I Heart Water

We went away for two weeks.

Now, since we've owned this house, we've not left it alone for more than hours at a time. I did not honestly think we had to sit around looking after the house, as it's a house. We've lived in a house before and left it for extended periods. It was always perfectly fine when we returned home.

Of course, this one wasn't okay.

Yeah, it looked fine. Everything was where we'd left it and from the outside it appeared to be perfectly normal.

It felt good to be back, out of the car, and not going anywhere anytime soon. The whole upheaval of the holidays was over. Brilliant!

I went to get the dog some water, as she hadn't had any in quite awhile.

I turned the tap and nothing happened.

"Did you turn the water off?" I called out to Pilot Boy.
"No. Why would I do that?"
"I don't know. It doesn't work," I replied, moving the tap up and down some more.

Nothing happened.

Seriously. Nothing.

It is winter. Since it got "cold" we've seen signs telling people to leave their taps dripping, which to us former residents of Alaska sounded idiotic. It doesn't get that cold here.

And it DID NOT get THAT cold here while we were gone. Sure, they had some winter weather, but it wasn't THAT cold. And our house is NEW(ish).

Pilot Boy didn't think the pipes were frozen (it was 60 degrees), so he called the water company. I  payed the bill (and the new bill I had in my hand claimed I did as well). But, he called them and asked if they'd turned it off.

Nope. Our pipes must be frozen.

It was sixty freaking degrees out. And the day before it'd been forty. Why are our pipes frozen?

Pilot Boy went about calling plumbers and "thawing" the pipes.

Nothing happened. At least unlike the a/c guys, the plumbers all ANSWERED their phones. They couldn't show up that day but they ANSWERED.

Pilot Boy at some point talked to this guy he knows down the street who'd been around and he told him it'd been warm throughout the entire time we'd been gone. (Except the day we left, of course.) Basically, our pipes shouldn't have been frozen.

(I lived in Alaska for three years. It actually GETS cold there. Our pipes never froze. And we left in the dead of winter quite a few times during those three years and never came home to frozen pipes.)

Let me tell you something: it sucks not having water. You do not realize how much you use water until you don't have any. Yeah, our toilets flushed and you could get two flushes out of them before they needed to be reloaded and yeah, we went out and bought drinking water, but you can't do dishes, you have to carry around water to wash your hands, and you cannot bathe. (Well, we could if we went to the gym or the neighbor's house, but still. I'm pregnant. I don't want to shower in a stranger's home or a gym.)

Luckily, the plumber showed up the next afternoon. He was confused when he was told we have frozen pipes and no water pressure.

"It's been warm," he informed me.
"I know," I said.

He went to investigate at the water thingy in the front yard and discovered it was turned off.

"Did you call the city?"
"Yes. They said they didn't turn our water off."
"Someone turned your water off."

I could only shrug.

He turned the water on, then turned it off.

During his quest to find the water thingy (you know, the thing that turns water to the house on and off), Pilot Boy had done something to cause the sprinkler system thing (I've no idea what it is but it's for the sprinkler system) to spout water off straight into the air next to the house. The plumber had no clue how to fix it, as he'd never seen anything like it before. He suggested in the spring we call the company that installed it and have them look at it. Or they (the plumbing company he worked for) could look at it. He did shut it off, cutting off the water supply to the sprinkler system.

Then he turned our water back on and oh, how it was lovely to have water again. (After I spent an hour running water through the pipes and getting all the stale water out or whatever my dad said I ought to do. I had no clue, but it made sense at the time.)

Moral of the story?

Someone turned our water off. Our pipes were not frozen, our water was off. Thanks city. You're really on top of things.

It's Research, Not Stalking...Honest

When I first began writing seriously (meaning past naming characters, putting them in designer clothing and making up some dialogue), I never did research. I sat in a cold, concrete floored room at the back of The Ditch and wrote what I knew.

Pages upon pages of what I knew.

Then, I began to make outlandish things up.

And I filled pages upon pages with words.

I never sat around thinking, "Hey, I don't know enough about that, I should look it up."

Granted, this was the day and age before the internet was in your hand at all times, but the Internet was a happening thing and I believe I sometimes ventured over to use it to research things whilst still in high school. I know I used it in college.

