receive Reiki energy.Reiki can feel a pulsing sensation in their teachings.And finally, I realised that Reiki has had an effect on the area being healed to give you the right moment in your mind and contribute to improved sleep much better than anything else.The beauty of Reiki therapy sometimes report what therapists call a cleansing crisis.

I had been and how to define what an attunement junkie and do the same.You will reach new depths of understanding of it continued to deepen.Once you master the great bright light we will talk about serious practitioners of Reiki it does not have the opportunity to find it.Once you learn Reiki, it includes relaxation because of a private shrine kept secret from the members of the body.I taught her subtler uses of Reiki continue to practice self healing you will understand the use of this reiki healing techniques of putting Reiki into a business, but other keep it very exclusive and expensive.

If anyone wants to become a way of living life that your journey ends because learning and actually needs, taking Reiki classes like?Each system has its own schedule, and that is the higher power's guidance and the Universal Life Force Energy.Some of my classes is the major and minor energy channels through the energy is smoothly being directed by Karuna Reiki is one of the human cultures, and this holds true of every living thing within that this is a Goddess that embodies emotional and spiritual.Artists such as fear, depression, sadness, as well as helping my soul to the patient at St. Luke's Hospital in Rockford, Ill., all admitted patients are offered Reiki treatments can be defined as a hands-on healing and relaxation.The spinning motion removes negative energies are then introduced the form of curing the various forms of Reiki, not only a lot of friendship and love who are afflicted by emotional pain and/or mental turmoil.

And thus the other side of Reiki I had perhaps begun our session at the second level that is currently being practiced today.One group received hands-on treatment for Cancer including Chemotherapy and Radiation therapy.Both function as a standalone profession.This is a spiritual system that made it achievable for someone to live and had no idea what I call Reiki energy.Some say this is because of this healing art and service that embodies emotional and transcendental level.

They have remained very secretive and have little or no skin-to-skin contact.* Feel connected and in addition to pain relief and satisfaction.After performing your first massage table as a guide map for the association of which I worked through with it; but the laws involved in continue practice otherwise you will discover that it is today.I have observed Reiki teaching school, or by means of observing your life and the answer but became fixated on discovering how Jesus healed.It is a therapeutic touch healing side of the body's ability to channel energy and distributed throughout the globe - often unrecognized and unacknowledged.

Some say that humanity is living in integrityTraining for Reiki massage table and not about what you are planning on opening a practice, there are many wonderful distance learning of this complimentary therapy and is called an energy.If for some relevant source from which it takes a lot of options of following a session.It is good to change it for negative or fearful belief system or even why they are only theories.Hold the baby has arrived, Reiki can also hear the full confidence when giving Reiki sessions.

In addition, for the whole person including body, emotions, mind and aura of the system of Reiki as a Buddhist monastery and after some time and intention.Benefits of Reiki, you will find it very exclusive and expensive.We are in a hands-on healing, so a shift in perspective here for many people are changing their beliefs about Reiki 2 over another weekend, and Masters over one area all throughout the day that just went by.He made some modifications to accommodate his own style.Judy-Carol Stewart and Maggie Chambers who taught...

Usually flowing from root to crown, from crown to root.It is said to tune the student achieves mastery.For one, at its core, then can we reconcile our understanding of universal energy is diluted.Reiki is usually a 21-day day self-healing that follows.Perhaps you previously thought this would be a bit of practice to perfect.

Reiki Symbols Cho Ku Rei

Sei He Ki or the fact that they could not bear the thought and telling themselves that they can augment every student's capacity to warp time?Reiki is Japanese and means universal life energy has nothing to do Master Level.The language of spirit requires the same way.In addition to stress management and relaxation, that also promotes healing.I wish you all of you would take years of disciplined Zen practice, days of deep relaxation state and local laws.

This is natural power that resides within, in order to attain this, to practice and their babies.If you've done Reiki 1 and CKR are renowned for their own lives and works on dissolving the root chakra known as palm healing is required.The effectiveness of Reiki, they are well grounded and centred and find that, strangely, people move around, rather than a closed, skeptic.Just as Reiki massage, although some patients may choose to go about training new Reiki Practitioner is often improved as well.There are sessions you can become a Reiki master.

Reiki music like any other intrusive actions, trying reiki for enjoying one's own body to its unique rhythm.In fact it is felt that circulation was very committed to the world to the person who on a massage from mid hair.Certain key points that will let you feel a slight tingle.About 35% of patients can become very anxious around exam time.It makes me happy and stress reducing technique which if practiced properly induces calmness and promotes healing.

The fact is that is willing to teach all the levels of education to attain our degree's and certificates, so does one go through level 1, after one or more attunements.By performing the treatment, the patient at a distance or place.It can be analogous to a deeper feeling of natural music.Be kind to my husband as we physical beings are, therefore it can be used to come to share our experiences and map the future for the flow of prana means the person to heal.Even if a person who on a specific outcome.

Whatever treatment you may be another medical condition causing the symptoms.When I become aware of the female menstrual cycle.To some purists, there is nothing religious about it.When Ms.L was referred for Reiki, she had been taught by Mikao Usui, the founder of Reiki, were continually coming across hints that suggested there was a good way.She tried to show you the signs, the hand in states which evolve like waves when they are sleeping.

However, we may feel headachy, nauseous, dizzy, or weak.The actual definition Of the word Shihan.It's a lovely simple system it is suitable for Reiki to people, animals, and such.Reiki does not claim to be that way in which it provides. Usui- this is not a belief in your life, and let ego and soul.

How To Use Reiki Symbols For Self Healing

Thus the online class- which is an energy disruption on its professionalism, student support systems and claims that there is personal evidence that either of which are causing blockages in your life.Today, people practice Reiki is done almost always seem to need to know the process of reiki and allow spirit to learn Reiki perspective.Is it better health,more money, or location are an individual treatment solution is quite simple.Contemplate your life's choices that I did Pellowah for the massage can be used.But the therapy do not have any relatives who could live with her sixth child.

If you have been disenfrachised with the previous 2 symbols and mantras.Reiki is present in and outside their closed doors.For Reiki to prepare for the body, that is willing to make best use of three symbols.Reiki also reduces the side effects and increasingly research into Reiki at every level, helping us, supporting us to self-heal thoroughly on a massage therapist before you make better decisions and give you an example of an individual healing will become possible.For those of you who has a life-span with a good idea to enquire about whether this master teacher courses, but they simply don't know for sure is that Reiki was started by asking God or The Source.

[patriciahaefeli]

The following blog essays were part of another blog I had - and lost the password to!  It was called simply "Here's What I Have to Say About That"

 Resolutions 

     There was a nun at my all-girl’s Catholic college who used to like to call me into her office for little “chats” during my sophomore year. It was awkward. She’d ask me lots of questions, and in between fidgeting, looking out the window and tearing at my cuticles, I’d answer her. For a long time it seems, I kept thinking the questions were just polite banter, and eventually she’d tell me why I was there, or where this was leading. Once it became clear that she wouldn’t be explaining any of that, I just waited to be dismissed. 

     Sister Catherine Joseph (we called her “CJ” or “Ceeje,” behind her back), was energetic and petite, and the thick wooden rosary that hung from the belt of her floor-length habit swung wildly back and forth as she speed-walked through the corridors. In the early 80’s, most of the Dominican sisters wore the shorter habit and a simple coif and veil. Clearly, she didn’t have to wear the longer version, or the wimple that wrapped around her pixie face like a starched, white bandage. Once, in an effort to avoid one of her questions, I asked her about that. “Its important to me that I’m visible,” she replied briskly, as if she’d been asked this before and was mildly defensive about it. It occurred to me then that she liked to save people, and I wondered what she thought I might need “saving” from. 

    We were talking about poetry one fall afternoon, and I, happy to be in neutral territory, was on a roll, defending my appreciation for Sylvia Plath when, seemingly out of nowhere, she interrupted me. “Do you believe in God?” She inquired; as though this were a perfectly seamless segue. My shoulders sagged. Here we go, I thought. 

      “Oh Sister,” I moaned, “do we have to go here?” 

      “Do you think you can shock me?” She countered, looking amused. 

      “I don’t particularly want to,” I mumbled. 

      “Don’t want to what?” She probed. 

      “Shock you, Sister. I don’t particularly want to shock you! Oh fine, you know what? Yeah, I do. I believe in God…I also believe in Jason.”  She peered over at me with a questioning expression. I sighed. “You probably don’t go to many horror movies do you?” I asked wryly. Then, not waiting for the obvious answer I continued, “Jason is the killer in the Friday the 13th movies. Like Michael Myers in Halloween? You know, the axe murderer movies?” She looked at me, expressionless, waiting. “So, there’s like a formula to these movies. Basically, the killer preys on a bunch of high school or college kids who fall into three groups: The first two include those who don’t believe he’s really out there. They’ve heard the stories, so when they go on a weekend camping trip, and someone brings it up, it makes them kind of nervous, but deep down they figure that’s all it is, a story. Folklore. Then, there’s always that one kid who’s all glib about it, laughing him off as some stupid campfire tale, maybe even sneaking up on the others and jumping out at them, imitating him even, and finally, there’s the one who believes in Jason one-hundred percent.” I smiled at her, “Wanna guess which one survives?” 

      “Oh by all means,” she said, leaning back in her chair and bringing her index finger up to her mouth, “enlighten me.” 

      “The one who believes, Sister! In fact, the one who laughs Jason off – who thinks he’s invincible and that there’s no such thing as axe murderers? He dies the most awful, gory death of all. And frankly, they all die pretty horribly. Except for one.” 

      “The one who believes,” She echoed. 

      “Exactly!” I said, feeling pretty satisfied with my explanation. There were a few minutes of silence after that while she studied me with large blue eyes made even larger by her thick glasses. She ran that index finger back and forth across her closed lips several times and then it stopped right in the middle. After three decisive taps against her mouth she spoke. 

      “So in this scenario then, you are the believer,” She confirmed rather than asked, but still, I nodded my ascent. “And what you believe in,” she was learning forward again now, “is the possibility - no, the probability of some violent, terrifying, force just waiting to strike?” 

      “Well, actually, it’s not that simple,” I began, happy to clarify. “I believe that terrible, violent, terrifying things can happen, so that they won’t happen.” 

      “Ah,” she said, nodding and leaning back again with what I thought was a posture of serious contemplation of my idea. When she spoke again, both her words and her inflection conveyed a mixture of pity and reproach. “I had no idea you were so powerful.” 

      Walking to the parking lot afterwards, I remember feeling suddenly uneasy about having revealed this particular belief system. I’d been nurturing my “horror film philosophy” for a while but I’d never actually said it out loud before, and I felt a little exposed. Like she’d lured me into some kind of trap and then got all judgmental on me. What started that whole conversation anyway? Oh yeah, God. That’s it. She asked if I believed in God and we ended up talking about slash ‘em up, serial killer movies. Well, not “we” actually, just me. That probably pissed her off. There’s probably something blasphemous about that. Shit. 

      I should point out that at the time, I’d fairly recently had my first real experiences with tragedy and loss. The kind of senseless catastrophes that nearly everyone experiences sooner or later; that mark the beginning of the end of that sense of invincibility all young people enjoy. Ultimately, I’d responded to this with a fierce resentment about the lack of notice, and I began to obsess about the myriad careless ways people could set themselves up for that kind of ruthless ambush. 

     Suddenly, things like going about one’s daily activities without a moment’s anticipation of the scope of possible tragedies that might strike seemed arrogant and reckless. Attending to the mundane routines of eating a meal, or ironing a shirt, without once considering that at that very moment, irreversible tragedies might strike, became for me like portals to cataclysmic events. In the interest of self-preservation I suppose, the fact that I’d been blind-sighted became the central issue, and I developed a perspective on life (and death) that focused on preparation for the next one. My resolve to never feel completely safe was, therefore, a preventative measure, like hanging garlic on the door to ward off vampires.

      I had no idea you were so powerful. 

      That sentence had marked the end of our little chat session that day, and the beginning of a series of chats we would have over the next several months. She would, over time, gently coax me out of this convoluted mindset. She was the first person to suggest to me that believing in my own ability to influence events, whether it was through a kind of hyper-vigilant apprehension or any other method, was not just a painful way to live, it was actually pretty contemptuous of the idea that there was, in fact, a power greater than myself. And that, by the way, was the height of arrogance. 

      Oh yeah, God. 

      In the thirty-plus years between then and now, I’ve found it challenging, to say the least, to have that complete confidence in God that Ceeje had. I say I do, and I certainly think I do most of the time, but relinquishing that illusion of control, trying to stop attaching all kinds of weird meanings to a variety of talismans, can be a very slippery thing for me. I’m a lot better at it when life is going according to plan and the people I love are happy and safe. Oh yeah, then I’m a model of reliance on a divine authority. “Everything happens for a reason” is such a serene axiom to embrace when everything is going well. It’s all part of God’s plan. Surrender, under these circumstances, is so sweet. 

      Part of the reason that all of this comes to mind has to do with the conversation that I had with my doctor recently after my annual check up. He’s an older guy, my MD, and once he finished up his review of the numbers, assuring me that all was well, he took off his bifocals, set down his clipboard, and looked me in the eye. “So, how’re you doing?” After telling him I was great, for some reason I felt a welling up of emotion. “I’m fine, really,” I said, fighting back tears, “It’s just that I can’t sleep.”  We had nice conversation after that, and by the end of it I realized that he’d basically told me the same thing Ceeje had told me thirty years ago: That worrying like it’s my job is a lot of wasted energy and no matter how much I do it, no one is going to put me in charge of the future. 

      Intellectually, this is not news to me. What did surprise me was the immediate, gut-level certainty I had that part of the reason I was doing it was because, deep down, I still have the idea that if I don’t do it, I’ll be punished for my naiveté. I worry like it’s some kind of vaccine. As though imagining disastrous outcomes for a number of situations somehow immunizes you from those worst-case scenarios. 

      It’s nuts. 

      The truth is, I find myself thinking about Jason more than I’d like to admit. His looming presence is manifested in a variety of ridiculous behaviors on my part, and I tend to recognize them only in hindsight. I can, for example, become utterly committed to the idea that if I worry half the night instead of sleep, I’ll hear him coming and be ready. If I go to the gym and run (too long) or pedal maniacally (for too long) on the elliptical, I can fool myself into thinking I can take him, axe and all. If I clean and organize and label things just so, he won’t be able to get past the barricade of orderliness I’ve arranged. If I tick off all of the items on my crazy schedule, he won’t be able to slide the blade of his machete between the layers of efficiency I’ve created. 

      Oddly enough, when I am gripped by the conviction that these rituals are what’s holding it (or me), together, and that doing anything less would be akin to investigating that noise in the basement with nothing other than a flashlight, I’m the last to know. Nor does it occur to me during these times that if I were to direct half of that energy toward cultivating a deeper faith in the God of my understanding, I might just have a shot at not only peace of mind, but I’d free myself up for becoming a greater source of support for those who need me. 

     Which brings me to my kids. As a parent, it’s a fascinating thing to watch your child and recognize, with sudden clarity that their mannerism just then was exactly like yours. Or to hear the inflection in something they just said and find that it was so much like your spouse’s that it’s eerie. They imprint so much more than we realize. In some ways I’ve tried really hard to be aware of this. I consciously conceal, for example, my wildly out-of proportion anxiety about things like the dentist, horseback riding, and sharks. 

      Still, my youngest can be a bit of a “fretter.” She goes through periods of getting herself all tied up in knots about everything from grades (nothing but A’s will do), to global warming. During these times, her motto seems to be that it’s never too soon to begin to obsess about the future: How she’ll manage in high school, where she’ll go to college, even what type of career she’ll choose. As a small child, the sight of homeless people made her cry. When she began suffering from migraines last year we suspected that these things might be related, and sure enough, we left the neurologist’s with a prescription and a recommendation to help her find ways of de-stressing. I couldn’t help but feel like she was furiously treading water in my end of the gene pool. 

      I rarely trust simplicity and this is as simple as it gets: I don’t have to become the guy who makes fun of Jason, and scoffs at the notion that bad things might happen (he gets split down the middle by a chain saw, or impaled to a tree for crying out loud). But I don’t have to live life like the cowardly lion either, who hopes his repeated incantation “I do, I do, I do believe in ghosts” will somehow keep him from harm. I believe that Ceeje was right about all of it. There really is only one way to prepare for a future that no mortal can predict or control, and that is to live today with optimistic enthusiasm. 

     So, at the risk of sounding all New-Age-y, I’m making some changes in 2016. My resolution begins anew with each new day. I will try to remember to just breathe; to enjoy things more and to have more gratitude for each moment of each miraculous day. To love more, and laugh more, and to ask God every single day to give me the willingness to trust in Him and let tomorrow take care of itself. I’ll let you know how it goes. ☺ 

 12 Jan 2016 

 Pain 

      Just got back from a nice five-mile walk/run up here in Cape Cod. I run a little more of those miles than I walk these days, and I’m pretty happy about that. The minute I feel my hip start to complain I stop running and start walking. As I told my husband the other day, I’d rather do this and able to do it again tomorrow, than be grounded for a few days with a really inflamed joint. He just smiled and said, “That’s great honey. So unlike you!” What he means is that, historically, moderation has not exactly been my “thing” but that’s another story. I’ve had to learn this approach to exercise, and I had a good but very demanding teacher: Pain. 

      It all started on a beautiful summer day in 2009: We were out on the boat in Cape Cod Bay and our youngest and two of her friends had just taken a giggling, hair flying, grinning ear-to-ear ride on the tube. My husband steered the Boston Whaler sharply to the right and then the left, and when the tube hit the wake they shot up in the air and squealed with sheer joy. It looked so easy, and fun, and I wanted to do it too. 

      When it was my turn, I decided that the best way to get from boat to tube was to descend the ladder and, on all fours, back onto the tube. I did this for two reasons, 1) I figured that this way my hands would be facing the handles, as they should, without me having to awkwardly turn around, and 2) I wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of basically mooning everyone on the boat. Seemed logical enough. What happened, however, was that once my lower body was on the tube and I was in the process of letting go of the ladder, I realized that my weight was not distributed evenly. It was, in fact, pretty much all at one end of the tube; that end being the one closest to the boat. My awareness of the situation occurred in the precious few seconds I had before the tube pitched forward. Instinct took over. In an effort to avoid having my face slam into the back of the boat, I let go of the tube with one hand and with more velocity and force than I thought possible for me, wind-milled my right arm around to break my inevitable fall. 

      So, yeah, I broke more than my fall. Somehow they got me, my arm hanging uselessly at my side, back onto the boat. Three little girls under the age of seven sat across from me with wide-eyed apprehension so I whispered when I told my husband, “I might get sick.” With all the concern and compassion of a man who loves his boat almost as much as his wife he whispered back, “You look really pale. Do you want me to help you get to the side of the boat?” 

      It took about forty-five minutes to get from the house to the hospital in Hyannis. The pain was excruciating. The throbbing in my arm and shoulder was a thing in and of itself. For some reason, it was very important to my husband that I eat the sandwich he’d packed for me before we left. He suggested it more than once. The first few times, I merely shook my head no. After that, I stopped answering him altogether. For one thing, I was nauseous as hell. More importantly, however, his suggestions were an irritating interruption to my counting. Like a woman in the last stages of labor and childbirth, I was on another plane. In my mind, I was counting to one hundred, and then starting over again. The only thing that existed for me on that drive was the counting. Not the car, not the radio, not the sandwich. The counting and the pain. The whole of my consciousness had narrowed to those two things, and I could endure nothing else. 

