#survive without wife 1 week challenge IMPOSSIBLE

[dykemutt]

ouhhhgg my wife is gone

[zarathelonewolf]

WARNING! ANOTHER KNY AU PILOT! THE STORY OF THE CHARACTERS MAY CHANGE, BUT THIS IS THE MOST STABLE VERSION I HAVE WRITTEN SO FAR!

KNY/DEMON SLAYER AU

STONE STORM

PART 1/ MASAKO

Chapter 1 - Victory... but at what cost?

No victory without suffering.

J. R. R. Tolkien

Ryue the Demon Slayer only had one daughter, and a sweet wife, ready to welcome him every rare time he came back home after some missions.

For those of his profession, seeing relatives and friends again after a fight was always cherishable: it wasn't always that a Demon Slayer managed to create a family, and for those that did manage, the reunions were charged with emotion and significance; another Slayer had the chance to see his loved ones once more, often at the price of their colleagues lives...

A risk they all willingly took, nevertheless.

Ryu couldn't avoid thinking, in front of the colossal black and blue demon, that he'd never see his family again.

He had hunted the beast relentlessly with his companions, his best friends Hari and Sakura, and after a week they had finally managed to take it out of its hiding place... They had then attacked it, to bring justice to the one hundred people it had eaten.

Now, Hari and Sakura layed on the ground, their body maimed and bloody; Haru wasn't breathing anymore, and Sakura may not have been able to make it alive... Ryu was the only one still standing, but he could barely do so and he'd soon collapse to the ground like his comrades. His left arm was so torn apart that it was about to detach, and his right leg was in a similar situation; however, Ryu kept going through it all: he'd never waver until the demon had finally fallen before him... even if he knew that killing the demon wasn't a guarantee he'd survive the night.

The kakushi had been informed to stick around in the sight of a huge battle and to follow their kasugai crows after the battle had ended to tend to their wounds.

Even with that in mind, Ryu was convinced that not even the kakushi would be able to save him, and that he'd never see his daughter Masako and his wife Yua again.

The thought of leaving them alone tore his heart apart, but when he jumped one last time for the fatal hit, other than swallowing saliva and blood, he suppressed his tears.

After a devastating silence and a something that had felt like an eternity, the creature's had had fallen on the ground with a soft thud. Another eternity went by until the demon fully disintegrated in reddish and black dust.

Ryu didn't feel his body crumble on the ground, nor did he hear Haru's and Sakura's crows (Ryu's had died in the battle) fly away and call the kakushi with urgency. He almost didn't realize that he had fallen close to Sakura, that his friend had used her last amount of strength to lightly touch his shoulder and whisper that they had done oh so well, and that everything would have been fine.

Incredibly frail hopes that faded away just like her, a few minutes later, when she had exhaled her last breath...leaving a lonely, dying Ryu, his sight becoming more and more heavy and muddy as time went on.

It wasn't just his strength getting away, but the stream of tears that he was no longer able to contain.

🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸

The kakushi had climbed the mountain as fast as they could, and they had arrived just in time to give Ryu a chance at survival.

They had observed the situation, and after assessing that there was no coming back for Haru and Sakura, they had wrapped both in a white blanket, while some others had concentrated on bringing Ryu some place where they could have healed him properly.

He didn't remember much of all those procedures, he just had extremely fragmented memories of them: among those, there were the figments of the pink dawning sky seen by heavy, half-open eyelids... the wobbly sprint towards the nearest Demon Slayer clinic to save his life... the touch of the doctors and the surgeons... a sharp and painful tug close to the left side of his head, and another one near his right leg... agitated voices, opaque faces... bandages hugging his body...

But, more than everything, he'd always recall with great precision those words, that to his suffering mind had seemed like impossible and absurd:

-He'll live.

🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸

By the time five days had passed from his arrival at the clinic, while his mind surely hadn't been in the best place he had surely become a lot more lucid.

Those had been exhausting nights, full of nightmares filled with the desperate faces of Haru and Sakura, the last screech of his crow, the taste of his blood and the demon's hellish stench. There were also terrible visions of his family being slaughtered by another demon, all because he'd been dead to prevent it.

He had, at times, awakened in the middle of the night screaming and shaking in his hospital bed in a feverish state... It had been very worried, the surgeons had said.

Now, after that hellish beginning, they were standing around his bed, and with the greatest amount of tact and quiet sorrow they had explained the whole situation: he had been saved, but...

It was at that moment that he had finally felt, for real, the sensation of emptiness where his left arm and right leg should have been, almost as if...

Almost as if they hadn't been there anymore...?

What?

He had lost two limbs, the doctors had said, his friends and his kasugai crow.

Ryu had listened, stony as a statue, while a new reality had started to cement itself in his life.

His friends... were truly gone? For good?

His kasugai crow, his faithful messenger... He had already realized it, but hearing it now...

They had defeated the demon... but at what cost?

A question he had asked himself countless times even while he endeavored in the rehabilitation exercises and tried getting used to his wooden peg leg, even when the answer was evident: like it happened so very often against demons, he had gained little and lost a lot; now, of the trio he had formed with his friends when they had passed the Selection together, only he was left.

All that remained of them were their kasugai crows, who stared at Ryu as he faced with his head high every challenge posed by his new condition.

Every time that he felt his self-esteem drown in a puddle of shame and sadness because of the new crushing reality he was experiencing, every time he felt like he wanted to tear apart the blankets and scream at whatever spirit or God was listening about the misery he hadn't deserved, insulting the world... Every single time, the crows had let themselves be caressed and hugged instead, with small noises of grief and understanding: they had lost valiant comrades too, and it was weighing over them just as much.

That was how he had spent his days at the clinic, not to speak of the nights, which were spent with worse nightmares for a long time.

His mind had started processing everything, in the meanwhile, and it had slowly risen back up.

But the question was still relevant: they had won, but at what cost?

🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸💮🌸

[joon-ipersgirl]

O5 - “the coveted client”

genre: mafia!au, angst, fluff, slow burn, mystery-thriller

pairing: namjoon x reader (f)

word count: 4.6k

warnings: cursing

summary: charismatic. beautiful. fearless without question. the ambitious team of seven young men in charge of spiral, downtown district's hottest new club, go above and beyond to provide 100% satisfaction to their clients.

after an eventful night out, you have no choice but to join the team for property damages greater than your intern salary. challenging a series of events that can no longer be left to coincidence, secrets threaten to burst at the seams as your professional and private life collide, and another - more sinister - debt is added to your total.

how far are you willing to go to pay back your pound of flesh? remember nothing is ever as it seems...

a/n: hello friends. here is part 5. leave a comment on how you're feeling about this story. i'm debating on discontinuing it from tumblr. thank you vi for reading as always. enjoy everyone :)

full masterlist // series masterlist // previous // next

Training tonight @ 6pm. Don’t be late. You read the incoming text with a grin. Even in text, Suga is straight to the point. Shoving your phone back into your pants pocket, you leave the small kitchenette and head back to your small desk with a fresh cup of coffee in hand. You can still remember the looks of horror on the boys’ faces after Suga announced your immediate hire and it’s been two weeks since then. Was it wrong to take pleasure in their discomfort? Probably. Would you stop? Never.

“Is that a smile I spy on Miss Y/N Y/L/N’s face? The Devil must be here to collect his wife,” Paul exclaims as you sit back down. You laugh and prop your chin on your hand as you stare at him over your desktop screen.

“Can a woman not just be happy, Paul? Why does it have to come at the expense of a man?” you ask, a fake feign of hurt in your voice.

“Of course women can. Just not you,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. You shake your head, your smile still present on your face. Paul would not ruin your good mood.

“Ouch. That one might have hurt if I actually gave a fuck about your opinion of me,” you say while reorganizing the folders Manager Kim had dropped onto your desk from the day before.

“Y/N! Language!” Laura chides as she walks into your cramped office space. You roll your eyes and flip through the countless papers on your desk to order them in order of priority.

It’s honestly a miracle that none of you manage to murder each other while you work though it’s crossed your mind several times. JM Events and Affairs is a lucrative event planning company, but apparently could not afford to at least place its clerks in a room larger than 500 sq ft. Being entry level is a struggle most days, but eventually it would all pay off and you would become a successful event planning guru. For now though, you’re stuck here with the imbeciles you had to call co-workers.

“Manager Kim wants to see us in her office,” James says as he pokes his head around the wall of the cubicle, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “Now,” he emphasised. He doesn’t wait for you to follow.

Paul shoots you and Laura a raised brow of confusion as you grab your notepads and file down the long corridor to Manager Kim’s well decorated office. She’s an older woman who’s been in the business longer than you’ve been alive. She credits her success to always staying ahead of the trend even if she didn’t create it, though most times she did. Her style is impeccable and she is meticulous as she is jovial. She’s, quite simply, a genius.

James has already taken a seat in one of the two plush grey chairs in front of her large, industrial sized desk. Rows of colorful binders are organized on her desk - no doubt detailing the new events the company is planning on hosting. Manager Kim enjoys the arts and it’s evident from the variety of paintings that hang on the wall. Today, she’s dressed in a powder blue knit sweater that matches whatever shade of nail polish she wears tucked into a pair of belted, high waisted wide leg pants. Her matching steel toe boots peek from underneath.

“Ah, good. You’re all here,” she begins as she sits behind her desk. You gesture for Laura to take the other available seat as you stand behind James and Paul stands next to you.

“We have a new client considering the company for an event. He’s very important for future networking opportunities so I expect the very best work from you.” Manger Kim usually wasted no time getting straight to the point and today is no different. “In fact, I’ve been monitoring your work very closely because I knew a client like this would be coming very soon,” she stands from her desk, navy blue binder in hand.

“What kind of event is he planning on having?” James inquires, his pen ready to take notes.

“He didn’t give specific details, but I’m sure if we can book him for this minor event, he’ll give us the main one. I’m quite sure of it.” Manager Kim snaps the binder shut and smiles at you all. Her white blonde bob is immaculate, not a single strand out of place.

“Should we start drafting ideas now?” Laura asks.

“Yes, I need several drafts from each of you by 4pm this afternoon. Please have them -”

“Are we just supposed to forget about the other events we have coming up? This guy didn’t even give us any major details for effective planning!” Paul interrupts. Manager Kim turns to look at him.

“Well Paul, if this client is of no importance to you -” Paul tries to backtrack, but to no avail as Manager Kim continues on “- I will not need your drafts or your portfolio.” She beams at him and Paul blanches. You grimace.

“As I was saying. Please have your portfolios and 4 drafts submitted to me by 4pm today. They should be in priority order and include everything from food to colors, entertainment and venues. Remember, the customers knows best -”

“- but finesse, finesse, finesse,” you, Paul, James, and Laura finish. Manager Kim should have that framed and put on her wall.

“Lovely. Goodbye,” she waves no longer looking at you, already lost in her grueling event editing process. You knew better than to loiter and the four of you head back to your small workspace.

“You really fucked up there Paul,” you say as you sit down at your desk.

“Thanks, Y/N,” Paul deadpans. He drops his head quite heavily on his desk. Laura winces.

“It’s okay, Paul. Maybe you can still show her something and -” she starts.

“You know Manager Kim isn’t the forgiving kind,” James interrupts. “There’s nothing more he can do,” he finishes nonchalantly.

“I hate to agree -” you begin.

“No you don’t,” Paul cuts in.

“- but James is right. Manager Kim is all about quick thinking and Paul failed that test. He’ll have another time to redeem himself, but he has to sit this one out. You should be happy, Laura. Less competition,” you say with a shrug and flip open your notepad to start drafting.

“Do you even have an empathetic bone in your body, Y/N?!” Laura hisses as she walks over to rest a hand on Paul’s shoulder.

“Sometimes,” you reply. “But everyone has to eat and I refuse to go to sleep on an empty stomach.”

Laura looks disgusted at your answer and she goes back to consoling Paul. James had left the conversation a long time ago and you admired his ability to ignore almost everyone around him. His coldness and detachment made him ruthless in an unsuspecting way and you’d learned the hard way not to underestimate him. Laura would learn eventually that while people thought it was the strong who survived, it was really those who were able to adapt to any environment that really thrived.

It’s after lunch that you receive an email from Manager Kim requesting for you to meet her in the lobby in fifteen minutes without any further explanation. You ask no questions and sit in the lobby, counting the people that come out of the elevator that were not Manager Kim. It’s already 1:24 pm and you’ve just started your third draft. Creating on a time crunch with no real guidance is no walk in the park and you try to keep your frustrations under control as you run through possible color combinations for the event.

“Y/N! There you are! Let’s go,” Manager Kim calls as she exits the building without checking to see if you follow.

You scramble to grab your purse and notepad, scurrying across the lobby in the high heels she insists you wear. Manager Kim is already seated in a company car as you yank the passenger side door open and fall into the seat.

“Very good,” she says and wastes no time pulling into traffic. You awkwardly try to secure your seatbelt as she zips through the small spaces between cars. Gods protect you from this woman and her hazardous driving.

“Where are we going?” you ask after you manage to situate your purse, coat, and notepad in your lap comfortably.

“Downtown. We’re meeting with the client.”

“We?!” you repeat, surprised.

“That’s what I said isn’t it? We’re also late,” she says as she makes a sharp right turn onto Matthews St. You barely miss hitting a cyclist and you send up another small prayer for you to make it to your destination safely.

“What about the drafts and portfolios? Aren’t you going to review -”

“Did I say I wasn’t?” She glances over at you from the corner of her eye and you close your mouth. You would not fail this test.

Manager Kim pulls over into an impossibly tight space in front of a large corporate building that reads Hastings and Lewis. A well established law firm if you remember correctly. It has to be at least 14 stories high and exudes the architect’s vision of simple modern design with large windows and exposed steel structural support. You both exit the car and you align your steps with hers, your heels clicking in time against the marble flooring as you enter the building. You say good afternoon to the doorman who simply nods at you in greeting.

“Hello. How can I help you?” the receptionist asks behind the raised desk, her head barely visible.

“Yes, hello. My name is Madeline Kim. I have an appointment to speak with Mr. Cavallero at 2:15pm.” You glance at the clock behind the receptionist. 1:53pm. You bite your lip to hold your outburst. To be early is to be on time, you could hear her say.

The receptionist smiles and nods as she searches her computer for the appointment. “Yes, here it is. Please have a seat. Someone will come and get you shortly.”

Manager Kim nods and perches in one of the available seats. You shake your head as you take a seat next to her, ignoring the itching in your palm to pull out your notepad and finish your drafts. You can tell by the way Manager Kim is sitting, not scrolling through her various binders or the calendar on her phone, this is a formal interview and you would not be the one to fuck it up. There would be time to finish the drafts. You would make sure of it.

“Ms. Kim?” A young man in a sharp, black suit stands in the center of the room smiling at you. 2:05pm. Right on time. “If you could follow me this way, please.” He turns towards the golden elevators and you follow behind him. “My name is Lewis Carlisle and I am the assistant to Mr. Cavallero,” he tells you as he pushes the button for the 10th floor. He sticks his hand out for each of you to shake.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Carlisle. Thank you for having us. This is my assistant, Ms. Amani Jung.” A lie, but you go with it.

“A pleasure to meet you,” you say with a bright smile and a firm handshake. He returns a smile of his own.

The elevator doors open and you follow Mr. Carlisle through the open workspace plan. This is the kind of place that promoted collaboration and teamwork. How could it not when the light airy feeling made you want to turn to your neighbor and ask them what they thought about a particular problem? JM Events and Affairs should have hired their interior designer. Maybe some of their employees wouldn’t struggle as much to meet their deadlines.

“Mr. Cavellero unfortunately will not be able to meet with you in person today -” Manager Kim’s smile tightens at his words “- but he did relay all of his expectations for the company brunch,” Lewis says as he holds open the door to a small meeting room. It’s in the center of the floor and the walls are made of pure plexiglass. It screamed expensive.

“How wonderful,” Manager Kim comments as she sits down and sets her purse down on the ground.

“Would either of you like something to drink? Water? A Coke?”

“ A water with light ice will do, thank you,” she says.

“I’ll take a bottle of water, please,” you reply and sit down beside Madeline. You discreetly pull out your design notepad along with your actual note-taking pad. Lewis nods and promises to return quickly with your drinks as well as the file containing the event details.

“You seem upset,” you comment while scribbling down the words brunch and law firm onto a new blank sheet for your fourth and final draft, your brain already conjuring up ideas.

“What makes you think that?” she asks, turning to you slightly as she too sets up her own note-taking station.

“Your smile failed to meet your eyes,” you say nonchalantly. From the corner of your eye, you see her break into a grin as Lewis enters the room, a cup of water in one hand, a bottle in the other, and a slim manilla folder tucked underneath his arm.

“Thank you again, Mr. Carlisle,” Manager Kim says with another bright smile, her hand in his as they shake hands again.

“You’re very welcome. I’m sure Mr. Cavallero will love what you put together for brunch,” he replies.

The meeting seems to be a success and you’d gained some much needed insight for your fourth draft while being Madeline’s “assistant”. You’re no longer paying attention as you exit the meeting room and head back towards the main elevator, Madeline and Lewis making polite conversation. You run over all of your drafts as you check the time discreetly. It’s 3:20pm. You would still have enough time to review your plans and work on the others files Manager Kim had assigned. You grin in victory.

“Mr. Cavallero!” Lewis exclaims as the elevator doors open.

The man is an older gentleman with neatly groomed hair and warm brown eyes. His coal grey suit is neatly pressed, a sharp crease present in the center of his pant leg. Definitely high quality and only dry-cleaned. His smile displays a set of perfect of white teeth. As he steps out of the elevator, holding it open so it wouldn’t close, the Armani Exchange watch glitters under the artificial lights.

“Mr. Carlisle. I assume this must be our event coordinators. I’m sorry I couldn’t meet with you. An emergency meeting was called for a major case,” he apologizes.

“I understand, Mr. Cavallero. Things are sometimes out of our control. No need to explain,” Madeline says with a smile as she enters the elevator. You follow behind her. “Mr. Carlisle was quite capable. I will have Miss Y/L/N send over the final details for the event by Friday for your approval.”

Mr. Cavallero’s eyes shift over to you and he smiles. “I look forward to it. Enjoy the rest of your day, ladies.” He let the doors go as Lewis tells you goodbye, the doors closing off the last of his words.

Manager Kim’s shoulders visibly relax as you descend to the lobby, but you make no comment. Though their conversation was brief, something had clearly transpired between them. Madeline seems to have noticed you watching her as she inhales and fixes her posture. She was back to business.

“I assume I don’t have to tell you not to say anything about this meeting?” she asks as she nods her thanks to the doorman, your steps once more in sync as you exit the high rise building.

“What meeting?” You say with a grin as you wait for her to unlock the company car.

The heat of the staircase in Spiral welcomes you again like a familiar friend after not seeing them for a long time. There is still the hustle and bustle of vendors dropping off boxes as the final details of the new designs are being put into place. People couldn’t wait to see how Spiral had fared after the robbery - which you still didn’t believe was actually what happened - and it seems like Friday’s opening night couldn’t come soon enough. Even Paul and Laura were considering stopping by after all of the shit they talked before.

You enter the main space and glance around, looking for one of the boys. Your purse bag is heavy from the event files and you head over to set it on top of the bar while resting your aching feet. Paul, Laura, and James could not believe you’d managed to turn in your drafts and portfolio at exactly 3:57pm after being gone so long; they would eventually learn to not underestimate you. You glance around again and notice a group of people sitting in one of the newly upholstered booths quietly chatting to one another across the way. Were these the new employees?

