Still Kicking Around

I missed my birthday post. Oops.

I'm 29. I don't remember much about being 19, other than I was in college. I liked college.

The lack of posting is partly due to writing/editing/communing with voices in my head. This is what happens when I have a spurt of creativeness and it eats me alive.

At least I'm getting feedback and people are reading my current project. It's a large undertaking that I will see through. It might take me fifteen years, but I will complete it. I WILL. Mostly because I have been PLANNING.

I know. Odd. Me, planning. Run for the hills.

But, I have EVERYTHING planned out.

And then I realize I am writing...fan fiction...and want to bang my head into the table a few times. But it is so much FUN. Honestly.

Only, I've hit a road block in flushing out the middle of my second story. I have the beginning written and the end. (I have the end of every story I plan to write written for the most part except for six and seven. I know, I know...I'm getting ahead of myself. Especially since I keep CHANGING things.) But I finished the first story and felt so accomplished and had no one to tell, so I'm telling you.

Yeah. You.

Also, I have no idea where I came up with that pen name. Honestly. I should have stuck to my first pen name, but I decided I would keep it separate for...my orignal works that do not start other people's characters so blatantly.

So...that is what I've been up to. Just so you know.

I'm Alive!

My mother told me my blog is outdated. There is an array of reasons for this, one being: Nothing has really happend in the last two months that inspired me to ramble at length. I've been mostly reading and writing...something I haven't written in over ten years. It's just BURSTING out of me and I'm HIGHLY annoyed with it, yet not at the same time. I'm only posting it here because I plan to actually post it else where someday. So, here ya go: Misplaced in Time.

A Walk Through Handbags

I have three designer purses.

Three.

Coach. Linea Pelle. Rebecca Minkoff.

The Rebecca Minkoff is the most recent edition to my tiny collection. None of these designers is so called high end, but I still like them. I've lusted after Rebecca Minkoff purse for years, at least four. I stare at them, see the price and find myself sighing loudly and waiting for a sale. When I lived in the Dirt Hole, I told myself I'd hit up the after Christmas sale next year, as I was amazed at how much I could get a Morning After Bag for (now I don't remember the price).

I never did buy one.

Then, in the fall (I think), I discovered Bluefly. Or rediscovered it. I don't know what lead me there, or how I got there, but I was there, looking at Rebecca Minkoff purses and drooling once again. One day, I was going through the SUPER SALE on handbags the site was having and came across this Linea Pelle bag that was, well, TARDIS blue. I thought the brand name looked familiar, so I used Purse Blog to check it out and sure enough, it was a brand they'd covered. They had even reviewed the bag.

So I bought it. For something like $180, which for the fracking size of this bag, that was a good price. (It's leather.) I was so excited when it finally showed up. It's really a great purse. It's HUGE. Things get lost. But you can cram a whole coat in it! Among other things.

Well, it's summer now, and technically, I could carry a purse of my own creation. But then it rains and cotton purses don't do well in rain. So, I kept carrying my TARDIS blue hobo bag. (Which did really well this winter. You just brush the dirt off!)

A few weeks ago, I was staring at Facebook. Or Twitter. Or both at the same time. One of these outlets informed me of a sample sale Rebecca Minkoff was having.

Online.

My eyes bugged out.

I wasn't holding out too much hope, as the last few collections she's come out with haven't really caught my fancy. Why? Because I'm boring. I like her orignal line of handbags. I don't like my handbags cluttered with...zippers, studs, or whatever. I like Nikki, the Morning After Bag, Morning After Clutch and the Manatiee (a bag she doesn't really make any more...) I like the mini versions of these bags. (Well, not the MAC mini, it's just too small.)

The sale was going on a week. Or something. And daily, the selection changed. Sometimes it changed hourly. (Yeah, I checked it often.) I know what I want, which is a tragic thing as usually when I know what I want, I cannot find it. However, low and behold, the bag I wanted magically appeared.

Well, one of them.

The Nikki and MAB that were on sale weren't what I wanted. I wanted colored leather, not too bright, with silver hardware. Most of the bags seemed to carry gold. Not into gold. Then it appeared: a full size MAC in purple with silver hardware.

I stared at it for a full twenty four hours before I bought it. I spent the next day freaking out, but then rationalized myself off the ledge. I was bouncingly giddy by the time it arrived. I opened the box and found the purse packaged the same manner I package my own purses (tissue paper with a sticker bearing the designer name). Granted, the bag was also in a plastic bag and came with a dust bag, but it was similar.

I spent the day peeking at the purse, unsure if it was really here. I still catch sight of it and think, "Do I really actually OWN a Rebecca Minkoff purse? Did I really only pay less for it than I paid for my hobo bag?"

Yes. That is the answer to all those questions.

The Coach purse cost roughly $300 dollars. I used it till I wore it out. I spent a lot of money on it, when I didn't really have a lot of money, but I had my first real job and I wanted a nice purse. After I got it, I always regretted not getting the little hobo bag in all leather and going for the stupid bag in canvas. But, I still brought it out when I needed a "nicer" purse. The major issue with it: it's a arm purse, meaning it's meant to be carried on your forearm or in your hand. It fits over my shoulder and into my armpit, but it's not meant to be there. And don't try it if you're wearing a winter coat. You'll pull a muscle.

It got squished in our last move. I unpacked it and it was...dented.

I tried to be outraged. I tried to get mad.

I didn't care.

This of course alarmed me greatly. I should care. I spent three hundred freaking dollars on a purse! What is wrong with me!?!?!?!?

So I hung it on the back of the closet door and forgot about it. I have not carried it since I left the Dirt Hole, which was when I discovered a plastic bit sticking out of the bottom piping and thought, "WTF? I paid three hundred dollars for this stupid purse."

When I traded the Linea Pelle hobo for the MAC, I put it in its dust bag (after I fished it out of the pantry...dont' ask) and hung it on the back of the door with the Coach bag (which has a dust bag, I just don't know where it went.)

I ought to find the Coach dust bag. I think I stuffed with fabric remains.

The Linea Pelle purse isn't falling apart. Granted, I only carried it through the fall and winter, but still, I dont' think it's got any plastic bits in it. Honestly, plastic bits?

I love the MAC. It the perfect size for me and things don't get lost. I also can wear it cross body, so it doesn't fall down on my arm and try to rip it off. I could use a smaller wallet though, as my wallet takes up the whole purse almost.

Not that there's much I carry besides the wallet.

The wallet is Coach. I bought it after the purse, at an outlet mall. The day after Thanksgiving. It's leather. Brown and cost roughly 80 bucks. And would have matched the purse I should have gotten instead of the one I got.

Notice a trend? The one I paid the most money for, I regret getting at all. Hmmmm....mental note: only buy things on sale.

I Do Believe in Commas, I do!!!!! I do!!!!!

I have no idea when I discovered The Shoebox Project, or how. I don't actually read what it is: Fan Fiction. I don't look for it, I don't really write it any longer and at the time I read that I was definitely passed the stage of fan fiction. In high school, I was massively into boy band fan fiction, which I don't remember how I discovered either. But, if I want to be honest-- fan fiction is what REALLY got me started writing, creating stories and getting interested in writing honest romance instead of whatever the hell I'd been writing before this point in time. I learned quite a bit from the fan fiction I did read. I was REALLY picky on what I'd read too. I had one site that I liked and I only branched out of things this author suggested.

Then she went to college and my life exploded around me, and I stopped reading and writing fan fiction. I also started listening to Eminem and Limp Bizkit.

At some point, freshman year of college, I read some sort of fan fiction about Trigun. I remember I read it covertly over winter break, because I couldn't get a minute alone, so I pretended to go to bed-- then stayed up till all hours reading on my computer, silently giggling.