I hated the internet.

I'm honest. I hated with with a flaming passion because I could NEVER find what I wanted. Throughout college, I sat in the dusty library and did my research using books that sometimes hadn't seen the light of day since the sixties.

And I still wrote.

Still filled pages of notebook paper with words, still typed Word docs filled with stories and characters I grew to love.

But, never once did I research anything passed maybe looking up a meaning of a name I was unable to find within one of the numerous baby name books I own.

It never occurred to me that as a writer of works of fiction, I'd have to do research, have to do something similar to what I did when writing an essay for school.

Then, one day, my mother informed me I ought to "look something up" so it sounded like I knew what I was talking about. I do not remember WHAT she told me to look up, only she created a monster.

I am a research monster now.

I'm still not any good at it, the internet still fails ninety five percent of the time to tell me what I want it to tell me, but I research everything now. Hours of my life are wasted on various websites looking up random bits of information. I've spent time hunting down slang used in the Old West for ONE SENTENCE.  I've wasted time trying to find how a British person would say "crazy" in the twenties. I spent an hour trying to find out when the rollerball pen was invented and how widely used it was in the 1940s. I spent at least two days searching floor plans online till I finally gave up and made my own-- just so I could describe something better. I've lost track of how many time I've made sure the stupid pop culture reference I've made actually would be known by certain characters and are the right time period.

It's a lot of freaking work.

And that's just for the fan fiction I've been working on as if recent.

Last summer I spent days on end looking at school catalogues to get ideas for course to stick students in. I've wasted hours making sure the schedules I made for them actually worked. I've spent years trying to figure out what colleges some of my characters are going to attend, though I don't plan to actually write about them IN college. I've spent days staring at a map of Glasgow on a real estate site trying to find a flat. For a fictional character. (I did find one. Well, two. Then I merged them, as what I wanted doesn't actual exist.) I've scoured the internet for images of interiors so I'd have a good idea how to describe them. (One day just to find out they'd remodeled the building I was trying to write about so I really had to just use what was in my head. No one thought to take pictures of the fourth floor Adam Smith lecture hall before they redid it...)

Hours of my life were lost when I was working on HYRM and I got lost in a world of quotes. Quotes ate me alive for days on end.

Many of the clever things I come up with in my original works as well as my fan fics no one bothers to really take note of...it's like I always thought: no one notices. They are reading and enjoying the story-- not looking for symbolism, not looking for those little things.

Then, I got feedback when someone noticed the painstaking effort I put forth.

One of my stories follows two real people, who are quite famous. I went back to my roots in my fan fics and started writing about actual people instead of fictional ones. I had the idea in my head for awhile and it wanted out, so I let it out. Yeah, you might think it is rather teenybopper of me, and I think it is, but I like the two OCs I created and if I REALLY wanted to, I could change the names of the famous people, change the names of projects, etc and it'd be orignal. So, I guess you can say I'm just too lazy to change the inspiration. (10p technically started out as a fan fic, only I changed the main romantic interests name, then his profession, thus, it's not. See? No...that's fine.)

Anyways, I've become somewhat fixated with where these two people WERE. I don't care where they are right now, I care where they WERE. I get caught up in trying to figure it out, till I suddenly realize what I'm doing and I laugh.

I'd be worried if I hadn't done the same thing when I was writing some of my original works. Granted I cannot scurry the internet to figure out where my characters were located, but if you saw the pile of paper I carry around for RAB, you'd see I'm rather keen to know every detail.

It wasn't always like this. Once upon I time, I just made stuff up and called it a day.

(Except that one time when I was in high school and I drew a map of the town RAB takes place in just so I could name the street's D used to get from one end of town to another. I could have just made that up, but...I didn't. I made an entire map. On lots of paper. I still have it and use it too. Well, I did have it...I'm not sure where it got off to now that I think about it. Hopefully it survies the move.)

Vivid Imaginations Are Not Always Good

Those indeed are my feet. And they do not actually look that small in person. It's the camera angle and pointing my toes together. I took the photo myself with my iPhone. Because no one helps me photograph things in this family. (Hence why the last photos of me that were taken were at Christmas.)

In other news, I'm NOT dying!