“Already lounging on the first day of the job, Y/L/N?”

You look to your left as you shrug off your heavy overcoat and see Honcho coming around the bar, a pile of clothes in his hands.

“Of course not. I just wasn’t sure who to report to,” you say with a shrug.

“Well, you’re looking at him,” he replies with a grin. You have to stop your mouth from falling open. Of all people, it had to be him? “What? Are you disappointed?” he asks as he continues across the room to the small group. You grab your stuff and walk over after him.

“No, I just thought -”

“Thought it would be Suga? As much as you like to charge in and demand shit sweetheart, Suga is a very busy man and doesn’t have the time to appease you all the time. Sit,” he commands with a jerk of his head. You narrow your eyes at him, but obey. It’s only then that you notice the other five persons staring at you in confusion as you bickered. You swallow the urge to huff in annoyance as Honcho begins speaking.

“Thank you all for being on time. Congratulations on being hired. I’m Honcho and I’ll be your manager at Spiral. You’ll meet the rest of the guys later. These are your uniforms. We have a strict adherence uniform policy, so please do your best to be dressed in your proper attire. If you have long hair, it will be tied up or back in a bun or ponytail. Ladies, we ask that you wear red lipstick to match our colors. We’ve also given you options for bottoms: a skirt or pants.” Honcho holds up a pair of each for demonstration. “Whatever you decide to wear is up to you. We only ask that all your shoes are closed toed and we would prefer no sneakers; we’re trying to sell a vibe here. Any questions?” He doesn’t wait for anyone to speak up. “No? Great. If you could introduce yourselves to each other, that’d be fantastic.” He looks over to the boy on the other side of the booth.

“Uh, hi. My name is Micah. I’m 21 and recently graduated from college.” He tosses up a small wave before pushing his glasses further up his nose. He’s narrow shouldered and naturally blonde. Cute, if you will. They would chew him up and eat him alive if he continued to be so timid.

“Hey, I’m Luca. I’m 23 and a graduate student at Oberman.” Luca definitely fit the vibe Spiral os going for with his dark hair and dark eyes. He would have no problem wooing the numerous women who would walk through the door. A great business move in your opinion.

“Hey y’all, Savannah here. I’m 22 and working part time while in school.” Another blonde hair, blue-eyed coworker. How fun. The bubbles in champagne had nothing on her as she beams at the rest of you around the table.

“I’m Jack. I’m 24 and I guess I’m here to save up for a new car? Need some extra cash,” he finishes with a bashful grin. The girl next to you snorts. Jack is a big man with broad shoulders and you would assume he was hired as additional security based on his size. Imagine a man as big as him bringing over your strawberry mojito? Exactly.

“Giselle. 21. Law student. Loans have to pay themself off somehow right?” Luca laughs and Giselle smiles. Yuck. If you weren’t already sick of the office romance - if you could call it that - between Laura and Paul at JM, you were going to have to endure another one here? Gods be with you.

“Y/N Y/L/N. I’m 22 and an event planner,” you say nonchalantly and turn to Honcho, waiting for his next instructions.

“Not going to tell us the reason you’re here?” he smirks and you roll your eyes.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

“I’d like a lot of things, Y/L/N. In fact, I can think of a few -”

“Gross,” you say, interrupting him, your face turned down in disgust. He laughs.

“Always think someone wants something from you, huh?” He shakes his head, still chuckling. “Everyone, go get changed and I’ll explain your duties to you once you get back.”

The six of you ease out of the booth, grabbing your uniforms as you head to the restrooms to get changed. As you follow Savannah and Giselle, you can’t help but scan the hallway for anything you could have missed as the memory of your second night here flashed across your mind. There had to be something that you were missing.

“I hope these uniforms are cute,” Giselle grumbles as she steps into an empty stall.

“I’m sure it’ll look great,” Savannah chirps.

You step into your own individual stall and drop your stuff on the floor. Slipping out of your heels, you step out of your slacks and tug off your blouse. You hold up the uniform shirt. It’s a plain black t-shirt with the letters in red spelling out Spiral in a spiral formation. The pants are made of a faux leather shiny material. They look tight and the sides have cut outs with strings laced in them from hip to ankle. The skirt is exactly the same. You sigh. This was really the vibe?

You dress quickly and tug on your Doc Martens. Honcho would have to wait for the lipstick. Exiting the stall, you see Savannah trying to adjust the strings on her pants while chewing her lip.

“Is it supposed to be this exposed?” she asks, checking herself out in the mirror.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” Giselle says exiting the stall and tugging down the hem of her skirt.

“So much for equality in the workplace huh?” you say. The two of them laugh.

The three of you return to the main space, Micah, Luca, and Jack already back at the booth with Honcho. Their eyes widen when they see you.

“Looking good ladies,” Honcho calls with his traditional large grin. Of course he would comment.

“Yeah, yeah. What’s next?” Giselle asks as she wiggles her way back into the booth, trying to cover her modesty.

“We’re going to take a tour of the facilities, get you acquainted with the space, and fill out the last pieces of paperwork. We’ll also have you help with some of the decorations; don’t worry, you’re going to get paid for this session. Then, we’ll see you on Friday for your shifts,” he replies. “Alright, let’s go.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for you to follow. As you’re setting your belongings down to catch up with the rest of the group, you spot Jin heading towards the bar. Just the man who you needed to see.

“Are you coming Y/N?” Savannah calls to you as the group heads up to the second level.

“Yeah, I’ll be right there!” you lie, knowing damn well you’re going to ambush Jin. You pretend to search for something in your purse as you double-check the group is far enough on the second level to not notice you not following before you head over to Jin.

“Well hello Jin,” you say as you wiggle your way onto a bar stool.

“Y/N,” he says with a chuckle. “What can I do for you?”

“Just answer a few simple questions.” you smile as you rest your chin on your palm.

“Alright,” he replied skeptically.

“Where’d you move the body?” The bottle of Aperol nearly slips out of his grip as he turns to look at you.

“Excuse me?” There’s no laughter in his voice.

“The body of the man in the bathroom,” you clarify. “How’d you get it to disappear like that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replies, busying himself with stocking up the bottles of alcohol under the shelf. He won’t meet your eyes. You know he’s lying; his body language says it all.

“Oh come on, Jin. You can tell me. It’s not like I’m going to go to the cops or anything,” you say nonchalantly. “Clearly they didn’t seem to care since they weren’t that thorough with their questions.”

“Y/N, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. You were concussed remember? Maybe you imagined whoever you’re talking about.” He glances up at you. You roll your eyes.

“Really Jin? You’re going to use the concussion line on me? You knew that I shot him; I told you that. I just want to know where you put him and why there were no reports of a missing man from the incident on the news at all,” you say with a shrug. He finally turns to face you.

“Maybe nobody reported him missing. Maybe he slipped out after you ducked behind the bar. What does it matter? Look, it was a traumatic night. For all of us. I don’t know anything about whatever or whoever you’re talking about. Hell, you probably don’t know either. Please, don’t make this working relationship anymore difficult for yourself than it already is. Just come in, keep your head down, and head out.” His hands are splayed out on the bar and the distance between you has closed significantly from when he’d started talking as he stares you down. “Worry about the things that concern you, like repaying your debt.” His tone is sharp and final. There’s no friendliness in his face either.

“Y/L/N! You’re not getting paid to sit on that pretty little ass of yours. Get up here now!” Honcho yelles down to you over the railing of the second floor balcony.

Ignoring Honcho, you cock your head and look at Jin again, thinking. “Okay Jin. Heard you loud and clear.”

You hop off the bar stool and adjust your skirt. You say nothing further as you head upstairs. It seems as though Jin would be of no help to you, but honestly, it didn’t matter. If it didn’t concern you, why was Jin lying about knowing what man you were talking about? Why had Suga tried to discreetly cover up that paper in his office the other day? What was really going on at Spiral? You’re determined to figure it, even if you have to work extra hours to do it. What happens in the dark must eventually come to light.

full masterlist // series masterlist // previous // next

joon-ipersgirl, 2020

[secret-of-success-book]

Chapter 1 of 24: Why bad things happen to good people?

People often ask “Why these bad things happen to me? Please don't tell me it’s your karma or fate”.

It may not be easy to find convincing answers for such questions. But let us see how a man changed the circumstances around him and still inspiring millions of people to change their own circumstance. He literally brought an empire down to its knees.

The man’s name was Mohan. He was a dull student in school. He used to be very shy and avoided all company. He used to be haunted by the fear of thieves, ghosts, and snakes. He did not dare to venture out of doors at night. It was almost impossible for him to sleep in the dark, as he would imagine ghosts coming from one direction, thieves from another and snakes from a third.

Later he studied Law, but fared no better in his legal career. He did not know how to apply legal principles to particular situations. His book-learning left him without any clue about how to help a client. No one would dare to give him a case. His colleagues began to refer to him jokingly as "brief-less barrister."

Having nothing else to do, he used to attend court every day to gain experience. But he had trouble following the cases and often dozed off in the middle of them. His first and only case was a routine, small claim. Following is a description of what happened in his own words.

“This was my debut in the Small Causes Court. I appeared for the defendant and had thus to cross-examine the plaintiff's witnesses. I stood up, but my heart sank into my boots. My head was reeling and I felt as though the whole court was doing likewise. I could think of no question to ask. The judge must have laughed, and the lawyers no doubt enjoyed the spectacle. But I was past seeing anything.

I sat down and told the agent that I could not conduct the case, that he had better engage Patel and have the fee back from me. Mr. Patel was duly engaged for Rs. 51. To him, of course, the case was child's play.

I hastened from the Court, not knowing whether my client won or lost her case, but I was ashamed of myself, and decided not to take up any more cases until I had courage enough to conduct them.                      _ Mohan

After few such attempts to succeed in life, he was exasperated. It was at that point that his life took one of those mysterious turns that some observers like to ascribe it to "fate" or "chance."

Through his brother, a local firm offered to help him out with a year's contract with its office in South Africa. It was a minor clerical position, well below the salary and prestige his education deserved. And it also meant separation from his wife, who had just borne them a second son. At that time it did not seem like much of an opportunity. But he jumped at the offer. It was, at least, a job, a chance to gain some experience and maybe an opportunity to send some money to his brother.

After a lengthy sea voyage, he landed in a town named Durban and was received by his client. Providence had lured him to what he was later to describe as 'that God - forsaken Continent where I found God'.

Although the British and Dutch were altogether a small minority of the total population in South Africa, they treated both native Africans and Indians as less than human. Indians had been originally brought in eighteenth century at the request of the European settlers to help build their plantation economy. They had been lured as indentured labourers on a five-year contract with the right to stay on as free residents on their own.

In their path had followed merchants and other professionals. They were all looked down upon by the Europeans as outcastes and were contemptuously called ‘coolies’ or ‘samis’, irrespective of their occupation or status in society.

After about a week's stay in Durban his client arranged for Mohan to leave for Pretoria, where his presence would be required for the lawsuit. Europeans in South Africa always travelled in first class whereas Indians were expected to travel in third class. But Mohan‘s law firm had reserved a first-class seat for him.

When the train reached Pietermaritzburg at about nine in the night, a white passenger boarding the train objected to the presence in the compartment of a 'coloured' man. The following was what happened.

https://youtu.be/7rapHpFnBZE

Not only in Mohan’s life, but in our own lives too there can be occasions when we become utterly clueless and helpless.  We may want to achieve something greater, such as becoming an entrepreneur, scientist, artist or leader. Or else, we may face many challenges such as failure in examinations, failure in finding a job or in business ventures, conflicts in family or failures in relationships. Many people, unable to stand the failures, stress and anxiety, go to the extremes of committing suicide, murdering people or resort to other short cuts or wrong means to find solutions.

No matter whether rich or poor - we have one asset that is equally distributed among all – ‘Time’. Every one of us has precisely only twenty four hours in a day.

But, some people achieve wealth, power, fame and so on, with very little effort; others with great difficulty; still others fail altogether to reach their goals and ideals. Why is this so? Why should some people realize their ambitions easily, others with difficulty, and still others not at all? This e-book intends to answer such questions and help you succeed in life.

We cannot satisfy our stomach by mere reading a menu card about delicious foods. We must eat to satisfy hunger physically. Similarly this e-book won’t be of much use if you just read it for entertainment and put it aside. It will be more useful if you make it a practical guide in daily life. You need to comprehend the principles of life. Then you must apply them in everyday living so that you can make your life a beautiful piece of art.

This e-book can be described as a combination of the ‘Science of Life’ and the ‘Art of Living’, a manual for life, so to speak. Individual topics may seem incomprehensible in the initial reading. But you may understand the entire e-book in perspective, eventually.

Our mind-set is a product of parents, teachers, society, media etc. They shape our beliefs and influence how we understand and either accept or reject new information. Some concepts of this e-book may sound unbelievable or old fashioned. But don’t reject anything too early. Be more patient with unfamiliar words. Allow new concepts to sink in mind and expand you into new ways of thinking. They have survived the tests of time, and remain amazingly ever new, practical and universal.

The secret for a rich and meaning life has been indirectly mentioned several times throughout these chapters. If it is directly named, it may deprive you of the benefit and joy when you find it on your own. Hence it has not been directly named but merely uncovered and left in sight for those who are ‘ready and prepared’ may find it.

Would you like to find the secret?

Please wait for next chapter.

[blueyesandleatherjacket]

A Taste Of Christmas, 5/6

Volume: 1.

Number of parts: 5/6.

Pairings: Metacrisis Nine x Rose.

A/N: Sequel for The Summertime Of Our Lives. Written for doctorroseprompts' ficmas challenge. Ficmas challenge: Ornaments, Wreath, Ribbon, Stockings, Rooftop, Earmuffs, Bright. Tagging @thebookster on her demand.

“Christmas is a time when you get homesick - even when you're home.” - Carol Nelson.

CHAPTER 5:

The table was covered with papers of different colours, glue sticks, bits of cut papers, cutting shapes, scissors, stickers, paint, Posca and a mix of silver and red flakes. In the middle of this mess, there were ranks of homemade invitation, cards, name tags and menus elegantly ornamented with Christmas themed elements like snowmen made with buttons of different sizes and colours, Christmas trees made with pine needles, pine cones made with bits of cardboards, candy canes made with paper straws. Those were things Tony had never seen in his entire life and he had been more than happy to help his sister crafting these little pieces of art. For him, it meant nothing because he never celebrated Christmas and because it was all new and secret – Pete must never know! – it was an exciting mission for the seven years-old boy. In the middle of this mess, the Doctor found the blonde head of his wife. She had collapsed on her table of work after working really hard on the last details for their upcoming Christmas party. She wanted it all to be perfect and she was pushing herself to exhaustion. The Doctor had already cleaned Tony up and put him to bed. Now it was time for his lovely wife to follow the same path. She was working hard, too hard, for their celebration to be perfect. They could have chosen the emblematic date of December 25 for this because it was in the middle of the week and everyone was working. Instead, they had chosen December 21 and 22. It was in two weeks time so it was important for the invitation cards to be sent as soon as possible or no one would be available. They didn’t have many friends around here, just a handful, but it was more than enough. The Doctor delicately picked Rose up. She protested, opened her eyes but ended up wrapping her arms around his neck and snuggling closer to his chest. He took her to the bedroom and lay her down. He carefully removed all leftovers of her artistic activities from her face and hair. He had always seen Rose as a young woman who was mature and clever for her age. More than other nineteen years old kiddos of her kiddos of her generation. With all the traveling they did and all the dangers they faced, she had grown up faster than she should have. This universe had completed her transformation into a grown-up woman. This was the first time in ages that he was seeing the child in her. Participating in this impossible Christmas revival was making her innocence and childish behaviour resurfacing. He congratulated himself for this idea. He was falling more and more in love with her. As he needed less sleep than a normal human being, he was often pacing around the house and resolving grids of crosswords to keep busy until finally sleep came to him. Tonight, though, he had other projects. As soon as Rose was tucked in bed, he left a note on his pillow and used the wrist device that was formerly Jack’s. He profoundly disliked this device: it was having too nasty effects on the user. However the TARDIS wasn’t ready to travel yet. She still needed to mature. Better give her all the time she needed to be at the best. He was one careless driver and an insatiable traveller. She would see the universe. She would see his family, help with raising his children. That was how he had dreamt his life with Rose once. The house, the human friends, the ‘ordinary’ life were just good bonuses. He was sprawled out on the bed when Rose woke up. All dressed in his signature outfit – jumper, leather jacket, black pants and boots – he had fallen asleep as soon as he had reached the bed. Strangely, he was wearing more colours than usual. These clothes were dark, reflecting the darkness of his soul when they had met and bringing a sort of protection to their owner. They were an homage to all the lost ones he was carrying on his shoulders with the damages of the war he was the only Time Lord to have survived to. Today, they were covered in an elegant mix of pastel and bright colours. On his head was resting a wreath of flowers Rose had only seen once in her life. The device around the Doctor’s wrist confirmed that he had been travelling while she was asleep. But what had he been up to in the galaxy? Why was he covered with flowers? Like he had done for her the night before, she delicately took off his shoes and jacket. She left the flowers on him just for the pleasure of having him waking up later with them and gently mocking him. It was breaking his bad boy appearance, making him look like a soft warrior. The Doctor could have been one of the French soldiers who left fresh and joyful for the first World War had he not already lived the horrors a war could cause to a person, to a population, to a whole planet. He was a warrior recovering from this war that had happened long before they met, a war that would haunt his mind for as long as he would be alive. Flowers were a meagre comfort for the broken man who had a hard time pulling himself back together. Where would he be without her? Who would hold his hand during the dark times? It was a question she still was asking herself. Less now than in the first days of her new life here, but sometimes she caught herself wondering who was holding the hand of the Doctor who was still running for his life. A thought she was keeping for herself not to sadden her Doctor. At least, he had her hand to hold; he had the woman he had always desired. And the Time Lord could make friends with anyone, as annoying as he could get when he was babbling relentlessly and considering the persons, humans or not, facing him like they were completely stupid. But if you were asking for help, he never refused and that made him a great friend. Being friend with such a person wasn’t without risk. You have to be prepared for the worst at any time. This life wasn’t for everyone. Some just couldn’t handle it. Rose had adjusted to this life for the man she had fallen in love with. She went downstairs and cooked breakfast for the two men of the house who weren’t up yet. She had no idea when the Doctor had fallen asleep but Tony was sleeping in. She had never seen him sleep this late on mornings. The sound of his steps on the ground above her proved her wrong. The boy was up and he was coming her way for breakfast. She had put everything down on the table and was making pancakes by the time he joined her in the kitchen with dishevelled hair and a sleepy face. He mumbled a hello and settled down at the table to eat his breakfast and drink his hot chocolate. Rose smiled, ruffled his hair and kissed his head before dropping a couple pancakes in the empty plate beside him and covered them with honey. It was his favourite meal to have on morning. Something the Doctor loved too… if she added bananas that tasted like bananas. “What is it, Rosie?” “Hm?” Rose sat down on the chair next to him for her morning tea. She had sugar and stirred the brewage for a perfect mix of the flavours. Tony was pointing to her tattoo. She was used to it now and didn’t notice it as much as she did before but to Tony, this was new. He hadn’t remarked it sooner. The lines were going from a wrist to the other in elegant lines forming long loops and drawing tight knots. The Doctor was wearing the same tattoos. He had had a harder time to get used to them. Maybe that was why he was wearing the leather jacket again: to avoid people’s looks on him now that he was vulnerable. Just like them all. “That’s a tattoo.” “Cool!” “Mum didn’t find it cool when she has seen,” chuckled Rose. “Dad has one too. That’s a number. He said that the day he met mum but she told me it was bollocks.” It was. Pete had had that tattoo long before their mother came in this universe. He had revealed the meaning of it when she was her prisoner in one of his labs in Torchwood. It was connected to his activities in this huge institution of researches. The Cybermen and Daleks, the Void, they hadn’t been caused only by her original universe. Pete had helped with it and played dumb when everything happened. They all had been fooled by him and she was the only one to see the truth behind his mask. The numbers on his arm indeed were a date. The date of his entry in Torchwood which matched the date he had met Jackie in the other world. “The Doctor and I are married,” explained Rose. “We did a hand-fastening marriage this summer and instead of wearing wedding rings, we chose to have the ribbons of love tattooed on our arms.” “The Doctor has them too?” “Yep,” replied the hoarse sleepy voice of the concerned man. He had swapped his jumper for a T-shirt and I kept his pants and socks. His short sleeves revealed the lines tattooed on his arms. The exact same lines as Rose. He stuck his arms together for the pattern to be complete and Tony was amazed by the complexity and beauty of the arabesques forming the ribbons. He could have had them off in some planet in the far future but he had chosen to keep them. They were the symbol of his love and marriage with Rose and he was growing quite fond of them. “We can get married with tattoos?” “Not really. There’s a ceremony called hand-fastening. The engaged couple brings ribbons made with fabric that have a special meaning to the both of them. A qualified and close person to you tells the story of the hand-fastening and what it means to the engaged couple. You face your loved one, gather the ribbons and take the hands of their hands. Your right hand takes their left on and your left takes their right one so your arms are forming a sort of eight or an infinite sign. The person you’ve chosen to marry you fastens the ribbons around your joined hands and tie them with a nice knot. You say your vows and the ceremony is over.” “But the tattoos?” “There are married couples that feel the need to exchange gifts that were very personal and dear to them to symbolise their love and trust. Others choose to have bond tattooed for everyone to see their love. Or simply as a reminder of their bond. Rose loved the tattoo idea so we’ve picked it and it’s fantastic to see that our marriage wasn’t just a dream.” The Doctor walked over to Rose and dropped a kiss on her lips. Tony had a wide smile. It made him so happy to be surrounded by so much warm love. He giggled when the Doctor ruffled his hair and tickled him. But he was so intrigued by what he whispered in his ear that he finished his breakfast and ran in the living room. Rose raised an eyebrow, the Doctor shrugged innocently and Tony squealed happily. Rose was intrigued so she went in the living room and there, she understood: in the night, the Doctor had built a fake chimney and had hung Christmas stockings on the mantel. There were one for each one of them and one for their friends. who were invited to their party. Every stockings was filled with chocolate and crackers and candy canes. Everything to make this first Christmas here even better. She threw herself in the Doctor’s arms. He really was fantastic. “Oh, Rosie, it’s snowing!” Tony put the stockings back on the chimney and ran to the closest window to watch the white flakes fall from the sky. Snow for Christmas, long time it hadn’t happened in their original universe. Thankfully global warming didn’t exist in this world. Somehow, they had managed to protect it for the future generations. As if anyone wanted to conceive and raise children in this full scary world. And since they were in a small quiet town, away from the big cities, the skies were as clear as they could be, offering them an impressive cover of shining stars to observe.an activity that the Doctor loved doing when was sitting in front of the patio door. When the night came, he chose to watch the stars with his little family: his wife and brother-in-law. But changing a habit had a certain price and he hadn’t seen it coming. The stars were brighter than usual that night and watching them from inside the house was lessening this beautiful brightness. The Doctor wanted to climb in the rooftop but Rose firmly refused. It was too dangerous. She allowed him to watch them from outside on the condition that he was dressing up to face the cold. He ended up muffled up in a warm coat and scarf and gloves but also a pair of earmuffs he was sulking about. Rose had insisting on the fact she loved his big ears the way they were and didn’t want them to suffer from the cold. She won the battle obviously and he soon forgot the argument-that-wasn’t-really-an-argument. Standing in the snow and holding the hand of his wife while speaking about the stars he knew to Tony was better than sulking about stupid earmuffs that indeed were keeping his ears warm for Rose to sexily nibble them later…