Freshman year, I also read fan fiction written by my friend C. It was Buffy based and introduced me to a whole new kind of fan fiction. What do I mean by this? Well, up till this point in time, all the things I'd ever read were independent stories. (Which with bands, is easy, as there is no actual story line, with a TV show, there's a story.) Anyways, she created a new character and worked her into the actual episodes of the TV show, which was utterly fascinating to me.

Then I started writing fan fiction again, as I created my own Buffy verse story, working my characters into a few episodes. I was all over the place with the whole thing and never really knew what I was doing, but it gave me something to do for two years till I lost interest.

I read Shoebox after I got married. And I honestly have no clue how I discovered it. I think one of my livejournal friends must have been reading it or something and one day when I was bored, I stumbled upon it. All I remember is: I read it at work.

Yeah, you read that right.

By the time I found it, all the Harry Potter books were out and I could tell by the dates, updates were beginning to get to be few and far between, because like all fan fiction writers, it seemed that life got in the way. I think after I found it, the authors might have updated twice.

Then the account was hacked while I was in Del Rio.

I thought the world was going to end, because I adored the story. To the point, I took their created story as the back story to the actual Harry Potter novels.

Luckily, someone had either saved the posts or something, as they are still online in PDF form. After the account was hacked though, it'd been almost a year since the last update and I knew one thing: it was over. One of the authors was now published. She's even appeared on the CBS morning show, I guess. (She's got a few more books out now, I guess. I don't know. I didn't look in it before I began writing.)

I don't know what got me really thinking about Shoebox again. I think it was something I saw on Pinterest when I was scrolling through for images for whatever I'm working on right now. Something...reminded me of it. So, I went looking for it and found it was not in e-book format. So, of course I downloaded it and put it on my Kindle. And spent the past two days reading it.

It's freaking long. It's actually longer than Summer Story, which I thought was the longest things in the world (after those classic books that wax on for pages about moor and rainfall).

But, I just finished it and feel that ache again, so familiar. I want more, if not just to get to the point where JK really starts telling the story of James, Lily, Sirius, Lupin and Wormtail.

While the e-book itself is littered with errors (like many e-books tragically are...I guess they are hard to format?), the storyline is still good. And while my Kindle isn't the best thing for images, I still got that same anticipation and envy I get when I read something brillant. (It's why I read, actually.) Did it give me the urge to create fan fiction?

No, not really. But, it did renew my want to create something brilliant. I've been in this sinkhole for the past two weeks. (Writing Alexis's stories tends to do this to me because I hate her.) So, I haven't been writing very much during the day. I've watched the entire series of Star Trek: Voyager. This is only okay because 1) I've never watched it totally in order and 2) I never saw how they got home.

Of course time travel was involved. Of course the Borg were involved.

I've watched Fortysomething, which amused me to no end. I was honestly surprised I liked it, if I'm honest with you as I don't usually like that sort of thing.

I've read a few books, one of them twice. (My Life Next Door, check it out. Brilliant.)

I've spent way too many hours on Pinterest. Which lead me back to Shoebox, with it's made up words, air filled with exclamation marks and characters that we all know the names of, but don't really know before the Major Events of the actual Harry Potter series. Personally, I think the two authors of Shoebox (I keep typing Showbox for some reason) do a brilliant job at creating believable characters that end up as they do. (Granted, we only really get to know three of them at all, as two are all ready dead at the start of Harry Potter.) But, it's easy to see Lupin winding up as he does, doing what he does, seeing things as he does. I think they do a brilliant job hinting at why Peter turned. And it's so easy to see Sirius...well, being Sirius. (Full disclosure: Sirius and Lupin are my two favorite characters and when JK killed THEM BOTH OFF, I almost had a conniption.)

So, if you have some time to kill, enjoy Harry Potter, give it a shot. It being Shoebox.

Overexposed

I’ve been a fan of Maroon 5 for years. I guess roughly ten years, as the other day via Twitter I was informed it was ten years ago that Songs About Jane came out.

Ten years.

I’m so old.

In other news, the new Maroon 5 album came out this week. I’ve been listening to it nonstop since I bought it. Luckily, Basil doesn’t seem to be bothered by it in the least, so I guess it’s okay. It fails to induce barking outbursts. (There are certain songs *cough* *cough* “The Call” by Backstreet Boys *cough* that induce fits of barking.) 

I tend to associate albums with certain aspects. Sometimes it’s general things, somethings it’s something so precise, there is no way anything else can be associated with it. I go on length here on how I’ll always associate Songs About Jane with Glasgow. (Yeah, evidently I bought the album over a year after it came out. I’m slow on the uptake.)

Their next two albums are kind of muddled together, as I bought them at the same time (on the same day) two summers ago. I associate both of them with 10p, which I began that summer. While I wrote the story, in the fall, Maroon 5 became pretty much the band for C and G, with a little Florence and the Machine thrown in.

So, since Tuesday, I've been listening to Overexposed and for some unknown reason I'm associating it with...Sherlock Holmes. Like David Tennent kind of took over my brain for over a year, I'm pretty sure Benedict Cumberbatch (oh, poor man...that name) has hijacked my brain. And like David Tennent, it's gone passed the thing that introduced him to me. I've been consuming anything BC has appeared in. I've laughed as he played a slightly sex obsessed male who seemed to get stepped on by his brother while his other brother never went to school and Hugh Laurie heard voices in his head and I couldn't stop laughing. I've heard him talk a total of maybe ten lines in an American accent while wearing a hat. I've seen him with various shades of hair, the slightly reddish blond he sported in Tinker Tailor Solider the most disturbing. I'm not sure why I found it disturbing, other than it was straight. I've seen him with a mustache and sounding weird riding a horse. 

And I'm no where near done. There are like at least three things I haven't managed to watch online. I've only stopped because I think my head is going to explode.

And not from overload on an actor, but simply because he's never looks or sounds the same (he does walk the same in each thing I've seen so far, he's got this distinctive walk that is just...him. Does that make sense? I don't care. I don't need to make sense. I talk to my dog.) I finally watched Decoy Bride and kept thinking David Tennent's character was a hopelessly confused Doctor. It was like when I attempted to watch Hamlet and kept thinking Hamlet was...an insane, confused, mentally unbalanced Doctor. When I saw him (David Tennent) in Casanova, I never thought he was playing a... womanizing Doctor. But everything else I've ever seen him in (even his few scenes in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire), he's still the freaking Doctor. 

But, back to what I started this post to talk about (honestly, I didn't start it to begin to talk about BC. Honest). Maroon 5's new album. The songs.

"Pay Phone" is the single that came out before the album. I heard it on The Voice and kept thinking, "Do most of the people who watch this show even know what a pay phone is? When I first heard the song, I was working on a story I'd first written in high school, when pay phones were still part of everyday life for me, as I used them often-- even after I had a cellular device, as I wasn't supposed to "use" the cell phone except in emergencies. (This failed, if you can guess.) When I was rewriting this story (where the main character uses pay phones a lot, as he doesn't have a cell phone even though his mother works at a freaking cell phone store), I realized he needed to not be using pay phones all the time. He only uses one still, one he worries will vanish at any moment, located in the foyer of the school. 

Though...

Do todays teenagers, the people who mostly consume popular music, know what pay phones are? Are there even any pay phones left in this country? (Yes, there are. I've seen a few. Some of them even say Ameritech or SBC, two defunct telecoms.) 

My thoughts on "Pay Phone" (other than to thank Maroon 5 for reminding the world about pay phones and the need for change)...it's okay. I've got two favorite songs all ready. "Wipe Your Eyes" and "The Man Who Never Lied." "Wipe Your Eyes" is dead sweet, yet bittersweet at the same time (kind of classic Maroon 5 if I'm honest). The other songs have a kind of dance vibe to them and I'm distinctly reminded of the 1970s for some reason I can't really understand. 