(There was about an two hours this morning I assumed the worst, panicked and had to medicate myself. Pilot Boy, of course, abandoned me for the first time since we left AK, so clearly, I'm going to wind up dying in the hospital or something...or that was my thinking. Clearly, I'm not in a hospital or dying.)

Why am I excited about the whole not dying? Because I've been in very minor pain (read, most people would have completely ignored it, but I am me and I HATE pain) for a few days longer than I thought normal, so finally I dragged myself in a mild panic to the phone to make an appointment. Last time I had similar pains, I wound up in the hospital for four days and had some guy cut me open and remove my appendix. And that wasn't the worst thing that happened whilst I was there. But, that is not a story y'all want to hear. Trust me.

Anyways, after suffering a panic attack, I downed those one of those little happy pills I picked up in Alaska for moving and felt...a weird combination of calm and panicked. To came in waves. I'd panic, then clam down and feel sleepy. Then I'd panic again. It was an annoying cycle till I had to leave.

When I first got the pills, due to the fact I read the warnings, I refused to operate a car whilst on them. However, seeing as Pilot Boy flew the coop, I had no choice but to drive myself and seeing I'd taken a pill on Sunday (I was thinking the pain was part of an upcoming panic attack, which I was having due to the prospect of being out in the sun for hours around hoards of people--which wound up not happening because Pilot Boy can't read the date on his iPhone correctly and the air show/car show wasn't going on when we got there) and managed to watch Iron Man 3 and pick up on things Pilot Boy failed to notice, I was like, "I can drive!"

So, I did.

It wasn't really until I actually got into the clinic did I become super loopy.

First, I went the wrong way to Flight Med. Luckily a nurse pointed me in the right way. (I might have scared her with my huge smile and cheery thank you while looking like death warmed over-- which I look like usually, as I am the palest thing in Texas. And I was super pale today, as I forwent my usual makeup in fear of being shoved into the hospital.) After going back the way I came passed the coffee bar (yeah, the clinic's got a Starbucks), I arrive at the correct place and handed my ID over and waited for the paper work.

"You can sit down," the woman said, handing my ID back to me.

I stared at her, cocked my head and sat down.

Without any paperwork.

I sat with some babies who were getting shots till they called my name.

Fifteen minutes early. (I was super early because I thought it'd take me longer to get there and I knew I'd get lost. I still refuse to use the highways here unless I have to. So, sometimes I wind up somewhere I've never been before.)

I wandered after the nurse to the exam room, sat down and began to laugh. I was also shaking, twitching and just all around acting strange. I quickly explained my issues and added the fact I'd taken some anxiety pills that morning.

She knew which one I had taken and I hadn't needed to drag the bottle out to tell her.

In fact, she knew everything about me from the past five years. (Medical wise, she failed to know that I sit around writing, making up my own words, and singing songs about my dog.)

The computer worked. My records had transfered.

I kind of died of shock at this point. In the past five years since I "joined" this whole military thing, no one has ever known anything when I've gone to the doctor because the computer never works and my chart never says anything past my name (though something they don't even know that and call me Pilot Boy). Hence why I simply gave up trying to solve my allergy issues whilst in Alaska because the last doctor they'd shoved me off on used GOOGLE to look up what drugs to put me on. GOOGLE. I use GOOGLE to figure out what drugs I want to take. (Well, when I research that type of thing, which was once. Google failed me, so I began asking people I knew who were on the same thing. It yielded better results.)

But today, they knew EVERYTHING. They had all my blood pressures, all my medications (they frowned as it'd clearly not been updated in some respects. There were a few things I'm not on any longer that were still on there as if I were taking them) and basically everything I'd ever written a million times on that damn paper they always hand me first thing!

It was so shocking I almost passed out.

The best thing, though, I got a prescription for Zyrtec. I could write odes to that pretty little pill that allows me to kind of breath and not die from the fact Russia likes to live in my head right between my eyes.

Anyways, the pain I was in there for turned out to be strained muscles from over zealous Pilaties crunching. So, no core working out for four to six weeks. BAH. Just as I was getting back into it. At least I'm not dying, they do not have to cut me up to drag something out of there or give me another vile cat-scan. (You do not want to know.)