To be continued...

A Taste Of Christmas © | 2019 | Tous droits réservés.

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[mallyvu]

Harvey Weinstein Is My Monster Too

By Salma Hayek

Dec. 12, 2017

Harvey Weinstein was a passionate cinephile, a risk taker, a patron of talent in film, a loving father and a monster. For years, he was my monster.

This fall, I was approached by reporters, through different sources, including my dear friend Ashley Judd, to speak about an episode in my life that, although painful, I thought I had made peace with.

I had brainwashed myself into thinking that it was over and that I had survived; I hid from the responsibility to speak out with the excuse that enough people were already involved in shining a light on my monster. I didn’t consider my voice important, nor did I think it would make a difference.

In reality, I was trying to save myself the challenge of explaining several things to my loved ones: Why, when I had casually mentioned that I had been bullied like many others by Harvey, I had excluded a couple of details. And why, for so many years, we have been cordial to a man who hurt me so deeply. I had been proud of my capacity for forgiveness, but the mere fact that I was ashamed to describe the details of what I had forgiven made me wonder if that chapter of my life had really been resolved.

When so many women came forward to describe what Harvey had done to them, I had to confront my cowardice and humbly accept that my story, as important as it was to me, was nothing but a drop in an ocean of sorrow and confusion. I felt that by now nobody would care about my pain — maybe this was an effect of the many times I was told, especially by Harvey, that I was nobody.

We are finally becoming conscious of a vice that has been socially accepted and has insulted and humiliated millions of girls like me, for in every woman there is a girl. I am inspired by those who had the courage to speak out, especially in a society that elected a president who has been accused of sexual harassment and assault by more than a dozen women and whom we have all heard make a statement about how a man in power can do anything he wants to women.

Well, not anymore.

In the 14 years that I stumbled from schoolgirl to Mexican soap star to an extra in a few American films to catching a couple of lucky breaks in “Desperado” and “Fools Rush In,” Harvey Weinstein had become the wizard of a new wave of cinema that took original content into the mainstream. At the same time, it was unimaginable for a Mexican actress to aspire to a place in Hollywood. And even though I had proven them wrong, I was still a nobody.

One of the forces that gave me the determination to pursue my career was the story of Frida Kahlo, who in the golden age of the Mexican muralists would do small intimate paintings that everybody looked down on. She had the courage to express herself while disregarding skepticism. My greatest ambition was to tell her story. It became my mission to portray the life of this extraordinary artist and to show my native Mexico in a way that combated stereotypes.

The Weinstein empire, which was then Miramax, had become synonymous with quality, sophistication and risk taking — a haven for artists who were complex and defiant. It was everything that Frida was to me and everything I aspired to be.

I had started a journey to produce the film with a different company, but I fought to get it back to take it to Harvey.

I knew him a little bit through my relationship with the director Robert Rodriguez and the producer Elizabeth Avellan, who was then his wife, with whom I had done several films and who had taken me under their wing. All I knew of Harvey at the time was that he had a remarkable intellect, he was a loyal friend and a family man.

Knowing what I know now, I wonder if it wasn’t my friendship with them — and Quentin Tarantino and George Clooney — that saved me from being raped.

The deal we made initially was that Harvey would pay for the rights of work I had already developed. As an actress, I would be paid the minimum Screen Actors Guild scale plus 10 percent. As a producer, I would receive a credit that would not yet be defined, but no payment, which was not that rare for a female producer in the ’90s. He also demanded a signed deal for me to do several other films with Miramax, which I thought would cement my status as a leading lady.

I did not care about the money; I was so excited to work with him and that company. In my naïveté, I thought my dream had come true. He had validated the last 14 years of my life. He had taken a chance on me — a nobody. He had said yes.

Little did I know it would become my turn to say no.

No to opening the door to him at all hours of the night, hotel after hotel, location after location, where he would show up unexpectedly, including one location where I was doing a movie he wasn’t even involved with.

No to me taking a shower with him.

No to letting him watch me take a shower.

No to letting him give me a massage.

No to letting a naked friend of his give me a massage.

No to letting him give me oral sex.

No to my getting naked with another woman.

No, no, no, no, no …

And with every refusal came Harvey’s Machiavellian rage.

I don’t think he hated anything more than the word “no.” The absurdity of his demands went from getting a furious call in the middle of the night asking me to fire my agent for a fight he was having with him about a different movie with a different client to physically dragging me out of the opening gala of the Venice Film Festival, which was in honor of “Frida,” so I could hang out at his private party with him and some women I thought were models but I was told later were high-priced prostitutes.

The range of his persuasion tactics went from sweet-talking me to that one time when, in an attack of fury, he said the terrifying words, “I will kill you, don’t think I can’t.”

When he was finally convinced that I was not going to earn the movie the way he had expected, he told me he had offered my role and my script with my years of research to another actress.

In his eyes, I was not an artist. I wasn’t even a person. I was a thing: not a nobody, but a body.

At that point, I had to resort to using lawyers, not by pursuing a sexual harassment case, but by claiming “bad faith,” as I had worked so hard on a movie that he was not intending to make or sell back to me. I tried to get it out of his company.

He claimed that my name as an actress was not big enough and that I was incompetent as a producer, but to clear himself legally, as I understood it, he gave me a list of impossible tasks with a tight deadline:

1. Get a rewrite of the script, with no additional payment.

2. Raise $10 million to finance the film.

3. Attach an A-list director.

4. Cast four of the smaller roles with prominent actors.

Much to everyone’s amazement, not least my own, I delivered, thanks to a phalanx of angels who came to my rescue, including Edward Norton, who beautifully rewrote the script several times and appallingly never got credit, and my friend Margaret Perenchio, a first-time producer, who put up the money. The brilliant Julie Taymor agreed to direct, and from then on she became my rock. For the other roles, I recruited my friends Antonio Banderas, Edward Norton and my dear Ashley Judd. To this day, I don’t know how I convinced Geoffrey Rush, whom I barely knew at the time.

Now Harvey Weinstein was not only rejected but also about to do a movie he did not want to do.

Ironically, once we started filming, the sexual harassment stopped but the rage escalated. We paid the price for standing up to him nearly every day of shooting. Once, in an interview he said Julie and I were the biggest ball busters he had ever encountered, which we took as a compliment.

Halfway through shooting, Harvey turned up on set and complained about Frida’s “unibrow.” He insisted that I eliminate the limp and berated my performance. Then he asked everyone in the room to step out except for me. He told me that the only thing I had going for me was my sex appeal and that there was none of that in this movie. So he told me he was going to shut down the film because no one would want to see me in that role.

It was soul crushing because, I confess, lost in the fog of a sort of Stockholm syndrome, I wanted him to see me as an artist: not only as a capable actress but also as somebody who could identify a compelling story and had the vision to tell it in an original way.

I was hoping he would acknowledge me as a producer, who on top of delivering his list of demands shepherded the script and obtained the permits to use the paintings. I had negotiated with the Mexican government, and with whomever I had to, to get locations that had never been given to anyone in the past — including Frida Kahlo’s houses and the murals of Kahlo’s husband, Diego Rivera, among others.

But all of this seemed to have no value. The only thing he noticed was that I was not sexy in the movie. He made me doubt if I was any good as an actress, but he never succeeded in making me think that the film was not worth making.

He offered me one option to continue. He would let me finish the film if I agreed to do a sex scene with another woman. And he demanded full-frontal nudity.

He had been constantly asking for more skin, for more sex. Once before, Julie Taymor got him to settle for a tango ending in a kiss instead of the lovemaking scene he wanted us to shoot between the character Tina Modotti, played by Ashley Judd, and Frida.

But this time, it was clear to me he would never let me finish this movie without him having his fantasy one way or another. There was no room for negotiation.

I had to say yes. By now so many years of my life had gone into this film. We were about five weeks into shooting, and I had convinced so many talented people to participate. How could I let their magnificent work go to waste?

I had asked for so many favors, I felt an immense pressure to deliver and a deep sense of gratitude for all those who did believe in me and followed me into this madness. So I agreed to do the senseless scene.

I arrived on the set the day we were to shoot the scene that I believed would save the movie. And for the first and last time in my career, I had a nervous breakdown: My body began to shake uncontrollably, my breath was short and I began to cry and cry, unable to stop, as if I were throwing up tears.

Since those around me had no knowledge of my history of Harvey, they were very surprised by my struggle that morning. It was not because I would be naked with another woman. It was because I would be naked with her for Harvey Weinstein. But I could not tell them then.

My mind understood that I had to do it, but my body wouldn’t stop crying and convulsing. At that point, I started throwing up while a set frozen still waited to shoot. I had to take a tranquilizer, which eventually stopped the crying but made the vomiting worse. As you can imagine, this was not sexy, but it was the only way I could get through the scene.

By the time the filming of the movie was over, I was so emotionally distraught that I had to distance myself during the postproduction.

When Harvey saw the cut film, he said it was not good enough for a theatrical release and that he would send it straight to video.

This time Julie had to fight him without me and got him to agree to release the film in one movie theater in New York if we tested it to an audience and we scored at least an 80.

Less than 10 percent of films achieve that score on a first screening.

I didn’t go to the test. I anxiously awaited to receive the news. The film scored 85.

... Read the rest at https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2017/12/13/opinion/contributors/salma-hayek-harvey-weinstein.html

[easyfoodnetwork]

The Exhausting Work of Staycationing

When leaving the house is impossible, cocktails, caftans, and karaoke are all the vacation you need

Carmen Maria Machado is the author of the bestselling memoir In the Dream House and the short-story collection Her Body and Other Parties, which was a finalist for the National Book Award. She’s writing from the Philadelphia home in which she’s sheltered and convalesced since March.

Two weeks before the city of Philadelphia went into lockdown, I was in an airport in Ixtapa, Mexico, staring at a travel advisory about the coronavirus. It was early enough that the sign was asking if you’d recently traveled to China or Italy; early enough that it was small and had come off a laser printer and was taped near our airline’s check-in desk.

We’d spent the week at a resort on the Pacific coast with a fellow writer couple, taking our first real vacation — our first travel experience without a restrictive budget or attached work or other obligations — in our adult lives. There’d been a break in my book tour schedule, and I took it. I wanted to read, eat seafood, see the ocean, and swim in an infinity pool, and I’d done all of those things. I even had the patchy mix of a tan and sunburn to prove it.

I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space.

I’m a speculative writer and a hypochondriac. I’ve written stories about pandemics; imagined their slow and terrible creep, the way they stifle and challenge. Still, back in February we had not been to China or Italy. We flew home. We hugged our friends goodbye and declared the vacation a success. Let’s do it again next year, we said. When we unpacked, everything in our suitcases smelled like vacation: sunblock, salt, chlorine. I inhaled every piece of clothing before I put it in the hamper.

You know what happened next, of course. Coronavirus crested and broke on our shores and we, Americans — leaderless, stubborn, foolhardy to the end — were uniquely unsuited for thriving or survival. The welcome pause in my travel schedule turned into a monthslong quarantine that has not yet abated. My wife, Val, began to work from home. I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space. I talked on the phone with my girlfriend, Marne, who was quarantined with their aunt and uncle on Long Island; I read out loud to them from Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, a few pages at a time. Our ancient beagle mix, Rosie, went from overjoyed with our presence to vaguely neurotic, shadowing us everywhere we went, unable to be left alone for even a moment. Still, we were luckier than most. We were safe, able to do our work from home. Plus, our house had enough space that we didn’t want to murder each other.

We decided to pull a new tarot card each morning.

A couple of months into lockdown, I was approved for some long-awaited ankle surgery. A few weeks later, a post-op complication with the incision felled me. My doctor put me on hardcore antibiotics that kept me awake for days and made me manic. (“Maybe I can sleep like this,” I’d apparently insisted to my horrified wife, twisted into a bizarre pretzel on our living room couch; I have no memory of the incident.) I was also prescribed a wound-vac, which turned out to be a medical fetish object that relieved pressure on the incision through a gentle sucking organ; the experience is not entirely unlike being seduced by an octopus. I made jokes about “fresh, organic Carmen juice” and watched liquid move through the tube and listened to the creature’s gentle burbling when everything was quiet. A few weeks later, I was given a skin graft that had been grown in a pig’s bladder. It was thin as tissue paper. My doctor told me I still couldn’t bear weight on that foot, and I had to continue to use my mobility scooter to get around. I left the appointment in a terrible mood, blasting System of a Down at full volume.

It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.”

As my infirmity stretched on and on, my girlfriend decided to temporarily move in with me and my wife to help out. “I guess it’s like Big Love over there?” their aunt asked. It was certainly specific enough of a scenario to be prestige TV: polyamorous writer dykes and their internet-famous geriatric hound riding out a pandemic and a climate-change-worsened heat wave in a rambling Philadelphia Victorian.

This was how Eater found me: Did I want to go camping and write about it? asked a very nice editor. Did I want to do a road trip? Maybe stay at a cabin in the woods? It’s the new American vacation; socially isolated, iconic.

We were tempted. We spent time scrolling through listings for beach houses and lake houses, but the necessary elements — within a reasonable driving distance, dog-friendly, scooter-accessible, on a body of water, and affordable — seemed impossible.

“Vacation-style eating” included lobster rolls with a side of hound.

The Death Card on day 1 signaled a time of transition.

It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.” And it has a distinctly American flair to it: our inability to take actual breaks, the way we accept lack of real vacation the way, say, Europeans never would. And how does one create a true staycation? That is, a vacation from home that feels genuinely relaxing and separate from the everyday grind, not just an excuse to binge seven seasons of The Great British Bake Off?

Val and I had our recent perfect vacation as a kind of platonic ideal. I loved the understated luxury of the experience: I swanned around in caftans and bathing suits, swam, ate well and always al fresco, read a ton, was good about staying off the internet, and was generally oblivious to the apocalypse inching towards us (that is, mostly stayed off Twitter and turned off New York Times news alerts). This both translated easily to a staycation — outfits, reading, and staying off the internet were well within my grasp — and not at all. We don’t have a pool. We’d have to cook ourselves. The outdoors are full of mosquitos, and getting to them required me to climb down flights of stairs with one functioning leg.

Val, on the other hand, had primarily enjoyed our trip’s lack of responsibilities: no cooking meals, no walking the dog. Her staycation version of this was doing everything she wanted — puttering around in the backyard, harvesting produce from her plot in the community garden — and nothing she didn’t. Marne had different ideas: They wanted to make something. Their idea of a vacation was buying a new cookbook and trying a bunch of different recipes. Everyone agreed on one thing: We wanted to be able to swim, or something akin to it.

I ordered a self-inflating adult-sized kiddie pool from the internet. An ice cream maker, too, and David Lebowitz’s The Perfect Scoop (recommended by Deb Perelman of Smitten Kitchen) and a portable projector to have a drive-in movie experience in the backyard. (My idea; as a child, drive-ins were one of my favorite parts of summer.) We agreed on a set of principles: to stay off social media as much as possible; eat frequently and well; do our own personal activities that we enjoyed and come together when we wanted to. We would share the cooking, make one night a takeout night, and have brunch on Sunday.

And we decided to pull a single tarot card each morning, as a way of bringing ourselves into the day. Val is a long-time tarot enthusiast; I am generally suspicious of woo-woo but find tarot to be a pleasing intersection of art and the language of the subconscious. And of us love the act of ritual. So yes, we said. Tarot it would be.

Cheap flip flops and pool lounging (here, by Marne) are part of the normal summer excess.