The one issue I have: "Wasted Years." The first time I heard it, I thought it sounded familiar. The second time I heard it, I knew it sounded familiar, so I looked at the songs I had all ready and found it'd been released on something called Live-Friday the 13th. The third time I heard it, I was like, "Okay, why do I not know the words to this song? I've been listening to it for six years (at least)." 

They changed the lyrics. It finally hit me last night what was wrong with it. It really throws me. But, I guess it is their song, so they can do whatever they want. 

All in all, I do like this album quite a bit. (I usually don't put something new on repeat for four days straight unless I like it.) 

I just wish I'd associate it with something other than Sherlock Holmes, because it makes NO SENSE. Even I know it makes little sense and I've been trying to rationalize it for the past four days. I haven't even WATCHED SHERLOCK this week. (I don't think. I can't remember.) I did start reading Sherlock Holmes. Because my dad told me I ought to give it a shot. Seeing I made it through Jane Eyre, he seemed to think Sherlock Holmes would be easy. (I've "read" only one Sherlock Holmes story and I didn't actually read it, I listened to it and I really feel like I've put this story on the blog all ready. So, I'll just shut up all ready.)

Where Poor Basil Sits and Waits...

A month ago, Brother Unit showed up for a visit. Upon arriving, he requested we go to Thunderbird Falls to go for a hike. While not my ideal way to begin a trip after a seven hour flight, I did not fly anywhere. In the summer when my family invaded, Pilot Boy took my dad and Brother Unit there on the day they arrived because my dad wanted to "do" something.

My mother and I, being the sane ones in the family, remained here. In the house.

Because my brother and his friend weren't sane, I went along for this post flight hike. Because I'm not actually sane, I wore a mini skirt and leggings to go hiking.

Yeah, you read that right.

So, Thunderbird Falls is...a waterfall. It's an "easy" hike. (It's in quotes because there are hills and if you fail to know how I feel about hills, well, then we'll have to talk later.) A few weeks before Brother Unit and Friend arrived, Pilot Boy and I went there to do an afternoon hike. It was snowing and the snow was melting. All at the same time. Thanks to the record snow fall we had this past winter, by the time Brother Unit and Friend showed up, there was still a good deal of snow, but the creek/river/water thing was melted further.

And for some unknown reason, Pilot Boy went to investigate the water. Why? We won't ever know. What we do know: he fell in.

He did.

He brushed it off as the piece of "ice" he was on wasn't solid. It had nothing to do with the fact he lacks grace and coordination.

After checking out the raging water fall, we headed back. We were almost to the Hill of Doom (have you ever tried to walk down a steep included covered in melting snow? It's not fun. Highly likely you'll end up on your butt.) when Pilot Boy started searching his pockets. He handed me the dog and his backpack, but wouldn't tell me what he lost.

So, I assumed the worst.

He lost the keys. We were trapped in Thunderbird Falls!

No, he handed me those when I asked.

He walked off and jumped back into the river. The three of us left that weren't on four legs or in the water, stared at him. (Basil was like WHY WE STOP? WE ARE WALKING HERE PEOPLE.)

"What did he lose?" Brother Unit asked.
"No clue. He won't tell me."
"Was it his wallet? He was checking his pockets."
"Oh, crap."

Images of having to get new IDs flooded my mind. Credit cards. Money. IDs. I was getting a headache just imagining the issues if he'd lost his wallet.

Pilot Boy didn't seem to be making any headway in his search. I finally handed Basil Bea off to Brother Unit (Basil: SERIOUSLY, WHY ARE WE NOT WALKING PEOPLE?) I hopped down to where Pilot Boy was searching the ice cold waters for...something.

"What did you lose?"
He looked at me, then back into the water. He moved a rock.
"Come on, I won't get mad. What did you lose? Your wallet?"
"No," he sneered at me. He thought I was insane to think he'd lost his wallet.

Confession: I'm amazed he hasn't lost his wallet yet. Or forgotten it somewhere.

Pilot Boy looses things. It's how he rolls. Just this week, he lost the power cord to his laptop, rendering the laptop useless. As far as either of us can tell, the airplane he worked on last week ate it.

"What did you lose?"

I honestly couldn't figure out what he could have lost in the water that he was trying to find. I knew he had his phone, I had the keys and he claimed he still had his wallet. What else could he have lost?

"What did you lose?" I repeated.
"My ring."

It took a moment for those words to sink in along with the sheepish expression painting his features. He was scared how I was going to react to the fact he'd lost his wedding ring.

He fell in a freezing cold stream and his ring fell off.

I started laughing. Pilot Boy looked at me like I was deranged. I turned around, climbed back up to where Brother Unit and Friend were located and dumped the backpack.

"What did he lose?" Brother Unit asked.
"His ring."
"His wedding ring?"
"Yup."

Brother Unit also thought I was insane for laughing, as I was still laughing. Friend also thought I was a bit off my rocker. After securing Basil to a tree root (WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? WHY ARE YOU GETTING IN THE WATER? WHY ARE WE NOT WALKING? YOU SAID WE WERE GOING FOR A WALK, NOT A STAND) I hopped into the stream with Pilot Boy and Brother Unit and Friend stood along the shore, keeping a look out for something shiny. Friend took photos and tried to use her flash. I moved rocks and pieces of ice out of the way.

I stayed in that stream till the water began to seep into my hiking boots. (I did wear hiking boots with my mini skirt/legging combo.) I hopped out and watched Pilot Boy continue to search in vain. A few times Friend and I thought we saw something, but we never did find it.

Basil began to whine at some point. (HONESTLY, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? WATER IS EVIL. GET OUT OF THE WATER AND WALK ME. NOW.)

Somehow, I guess the story got out at Pilot Boy's work he lost his wedding ring. His boss asked him the other day if he was out of the dog house yet.

"Why?"
"You lost your wedding ring. Isn't your wife mad at you?"
"Actually, she wasn't very upset," Pilot Boy admitted.

And the boss looked at him as if he was mental. So, Pilot Boy came home and asked me if I was mad at him for losing the ring.

Do you want to know why I am not pissed as hell my husband lost his wedding ring? Because I've been waiting five years for him to lose it. And not just because he loses things. Granted, due to the fact he must remove the ring to whenever he flies (don't ask me why)---and it is highly likely he'll just randomly lose it due to that--- that was not why I have been sitting around waiting for it to go MIA. The reason I've been waiting for it leave him is because it was like two sizes too big. And he refused to get it sized.

When we bought our wedding rings, the lady at the jeweler handed him the ring sizer thing and said, "Try that one."

He stuck the first one she handed him. She asked him how it fit and he said, "I don't know."

"Is it too big? Does it slide off easy? Can you get it off?"

Pilot Boy slid it off, shrugging. He had no clue what to tell her about the size, since he'd never worn a ring before, so he said it was fine. This is typical Pilot Boy behavior when he's doing something he'd rather not and doesn't care. He just wanted a ring: plain, silver. The end.

He got that.

And within a few days of putting it on his finger, I knew it was way too big. I told him he was going to lose it. He kept saying he'd get it sized when we went back to Chicagoland, but he never did. Then we went to the Dirt Hole and they told him he had to remove it to fly. So then he refused to get it resized, even when it flew off his hand and across the room a few times. A few times since we've been in Alaska, he's said he wanted to get it sized, but then he decides no. It's fine.

Then he lost it.

And I got to say, "I told you so."

Best. Moment. Ever.

Hence, why I laughed. Because I've never really got him like that before. Even if I knew I was right and I told him so, he always has some comeback. That day, he just looked sheepish.

At least he didn't lose it like he loses most things: by forgetting them, leaving them behind.