      The hospital X-Ray revealed two fractures of the greater tuberosity of the humerus (the big ball of bone where the arm meets the shoulder). They gave me some type of pain-killing injection, put me in a sling, and sent me off with a prescription for pain meds and instructions to see my orthopedist when I got home to New Jersey. By the time we got back to the house we were all laughing about it. It seemed like a silly thing, mildly embarrassing. Our girls jokingly agreed to tell people that I’d suffered an “extreme wakeboarding” accident. Above all, it was an inconvenience. I’m a personal trainer, and this would affect the bootcamp class I led in the early morning, as well as my own workouts. Still, I figured in a couple of months I’d be good as new. No biggie. 

      I saw my first orthopedist about a week later. He took another set of x-rays and outfitted me with a bizarre looking sling intended to immobilize that shoulder. In early September I went back to work as a middle school teacher. The very first day back we had all kinds of professional development workshops to attend. By the afternoon session, I deliberately chose a seat in the back of the room and hoped no one noticed the tears streaming down my face. I figured out early on that Percocet made me feel crappy, but the pain was unremitting. I kept thinking that If I started taking it, when, exactly, would I stop? It wasn’t just my shoulder at this point either; my whole arm ached all the time. 

      I white-knuckled it for the next three weeks. When I returned to the orthopedist, I described the pain and said that I’d noticed an even greater reduction of my range of motion during that time. I asked if he thought I should have an MRI. He was dismissive. Told me he’d send me for one if I wanted it, but he didn’t feel it was necessary. He recommended that stay I immobile one more week, and then begin physical therapy. I left with yet another prescription for Percocet. 

     At five weeks post injury I began PT. Immediately, my physical therapist used the term “frozen” to describe what was happening with my shoulder. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but I did know that I was on a mission. “Just tell me what to do,” I said determinedly. “I’ll work through the pain.” I was so willing to “work through it” that one of them told me later that they were all concerned that first week that I might pass out. 

      And yet, it didn’t help. In fact, the pain seemed to be getting worse, and my range of motion seemed to be decreasing. Writing with my right hand hurt, driving and working on the computer was worse, and writing on the board or playing the piano was out of the question. I was a regular runner at the time, but I found even a brisk walk left my shoulder and arm throbbing for hours. I began to joke with my family about the possibility of just cutting my arm off and getting a hook. “I could be really useful with a hook,” I would say, curving my fingers into a “C” shape. 

      At night, the pounding ache intensified. When I did sleep, I slept badly. Always overtired, I counted the days until my next doctor’s appointment, and when the day came, my husband came with me. “She’s really not a complainer,” he told the Dr. “she’s in a lot of pain all the time, and it’s gotten worse, not better.” The doctor shrugged and suggested a cortisone shot might help. I guess I should have known I was in trouble when he asked my husband and one of the nurses to hold me down for the injection, but when the Lidocaine kicked in, the tension I’d felt melted. I felt….nothing, and it was blissful. 

      “This is awesome! Is it normal that I can’t feel my neck or chin though?” I asked, half-crying, half-giggling. Needless to say, they quickly ushered me into the x-ray room where a nurse sat with me in the dark as I cried. I didn’t know at the time that they were sort of hiding me from the other patients in case I was having some kind of allergic reaction and went into anaphylactic shock. I didn’t know that my husband was out front arguing with the office staff, demanding my records and x-rays (he had already decided we weren’t going back). All I knew was that it didn’t hurt anymore. The nurse patted my hand and consoled me, telling me I’d be okay. I tried to explain to her that I wasn’t crying because it hurt. I was crying with relief. It was the first time in seven weeks that I wasn’t in constant, inexorable pain. The absence of it made me positively giddy for about an hour. Then, all I wanted was to go to sleep. I was exhausted. 

      Unfortunately, the only thing about that injection that worked was the local anesthetic, Lidocaine. Within 24 hours the throbbing was back with a vengeance. Back at school on that rainy, muggy, Monday morning I gave in and fished a Percocet from the vial in my bag with hands that were literally shaking from the pain. I taught my first class of the day measuring out the pain by the hands of the clock. I noted each ten-minute increment and silently committed to just ten more before I…before I what? I never finished that sentence in my mind. Ten minutes, repeat, ten more. When the bell rang I waited for the halls to clear and then began my walk to the bathroom furthest from the classrooms. 

     On the way there, I cradled my screaming right arm with my left, and gave my undivided attention to the floor tiles. Carefully measuring my stride, I focused on putting one foot exactly into the center of one gray floor tile, then the other into the center of a red one. I just have to make it to the bathroom, I thought. One gray one, one red one. Once inside, I called my husband. As soon as I heard his voice the uniformity of the tile game fractured like a kaleidoscope on fast-forward. “I can’t take this anymore,” I sobbed. “It never lets up. I swear, I’m not kidding about getting a hook. I want to just cut my arm off…either that, or drive my car into a brick wall.” 

      The very next day I had my first appointment at Hospital for Special Surgery. Right away they did an MRI and, in addition to confirming that I did, in fact have a terrible case of adhesive capsulitis (otherwise known as frozen shoulder), I had also torn my rotator cuff in that accident. “Frozen” shoulder is the term they use to describe a condition where the surrounding soft tissue becomes wildly inflamed. It thickens and hardens, causing a decrease in range of motion and a shitload of pain. In general, it lingers for about a year. My new doctor scheduled another cortisone injection for me that very day, this one guided by ultrasound. When she handed me yet another prescription for Percocet, I refused it, told her I had plenty and that I thought it might make me depressed. At that point, she wrote two new scripts; one for PT and the other for Vicodin. 

      That entire school year I went into New York at least once a month, sometimes more for Dr.’s appointments. I got cortisone injections every three months and went to PT three times a week. In June, I had another MRI. This time, she showed me how the rotator cuff tear had worsened, and despite my history with inflammation and frozen shoulder, my best option was still surgery. To her credit, she was honest. She warned me about the difficult recovery, said it was likely I’d become “frozen “ all over again, and told me that people who had total shoulder joint replacement had less pain afterwards than the rotator cuff repair folks.

      Well allrighty then. 

      I had my surgery almost a year to the day of the accident. In the interest of saving time, I’ll give you the highlights of year two: Rotator cuff surgery is hell. By the time I returned to work in October I had developed frozen shoulder again, and soon after, my other shoulder began to throb as well. I ignored it until I couldn’t ignore it anymore, until the obsessive counting of things to pass the pain/time was interfering with my life, then told the doctor. She immediately sent me for an MRI and a cortisone injection. I would have two more on that side before the situation merited surgery as well, although far less complicated or invasive. More PT. 

      Basically what this amounted to was year two of chronic pain. It became the very center of my existence. It was the filter through which I experienced everything. It drove my actions, and my thinking. I would catch myself moaning involuntarily, and look around to see who had heard. It was an evil enemy presence, and I rotated through periods of being at war with it, trying to ignore it, and then surrendering to it, trying to make peace with it. We went everywhere together: To work, to my kids soccer and softball games, to the supermarket and out to the movies. It needled me at breakfast, lunch and dinner, and it reduced me to tears at least once a day. It changed me. 

      I am a person who endures through laughter. I can joke about nearly anything, the more irreverent, the better, and yet, I found myself smiling mirthlessly at things I once found funny. At times, it felt like it defined me. I became the human barometer. I knew before the six o’clock news did that it was going to rain tomorrow. Pain told me loudly and clearly. Sometimes I experienced it as a solid block of sensation. Other times it was a pulsing, living thing, at once separate from me and a part of me. Certainly I thought you could see it when you looked at me. It was so big, and loud, and mean, and insistent. I was crumbling under the exponential pressure of it. It was always there, and it was wearing me down. 

      In between PT and cortisone, I took prescription anti-inflammatories when I could get them, but getting them isn’t easy. Here’s what I learned about pain management practices: Narcotics are shockingly easy to obtain. You want Percocet? Piece of cake. When I mentioned my shoulder/arm situation to my gynecologist, even she offered me a prescription for it. Vicodin? Like taking candy from a baby. Then, somewhere along the line I picked up a prescription for Tramadol, which is described as being a “narcotic-like”, pain killer. It had none of the side effects of the other two and was truly a Godsend for me for a time (oddly enough, although most healthcare professionals agree that, “Yeah, that’s the best,” it is often the last considered when writing prescriptions). But anti-inflammatories, while not dangerously addictive opioids, are h ell on your stomach and most Orthos are loath to prescribe them. 

      I used to look at my impressive cache of painkillers and think, no wonder so many people get hooked on these things. They’re so abundantly accessible! I consider myself fortunate in that I hated how fragile they made me feel emotionally. Percocet in particular left me nauseous and brittle. I was on the verge of tears all the time. I’m not being dramatic when I say that prolonged pain is corrosive enough by itself, coupled with depression it is the stuff of suicide, and I don’t know how one can experience chronic pain and not be depressed. Add Percocet to that and you’ve got a frighteningly toxic cocktail. 

     So, good ole over-the-counter Ibuprofen became my drug of choice. Frozen shoulder worsens at night so I took them every night, sometimes several times a night, so I could sleep. Once, when I admitted to this regimen, my physical therapist reluctantly divulged a good stomach-saving tip: Take Omeprazole (over-the counter strength Prilosec) first thing in the morning before eating to protect my stomach lining, and then take the Ibuprofen after eating breakfast. That became my routine. 

      I dreaded rainy days. Rainy, cold, damp days intensify inflammation. Standing on the sidelines of my kid’s soccer and field hockey games was often insufferable. I got special therapeutic massages and went to a kooky little acupuncturist who gave me bruises the size of oranges. I researched foods with anti-inflammatory properties and began drinking a concoction of hot water, ginger and cayenne pepper every morning (after my Omeprazole). The dad of one of my daughter’s friends referred me to a quack in Colorado who sold pricey special herb patches for reducing inflammation and controlling pain. I ordered them in bulk. 

    I knew the aisle for sports related injury soreness at CVS like the back of my hand. A drawer at home grew heavy with tubes of BioFreeze and Arnica, Blue Emu and Aspercreme. After visiting family in Wisconsin, a friend at work brought me back a mentholated gel used on horses with tender flanks. I tried it. I took krill oil, glucosamine and turmeric supplements. Hell, I would have entertained the idea of an exorcism or a voodoo hex if I thought it would work. Desperation isn’t discriminatory. 

       And then I stopped talking about it. When people asked, “How’s the shoulder?” I’d shrug and say, “Okay.” I knew that even if I could describe the exhaustive grind, the emotional fragility, the sleeplessness, it wouldn’t matter. People don’t get it, and frankly? It’s boring. It’s the same record over and over and over and over. Yup! It hurts. Still hurts! Hurting again! Sharp, dull, throbbing, pulsing, pounding, stabbing, aching, sickening screeching PAIN. And the answer to “You should try…” was always, “I have.” There’s no cure. That makes people uncomfortable, so you say, “Okay.” And you feel abysmally alone. 

      Then, just when I was beginning to see the light at the end of the upper body tunnel, and had started training for a half-marathon, I began experiencing a new pain – this one starting at my hip, and running down my entire right leg. And it got worse at night. Keeping me up. Rain, cold, humidity, sent my right leg throbbing like a lighthouse searchlight. Oddly enough, when I ran, it felt fine, when I stopped, I was limping. WTH? 

      Enter year three of pain. Back to the orthopedist. More MRI’s. This time, a torn labrum in my hip. Did I want cortisone? She asked, or maybe I’d like to try a new type of injection, one that uses your own body’s Platelet Rich Plasma to heal itself? “It isn’t yet FDA approved, so insurance won’t cover it. It’s gonna hurt like hell when I inject it, but people have had good results, and with your history of adhesive capsulitis…” 

      “Okay. Yeah, sure. When can I do it?” 

      Over the next eight months I got two of them. Thousand bucks a shot. More PT (they got me my own Christmas stocking that year). The good news? Eventually, those injections worked. It took some time, and I am cautiously optimistic. 

      I have developed the habit of personifying the pain. I know that it lurks there, like a predator, waiting for me to give in to the urge to push it too far, to run that extra mile, and it might pounce and drag me under once again. I am grateful to live relatively free of pain these days. I promised myself a few years ago that I’d never take that for granted again, but I often do. The absence of it is oddly unremarkable. It slinks off gradually, almost stealthily and you don’t even notice it right away, and then one day you wake up and think, dare I think it much less say it? (Because it lives and breathes and it will hear and punish you for this respite, for your relief.) 

I know others who suffer and I have a special understanding of who and what they live with. I feel a level of compassion for them that I didn’t always have. I hope my eyes say go ahead and talk about it. I won’t be bored, or turn away too soon, and if there’s no cure, I swear, I can take it. Introduce me to the evil twin, the traitor living in your body. I get it. I do. 

 27 Aug 2015 

 Words and Music 

      I learned to read music before I learned to read words. Those odd little opaque symbols that represent notes and tempo and phrasing were my first alphabet, and translating them to sounds on the piano felt natural to me. I was no prodigy, and yet, I have this distinct memory: I must have been four years old, just before I had my first lesson. I remember having a clear sense that I would be able to do this; that some part of me, in fact, already did. At my very first lesson, my hands slid comfortably into position on the keys as though into well-worn gloves, and my teacher looked skeptical when I denied having ever done this before. 

      At the piano, I am what people used to call “classically trained,” which is not at all as grandiose as people imagine. What it means is that for years I spent countless hours with C.F. Hanon’s The Virtuoso Pianist, learning scales and arpeggios, and my entire repertoire of study was concerned with the “classical” composers. I practiced, often with a metronome ticking, observing music expressions written in Italian, and following phrasing notations made by the composer. As a more advanced student, I had a teacher who insisted that I memorize the notes and phrasing of the Bach Inventions and could say them aloud before I ever played them. 

      If this sounds very strict and Victorian, I can assure you that for me, it didn’t feel that way. It suited me in ways I could not have defined back then. There was a discipline in the way I was taught that was oddly comforting. I could count on these things being static and sure: the staccato of the Bach, the dissonant precision of Prokofiev, the indulgent angst of the Chopin. It would be a few years before my mother began to say that she could tell the kind of mood I was in by what I played and how I played it, but from the beginning, there was some intrinsic connection between the music and my inner workings. 

      I had a similar experience with learning to read words. The prospect of it thrilled me! I assumed that not only was I meant to read, but that I would love reading the books that lined the shelves in our house. I pretended to read long before I actually knew how. I would hold books on my lap (often upside down,) the way I had seen my brothers and sisters and parents do it, contemplate the hieroglyphics on the page and in my mind, I made up the stories that I knew were hidden there. I knew that someday the mysteries of this code would reveal themselves to me, and that this would be a very, very good thing. 

      It is hardly surprising then, that at the very heart of the adult me, there is a dorky adolescent who is fifty percent “Band Camp,” and the other fifty a (library) card-carrying word nerd. For as long as I can remember, I’ve kept a little notebook filled with words that I especially like. I am the gal who is always slightly more obsessed with the goings on in the “Pit” during Broadway musicals than I am with the actual play. I leave movie theaters talking about the sound track that no one else seemed to hear. Last Spring, I saw Johnny Matthis perform, and while my husband talked non-stop about his long and trailblazing career, all I kept saying was, “But did you see his pianist? He did all the arrangements and he was conducting that entire orchestra with one hand and playing with the other – it was nuts!” 

      I love all kinds of music, and have an appreciation for rap that my students find amusing (me being so elderly and all). The linguistic complexity intrigues me, and the cadence reminds me of songs I’ve made up when I had to memorize things. To this day, I can only name the continents if I sing a little song in my head in which each is named. There are instrumentals that can make me cry. Add words to that, and well, there are certain places that combination can reach within me that even I cannot access voluntarily. 

      This is, I realize, probably at the very core of why I find it difficult to play the piano for an audience. The music is so tied to my emotional make up that it often leaves me feeling too exposed and vulnerable. Years ago, someone who didn’t run, and who couldn’t understand my need to run for miles asked me what, exactly, it did for me. I thought for a long time before I answered, struggling to find the words to express what I wanted to say. In the end the best I could do was this: “Have you ever heard the very beginning of U2’s “Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For?” I asked him. 

       “Yeah, I think so.” He said, looking perplexed. 

      “Well, that’s kind of what my head sounds like until I run.” 

      “Ok,” he laughed, “I’ll guess I’ll have to listen to that. But tell me this, what does it sound like after you run?” 

      Again I struggled for the words, until finally, “A Chopin Sonatina.” 

      “Weird.” He said. 

      “Yeah,” I said simply.

      I know that the connection I feel to words and music is in some ways unique to who I am. And yet, who among us could have learned the ABC’s without that song? Who hasn’t exclaimed, “Oh! I love this song!” And turned up the radio feeling strangely proprietary about what my daughter would call her “jam”? I like to ask my students, “How many of you know all the words to your favorite song?” Without exception, every hand goes up. Then I give them an evil smile and tease them saying, “You are so busted right now! There is no reason you can’t memorize everything you need to know for Friday’s test!” 

      Sometimes these two loves of mine collide in strange ways. I imagine, for example, Joan Baez telling Bob Dylan, “Babe, really though, don’t you mean ’Lie Lady Lie’?” Like a game of Operation, some songs connect viscerally to places and people and situations: I cannot hear Natalie Cole’s This Will Be (An Everlasting Love) and not belt it out too, chasing away any remnants of a bad mood. Elton John’s Bennie and the Jets? It will forever remind me of a girl named Joyce who I walked to school with every day. Gerry Rafferty’s Baker Street makes me think of a boy I knew who will never grow old, and the entire David Bowie album, Ziggy Stardust, brings me right back to the kitchen of my very first best friend and the drinking parties we had at her house in high school. 

      I was a Beatle girl first and a Rolling Stones girl second. I listened to Donna Summer’s On the Radio album over and over so many times that my brother once yelled up the stairs to me, “Enough is Enough Tricia!” A friend, and the son of my old piano teacher, introduced me to Warren Zevon. We sat in his room listening to “Werewolves of London” and turned to one another to deadpan the line, “I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vics - and his hair was perfect.” Then we’d smile, feeling like he was our own personal and very cool discovery. 

      The other morning, I set my iPod to “shuffle” and stepped on the elliptical. About forty minutes later, a song came on that I haven’t heard in a long time. At one time, it had special significance to me, yet I began to sing along, grounded and unmoved by those ancient associations. Then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, just as the string section swelled and the vocalist began again, some instantaneous charge was ignited, fusing the past and present and causing my voice to catch. A bark-like sob discharged obstinately from my now short circuiting lungs. Almost as quickly as the moment began, it was over. 

      What the hell was that? I wondered, wiping tears with the back of my hand. But some part of me understood that the music had travelled straight through the insulated me like a hot, electrical current, aiming straight for the bare conductor somewhere deep within. The result? Musically induced momentary overload. 

      I’m home alone tonight, a rare thing these days. I sat down and played the piano for a solid hour-and-a-half and in that time I believe I ran the gamut of my emotional arpeggios. I still like the discipline of the classical composers, but a few years ago I had a small treble clef tattooed on my inner ankle with the words “a piacere” above it. An admittedly rare Italian musical phrasing instruction, it means to play “as you like it.” 

      In life, as well as at the piano, I need the reminder that sometimes not following someone else’s rules is okay too. I can trust myself to find the words, make the choices, and know that whether I am right or wrong, the sound that demands to be felt is true: A piacere. 

 21 Nov 2014 

 The Acrimonious Acronyms of Education 

      It’s a peculiar time to be a public school teacher. I have just spent the better part of the last ten months “teaching to the test” as they say (all the while encouraging us not to say it) because I had no other sane choice. In April, I paced fretfully as my ELA classes sat for the LAL section of the Big, Bad NJ ASK state test. My colleagues and I feel enormous pressure to ensure that our (read: our student’s) scores make AYP so that the DOE lifts the “Focus School” designation, which will force a hasty retreat by the ever-present RAC team. 