On day one, Marne pulled the death card, of course. The deck is the Carnival at the End of the World, and the death card is a scythe-bearing skeleton on a dead horse upon a hill of decapitated heads. Marne barked with laughter and then, slightly freaked out, left the room to collect themselves. Val had to explain that, unlike in the movies, a death card was rarely bad. It was powerful but positive. It was about transitions, changes. Exactly the sort of card you’d expect to kick off a move from the harried hours of real life to a true break.

But we weren’t ready, not yet. The house was a mess, something I knew would impede me from enjoying vacation fully. We’d ordered a new bed frame a few weeks before that should have been assembled, but it was missing a necessary piece; said piece had only shown up the day before. So the bed needed assembling, too. Oh, and there was dog hair everywhere: lining the couch cushions, floating like tumbleweeds across the hardwood. I realized that this was the piece of vacation I missed the most: arriving in a new, clean space with your responsibilities wiped clean. Not having to fuss about details because someone else has fussed about them for you. But that sort of vacation has evaporated into the ether, so we agreed to just power through a final act of cleaning and organizing and assembling, and have our vacation start at happy hour.

We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard.

And it did. At 5 p.m., I made us a batch of cocktails — bastardized Pimm’s cups, complete with cucumber, mint from Val’s garden, and dried orange slices. I put on Taylor Swift’s Folklore, which had dropped the day before. Then we made dinner: corn risotto, whose page in Cook’s Illustrated we’d dogeared and been salivating over for days; seared scallops; and fried artichokes. We got slightly tipsy and marveled at the recipe’s fussiness: pureeing corn cob milk with fresh kernels and then squeezing the liquid out of the resulting pulp. Val shucked, Marne made the rice. I hyper-focused on my task, pressing the mixture down with the back of a spoon, staring at the measuring cup. It was the first time in a month that we’d all cooked together, and the process felt light and almost labor-less. The jumbo scallops sizzled and browned and looked restaurant-elegant; the artichokes seared beautifully.

It was as fine a summer meal as I’d ever eaten. We sat at the dining room table with the windows open; replaced the fading sunset with the light from an overhead fixture. After the food was gone, we moved from subject to subject. Marne maintained that while the risotto was delicious, corn is best served on the cob. We meditated on the true meaning of the Death card we’d drawn. Was it about using up the week’s leftovers? Finishing assembling the bed? We moved on to the topic of ejaculation (comma, my ex-boyfriends, comma, their ex-girlfriends). After dinner, we watched two episodes of Steven Universe — aptly, the ones that introduce a polyamorous character, the Gem Flourite — and climbed into bed feeling very satisfied with ourselves.

Marne made biscuits for Sunday brunch.

Saturday morning, we sat in my office and drank coffee and drew the emperor. This deck’s version of the emperor is a eyeless gentleman elephant standing on a mountain of tusks. It is considered a sign of stability and material wealth. It made sense, then, that we remembered to make a batch of milk-chocolate-raspberry ice cream so that it would be ready in the evening. It made sense that a particularly beautiful cream-and-cocoa silk chiffon caftan that I’d ordered a month ago from Jibri arrived in the mail, and I put it on with nothing underneath. It made sense that we ate leftovers — practical! — and then made our way outside, where I read Jennifer Egan’s The Keep beneath a fringed umbrella and Val and Marne blew up the inflatable pool and paddled around, insisting I join them while I demurred. It made sense that we ordered out for dinner, and could not decide between New England-style lobster rolls and bright summer salads (corn, grilled peach, and scallion; watermelon and feta), from Philly summer pop-up Anchor Light, or Lebanese plates and dips (from Suraya: hummus and baba ghanoush and labneh and tabbouleh; charred runner beans and fried cauliflower in hot-mint yogurt and lamb kebabs and crispy batata harra), so we ordered both. We sat and ate and Val and Marne went back in the water and I finished reading as the light bled from the sky. We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard. We went inside and our ice cream was waiting.

Watching Twister in the backyard

When we woke up on Sunday, I opened the bedroom door (shut to preserve the air conditioning) to a smell like I’d never experienced before. It smelled like a moose had climbed three flights of stairs only to die in our hallway. The odor permeated every floor of the house.

I closed the door and went back to bed like a woman with the vapors. Val and Marne ventured to the backyard, where the tiniest tentacles of the smell had begun the night before. Flashlight in hand, Val rooted around under the crawlspace and discovered a decomposing squirrel. It felt like an omen, or maybe a metaphor, or maybe a giant fuck-you from a year that won’t let up. In bed, I began to call wildlife removal services, all of which were closed on Sundays, prohibitively expensive, or too far away. “This doesn’t happen at hotels,” I said, staring at the ceiling.

Val smeared vapor-rub under her nostrils like a coroner and crawled under the house to retrieve the squirrel. She bagged it and walked several blocks away to our old apartment building, where she disposed of it in the dumpster. She came back and filled every floor with shallow dishes of white vinegar and baking soda and coffee grounds. She showered. We drew a tarot card. An inverted eight of wands. A wreathed and naked woman upon a pangolin over a scattered pile of sticks, and a cosmic imperative to take a break. The smell faded.

We knew we needed to get into the mood for day three. Brunch, we agreed. I pulled together a bloody mary — homemade horseradish vodka, EPIC Pickles bloody mary mix from central Pennsylvania, pickled okra, cornichons, dilly beans, and a strip of bacon — and made a tomato salad with whipped feta. Marne made biscuits, and we ate until we were full. I took a long, hot nap in our sunroom and then went to the living room, where we watched Gourmet Makes videos from Bon Appétit. It was supposed to be outdoor movie night, but we couldn’t do it; we were exhausted. In bed, we watched Birds of Prey projected against the far wall. “I just want to watch women beating up some men,” Marne said, and I could not argue otherwise.

The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard.

On Monday, we drew an eight of pentacles: an omen of plenty, represented by a baker and a trio of puffins and a tray of rolls for sharing. We prepped another batch of ice cream, this one my suggestion: roasted banana. While it churned, we took a moment to mourn our last day. Marne and Val were determined to get me into the pool. I hesitated — I couldn’t get my bad ankle wet — but eventually I slipped on my waterproof shower sock and crawled into the water with Marne, then Val, with Marne supporting me like a human chair.

I confess that I’d been skeptical of the pool. If lying in an adult-sized inflatable pool was as lovely as getting in an actual pool, everyone would do it, right? When I’d ordered it, I was reminded of my grandfather asking my 6-year-old self if I wanted to go in a “Cuban swimming pool” before dunking me into a large bucket of water.

And yet, it is astonishing what water can do. The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard. But we were in our suits and slathered on sunscreen and it felt, for a few hours, like summer. Not the unique misery of 2020’s summer, but other summers with their normal excess and low stakes and abundance, their cheap flip-flops and pool afternoons and water ice and late sunsets.

We stayed there floating, laughing, talking, until the sun went. Dinner was Beyond Burgers — the best of the meatless proteins we’ve tried — with aged cheddar and caramelized onions and avocado and chipotle aioli on toasted buns. We polished them off and they were perfect; the sort of thing you wanted at the end of a summer day. Then we had a sundae bar: homemade hot fudge with bourbon, fried peanuts, homemade whipped cream, and large marshmallows toasted over the flame of our gas stove. This, all over the weekend’s two homemade ice creams; a perfectly decadent end.

Outside, it was dark. We flipped on the string lights and set up the projector and screen against the neighbor’s fence. Then, we watched Twister, a perfect summer drive-in-style film about human arrogance in the face of natural disaster. Oh, and the indescribable appeal of Helen Hunt. But mostly the human arrogance thing. Val slipped me popcorn; Marne sat near our feet. A few blocks away, a dead squirrel rotted in a dumpster. We enjoyed our pleasures even as we were trapped by a country that can’t get its act together. We ate and laughed and mourned our lost summer and laughed again. And what’s more American than that?

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When leaving the house is impossible, cocktails, caftans, and karaoke are all the vacation you need

Carmen Maria Machado is the author of the bestselling memoir In the Dream House and the short-story collection Her Body and Other Parties, which was a finalist for the National Book Award. She’s writing from the Philadelphia home in which she’s sheltered and convalesced since March.

Two weeks before the city of Philadelphia went into lockdown, I was in an airport in Ixtapa, Mexico, staring at a travel advisory about the coronavirus. It was early enough that the sign was asking if you’d recently traveled to China or Italy; early enough that it was small and had come off a laser printer and was taped near our airline’s check-in desk.

We’d spent the week at a resort on the Pacific coast with a fellow writer couple, taking our first real vacation — our first travel experience without a restrictive budget or attached work or other obligations — in our adult lives. There’d been a break in my book tour schedule, and I took it. I wanted to read, eat seafood, see the ocean, and swim in an infinity pool, and I’d done all of those things. I even had the patchy mix of a tan and sunburn to prove it.

I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space.

I’m a speculative writer and a hypochondriac. I’ve written stories about pandemics; imagined their slow and terrible creep, the way they stifle and challenge. Still, back in February we had not been to China or Italy. We flew home. We hugged our friends goodbye and declared the vacation a success. Let’s do it again next year, we said. When we unpacked, everything in our suitcases smelled like vacation: sunblock, salt, chlorine. I inhaled every piece of clothing before I put it in the hamper.

You know what happened next, of course. Coronavirus crested and broke on our shores and we, Americans — leaderless, stubborn, foolhardy to the end — were uniquely unsuited for thriving or survival. The welcome pause in my travel schedule turned into a monthslong quarantine that has not yet abated. My wife, Val, began to work from home. I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space. I talked on the phone with my girlfriend, Marne, who was quarantined with their aunt and uncle on Long Island; I read out loud to them from Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, a few pages at a time. Our ancient beagle mix, Rosie, went from overjoyed with our presence to vaguely neurotic, shadowing us everywhere we went, unable to be left alone for even a moment. Still, we were luckier than most. We were safe, able to do our work from home. Plus, our house had enough space that we didn’t want to murder each other.

We decided to pull a new tarot card each morning.

A couple of months into lockdown, I was approved for some long-awaited ankle surgery. A few weeks later, a post-op complication with the incision felled me. My doctor put me on hardcore antibiotics that kept me awake for days and made me manic. (“Maybe I can sleep like this,” I’d apparently insisted to my horrified wife, twisted into a bizarre pretzel on our living room couch; I have no memory of the incident.) I was also prescribed a wound-vac, which turned out to be a medical fetish object that relieved pressure on the incision through a gentle sucking organ; the experience is not entirely unlike being seduced by an octopus. I made jokes about “fresh, organic Carmen juice” and watched liquid move through the tube and listened to the creature’s gentle burbling when everything was quiet. A few weeks later, I was given a skin graft that had been grown in a pig’s bladder. It was thin as tissue paper. My doctor told me I still couldn’t bear weight on that foot, and I had to continue to use my mobility scooter to get around. I left the appointment in a terrible mood, blasting System of a Down at full volume.

It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.”

As my infirmity stretched on and on, my girlfriend decided to temporarily move in with me and my wife to help out. “I guess it’s like Big Love over there?” their aunt asked. It was certainly specific enough of a scenario to be prestige TV: polyamorous writer dykes and their internet-famous geriatric hound riding out a pandemic and a climate-change-worsened heat wave in a rambling Philadelphia Victorian.

This was how Eater found me: Did I want to go camping and write about it? asked a very nice editor. Did I want to do a road trip? Maybe stay at a cabin in the woods? It’s the new American vacation; socially isolated, iconic.

We were tempted. We spent time scrolling through listings for beach houses and lake houses, but the necessary elements — within a reasonable driving distance, dog-friendly, scooter-accessible, on a body of water, and affordable — seemed impossible.

“Vacation-style eating” included lobster rolls with a side of hound.

The Death Card on day 1 signaled a time of transition.

It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.” And it has a distinctly American flair to it: our inability to take actual breaks, the way we accept lack of real vacation the way, say, Europeans never would. And how does one create a true staycation? That is, a vacation from home that feels genuinely relaxing and separate from the everyday grind, not just an excuse to binge seven seasons of The Great British Bake Off?

Val and I had our recent perfect vacation as a kind of platonic ideal. I loved the understated luxury of the experience: I swanned around in caftans and bathing suits, swam, ate well and always al fresco, read a ton, was good about staying off the internet, and was generally oblivious to the apocalypse inching towards us (that is, mostly stayed off Twitter and turned off New York Times news alerts). This both translated easily to a staycation — outfits, reading, and staying off the internet were well within my grasp — and not at all. We don’t have a pool. We’d have to cook ourselves. The outdoors are full of mosquitos, and getting to them required me to climb down flights of stairs with one functioning leg.

Val, on the other hand, had primarily enjoyed our trip’s lack of responsibilities: no cooking meals, no walking the dog. Her staycation version of this was doing everything she wanted — puttering around in the backyard, harvesting produce from her plot in the community garden — and nothing she didn’t. Marne had different ideas: They wanted to make something. Their idea of a vacation was buying a new cookbook and trying a bunch of different recipes. Everyone agreed on one thing: We wanted to be able to swim, or something akin to it.

I ordered a self-inflating adult-sized kiddie pool from the internet. An ice cream maker, too, and David Lebowitz’s The Perfect Scoop (recommended by Deb Perelman of Smitten Kitchen) and a portable projector to have a drive-in movie experience in the backyard. (My idea; as a child, drive-ins were one of my favorite parts of summer.) We agreed on a set of principles: to stay off social media as much as possible; eat frequently and well; do our own personal activities that we enjoyed and come together when we wanted to. We would share the cooking, make one night a takeout night, and have brunch on Sunday.

And we decided to pull a single tarot card each morning, as a way of bringing ourselves into the day. Val is a long-time tarot enthusiast; I am generally suspicious of woo-woo but find tarot to be a pleasing intersection of art and the language of the subconscious. And of us love the act of ritual. So yes, we said. Tarot it would be.

Cheap flip flops and pool lounging (here, by Marne) are part of the normal summer excess.

On day one, Marne pulled the death card, of course. The deck is the Carnival at the End of the World, and the death card is a scythe-bearing skeleton on a dead horse upon a hill of decapitated heads. Marne barked with laughter and then, slightly freaked out, left the room to collect themselves. Val had to explain that, unlike in the movies, a death card was rarely bad. It was powerful but positive. It was about transitions, changes. Exactly the sort of card you’d expect to kick off a move from the harried hours of real life to a true break.

But we weren’t ready, not yet. The house was a mess, something I knew would impede me from enjoying vacation fully. We’d ordered a new bed frame a few weeks before that should have been assembled, but it was missing a necessary piece; said piece had only shown up the day before. So the bed needed assembling, too. Oh, and there was dog hair everywhere: lining the couch cushions, floating like tumbleweeds across the hardwood. I realized that this was the piece of vacation I missed the most: arriving in a new, clean space with your responsibilities wiped clean. Not having to fuss about details because someone else has fussed about them for you. But that sort of vacation has evaporated into the ether, so we agreed to just power through a final act of cleaning and organizing and assembling, and have our vacation start at happy hour.

We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard.

And it did. At 5 p.m., I made us a batch of cocktails — bastardized Pimm’s cups, complete with cucumber, mint from Val’s garden, and dried orange slices. I put on Taylor Swift’s Folklore, which had dropped the day before. Then we made dinner: corn risotto, whose page in Cook’s Illustrated we’d dogeared and been salivating over for days; seared scallops; and fried artichokes. We got slightly tipsy and marveled at the recipe’s fussiness: pureeing corn cob milk with fresh kernels and then squeezing the liquid out of the resulting pulp. Val shucked, Marne made the rice. I hyper-focused on my task, pressing the mixture down with the back of a spoon, staring at the measuring cup. It was the first time in a month that we’d all cooked together, and the process felt light and almost labor-less. The jumbo scallops sizzled and browned and looked restaurant-elegant; the artichokes seared beautifully.

It was as fine a summer meal as I’d ever eaten. We sat at the dining room table with the windows open; replaced the fading sunset with the light from an overhead fixture. After the food was gone, we moved from subject to subject. Marne maintained that while the risotto was delicious, corn is best served on the cob. We meditated on the true meaning of the Death card we’d drawn. Was it about using up the week’s leftovers? Finishing assembling the bed? We moved on to the topic of ejaculation (comma, my ex-boyfriends, comma, their ex-girlfriends). After dinner, we watched two episodes of Steven Universe — aptly, the ones that introduce a polyamorous character, the Gem Flourite — and climbed into bed feeling very satisfied with ourselves.

Marne made biscuits for Sunday brunch.

Saturday morning, we sat in my office and drank coffee and drew the emperor. This deck’s version of the emperor is a eyeless gentleman elephant standing on a mountain of tusks. It is considered a sign of stability and material wealth. It made sense, then, that we remembered to make a batch of milk-chocolate-raspberry ice cream so that it would be ready in the evening. It made sense that a particularly beautiful cream-and-cocoa silk chiffon caftan that I’d ordered a month ago from Jibri arrived in the mail, and I put it on with nothing underneath. It made sense that we ate leftovers — practical! — and then made our way outside, where I read Jennifer Egan’s The Keep beneath a fringed umbrella and Val and Marne blew up the inflatable pool and paddled around, insisting I join them while I demurred. It made sense that we ordered out for dinner, and could not decide between New England-style lobster rolls and bright summer salads (corn, grilled peach, and scallion; watermelon and feta), from Philly summer pop-up Anchor Light, or Lebanese plates and dips (from Suraya: hummus and baba ghanoush and labneh and tabbouleh; charred runner beans and fried cauliflower in hot-mint yogurt and lamb kebabs and crispy batata harra), so we ordered both. We sat and ate and Val and Marne went back in the water and I finished reading as the light bled from the sky. We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard. We went inside and our ice cream was waiting.

Watching Twister in the backyard

When we woke up on Sunday, I opened the bedroom door (shut to preserve the air conditioning) to a smell like I’d never experienced before. It smelled like a moose had climbed three flights of stairs only to die in our hallway. The odor permeated every floor of the house.

I closed the door and went back to bed like a woman with the vapors. Val and Marne ventured to the backyard, where the tiniest tentacles of the smell had begun the night before. Flashlight in hand, Val rooted around under the crawlspace and discovered a decomposing squirrel. It felt like an omen, or maybe a metaphor, or maybe a giant fuck-you from a year that won’t let up. In bed, I began to call wildlife removal services, all of which were closed on Sundays, prohibitively expensive, or too far away. “This doesn’t happen at hotels,” I said, staring at the ceiling.

Val smeared vapor-rub under her nostrils like a coroner and crawled under the house to retrieve the squirrel. She bagged it and walked several blocks away to our old apartment building, where she disposed of it in the dumpster. She came back and filled every floor with shallow dishes of white vinegar and baking soda and coffee grounds. She showered. We drew a tarot card. An inverted eight of wands. A wreathed and naked woman upon a pangolin over a scattered pile of sticks, and a cosmic imperative to take a break. The smell faded.

We knew we needed to get into the mood for day three. Brunch, we agreed. I pulled together a bloody mary — homemade horseradish vodka, EPIC Pickles bloody mary mix from central Pennsylvania, pickled okra, cornichons, dilly beans, and a strip of bacon — and made a tomato salad with whipped feta. Marne made biscuits, and we ate until we were full. I took a long, hot nap in our sunroom and then went to the living room, where we watched Gourmet Makes videos from Bon Appétit. It was supposed to be outdoor movie night, but we couldn’t do it; we were exhausted. In bed, we watched Birds of Prey projected against the far wall. “I just want to watch women beating up some men,” Marne said, and I could not argue otherwise.

The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard.