It's been a month since he lost the ring and he still thinks he's going to find it if we go back to Thunderbird Falls. I roll my eyes. That ring is gone, dude.

Gone.

I bought him a replacement ring for a dollar. It was too big. He put it on the dog's collar and yesterday he broke it when he threw her collar at the fireplace for some reason. The ring shattered. At least I only paid a dollar. I'll get a smaller one the next time I go downtown. I'll buy a few.

Till I can drag him to get a proper ring, which might be in ten years....

More Adventures in Writing with Ireland

It hasn't snowed for almost a month, but today it's snowing. Or trying to....

I haven't updated lately because I've been eaten a live by a rewrite. It's finally spit me back out and I hit a huge wall. So, I'll update this blog.

I love rewrites. For a wide array of reasons.

1. You all ready have the bones to the story laid out in a nice fashion. When you're re-writing something, all you need to do is rearrange things, rework, or expand on what you have all ready labored over.

2. You get to revisit your characters. The thing I just finished rewriting I've had living in my head since I was fifteen. I didn't start writing it in a story form till I was sixteen. But, I remember naming all the characters on summer day on the couch. They then all went into a play that was never performed. But, through writing this play (based on real events, with real people re-named), I fell in love with who the characters had become in my head. So, one day at lunch, I got out a piece of paper and went to work. And RAB was born. I did my first overhaul on RAB when I was twenty one. I tried many things when I set about rewriting it. I tried to tell it in present tense, tried telling it in third person, but I went back to first person, past tense. It stayed that way till this last rewrite. I re-read it and thought, "OMG, this is boring." So, I reworked it, rewrote it and took it back to what it was when I was sixteen. G finally was able to be who I knew she was and I think it showed better in her story.

3. New plot points scare you to death. I know you might not believe me, but every time I rewrite something, something new pops out at me, usually freaking me out or scaring me to death. I think, "SERIOUSLY! Why didn't I see this before!" And I get super excited and everything comes together in my head and it is brilliant. The first time I did a major overhaul of RAB, a story arch appeared to me and I was able to hone it. Granted, it was with a character who wasn't a main character, he has a supporting role, but I realized as I went through I was able to litter hints and clues to who this guy really was. I love doing this. It happened again when I sat down to do this rewrite. Because I knew something now that I didn't know the last time I looked at the story, I was able to litter in clues, then out of nowhere, a whole scene appeared. It shocked me, but it had to be written and put in there.

I love rewriting. I itch to rewrite things sometimes. Sometimes, I look at something and think, "WOW! This is bloody brilliant!" And other times, I look at it and think, "What was I thinking?"

Summer Story has this happen to it. I've lost track of the times I read it and thought, "This is brilliant!" Then, the last time I read through it I thought, "I want to rewrite this. It's got potential."

10p was that way for over a year. I kept rewriting it till I finally got to the point it's at right now. The last time I read it, while I found minor errors, I still liked it. It was still a good story and I thought it was still tightly told. Summer Story is in some need of some serious editing, yet I know I can't figure out what to cut. When I re-wrote 10p the last time, I know it's too long to be YA, but I'm not sure what I can cut. It's amazing when I realize what I can cut. RAB's stories (there are four in all) were all too short to be full length novels. I know, shocking on many levels as I am very, very, very long winded. After this last rewrite, only one is boarding on too short. And that one has always had this problem. Mostly because I hate the character telling the story. (Which makes it kind of fun to write and not at the same time.)

But, I've finished writing RAB. It's in stage two editing, ready for BETA reading.

Winter Perks

Things I Will Miss As Winter Ends

1. No need to mow the lawn. It's covered in snow.
2. Layers. Lots of layers of clothing.
3. The fact the sun isn't high enough in the sky to mess with the garage door. (The sun activates the motion detector so it won't go down.)
4. Darkness when I want to sleep.
5. The fact the town is cleaner in the winter.

Things I Will Not Miss

1. Shoveling snow.
2. Snow piles.
3. Snow.
4. Snow falling off the roof and freaking us all out.
5. Negatives temperatures.

What I Found On The Floor

I discovered Harry Potter on the floor of my room.

Read that statement a few times. I'll wait.

So? I bet you're wondering what Harry Potter was doing on my floor, right? I'll tell you: waiting to be wrapped.

Freshman year saw the second year I wrapped the family gifts. In the box my mom had left on my floor, I found Harry Potter. I took it out of the box, saw the note and looked at it curiously. For one, my mom was under the delusion my brother was going to read a book. Second, it looked interesting to me. At the time, I was a rather big fan of fantasy stories, having just polished off every single Tamora Price book I could get my hands on. I opened the book and read the flap.

After reading the flap, I read the first chapter. (Yes, I read the first chapter of a book not meant for me, but my brother. I doubt he actually read the first chapter, as evident by his later "book reports" he did for school.)

After polishing off the first chapter, I wrapped the book. I figured my brother wouldn't read it. I was proven right a few days later, which upon opening the book, he looked at it as if he'd opened up a rancid package of meat. Tossing the book aside, he moved onto bigger and better things.

That night, I took the book. And devoured it.

My first time reading it, I don't remember how carefully I read it. I do remember my mother telling me that the next book was coming out shortly.

I didn't read book two till after book three came out, as that was when Harry Potter reappeared in our house. The summer after book three came out, my mom (or dad, I'm not sure who) ordered them for me. I read them that summer, eating them up as if they were chocolate.

I was in love with Harry Potter. I recognized the brilliant writing. The way Rowling wove the story amazed me. Granted, I didn't appreciate this until I started re-reading things, which I did not begin to do till I was a senior and bored out of my mind during study hall. At first, I just re-read the first book, as the movie was coming out and I wanted the story fresh in my head. This was the first time I began putting pieces together. But the time I finished my second reading of the first four books, I was amazed at how tightly the story was wound together. And I still had three more books to get through.

But, I was in awe. I wanted to be Rowling. I wanted to write like her, layer hints in, layer in symbolism and construct a web as she has done within the Harry Potter universe.

I also learned the value of the re-read. I plow through  books so quickly the first time I read them, I miss things. I blow over major things in order to get to the end. I am not patient while reading. This is why sometimes I find books boring. Once I know how it'll end, my reading usually goes better.

As the last three books of the Harry Potter series were rolled out over the next five years of my life, I gobbled them up as soon as they arrived in my house, sometimes against the wishes of my parents. For instance, once while I was left home alone shortly after Half Blood Prince showed up, I was supposed to be cleaning my room while my parents were off doing something that invovled socializing with relatives. Getting a jump start on being a hermit, I remained home. With the Harry Potter book, which called to me: READ ME! READ ME!

I had been advised not to read the book. We were going to vacation soon and my mom told me I ought to have books to read while sitting in a cabin in Tennessee.

I didn't listen. I read Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. In the day my parents were away when I should have been cleaning my room.

I don't think I told them I had read it. I re-read it when I should have been reading it the first time. The only good this really did in the end, my dad was able to slowly read it while we were on vacation. (He reads Harry Potter super slow, so not to miss things. I just read them millions of times over.)

By the time the last book came out, I had graduated from college. I only remember I had graduated, because the weekend the book showed up, Pilot Boy was in my life, as the weekend I read the book, he was BORED. I had to read it and Pilot Boy doesn't read. Or know how to entertain himself while I read. (He still hasn't figured this out.)

My favorite books are three and six. I'm super proud of myself, because I guess correctly who RAB was. After I saw that at the end of Half Blood Prince, I was like, "I KNOW WHO THAT IS!" I picked up on the hint, right away. I felt wonderful when I read the last book and was proven correct.

Since the last book came out, I have re-read the whole series at least three or four times. While I was working in St. Louis, I read the series twice through while riding the train downtown. (When I had to tote around book four and book five, my shoulder hated me.) My books are worn, beat up, and spotted with stains. They are well loved and they are British.