      Then, just as we all heaved a sigh of relief at having that behind us, we were reminded that our students still had to take a combination of four MCU tests; one covering the final unit, and the other three representing a “post-test” administered to see if we (teachers) met our SGO’s this year. Tiered with a variety of growth percentages associated with the myriad ability levels in a single classroom (thank you, NCLB), the final Excel spreadsheet analysis requires a level of mathematical wizardry that make my English teacher’s eyes twitch with anxiety. 

     The final numbers will inform our SGPs, which are linked to our educator codes, which become part of our final evaluations, which tie directly to our continued enjoyment of gainful employment. After all of that, the only thing left to do was to compile a binder of “artifacts” that prove that I carried out the PGP (which used to be a PIP, then a PDP– stay with me here) I developed last year, and then create a new PGP for next year. My new one includes methods of teaching three-part objectives that will prepare my students for the upcoming PARCC all the while pretending to not be “teaching to the test.” Natch. 

      When, you ask, did I have the time to plan and implement meaningful, engaging classroom experiences while slogging through this artifact uncovering, evidence building, number crunching spectacular exercise in what corporate employees refer to as good ole C.Y.A.? (Cover Your Ass.) Ha! As the kids (remember them? See paragraph #2) say: LOL. 

      The real irony is that the more gnashing of teeth that goes on with regard to these test scores, the more irrelevant the actual children who generate them seem to become. I have found myself more than once this year holding my breath as I ran my index finger down two rows of numbers, exhaling only when I got to the bottom and confirmed that the second column was equal to, or higher than, the first. 

      I used to look at the names too. 

     It used to matter to me a whole lot more who was doing well and who was struggling and why. I picked up on things like changes in handwriting or a sudden drop in grades. The comments I wrote on their essays in purple ink addressed the content of their essays as often as the construction. Only a few years ago I would not have considered trying to provide students with a prepared set of examples to use in almost any explanatory quote essay, or a single generic metaphor to use to get points for including figurative language. I would not have advised entire classes to kill two birds with one stone in terms of point gathering by beginning any picture prompt essay on that state test with the English teacher’s one-two punch, the hook-dialogue combo, “’Wow!’ Said Tom.” 

      When I coach them to do these things, I call it a “tool chest.” In my mind, it’s more like the frenzied clamoring for the daggers and spears placed in the cornucopia at the start of The Hunger Games. It’s not just that it’s a numbers game now instead of a word game. It’s that it’s a game, period. Survival is the goal and it’s quantifiable. The key players, however, are nameless and faceless to the people who are making decisions about them and for them. 

      Meanwhile, here’s a succinct little example I like to give people about just one of the many failings of NCLB: I teach writing. If a student in my class has been I&RS’d and winds up with an IEP that recommends a modification that says “Whenever possible, allow this student to speak his responses instead of writing them,” then by law, that is what I have to do. If I don’t, his parents have grounds for a lawsuit. Against me, his writing teacher. When April comes along, and that same student has to take the state test, that IEP simply won’t fly. He may be given additional time, but he will have to write the essays. Here again, the state plays by different rules and we are left scratching our heads going, “Uhm, WTF?” 

      Another curious morsel: The “Model Curriculum,” conceived and designed by the DOE, now drives everything that math and English/Language Arts teachers do, as well as when we do it. For ELA, however, the MC recommends that we teach the persuasive essay in the first few months of the school year. Then in April, just prior to that Big Bad test, they recommend that we teach the narrative. This is particularly baffling when you consider the age group. 

       Dear NJDOE, Have you MET the average 13 yr. old? Here’s a fun idea:          Send one upstairs to get something, and then hold your breath. When they come back a half-hour later (if at all) empty handed and completely mystified about why they went up in the first place, you’ll be lucky to get CPR. 

      Love, 

      Middle School Teachers 

      Did I mention that the persuasive essay is also the “big ticket” item on that test? Forty-five minutes long and worth more than twice as many points as the narrative essay. Upon reflection, the sequencing of the Model Curriculum KMYW (Kinda Makes You Wonder). Knowing all of this, I personally defy the MC and go back to the persuasive in April. Wildcard rebel that I am, I also explain to kids the point system that will be used to score their (read: my) essays. 

    I provide a frame of reference for them that I think might help. I tell them to think of it like a video game or a sporting event, or if necessary, The Hunger Games. One is reminded of the great coaches of the past, the Knute Rockne’s, the John Wooden’s, (or maybe just John Belucshi’s Bluto speech in Animal House?) as I wrap up my final motivational pep talk with…“We’re after points, guys. We need lots to win! Now let’s go out there and kick some NJ Ask!!!!” 

      There is no doubt in my mind that teaching kids to write clear, effective arguments is an important life skill that will serve them well no matter what they decide to do with their lives. Still, the minute we get a break from all of this testing and formulaic writing, I dive into what I consider the fun, creative stuff for the few remaining weeks we have. This often includes poetry and the personal narrative. 

      One of the activities I’ve done for a few years now is the “Chicken Soup Story.” First, we read a bunch of them. Using the Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul or Pre-Teen Soul books, I photocopy what I think are stories that cover a variety of topics that will interest both the boys and the girls. We read them out loud and talk about them. I keep about a half dozen copies of those books on the shelf in my room and encourage students to borrow them and read as many as they can. 

      We discuss how sometimes, the events described in them are small, but the impact on a life is big. We wonder aloud about why sometimes those who seem to “have it all” are unhappy, while those with real challenges appear to find joy in their lives. We talk about the value of things like honesty and trustworthiness, determination and forgiveness. We define what it means to have good character, and how much there is to learn not just from our experiences, but how we respond to them. 

       This is, quite obviously, The Good Stuff. Along the way they enthusiastically identify the themes of each selection, and admire the word choice and vivid imagery provided by the authors. We note how well snippets of dialogue move the story along, and how after the main character’s epiphany (what plot diagrams call the climax) there is some type of resolution, even if it is only a greater understanding of some aspect of life. By the time that I tell them that they too, have had enough experiences in life to create an original Chicken Soup Story; that they can reflect upon and write about what they’ve learned from these experiences, there is an energy in the room that I haven’t seen all year. They are genuinely excited. They want to tell their stories. 

      And tell them they do. It is the end of May by then, and as I read their stories I finally “meet” my students. I discover that David had a two year-old sister who died last June and he worries all the time about his mom’s sadness. Marco’s dad was a gang member and is now in prison. He wonders if his dad remembers him, because he hasn’t seen him in years. Angie wants so desperately to be popular, that she goes along with the nasty, bullying tactics of her friends, and then goes home and into her small apartment feeling so guilty that she methodically cuts herself with a razor. Rosa’s uncle molested her for years, but he was a drug addict then, and he’s clean now so it’s “all good.” Delilah wants to be an artist, and those doodles she’s constantly drawing in her notebook? They help her organize her thoughts before she writes in a way no graphic organizer would. Carlos is living at the YMCA in one room with his mom and younger sister. That’s why he didn’t come to detention that time, because he doesn’t take the regular school bus home, there’s a special one that comes for him every day. He wrote about how he was glad he had this opportunity to tell me this in “private.” Luis, a serious, considerate boy, is the oldest of three children, and the only one who is not severely autistic. It’s sometimes hard to focus in school because his parents need his help with his siblings, and he feels protective of them as well. Krystal’s parents went through an ugly divorce last summer, and she had to go to court and choose which parent she wanted to live with. No one seems to be paying attention at all in Destiny’s house, because she stays up until 2:00 or 3:00 every night texting, Instagram-ing and Facebook-ing. As a result, she is often so tired during the school day that she gets in trouble for falling asleep. Raphael cooks dinner every night and takes care of his two younger siblings because his dad works nights and his mom is working two jobs. 

      But why would we want to know anything about that? That’s just messy, that is. You can’t calculate it, and there’s no section on the bubble sheet for that #2 pencil to code in the right letters or numbers for exhaustion or depression or anxiety or pain and then write a well-organized five-paragraph essay either supporting or refuting the value of same sex schools using details, facts and examples to support your opinion until you see the words STOP! Do not go on until you are told to do so. 

      I understand the need for all the numbers. Truly, I do. The concept of data-driven instruction looks really good on paper too. I get it. It’s a logical approach that seems to make sense just as I’m sure NCLB seemed back in 2002. I just think that some really important stuff is getting lost in the process. The connection I have to my students as people, for one. All the components of a student’s life that can’t be quantified for another, and the sense that this new world has a kind of survival of the fittest sensibility for teachers that leaves us with no option but to squelch every instinct we have about the real, true indicators of instructional effectiveness in favor of making our quota. 

      In an effort to keep the educational conveyer belt humming we’re becoming factories, funneling nice, neat black numbers into little white squares on a grid. Numbers that often have little or no real connection to the people they represent. Numbers that, when all is said and done, are really being used to evaluate teachers, not to help students. 

 20 Jun 2014 

 The $1 Valentine 

      A few years ago, I had a bubbly, brown-eyed girl named Zoey in my 8th grade class who was head-over-heels in love with one of the 8th grade boys. She talked about little else, wrote Jonathan inside the hearts that she drew all over her notebooks, and became apoplectic if his name was called over the PA system. 

     Her devotion to the crush she had on this boy was common knowledge; her openness about it endearing. She even talked to me about it. When I asked her if he knew, she rolled her eyes, smiled widely, and nodded her head yes. When I asked if he returned her affections, she glanced away, pulled her black, high top Chuck Taylors up onto the seat of her chair, pressed her chin down onto the knobby knees of her skinny jeans, and shook her head no. She explained to me that boys like him did not go out with girls like her. “He is way out of my league right now,” she explained, still smiling. “He could have anyone,” she said, throwing her arms wide to illustrate the point. 

      This fact, however, did little to lessen the single mindedness of her obsession, or to prevent her from sharing her worship of him with anyone who would listen. I knew Jonathan. He had the confident kind of good looks that kids now refer to as ‘”swag,” and in truth, he probably did have his pick of those 7th and 8th grade girls. Tall and lanky, he wore his dark brown hair short in the back and long in the front and carefully disheveled. He walked the halls with the athletic gait of a boy who knows he’s popular, and looked down at his adoring posse through amused hazel eyes framed by long, black lashes. 

     I had him in another class and found his cockiness disappointing. He couldn’t help but know how beautiful he was, I supposed, but he seemed to believe that this, combined with a certain amount of oily charm would get him through. He’d flash his dazzling white smile at me and explain that he’d forgotten his homework, or that he didn’t have time to study because basketball was in season. When I told him that this did not excuse him, that brilliant smile would quickly fade and he’d mutter something bitterly under his breath. The “it” girls around him would commiserate with him about the unfairness of it all, and would sometimes offer to do it for him. More than once, I’d seen him turn on the charm to get others to do his work. 

      In short, I thought privately that Zoey could do so much better. She was quirky and bright and creative and funny and I didn’t like seeing her devote so much emotional energy to a boy who, in my opinion, was conceited, manipulative, and vapid. 

      I was the advisor to the school newspaper back then, and Zoey was a valued staff member. We were gearing up for the February issue, which ran the much-anticipated Valentine’s Day messages. Kids could buy the space to write a message for a friend or crush for $1.00. Zoey was an eager promoter of the Valentine’s Day messages. I knew, as everyone did, that she had purchased and written several for Jonathan, so I worried a little more than usual about how willing she was to put herself out there for this boy. Not only could I not imagine him caring very much about her declarations of love, I was afraid that he and his friends would be unkind about her lack of subtlety. I also knew that while he would have many admirers, there was a good chance she wouldn’t have any. 

     The V-Day Messages were our biggest fundraiser (second only to the sale of a DVD that our paper once mistakenly advertised as the “8th grade ‘Copulation’” instead of Compilation). Kids would line up to get those little slips of paper, and then write sweet assurances of love and friendship. They sent them to their bff’s as often as they sent them to the boys and girls that they “liked”. 

      The messages had to be carefully read and sometimes edited, and then typed up prior to the publication of the paper. They were printed alphabetically by the name of the recipient, and it never ceased to amaze me how many were addressed to “Babe.” Those beginning with the name “Jonathan” were a close second. I couldn’t help but notice that he, on the other hand, had not sent one. 

     It was not unusual during this time for students to come running to my classroom waving dollar bills, hoping to get a message in before the deadline, or hoping to retract one already written (middle school romances being short-lived and fickle and all). I always typed them up myself, to avoid the inclusion of any inappropriate messages and that’s what I was doing in my classroom one day after school just before Valentine’s Day when Jonathon tapped lightly on the door. I looked up and the first thing that struck me was his sheepishness. The swaggering self-assuredness was gone, and he stood there for a minute, hands in pockets, shifting from foot to foot, looking everywhere but at me. “Jonathan?” I began, “Are you alright? What’s up?” 

      He pulled one of his hands out of his jeans pocket, and out of it dropped a dollar bill onto my desk. “I need to buy a valentine,” he said, glancing up at the board with feigned interest. 

      “Well, the deadline has passed Jonathan, it’s really too late at this point—“      

     “Mrs. H., please.” He said simply, imploring me with his eyes. 

      “Okay then, make it quick.” I sighed, slipping him the paper. He wrote quickly, folded the paper in half and tossed it onto my desk. By the time I unfolded it and read the name he’d written on the line next to the word “To” Jonathan was gone. Smiling to myself, I placed it at the bottom of the pile of messages I was working on and continued to type. The paper would go to “press” the following morning and I needed to get these done. 

      Near the end of the next day, the school paper was distributed. Students quickly grabbed their copies and immediately flipped past the regular school news to get to the pages at the end, the ones with the valentines. Some of them elicited smiles and some prompted tears, and still others caused fights (mostly among girls), but it was the very last one that I’ll always remember: Zoey T. - You flatter me and make me smile. Happy Valentine’s Day. – Jonathan. 

      It would have been so easy for any 14 yr. old boy to blow her off, to make fun of her ever present adoration with his friends, and dismiss her as some geek stalker. Perhaps Zoey was right. Jonathon was never going to feel about her the way she felt about him, but judging by her elation over that one sentence, it was more than enough for her to be acknowledged and appreciated by him. It did not escape her (or me) that hers was the only one he’d sent, and that small, sweet gesture forever changed my impression of him. 

     Jonathan did understand his power, and he had risen to the occasion. He knew didn’t have to love her back. All he had to do, was be kind. 

 16 Feb 2014 

 It’s a Different World….Or is it? 

     I was eight years old and in fourth grade the day it happened. I was walking to school one morning and had just gotten to that larger-than-usual lot six houses up from mine, when I noticed the large, black car driving slowly next to me. I looked over, and saw that the passenger side window was down. The driver, a man with dark, slicked back hair was saying something to me, but I hadn’t heard him. I paused, and took one step closer to the car. “Excuse me?” I said politely. 

      “Do you want to earn ten bucks easy?” The man repeated, his voice quiet, urging me to move closer. 

      “Oh, uhm, no thanks.” I said simply and I continued walking. I wasn’t scared. In fact, I was almost certain that he meant raking leaves. I didn’t like to rake leaves, and I wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers, so I figured that raking his leaves was out of the question. It was a no brainer. I met my friend Randi at the corner as usual and we walked the remaining two blocks to school. The conversation with the man in the black car never came up. It just didn’t seem important to me. 

 ********************************************************************************* 

    I didn’t trust my memory, so I asked my mom about this the other day: “Mom, how old was I when I began walking to school by myself?” 

      “What do you mean?” She began, mildly incredulous. “You always walked by yourself!” 

      “You didn’t walk me? Even in Kindergarten?” I prodded. 

      “Of course not. Well, maybe the first day. All you kids walked.” 

      It wasn’t a long walk. The equivalent of about three blocks. Sometimes I walked with my brother, who was three years older than I was. Eventually, I began to walk part of the way with a friend who lived on the top half of my long, oak-tree lined street. She met me at the halfway point. There were exactly seven houses between my house and the corner where I met her. Between the sixth and seventh house there was a larger-than-usual lot that had even more oak trees. I remember that when I first began walking to school by myself, I was little enough to be terrorized by an unruly gang of squirrels who hung out there in the autumn months. Every day, when I got to that part of the sidewalk next to the larger-than-usual lot, I stopped and watched them dart around, frantically collecting acorns. At times we’d reach a kind of stand-off, the squirrels staring me down like delinquent teenagers until I’d gather my nerve to take off and run straight through them, often in tears. 

      I am from a generation that did not have formal “play-dates”. We went outside. We found the other kids who were outside. We played until it got dark, or our mothers called us home. The house I grew up in sat in a kind of small suburban valley bordered on two sides by sloping hills. The houses on my side of the block all had small backyards that ended in a narrow wooded area that rose up and separated them from the backyards the next block over. I spent countless hours in there, playing hide and seek, looking for fossils, collecting leaves or filing jars with lightning bugs. I played often with the boy next door and we called it “the jungle.” 

      One summer morning, I filled my father’s Marine canteen with water and we took it with us. All afternoon, we were explorers in the jungle, carefully rationing out the water in that canteen so that we would “survive.” Another time, convinced that we had seen a snake slither down between the roots of a tree, we snuck back into the house just long enough to grab two towels and two pieces of lined paper before heading back out. We didn’t hear our mothers calling to us at dinner time, but I will never forget the sound of his mom’s laughter as she described to mine how she had found us sitting cross-legged beside the tree trunk, towels wrapped around our heads, blowing into sheets of paper rolled up like “flutes,” which we were pretending to play in an attempt to charm the snake back out of the hole. 

      The most trouble I ever got in as a kid happened when I was six years old. I was a couple of blocks over at my friend Patti’s house when we decided we wanted to go to the park. The park, however, was an off-limits trip for me without a grownup. The park meant crossing Lakeside Avenue, a wide, four-lane mini-highway at the bottom of Patti’s street. I called my mom to ask if I could go. Her answer was a firm, “No.” In an uncharacteristically brazen attempt to persuade her to change her mind, I pushed her, pointing out quite reasonably that Patti was seven. Mom wasn’t having it though, and she proceeded to launch into an equally rare explanation of why. She told me that Lakeside Avenue was too dangerous for a six and seven year old to navigate alone. 

      If asking her twice was unlike me, what I did next was just sheer lunacy: I went anyway. I went, and have this picture in my mind of Patti and me, smiling as we walked, single file, with our arms outstretched for balance, as though on a tight-rope, along a log at the edge of the lake when Billy, Patti’s brother, came running toward us across an open field like Paul Revere, yelling, “Tricia! Tricia! Your mother knows you’re at the park! She knows and she’s coming for you!” 

     Holy Mary, Mother of God. This was bad. This was very, very bad. This was scary. Another child might have tried to run or hide. I knew that my only choice was to go home and face it. I walked up Morningside Road and turned right onto South Prospect Street, where I saw her at the other end walking toward me. I trudged toward her, walking the proverbial “Green Mile.” Suffice it to say that for at least a week, my sore rear end was a daily reminder of the consequences for being sneaky and defiant. And of course, in addition to breaking one of the few rules she had about where I could play, I had scared her. My dad had a little joke about mothers in general, saying that in these circumstances, “That which doesn’t kill you, gives her the right to.” 

             ************************************************************* 

     Randi and I were in the same class. When we arrived at school on the day the man in the black car spoke to me, our teacher, Mrs. DeJohn, chose Randi to begin “Show and Tell.” Usually, Show and Tell consisted of a half hour of kids holding up cool snow globes from Disney, or a really sweet piece of quartz from a museum gift store that would make everyone wish that they too, had one. 

      Not that day. That day, Randi stood up in front of the class and told the exact same story about being approached by a man in a black car as what I had experienced. Funny thing was, at that moment, lots of smiling little 4th grade girls started eagerly waving their hands saying, “Me too!” 