On Monday, we drew an eight of pentacles: an omen of plenty, represented by a baker and a trio of puffins and a tray of rolls for sharing. We prepped another batch of ice cream, this one my suggestion: roasted banana. While it churned, we took a moment to mourn our last day. Marne and Val were determined to get me into the pool. I hesitated — I couldn’t get my bad ankle wet — but eventually I slipped on my waterproof shower sock and crawled into the water with Marne, then Val, with Marne supporting me like a human chair.

I confess that I’d been skeptical of the pool. If lying in an adult-sized inflatable pool was as lovely as getting in an actual pool, everyone would do it, right? When I’d ordered it, I was reminded of my grandfather asking my 6-year-old self if I wanted to go in a “Cuban swimming pool” before dunking me into a large bucket of water.

And yet, it is astonishing what water can do. The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard. But we were in our suits and slathered on sunscreen and it felt, for a few hours, like summer. Not the unique misery of 2020’s summer, but other summers with their normal excess and low stakes and abundance, their cheap flip-flops and pool afternoons and water ice and late sunsets.

We stayed there floating, laughing, talking, until the sun went. Dinner was Beyond Burgers — the best of the meatless proteins we’ve tried — with aged cheddar and caramelized onions and avocado and chipotle aioli on toasted buns. We polished them off and they were perfect; the sort of thing you wanted at the end of a summer day. Then we had a sundae bar: homemade hot fudge with bourbon, fried peanuts, homemade whipped cream, and large marshmallows toasted over the flame of our gas stove. This, all over the weekend’s two homemade ice creams; a perfectly decadent end.

Outside, it was dark. We flipped on the string lights and set up the projector and screen against the neighbor’s fence. Then, we watched Twister, a perfect summer drive-in-style film about human arrogance in the face of natural disaster. Oh, and the indescribable appeal of Helen Hunt. But mostly the human arrogance thing. Val slipped me popcorn; Marne sat near our feet. A few blocks away, a dead squirrel rotted in a dumpster. We enjoyed our pleasures even as we were trapped by a country that can’t get its act together. We ate and laughed and mourned our lost summer and laughed again. And what’s more American than that?

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[qonqr]

Thanksgiving

It is tradition in the US to often pause during the Thanksgiving holiday and reflect on what we are thankful for.  While I write this, I am sitting with my parents at our family farm.  After doing some chores, my father handed me a newspaper clipping from 99 years and 9 month ago.  My uncle found it while doing ancestry research. I had known the story, but had never seen it in print before.

McGregor, Feb 16 – Special: Yesterday the fourth member of the George Davis family to die in a week of influenza was laid to rest in the little country cemetery south of McGregor. Nine others of the family are in bed with the disease. Ten days ago the entire family, father, mother and eleven children were found sick with influenza by a McGregor physician. It was impossible to secure nurses for three days, and by that time the disease has assumed a virulent form with several of the family.  The youngest, a two year old boy, was found dead by the physician the third morning and the father delirious and beyond help. He died that afternoon. The oldest son, a young man of twenty-three died Friday.  Yesterday the mother passed away. This leaves nine children, five boys and four girls, ranging in age from twenty-one to four.  It is believed that the disease has passed the crisis with all of these and they will recover, though grief and shock are aggravating their condition.

Mr. Davis was a McGregor who started with nothing and by the hard toll and self denial of himself and wife and their children, as they became old enough to help, gradually got ahead. At the time of his death he owned two good farms and a large amount of livestock. Two years ago he built one of the largest barns in this part of the country. Since then the family has been saving for a new home.

 My grandfather Clarence was the seventh child, and the second youngest surviving boy in this family. He was 9 when his parents and youngest and oldest brother died.  My father tells the story of how my grandfather relived the sickness. He was one of the first to recover from the illness. He said it was his job to take care of his 4 year old sister for days, fearing she would die overnight several times that week.

Clarence survived a hard childhood, got married, and had 4 children of his own. Sadly he lost one of his daughters at 3 months old to pneumonia, and his wife died from complications caused by rheumatoid arthritis in her 40s. My father was only 15 years old when he lost his mother, but she was hospitalized for much of his youth.  

I had a special bond with my grandpa Clarence who lived down the hallway from me growing up. Clarence lived to be 76. He died on my 11th birthday after suffering a heart attack while working on the farm.  When I visit the farm, I sleep in the room that was once his.

While tragic, these stories of loss to illnesses that are very treatable today, are especially impactful for me this year.

For players who have been around the game for years, they likely felt like I have been missing for much of this year.  It has been 6 months since my last blog post, twitter and Facebook have been very quiet, and when was the last time the apps were updated?

One partial reason for the lack of activity is that I have been working on the most challenging game update I’ve ever attempted for most of the summer and fall.  It is nearly ready to release and there will be more information in a blog post I will probably publish in a week or two.

However, this has been a tough year for my family.  My wife had minor surgery earlier this year to correct a problem that plagued her for months. While by today’s medical standards, the procedure was very simple, the same condition was a contributing cause of her great grandmother’s death. More troubling this year, my teen daughter has been fighting intestinal issues since March. We have seen so many doctors, and had so many tests. The summer has been a whirlwind of appointments and stress. A 3 day visit to the Mayo Clinic finally eliminated some possible issues, including the need for surgery. Doctors now believe the most probable path to recovery will take some work developing new routines and habits, which has its own kind of stress, but it was a positive outcome that nothing terrible was found.  When I think of all the things we’ve gone through this year and the top notch medical treatments we have experienced, it is hard not to think about what could have been had we lived in our grandparents, or great grandparents generation.

QONQR took a back seat to other priorities for much of this year. For the first time in nearly 5 years, QONQR wasn’t priority #1 for me.  

In February, my developer who had been with the company for 3 years, who I hired while he was still in college, decided to take a new job.  It was time, and we talked for months about his goals and when he might leave. When he started at QONQR, nearly all the technology was brand new for him.  When he left, he was a developer with experience building a multi-lingual mobile app on three different mobile platforms, with cloud development experience for building systems at scale.  He had outgrown QONQR and the salary I could pay. I was proud to have prepared him for the next step.

I had decided I would wait a few months before looking for his replacement, but then the health issues began.  The timing could not have been better. It would have been difficult to manage the work of my former developer while everything was going on, and there would have been absolutely no way I could train a new person.  Call it fate or what you will, but it was definitely the best time for me to be running QONQR on my own. With no employees, no one tethered me to the office during regular business hours, giving me the freedom to do the other things that needed to be done during the day.

In early summer, a very large company approached me asking for help with their mobile app after seeing a talk I gave on mobile security at a local conference. Some of you may even have one of their vehicles parked in your garage.  Normally I would have said no to anything that took me away from QONQR. However with insurance as it is today, and enormous deductibles, I took a 1 day a week consulting engagement to help this company. This gave me the opportunity to earn some extra money to help with the new bills, and was beneficial to me in two ways.  A temporary change of scenery is nice.  It rejuvenates a developer to jump into a new project and work with new solutions every once and a while. Additionally, it has become an opportunity for me to interact with several developers on a regular basis, trading tips and techniques that make us better at what we do.

This summer has been one of priorities and tradeoffs.  The summer, which stretched into the fall, has been good for me.  I’ve spent more time with my family, and purposely removed much of my work stress by letting QONQR “coast” at a moderate work pace.  For much of this year, I have only worked 25-40 hours a week on QONQR, instead of the typical 60-70 hours a week of the previous 4 years.

QONQR could have very easily entered a slide that was unrecoverable.  Sometimes customers lose confidence when owners disappear.  Every entrepreneur fears that their business could crash the moment they take their eye away to focus on something else.  You didn’t let that happen.  You kept things going, even while I was distracted with more important things.

This brings me to what I am thankful for.  Family and health. When I look back at the tragedy that impacted my family only one and two generations back, I understand how fortunate my family is today.  I’m thankful my wife has a good job. I’m thankful she tolerates my work schedule. I’m glad I have the flexibility to shift my time as I need it. I’m thankful my career has given me the skills and experience that present opportunities I need when times are tough.

For you the QONQR player, I am very thankful for you.  In the past year, revenue has stayed steady.  Player growth is slowing increasing. I’ve seen an increase in the community collaboration. I’ve seen “retired” players return to the game with energy and enthusiasm.  Yes we may have been “coasting” through the summer and fall, but thanks to you, we were coasting up hill.

When I look back and think about how we got here, I see struggle. I see week after week of absurd hours and work days that end at 2am multiple days a week.  I see years of receiving no pay, and living on bank debt. I see the fight to keep the servers stable and the game a positive experience. I see all this, and I see where we are now.

I see QONQR. I see a game the chugs along without the need for me to closely monitor servers or player interactions. I see players that create community and family from strangers. I see passion and excitement.  I see players being creative and pushing themselves to find new and interesting ways to enjoy the game.  I see people that make it possible for me to keep living this crazy life of an entrepreneur, even when that life won’t let me be fully engaged with my business. I see friends.

Stay tuned for more blog posts. I have a few more things that are almost ready to share. Things are getting back to normal for me, and I’m looking forward to new things we have planned.

Thank you! You make QONQR possible. You make QONQR great. Together we will do more.

 -Scott (aka Silver)

[rakhma-agape-ahavah]

Something I have to share - Part 1

I know, it’s a political blog. I know, I can be a terrible Christian. I smoke, I cuss. But isn’t the lack of perfection the point?

I just feel there are some things I must share. I know I’ll be called crazy, and I will be challenged. People will respond simply to take away any credibility of what has happened in my life. These stories are very personal to me. Some of these stories I have told; but without including the most important reason that kept me from crumbling into a heap of bitterness, hatred, and self-loathing over the events.   So I am going to tell the story, the whole story this time.    I am going to start with my sister, and what I learned from her during her life.

   My sister’s name was Lou-Ann, and her nickname for most of her life was Googie.  My sister was diagnosed in utero with a disease known as Spina Bifida. It is a disease with varying degrees of severity that almost always causes paralysis due to the contortion of the spine. It can cause various other side-effects, such as hydrocephalus (AKA water on the brain), horse-shoe shaped kidneys, it can affect the immune system, the ability of the brain to communicate effectively with the rest of the body, and malformation of ligaments/other organs associated with the damaged areas of the spine.    Googie was born with, what her doctor stated, was the most severe case she had seen in over twenty years as a physician. She informed my parents my sister might not survive to full term, let alone live a day, or even a week, beyond her birth.    When Googie did survive to her birth, most of her twisted spine was exposed from near the base, to just shy of her neck. My father said to me once he could have very well placed the entirety of his large fist into her body from the opening it was so massive. A father’s first view of his child should never be one of disgust; but for my father my sister was so riddled with her disease it was the only emotion he could possibly have had. And as any father would, he broke down into tears.    The doctors offered to do skin grafts on my sister, using what little amount of healthy skin she had that wasn’t tainted by her spine; but even with the surgery to protect her from infection, they gave her little hope, stating there might not even be any point to it. He let them try it anyway.    So my sister was scarred on the only places her disease had not touched in order to help prolong her life; then they sent her home to die.    My sister was born blind, with very little brain matter, they said. She would be a mental vegetable her entire life, never being able to see, or even have the capacity to understand any form of communication as long as she lived, they said. As far as everyone, including my parents, were concerned, she was hopeless.    My mother devotedly cared for my sister, with a knowledge she would never be loved by my sister, with every ounce of will in her body. Googie screamed in what they assume was pain for 18 hours or more each day for the first several months of her life. My father wrote in his book about her, that he prayed God would kill her and end her suffering. At one point my father even considered killing Googie himself.    Yet, on that day that my father considered ridding the world of Googie himself, he could only see a frail and sick baby; and he couldn’t harm her. So he held her, and cried again, and after months of telling God what He should do, my dad was finally humble, and told God that whatever was in His will he would not fight against Him. He would not ask that God do anything but His own will in their lives. My father said to God that he would praise Him; whether He killed her, healed her, or did nothing at all.    And the first miracle of my sister’s life happened in that instant. She stopped screaming. For the first time in her life, she was awake, and not screaming. For the first time in her life, she took note of something outside of her own body; she showed curiosity at nearly a year old. My father’s tears had fallen on her face, and she was feeling them with her hands, and reaching for where they might have come from. A baby who should not have had the ability to show curiosity, ever in her life, did.    Not long after that, maybe a few weeks later, my mother excitedly called my dad into Googie’s room, because she had to show him something. Googie was watching her from her crib as she tidied up. Dad didn’t believe her, so they paced her room together. Googie’s eyes were following them from one side to the other. She could see. The girl who was supposed to be blind forever, could see. As she got older she was fitted with prescription glasses to hopefully help her with her vision.    My mother told me there were times that Googie’s neuorologist would grow very quiet when comparing her previous brain scans with her latest, and gather others in the office to look as well. Her progress and brain development was so astonishing he could hardly believe it every time she came in, and needed more pairs of eyes to know he wasn’t crazy.    When they were finally able to afford her first wheelchair, a couple of people placed and buckled my sister into it, while a doctor told my parents of how difficult it would be for her to learn she was mobile for the first time. He said he had pamphlets available to help my parents teach her about her newfound freedom, and how long and arduous the process would be with her mental handicap.    But while he spoke, when Googie was buckled into the chair for no more than a couple of minutes, to the horror of my mother, she suddenly took off. She spun the wheels of the chair so fast, hurling herself down the hallway out of the doctor’s office. My mother knew there were stairs at the end of the hall, and in a panic called out for my sister. Googie grabbed just one wheel to not only stop her progress, but turn around completely, all in one motion, and then returned to my mother. My dad handed the pamphlets back to the doctor, saying he didn’t think Googie would need any help getting around after all.    Everything I learned from my parents about my sister, and everything I saw, painted a picture for me of everyone in the world underestimating her. No one believed she was capable of anything, even surviving. She put every one of them in awe.    But the one who underestimated her the absolute most, was the devil himself. I have told you all of this, with the goal to tell you about the most amazing thing my sister did with her life.    My father was a Baptist Preacher while we were both growing up. As a pastor he had been tossed away from many churches, even during Christmas when I was a baby causing us to be homeless. But there was one church my dad will always remember, that he knew would be one of his most challenging yet. There were only a handful of people attending every Sunday, and as a lot of Baptist Churches in the south can be, it was full of little groups of people who hated the other groups. They refused to work together, and were always going to the pastor with petty arguments over things that didn’t matter. The church didn’t grow, and had only become smaller and smaller as the power struggle went on.    For a long time, my father thought the improvements at that church were due to the power of his preaching. But he realized, one day, that all the positive changes that happened were due to my sister doing what God had called her to do: to love without ceasing, without judgment, and with her whole heart.    My mother was with my sister almost 24/7 because of her condition, and as a pastor’s wife it was her duty to greet everyone who came into church on Sunday at the door. So, obviously, my sister was with her. And my sister loved nothing more than to love everyone she saw.    From the moment she arrived, everyone who came in the door had to hug her. She would fling her arms open wide to anyone, and everyone she could. Her arms became very strong over the years of using a manual wheelchair, so her hugs were extra powerful. But not only would she hug everyone who came in, she would hold onto their wrist, and then point at someone else and tell them to hug each other. She was like a little general bossing around her hugging soldiers on a battlefield; and she had the most amazing knack, my mother said, of making those who disliked each other the most, hug each other in front of her every week.    My mother told me, from what she saw, it was impossible to hate someone you regularly had to lovingly embrace in front of an innocent child.

    While my father struggled as a pastor from being targeted by the adversary, with endless distractions over his focus on preaching, and sin trying to make way in his life, my sister hadn’t a care in the world but to watch tv, and hug everyone she met. She was underestimated again.    The church began to grow after she arrived. Walls were broken down. People in the church who were enemies and never spoke, became some of the closest friends until their dying day. Because of their growth, they were able to reach out into the community, and over 300 people declared new faith in God, becoming Christians, and becoming saved.

    Even outside of the church, my sister was the type of lady that, anywhere you took her, would take longer than normal, because of everyone she had to hug and talk to before we could leave. From Walmart, to the grocery store, the department store; anywhere we went, she fell in love with someone, and someone fell in love with her. Some people had said she was the first person to bring joy back into their lives, and even saved their lives because she loved them when they felt no one else did. Even the woman who delivered our mail each day, loved our home the most, because of Googie. Googie touched the heart of everyone who came near her.

   My sister never was able to walk, and her body never completely healed. Googie’s mental growth stopped at, what doctors believed, to be the mental capacity of a six year old. Her body was deteriorating from her disease, and at one point, after yet another emergency trip to the hospital, her lifelong physician gave my mother an unlimited prescription for oxygen and said to take Googie home. It was almost time.    My sister passed away in the night, in May of 1999. I was 8 years old, and my mother, trying to shield and protect me from the horror that death can be, sent me to an aunt’s house for the night. But when my sister passed, my mother realized she needed me in her sight; her last living child. I was brought home late at night, to a house full of people, and I knew immediately my sister was gone. I didn’t want to believe it. I had wanted to be able to say goodbye. I knew she wouldn’t be with us much longer, and it was so important to me.    My childhood home was so full of friends and family they could barely fit. Our neighbor was even there to offer condolences and food, and anything else we might need during the next few weeks.    I ran through the hallway, asking everyone I passed where my mother was, until I found her. I crawled into her lap and cried, wailing about how I wished I had been there to say goodbye.    I wore myself out crying, and was eventually put to bed, where I cried again, praying to God that I wished so much I had just gotten to say goodbye.    That night, I had a dream about my sister. I had gone downstairs and run towards her room, and there she was like normal. I leapt into her arms, and told her I had a dream she was dead. But she told me in the dream, “I love you, Manda-Chelle. Everything will be okay.” She never said goodbye.

    There were so many in attendance at her funeral that many had to stand. Even people my parents, the ones around her the most, still had no idea my sister impacted.    My sister taught me so much about God. So many things I didn’t even realize until later.

    The first being that God loves infinitely, and everyone can have that love. The second being that God does not rescue us from all the pain of this world, because if He did, He could not do many more amazing things through us. The third is that pain is one of the greatest tools used by the Adversary to chase us away from God; but it can never stop us from choosing to run to Him instead, and be truly healed.      Lou-Ann’s favorite song in the world, was Amazing Grace. She was always excited to go home to God one day, and she loved everyone she knew.     And she made sure that everyone she knew, knew that God loved them too.

[robertjameshomeservices]

When it comes to a balance between family and business, I don’t believe I have all the answers. Nobody does. I do, however, believe I know the questions that need to be answered to get that long-term healthy balance that is just right for you. Both my business and personal experience have brought me to this point.

Let me explain.

Powering ahead

I have to tell you, there was a time when I thought I had all the answers. It was 2005. I was in my mid-thirties and had four awesome kids: Hayden (15), Cameron (13), Nadine (11) and Rohan (2). I had a beautiful wife, Regan (the mother of Rohan and later on Luke), who – at the time – I believed would be my life partner. Hayden, Cameron and Nadine were from my first marriage, to my childhood sweetheart Alison. (Alison and I met when we were just 15 years old, and spent 15 years together. We were two kids in love, who grew apart and realised one day that we weren’t a real match for each other.)

At this time,Robert James and James Home Services like many ‘blended’ families, we had all moved into a very functional situation. On the business front, things were powering! I had grown my ‘one man’ car cleaning business into a national home services franchise network of 400-plus franchisees. Our group, James Home Services, was totalling more than $25 million in home services annually across Australia. We had all the trappings of success: ashy cars, a beautiful home on a horse stud in the Mooloolah Valley, a team of show jumping horses, great holidays, no shortage of funds, and a huge network of great friends and colleagues.