Yes, we had two sets of books in our house: American and British. As a freshman, I decided I wanted the British versions. My aunt and uncle got the box set of the first four for me, then added on the others. Are the British ones different than the American ones? Yeah, actually. The first three are very different, due to the fact they use all the British slang that was taken out to make it understandable to Americans. By the fourth or fifth book, they stopped. But, I love the British ones because they are British, so they use British punctuation and spelling. I'm weird.

When I was thinking about books that have impacted my writing, I knew I had to cover Harry Potter. And I knew I had to start with how I found Harry on the bedroom floor.

It Won't Stop Snowing!

I live in Alaska. I know it snows. I know it ought to snow quite a bit.

PLEASE STOP SNOWING.

I can't see while driving. I'm pretty sure my yard is going to be FULL by the time spring finally shows up. And it won't be un-FULL till summer. (Yeah, it's that full.)

After thinking it was hazardous to drive through the streets due to snow MOUNDS, not street conditions, I took Basil out to the backyard. Okay, I let her out the door and she shot out.  Pilot Boy, months ago it seems, carved paths for the poor mutt when the snow got too deep for her to swim through on her own. She had been only using her well beaten path to the tree and never tore around the yard. But she's got paths now.

Though, under the tree is still her favorite spot.

I'm sure if she could, she'd chew that tree to bits. It did crack earlier this winter and a huge branch fell down into the yard during an ice storm. Since then, Basil Bea Dog has been slowly chewing the tree away. Today, while I was out with her, she discovered part of the branch that had been buried. I was minding my own business checking out our snow covered yard when I noticed her digging. Basil Bea loves to dig. It's an activity she learned from my father and brother during her stay in Chicagoland. Before she watched them dig a huge hole for the drywell for the sump pump, Basil Bea did not dig. Now she digs. Often. Today, she went digging in the snow. Strange on many levels, I went over to see what she'd found.

It was a STICK.

Basil Bea also learned to love sticks during her stay in the Chicagoland area. She learned to love a lot of things while there: walking, cold weather, snow, sticks, digging, turkey, carrots, cheerios, sleeping like she was drunk...(Side note: I miss my little drunken sailor. That bed bit the dust, so I no longer get a performance of Basil Bea hanging her head over the side of the boat.)

So, while Basil Bea dug and chewed on the branch, I ventured down the paths Pilot Boy carved. Partly to beat them down, partly to get far enough back to capture the snow on the roof. So, off I went.

Then I fell off the path. Right down into the snow up to my thigh. I was unable to photograph that, so I took this one, where it was up to my knee. I managed to get myself out of the hole, with Basil's help.

Ha, ha, ha, ha.

Basil was no help.


I fell in a few more times in my attempts to get myself back on the packed path. Basil came over after I was topside and sniffed out all the holes I'd made. Evidenlty, they smell good.

I did finally get a photo of the snow on the roof. The snow that is on the bay window, there? The snow is creeping again, away from the roof. It's annoying.

I also looked at everyone else's roofs. Even the people who "cleaned." We all look like we've got the same amount of snow.

It was snowing while I had Basil Bea out this afternoon. It has just finally stopped after a few hours, thank god. I don't think I can handle another major snow fall. Unless it takes out the tree in the backyard fully. I hate that tree.

First "Real" Book

I didn't learn to read till I was in fourth grade. And by "read" I mean, read at the level I ought to be at. I didn't comprehend the object of reading. I memorized most of the things I should have been "reading." I did not read chapter books. Or books without pictures. Ten year old Ireland wanted to read picture books. Ten year old Ireland should have been reading chapter books. I didn't read for enjoyment either. I checked out the same kindergarten level books from the library I'd been checking you since I started going to school (or so my mother tells me).

In fourth grade, my parents sent me off to get help.  I figured out that reading could be fun. So, I began reading.

And have yet to stop.
The first "real" book I read on my own with out prompting was called Nobodies and Somebodies. I assume this book was bought by my mother at the book fair or something. I have no clue where I got the book. I do remember reading it. Multiple times. I love this book. It's got almost all of my favorite subjects. And, when I read it, it had all my favorite topics. What were these:

1. Popularity.
2. Friendship.

That is what this book is about.

The book also began my life long love affair with alternating viewpoints. I'm a sucker for the following things in books:

1. Alternating viewpoints
2. Famous people
3. International travel
4. Books set in London/UK/Ireland/Scotland

Nobodies and Somebodies has only one of those things, but when I was ten (or eleven), those things didn't fascinate me as they do now. However, clubs did. When I was growing up, forming a club was a big deal and sometimes I dreamed about. I was usually the kid that was excluded from the clubs kids at school formed, even though I knew the kids who were in this club and they were "friends." It frustrated me to no end, but because I am kind of lackadaisical about things, I didn't do anything.

But, I still dreamed about being the popular girl, the one with all the clothes, the one who was forming clubs. So, this book spoke to me.

This book has three characters telling the story: Laura, Janet, and Vero. Laura's the new girl (another thing that peeked my interest as a kid, I was never the new girl), Janet was the girl who wore thick glasses and befriended Laura right away and Vero was part of the trio of "popular" girls, aka the Somebodies. Laura is completely fascinated by the Somebodies, who all sit on a window ledge in the classroom each morning. They also have a spot on the playground that is just for them. Laura wants to be one of them. But, Janet tells her this is a bad idea, as Janet thought she had made it in the club, only to be replaced by new girl Vero, who was cooler.

Snubbed by the Somebodies, Janet rebels as Laura gets sucked in deeper into trying to impress the group, by forming a club called the Nobodies.  She invites everyone (save Laura and the three Somebodies) to join the group. And hijinks insure.

This book, while rather simplistic when I re-read it the last time (when I was in college or just graduated, I don't remember) was still the foundation of my interest in writing. I loved the story so much, I wanted to recreate it on my own level. I began writing in earnest at this point in time and my stories basically kept the themes of this book. And they were told from different point of views. I like getting different viewpoints and I love writing from different viewpoints.

The first complete story I wrote when I was in eighth grade was inspired by this book. It was the first story I wrote that was written correctly and clearly and had a plot. It also had a beginning, middle and end. It was told by two characters (Asia and Deja). Asia was short and not very pretty, but the popular girl. Deja was the pretty one but wasn't popular. There was cheerleading involved. The story ended with a battle between Deja and Asia, where Asia finally embraced her nerd side and admitted she hated being pouplar and was happy to just be with her friends. Not the best story, but it was a start.

RAB deals with a lot of the same themes that Nobodies and Somebodies did as well. Granted, the characters in NAS are in fifth or fourth grade and RAB's characters are all in high school, but they are rather similar. I can see a lot of Vero in G, A is rather a lot like Laura, while T is kind of like Janet. Or not. I don't know, I never really liked Janet.

I have no idea where the copy of Nobodies and Somebodies went. Last I saw it, it was in my room on the bookshelf above my desk. Upon moving out, I don't think I took it with me. Or it had gone MIA. I don't have it here with me (unless its in that missing box of books I swear I have). I know it's no longer in my old room at home, as most of my belongings have been cleared out of there. I've got no clue where the book that set me on the path I'm on right now is. Tragic. I think I'll order a new copy.

I Wanna Be Free

I was going to write a post about the books I like and expound on them, starting with the first book I read on my own without pictures, but something happened this AM, so that post will wait till later. 