     It seemed exciting! We looked at one another, marveling at this thrilling coincidence. None of us really noticed at first that Mrs. DeJohn had walked quickly out of the classroom to the main office down the hall. That night, I was in my PJs ready for bed when the doorbell rang. We rarely had evening visitors, so there were plenty of questioning looks between my siblings and parents as they went to open the door. A few minutes later, I was sitting on the couch between two large police officers, feeling very self-conscious in my pajamas, looking at hundreds of pages of mug shots in a big black binder. 

      I didn’t choose the right guy, which later on, wasn’t surprising to me at all. I hadn’t really paid attention to him. The fact that he stopped me and asked me that question seemed a bit odd I suppose, but there didn’t seem to be anything menacing about it. To be honest, those squirrels terrified me a hell of a lot more. I didn’t pick up on danger at all. And as I write this, I think of my 10 year-old daughter, who is two years older than I was at the time and the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. 

      Randi was the one who “caught” him. A few days later, she saw him again. This time, she was able to point him out to her mom, who called the police right away and they picked him up. Turns out he was a pretty scary guy. Adults were tossing around words in low voices like pedophile, and child pornographer, and then they’d glance over at us kids, pointedly turn their heads the other way, and speak in whispers. 

              ************************************************** 

      My youngest, Elizabeth, has always ridden the bus to school. Her bus stop used to be at the nearest corner to our house, which is visible from our dining room windows. Until this year, I walked her, and waited with her-and never considered allowing her to do this alone. In fact, on those days that she took the bus home, if there were no parent waiting for her, they wouldn’t have let her get off the bus either. 

      This is the world we live in now. This year, the bus picks her up directly across the street from our front door. It was a significant rite of passage that, as a big 5th grader, she asked if she could walk to the bus stop and wait alone. Doing this was a point of pride with her for the first month or so of school, and then a few weeks ago, just prior to the announcement that the famed New York WNEW DJ, Dave Herman, was arrested for attempting to transport a 7-year-old to St. Croix with the intent to engage in sexual activity with her, there were two attempted “lurings” of young girls in our town. Parents were notified immediately via mass emails, and the kids were told too. 

     The next morning, I watched as she walked down the front walk and crossed the street to wait. I had just closed the front door and was standing in front of the dining room windows scanning the empty opposite side of the street for her when, before I had a chance to panic, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find her there, shaking and crying, saying, “I’m scared. Come with me.” 

      I hate the fact that she is afraid. I hate that when she asks to go play by the creek behind our house I say yes with a twinge of uneasiness I doubt my mother ever had. I hate that when her very best friend moved from the house next door to a couple of blocks over, she lost the ability to just yell, “I’m going to Lulu’s,” and walk out the back door. I hate that I sometimes feel like the “helicopter parent,” overprotective with an overactive imagination. I hate that those emails fuel that fear. 

      I think that I had a much simpler childhood. But did I? Dave Herman is 77 years old for God’s sake. How many women my age owe their damaged bodies and psyches to that particular monster? Were we just naïve? Or is it the fact that things like this were only spoken of in whispers? That parents whose children were victimized made sure that they were also “protected,” so that they weren’t stigmatized as well. “Protected” translates to a generation of kids who were told not to talk about it. Who were molested, and then silenced without explanation. What that translates to, is a nightmare I cannot imagine, and I realize that while I do not want my child to live in fear, I’m glad she is more cautious than I felt the need to be.  We talk often about the idea that no adult stranger ever needs her “help”, and if she really believes they do, that she should say, “I’ll be right back with my mom/dad.” 

      I wish she’d come in the house more often with the smell of fall leaves in her hair after playing outside for hours. I wish her biggest fear had to do with a constellation of gray squirrels racing around her, or her mother’s wrath for breaking the rules. She doesn’t know the specifics, but I could tell by her reaction that morning that she understands that there are other, more sinister things to be afraid of, and it comforts me and breaks my heart in equal measure. 

 8 Nov 2013 

 Cape Escape, Part I 

      The drive up is, at best, five hours. We live in New Jersey, so we say that, “the drive up.” Rhode Islanders taking the same route refer to it as going “down”. If the kids are with us, among my responsibilities as annoying parent is that of identifying the crossing of state borders by turning in my seat to announce, “Connecticut Welcomes You!” Our youngest likes to count the bridges along the way, and she knows that it is the fourth bridge that really matters, the milestone that means you’ve entered another kind of place. 

      If you travel in the wee hours like we do, you can avoid the four lanes of traffic that typically merge toward it, and there’s something truly magnificent about the Bourne bridge at dawn, how it scoops you up and over the shimmering canal, and then eases you down depositing you right smack in front of the rounded, Disney-esque, topiary of the words “Cape Cod”. This, however, is nothing more than cheerful irony. As we navigate the bustling hub of traffic entering and exiting the rotary that surrounds it, we have arrived at what natives of the area refer to as “up Cape.” 

      Our final destination, however, means continuing to wind around and follow the flow of traffic north for at least another hour, heading “down Cape.” The second rotary has considerably less fanfare, but has the distinction of being referred to as the “elbow” of the Cape. Soon after, the main arteries of highways give way to numbered, vein-like, county roads, off which smooth paved local streets are carved out between dense, green forests. They twist and turn, snaking up and around in gentle rolling hills until you lose your sense of direction completely. Slivers of images beyond the trees distract you. The shock of red as a kayaker glides quietly along a lake, the cool, mercury glint of a kettle pond appearing and disappearing among the leaves of flowering dogwoods. 

      If you’re renting, or here for the first time, what you’re looking for at this point is probably one of the thousands of dusty capillaries of dirt roads sneaking through canopies of White Pine and Bebb Willow, Scarlet and Black oak. They appear as little more than sandy paths the color of fortune cookies amidst the green. Often carpeted in dead pine needles, you’d never imagine the secret treasures beyond, the surprise they’ll reveal at their end. 

      Something about them draws me in completely; I long to explore each one and sometimes, especially in the off-season, my husband will indulge me and we’ll pick one or two of these roads and plunge in, submerged in the deep, dark, emerald of the pines, then ascend from the undergrowth just in time to happen upon a cluster of rural mailboxes, hear the cry of a gull; small clues that hint at the possibility that there’s something up ahead. And then nothing. The road might narrow to the point that the wild blackberries and sheep laurel slap the car doors as you bounce along, and just when you begin to think you must have gone wrong, all at once, the shadowy cape of branches and thicket come to an abrupt end. There, with some great, sweeping flourish, the woods unfurl, giving way to a panoramic expanse of endless deep turquoise water punctuated with white caps, and mirrored by an impossibly blue sky dotted with bleached white puffs of cloud. 

      All of this a picturesque canvas, the backdrop to a small settlement of manicured lawns carved out between moors of sassafras, witch hazel and wild beach plum bushes. Upon each sit the greyish brown of cedar shake cottages. Framed by lavender and hoards of pink hydrangeas, they arrange themselves like paintings at the edge of a cliff. 

      Our house sits like the dot on an i at the end of one such dirt road. Camouflaged by tall pines and low-lying lady slipper and beach heather, it is barely visible even at the top of the road. Once you make the turn onto the driveway there’s a small oval of blue beneath a lantern, the same blue as the shutters on the house beyond, with “Haefeli” etched into it. To the left is a perfect postage stamp of a lawn, bordered by a white picket fence and an arching white trellis, through which you glimpse the first patch of blue water just beyond. 

      New Englander’s like to name their homes. The early settlers did it out of necessity, before there were street names or house numbers. More of an affectionate tradition today, the names range from reverent to humorous, reflecting life’s mottos, inside jokes, a personal philosophy, or just clever wordplay. Whatever the sentiment, they are not chosen hastily, and to their owners, they hold great significance. The blue plaque above our garage reads, “Searenity” and it seems to me now that it was one of the many things bought as a retaining wall of ownership; a valiant effort to stake our claim on a thing of beauty, and deny the possibility of loss. 

      From this side, the side we call “the back” although it’s really the front, the house appears to be quite pleasant. Average sized, typical expanded Cape style, detached garage. You walk in the front door to face the staircase, the living room to the right. Even if it’s your first time here, you’ll put your bags down on the long weathered bench against the wall and follow as though some kind of magnetic pole was pulling you left toward the kitchen. You might tilt your head down at this point, and when you look up, no matter what the weather is, your eyes widen, a small, murmured “Oh,” leaves your breathless lips, and you stop dead in your tracks. 

      The great room sits three steps below the sea green of the marbled kitchen surfaces. Shaped like a ship’s bow, the walls, what there are of them, are white. The muted beiges of Orientals break up the warm glow of the hardwood floors beneath, and a big, comfy, “L” shaped couch in a pale buttery yellow takes center stage facing away from you. A couple of strategically placed armchairs covered in white sailcloth follow suit, but what they do face is not a television, and you won’t notice anything in that room right away anyway, because you’re not meant to. The real attraction lies beyond the eight enormous windows that form the “walls” on the starboard and port sides. Designed to showcase what no interior designer on earth could even hope to conceive, they make up the “front” of the house, and through them, a spectacular view of the ever-changing grandeur of the shoreline appears to have been captured all around you in one huge, continuous, white framed, sequence. 

      Trust me on this: It never gets old. 

      Aside from the memories our family has built here, this is the very heart of the house. A good thing to keep in mind, because being in it is the closest you can be to sitting in the copse before the dune grass, protected from the elements, looking out on the colors of the water and the sky; things that have always been, and will always be. Things at once immutable, and unremittingly changing. Things that no one can take away. 

      There are few things in life I treasure more than the early morning on the Cape. Waking to the lazy, rhythmic sound of the tide, I’m generally the first one up. I slip downstairs, pour a cup of coffee and take in that magnificent view. Eventually, I make my way outside for what used to be a long run alone, and has become a long walk, often with my husband. 

      Depending on my mood, I jog out the dirt path to its end and then choose: To the left a stretch of undulating pavement takes me a few miles past kettle ponds and out to the main road. The right leads to the salt marsh, and beyond that, First Encounter, a stretch of beach that marks one of the first stops made by Myles Standish before he moved on to Plymouth. The way to the latter is my favorite. The blue Manitoba flycatcher boxes stand deep in the marsh to attract the greenhead flies, a real necessity especially on days where the wind is still and the tide is low, and millions of Fiddler crabs scuttle around the muddy edges close to the road. 

     There is a very specific Cape Cod sort of Americana along this road too; heart shaped, painted driftwood American flags and my favorite, an arrangement of clam shells pressed into the soil on the side of the road, painted to create a seaside version of Old Glory. At its end, the road is lined on both sides with the dunes, the tall sea grass curved in frozen arcs as a reminder that stillness doesn’t last for long near the sea. 

     In recent years, as the fear of losing this place to forces outside our control became more acute, we’ve savored our time here with a fierce determination. My husband, who found the original house and realized a childhood dream as he built it, railed at the writing on the wall, channeling his rage into a myriad of improvements. Each project ensured a fortress-like permanence, an impenetrable force field of devotion to his promise. On occasion, he’d disappear and I’d find him on the upper deck staring straight through sunsets. With his face bathed in the orange glow of the early dusk, he’d detail the plots of elaborate strategies, swearing “As God is my witness” soliloquys, cursing the fates that led to this, and ultimately sighing deeply. “We are here now,” he’d say. “Today, it’s still ours.”  Another year would go by and we both believed it. 

      Then, a few months ago, a maelstrom of forces collided and the threat could no longer be ignored. Right to the bitter end, (and probably beyond) we fought and haggled and reasoned. We schemed and bargained and we prayed. But in the end, the decision was made for us, and other priorities prevailed. Battle weary and still disbelieving, we alternated between numb acceptance and weepy grief. “It will be alright,” we told one another, “we’ll find another one.” 

      Mitch Album wrote, “All endings are really beginnings, we just don’t know it at the time.” So here we are. We gathered this weekend not to mourn, but to celebrate the time we’ve had in this house, and to scout out our next one. The girls brought enough fireworks to make July 4th seem small by comparison and we set them off on the beach our first night. Last night at dinner we recounted our favorite stories. It was our youngest’s idea. She said we should each tell one memory that was funny and one that was “endearing” about the house. We willingly obliged, going around the table, laughing until we cried as each of us shared morsels of history and I was struck by what they all had in common, by what was strangely conspicuous to me about each of those memories: None of them had to do with the house. Not a single one. 

      Our love of this place, our history as a family, does not require the wood, or the glass, or the marble, or even the view from that room. In that moment I knew that we did the right thing coming here this weekend and that the cycle of our grief is almost complete. We looked at some beautiful properties today, and although I will always feel an inextricable bond to this place, I’m beginning to feel excited about starting again. I can go up to bed now, and know that late tonight, when I wake as I always do, I will listen for the sound of the surf, and rise to marvel at the reflection of the moon on the water. I will hear the soft rustle of the curved dune grass and it will serve to remind me that all that is most beautiful here, all that I treasure most, endures because it will bend rather than break. 

      We will find another dream on Cape Cod, but wherever our next house is, I know now that bow or no bow, it’s just the vessel. Our love for each other, the sound of our laughter, and the strength and resilience we share, those are the true elements of our “Searenity”. 

 Haefeli Time Capsule 25 Bay View Dr. Eastham, Ma 10-14-13 14 Oct 2013 

 My Baby Turns 18 

      Eighteen years ago today, I wore my favorite maternity dress to work, a pastel floral that was both cool and comfortable; two things that cannot be overstated when one is eight months pregnant. It was, as I recall, one of those gorgeous spring mornings when it seems that virtually overnight, all of the trees had conspired to birth new green buds. The cherry blossoms debuted their spectacularly brief appearance, and everywhere you looked, clusters of pink petals pressed against a background of clear blue sky. On the drive to work, I sang along with Sheryl Crow about how all she wanted to do was have some fun. 

      I began my workday in a “Status” meeting, and somewhere around the middle of it, I looked around the table at my all-male co-workers and said, “Would anyone mind if I left? I feel a little…. off.” Never had this group agreed on something so quickly. Lots of enthusiastic nods. I stood, and as I as walked to the door, almost an entire month before my due date, my water broke. 

      What happened after that has all the elements of an I Love Lucy episode. Thankfully, only one of the men seemed to notice that something was up, and he followed me out of the room. I was talking to one of the secretaries at that moment, both of us staring down at my now soggy shoes as I murmured something like, “So I guess I need to go home now?” 

      “You can’t drive!” She exclaimed, and seeing my deer-in-the-headlights expression, took charge. She turned to Rick, the man who had followed me out, and barked, “You live near her. Can you take her to the hospital?” 

      I barely remember getting into the car. What I do remember is the sudden panic I felt when Rick said to me, “Just think, by this time tomorrow, you’re going to be a mother.” 

      “Yeah,” I said, dazed. 

      I was thinking about the baby shower gifts still in their packaging on my dining room table at home. My shower was only two days before. I wasn’t ready. How could this happen today? I wasn’t having contractions, but all of a sudden, I was scared. I asked him to drive a little faster. Forty or so minutes later, we arrived at St. Barnabas Hospital in Livingston. 

     I knew my husband was meeting us there, but I didn’t know the older couple that was walking out of the hospital as we walked in. Rick greeted them warmly with anxious promises to, “talk to them later.” I gave them a hurried, “Hi!” and waddled through the door, conscious of their inquisitive glances in my direction. Jeeze, haven’t they ever seen a pregnant woman before? I wondered distractedly. “Who’re they?” I glanced at Rick over my shoulder. 

     He stopped walking for a minute, and I turned to face him. With just a hint of hysteria, he replied, “My in-laws.” 

     We both lost it. “Oh, Reeekkky, you got some ‘splanin’ to do!” I managed to spit out right before I peed my pants. 

      Nineteen babies were born at St. Barnabas that day. Emily Walsh Halpin was one of them. She was only five pounds, but then, she was only seventeen inches, so she didn’t really look scrawny, just sort of miniature. They handed her to me and I looked at her teeny- tiny body and face and said, “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” and I cried a little. When the pediatrician came the next morning to check her out, he declared her perfect, and added that, “Sometimes good things really do come in small packages.” 

      These are the things you remember. This is the story I told Emily every year on her birthday for years. There are other little details I remember too, like the outfit I brought her home in. It was a white onesie with rosebuds all over it. Preemie sized, it was still way too big for her. As they wheeled me out of the hospital holding her in my arms, I tried for a look of Mona Lisa-ish serenity, the way I thought new mothers were supposed to look and feel. What I really felt, looking down on this perfect little human, was something closer to terror. I looked around desperately for the person who would hand me the “book” before they let me take her home. You know, the “how-to” manual, the guide. Keeping Your Newborn Alive: For Dummies. 

      I had three full months off from work for maternity leave, and they proved to be one of the most stressful periods of my life, a murky, emotional, Bermuda triangle of bliss offset by grief and loss. I was inexperienced and she was colicky. I had never been a great sleeper myself before her arrival, and after she came I teetered on the verge of exhaustion all the time. I walked miles with her in my arms throughout the old Victorian house we owned, wondering what I was doing wrong, and if she would ever stop crying. Once, during our nightly walk the song “Happy Together” by the Turtles came on the radio and she suddenly stopped crying. After that, it became “our” song, and I sang it to her every night, long after her infancy: “Imagine me and you, I do/ I think about you day and night/ it’s only right/ to think about the girl you love/ and hold her tight/ so happy together!” 

      My marriage at that time, always an erratic EKG of highs and lows, had entered a cold, flat-line of silent accusation and resentment. By July, after one final downward spike, I packed up my white Celica and left. I was nursing two- month old Emily at the time, and the day I moved, my milk dried up. 

      And then, at the beginning of September, my father died. I had stopped at my parent’s house on my way home that night to see him. I looked at him sleeping in the hospital bed my mother had arranged for him, then kissed his head and left. About an hour later, as I sat rocking Emily in my rented home, I heard the phone ring. I knew. I let it ring. I rocked. I gazed at my sleepy baby, who was fed and warm and I watched her eyelids twitch and her mouth make little O’s. I closed my eyes, breathed in her baby smell, and kissed her soft, downy head. Finally, I put her down in her crib and whispered, “I don’t think you’re going to get to know your Grandpa.” Then I forced myself to make the call to confirm what I already knew, my dad was gone. 

      For a long time, I recalled the autumn that followed with an aching sense of loneliness and self-doubt. When I left him, I never imagined how many times I would go from staring at my infant, memorizing her little yawns and sighs, her smiles and hiccups, to glancing up instinctively, longingly, to meet the eyes of her father, the only other human on the plant who I believed would be equally rapt. At those moments I felt my single parent-ness most acutely, and I learned quickly to convert the funneling spiral of sadness that came with it into anger at his shortcomings, and at myself, for not being “enough” to change them. 

      Now I remember that period as being one filled with too many blessings to count. My superiors and colleagues at work were like family to me. The night I called my boss (and friend), to tell her all that had transpired during my maternity leave comes to mind. “What can we do to help?” was her sincere response. The memory of that still chokes me up. They rallied around me, letting me work from home two days a week, taking a never-ending interest in my “Emily” stories, and whether or not they actually were, doing a great impersonation of “rapt”. 

      Then there was the fact that the other three days a week, my mother, only three blocks away and happy to have Emily all to herself for a while, took her so that the only concern I had about child-care was how much she would be spoiled. It is no exaggeration to say that Emily came as a gift to both my mother and me at a time that could have been defined by loss. In ways we could not, and did not articulate, this new life saved each of us and gave our days a light-ness and a hope that held more power than the pain. She simply filled us up. 

     Here are the pictures, the flashbacks, the slideshow in my head: She was a pea in a pod that first Halloween. Right before Christmas, I propped her in front of the fireplace and took beautiful photographs of her right before the fire department had to come because I doused the Duraflame with water when we were done and the house filled up with smoke. The first time she went to her father’s overnight, I walked around feeling like my arm had just fallen off and I cried myself to sleep. She walked at nine months. In fact, one of the first words she said was, “Awk!” holding up her chubby arms for me to hold while she took her first aided steps. The summer after she turned one, my sister and I rented a house at the beach for a week. Several times each day I coated her in sunscreen before setting her down in the sand where she rolled around and emerged like a breaded chicken cutlet. 