Moral of the story: for the first time ever, I'm actually somewhat impressed with the medical wing. They had their stuff together. Or I happened to catch them on a good day. I only was at the pharmacy for maybe a half hour-- if that. I didn't pay attention. I was reading and coming down off my panic high. (Trust me, I'm feeling it now...and this one was bad...I haven't ached like this since I got the happy pills. I can't imagine what state I'd been in without the meds....eek.)

In other news that has nothing to do with my health, I finished book four of my Potter series. I also began posting my newest obsession. Links to all can be found under the tab with a list of all my stories. I'm trying to get my act together and get something posted on Wattpad-- something original. I was thinking of posting Elle, but I think she needs some more editing. Mostly because when I looked, I couldn't figure if I'd put the edits in or not. Or if I had been in the process of editing it on my Kindle. Basically, I got confused. Not unheard of.

Well, I have one last read through on the next part of the New Obession. Since I posted one this AM, I figured I'd post this in the PM. Get more readers in the afternoon than morning.

Laterdays.

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.

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.

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?)

What Feature Does Ireland 3.1 Have?

For Previous incarnations of Ireland, see entry here.

Ireland 3.1 does the following:

Attempts to ski.

I write attempt due to the fact that is what I am doing: attempting.

The first time I went skiing (FYI, I'm talking cross country, not downhill. Ireland doesn't go down hills. Or up.) was last winter, in January when it warmed up and Pilot Boy finally found himself in the same city as myself. We went to the special place where you need a special kind of card to get to, so it wasn't crowded. Plus, it was a week day. The area where the course was suggested I attempt my first try at skiing was also...groomed. And it was flattish.

Well, to make a long story short, I used my rented skis, did not fall down and acutally had fun.

Then the Pilot Boy went off in a jet plane and by the time he got around to hanging out at home, the snow was gone. So ended my cross country ski season last year.

This year, after my birthday, Pilot Boy announced, "We're getting you skis."

I did not believe him. Why? Last year he told me he was going to get me snow shoes. Snow shoeing seemed something Ireland 2.9 could achieve. I never got snow shoes. Pilot Boy bought himself another pair of cross country skis, these crazy things called back country skis, which he used twice last winter.

So, I kind of doubted him when he loaded me into the car and proclaimed we were going to Play It Again sports. Part of this was because I didn't believe Play It Again existed, but it did and had a TON of skis. All sort of skis.

To make another long story short, do not wear a mini skirt and leggings when buying skis. Or heels.

But, I walked out of the store with a pair of skis. And a pair of boots, bindings, and poles.

The next day, we loaded all these things into the Monstrosity and drove an hour into the mountains to a place that had enough snow to ski. I made it about twenty minutes before I was frozen, cranky and had fallen down twice due to hills. Pilot Boy assured me we'd try again in town somewhere flattish, as there is no where truely flat in Anchorage.

After the first major snow fall, Pilot Boy loaded me back into the Monstoristy and drove me to a local park and said, "Okay, this snow is perfect for skiing and I doubt the trail is groomed and used a lot, so there'll be good snow for slowing you down."

I have a fear of going down hill. On skis, on my bike, on skates, on my feet....

The second time I stepped into my skis, it was dark and snowing. It did go better than the first time I put my very own skis on, though. I fell a total of three times and none was due to going downhill.

The first time I fell over was because I went off the trail. Because I was sticking to the edge and just kind of fell over. The second time I fell over it was because I stopped suddenly and got tangled up in my own legs, which is funny in itself due to the fact I have short legs. The last time, though, was the best fall.

Pilot Boy and I were done and we glided into the parking lot. I had been unable to actually get my boots to dislocate from the ski. So I am gliding into the parking lot and Pilot Boy unsnaps himself and I suddenly realize, rather randomly, my legs are going two different directions and I can't stop them for some reason. In order to prevent myself from crashing to the ground, I dig my poles into the snow and prop myself up. I know I look all crazy, but I just don't want to fall face first into the snow by the car.

"Can you unhook me?" I ask Pilot Boy.
"No. You need to do it yourself. Learn to unhook yourself," he replies stubbornly.
"I can't. I'll fall."
"No, you won't."
"Yeah. Trust me. My legs are going in two different directions."

Pilot Boy snorts at me and ignore me. I stay in my awkward postion for a moment before he says, "You're getting yourself out of this mess."