When I was 13, I spent a lot of time watching VH1. Now, today, this might make sense, as from what I can tell, VH1 is exactly like MTV, only it claims to be different. When I was 13, they were VASTLY different. MTV was aimed at teenagers, cool people, the "with it" people. They played music videos for radio stations that all the popular music played. Yes, when I was 13, MTV still played music videos. Not as often as I'd like, but they did. When I was 13, the whole "reality TV" show thing was just starting, with The Real World and Road Rules. (Aside: My all time favorite season of "Road Rules" was aired when I was 13/14. I don't remember much other than there was a guy with a guitar named Noah.)

VH1 played a hell of a lot more music videos and they played more music I liked, which was the soft rock, because even at 13, I was ancient at heart. I viewed soft rock as more of my modern tastes as well, due to the fact my heart at 13 was still stuck in the 1960s. The summer I was 13, while still obsessing about the Beatles, I discovered The Monkees, via VH1.

I guess programmers decided to capitalized on the still super popular Beatles revival and they began to run The Monkees TV show. I managed to catch the show playing during a two hour block and by the end of the two hour block, I was obsessed. I devoured all things Monkee. I planned my week/day/time around being on hand to watch the show and I felt like the world was ending if I missed one. To this day, I have no idea if I've seen the entire run of the show, but that summer, I obsessed. I bought CDs,  listened to them on repeat (the only way I listen to music), and I ate up anything my parents had left over from when they were kids. I don't think my mom had anything to give me like she did when I went through my Beatles obsession (she had a biography from 1965/1964 that I carried EVERYWHERE with me to the point IT FELL APART). My dad gave me a magazine, though. On the Monkees. I'm pretty sure I read the thing cover to cover. Multiple times.

By the end of the summer I was 13, VH1 stopped running The Monkees. I also grew while I was in eighth grade. This was tragic to me for a very big reason: I was no longer five foot three.

Why did I want to be five foot three?

Davy Jones was five foot three. I did not want to be taller than Davy Jones, as he was my favorite Monkee. (Hey, he had the accent and even at 13, I was a sucker for an accent.)

Today, when I read via Facebook that Davy Jones had died, all I could think about was my sorrow when I found out I had grown an inch and was no longer five foot three. I remember thinking when walking out of a Stake 'N' Shake in O'Fallon, IL, I did not want to grow and being five foot three inches was perfect.

I grew two more inches before I finally stopped growing.

Today, I headed into the guest room and hunted out my Monkees CDs. I own two. At the time, the only CDs that were for sale were greatest hits sorts of CDs, not the ones the group released back in the 1960s. I've got two Greatest Hits CDs. And while I picked out Davy Jones as my favorite, my favorite songs are all sung by Micky Dolenz. Kind of like the fact I adore George Harrison, yet my favorite songs are all sung by Paul McCartney. Go figure, right? Just another screwy Ireland thing, more than likely.

I think my parents might have enjoyed the time I was obsessed with music from their childhoods, because as I hit 14 and worked my way into high school, I started to get with the times and I liked boy bands ('N Sync, Backstreet Boys, 98 Degrees, etc.) and I played those CDs on repeat, loudly, to the point my own father knows every single song on Millennium. It got to the point that no one in the house could stand the 'N Sync Christmas CD, so they bought me the 98 Degrees one. (I'm sure they still all cringe if they hear 'N Sync at Christmas.)

I've now uploaded the Monkee CD that failed to be all ready in my iTunes library. While I work my way through A's rewrite, I'll listen to the Monkees, which if I'm honest, I haven't listened to in a long while. And I'll hit repeat and no one will care, as it doesn't seem to bother Basil. (Basil hates Bon Jovi and the Backstreet Boys. BSB actually makes her bark like a crying baby makes her bark. Odd, right?)

Hazards of Alaskan Living

Snow.

We've had snow on the ground since October.

We do not own a snow blower. We own a shovel. Actually, we don't own it. It came with the house. It's a very nice shovel. Except when you want to shovel. I hate it when I have to shovel.

Our driveway is a slight disaster for a wide array of reasons. Snow, ice, snow, ice, rain, melting snow, the fact we only use one side of it because Suzi hates Alaskan winters. We got a good couple inches these past few days, so I ventured out to shovel.

I thought I'd make the driveway better.

It's worst.

For one, the tire tracks left by the Monstrosity are a combination of frozen snow and ice. I can't shovel them up. They are also growing as the winter continues, so they are pretty much one half of the driveway. I struggled for almost two hours trying to get the driveway shoveled till I gave up. It looked like a disaster area where I attempted to shovel and you still couldn't see blacktop. Also, it was REALLY SLIPPRY.

At least it snowed last night. So now you can't tell I even shoveled. Well, except on the side of the driveway I didn't get to and began new snow piles, as the ones in our driveway are over eight feet high. I can't throw things that high. With the shovel.

In the past few weeks I've also seen people cleaning off their roofs. The guy next door has some sort of special motorized roof shovel to clean it off. No one told me I'd have to worry about shoveling the freaking roof. Pilot Boy thinks it is stupid to shovel the roof.

"Takes away insulation."

So, we still have snow on our roof. All of it. Every layer.

Do I think if I had a snow blower, my attempt to clean the driveway would have gone better?

No.

I can't use a snow blower. Ask my mother.

Writing Updates

I'm writing this to update the following:

1. My writing (as in novels)
2. My writing and entry for this blog that Blogger lost.

We will deal with two first.

I wrote a nice, long, detailed entry about my trip to Florida in January. It had pictures! It had links! It had funny stories!

Then it wouldn't publish. It was stuck. I SAVED THE ENTRY multiple times throughout the construction and before I put the pictures in. So, while I was sad I'd loose the pictures, I was like, whatever. So, I hit the back button.

Blogger saved THE FIRST SENTENCE. And the tags I added AFTER I PUT THE PICTURES IN.

I've been mad at Blogger for awhile now. My brother suggested I try Wordpress, so I did. Only, I don't know how to get y'all over there easily and still follow through Google, so here I am still.

Now, onto the first one.

Writing.

I do it. Daily. Often. Constantly.

This doesn't mean I have much to show for it. And by show for it, finished novels in order for people to actually read. Nor do I have readers. I have maybe three. My friend A read two things for me and got her comments back to me. I'm on the right track. A friend of my brothers has Summer Story. haven't heard a peep from her, but brother assures me it's covered in red (editing, suggestions...I quiver with excitement. Have been. For months. I am serious.) My other friend (S), is slowly getting back to me on 10p. Last time she gave me her feelings on the story, the story were heading in the right direction. She was feeling what she ought to towards the characters. Twas all good.

But I feel like I need more before I start querying myself around. I feel like 10p is ready to go. (And by go, I don't think it has any huge plot holes.) But I don't want to start doing anything till I get it back from S.

And I'm not in a rush. Other than my husband gave me a year deadline. (Well, it's a bit longer. I have till our next move.) And what is this deadline? I have to get a job. He doesn't care what it is, but I have to get a job that pays. (He doesn't think my selling purses is a job, though he did send me to a leather store...he wants me to break into leather. I think he's insane, but we all ready know he is nuts.) My current job (as a writer) doesn't pay me diddle squat. I just spend hours upon hours at it and have no $$$ to show. $$$ is important to Pilot Boy. And to me, insomuch I'd like some money.

So, now what?

I have several open ended projects. I get stuck and just stop writing. I banged out a bunch of EH stories and DM stories then got stuck on their final ones (well, I only started EH, haven't even touched DM.)