The business success had not been by accident. A combination of vision, entrepreneurial spirit, smart risk taking and a passion for small business, along with a good serve of hard work and determination, got us the results we wanted.

I thought I had it all worked out, that everything was perfect! Then one day, without any warning, my world was turned upside down in one single heartbeat.

The moment it all changed

Hayden, Cameron and Nadine were all very capable horse riders, and we spent many weekends competing in show-jumping events. One very ordinary Saturday morning we were all at the Gatton Agricultural Show. We had been at Gatton since the previous Thursday, camping in our truck. e kids were competing in their events and having an amazingly fun time together. Only Cameron and Hayden had events on Saturday, and Nadine had negotiated going home early with a girlfriend and her family.

It was all very normal.

I was sitting watching as Hayden warmed up to go in to compete. Cameron, having just finished competing, was heading back to our truck. Nadine ran up and gave me a hug, saying, ‘Love you Dad … see you later!’ She turned to head back towards her friend’s truck, her ride home. I returned my attention to Hayden.

Then, just seconds later, at 11.28 am, I heard the most terrifying scream of ‘Dad!’, and instantly recognised the voice of Cameron, who was running towards me at full speed, his face full of fear. He screamed again, ‘Dad … Nadine is down!’

‘Has she been kicked?’ I asked. This was my first thought.

In tears, he said, ‘I don’t know, she’s just in a heap.’

I ran as fast as I could towards the commotion, and the first thing I saw as I got to Nadine was a woman in riding gear doing CPR on my daughter! The woman was screaming, ‘Get the ambulance, get the ambulance!’ to a gate attendant. She said to me, ‘I’m a nurse – she’s in cardiac arrest!’

At that moment, a man started working with her. He turned out to be her husband, an off-duty police officer.

The ambulance arrived quickly from the arena, but the officer seemed way too casual as he got out – perhaps he was assuming it was a minor fall? A scream came from the nurse: ‘She has no pulse! She is in cardiac arrest!’

With that, the whole world turned into a surreal living nightmare. Police cars arrived, a second ambulance arrived with a paramedic on board, crowds gathered, and our whole family rushed to the scene. Friends took little Rohan away. We were all in complete shock.

I couldn’t believe it. Was I living every parent’s nightmare? Could I be watching my daughter die? This living hell went on for 15 excruciating minutes – 15 minutes of fighting to get her back, then Nadine’s heart started to beat again on its own. She was stabilised and taken to Gatton hospital.

At the hospital, I was left waiting in front of the emergency room with absolutely no idea about Nadine’s condition. Then a nurse walked out holding the little gold crucifix that Nadine always wore around her neck. In that moment, I was sure my daughter was gone.

My face must have shown it because the nurse quickly said Robert James and James Home Services, ‘No, no! She’s still alive. We had to put her in an induced coma to stabilise her for transport back to Brisbane.’

My daughter was ALIVE!

I went in to see her, and was shocked but also relieved at what I saw. She looked terrible, but she was alive. Not long afterwards, she was flown to Brisbane Mater Hospital. I could do nothing but watch as the helicopter took my baby girl into a grey sky.

It’s a 90-minute drive from Gatton to Brisbane. A friend drove as I sat, waited and hoped that I would see her alive again, her words still ringing in my head: ‘Love you Dad … see you later.’

‘Take everything, just give me my daughter back.’

Those first few days in Brisbane were terrifying: Nadine was in and out of consciousness in the ICU and it was impossible to evaluate any damage to her brain. Would she ever walk, talk or function normally again?

The worst was the early morning hours, between 1 am and 3 am. She had horrible night terrors and would wake up screaming, ‘I hate you, I hate you, you are not my father!’ I remember putting my head down on the bed and crying, believing that I had lost my beautiful daughter forever. That night, I prayed: ‘Take everything, just give me my daughter back.’ My despair was unbelievably overwhelming.

About a week later, Nadine was moved over to the heart specialist ward at the Prince Charles Hospital to have a defibrillator implanted, to manage any other arrests.

When we did get Nadine in front of the cardiologists, I was desperate for a glimmer of hope. Like all parents in this situation, I wanted to know how this was going to end. I remember asking the cardiologist, ‘What is the likely outcome?’ I also remember the very factual answers from the doctor: ‘Well, the survival rate of adult cardiac arrest is only 5%. For paediatric cardiac arrest, it is only 5% of that 5%! So, you can understand that to find ourselves in this situation is extremely rare …’

You can imagine how tormented we were. As well as this grim outlook, Nadine was showing all the signs of major head injury: rocking back and forth, she was clearly not mentally present, and she could not walk unassisted.

Then on a Friday afternoon, nearly two weeks after her heart attack, the surgeons implanted Nadine’s defibrillator. The doctors told me that she would be groggy after the procedure, so I went home for some much- needed rest. The next day, when I returned to the hospital, Nadine was sitting there watching television as if nothing had ever happened – she had just ‘woken up’. I couldn’t believe it: my daughter had returned.

In the following weeks, it became clear that there was some memory loss. She had forgotten how to write, which she relearned very quickly, but her math skills were not up to her previous very high standards. Within five weeks, she was back at school

It is the ‘extremely rare situations’ we find ourselves in that can be the most awakening and unsettling. We all believe we have our act together. I believed I had always run my business for my family; I was Dad and partner first, then business owner. I didn’t know it at the time, but that ‘ordinary Saturday morning’ would have a major impact on my family and my business, forever. The systems that grew the business would become vitally important.

The cardiologist’s professional and pragmatic evaluation of the situation also stayed with me said Robert James and James Home Services. The acid test came from the ‘extremely rare situation’ that I found myself in. We all face daily acid tests of our priorities. Constantly balancing family and business life in an unbalanced world is a true challenge.

Hopefully it doesn’t take an ‘extremely rare situation’ to make you evaluate your current position.

Originally Posted:- http://www.robertjameshomeservices.com/dont-wait-until-life-rocks/

[behindheremeraldeyes]

Title: What a Ride . Summary: Sakura’s hurt her back and Sasuke is the only one that can take care of that stubborn medic. . A/N: Okay, this has nothing to do with the SS month themes, but I couldn’t let this opportunity pass! I’ve already started the other one, so don’t worry XD I’m assuming the piggyback ride happened after the fight against Momoshiki, and even if it didn’t, this is the way I’m making it haha I hope you enjoy this one, and please, tell me your opinion! . . . “ Slow down, Sasuke-kun! It hurts too much.”

“ Just stop moving, Sakura!”

“Be careful! Be careful!”

“ I’m trying!”

Pain was spread all over her face as her right hand rested on her lower back. Her fingers massaged the sore area, as her husband carefully tried to place her on their bed. Slowly, Sasuke was doing his best to support her body with his only hand, trying not to let her down too fast in order to avoid the impact. His grip around her was strong, but her frightened, left fingers just refused to release his cape, making things even harder for him.

He was trying not to worsen his wife’s painful situation, but her childish-self wasn’t helping him at all. All her wincing and screaming was annoying the hell out of him, and for a second, the male Uchiha thought about dropping her on the mattress.

What a mature medical ninja, he thought. Seeing her whining like a baby certainly made him doubt all the things she has already gone through in her life.

“ Ouch! Ouch! Careful, Sasuke-kun!” Her body finally came in contact with the soft cotton of the sheets, and her pink head went to rest on the pillow. For she was on the right side of the bed- his side of the bed, the manly scent of his shampoo filled her nostrils, and carefully, the pinkette adjusted her position so her pain wouldn’t get any worse. Sasuke, then, removed her shoes, as she closed her emerald eyes and allowed her ears to capture the steps of her husband against the wooden floor. The sound was getting lower, as he directed himself to another room to grab her an anti-inflammatory.

Damn that stupid training, she thought.

After so long trapped inside the hospital, healing all of those who had been injured by the attack during the chunin exams, her muscles couldn't support a fast, energetic battle against two fast and energetic children. Even if she hated to admit it, the effects of her extreme working routine were finally showing themselves, and if she didn’t separate a proper time to rest like her husband told her to, things would only get worse in the future.

Perhaps, next time, those kids can really kick her ass!

Perhaps she will never win a battle again!

Perhaps they will call her old!

And that is something she certainly cannot allow. Her reputation as the new sanin would be ruined forever, for sure, and Ino would never leave her alone after that.

Sigh. How troublesome it is to be an adult, she thought, still massaging her back. However, as soon as she felt his presence by her side, Uchiha Sakura thought that being nursed by her husband, Uchiha Sasuke, could not be that bad.

“ Here, take this.” He said, in a low voice as he offered her a glass of water. Once her grip was tight  enough against the cup, the raven haired man took the pills he had placed inside his pocket, and gave them to her. His eyes watched as she hardly moved her body to swallow, and after mumbling a painful ‘thank you’, he retrieved the glass and rested it on the nightstand.

What a caring husband, for sure. So kind and gentle to his stubborn, bedridden wife. He really is a gentleman, and more than anyone Sakura can say so. The way he carried her on his back to their apartment and the attentive way he placed her on their bed certainly showed how much he cares for her when she needs him the most.

Sasuke is a really loving husband.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to teach her a lesson.

“Sakura.” His voice was now heavier, as she felt shivers running down her spine. Her previously closed eyes opened in fear, for she knew exactly what was about to happen. Of course he would never accept the fact that the strongest medical ninja in the world would simply hurt her back like that. There was more behind that, and he wouldn’t give up until she told him the truth. Not that he didn’t have an idea already.“ For how long were you at the hospital last night?”

“…. Not too much.” Her voice was muffled by the pillow, as she refused to speak louder.

“ How long?” He repeated, and she could tell he hadn’t bought her lie. “ And don’t try to fool me.”

A sigh escaped her lips, as she accepted her defeat. There was really no arguing with him. “ Well, let’s see… My shift started at 10 pm and then there was that emergency surgery I had to operate… And then Shizune-san was also called by Tsunade-sama… Uhmm… I would say around 20 hours, plus the time I spent at the children’s clinic.”

At that moment, Sasuke didn’t really know what to do. A sudden urge to press her sore back started to build up, as anger was spread around his veins.

How come that woman was still willing to fight? Was she that stupid?

The raven haired man didn’t know, but he certainly had his doubts about the second question.

Even if he had told her to rest and even if the entire village had told her the same thing, Uchiha Sakura, for being as stubborn as one may be, decided to accept a 24 hours shift after an entire week of unstoppable work at the hospital. She performed a surgery, covered up for others and even went to visit the clinic without a single break. Also- he could tell- it was needless to say the pinkette had ignored her stomach, for his ears could easily capture its upset sounds after welcoming the pills he gave her.

A defeated sigh escaped his lips, as he mimicked her gesture. There was really no use in screaming with her. His wife is really impossible.

At least, now that she couldn’t move, her body would force her to get some good rest.

Or that was what he thought.

“ Ah! And I’ll also be returning to the hospital later today. I need to check on Naruto to see if he’s okay.” She finally smiled, much to his surprise.

She had got to be kidding him, right?

“ Are you an idiot, Sakura? How the hell are you going to check on the dobe if you can’t even move?!”

“ Tch, as soon as the medicine starts working, I’ll be able to heal myself, Sasuke-kun. Then I’ll be good as new again.”

“ Hn, as if I’m letting you leave this bed.”

“ Excuse me?”

“ You’ve heard me. You’ve done enough for today, don’t you think? Naruto will survive even if he has to wait a day or two.”

“ A day or two?” Her emeralds widened, as she looked at his stoic face. “ Shannarou, Do you expect me to stay in bed for an entire day!?”

“ At least two days.”

“ That’s definitely not going to happen. I’m leaving this bed now.”

“ Oh, I would love to see you try.” He glared at her, challenging her words. “ You can’t even move to the other side of the bed, Sakura.”

“ Watch me.”

And so, as his wife tried to crawl around the bed, Sasuke simply remained still, watching as she struggled to move at the speed of 1 centimeter per hour. It was clear that she was in an unbearable pain, and yet, her stubbornness refused to let her rest. For she was never the kind of girl to simply accept defeat, Sakura just didn’t feel comfortable with the idea at all. She wanted to stand up and do her things again. She wanted to go back to the hospital and be able to prepare her family something nice to eat at night.

She wanted to get out of that damn bed, no matter what.

And even if he believed her struggle to be pure and admirable, her husband just wouldn’t let her go anywhere. Not even if she wanted, and not even if she could.

After what felt like an hour, the pink haired Uchiha managed to reach the middle of the bed. As she continued to emit those weird noises, her eyes were determinately set at the edge of their bed, and for he knows her better than anyone, Sasuke knew that as soon as she reached the edge, Sakura wouldn’t think twice before throwing herself on the ground. Her stubbornness would get her even more hurt, but she wouldn’t care about that as long as she could find a way to stand on her feet after that.

That annoying woman of his, he thought. He really can’t leave her alone, right? A smirk crossed his lips, as he decided to, indeed, do something about her struggle. She would probably get really mad at him, but at that moment, he couldn’t care less about her protesting words.

It was all in the name of her health.

Not wasting much time, the male Uchiha removed his dark cloak and placed it over the chair they had on the corner of their room. He used his teeth to help him remove his glove, and his vest was the next part of his clothes to leave his body, followed by his shirt. For he wasn’t able to remove his shoes at the entrance, Sasuke had to leave them next to the chair, placed one next to another. After some moments, he was left in nothing more than his dark pants, and that was when the raven haired man slipped onto his bed, shifting his weight around the mattress so he could find himself a comfortable position.

A comfortable position that consisted on his hand wrapped around his wife’s waist.

That jerk, she thought.

Sasuke didn’t even need to look at her face to know she was blushing. He felt as she flinched at his touch, and how she almost jumped off bed when she felt his hot breath against her neck when he moved closer to her. His wife is a sensitive woman, and getting those reactions from her will always amuse him. Just because he was taking care of her, it didn’t mean he couldn’t have some fun himself as well, right? It’s not like they’re not married, after all.

“ S-Sasuke-kun! What are you-“

“ Shh… Just get some rest, Sakura.”

“ Rest? H-How am I supposed to do so with you… with you…” The pinkette couldn’t bring herself to end that sentence, as she felt the warmth radiating from his chest to her back. Through the fabric of her clothes, she could feel his outlined muscles, and his hand resting over her navel was definitely threatening her sanity.

That hot bastard. Trying to hold her back like that was definitely not fair. If not for her unbearable pain, she would've made him pay, for sure.

“ Hn, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He smirked, lowering his head so his nose was breathing in the floral scent of her hair. Oh, how he had missed that, he thought. “ Just close your eyes and relax.”

“ You’re gonna pay for that, Sasuke.”

“ Eh? For what?” He said, slipping his hand under her shirt through the hole that exposed her belly. He could feel the warmth of her skin, and as he started to draw invisible circles with his fingers around her scar, Sasuke could feel her back relaxing as she snuggled closer to him. Just a little longer and she would give up, he knew. Well, at least for now.

Her eyes shut in pure contentment, as she slowly threw back her head against his collarbone. She softly intertwined their feet, and her ears were now focused on his beating heart so close to hers. At that moment, when her cheeks were a little lighter than before and when her body had already adjusted to his, Uchiha Sakura knew that all her forces had vanished. She no longer wanted to leave that bed, for rare would be the opportunities for them to enjoy such pure intimacy again. Even if she hated to admit, the pinkette had surrendered to his warmth, and even if she could already feel the effects of the pills, the female Uchiha simply took a deep breath and allowed a smile to decorate her features.

Oh, how good it felt, she thought. That moment could last forever that she wouldn’t mind at all, for she doubted it was possible for anyone to grow tired of such comfortable embrace. Sasuke is warm, and even if she will never admit it out loud, her husband is also an excellent cuddler.

However, he is still Uchiha Sasuke.

And if she really thought he would simply forget her confession back then, then Sakura was incredibly mistaken.

“ I hate you sometimes…” She whispered, keeping her eyes shut as she enjoyed the moment.

“ Oh, and why’s that?”

“ Tch… You can always twist my decisions, and that’s really frustrating.”

“ Hn, then does it mean you’re not going anywhere?”

“ Yeah…”

“ You promise?”

“ I do.”

“ Good. That was what I wanted to hear.”

“ Eh?”

And so, as if nothing of that had actually happened, the raven haired man quickly stood up from his bed, stretching and heading towards the exit of their room. The former Haruno was left speechless for some good seconds, as the parts of her body that had been in contact with him slowly and sadly cooled down. Her eyes watched as he put his shirt back on, and it was only when he reached for the door that she finally realized what had happened.

“ You bastard!” She screamed, with her cheeks flushing in anger. She tried to turn as much as it was possible for her so she could see him, and when she succeeded, the only thing she managed to see was that cocky smirk of his decorating his features.

Sasuke had just tricked her into staying home, and she would not forgive him for that. Not for changing her words and definitely not for using such low strategy. He was going to pay, for sure.

“ Hn, get some rest. I’ll call the Dobe so he won’t go to the hospital today.”

“ You’ve tricked me!”

“ Also, I’ll prepare some tea for you. Don’t push yourself too hard.”

“ I am going to kill you, Sasuke!” Her hand quickly slipped under her pillow, as she remained glaring at him. “ I am- Eh? Where is-“

Her eyes widened at the same time, as she shoved the pillow away. She was looking for her emergency kunai, but was surprised when she found nothing. Her expression, at first, showed shock, but as soon as she looked at him, anger returned.

He was definitely going to pay for all those things as soon as she got better.

“ Too slow.” He said, swinging the kunai around his index.

“ You… I will k- OUCH!” Her mind made her turn to grab the pillow so she could throw it at him, but her back simply didn’t allow her to do so. A sharp pain took over her body, and soon, she was curling herself down, trying to ease the pain. At that moment, her husband simply exited the room, with an amused smile playing on his lips.

God, she was really mad at him. Her entire body language screamed revenge, but instead of being afraid, Sasuke couldn’t help but think of how beautiful she is when her eyes are on fire like that. Sakura is stunning, she’s passionate and she’s all his for an entire day.

What else could a husband ask for, right?

And all it costed him was one, slow and warm piggyback ride.

[brentrogers]

Want a More Charismatic Personality? Science Says It’s Possible

Be the one that commands attention.

When it comes to attraction, charm, and magnetism, what do attractive people have that makes everyone like them without even trying?

How many times have you been at a party when someone enters the room and immediately commands everyone’s attention? Have you ever thought, “I wish that was me”?

As it turns out, it can be — you just need to embody one specific personality trait.

7 Empowering Personality Traits of Superheroes — and How to Cultivate Them in Yourself

So, what makes someone attractive and charming? It all comes down to charisma. And the good news is scientists have proven that charisma is a trainable trait.

The game-changing step to becoming more magnetic is learning how to be present and live in the moment.

Think back to the last time you were in contact with a true charmer — you probably felt connected and special, like you were the only person that mattered at that moment.

That’s because captivators understand the sheer power of being and living in the moment.

Did you know that the human mind reads facial expressions in as little as seventeen milliseconds?

This means that “fake” listening is impossible. As soon as your mind wanders, subtle subconscious facial movements and body language take place.

Whether your eyes gloss over or your effect has a split second delay, the other person picks up on those indicators and knows that you’ve lost interest.

You end up pissing off your friends, insulting your partner, or disrespecting your boss all because you’re trained by society to be partially present.

In a culture that encourages multitasking, it’s never been more difficult to pay attention.

In fact, according to a 2,250-person study from Harvard University, we miss out on 50 percent of our lives by not being present.

The world can be your oyster when you learn the art of being present in the here and now.

Whether you want to climb the ladder or become the envy of the party, tap into this powerful skill and you’re one step close to getting what you want.