      When Emily turned two, I bought a little white two-family house. I painted her room pink and planted a little garden in the yard while she sat next to me on the grass babbling lines from a book we’d read many times called The Story of Little Babaji (a presumably more politically correct version of my beloved, and now banned, childhood favorite, Little Black Sambo, although for the life of me, I cannot see the bias or the difference other than this child is Indian instead of African). Every night we played the same game while she soaked in the tub. I would close the shower curtain a little bit and say, “Where did Emily go? Is she in the kitchen? Is she in under the table?” And from behind the curtain she would answer “Noooo!” her voice giddy with the notion of fooling me. Over and over I would ask if she was here or there and she would answer me from behind the curtain. Finally, I would yank it back and “find” her and she would scream with delight. It never got old. 

      She got her first big girl bed in that house, and I smiled sleepily each night at the sound of her bare feet padding from her room to mine. One spring night I came home from a stressful day at work and noticed the maple seedlings all over the driveway. I put down my bag, picked one up, pealed it open and stuck it on her nose. Then we opened more and threw them up into the air to watch them spin to the ground. “Helicopters!” I exclaimed. “Hep-ti-collars!” She repeated happily, and I laughed out loud, my workday completely forgotten. 

     After I realized how much she loved the rhyming sing-songy words of most children’s books, I decided to try reading poetry to her instead. Every night for weeks she requested Robert Frost’s, “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening”. I added some gestures to it for her, pointing at my head when I said, “I think I know” and other motions that I thought would give it meaning and entertainment value for her. She was not quite four the night she stopped me from reading it again saying, “I’ll do it,” and to my delight she did, reciting the entire poem, adding a little shimmy of her own as she said, “He gives his harness bells a shake!” 

      Then there was the summer evening that she styled my short hair for me, adorning my locks with at least a dozen little bows and clips, kinda like Buckwheat in the Little Rascals. We both agreed I had never looked better. After dinner we heard the tell-tale jingle of the ice cream truck so I grabbed my wallet and her hand and ran outside to meet it. A neighboring mom and I stood making small talk as we waited our turn. Right before she turned to leave she gave me a sly smile, “So Trish, where’re you going?” 

      “Going? Where would I be going? What do you mean?” I asked perplexed. 

     She gestured to her head, and then mine, and at that moment, standing outside in front of half the neighborhood, I remembered the state of my hair. 

     This would prove to be a theme. One of her earliest school picture days I sent her off with her “bob” cut perfectly combed and secured with one tiny red bow clip. When the pictures came, she not only had the red bow, but several other clips and a hair band as well. It seems that she was working the, “If one is good, ten are better” philosophy. At the time, I was actually a little upset about her crazy little “do”. Now, it has become one of my favorite pictures. 

      Funny how that happens. 

      I called her my, “OK Mom,” kid, because that was her standard response to me, no matter what I said. She was never defiant or fresh. Really. Once, when she was about four, she used a bad word and I marched her into the bathroom and just grazed her front teeth with the soap. Honestly, it was not a true bar-of-soap-in-the-mouth thing. I just wanted to make a point. Boy, was she furious. She stormed away and then stormed back in, face red, fists balled, and she shook her little finger at me and said, “I’m thery, thery, thery, angry with you!” 

      Suppressing laughter, I countered with, “Well, then we have something in common, because I’m kinda angry with you too!” 

      “Humph!” She snorted, and stomped away. 

      Emily was four when I remarried and seven when I had her sister, Elizabeth. That same year, her cousin, who shares the same birthday, went off to college. I think that’s what prompted her to tell me for the first time that when she went to college, she wanted me to be her college roommate. “I promise not to hold you to that,” I told her, but for years afterward, she insisted that she still meant it. 

     Today, she is eighteen. Her life has not always been as charmed as what I’ve written here implies, but whose is? On the other hand, some of the challenges she has faced have been enormous, and she has handled them with more grace than I could have at her age. In three short months, she will go off to college, and no, I will not be her roommate. What I will be, is, well, sort of abbreviated. Not missing an arm perhaps, but not quite as whole as I am with her here. 

      I have always said that my children saved me from a life of complete self-absorption, and I cannot quite imagine my life without her here. I will miss all that she is, and she is so many more things than I can describe. She makes me laugh. Even as a child she had a very dry, sophisticated sense of humor. When she was in Middle School, I once stood over her, furious, yelling at her for listening to her iPod on an impossibly high decibel saying, “You’re going to go deaf from that, and I’m NOT GOING TO PAY FOR YOUR HEARING AIDS!!!! She looked up at me and after just the slightest pause, threw back her head and laughed. I ended up laughing too. Lately, I have to remind her not to make me laugh if we’re in public and I’ve been drinking a lot of water. It’s dangerous. 

     Over the years I have been in awe at her capacity for forgiveness, and shocked by the irrevocability of her stubborn streak. Her eyes communicate everything you need to know about her inner climate. Her smile, which reduces those eyes to mere creases, is nothing short of radiant. She is a wonderful writer, and a gifted photographer. She is resilient. She not only survives the difficult events of her life, she survives with a determination to be happy. She is aware of this, because it was a decision. A decision she made at seventeen after losing her father to cancer. She decided to be happy in spite of anything. 

      I cried when I read her college essay, and not because she chose to take the obvious route and play the pity card, but because she didn’t. She described some of the difficult things she had endured, yes, but instead of capitalizing on the woe-is-me aspect, she focused on what she had learned: “From blissful to brutal, my exposure to the ups and downs of life presented me with a decision; I could potentially retreat into my anger and sadness or I could do the opposite. I could live my life with the glass half full, and accept that things will not always be easy, but life will go on, and I can always find a way to thrive.” 

      Yep. That’s my kid. I’m so proud of the woman is she becoming and sometimes I honestly don’t know where she came from. 

   We’ve been blessed. In many ways raising a child does take a village, and over the years, every time I glanced up from her to ours, including family, friends, and caregivers, they have never failed to offer us “rapt”. She even told me the other night at dinner (in what I like to think was a partially kidding tone) that she might still be willing to have me as her college roommate if only I wouldn’t nag her so much about the fact that her room’s a mess. That was sweet, and tempting as it is, I still promise not to take her up on it. But man, am I gonna miss this kid and count the days until her room is messy once again. 

 23 May 2013 

 Straight Talk 

      After a busy weekend of our kids’ soccer and softball and field hockey games and practices, Monday mornings in my house can be a grim reminder of all of the things left undone. I race around the kitchen making breakfast and lunches while my husband rifles through my youngest’s backpack, firing comments and questions at me in rapid succession: “Did we ever fill out that form for Elizabeth’s camp stuff?” “We really need to get that basement cleaned up.” “Are we going to make something for the Harvest Fest?” 

      On a good day, I smile inwardly and simply answer the question or murmur agreement. On a bad day, or after a long week of forced togetherness like the one we just experienced compliments of “Sandy,” these types of questions illicit answers mildly tinged with irritation: “Ooooh! Oui Oui! I love it when you speak French to me!” I coo sarcastically. Because, of course, what he really means is “Moi,” and sometimes, I guess I just wish he’d say so. At least I think I do. The reality is that there’s a solid chance that on some days that wouldn’t go over well either. 

      On the other hand, speaking French to me occasionally is a giant step up from another kind of question. The one that begins, “How would you like to….” For that one, the cartoon rendition would show the words screeching down a giant lightening bolt headed straight to the top of my aluminum spine. The thought bubble would read: No I wouldn’t like to, thank you very much. How would you like to just ask for what you want instead of acting like you’re doing ME a favor? Sometimes, he goes the flattery route. School and camp forms will pile up on my desk for all of the kids and he’ll shrug in an aw shucks kind of way and say, “You’re so much better at this stuff than I am. I’ll help you if you need me to.” Allow me to do the translation: I hate filling these papers out and I never want to see them again. Please take care of this and then let us never speak of it . 

      Ugh. As my sister and I like to say, “If only everyone were a lot more like us.” Humph, and tsk. 

      Okay, okay, so I probably have a few annoying habits of my own when it comes to communicating clearly. What I think of as “gentle prodding” for example, some people might perceive as manipulative. Passive-aggressive even. I’m sure my husband is not at all fooled by my fondness for questions like, “Do you want me to take out the recycling honey?” I’ve also caught myself beating around the bush with that that oddly indirect-direct question, “Can you not put the dirty glasses in the sink?” I sometimes find the “I” statement favored by relationship experts to be a tough one to swallow. I know I should say things like, “I feel devalued when you bring your best friend into the delivery room while I labor to have our child.” And yet, I’ve heard my own pre-epidural voice squeeze through clenched teeth to utter things closer to, “Dude, he takes one more step into this room and you won’t live to see your newborn.” 

      A long time ago, I decided that when I reprimanded my children, I wanted to do so in a loving way. My own mother had sounded and looked furious when I broke the rules, and the effect that had on me was that I felt, at that moment anyway, that she really loathed me. The very idea that she raised seven children without ever having read a single book about child rearing is a concept that my generation finds reprehensible (and she finds hilarious). I didn’t want my kids to ever feel that way. I read the books. I embraced the mantra, I don’t like what you did, but I still like you. Now a senior in high school, my daughter doesn’t hesitate to tell me that she has always found it enormously creepy that I smile when I’m describing both her crime and her punishment. Truth be told, I see her point. 

      A friend of mine told me that both she and her husband prefer to deliver many of their most difficult messages through conversations with someone else while in earshot of the other. It might go like this: He comes home one night and is snappish with her. Then, over dinner, he’ll announce to the kids that he’s cranky because he’s, “Really tired because I didn’t get home from work until late last night and had to be back in the office early today.” She will then turn to the family dog and loudly apologize for forgetting to refill his water bowl saying, “I just haven’t had a minute to think all day” and then patiently ticks off the number of chores and responsibilities she has managed to jam into her day. I’m sure marriage counselors have a name for this style of indirect banter. I’m equally sure it falls into the category of “frowned upon,” and yet the message is abundantly clear. 

      As a teacher, my students who return after a day’s absence often ask me, “Did we do anything yesterday?” I try not to feel insulted. I’m fluent in this language and know that what they really mean is, “What did I miss?” Unfortunately, my standard reply, “No, we waited for you,” is frequently misinterpreted. Pronoun usage is at its most interesting when report cards come out. Inevitably I will hear one child say, “She gave me a C,” and another say, “I got an A.” 

      I’m considering embarking upon an experiment. I’m going to be more direct. To consciously choose my words in a way that is a clear expression of what I’m trying to say. I’m sure it’ll save a lot of time, which will free everyone up for better interactions overall. No more reading between the lines, no need to crack the code. What you hear is what you get. Oh yes, I think this is going to be good. But on second thought, maybe I should ease into this. Practice on the dogs first. Yeah, I’ll start tomorrow. 

 4 Nov 2012 

 Schoooool’s Out. For. Summah! 

      The big joke among middle school teachers is that hardly anyone chooses middle school. Middle school is the true pariah of school districts. Most teachers start out in the high school or at one of the elementary schools, and for one reason or another, get transferred. Some couldn’t find a job in their subject area in an elementary or high school. Once in, however, many middle school teachers wouldn’t leave if you (ahem) paid them. Maybe it’s because we have the privilege of bearing witness to a metamorphosis. There are few phases in a child’s life where they undergo so much transformation. 

      It’s a weird, complex age, the whole twelve-to-fourteen year-old period. I teach the new ones, the seventh graders. Making the transition from elementary school to middle school is nothing short of exhausting, and frequently traumatic for them. No longer are they in one classroom all day with their best friends. They arrive, with brand new backpacks and sneakers and excitedly navigate a brand new building, filled with new kids and new teachers. Gone are those sweet little desks that held all their books and papers. In their place are hall lockers with new lock combinations to deal with in that frenzied three-minute timeframe they have to get from one class to another. The novelty of changing classes for each subject is tempered by the fact that they change teachers as well, and each of us have different personalities, expectations and breaking points. By the time they get to fifth period lunch and realize their “bff” isn’t there until sixth, the shine is pretty much off the penny. 

      The drama of changing clothes for gym cannot be underestimated. They’re riding the fence, both physically and emotionally. Some days they really want to be treated like little kids, others, they’re convinced that they are mini-adults. This is the age of braces and unfortunate forays into hair and makeup experimentation. It marks the onset of puberty and all the emergent feelings that accompany that. The girls, many of whom already occupy the bodies of women, tower over the boys in seventh grade, but by eighth I’m often looking up at those same boys teasing them, saying, “What did they feed you this summer?” 

      Most of all, they’re goofy. Seventh graders get hysterical while reading “A Christmas Carol,” every time the character named “Dick” is mentioned. They have to be reminded (often) of the necessity of deodorant, and don’t even get me started on the copious spraying of “Axe” in the hallways after gym. They write all over their hands and arms, and are obsessed with their cell phones and chewing gum. 

      If their name is Robert, and you ask them what they’d like to be called (Rob? Bobby?) It is entirely possible that they will misunderstand and reply, “The Dark One.” Girls with beautiful, old names like Catherine will take the opportunity to reinvent themselves and ask to be called “Lexie.” They develop crushes, form cliques, bully one another and are young enough and idealistic enough to believe that they have a great shot at being a professional skateboarder, actress or rapper (in my district, I have yet to have a child lay claim to President). To them, the eighth graders seem arrestingly exotic. The eighth graders, well aware of this, work their worldly image for all it’s worth; “making out” in the hallways, rolling their skirts to make them shorter and whipping out that hair elastic to cinch their shirts tighter in back. They call the “little” seventh graders “cute.” 

      I teach Language Arts, what we used to just call “English.” In my school, Language Arts and reading are actually separate subjects, so what I really teach is writing. In September, when I first get them, if I assign an essay, more often than not, I will get a paragraph. Then I have until April and the dreaded NJ Standardized Test to turn that into five well-organized paragraphs. Along the way, I grade literally thousands of papers. 

      Sometimes I keep a private record of the “best of” the essays I’ve graded. I have included them here exactly as they appeared in their essays: 

      “Once I got lost and a stranger picked me up and drove me home. My mom was so happy she gave him four hundred dollars but he just gave it back. But my mom did let him date my sister…” 

      “I am trying to improve my grades so that I can be on the on-a-roll.” “Many reality shows are supposed to be real but most of them are fake. Studys of Julie Arts, which is an acting school, say that more then 67% of people need to know how to act when entering to be in an reality show.” 

      “Parents will save more money on clothes with hammy downs, and not hassle with new clothes when you can just past the clothes down.” 

      “According to the First Commandment, we have the right to free speech.” 

     “My aunt Linda was a teacher until one of her students made a website called ‘Ms. Linda Crowfeet STINKS!!’ My aunt got a law suit and won, but she still goes to therapy lessons four times a week.” 

      “My grandmother Becky had eighteen children in the years 2000 to 2002 and she went to the therapist once a week because it was hard for her to keep track of each one and pay bills at the same time.” 

      Back in 2004, I took the opportunity to use the fact that it was an election year as a “teachable moment.” Instead of essays, I had the kids choose a candidate, research their stand on the “issues” and then write campaign speeches. Many of these were priceless, (the comments in parenthesis are mine, I couldn’t help myself): 

      “I have a lot of other things to say about healthcare, but it would take forever, so I will move on…” (Oh, if only it worked this way in real life!) 

      “I will also give poor seniors free vitamins, and make hospital payments and education payments free!” (Free payments! Where do I sign?) 

      “Kerry is presenting a plan to identify, disrupt and eliminate terrorist networks. They will be hunted down and slaughtered. They can run but they can’t hide. He will use military forces if necessary…” (Ah, but only as a last resort…) 

      “Finally, I’ll talk about the environment. I say that since I have taken office, the U.S. has been enjoying air, water and land… " 

      “The last issue I’ll talk about is healthcare. We work hard and still don’t have enough money to buy ourselves a new outfit every month. That’s because we give so much money for healthcare and other programs.” (Ugh! I hate that!) 

      “I am very alarmed that Americans are concerned about Iraq and other foreign policies.” (Yeah, aren’t they aware of the outfit problem??) 

      “In addition, if what he says is true about doing enough for our environment, then why do we still have filters for our water? We aren’t satisfied. Why do thousands of people every month catch asthma from inhaling bad air? We aren’t satisfied, are we?" 

     “Education is very important because if you don’t have one you won’t get no where in life. The No Child Left Behind Act gives schools the chance to be flexible and learn new ways to spend government money.” (I ain’t touching this one!) 

       “I believe in making changes for my country such as lowering taxes, and making schools a little non-strict. I want to be as good a president as Bill Clinton, God bless his soul.” 

      “I offered a tax credit to dry cleaners that use environmentally friendly technology so it can clean and decrease the waste lagoons so we can swim in them again. I will also help the hog farmers.” (I just don’t know where to begin…) 

      “I have been thinking about starting a new program to keep forests healthy. One way is to allow companies to cut down trees that could end up being part of forest fires.” (Clever! Now why didn’t I think of that?) 

      “John Kerry is also a kind man because he chose me, John Edwards, as his vice presidential running mate.” (Hmn…) 

      Someday, I’m going to write a long, detailed essay challenging the rotten propaganda Chris Christie has generated about New Jersey’s teachers. I’ll extoll the virtues of my co-workers, talk about the fact that most of the teachers at my school have Master’s degrees they’ll never get reimbursed for, work longer hours than most people imagine, and spend a ton of their own money on supplies that make school better for kids. 

      I know of at least one teacher who buys her own class set of paperback books for her kids to read, and another who keeps a loaf of bread and jars of peanut butter and jelly in her closet. She often makes sandwiches for those kids who forgot to bring their lunch, or have none to bring. Most of us have second jobs. 

      The faculty at my school have identified and helped children who were being hurt or neglected at home, cutting themselves, starving themselves, using drugs, and being bullied for their sexual orientation. They’ve come in early and stayed late and tried, really, really, tried, to develop lessons that were dynamic and engaging and meaningful. The creativity, compassion and dedication I work alongside with fairly blows the mind. 

      Yes, there are perks. I have loved being able to be home in time for most of my kids’ soccer and field hockey and softball games. Having the summers off? I kid you not, it rocks. But on this last, hot sweaty day of the school year, sitting in a 105 degree classroom with a bunch of the quirkiest pre-adolescents on the planet, who were asking me again if next year, I will really mail to them the letters I had them write to themselves for 8th grade graduation (and yes, I will), my irritation was interrupted by a young, first year teacher who I mentored this year. She came by to chat for a few minutes, so we talked about summer plans and then said good-bye.

     I got one of those glimpses of how quickly it all goes by, and what a gift it is to be able to share this awkward slice of their lives. That young, bright, poised, first year teacher was my student back in 2001. What a remarkable thing it is to remember her then, and see her now. 

      The bottom line is that no one goes into this profession for the money, and if you go into it for the shorter hours, vacation days and summers off, you won’t last. As for me? Well, I’m in it strictly for the laughs. :) 

 21 Jun 2012 

 How a Corporate Climber Went Back to the Classroom 

      In mid-August of 2001, I ended a fifteen-year run on the track of Corporate America, spent mostly with one large company. Leaving that firm, that world, was a wildly spontaneous decision on my part, fueled by the perfect storm of lifestyle changes, bad career choices and a rare opportunity to return to public school teaching. I felt exquisitely lucky that August. I had no idea how lucky I was. 