The 10p series is at a stand still. The last two stories of that series I don't know where I am going with them. They have a strong start though. I'm really bad at outlining and planning out. I just kind of sit down and start. And hope for the best. I know this is not the best way to go around constructing a story, but I'm honestly better at this than you think. And by that I mean, I do finish novels. I do finish them and I do have some vague sense of what I want to get to in the end. I have beginnings and endings in mind, just no middles. I know where DM and EH is going to end. I know this, I just don't know how to get them there in a manner that is a novel length long book. (DM has this issue more so than EH, not sure why, but E is much longer winded than D...) With the Four Girls series, I have the start of their series banged out, completed and ready to read. I'm missing Book Two, Three and Book Five. I have Book Four completed. And I have the ending of Book Five, plus bits and pieces. Only, I have changed up relationships and characters in re-writing things. I also don't know if I even want to write Book Three, or if I just want to glaze over all that and just use flashbacks in the next book to go over it. Mostly because the characters all all over the place (two in Scotland, one in France, on in Wisconsin.) Also, I only have ONE of the character's story lines for that book worked out in any sense.

But onto what I am currently working on while the other stuff sits around...

I am rewriting RAB for the third time. Why? Because it's weak in the current form it's in. I tragically discovered during my failed attempts to get my family to read it G wasn't likable. Or she had no purpose. No drive. Basically, G is/was me. So of course she has no direction, no drive, or desires. At her age, I had none. (Other than having better hair and clothes.) Also, in trying to insert romance into her story in my last rewrite, she ventured very far off her original track. After having A read it (she said it was cute, not her cup of tea and she felt that Greta ought to wrap things up, as I combined G's and AK's stories together as alone they weren't LONG enough...go figure), I felt that I needed to go back to the start with G. With all of them, actually. I got bored reading the new versions, something that hasn't happened ever with RAB. So, I tried to find the orignal version (before I changed up to make it more interesting) and rewrote it. I took out the romance in G's story, kept it as it originally was and focused more on the fact G simply wants to be around people who like her for who she is, as her main issue in life is that she is G and people like her only for her name. (This is an ongoing theme for the poor girl, as she deals with it again in her second book.)

It took me forever to rewrite G's story for one reason: Pilot Boy.

He is a pest. He's worst than the dog sometimes with bothering me, interrupting me, and demanding my attention like a three year old. (I love him, still, but seriously.) I try to write while he's at work, but he's on an assignment where he's 'bored" all the time. Till I put my foot down and he gave me a year to do whatever, I couldn't actually type out a whole scene without him texting me, calling me, messaging me in some form. I used to be able to multitask, but as I've gotten older, when I am in the writing zone, I find it's best if I just STAY THERE. Then it all pours out before I forget. (A concept Pilot boy has issue with.)

Finally, we came up with the Blue Light. The blue light is this stupid light I got from IKEA when I was in high school because I thought it was cute. How can I light be cute? Well, it's got feet. And looks kind of like a cartoon character of a light bulb. I had it throughout college in my dorm room. I hardly ever turn it on because it's kind of stupid and gets really freaking hot. Since we moved to Anchorage, it's lived on the desk. So, after having a small battle one evening after Pilot Boy came home, he said, "FINE! If this blue light is on, I will leave you alone!"

I turned it on right away.

Well, the blue light is on, so I'm going to go write some more before dinner. Get a few more scenes banged out.

Camping in the Tundra

What do you do when the temperatures are below zero and it's January in Alaska?

You go camping, duh. Where have you been?

Ireland 3.0 camps. In cabins. Not tents.

I only went camping to shut Pilot Boy up, if I am honest with you. He has wanted to do this whole ski to a cabin, spend the night and ski back since he ran across some people doing this very thing when he and his father met a few people doing just this activity. And giving up.

But never mind that! Those people were wimps!

He doesn't really know me, clearly. I am the biggest wimp in the world. I cry before they stick the needle in. I cry before they do anything that might hurt. Even if I know it won't hurt. I'm also terrified of the unknown, so going "camping" isn't exactly my cuppa tea.

I'd rather have a cuppa tea.

He wore me down though. First, he took me skiing, then he bought me skis. He then took me skiing a few times, and while it was clear as day I fail at life while on skis, he finally got me to make it a mile and not wind up in tears of frustration. Plus, we can take Basil! She loves snow!

I gave up. Simple answer to a complex question. I just gave up.

This is why I wind up doing things I ought not to be doing. Like skiing cross country, hiking through forest, fishing for halibut, driving from St. Louis to Del Rio, TX alone after moving ourselves out of our first apartment, eating tomatoes, etc.

So, after I made it a mile on my skis, Pilot Boy said, "We can go to that cabin that's only a mile in! You can ski a mile!"

"I need a bathroom."
"It's got a bathroom!"
"In the cabin?"
"Sure."
"Can we take Basil?"
"YES! HERE WE GO!"

Well, this cabin was only a mile in, and we could take the dog and there was a bathroom. The bathroom was not connected to the cabin in the least. It was the typical Alaska State Park outhouse. The cabin had no power. It was heated by a wood burning stove. And you had to ski to get there. Up and down hill.

I still do not get along with hills. AT ALL.

The one room cabin with wood slaps for beds was located two hours north of home in Denali State Park. On a lake. The lake was the draw for Pilot Boy as he wanted to fish. (More on this later.)

After driving and watching the temperate actually rise as we traveled inland and north, we reached the park. We unloaded all out stuff, put on backpacks and connected the sled to Pilot Boy and put Basil in her fluorescent orange coat and set off.

Getting there was actually easy, as it was most downhill. I was still frozen stiff though when we reached the cabin. I greeted the cabin by falling flat on my butt and getting snow up my back, as for some unknown reason none of my layers wanted to remain around my waist, protecting my back.

I fell again before reaching the cabin fully and Pilot Boy simply unsnapped me from my skis. So ended my skiing for the day.

Pilot Boy skied once more to the car to get more wood, as he did not want to use the wood left in the cabin. I figured we'd need to use some of it even after the second load arrived as the fire ate wood. Just ate it. As fast as it could. It did.

Also, I discovered, it did not fully heat the room very well, as things that were not located near the fire were somewhat cold/frozen/dead.

Pilot Boy assured me after I reached the cabin I didn't have to do anything except read. Kendi the Kindle (my wonderful high-tech e-Book reader device thingy) was frozen though, so the battery lagged the first hour we were there till I managed to warm her up. Then my cell phone died a quick death – I cannot stand silence as my ears ring unless there is noise about.

It was quiet. Or at least I assume it was quiet, as my ears were just going BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

But I digress.

Pilot Boy wanted to go to the cabin to ice fish. I think he must attempt all forms of fishing. He even dragged his fishing poles to Florida with us on our vacation. While Pilot Boy seems to do a lot of fishing, he doesn't catch much. Especially here in Alaska. I've seen him catch one fish in Alaska. (I didn't witness the halibut catch, but I know he caught those while we were way out in the ocean last June.)

I've never caught a fish in Alaska, except the halibut, which if I had had my way, I wouldn't have caught. But, that is not the point, the point is that ice fishing was a total bust. One: it was FREEZING cold. (Duh!)  Two: Fish knew it was cold and were like, aw hell no. We won’t bite. Go away until Spring.

Pilot Boy rented a cork-screw object called an auger in order to drill a hole in the solid ice. The lady at the joint kept asking him if why he wanted the non-motorized one. His philosophy was he didn't want to deal with gasoline. It wasn't till he was out standing in the freezing cold attempting to make his hole in the thickest ice known to mankind, he began to think maybe he ought to have gotten the one that would use gasoline as elbow grease. He finally made his hole, set up the ice fishing contraption and returned to the cabin.

The cabin. Where it was still cold if you were not within a foot of the fire, which was then far too hot.

I was still wearing both my coats (My Columbia shell, my brand new Denali, The North Face coat (which is a good purchase - I should not have allowed the price factor to scare me when I first got here, best coat EVER), my snow pants and boots. I was reading my Kindle with gloves on while wearing my hat and my hood.