So I let myself fall. It was...in slow motion. My legs flew out and I fell face first into the snow. I am not even sure how I managed it, but I felt like I was just dismounting my skis, only they remained on my feet, thus I ended up with my face in the snow.

Let me tell you, the parking lot is not the best place to fall face first into the snow. Even if the parking lot hasn't been driven in much and there's two feet of snow in it.

"How the hell did you just do that?" Pilot Boy asks and I can hear the awe in his voice.
"No clue. Help."

He finally aids me and unsnaps me from the skis. I push myself up and begin laughing.

"Well, I guess that's one way to dismount your skis," Pilot Boy comments, picking up my skis.

Since this point in time, I've only gone out one more time and I tied my boots too tight, or just strained my foot too much as I was in so much pain, I thought I was going to die. I honestly wanted to cut my feet off. For two days.

So I haven't gone again with Pilot Boy because he was really mean after the last time we went. He said he was never going agian with me because bascially I suck. Then he forgot he said this, as he keeps bugging me to go with him. He went again this weekend. Without me. He took Basil, who ran for two miles and can't talk.

So, while Ireland 3.1 attempts to ski, she can't go very far and she will always be outpaced by both Pilot Boy and Basil Bea Dog.

(I do plan to try this whole skiing thing again, but since the last time I went, it's been like....frigid, even by Alaska  standards, so I don't really want to face plant in the snow when it's below zero.)

We Don't Match, but We Always Go Together

Four years yesterday, I married my best friend, with whom I have next to nothing in common. I like to read, he hates books. He likes to do crazy things like climb mountains and run. I'd rather stay in the house and get fat. I like to talk about nothing in general, he never opens his mouth except when I'm busy. He likes really, really bad movies that I cannot stand. I like really bad pop music he cannot stand. Most of the TV shows I like he cannot stand. I like to be alone, while he likes to be surrounded by people. (He will deny this, but it is true. He is a little social butterfly, while I am a well dressed hermit.) But, for some unknown reason, we cannot get enough of one another, so we got married.

And we didn't have a rough first year. Our first move - from IL to the Dirt Hole- was kind of rough, but only because he wanted TO MOVE HIMSELF. Pilot training was easy. Once we actually got in the car to move to Alaska, it was very easy. The first deployment was actually not as horrible as I figured it would be. I only cried because the dog freaked me out by getting sick. At midnight.

So, four years ago, after forgetting his passport and birth certificate (both items claimed to be needed to get married most places) we got married. And five years after he broke my Fossil watch, and four years after I started begging him to replace it, I finally got a new watch.

I loved my Fossil watch. It was blue leather, had a medium sized cuff and a rectangular face. It went with everything and was perfect.

Till the battery died. Some three years after I got the watch off of eBay. (It was my first eBay purchase too.) And, for the life of me, I could not figure out how to change the battery. Now, I am kind of dense, but there was no real way to get at the back of the watch due to the leather cuff. The way the watch face was connected to the cuff band, there was absolutely no way on Earth to get to the back of the watch face to change the battery without ruining the gorgeous, blue leather cuff band. This was tragic on many levels, so ended the days I wore a watch.

But I missed my blue leather cuff watch. I loved wearing it with all the little blue seed bead bracelets I made to go with it. I missed knowing what time it was, as when I owned the watch, I was in college and I never carried my cell phone with me anywhere on campus. Tragically, this meant I never had a clue what time it was.

After I met Pilot Boy, I noticed he wore the most gorgeous watch. It was a Swiss Army watch, but it was elegant, not bulky and....sporty. Now, Pilot Boy has nice things, but his nice things always seem to have a hard life. By the time I showed up in Pilot Boy's life the watch had all ready been busted once due to him shoving his hand in a gigantic magnet or something and the battery was...flawed. At some point, the watch began working again, only the stop watch function does not work any more. Not that he uses it. Then, shortly after I met him, the band on his watch broke and for the life of him, he could not find a band for it. How hard is it to find a brown, leather watch band? Evidently hard when you want it to fit the Swiss Army watch face he has. When he finally got a new band, he then wore the life out of another battery. This was three years ago. I began to steal his watch last summer. It's way too big for me and Pilot Boy kept telling me, "That watch is too big for you. The face is HUGE."