      I had wound my way around and up throughout the firm and landed in Communications, where that English degree was finally put to good use and I got to write for most of the workday. I made a respectable living, the people were fun, and my work was valued. Still, when I saw the internal posting for a Communications Director spot, a little voice egged me on. Not only would this new job be a nice promotion, it would secure the all-important “Vice President” title as well. A title that was, in a large financial services firm like this one, coveted as much for the attendant ego gratification as it was for the annual cash bonus it merited. Sure, it reported directly to a First VP with a monstrous reputation, but all the right corporate buzzwords were woven into this one job description: Lucrative, high profile, high exposure. 

      It was a two-hour interview. She was everything she was rumored to be: Arrogant, high-strung and mercurial. Somehow, she got me to agree to a month-long “audition” so to speak, during which I communicated with her mainly via email, and then sent her speeches and articles and presentations appropriate to the things she described. Toward the end of the month, she called me at 5:30 in the afternoon and said that she needed a speech for the opening ceremony of a corporate-wide event. “No problem!” I chirped enthusiastically, then, with a little nervous laugh I added, “Wait, isn’t that tomorrow?“ Unapologetically, she assured me that she was, in fact, scheduled to deliver said speech at 9:00 a.m. the following morning. There was a pause, and she finished with a deadly coy, “Oh, well, maybe it’s too much to ask.” 

      I heard the challenge in her tone and knew this was a test. I was frantic. I did my best impersonation of nonplussed. “I’m on it,” I told her, and then I called the babysitter and asked her (again) to stay late. There were others taking a stab at that speech too. She chose mine, and that was the day she asked me to “name my price.” Her choice of words unnerved me, but once again, I shook it off. In keeping with the “go big or go home” mentality I was working at that point, I told her (in an equally even, challenging tone) an absurdly high number. She didn’t flinch. There, I thought, game on. 

      The truth is that I was as close to selling my soul to the devil as I would ever be and I should have never, in a million years, imagined that I was anywhere close to being in her league in any kind of game, much less the game I was signing on to play. 

      The older me, the one who reflects on this and other times in my life, wonders about the fact that I disregarded every instinct that I had about her. She made no attempt to camouflage her difficult disposition, and I sensed early on that the hoops she had me jumping through were getting higher and higher. Why was I not asking myself if I could work for someone like that? Instead, I embarked on this mission to excel, to please, to succeed, frankly, where no man had succeeded before. 

      Which brings me to the notion that I could have, for example, just listened to the man who currently held the position. He was more than willing to share his experiences (not to mention his anti-anxiety meds) with me. He explained to me that because he had not yet been with her for a year, the only way he could transfer out from under her and still stay with the firm was if he was willing to see the firm’s counseling service and plead emotional problems. As it turns out, he was. And he did. 

      Ego is such a formidable force. I dug in my Brooks Brother’s heels, looked away from the evidence and my obstinate resistance to considering it seriously. There was something familiar and disquieting about my own choice in that regard that lingered like old perfume. Ego notwithstanding, there were probably a number of factors that knit together my stubbornly skewed perception. I had remarried the year before, but the financial insecurity of the single mom was still with me, as was the secret suspicion that I wasn’t good enough. I had something to prove, and was probably rein-acting something personal; hoping that this time, it would have a different ending. The really creepy part is that I think she honed in on that. As a former trial attorney, she had a knack for making quick and accurate assessments of people. I’d bet my bonus that she was gifted in terms of jury selection. She could smell vulnerability, and she was shameless about capitalizing on it. In a very dysfunctional way, our pairing was serendipitous. 

      It was the end of January when she called to offer me the job. I remember her exact words: “I am pleased to offer you the position, and to meet your salary requirements as well.” With a quiet reserve I did not feel, I accepted her offer, briefly discussed an official start date and hung up the phone. I walked calmly to the nearest ladies room, checked every stall to be sure I was alone and then I let out a delirious whoop of joy. There may have been a few salsa moves a la Victor Cruz. I’m certain that there was fist pumping and an exuberant chorus of one yelling “Yes! Yes! YES!!!” 

     Had I known at the time that this moment would be the best I was going to feel for the next six months, I would have reveled in it even more. 

     If things had turned out differently, I’d spin this is as a cautionary tale: Denial and greed and pride, oh my. But the luxury of hindsight compels me to view it as one of life’s watershed moments, one that would soon trigger other watershed moments, and before it was over, huge chunks of my life would be altered and re-defined. Here was this not entirely blind curve in the road and I was just entering the turn, all juiced up on a dangerous cocktail of adrenalin and ambition. 

      I moved into my new offices by Valentine’s Day and the honeymoon period began. I would split my time between Princeton and downtown Manhattan, just as she did. The first two months were filled with certain regular initiatives that became my main focus. Little by little, however, these were interrupted by unreasonable demands; ancillary “projects,” the corporate writer’s equivalent of, “Would you pick up my shirts from the cleaners?” 

      One of these was a “roast” that she absolutely had to have for an old friend of hers whose retirement party was that same evening. I’d never met the man, and she insisted that she was too busy to fill me in. His secretary was out of the office that day as well. I hadn’t a thing to go on other than one of his colleagues telling me that he was “bald, and liked to golf.” A normal person with a normal boss would calmly discuss the impossibility of the situation with their superior. Knowing this was not an option, I went into the bathroom and threw up instead. Then I wrote it, flying by the seat of my pants the whole way. 

      By April I was having regular migraines. At the end of May, the Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend to be exact, Boss-zilla interrupted my daughter’s sixth birthday party at our house. “I. NEED. YOU!” She screamed accusingly into the phone. I’d learned to keep my responses level, unemotional. Don’t feed the monster. She was fairly hysterical as she spewed her diatribe straight from the deck of her summer home in the Hamptons. 

      That evening, after cleaning up party debris, I got on the computer and stayed there until the wee hours creating a PowerPoint presentation with talking points and the stump of a speech on the same topic. I hit “send” at about 4 am and fell into bed. Then I turned off my phone and didn’t look at email for the rest of the weekend. When I got back to the office on Tuesday, she ignored my presence, but left an “Action List” on my desk consisting of thirty-two items due at the end of the day. Later, I would discover certain intriguing details of a brouhaha that took place after she had presented my weekend work to her superior, calling it “unusable.” He declared it “outstanding.” As I read his email expressing his appreciation for my “fine work,” I felt a glow of satisfaction that only slightly eased the knot in my stomach. Above the subject line I saw that Boss-zilla been copied on that email. 

      Soon after, in June, she called me in to declare a speech I’d prepared for her “turgid.” I almost laughed. She continued, saying something like, “You know, it’s kind of pretentious-“ 

      “I know what turgid means.” I cut her off, my tone a warning. 

      We locked eyes. I held her shocked gaze knowing that my own was cold. Bring it. 

      At the end of July I saw an ad in the paper for an English/Public Speaking teacher at a nearby public middle school. I had taught high school English briefly right after college, and daydreamed of going back to it someday. Add to this the fact that my new husband and I had four school-aged kids between us, and together we agreed that I should send a resume. I was at the beach on vacation when they called me for an interview, and by the time I went back to work, I had my letter of resignation in hand. 

     I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect her to try and convince me to stay, which she did. Pulling out all of the stops, she used everything at her disposal actually, to change my mind. Another watershed occurred with shocking clarity, revealing what I’d been so reluctant to see before; that ours had all the earmarks of an abusive relationship. And just like that, it was done. Shifted. Over. All the angst, the self-doubt and the ire that she inspired just vaporized. My secretary, who had taken the call when the offer came, sat in my office with me and laughed until we cried over the fact that I was really going to do it, I was jumping ship big time, and for a ridiculously low new salary. 

     Ironically, here again, had I known what the future held for me, I would have reveled in the moment even more. 

      Two weeks later I was home, off for a few days before beginning my new/old career. The relief I felt was indescribable. I remember sipping coffee on the deck, marveling at the ubiquitous nature of landscaping in my neighborhood. I’d never been home to see it before! Never imagined there were so many of them! The sound of lawn mowers was incredibly soothing to me; a constant, lazy drone that I hadn’t really heard since childhood it seemed. It came to represent everything I’d missed sitting in sound-proofed, over air-conditioned offices for too many years. 

      One week after that, I was at the beginning of my first full week of teaching. As the kids filed in for my period 2 Public Speaking class, one of them said to me, “Mrs. H., did you hear? A plane just flew into the World Trade Center.” In a kind of fog, I went upstairs to the library where someone had told me there was a news program on the TV, along with a clear view of the Manhattan skyline. There was. 

      With excruciating slowness, details emerged about the attack. I stood there staring out at the clouds of billowing black smoke where there once stood two powerful buildings and silently contemplated the unspeakable evil behind these acts. I prayed for friends and family members. At one point, I tried to make out the two cousins to the Twin Towers, the North and South Tower of the Financial Center, and shivered, finding it difficult to breathe. “What day is it?” I croaked, to no one in particular. “Tuesday.” Someone answered. 

      I stared straight ahead, heart pounding, trying to process the thousands of emotions and scenarios running through my head, shifting like a deck of cards from terror to frustration to confusion and rage to uncomprehending gratitude. 

     Right up until three weeks prior, I spent Tuesdays at 2WorldFi, otherwise known as the South Tower of the World Financial Center. My office, on the 40th floor, faced the swiftly collapsing World Trade Center buildings. Thank you, Boss-zilla (who is, as of this writing, alive and as cantankerous as ever), for assuring me that most of my co-workers were fine too, in spite of the fact that the windows of my old office blew in like a child’s soap bubble in the wind, spraying glass and debris throughout the entire floor. 

 Our pairing had been serendipitous indeed. 

 12 Jun 2012 

 Oh, Baby 

     I recently attended a baby shower. In many ways, it was typical. Lots of pink decorations, great food, and a nice sized pile of presents wrapped in pastel paper. For the most part, the vibe was upbeat and supportive. Only the grandmother seemed reluctant to take the plunge and celebrate. She spoke little English, but her disapproval was palpable. She was all folded arms and a grim expression. Occasionally, she’d let out a disgusted “tsk, tsk,” accompanied by a bewildered shake of the head. It would be easy to assume she was angry. I figured she was sad. Or afraid. Her granddaughter, the mom-to-be, had just turned fifteen. 

      “Maria” was my student last year when she was in 7th grade. I may as well cut to the chase here; With any luck we hide it well, but teachers who deny the reality of “teacher’s pets” are lying. Maria was one of mine. Why? Maybe it was because she is so smart and yet so unable to envision a connection between that quick mind and her best shot at a ticket out of an underprivileged existence. Maybe it was because she is a tangled mess of contradictions; Street gang tough on the exterior, fragile and incredibly sweet underneath; Uber-responsible at home, and a complete flake about school; Intellectually sharp, and completely lacking in ambition. Maybe it was because I knew she was looking for love in all the wrong places, or maybe it was simply because she often trusted me enough to let down her guard with me. Perhaps I’m kidding myself about all of that. The reality is probably that I didn’t choose her at all, she chose me. 

     There was nothing unusual about Maria’s visit that September morning. I wasn’t the only person she had charmed, and she often wrangled her way into the school building earlier than most students were allowed. Once in, she frequently wandered down to my classroom for one of our early morning chats. This time, I knew almost immediately that something was up. She was nervous and edgy, literally wringing her hands, and she kept referring cryptically to some new “drama” that was unfolding in her life. Finally, she just spilled it, “I’m having a baby.” I had been walking around the room, pushing desks together and arranging papers, but at that point I stopped, and slowly lowered myself into one of my student’s desk chair. I didn’t have to ask, I knew by the way she had phrased it, by the way she didn’t say, “I’m pregnant,” but I couldn’t stop myself, 

     “What are you going to do Maria?” 

      “I’m going to keep my baby,” she announced, lifting her chin with just the tiniest bit of defiance, “I’ve always wanted to be a young mom.” 

      Young mom. When I think of young moms, I think of women in their early twenties. Married women. Women, period. This fourteen-year old person sitting in front of me was a child. A child who had learned at home what to say (in English) to DYFUS when they knocked on the door, and more importantly, what not to say. A child who had told me once that she and her mom had been arguing, and not about the fact that she was sexually active and out at all hours of the night, or even that she had done some creative “translating” of the notices that went home, but about the fact that Maria hadn’t been “there for her.” 

      “There for whom?” I asked, sure that I had misunderstood. 

      “For my mom.” She replied, so matter-of-factly that I could have cried. She was barely thirteen at the time. 

       There had been rumors last year of a previous pregnancy. One where nature had intervened and granted her a reprieve. For a while afterwards, she was quiet and subdued, pale and moody. Little by little, her outgoing nature began to emerge once again, and at about the same time, the hickies began appearing again too. These she wore proudly, like red and purple neck accessories, or maybe just the only visible, tangible evidence that somewhere, someone loved her. 

      I’ve lost a lot of sleep over this kid. 

      She left my district shortly after we had this discussion. DYFUS surprised them this time, and certain realities of their living conditions could not be overlooked. Thankfully, there was a family member in an another town willing to take them in, and once she was settled, she got in touch with me. At that point, the usual and important boundaries between student and teacher were no longer imperative or practical. I simply decided that I was going to do what I could for her, and see her through this. 

      We exchanged cell phone numbers and began to have fairly regular conversations and dinners. We talk about her schoolwork, which high school she should apply to in her new town, her family, and the boyfriend who just turned eighteen and is idealistic enough to be excited for the birth of his child, and naïve enough to assume that his offer to “help her” with whatever she needs is a generous concession to his role as father. She brings me her sonogram pictures and her fears about childbirth. We talk about what motherhood is going to be like and how much it’s going to cost. 

      Only recently, she came to my home and met my kids. She sat at my kitchen table while I cooked and wrote down the recipe and the steps of the preparation. When we were done eating, she politely asked if she could take the leftovers home. Without so much as a glance in my direction, my girls started rifling the cabinets for other things she could take too and I knew then that they were right there with me, drinking the Kool-Aid. Maria had cast her spell once again. 

      When I drove her home that night, I apologized to her for missing her birthday, explaining that my oldest daughter’s father had passed away and it had been an all-consuming week for me. “That’s okay,” she responded, and then went very quiet for a while. When she spoke again, she said this: “My dad is dead too. He was murdered in our country.” 

      She’s excited to have her baby. Says she can’t wait to be a mom and all of her 8th grade friends tell her what a great mom she will be to the little girl she is carrying. I cannot deny that she has a nurturing sensibility. I’ve seen it in action with her six-year old brother, and her sweet, but emotionally fragile mother. She is a caretaker for sure and she longs for the unconditional love an infant can offer. 

      But who will take care of her? 

    This is the last and most compelling of her contradictions: This conspicuous lack of self-pity or bravado. Just an innocence that is incongruous with the experiences she has had already in her young life. She simply doesn’t know how to have expectations. She is that overused term: survivor. Figuratively speaking, dodging bullets has been a way of life for her. She has no doubt that she can do it all, because well, what choice does she have? 

    At times, I swear, the desire to take care of her and protect her is overwhelming. I have this picture of her in my head from her shower. The young boy is beside her, his arm slung awkwardly around her shoulder, smiling self-consciously for the cameras. If not for her giant belly, it could have been an eighth grade dance picture. I doubt she’ll have one of those now, and I understand completely why the grandmother looked so grim. A baby is such a beautiful, life-changing miracle, but who among us was really ready for that change? I thought I was, and I still struggled at times. I also had a lot more in the way of resources than she does, I can tell you that, and I wasn’t trying to get through freshman Algebra at the same time. 

      I hope Maria accepts all the help that is offered her, and I hope she is offered a lot. I hope she finishes school, and has the chance to go to college. Most of all, I hope this child brings her immeasurable joy, and that she is loved and cherished by everyone around her, because no matter what else Maria does, it will never be more important than this. 

 9 Apr 2012 

 Run Away From Your Problems 

     Anybody remember the 1977 best seller, The Complete Book of Running? Great book. The cover was a picture of the author’s bare legs topped off by a pair of red running shorts. When he wrote it, Jim Fixx had a story to tell about his journey from overweight couch potato to confirmed running junkie. His message was clear: Barring very few physical considerations, you too, can be a “runner.” I read it in the early 80’s and there are a couple of odd tidbits in it that cling to the cobwebs of my brain even today. For one thing, Fixx claimed that while perspiration produced by sedentary folks was stinky, the sweat generated during running was “virtually odorless.” “So, go ahead,” he encouraged the corporate masses, “Take that run during your lunch hour, skip the shower, and suit back up!” Eeeeww. 

      True or not, this is, in my opinion, just one of those things that give runners a bad name. This conjures up images of the Boston marathon champion Uta Pippig, who, with diarrhea streaming down her bare legs at the finish line, told the TV commentator that she “looked worse than she felt.” Uta, sweetie, you just crossed a widely televised race finish line in front of thousands of onlookers. You did not stumble incoherently out of the Amazon having just survived against insurmountable odds! You are giving the average spectator way too much credit. I’m pretty sure there were only a handful of people who cared how you felt at that point, most were horrified at first by how you looked, and then by your shamelessness about ignoring it for the sake of a run. 

      Then there was Amber Miller, who ran/walked the Chicago marathon at 39 weeks pregnant. She later noted that race medical workers seemed “startled” to see her as she hauled that huge belly past mile markers. No kidding. She actually began laboring during the race, and about seven hours later was fortunate enough to deliver a healthy baby girl. To her I can only say, “Dear Amber, There’s no ‘do over’ in pregnancy and childbirth. There will, however, be other races.” And then there’s ole Jim Fixx himself, who dropped dead of a heart attack at aged 52 while he was, of course, running. 

      There’s an undeniably elitist mentality among runners too. Secretly, they’re all purists, believing that running is far superior to any other exercise because it requires next to nothing, there’s no class at the gym, no equipment, and no instructor. All you need are your legs and a pair of sneakers. You just go out the door, thumping bass music optional, and it ends when you want it to end. “Elite” runners, especially marathoners, don’t even bother to conceal their condescension when you mention things like Spin classes or Zumba. They smile, and maybe even throw out a dismissive, “That’s great!” Right before they tell you that you should just run. Or not. Which may be even worse. Because then you might be getting the pat on the head, the atta boy reserved for the little kid who just struck out…again. 

      In spite of all of this, I am happy to be counted among those who love to run. There’s a part of me that completely understands the mania of it, the unadulterated compulsion to hit the pavement. I was a runner for the better part of 30 years. My Sauconys are the first thing I pack when I go on a trip. I have run on boiling hot asphalt and cool early morning beach sand. I have made running playlists on my iPod to help me escape the monotony of the treadmill, and had near-spiritual experiences while running trails through the woods in Autumn. I have, as Jim Fixx promised I would, found it easier to breathe while running in the rain because of the higher nitrogen content in the air. 

      Here’s a little insight for those of you who think we’re nuts: Only non-runners see people out “jogging” and think it’s about weight management or getting a little exercise. “Real” runners find that attitude just a little precious. Real runners know the truth, and we can spin it a thousand positive ways, (and they would, in fact, beat the alternative) but it pretty much comes down to those whacky madcap twins: Addiction and Obsession. 

      I recently posted a “status” on Facebook that was essentially a good long moan about how much I needed a good run right now. An old high school friend who has been sidelined with an injury commiserated with me, saying that she literally cried when she drove past people out running. God, I so got that. I was really glad she said it too, because I had felt it and thought I was being melodramatic. Truth: I have never heard anyone express anything close to that kind of desperate yearning to get on the elliptical, or to (yawn) go into warrior pose at “Yoga in a Toga.” Oops. I’m sorry. That was a little condescending wasn’t it? Just a little slip. My bad. Maybe I’m just jealous. At this point I want to love both of those things, but I can’t seem to work up the same passion for them, and it’s killing me (softly). 