How does your lack of presence affect your personal and professional life?

It’s seen as rude and inauthentic, which basically means that nobody will trample over others to get to you nor will they trust you.

No matter if you’re trying to win over the guy, half-listen to your wife’s sob story during the big game, or survive your boss’ boring story about his pregnant poodle, you’re a fraud and everyone’s subconscious knows it.

But, the good news is that presence is a learned skill. All you need is practice and patience.

9 Practical Ways to Be More Present in Your Life & Achieve Mindfulness

To get you started on learning how to live in the moment and train that personality trait of charisma, here are 2 exercises to try.

1. Breath Meditation

This exercise is super easy, all you have to do is breathe.

Breathe and pay attention to how the air flows in and out of your body. Do that over and over until the time is up.

Start this practice for 30-seconds every day for the first week and then increase by 2-minute intervals each week until you can sustain focused attention on your breath for 5-6 minutes.

2. Chocolate Meditation

Yep, you read that right!

Place a foiled Hershey’s Kiss in the palm of your hand. Take a moment and look at this tiny piece of goodness. Next, slowly peel back the wrapper and pay close attention to the increased chocolate aroma spilling into the air.

Place the bit of heaven on your tongue and just let it sit. Notice the texture and taste. Slowly allow your mouth to move the chocolate around.

Try and make it last for as long as you can. Your goal is to have this exercise last at least 5 minutes.

When your mind wanders — and it will — just gently bring your awareness back to the exercise.

How do you know if you’re fully engaged? There are 3 signs:

You feel what the speaker is describing: If they describe a moment of humiliation you experience signs in your body that only gross embarrassment could illicit.

You’re captivated: You’re so in the moment that you can experience what they are feeling inside their own body — relaxed, irritated, or maybe stressed.

The story gets juicier: When the speaker feels your undivided attention, they will become more and more vulnerable — it’s a beautiful process.

When you notice that you’ve trailed off, simply take in a deep belly breath and tune back in.

Yes, it’s that simple to learn how to be more attractive.

Start this week and retrain your brain to stay in the moment.

Commit to 30-seconds a day for a week, and you’ll notice a difference. By the end of the second week, others will take note. You can even go for the full 21-day challenge and you’ll be the person that commands the attention.

Pure attention is extremely rare these days. That means that you can take advantage of this little trick and reap the benefits from your discipline.

This guest article was originally published on YourTango.com: The One Personality Trait You Need To Be Irresistibly Attractive — And How To Get It.

Photo by Pineapple Supply Co. on Unsplash.

Want a More Charismatic Personality? Science Says It’s Possible syndicated from

[easyfoodnetwork]

When leaving the house is impossible, cocktails, caftans, and karaoke are all the vacation you need Carmen Maria Machado is the author of the bestselling memoir In the Dream House and the short-story collection Her Body and Other Parties, which was a finalist for the National Book Award. She’s writing from the Philadelphia home in which she’s sheltered and convalesced since March. Two weeks before the city of Philadelphia went into lockdown, I was in an airport in Ixtapa, Mexico, staring at a travel advisory about the coronavirus. It was early enough that the sign was asking if you’d recently traveled to China or Italy; early enough that it was small and had come off a laser printer and was taped near our airline’s check-in desk. We’d spent the week at a resort on the Pacific coast with a fellow writer couple, taking our first real vacation — our first travel experience without a restrictive budget or attached work or other obligations — in our adult lives. There’d been a break in my book tour schedule, and I took it. I wanted to read, eat seafood, see the ocean, and swim in an infinity pool, and I’d done all of those things. I even had the patchy mix of a tan and sunburn to prove it. I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space. I’m a speculative writer and a hypochondriac. I’ve written stories about pandemics; imagined their slow and terrible creep, the way they stifle and challenge. Still, back in February we had not been to China or Italy. We flew home. We hugged our friends goodbye and declared the vacation a success. Let’s do it again next year, we said. When we unpacked, everything in our suitcases smelled like vacation: sunblock, salt, chlorine. I inhaled every piece of clothing before I put it in the hamper. You know what happened next, of course. Coronavirus crested and broke on our shores and we, Americans — leaderless, stubborn, foolhardy to the end — were uniquely unsuited for thriving or survival. The welcome pause in my travel schedule turned into a monthslong quarantine that has not yet abated. My wife, Val, began to work from home. I did thousand-piece puzzles and re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy and read books and stared into space. I talked on the phone with my girlfriend, Marne, who was quarantined with their aunt and uncle on Long Island; I read out loud to them from Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, a few pages at a time. Our ancient beagle mix, Rosie, went from overjoyed with our presence to vaguely neurotic, shadowing us everywhere we went, unable to be left alone for even a moment. Still, we were luckier than most. We were safe, able to do our work from home. Plus, our house had enough space that we didn’t want to murder each other. We decided to pull a new tarot card each morning. A couple of months into lockdown, I was approved for some long-awaited ankle surgery. A few weeks later, a post-op complication with the incision felled me. My doctor put me on hardcore antibiotics that kept me awake for days and made me manic. (“Maybe I can sleep like this,” I’d apparently insisted to my horrified wife, twisted into a bizarre pretzel on our living room couch; I have no memory of the incident.) I was also prescribed a wound-vac, which turned out to be a medical fetish object that relieved pressure on the incision through a gentle sucking organ; the experience is not entirely unlike being seduced by an octopus. I made jokes about “fresh, organic Carmen juice” and watched liquid move through the tube and listened to the creature’s gentle burbling when everything was quiet. A few weeks later, I was given a skin graft that had been grown in a pig’s bladder. It was thin as tissue paper. My doctor told me I still couldn’t bear weight on that foot, and I had to continue to use my mobility scooter to get around. I left the appointment in a terrible mood, blasting System of a Down at full volume. It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.” As my infirmity stretched on and on, my girlfriend decided to temporarily move in with me and my wife to help out. “I guess it’s like Big Love over there?” their aunt asked. It was certainly specific enough of a scenario to be prestige TV: polyamorous writer dykes and their internet-famous geriatric hound riding out a pandemic and a climate-change-worsened heat wave in a rambling Philadelphia Victorian. This was how Eater found me: Did I want to go camping and write about it? asked a very nice editor. Did I want to do a road trip? Maybe stay at a cabin in the woods? It’s the new American vacation; socially isolated, iconic. We were tempted. We spent time scrolling through listings for beach houses and lake houses, but the necessary elements — within a reasonable driving distance, dog-friendly, scooter-accessible, on a body of water, and affordable — seemed impossible. “Vacation-style eating” included lobster rolls with a side of hound. The Death Card on day 1 signaled a time of transition. It was Marne’s idea to pitch a staycation. It’s a hateable word, as overused and near-meaningless as “self-care.” And it has a distinctly American flair to it: our inability to take actual breaks, the way we accept lack of real vacation the way, say, Europeans never would. And how does one create a true staycation? That is, a vacation from home that feels genuinely relaxing and separate from the everyday grind, not just an excuse to binge seven seasons of The Great British Bake Off? Val and I had our recent perfect vacation as a kind of platonic ideal. I loved the understated luxury of the experience: I swanned around in caftans and bathing suits, swam, ate well and always al fresco, read a ton, was good about staying off the internet, and was generally oblivious to the apocalypse inching towards us (that is, mostly stayed off Twitter and turned off New York Times news alerts). This both translated easily to a staycation — outfits, reading, and staying off the internet were well within my grasp — and not at all. We don’t have a pool. We’d have to cook ourselves. The outdoors are full of mosquitos, and getting to them required me to climb down flights of stairs with one functioning leg. Val, on the other hand, had primarily enjoyed our trip’s lack of responsibilities: no cooking meals, no walking the dog. Her staycation version of this was doing everything she wanted — puttering around in the backyard, harvesting produce from her plot in the community garden — and nothing she didn’t. Marne had different ideas: They wanted to make something. Their idea of a vacation was buying a new cookbook and trying a bunch of different recipes. Everyone agreed on one thing: We wanted to be able to swim, or something akin to it. I ordered a self-inflating adult-sized kiddie pool from the internet. An ice cream maker, too, and David Lebowitz’s The Perfect Scoop (recommended by Deb Perelman of Smitten Kitchen) and a portable projector to have a drive-in movie experience in the backyard. (My idea; as a child, drive-ins were one of my favorite parts of summer.) We agreed on a set of principles: to stay off social media as much as possible; eat frequently and well; do our own personal activities that we enjoyed and come together when we wanted to. We would share the cooking, make one night a takeout night, and have brunch on Sunday. And we decided to pull a single tarot card each morning, as a way of bringing ourselves into the day. Val is a long-time tarot enthusiast; I am generally suspicious of woo-woo but find tarot to be a pleasing intersection of art and the language of the subconscious. And of us love the act of ritual. So yes, we said. Tarot it would be. Cheap flip flops and pool lounging (here, by Marne) are part of the normal summer excess. On day one, Marne pulled the death card, of course. The deck is the Carnival at the End of the World, and the death card is a scythe-bearing skeleton on a dead horse upon a hill of decapitated heads. Marne barked with laughter and then, slightly freaked out, left the room to collect themselves. Val had to explain that, unlike in the movies, a death card was rarely bad. It was powerful but positive. It was about transitions, changes. Exactly the sort of card you’d expect to kick off a move from the harried hours of real life to a true break. But we weren’t ready, not yet. The house was a mess, something I knew would impede me from enjoying vacation fully. We’d ordered a new bed frame a few weeks before that should have been assembled, but it was missing a necessary piece; said piece had only shown up the day before. So the bed needed assembling, too. Oh, and there was dog hair everywhere: lining the couch cushions, floating like tumbleweeds across the hardwood. I realized that this was the piece of vacation I missed the most: arriving in a new, clean space with your responsibilities wiped clean. Not having to fuss about details because someone else has fussed about them for you. But that sort of vacation has evaporated into the ether, so we agreed to just power through a final act of cleaning and organizing and assembling, and have our vacation start at happy hour. We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard. And it did. At 5 p.m., I made us a batch of cocktails — bastardized Pimm’s cups, complete with cucumber, mint from Val’s garden, and dried orange slices. I put on Taylor Swift’s Folklore, which had dropped the day before. Then we made dinner: corn risotto, whose page in Cook’s Illustrated we’d dogeared and been salivating over for days; seared scallops; and fried artichokes. We got slightly tipsy and marveled at the recipe’s fussiness: pureeing corn cob milk with fresh kernels and then squeezing the liquid out of the resulting pulp. Val shucked, Marne made the rice. I hyper-focused on my task, pressing the mixture down with the back of a spoon, staring at the measuring cup. It was the first time in a month that we’d all cooked together, and the process felt light and almost labor-less. The jumbo scallops sizzled and browned and looked restaurant-elegant; the artichokes seared beautifully. It was as fine a summer meal as I’d ever eaten. We sat at the dining room table with the windows open; replaced the fading sunset with the light from an overhead fixture. After the food was gone, we moved from subject to subject. Marne maintained that while the risotto was delicious, corn is best served on the cob. We meditated on the true meaning of the Death card we’d drawn. Was it about using up the week’s leftovers? Finishing assembling the bed? We moved on to the topic of ejaculation (comma, my ex-boyfriends, comma, their ex-girlfriends). After dinner, we watched two episodes of Steven Universe — aptly, the ones that introduce a polyamorous character, the Gem Flourite — and climbed into bed feeling very satisfied with ourselves. Marne made biscuits for Sunday brunch. Saturday morning, we sat in my office and drank coffee and drew the emperor. This deck’s version of the emperor is a eyeless gentleman elephant standing on a mountain of tusks. It is considered a sign of stability and material wealth. It made sense, then, that we remembered to make a batch of milk-chocolate-raspberry ice cream so that it would be ready in the evening. It made sense that a particularly beautiful cream-and-cocoa silk chiffon caftan that I’d ordered a month ago from Jibri arrived in the mail, and I put it on with nothing underneath. It made sense that we ate leftovers — practical! — and then made our way outside, where I read Jennifer Egan’s The Keep beneath a fringed umbrella and Val and Marne blew up the inflatable pool and paddled around, insisting I join them while I demurred. It made sense that we ordered out for dinner, and could not decide between New England-style lobster rolls and bright summer salads (corn, grilled peach, and scallion; watermelon and feta), from Philly summer pop-up Anchor Light, or Lebanese plates and dips (from Suraya: hummus and baba ghanoush and labneh and tabbouleh; charred runner beans and fried cauliflower in hot-mint yogurt and lamb kebabs and crispy batata harra), so we ordered both. We sat and ate and Val and Marne went back in the water and I finished reading as the light bled from the sky. We hardly noticed the strange smell that was developing in the backyard. We went inside and our ice cream was waiting. Watching Twister in the backyard When we woke up on Sunday, I opened the bedroom door (shut to preserve the air conditioning) to a smell like I’d never experienced before. It smelled like a moose had climbed three flights of stairs only to die in our hallway. The odor permeated every floor of the house. I closed the door and went back to bed like a woman with the vapors. Val and Marne ventured to the backyard, where the tiniest tentacles of the smell had begun the night before. Flashlight in hand, Val rooted around under the crawlspace and discovered a decomposing squirrel. It felt like an omen, or maybe a metaphor, or maybe a giant fuck-you from a year that won’t let up. In bed, I began to call wildlife removal services, all of which were closed on Sundays, prohibitively expensive, or too far away. “This doesn’t happen at hotels,” I said, staring at the ceiling. Val smeared vapor-rub under her nostrils like a coroner and crawled under the house to retrieve the squirrel. She bagged it and walked several blocks away to our old apartment building, where she disposed of it in the dumpster. She came back and filled every floor with shallow dishes of white vinegar and baking soda and coffee grounds. She showered. We drew a tarot card. An inverted eight of wands. A wreathed and naked woman upon a pangolin over a scattered pile of sticks, and a cosmic imperative to take a break. The smell faded. We knew we needed to get into the mood for day three. Brunch, we agreed. I pulled together a bloody mary — homemade horseradish vodka, EPIC Pickles bloody mary mix from central Pennsylvania, pickled okra, cornichons, dilly beans, and a strip of bacon — and made a tomato salad with whipped feta. Marne made biscuits, and we ate until we were full. I took a long, hot nap in our sunroom and then went to the living room, where we watched Gourmet Makes videos from Bon Appétit. It was supposed to be outdoor movie night, but we couldn’t do it; we were exhausted. In bed, we watched Birds of Prey projected against the far wall. “I just want to watch women beating up some men,” Marne said, and I could not argue otherwise. The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard. On Monday, we drew an eight of pentacles: an omen of plenty, represented by a baker and a trio of puffins and a tray of rolls for sharing. We prepped another batch of ice cream, this one my suggestion: roasted banana. While it churned, we took a moment to mourn our last day. Marne and Val were determined to get me into the pool. I hesitated — I couldn’t get my bad ankle wet — but eventually I slipped on my waterproof shower sock and crawled into the water with Marne, then Val, with Marne supporting me like a human chair. I confess that I’d been skeptical of the pool. If lying in an adult-sized inflatable pool was as lovely as getting in an actual pool, everyone would do it, right? When I’d ordered it, I was reminded of my grandfather asking my 6-year-old self if I wanted to go in a “Cuban swimming pool” before dunking me into a large bucket of water. And yet, it is astonishing what water can do. The setup was practically nothing: a cheap pool ordered from overseas, barely cool hose water, a postage-stamp-sized city backyard. But we were in our suits and slathered on sunscreen and it felt, for a few hours, like summer. Not the unique misery of 2020’s summer, but other summers with their normal excess and low stakes and abundance, their cheap flip-flops and pool afternoons and water ice and late sunsets. We stayed there floating, laughing, talking, until the sun went. Dinner was Beyond Burgers — the best of the meatless proteins we’ve tried — with aged cheddar and caramelized onions and avocado and chipotle aioli on toasted buns. We polished them off and they were perfect; the sort of thing you wanted at the end of a summer day. Then we had a sundae bar: homemade hot fudge with bourbon, fried peanuts, homemade whipped cream, and large marshmallows toasted over the flame of our gas stove. This, all over the weekend’s two homemade ice creams; a perfectly decadent end. Outside, it was dark. We flipped on the string lights and set up the projector and screen against the neighbor’s fence. Then, we watched Twister, a perfect summer drive-in-style film about human arrogance in the face of natural disaster. Oh, and the indescribable appeal of Helen Hunt. But mostly the human arrogance thing. Val slipped me popcorn; Marne sat near our feet. A few blocks away, a dead squirrel rotted in a dumpster. We enjoyed our pleasures even as we were trapped by a country that can’t get its act together. We ate and laughed and mourned our lost summer and laughed again. And what’s more American than that? from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2Q7xXiB

http://easyfoodnetwork.blogspot.com/2020/08/the-exhausting-work-of-staycationing.html

[hermanwatts]

Science Fiction New Releases: 16 November, 2019

This week’s science fiction new releases feature a dementia-stricken hitman, the son of a genetic slaver, a galactic crusade, and two anthologies by science fiction’s best.

Authority – A. K. Meek

The aliens came to conquer. We won, but billions died. Now, it’s time to rebuild.

The neons do as they’re told. Chemically bound to their masters by the experimental chemi-chip implant created from alien technology, they are genetically engineered at rapid rates to be servants for the survivors of the war against alien invaders. Without neons, reconstruction would be impossible.

Colin Hanston—the unremarkable son of the genius who invented the chemi-chip—leads a simple life as a farmer, helping feed his district as any good citizen should. But when he redeems his voucher for a neon servant of his own named Michael, everything changes. His father’s old friend-turned-rebel shows up, and Colin learns that not everyone believes the neons are a simple commodity used by the Authority to fix the world and help prepare in case the aliens return.

Knowing he could be killed just for talking to the rebels, Colin will have to decide for himself whether his father’s work is truly a benefit to humanity as his leaders claim, or a perversion.

Is the truth worth destroying his father’s legacy and putting his family in danger? Is it worth dying for?

Empires Ascendant – Jay Allan, Jason Anspach, Daniel Arenson, J. N. Chaney, Nick Cole, Joshua Dalzelle, Ken Lozito, and Jasper T. Scott

The rise of empire. The golden age of expansion, of exploration. Stories of new and vibrant civilizations growing, reaching out…and sometimes fighting desperately for the future.

Empires Ascendant brings 6 masters of military science fiction and space opera together in one volume of all new, original material. Including:

Banshee’s Last Scream: From the world of Galaxy’s Edge: When a Dark Ops legionnaire is found dead under suspicious circumstances, his fellow operatives employ the notorious bounty hunter Tyrus Rechs to find those responsible and make them pay for their actions. But Rechs uncovers a sinister plot much bigger than a simple murder.

Invasion: Chris Randall just got fired. On his way to break the bad news to his wife, an explosion rips through the night–followed by a dozen more. Scimitar Fighters are streaking down from space. Before Chris can wonder what starfighters are doing over San Bernardino, he sees the clouds light up with laser fire. That’s when he sees it: a dark wall of shadows hovering over the valley and drifting toward LA.

Shadow of Purple: Altharic Vennalus is a general, and a loyal servant of the Republic. He has battled endlessly, fighting to preserve the Republic from the usurpers who would topple it. The civil wars that have raged for three decades are nearly at an end. But peace is an elusive dream, and pain and loss will drive Altharic to places he couldn’t have imagined. In the end, he will be faced with answering one burning question. What is the cost of his honor?

…and more!

Optional Retirement Plan – Chris Pourteau

When retiring isn’t an option, it’s kill or be killed.