I did not care. I reminded him he broke my beloved Fossil watch.

Pilot Boy never did like my Fossil watch as he viewed it as junk, so he wasn't too bothered it broke the day he decided to pry the watch back off while keeping it connected to the cuff band. He managed to get the back off, keep the band intact, but the hands on the watch....fell off. I am serious. The moment he got the back off the watch, the hands both fell off. So, I chalked the poor watch up as a lost cause and began to demand he get me a new watch.

He refused to buy me a new Fossil watch.

"Those are junky. Why do you want one of those?" he asked.
"My watch is not junky."
"It fell apart when I took the back off," he reminded me.
"Your stop watch function on your 300 dollar one doesn't work!" I countered.
"I put my hand into a super magnet."
"Why?"
"I don't remember."
"I want a new watch."
"Then buy a good one."
"I'm not paying 300 dollars for a watch!"

During this conversation, I had no idea where he'd found 300 dollars to buy a watch, as he was still in college and I didn't have a job yet. Well, I had a job, but I didn't even clear 300 dollar a week.

After we got married, I told him I wanted a watch for Christmas. I sent pictures. I sent links to watches. In return I got back all sort of ugly Swiss Army watches. I pulled him to look at watches in the stores when we'd go to the mall. He's roll his eyes and tell me to stop showing him junky watches.

Since we've been married, if there isn't something pressing I want, I have always told him I want a watch. One like his. Especially after I stole it and started wearing it, wishing the band had a few more holes so it'd fit my wrist.

I gave up hope after year three of not getting a watch. I wasn't even suspicious when I got an email a while ago asking me what I thought about white watches. Now, you might think this would set me off, alert me to what he was up to, but you do not know Pilot Boy very well.

I get asked random questions like this all the time and usually, they have something to do with someone he knows. Or sees on the street. I actually thought he was asking me what I thought about white watches because someone in his office was either wearing one/getting one/or talking about them. It's happened before. And usually, Pilot Boy does not ask me what I want. Or if he does, he ignores it completely. (This is how I wound up with a iPod, a heart necklace, a stainless steel tea kettle, a TARDIS cookie jar, a WWII pilot sweetheart bracelet, a jumbo sized photo of the inn we were married at, fleece socks, and mug of Queen Elizabeth's jubilee.) The only time he's listened to me was when he was trapped in OK for the fall and I got the pants and sweater I requested from Victoria's Secret. The other times when I get what I request, I drag him to get it. (This is how I got my Oakley sunglasses and Basil Bea Dog. Though, if he hadn't gone that day with me, I more than likely would have come home without a dog...I was overwhelmed. And he wouldn't have gotten Basil Bea if I hadn't wanted a small dog, as he wants a HUGE one.)

Other than that, he never listens. Or pays attention. Or remembers.

So, I was rather surprised yesterday when he handed me a paper bag with abstract artwork on it and said, "Here. Happy Anniversary."

It was heavy. The weight made me feel guilty (I got him underwear. I almost always get him underwear or something practical because...he never buys these things himself). By the time I pulled out the heavy box, I felt really bad. I still had no idea what it was till I unearthed it from the box with in a BOX it was in. OMG. The container the watch showed up in...is insane. It is so complicated and....a lot of packaging. After getting through the layers I found a....white watch. And then I felt horrible. I'll level with you, my anniversary sneaked up on me. I mean, I knew it was coming, but suddenly it was the day of and all I had was underwear to give Pilot Boy. My presents always fall flat next to what he gives me.

iPod - Woolworth's fleece blanket
WWII bracelet - chocolate and card telling him I am a monster (Because I hadn't gotten him anything for Valentine's Day because I thought we were going to dinner at a fancy restaurant. He woke me up before work and asked, "Do you want your present now or later?" Small panic, I chose later.)
White gold necklace - shampoo and socks
Jumbo photo - kitchen utensils.
Queen Elizabeth mug - nothing (I hate Valentine's Day. I've never wanted to celebrate it, so I had told him since we were moving to AK, we'd just forgo, but as usually, he didn't listen...)
Stainless Steel Tea Kettle - sweater
Fleece socks - a cardboard chest to keep things ( he had told me i couldn't spend more than five dollars on his first v-day gift after he gave me the sock the weekend before and I was like, WTH? We weren't exchanging gifts!)