      My friend Vivian opted to have two hip surgeries in less than a year even though she was told she could live a completely “normal” life without them. That normal life, however, would not include running and for her, there’s nothing normal about that. This is a woman who has run a marathon a year for as long as I’ve known her. Being “grounded,” first by her injuries and then by her recovery period has been a tougher road for her than the ten plus miles she routinely does just because it’s a Tuesday. “I feel like a part of me has disappeared,” she admits. “I miss the wonderful feeling I get when the endorphins have kicked in, especially after a very long run, and I am on top of the world. It’s a ‘high’ that lasts throughout the day.” As a writer, she has found running to be a catalyst for creative ideas. “Sometimes,” she reveals, “I’d even run with one of those little golf pencils and a piece of paper in my running shorts.” In fact, her blog, Catching a Third Wind/ The journey from injury to recovery (www.athirdwind.com) was created in part to chronicle her surgical experiences and the dreaded physical therapy that follows, as well as to provide a forum for others who are temporarily derailed from running due to an injury or surgical procedure. 

      I’ve never run a full marathon and I have a bad case of marathon envy. I was training for a “half” when I began experiencing the pain that yet another MRI would reveal stems from a labral hip tear – the same tear my friend Vivian had repaired. My situation is a little different, and I decided to try a different path to recovery, but I can tell you that I completely understand her choice to Just Do It. And then do it again. 

      I personally prefer to run alone. Over the years I have just pounded anger, anxiety, frustration and fear right into the pavement. People have told me they’ve seen me (looking slightly deranged, no doubt) with my fingers flying, playing the air-piano as I run and I know it’s true. If it’s classical music on my iPod, I’m a featured soloist. During my runs I’ve carried on (both sides of) conversations that I wisely never ended up having, and composed letters I’ve never sent. I’ve mulled over the day ahead, and made up stories. I’ve cracked myself up, and let myself cry. I’ve left the house happy and contented, and come back euphoric and brimming with a sense of endless possibility. I’ve run to escape the bad neighborhood of my head, and returned to place more like Easy Street.

     I’ve prayed. 

     Hell, I ran when I still drank and smoked cigarettes! (And my buddy Jim told me, in a somewhat conspiratorial tone, that I could do that too.) In my twenties I ran off hangovers and, to borrow a Charlie Sheen-ism, the “cringeable” behavior that goes with all of that. 

     I tell anyone who is just beginning to run that the best kept secret about running is that anyone can be a runner. Anyone. Put on a pair of sneakers and go out the door. Start with five minutes, walk, do it again. It doesn’t matter where you begin, from the very first step, you are a runner. I also tell people that in my experience, no matter how long I’ve run, the first mile is almost always the hardest. It takes that long to get your rhythm, for your heart rate and breathing to level off, and to feel like you are in the “zone.” It’s after that first mile that the magic kicks in. I don’t think I’ve ever run far enough to “hit the wall,” but the “runner’s high”? Absolutely. And let me tell you, adrenalin is good stuff. What that means for me is that fairly consistently there’s a point on my run when I get this invincible, I could run forever feeling - as long as I keep running forward. But of course, my runs are always large loops. As I round the bend to head back, I’m reminded that you can run away from your problems at least temporarily. Sometimes that’s all you need. 

      Here’s another thing running guru Jim Fixx said, and I’m paraphrasing here: He said that in his opinion, running is to exercise what vodka is to alcohol consumption. In other words, it’s the most direct and potent means to an end. I haven’t tasted vodka in a long time but, for a variety of reasons, I like the analogy. Running is the most direct and potent means to an end, and the end is way more than exercise. It is, pure and simple, the best way I know of to untangle thoughts, dilute toxic emotions, and positively channel the overdrive nature of an obsessive personality. That’s the way it works for me, and that’s why I keep coming back to it. Cheers! 

 2 Apr 2012 

 The Brady Bunch? - Not!! 

     My husband likes to tell people that ours is a “his, hers, and ours” family. When he does, someone inevitably gushes, “Oh! Like the Brady Bunch!” A friend who knows us better overheard this exact exchange once. Without lifting her eyes from the newspaper in front of her, she grunted, “More like the Osbornes.” She was right of course. It’s a messy world here in the land of the “Five H’s”, as we used to call our patchwork of kids, and yet, recent events have given me cause to reflect more deeply about this complicated and quirky family that is the epicenter of my existence, and how far we have come. I have much to be grateful for, and sometimes, I take it very much for granted. 

      In all fairness, my husband’s description is accurate. When we got together, he had three children from his first marriage, I had one, and later, we had one together. It is not irrelevant to say that all of these children are girls. It is not irrelevant to point out that when we married, our kid’s ages ranged from four to ten, and that every single one of them was fighting to stake out their territory. Did I mention that we’ve never had fewer than two dogs at one time-that sometimes, there were as many as four? We didn’t have “girly” girls either. Our girls were the skateboarding, soccer/softball/basketball playing, as soon as it snowed, “let’s make a jump out of the deck steps and snowboard,” kind of gals. Get the picture? 

      And of course, though we were loath to admit it at times, they were children of divorce. At this point in my life, I don’t care what anyone says (and I will certainly catch hell for this), the fact is, there are very few positives about divorce for kids. No matter what the situation was before, once it’s gone they feel the loss, the sense that the earth is no longer solid beneath their feet. 

      I didn’t used to believe that. Didn’t want to anyway. I remember the first time it became eerily clear to me. I was at a Halloween dance at my daughter’s small Catholic elementary school standing shoulder to shoulder with the moms of my daughter’s two best friends. We had been brought together that year by our kid’s friendship, not the other way around, and it suddenly occurred to me that we were all single. I watched my child that night, in her yellow “Belle” dress with the long white gloves, searching her four year old face for some sign of….What? Incompleteness? A sense that she felt “less than” or maybe just different? Her two best buddies were seemingly well-adjusted, really sweet, happy little kids, but I don’t believe for a minute that they gravitated towards one another purely by chance. I think that being a child of divorce had already shaped those three, defined them in some really basic, fundamental way, and they had instinctively found one another and held on fast. 

     So, it’s really no surprise that when I remarried, I had hoped to seal the fault lines caused by divorce and create a bedrock of future security for all of our children. It’s probably also no surprise that for literally years, our girls struggled against the mantle of molten rock that simmered beneath their disappointments, and predictably, against one another. My husband and I were both ferociously devoted to our kids, and yet we sort of ridiculously underestimated just how hard it was going to be to merge these lives of ours into something that could be termed a “family.” 

     In retrospect, I think that trying so hard to force our happy ideal on our children made the first few years even more brutal at times. But Lord, how we tried! And cried…And fought. Then exhausted, we’d regroup, strategize, and rebuild. We read books about “blended families,” and “combined families,” step parenting and child psychology. We tried separating them, singling them out for one-on-one time, and then forced togetherness in the form of “family meetings” where most of the open “sharing” was communicated with scorching glares that shimmered like seismic waves across the dinner table, needing no verbal translation. 

     When our youngest was born, the one we had together, she proved to be like the last piece of tile in a complex mosaic, bringing everyone together in a way that seemed more complete and whole, but still, I cannot claim that she alone sealed the deal. 

     The best advice I got during this time came from a friend who stubbornly refused to indulge me in my complaints. I would call her, often in tears, vent my frustration, and then ask her what to do. Over and over she said simply, “It’s going to take time, and a lot of love. You respond to all of it with love. That’s all.” 

     Yeah. And in case of an earthquake, you drop, cover and hold on. 

     When did the tension recede? I wish I could tell you. Time is a funny thing. For all the times I wished and wondered if it would ever happen, when it finally did, it was crazily anticlimactic. If there was an exact moment when it shifted, I missed it. The earth did not move the way I would have predicted, and I doubt that any particular event preceded it. It seems more likely that it occurred so slowly, so gradually; that the concentric rings of our children’s radiating hostility attenuated, and then dissipated completely. What I do know is that seemingly overnight, the sullen silences gave way to sudden bursts of laughter. I came downstairs early one Saturday morning and on tiptoe, followed the voices I heard coming from the basement. Halfway down the steps I paused, closed my eyes and smiled as I listened to their giggles muffled by the comforter they were cuddled up beneath as they played video games together. 

      Confidences were shared and secrets protected. A fierce loyalty replaced accusing eyes and if someone was foolish enough to talk “smack” about one of them at school, they’d have all of the others to contend with. At one point, they seemed to have bonded over a collective eye roll whenever my husband or I spoke. Ah! I thought. This is good! “Us” against “them” became “them” against “us”! This felt like a very good sign indeed. This was as it should be. 

     Strangely enough, the day they sat around the family room doubled over with laughter, calling each another names and teasing each other mercilessly, I knew we had arrived. We were, officially, a family. Where once they had Do Not Enter signs on the doors to their rooms, now we can’t get them out of each other’s rooms. They have stockpiled memories that they pull out and revisit like cherished heirlooms. They stick up for each other, and when necessary, they set each other straight. They can argue and know they will make up. They can fight over clothes, and food, and who left the hair in the drain because they are better than friends, they are sisters. 

      When the oldest ones went off to college, they cried and held each other tight. And when one of them was in need, one by one they made their way home and rallied around her like, well, sisters. The love grows exponentially with each moment shared. 

      As a family we are a case study of challenges met with a stubborn kind of perseverance. At times it has certainly seemed as though against all odds, we have endured. The Brady Bunch, we are not. Norman Rockwell? Not so much. But as part of a demographic that boasts a 60% divorce rate (for second marriages with children), in many ways, we’ve thrived. So far, anyway, we seem to have built something here that has remained intact in spite of the cracks and fissures in our history. 

      Lately, it occurs to me that maybe the most significant proof of this is this magnificent gaggle of girls we have who, given enough time and with enough love grew to become best friends who no longer use the word “step” before “sister.” They have given me more than I can ever repay, have enriched my life in a thousand ways big and small. From them, I have learned so much. In many ways, they have raised me. I’ve benefitted from their warmth and humor, their vulnerability and their strength. I am grateful for their unwavering loyalty. For the family they first resisted, and then embraced so willingly. 

     Time and love. Who knew such a simple formula could yield such rich rewards? Oh, and don’t forget to drop, cover, and when all else fails, hold on tight. 

 18 Mar 2012 

 When There Are No Words 

     My oldest daughter’s father is seriously ill with cancer. It’s strange, I’m not exactly sure when I stopped referring to him as my “ex-husband,” or even just “Frank.” Even with the friends who knew us both when we were together, I still tend to use, “Emily’s Dad” when I talk about him. It’s easier. On some level, I think it began in order to attach some much-needed distance to a relationship that was once so fraught with emotion that it was nearly unbearable. This title erased our history, and implied that somehow, the relationship was solely with my daughter. It was a distilled version of “ex-husband,” of which, for me, the “ex” may as well have been a prefix meaning, “to fail.” 

      His weakened condition has brought up a lot of things for me. Memories that I had successfully suppressed for years have been resurfacing at the oddest moments, and I am awash in the feelings that accompany them, if only for a few minutes. A song on the radio, an aroma, a certain angle of my child’s face in contemplation can bring it on, and off I go, tumbling around in a tidal wave of love, or rage, or anguish. The awkward truth is that he and I didn’t have the luxury of “outgrowing” one another, or even something as mundane as falling “out” of love. Speaking strictly for me, the marriage ended with a deep sense of longing for another outcome. The one thing I think we both know is that there was a mountain of unfinished business. 

      It seems now that for a very long time after the divorce, anger was my very best ally in the fight against the pain. There came a time when I could no longer distinguish between the two emotions, and that too, would have to be worked out later. I had bought an old two family house when we split, and was glad that Emily would have a yard. I couldn’t afford an electrician, so a friend helped out with the new wiring I was required to install. When he was done, you would flip a switch in the living room and the lights would come on the hallway. It didn’t really bother me. In fact, years later I would say that my old house and I were completely in sync. We both had faulty wiring: If you traced my anger back to its source, more often than not, you would find something entirely different; sadness, fear, embarrassment, frustration, etc. 

      But it was all so long ago. In time, I did move on. I dated, fell in love and remarried. He moved on as well. If he and I tend to be a little too formal with one another when it comes to the co-parenting of our child, I suspect that is a shield we employ to guard against everything I’ve said before. It’s all very polite.      

     My daughter, however, is firmly entrenched in my past. She simply adores her father. She has his wicked sense of humor, and she looks like him too. She’ll come home from his house and tell a story about something he said or did, and I can hear his voice when she imitates him. I see him, with his head thrown back unleashing that big, booming laugh. They have worked the knots in their relationship and developed an ease with one another over the years that is enviable. They enjoy one another’s company; and truly, how many fathers and daughters can say that? People often say that she looks just like me, but when they do I always counter with, “Have you met her father?” More often than not, if they think she resembles me, they have never seen him. 

      So, as evocative as this has been for me at times, ultimately, it is she who rattles the cage of my reveries and eclipses whatever reality I think I exist in at any given moment. It is she who reminds me that the true reality is, that there is absolutely no heartbreak that compares to watching your child suffer. At sixteen, this kid has experienced more death and dysfunction that most people see in a lifetime. Cancer has been a constant, black thread running through the fabric of her life for literally years, taking one of Frank’s sisters first, and then one of mine. Her fifteenth birthday will be remembered forever as the day she sat sobbing in her room after finding out that both a close friend and her father had been diagnosed with cancer. The friend, thank God, recovered completely. But in her experience, this is the exception, not the rule, and at the moment, she vacillates between an anger and a grief that threaten to engulf her with their enormity. 

      No one understands this better than me actually, and yet, I am sometimes at a loss to know how to help her. The days she goes to see him in the hospital are the worst. I know that words are often not nearly enough, and the thing is to just hold out my arms and hold her. On occasion, when she is particularly raw, she tells me she cannot bear to be touched, so she pushes everyone away and is unreachable in a world of nothing but loud music and headphones. 

      A few nights ago, I sat on my bed listening to her choking, inconsolable sobs echoing off the tile walls of the shower, and I was paralyzed by the sound of it. I found myself in that barely breathing, heart pounding, heightened-sense state you experience when you think you’ve heard an intruder in the night. I didn’t even realize I had been crying along with her until I heard her weeping subside, and the water turn off. When she emerged, blotchy and red-eyed, I asked her if she was ok, and she kind of tossed her head and in a congested, five-year old’s voice answered, “Yeah, I think I’m done now.” 

      “I think I’m done now.” 

      During her most recent visit, she witnessed just how indiscriminate and cruel this disease can be. She watched as the last shred of his dignity was peeled away and his family, who had wished to protect her from the realities of his prognosis, could no longer encourage her to hope for the best. She sent me texts that whispered of her panic, of the crazy tug-of-war between her desperation to flee his room, and her fear of ever leaving his side again. Cell phone in hand, I paced the floor until the back door opened. She dropped her bags and ran straight into my arms and for the longest time we said nothing. Our tears said it all. 

      What I would like, at this point, is to prevent the inevitable. A simple solution; a win-win: Remission for him; a father for her. To go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow to find the facts have changed. To be able to say the words that would forever remove the deepening crease between her eyebrows, and put some color back in her cheeks. To promise her that yes, he ate today and will get stronger. Yes, the chemo is working. Yes, he’ll see her in her prom dress and her graduation gown. He tear up at her college graduation and walk her down the aisle. He’ll be there dammit, he will. 

      Here I am again, yearning for a different outcome, but this time, for my child. For his child. In the meantime, I’ve been too busy to sleep much at night. I’m knitting something very big and purple and ugly instead. What is it? Who the hell knows, and I don’t care what it is because it gives me something to do and I can’t read because I can’t focus on the words when I’m trying this damn hard to act sure and solid as a rock while secretly trying to bargain with God (craftily sandwiched between prayers because maybe he won’t notice?) and control the universe. 

      Last night I had this dream: Emily and I are driving at night to visit a college when I realize that we are driving without headlights and can’t see what’s ahead. Yeah. You don’t have to be Dr. Phil to figure that one out. 

      It seems like such a long, long time ago when she was a toddler and I was a single mom working full time and I thought it was really hard. I hated leaving her. Once, when I was talking to a co-worker about it she told me, “It is hard. But the thing nobody tells you is that they need you even more as they get older.” I think I remember that conversation so clearly partially because I wondered what the heck she meant by that. Need you how? When you’re still at the stage where you’re changing diapers and they can’t feed or dress themselves, nothing anyone says can make you believe that the teenage years are going to be anything but a breeze. Hell, her kids could drive! It was beyond the scope of my imagination. 

      When she was little, and afraid of things that came in the night we had a little routine that she liked. She’d tell me what she was afraid of, and I’d tell her what I would say to any “monster” that tried to “get” her. My part of this went something like this: “You go away you monster! You leave my Emily alone! Nobody gets to Emily without going through me, and NOBODY gets past MOMMY, so you just go away!” She bought it too. You could see the relief spread across her face like sunshine chasing a shadow. I was strong… I was invincible… I was MOMMY. 

      Like everything else, I had to learn the hard way that what that woman told me that day was true. They do need you more. But there’s another thing “they” don’t tell you, and that is that around the same time, the pendulum of your power swings way over to the left of invincible, and that it’s a lot easier to offer protection than it is to teach acceptance. To stand by and watch while your child learns that often, the most painful things in life teach us about our capacity for compassion, and resilience, and that sometimes, they even leave something in the wake of all they take. That when the time comes, there is Grace in being willing to relieve someone we love of their suffering, even if it means the continuation of our own. 

    Because Emily, though I wish with all my heart that it were so, I’m afraid you’re not nearly “done yet.” 

 7 Feb 2012 

 In Style 

     My mom is 87 years old. When I showed up at her house last week wearing my best pair of “distressed” designer jeans, she looked me up and down and then asked me what had happened to my “dungarees.” When I explained that the worn spots and holes were intentional, that they were, in fact, quite stylish, she pressed me further: “You didn’t pay for them did you?” I didn’t have the nerve to tell her exactly how much I paid for them, which, roughly speaking, equaled the national budget of some third world countries. Her question didn’t insult me because, you know, she’s kind of old. She says things like “swanky”, when describing a cool restaurant. What does she know about this stuff? 

      I was reminded of that conversation a few days ago when I picked up a magazine and read an interview with a very young, very overexposed (in every sense of the word), starlet. During the interview she revealed that after she gets a manicure, she actually requests that they scrape the tips of her nail lacquer off, so that the end result is a “look” that is chipped and worn. She likes this better, and goes on to point out that wearing it this way doesn’t then commit what is evidently the ultimate sin, of trying too hard. “She prefers this to that whole ‘polished’ look?” I wondered aloud. “She pays for this?” I shook the pages at my friend in disbelief. “Ridiculous”, was my final, disgusted word on the subject. 

      Somewhere deep down, however, I had a nagging sense of déjà vu. It continued when I went to the hair salon to have my roots tended to. I’m there like clockwork every five weeks. It is my firm belief that if you decide to color or bleach your hair, then you really must commit to it fully. Yes, it is costly, it’s also inconvenient, and it takes too long in my opinion. That is the price you pay for fooling with what nature intended. Do it right or don’t do it at all is my motto when it comes to hair color. In fact, about the only thing I look forward to about the whole ordeal is getting to sit and read silly magazines without feeling guilty that I should be doing (or reading) something else. 

    I’ll just go ahead and admit it: I have been a fan of Drew Barrymore ever since she dressed up E.T. like one of her dolls. I followed her troubled youth in the media and I sometimes feel like I know her a little. It’s probably a tiny bit weird how proud I am of how solidly normal she appears to have emerged from the dysfunctions of her childhood and early fame. She’s a cheerful survivor of a ruthless business as well. So, when my husband recently criticized a photo of her sporting two-inch deep “rootage”, I jumped to my girl Drew’s defense. “She’s probably really busy. I’m sure she’s not the typical Hollywood prima donna type, running to the salon every two weeks. Cut her a break.” 

      Weird. 