Stacks Fischer is a killer for hire. For more than three decades, he’s loyally served the Syndicate Corporation as its most-feared and respected enforcer around the solar system. He’s buried the company’s dirty laundry six feet deep, no matter who had to be taken out to do it.

Now, Stacks has a problem—he’s losing his mind to an incurable form of dementia, and unwittingly spilling corporate secrets in public.

When SynCorp decides Fischer has outlived his usefulness, they decide it’s time to permanently retire him. But Stacks isn’t quite ready to go. With every one of SynCorp’s Five Factions gunning for him—and his own mind slowly rebelling—Fischer leads a pack of would-be assassins in a final, deadly chase across the solar system.

The old hitman refuses to fade quietly into oblivion at the hands of his disease or the business he’s dedicated his life to. He’s choosing an Optional Retirement Plan.

Places Beyond the Wild (Z-Day #4) – presented by Daniel Humphreys

The world did not go quietly into the night.

The vast wilds outside a place called Hope hold their own stories. When the end came, what happened to everyone else?

Massachusetts. Texas. Alabama. Tennessee. Pockets of humanity have persisted through the apocalypse. All have tales of survival and loss.

Mad Dog Mattis’ last stand at the Pentagon. The first Christmas after the end of the world. A family isolated on their homestead as the evolving dead press at the fences. A desperate quest for helicopters to destroy the undead.

Come read through this expansion of Daniel Humphreys’ Dragon Award nominated Z-Day universe. Twelve brand new survival stories written by the best up and coming independent sci-fi and fantasy writers will thrill fans of the series.

Find tales of hope in a desolate world and read Places Beyond The Wild today!

Raven’s Peace (Peacekeepers of Sol #1) – Glynn Stewart

Ten thousand stars, once chained, taste freedom An eternal empire, once undefeated, falls to pieces An alliance, once united, now lacks a common foe War was hard enough. Peace may be impossible

For seventeen years, Colonel Henry Wong and the United Planets Space Force have fought the Kenmiri Empire. They drove the alien overlords back from humanity’s borders into their own stars and found allies among the Kenmiri’s slaves and subjects.

Now the war is over. A great Gathering has been called of the allies who fought the war, but they only ever shared a common enemy. With the Kenmiri in retreat, a thousand new agendas are revealed.

The United Planets Alliance wants peace above all else. Their allies want everything from new homes to new empires – and all too many of them are prepared to do anything to achieve their goals!

Retribution (Lucky’s Mercs #1) – Joshua James

Meet the galaxy’s unluckiest mercenaries.

Lucky Savage was once a powerful Empire Marine. But that was before the Empire collapsed, sinking the outer colonies into chaos and leaving the galaxy on the precipice of disaster.

Now his ship, Last Gasp, is home to a ragtag crew of misfits and ex-soldiers just trying to navigate the endless conflicts while hoping to score a big payday. So far, they’d settle for scratching out enough to cover fuel.

When a job with Savage’s old employer comes along, it looks like their luck might be turning. But it quickly goes sideways, and they find themselves in the middle of a massive manhunt for a deadly experiment gone wrong.

Can the mercs save the day? Who knows. They’re just trying to save their own skin.

It wouldn’t hurt to get paid, either.

Salvation Lost (The Salvation Sequence #2) – Peter F. Hamilton

The comparative utopia of twenty-third-century Earth is about to go dreadfully awry when a seemingly benign alien race is abruptly revealed to be one of the worst threats humanity has ever faced. Driven by an intense religious extremism, the Olyix are determined to bring everyone to their version of God as they see it. But they may have met their match in humanity, who are not about to go gently into that good night or spend the rest of their days cowering in hiding. As human ingenuity and determination rise to the challenge, collective humanity has only one goal—to wipe this apparently undefeatable enemy from the face of creation. Even if it means playing a ridiculously long game indeed.

But in a chaotic universe, it is hard to plan for every eventuality, and it is always darkest before the dawn.

Star Fire (Stars End #1) – M. R. Forbes

New from million-copy bestseller M.R. Forbes. One man’s epic story of loyalty, perseverance, and hope in a galaxy at war.

Alliance Navy Commander Grayson Stone is patrolling a nearby space station when a mysterious starship appears. It emerges from a storm of fire, its shields impenetrable, its weapons overwhelming, attacking without provocation and annihilating everything in its path.

While his ship is badly damaged in the assault, Grayson manages to survive. Suddenly trapped behind the front line of the invasion, faced with gut-wrenching choices and near-impossible odds, he’ll do whatever it takes to escape the grasp of the terrifying new enemy.

Because if he fails, humankind will fall.

Science Fiction New Releases: 16 November, 2019 published first on https://sixchexus.weebly.com/

[blockheadbrands]

The Rebirth Of Subcool: The Inside Story Of A Legendary Bud Breeder

Danny Danko of High Times Reports:

The famed cannabis breeder Subcool shares his story of surviving and thriving.

The legendary cannabis breeder known as Subcool survived a nearly fatal diagnosis, the fiery destruction of his home and possessions, and a messy divorce from his wife and business partner to rise from the ashes with a new venture called the Dank.

His Story

Subcool’s passion for cannabis started early in life. He began growing in the 1970s and eventually found himself in trouble with law enforcement and in jail. His defiant return to cultivation resulted in a subsequent bust and he wound up serving time in prison, a stint that ignited a passion to change cannabis laws and help free the healing flower for good.

Subcool moved west and his prowess in breeding and growing eventually led him to found Team Green Avenger Seeds. He first came to my attention in the forums of overgrow.com, where he shared information and photos of his lovely cannabis specimens. In 2006, I chose his Jack the Ripper as one of our High Times Top 10 Strains of that year, and he was eventually inducted into the High Times Seed Bank Hall of Fame in 2009. His Vortex strain, entered under a different name, won the first Cannabis Cup in the United States in 2010 in San Francisco.

Along the way, Subcool also became a regular contributor to High Times magazine, the author of both Dank: The Quest for the Very Best Marijuana and Dank 2.0, and, more recently, a winner of the High Times Dr. Lester Grinspoon Lifetime Achievement Award. His popular Weed Nerd show on YouTube chronicles his cannabis growing and breeding, showing a slice of his life to a legion of Weed Nerds who follow his exploits and test seeds for new strain releases.

The Fire

The Deadlights strain tests high in CBD/ Team Terpene

In 2013, Subcool was diagnosed with alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency, a genetic form of emphysema and a progressive lung disease. He moved from Oregon to California for better weather—and “because I had always dreamed of living in Sonoma County where any adult could cultivate 30 plants per household, and that’s exactly what we did,” he tells me. “I’m technically disabled and my lungs only have 70 percent capacity. Growing is hard work, so I have to depend on others to lift and carry things. When I’m really sick, I am hooked to an oxygen concentrator and can barely walk.”

Despite his health setbacks, Subcool and his then wife and partner, MzJill, continued to build a company staffed with fellow growers/breeders now known worldwide as TGA Genetics (The Green Avengers). But Subcool’s illness and treatments were wearing on him. He says he “lost his kind nature.” Then came the day that would change his life forever.

October 8, 2017. MzJill and Subcool were already planning to separate when fast-moving flames burned their home in Santa Rosa to the ground. The wildfire eventually destroyed 8,500 homes and killed over 60 people. Sub and Jill were lucky to escape with their lives, but they lost everything, including almost four million seeds and all of the male and female breeding plants they had saved over many years. Devastated, the pair went their separate ways, and Subcool tried to pick up the pieces and move on.

The Dank is grown commercially worldwide/ Derp Farms in AZ

The Dank

Without a home, Subcool began to build his new life and restore his cannabis-genetics library. Two years later, he has an arsenal of 44 Dank strains stocked up and distributed worldwide. But it wasn’t easy. Without any tools to run his business, he and his partner, William Rouland, sourced back lost parent stock from close friends who held cuttings of the plants. He even had to purchase some of his own seeds.

Slowly, they rebuilt his core strains using original mother and father plants. Strains like Jack the Ripper, Vortex and Querkle were reproduced, and Sub also started creating new strains and placing them into his large testing program.

Sub also had some issues with hemp russet mites that almost shut him down again. “I took in lots of new cuttings, and one of these came with a present—HRM, or hemp russet mites—and they almost caused me to move and stop growing altogether,” Sub tells me. “Instead of giving up, I tried literally everything, including heating plants to 122 degrees, raising CO2 levels in the room to 10,000 ppm, WPF97, Venerate, Flying Skull, Dr. Zymes [insecticides] and wettable sulfur. In the end, it took a combination of all of these and killing 40 full-size plants in flowering. Most importantly, I learned the use of predator bugs and organic IPM [integrated pest management] methods, and now my garden is healthy, happy and producing amazing-quality cannabis.”

One interesting story Subcool relates to me deals with reacquiring Strawberry Cough for his Strawberry Daiquiri strain (Strawberry Cough x Space Queen). He took a trip to Hollywood and struck a deal with Kyle Kushman to grow his genetics out and work with his famous Strawberry Cough alongside a new cut called Stardawg. Their collaboration has been dubbed “the Dank Brothers.”

“To bring the story up to date, we now have many collaborative strains in the ‘tester’s network,’” Subcool says, “and have just released a new strain called Strelka, which is a delicious cross of my cherry-infused, resin-coated Space Queen dad with Kyle’s fruity/diesel Stardawg female, fully endorsed by two old-school growers and friends. The results have been amazing, and we look forward to this cross becoming highly sought after in the new cannabis world.”

On February 20, 2019, Subcool and MzJill met in mediation to officially separate. Subcool surrendered TGA Genetics IP to her and officially became the Dank, the same name of his two books. He also gave up the rights to the following strains: Jillybean, Agent Orange, Brian Berry Cough, Orange Velvet, Ace of Spades, Plushberry, Black Dahlia and Time-wreck, and he and MzJill agreed to the joint use of Space Queen.

Sub tells me he regrets the role he played in his and MzJill’s messy and public breakup. “I promoted TGA for 18 years,” he says. “I did a good job, but I feel that the magic fell apart the night of the fire. I do not know the fate of TGA, but my work, my strains and my passion continue on in the 44 strains that make up the menu of the Dank.”

Subcool tried growing Mendo Dope style plants in a pool/ Subcool

The Pool Grow

Subcool settled in Arizona and rented a home with an indoor pool, drained it and started growing cannabis inside it under Arizona’s medical program. Now, with his new home converted to a state-approved 60-plant grow op, his mission to continue working with his beloved cannabis plant continues in a very unique environment.

Sub explains to me: “The wet air made it impossible to breathe, so one day I drained the pool. Someone online joked about the old Cheech and Chong skit [in which the duo have a grow op in an empty pool], and I took the challenge.” Solis Tek gave him a good deal on the lights, and he put 8,000 watts of double-ended high-pressure-sodium fixtures above the 20-by-30-foot pool. Smart Pot donated custom 100-gallon air pots, and Dragonfly Earth Medicine contributed organic teas to feed the plants. To complete the giving chain, the cannabis he grows in the pool is donated to patients entirely for free!

Black Dahlia grown “no-till” style/ Courtesy Subcool

The Bowling Alley Grow

Sub also sent me photos of a brand-new facility he and his team are building out in what used to be a bowling alley. He tells me: “With the support and help of [grow visionary] Eli Harding and William Rouland, the bowling alley in Globe is almost complete, and in just a few weeks we start moving in plants. We will grow in my Super Soil using my methods and grow as close to organically as possible. Everything will be tested, even though it isn’t required in Arizona. The Dank will set new standards for packaging, testing and distribution. The state-of-the-art kitchen has glass walls, so all aspects can be filmed and supervised for quality control.”

Subcool tells me he’s enthusiastic about the future: “I get to start hundreds of seeds and do pheno hunts of my favorite strains. Once we find the best, we’ll use Phylos Bioscience to map and protect our versions of each strain. Each strain will have quality standards for terpene and cannabinoid production. I’m excited, but I also understand the long road we have in front of us. Growing cannabis has so many variables, and so many things can go wrong. We stand at the brink of success or failure, and all of us won’t look back until we handle all adversity and make something truly Dank!”

You can find verified Subcool seeds online at the Dank (subcool.com) and at major seed distributors like Attitude Seed bank, Seedsman and JBC Seeds. Look for the Dank’s consumable cannabis products in Arizona dispensaries.

TO READ MORE OF THIS ARTICLE ON HIGH TIMES, CLICK HERE.

https://hightimes.com/grow/rebirth-subcool-inside-story-legendary-bud-breeder/

[robertjameshomeservices]

It’s 11.28 ON AN ORDINARY SATURDAY MORNING,ONE HEARTBEAT CHANGES OUR FAMILIES LIVES FOREVER.

When it comes to a balance between family and business, I don’t believe I have all the answers. Nobody does. I do, however, believe I know the questions that need to be answered to get that long-term healthy balance that is just right for you. Both my business and personal experience have brought me to this point.

Let me explain.

Powering ahead

Robert James and James Home Services: I have to tell you, there was a time when I thought I had all the answers. It was 2005. I was in my mid-thirties and had four awesome kids: Hayden (15), Cameron (13), Nadine (11) and Rohan (2). I had a beautiful wife,

Ronnie (the mother of Rohan and later on Luke), who – at the time – I believed would be my life partner. Hayden, Cameron and Nadine were from my first marriage, to my childhood sweetheart Alison. (Alison and I met when we were just 15 years old and spent 15 years together. We were two kids in love, who grew apart and realised one day that we weren’t a real match for each other.)

At this time, like many ‘blended’ families, we had all moved into a very functional situation. On the business front, things were powering! I had grown my ‘one man’ car cleaning business into a national home services franchise network of 400-plus franchisees. Our group, James Home Services, was totalling more than $25 million in home services annually across Australia. We had all the trappings of success: flashy cars, a beautiful home on a horse stud in the Mooloolah Valley, a team of show jumping horses, great holidays, no shortage of funds, and a huge network of great friends and colleagues.

The business success had not been by accident. A combination of vision, entrepreneurial spirit, smart risk taking and a passion for small business, along with a good serve of hard work and determination, got us the results we wanted.

I thought I had it all worked out, that everything was perfect! Then one day, without any warning, my world was turned upside down in one single heartbeat.

The moment it all changed

Hayden, Cameron and Nadine were all very capable horse riders, and we spent many weekends competing in show-jumping events.

One very ordinary Saturday morning we were all at the Gatton Agricultural Show. We had been at Gatton since the previous Thursday, camping in our truck. The kids were competing in their events and having an amazingly fun time together. Only Cameron and Hayden had events on Saturday, and Nadine had negotiated going home early with a girlfriend and her family.

It was all very normal.

I was sitting watching as Hayden warmed up to go in to compete. Cameron, having just finished competing, was heading back to our truck. Nadine ran up and gave me a hug, saying, ‘Love you Dad ... see you later!’ She turned to head back towards her friend’s truck, her ride home. I returned my attention to Hayden.

Then, just seconds later, at 11.28 am, I heard the most terrifying scream of ‘Dad!’, and instantly recognised the voice of Cameron, who was running towards me at full speed, his face full of fear. He screamed again, ‘Dad ... Nadine is down!’

‘Has she been kicked?’ I asked. This was my first thought.

In tears, he said, ‘I don’t know, she’s just in a heap.’

I ran as fast as I could towards the commotion, and the first thing I saw as I got to Nadine was a woman in riding gear doing CPR on my daughter! The woman was screaming, ‘Get the ambulance, get the ambulance!’ to a gate attendant. She said to me, ‘I’m a nurse – she’s in cardiac arrest!’

At that moment a man started working with her. He turned out to be her husband, an off-duty police officer.

The ambulance arrived quickly from the arena, but the officer seemed way too casual as he got out – perhaps he was assuming it was a minor fall? A scream came from the nurse: ‘She has no pulse! She is in cardiac arrest!’

With that, the whole world turned into a surreal living nightmare. Police cars arrived, a second ambulance arrived with a paramedic on board, crowds gathered, and our whole family rushed to the scene. Friends took little Rohan away. We were all in complete shock.

I couldn’t believe it. Was I living every parent’s nightmare? Could I be watching my daughter die? This living hell went on for 15 excruciating minutes – 15 minutes of fighting to get her back, then Nadine’s heart started to beat again on its own. She was stabilised and taken to Gatton hospital.

At the hospital I was left waiting in front of the emergency room with absolutely no idea about Nadine’s condition. Then a nurse walked out holding the little gold crucifix that Nadine always wore around her neck. In that moment, I was sure my daughter was gone.

My face must have shown it because the nurse quickly said, ‘No, no! She’s still alive. We had to put her in an induced coma to stabilise her for transport back to Brisbane.’

My daughter was ALIVE!

I went in to see her and was shocked but also relieved at what I saw. She looked terrible, but she was alive. Not long afterwards, she was flown to Brisbane Mater Hospital. I could do nothing but watch as the helicopter took my baby girl into a grey sky.

It’s a 90-minute drive from Gatton to Brisbane. A friend drove as I sat, waited and hoped that I would see her alive again, her words still ringing in my head: ‘Love you Dad ... see you later.’

‘Take everything, just give me my daughter back.’

Those first few days in Brisbane were terrifying: Nadine was in and out of consciousness in the ICU and it was impossible to evaluate any dam- age to her brain. Would she ever walk, talk or function normally again?

The worst was the early morning hours, between 1 am and 3 am. She had horrible night terrors and would wake up screaming, ‘I hate you; I hate you; you are not my father!’ I remember putting my head down on the bed and crying, believing that I had lost my beautiful daughter for- ever. That night I prayed: ‘Take everything, just give me my daughter back.’ My despair was unbelievably overwhelming.

About a week later, Nadine was moved over to the heart specialist ward to have a defibrillator implanted, to manage any other arrests. When we did get Nadine in front of the cardiologists, I was desperate for a glimmer of hope. Like all parents in this situation, I wanted to know how this was going to end. I remember asking the cardiologist, ‘What is the likely outcome?’ I also remember the very factual answers from the doctor: ‘Well, the survival rate of adult cardiac arrest is only 5%. For paediatric cardiac arrest, it is only 5% of that 5%! So, you can under- stand that to find ourselves in this situation is extremely rare ... ’

You can imagine how tormented we were. As well as this grim outlook, Nadine was showing all the signs of major head injury: rocking back and forth, she was clearly not mentally present, and she could not walk unassisted.

Then on a Friday afternoon, nearly two weeks after her heart attack, the surgeons implanted Nadine’s defibrillator. The doctors told me that she would be groggy after the procedure, so I went home for some much- needed rest. The next day, when I returned to the hospital, Nadine was sitting there watching television as if nothing had ever happened – she had just ‘woken up’. I couldn’t believe it: my daughter had returned.

In the following weeks it became clear that there was some memory loss. She had forgotten how to write, which she relearned very quickly, but her math skills were not up to her previous very high standards. Within five weeks, she was back at school.

It is the ‘extremely rare situations’ we find ourselves in that can be the most awakening and unsettling. We all believe we have our act together. I believed I had always run my business for my family; I was Dad and partner first, then business owner. I didn’t know it at the time, but that ‘ordinary Saturday morning’ would have a major impact on my family and my business, forever. The systems that grew the business would become vitally important.

Robert James and James Home Services: The cardiologist’s professional and pragmatic evaluation of the situation also stayed with me. The acid test came from the ‘extremely rare situation’ that I found myself in. We all face daily acid tests of our priorities. Constantly balancing family and business life in an unbalanced world is a true challenge.

Hopefully it doesn’t take an ‘extremely rare situation’ to make you evaluate your current position.

originally Posted: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/its-1128-ordinary-saturday-morningone-heartbeat-changes-robert-james/