At one point I turned around to find my poor dog shivering, while curled up on herself on the sleeping bags we'd unrolled. There was a reason Pilot Boy suggested we unroll them, but I cannot remember. Least to say, I tried to tempt the poor creature to the fire, but she was terrified of the metal that was immediately in front of the fire, for I guess a reason in her little dog brain. It never got hot, so who knows. She loves fire, it's like sun! Only at night!

Least to say, I ordered Pilot Boy to get her bed in his next trek to the car, which he did, which Basil refused to get in till bedtime, then she got out every so often to attempt to put her furry butt in my face and stop my breathing.

At some point, Pilot Boy figured out the secret to getting the fireplace to kind of work to the point where I did not need to wear all my coats. I kept my boots on and the North Face jacket. But at some point the hat did leave, and I was able to loose the gloves and Kendi the Kindle began to work properly.

After getting more wood, Pilot Boy dragged Basil Bea and I out to look at his hole in the ice. It was a horrific ski, but I was walking. Pilot Boy skied once and learned his lesson (this means it must have been bad, as usually for Pilot Boy to stop doing something I see as stupid, take a long time). Basil was THRILLED to be outside, ran around, jumped through snow drifts and was a happy puppy till she reached the lake. I'm not sure how the dog knew she was suddenly on the lake, but she kind of freaked out.

Basil hates water. Except if it is in her water bowl, or a bowl that is smaller than her head, she hates any sort of body of water. She will not drink from it, will not walk in it, will not swim in it, and will not go near it if she can help it. This might steam from the fact that within seconds of letting her into our home, we gave her a bath.

And then we proceeded to bathe the mutt three or four times because she was THAT DIRTY. She was confused and conflicted when ever we took her to the lake in the Dirt Hole, which continues to this day. I was trailing behind and knew that Basil Bea wanted more than anything to follow her Boy out, but she didn't want to walk on the water.

This water Basil feared was buried underneath her at least two feet (if not more) of snow, plus at least four feet of ice. Least to say, she wasn't going to get wet from the water, it was not going to do a thing to her. After dancing around where I assume the shore was, she darted out and did this rather insane looking walk that was honestly reminiscent of the first time we put boots on her paws. It was as if she had no control over her limbs. She stopped and seemed at a loss on what to do half way to Pilot Boy.

"Will you pick her up?" Pilot Boy called.

I honestly thought she was cold, so when I reached her, I picked her up and cuddled her. I realized that my dog was not cold, but terrified, as she CUDDLED INTO ME.

My dog doesn't like me, does not cuddle up next to me unless there is something wrong with me or with her. Since neither of us was feeling ill, I knew she wasn't cold, she was terrified.

"I think she knows she's in the lake," I told Pilot Boy.

"How?"

"I don't know. Dog sense?"

Pilot Boy scoffed at this idea, but after a moment, I put her down and she ran like normal. Clearly forgetting where she was. She danced around Pilot Boy, till she saw his hole and saw the water. She then could not for the life of her figure out what was going on. Pilot Boy complained the hole kept freezing. I was freezing so I started back. Basil Bea was fine till she reached the shore area and she began to do her crazy looking dance till she reached solid land. She reverted back to normal.

Winter in Alaska, the sun says goodbye early. Granted, we're in late January now, so it hangs out more than it used to, but it still sets and vanishes and refuses to show its face till after eight the next morning. After the sun sank, we discovered a few things.

1. There was little to do except sleep.
2. The light that claimed to work up to five feet away for reading, lit almost nothing.
3. Head lights worn constantly do not lead to good conversation being had, as I kept blinding Pilot Boy.
4. Going to the bathroom sucks.
5. The guest book is rather hilarious.

Pilot Boy read me the guest book before the sun really went away. While most people adored the cabin, thought it was the best thing ever, a few did point out the pitfalls. One couple somehow managed to get the fire going so much it was too hot to sleep. One woman had everything go wrong and she wrote at least five pages lamented this fact. I assume while she waited for her boyfriend to come back from Anchorage with her spare keys, as something happened and they couldn't break into her car. Or something.

Dinner was a can of clam chowder, which was cooked pilot style: in the can. Pilot Boy claims to do this all the time on his airplane, so I figured I might not die. We left the can sitting on the stove for a long time till it was boiling and then ate it. Then, at a loss on what to do in the dark with the only light coming from our head lamps, Pilot Boy took a "nap."

Granted this isn't much different from a night at home, I honestly got rather tired of reading by the head lamp, which are not made for reading. I really wished Pilot Boy would have splurged on a better light. (Once we got home, the light he bought warmed up to the point it worked properly...I finally managed to convince Pilot Boy the whole room had not been well heated by the fire. The fact our belongings were always frozen didn't seem to say this fact in the least...)

After a horrific trip through the dark and snow to the bathroom, we piled into our sleeping bags. Basil attempted to join us (several times), but her furry butt was not welcome. I'm allergic to Basil's furry butt, and wood burning fires do not like my nose either. While I had taken drugs, I was still rather miserable and I honestly didn't want to deal with a full-on headache. (Which, showed up the next morning in combination with my lack-of-caffeine headache.)

I did manage to sleep, have a few weird dreams about college, and woke up feeling...not as bad as I figured I would.

Secret to sleeping on a hard surface? Sleep on your stomach. It works. I've done the whole sleep on the floor a few times (cough, cough, cough, when we move and Pilot Boy refuses to stay in the hotel and extra night before our stuff shows up), and I never sleep and wake sore. Slept on stomach. Not sore. Couldn't breathe, but I was not sore.

Morning started out okay, till we discovered the frozen sandwiches. Frozen solid. In the "heated" cabin.

We packed up easily and started out for the car as after the sun rose. (Because the sun didn't have to come over the mountains that live around Anchorage, it seemed like the sun rose earlier up north, but it does not. The sun in Anchorage rises earlier, just hangs out behind the mountains a lot longer.)

I had not been looking forward to skiing in the dark, but by the time we were ready to leave, the sun was up. No more need for head lamps!

Skiing back was a massive failure on my end. I managed to get up the big hill I was dreading, as it was a gradual hill, not a steep one. The steep ones did me in. I wound up going backwards, no matter what I did.

Finally, Pilot boy snaps my skis off (I couldn't, as I was using my poles to keep me from sliding further down the hill) and I walked to the car. Carrying Basil part of the way, as Pilot Boy was terrified our dumb dog would dark out and get hit by one of the large trucks that was hanging out in the parking lot for the night.

Did I tell you our dog is heavy? And that she hates to be carried? And hates to be parted with her dear Pilot Boy?

Carrying Basil was more fail. I finally just let her go and she happily danced over to Pilot Boy and seeing she is currently asleep in her crate a few feet from me, she did not get hit by anything and lives to this day.

Nursing a massive headache, I got into the Monstrosity, whom by the way, was PISSED we left her in the cold overnight.

The Monstrosity was cold. Very cold.

I wound up sitting on our iPhones the whole way home in an attempt to let them warm up and charge quicker. And I kept Kendi the Kindle zipped inside my coat so as to not allow the battery to die because of the frightful cold.

We drove all the way to Wasilla (infamous home of Sarah Palin) till we reached breakfast. (We earlier attempted to eat the frozen sandwiches. I would not suggest that.) By the time we were there, though, it was lunch time. So I had hot coffee with my breakfast not-frozen hamburger.

And Life Was Better.

Once again, I flung myself at my couch upon returning home, telling it I was not leaving it every again. I repeated his action with the bed and Lucy the iMac computer device. I doubt any of the objects in my life believe me, as I promised this same promise a few days before and then left again. To go camping in The Tundra.

Least to say, though, I will not abandon them to go "camping" ever again. I'm not an outdoor girl, I'm not a camping girl, I'm not a roughing it girl. I'm a girl who likes flushing toilets and lights powered by electricity.

Sometime in the next month, I'll share the tale of Ireland and the Humid Florida Adventure.