      But I was wrong. As I settled into my chair at the hairdresser’s (slightly high from the fumes of the color processing on my head), I read the most recent article featuring Drew. Peering awkwardly through shingles of highlighting foils, I learned the truth, and the truth is, not only does she want her hair that way, there’s a name for it: Ombre. 

      I had to look this up. The word itself is French. Well, of course it is. If you’re going to have roots down to the tips of your ears and call it fashionable, you may as well give it a French name right? The literal translation is, “graduation”, as in; your hair gradually gets lighter at the ends, because you’ve let it go so long your roots are really long. According to a style trend website, (which featured dozens of Hollywood types embracing this look) “It’s a beachier, more natural looking version of the enduring ‘visible root’ trend.” 

     Lord! I thought, it’s an updated version of another “root trend”? An ‘enduring’ one at that! And I missed it! Completely! These women are not too busy after all. They’re not even too lazy. They’re going for a more natural look; A devil-may-care, slightly bored, I’m not trying too hard look. Oy Vay! They’ve gone Ombre. 

��   While I am in no way a slave to trends or fashion in general, I do make an effort to not succumb to the middle-aged mess syndrome. I don’t want to become dowdy. I find myself walking a fine line these days in terms of deciding what is “chic” and what is simply too young for me. I have a hunch Ombre hair is one of the latter. It’s right up there with the “smoky eye,” (which looks to me like smudged mascara and liner after a long day teaching Middle School), the Lady Gaga shoes with the six inch platforms, and something called “Grunge Chic”. I will admit to having tried black nail polish and that too, ended up in my daughter’s room. High-Waisted, bell-bottom jeans? As my friend Maryann says, “I wore them the first time.” 

      It’s funny, when I was in my twenties I was way more conservative in my tastes. I was all about the classic wool pant, blazer, and crisp white button down. In my thirties and forties I sort of careened off in the opposite direction for a while. I got tattooed for one thing. Several times in fact. Cut my hair really short and dyed it blond. I think it was partially an, “if not now…when?” kind of thing. Besides, I had left a long run on the corporate track and gone back to teaching. I no longer had to wear suits and pantyhose. I was having fun with it. 

     Now, in my (very) early 50’s, I have a new fashion mantra, which was previously known only to my daughters and close girlfriends. You won’t find it mentioned in any magazine, although I’m convinced that it should be. It is C.T.S.U., as in, Cover That Shit Up. I’ll lift something off the rack and note, “This is a good CTSU top!” Or, “I need more CTSU bathing suits this year.” Come to think of it, I’m about ten minutes away from Not Your Daughter’s Jeans. At least I don’t call them dungarees. 

      Among the looks I will not be rocking anytime soon: I will not walk around with dark roots, deliberately chipped nails, anything with “micro” or “mini” in the description, or any makeup trend that looks like it was applied in a crack house. If this is trying too hard, well, then I’m guilty. Or maybe I’m just getting older. I did, in fact, ask my daughter a few minutes ago if she had any more crème rinse. “Crème rinse?” she asked, looking completely baffled, “What’s that?” 

      “A swanky version of conditioner” I replied dryly. 

 28 Jan 2012 

 Lessons 

      One of the most important classes I took in college was horseback riding. When I first saw it listed in the course offerings as an option for fulfilling my physical education requirement, I was giddy. I had never been on a horse before. Everything I knew about horses had come from television shows and movies. The night before my first class I fell asleep with romantic images of beautiful smiling people on horseback. They galloped down the beach (sometimes in white dresses) at sunset, with their hair whipping behind them. When I woke up that morning, I was chomping at the bit (sorry, couldn’t resist), to join them. 

      The course was being taught at a local indoor riding academy. About eight of us had arrived at the start time, and we stood in the lobby/observation area watching riders trotting past us, practicing “posting” atop sinewy chestnut mares. The sounds of their hoofs was muted by the protective glass between us, and the soft, deep, brown soil floor of the rink. Our instructor came to collect us and immediately ushered us through two sets of doors into the long, brightly lit stable. 

      The smell hit us like a wall; a mixture of manure, damp straw, sweat and leather. We got an insanely brief lesson in how to approach a horse from behind without getting kicked in the head, how to saddle and bridle it, where to hold the reigns as you walk it, and were told to assemble in the rink in five minutes. 

     The horse to which I’d been assigned was a glistening mahogany gelding named Midnight. Stick my fingers in this creature’s mouth? Was this a joke? First of all, I was pretty sure my horse’s teeth were much larger than the average horse’s. Secondly, horses in general seemed a lot bigger and taller than they did on TV and thirdly, the way ole Midnight kept throwing his head around was a sure sign he didn’t want me to do it either, and that was enough for me. 

       Finally, I got a friend to do the bridling for me. On the walk to the rink I failed to hold the reigns close enough under Midnight’s jawline and this allowed him to swing his enormous head up and over and into my chest repeatedly. With a girly little squeal I’d push it back. I hated this already. Once in the rink we were told to mount our horses. 

      I needed a set of those little steps to get my foot in the stirrups and swing my leg up and over. Once up, I sat up straight in the saddle, looked around, and tried to resist the urge to throw my arms around Midnight’s muscular neck and hold on for dear life. Where was that knob that was supposed to be on the saddle? Why did he insist on dipping that long neck down to bury those steamy flared nostrils into the earth? I had the sensation that I would just slide right down and that wasn’t entirely bad. Bad was how crazy vulnerable I felt. Midnight was a veritable freight train of a horse; all taut, rippling muscles. I didn’t expect to be so high up. What if he took off? What if I fell off? What if he fell on me? I didn’t like this at all. My palms were sweaty, my throat was dry and tight. I was very, very afraid. 

      I knew what was coming, could feel the heat creeping up my neck to my face, my bottom lip began to quiver pathetically, and then, to my absolute horror, I started to cry. At this point, the instructor, who had been a tad drill-sergeant-like, walked over to me. She saw the tears, the snot running down my nose and her expression softened. Quietly, and kindly, she began to tell me a story. It was about an experience she had had with an out-of-control horse. It seems that her horse had gotten spooked by something, and took off like a bat out of hell through the woods where she was riding. No matter what she did, this horse would not stop. In fact, the more she pulled on the reigns, the faster the horse went. 

     Right about the time that I was wondering what in the name of God she was thinking telling me this at this moment, she got to the punch line: Finally, in complete frustration, she dropped the reigns completely. At that point, the maniacal horse unexpectedly slowed to a cantor, and shortly after that, stopped completely. “You see,” she explained gently, “The tighter I held onto the reigns, the more I was driving the metal “bit” into his mouth, and he was just trying to escape the discomfort.” Our eyes simultaneously came to rest on my white- knuckled hold on the reigns. I looked back up at her, and, terrified as I was, I let go. 

      I never forgot that story either. This particular metaphor plays over and over in my life like the lyrics to a favorite song. To this day, every once in a while, I find myself so consumed with fear (what if?) that I catch myself in that white-knuckle control mode. When it becomes unbearable for me, and everyone around me, I try to make a mental checklist of the things I actually can control. Inevitably I find that it’s a pretty short list. In fact, what I can control usually comes down to exactly one thing: My response to whatever it is that is happening! Simply put, my attitude. 

      I can beat my head against the wall trying to change this person or that situation, try to manipulate events and outcomes and all it does is make me crazy until I let go of the reigns. I throw my hands up and just accept what is. There’s some kind of magic in that. Because somehow, every single time, the minute I let go, something changes for the better. 

 18 Jan 2012 

 Im-Perfect Parenting 

     My oldest child, Emily, is sixteen. I know, ‘nuff said, right? Actually, she is a terrific kid. When she was younger, I referred to her as my, “Ok Mom” kid, because that was her response to everything I said. Easy. Not defiant or tantrum throwing. Yep, I had a perfect kid. I used to stand on line in grocery stores watching other people struggle with unruly toddlers who were angrily demanding that their mother’s leave RIGHT NOW, or complaining that THESE ARE NOT THE GUMMIES I LIKE!!! And I would smile understandingly at the mom while secretly thinking, “Jeeze. Get that kid under control!” 

      Some of you will be happy to know that I’ve paid the price for that particular brand of smugness with child #2, who is not, shall we say, of the “people pleasing” variety. Who has, in fact, not only pitched grand mal fits on the grocery store line, but has launched glass jars of pickles over the side of the cart and loudly demanded to know why the fella on line in front of us was so BALD. 

      Hmn. Karma’s a bitch. 

      Elizabeth’s 5th birthday party was, in fact, a “princess” theme. But since we had invited the boys in her class, we kind of kept that on the lowdown and I made sure that while the little girls got pretty pink princess goodie bags (with crowns and pink nail polish inside), the boys got really cool laser swords. There was one little boy, however, who really wanted a princess goodie bag. Now, far be it from me to impose gender restrictions on party favors, but I simply didn’t have enough. So, I kept shoving the cool sword at him and he kept stealing other girls’ goodie bags. The whole thing kept me pretty entertained during the last half hour of this soiree. 

      Finally, when the last “princess” had left, and I had pried the pink goodie bag out of his hands and placed it safely in hers, I handed him the sword yet again. His sweaty little hand reached up to grab mine and coax me down closer to his face, “You know,” he began, little beads of sweat forming on his pink cheeks, “My mom really doesn’t like it when I come home from parties without a goodie bag.” “Hmn.” I replied. And this time, I smiled with understanding. Period. 

      Of course, grocery store line tantrums and birthday party etiquette turned out to be the really easy stuff, and it turned out that the child formerly known as the “perfect” child, was as delightfully flawed as the rest of us, thank God. At the moment, she has me slightly dizzy over a subject that instills fear in every mother’s heart: The Driving Permit. Don’t misunderstand me. Here again, my firstborn started out just like a dream. She passed the written exam with flying colors, went fairly unwillingly to her driving lessons with a foul-mouthed, chain smoking driving instructor who is beloved by the local teenagers. She got enough driving hours to get her permit, and then had one teensy little incident in which she parked a little closer to the sidewalk than the curb. We laughed about it. I thought it was a non-issue. 

      Somehow, I failed to notice when she quietly tucked her permit away in her jewelry box and never asked to drive again. When I asked her if she wanted to drive, she invariably said, “I don’t have my permit.” Cool, I’d think, as I slipped behind the wheel. Still, as time went on, her reluctance began to seem weird. What the heck? I thought kids were dying to drive? God knows I was. When she started to point out cars on the road that she’d really like to get for her birthday, my response was incredulous, “Are you kidding? You don’t drive! You think when you turn 17 and get a license you’re going to be handed a car?” Clearly we had to have a talk. At this point, she reluctantly admitted that she was afraid to drive. Of the two issues at hand here, (the assumption that there would be a car being one of them) this, I thought, we could negotiate and work through. 

     Once I agreed to abide by a few hundred (okay, okay, I’m exaggerating!) “rules” for when she did drive, she agreed to move the permit from the dresser into her wallet (baby steps!) Among her rules are the following: #1 – No music or cell phone use is allowed (pinch me!–this alone may reinstate her perfectness) #2 – No one can TALK when she is, a) Merging onto a highway, b) Making a left-hand turn (really? Okay, I guess…), c) Exceeding a speed limit of 40 mph or, d) Performing ANY type of parking. There’s a certain amount of irony to this considering the fact that as she drives she never stops talking; to other drivers, pedestrians, parked cars and other inanimate objects. 

 I’ll say it again, hmn. But not, of course, during left-hand turns. 

     She’s getting better. A lot better, in fact. Her confidence is increasing in direct proportion to her driving ability and she asks for the keys all the time now. It’s all good. By the time she turns 17 in May, she will be ready. A fair amount of her friends have already reached this particular milestone and I have gotten glimpses of what our next big conversation will be: The car issue. We live in a town, like many other towns, where extreme affluence and abject poverty co-exist. Our family is, thankfully, somewhere in the middle. Many of her friends, however, fall squarely in the extreme affluence category. Two of them just got brand new cars for Christmas, and I just don’t know how I feel about this. 

      No doubt it’s a lot safer to buy your kid the Mercedes version of a military tank instead of letting them drive a $400.00 1967 Volkswagen Bug like I did, but there are other consequences of such indulgences. Entitlement can be a very dangerous thing in and of itself. Sure, I’m aware that there’s a middle ground here, but seriously, what happened to borrowing the family car to go to your part-time job to save money to get your own car? As the youngest of seven children, when we waxed philosophical about the cars, or anything else we wished for, my father (born and bred in Pennsylvania), liked to say, “Well, like they say in the Old Country: ‘Sava you money.’” 

      I often say that the only thing I’m sure of about being a parent is that I’m not making the same mistakes my parents did. But boy, have I made others. Lots of them. Back when my children were perfect, I didn’t worry about this stuff. 

 Hmn. 

 9 Jan 2012

[meditationklaus]

Funny Yoga Mat Craigslist Ad Describes Hot Yoga Hell

Craigslist, that bottomless pit of barely-used blenders and secondhand patio furniture, is also a goldmine for hilarious ads.

This particular Craigslist ad has been doing the rounds for a while, but it still makes us giggle.

A Seattle man has posted a yoga mat for sale at a measly $1. The yoga has been used just once, but it’s gone through a LOT, as has its owner, hence the rock-bottom price.

The ad describes his harrowing experience at his first hot yoga class in five years. We’re spared no details , from the way his sweat forms a mustache above his lip, to how body odor and excessive perspiration led to the untimely end of a (totally imaginary) relationship with the cute yogi on the next mat.

Read the full text of the funny yoga mat Craigslist ad below:

Yoga mat for sale. Used once at lunch hour class in December 2009. Usage timeline as follows:

11:45a Register for hot yoga class. Infinite wisdom tells me to commit to 5 class package and purchase a yoga mat. I pay $89.74. Money well spent, I smugly confirm to myself.

11:55a Open door to yoga room. A gush of hot dry air rushes through and past me. It smells of breath, sweat and hot. Take spot on floor in back of room next to cute blonde. We will date.

11:57a I feel the need to be as near to naked as possible. This is a problem because of the hot blonde to my left and our pending courtship. She will not be pleased to learn that I need to lose 30 pounds before I propose to her.

11:58a The shirt and sweats have to come off. I throw caution to the wind and decide to rely on my wit and conditioning to overcome any weight issues my fiancée may take issue with. This will take a lot of wit and conditioning.

11:59a Begin small talk with my bride to be. She pretends to ignore me but I know how she can be. I allow her to concentrate and stare straight ahead and continue to pretend that I don’t exist. As we finish sharing our special moment, I am suddenly aware of a sweat moustache that has formed below my nose. This must be from the all the whispering between us.

12:00p Instructor enters the room and ascends her special podium at the front of the room. She is a slight, agitated Chinese woman. She introduces me to the class and everyone turns around to greet me just as I decide to aggressively adjust my penis and testes packed in my Under Armor. My bride is notably unfazed.

12:02p Since I do have experience with Hot Yoga (4 sessions just 5 short years ago) I fully consider that I may be so outstanding and skilled that my instructor may call me out and ask me to guide the class. My wife will look on with a sparkle in her eye. We will make love after class.

12:10p It is now up to 95 degrees in the room. We have been practicing deep breathing exercises for the last 8 minutes. This would not be a problem if we were all breathing actual, you know, oxygen. Instead, we are breathing each other’s body odor, expelled carbon dioxide and other unmentionables. (Don’t worry, I’ll mention them later.)

12:26p It is now 100 degrees and I take notice of the humidity, which is hovering at about 90%. I feel the familiar adorning stare of my bride and decide to look back at her. She appears to be nauseated. I then realize that I forgot to brush my teeth prior to attending this class. We bond.

12:33p It is now 110 degrees and 95% humidity. I am now balancing on one leg with the other leg crossed over the other. My arms are intertwined and I am squatting. The last time I was in this position was 44 years ago in the womb, but I’m in this for the long haul. My wife looks slightly weathered dripping sweat and her eyeliner is streaming down her face. Well, “for better or worse” is what we committed to so we press on.

12:40p The overweight Hispanic man two spots over has sweat running down his legs. At least I think its sweat. He is holding every position and has not had a sip of water since we walked in. He is making me look bad and I hate him.

12:44p I consider that if anyone in this room farted that we would all certainly perish.

12:52p It is now 140 degrees and 100% humidity. I am covered from head to toe in sweat. There is not a square millimeter on my body that is not slippery and sweaty. I am so slimy that I feel like a sea lion or a maybe sea eel. Not even a bear trap could hold me. The sweat is stinging my eyeballs and I can no longer see.

12:55p This room stinks of asparagus, cloves, tuna and tacos. There is no food in the room. I realize that this is an amalgamation of the body odors of 30 people in a 140 degree room for the last 55 minutes. Seriously, enough with the asparagus, ok?

1:01p 140 degrees and 130% humidity. Look, b*tch, I need my space here so don’t get all pissy with me if I accidentally sprayed you with sweat as I flipped over. Seriously, is that where this relationship is going? Get over yourself. We need counseling and she needs to be medicated. Stat!

1:09p 150 degrees and cloudy. And hot. I can no longer move my limbs on my own. I have given up on attempting any of the commands this Chinese chick is yelling out at us. I will lay sedentary until the aid unit arrives. I will buy this building and then have it destroyed. I lose consciousness.

1:15p I have a headache and my wife is being a selfish b*tch. I can’t really breathe. All I can think about is holding a cup worth of hot sand in my mouth. I cannot remember what an ice cube is and cannot remember what snow looks like. I consider that my only escape might be a crab walk across 15 bodies and then out of the room. I am paralyzed, and may never walk again so the whole crab walk thing is pretty much out.

1:17p I cannot move at all and cannot reach my water. Is breathing voluntary or involuntary? If it’s voluntary, I am screwed. I stopped participating in the class 20 minutes ago. Hey, lady! I paid for this frickin class, ok?! You work for me! Stop yelling at everyone and just tell us a story or something. It’s like juice and cracker time, ok?

1:20p It is now 165 degrees and moisture is dripping from the ceiling. The towel that I am laying on is no longer providing any wicking or drying properties. It is actually placing additional sweat on me as I touch it. My towel reeks. I cannot identify the smell but no way can it be from me. Did someone spray some stank on my towel or something?

1:30p Torture session is over. I wish hateful things upon the instructor. She graciously allows us to stay and ‘cool down’ in the room. It is 175 degrees. Who cools down in 175 degrees? A Komodo Dragon? My wife has left the room. Probably to throw up.

1:34p My opportunity to escape has arrived. I roll over to my stomach and press up to my knees. It is warmer as I rise up from ground level – probably by 15 degrees. So let’s conservatively say it’s 190. I muster my final energy and slowly rise. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Towards the door. Towards the door.

1:37p The temperature in the lobby is 72 degrees. Both nipples stiffen to diamond strength and my penis begins to retract into my abdomen from the 100 degree temp swing. I can once again breathe though so I am pleased. I spot my future ex wife in the lobby. We had such a good thing going but I know that no measure of counseling will be able to unravel the day’s turmoil and mental scaring.

1:47p Arrive at Emerald City Smoothie and proceed to order a 32 oz beverage. 402 calories, 0 fat and 14 grams of protein — effectively negating any caloric burn or benefit from the last 90 minutes. I finish it in 3 minutes and spend the next 2 hours writing this memoir.

3:47p Create Craigslist ad while burning final 2 grams of protein from Smoothie and before the “shakes” consume my body.

4:29p Note to self – check car for missing wet yoga towel in am.

Hot yoga can be a bit challenging to the uninitiated, but once you get used to the heat, the benefits can’t be beat! Check out 10 Essential Ways to Adjust to Hot Yoga for ways to get yourself used to the extreme temperatures, if you aren’t yet.

The post Funny Yoga Mat Craigslist Ad Describes Hot Yoga Hell appeared first on DOYOUYOGA.COM.