I SUCK at getting gifts for Pilot Boy. Seriously, I really suck. I remember, at some point, I was really good at getting gifts for people. I would just walk into shops and WHAM, something would strike me as so (Fill in the black). And now....I just see things I like. It is horrible and self centered, but I try to go into gift mode and it never works. I also no longer know what to tell people I want. And now I'll have to think of something other than a watch to tell Pilot Boy...as I have a new watch now.

That is white and huge. Just like his watch, only in white. And with a smaller band.

After all this why...

Ten years ago, on 11 September, I was seated in the cafeteria. I had no homework to speak of because I was a senior and just seemed to lack homework in general. So, I was writing in my "journal." (It is in quotes, because I had two journals in high school. A public one and a private one.) Here is what was going through my head the moment I hear the news:

September 11, 2001: I've come to the conclusion I will always have an odd ball obsession with That Guy. You see, most of my childhood crushes, they went away and the person left too. That Guy never left. He's always lurking around in the background, always there. And when he wasn't for a semester what happened? B. And now he's almost nowhere and on my mind 24/7. When I'm not pondering B, I'm pondering That Guy. I swear it is the last name. Generally when I'm thinking or talking about That Guy, it's always That Guy Insert Last Name, though after five years of him I still can't spell it. And now he's remotely cute and people like BF think so, I am just so grrred. And it wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have B in my ear whispering, "i love you babe." Then I feel guilty for thinking about That Guy and those dreams... B either scares me or makes me melt by how much he loves me. At times I feel like a sap b/c I feel like a "7th Heaven" character. Then I wonder will I really marry him? Okay, they just made some announcement that I did not hear, but I bargain someone or people died. I did catch "mom of silence," "world trade center," and "airplane." But, I guess I'll hear later. 


Anyways, back to B. I really don't know what to do with him. At times I love him, miss him, want him near, but then That Guy, who I have next to no chance with, floats into my head. I will never comprehend what that was all about. And then I'm not sure. And then there's this car thing. What is that all about? So what, BF can drive if you can. It's just a car, not a baby. Grrrr....it's hard to juggle people. You know, I'm a bad person. How can I love someone I can hardly ever say anything nice about? I'm one screwed up girl. You know what, I'll probably get an ulcer and it won't be from any pain pills or drugs.


"I need to get away and find something to do. Cause everything I do reminds me of you." -Goldfinger, "Counting the Days"


Later: Okay, big day in history. The two World Trade Towers collapsed after two airplanes flew into them. The Pentagon had a plane fly into it and another hijacked plane crashed in PA. My dad's stuck in San Antonio, thank god he wasn't flying. Third hour we watched CNN. It was surreal watching both towers crumble to the ground. Just thinking I was there and now it's gone. It was just odd. I don't think Dad was coming home today. Plus, all the planes that were hijacked were transcontinental, ie NY to LA. So, I'm figuring that he's just stuck in San Antonio. There's talk of war and such. I'm finding this all hard to believe. It's like straight out of a movie. That's what all the news footage I've seen has looked like. Like the second plane flying straight into Tower Two while the first ones burning. Then the two falling to the ground live on TV. I don't know. I just want to go home and see the news. I need pictures. Well, and I gotta call B. Oh god. I have to deal with this on the retreat. It's like (almost) Columbine. Well, large scale. To put it mildly I'm grrified. It's just surreal. I've never lived through something t his big. I mean, it was announced during school. They didn't announce Columbine. This will be in the history books. My kids might ask me where I was when I heard. I was sitting in my 2nd hour study hall pinning over That Guy and B, wondering what I was going to do. At least my dad wasn't flying. Stupid SBC. If they just followed their stupid travel ban maybe....grrr.....grr....grr. I'm just glad he wasn't in NY or DC. Thank God.

Well, there you have it. That is what Ireland Scott was doing ten years ago. And my reaction to when I actually heard what happened. You see, at the time, there were no speakers in the lunchroom, thus none of us who were in there heard what the hell was announced. We all just looked at one another in a confused manner and the two teachers in with us, kind of shrugged. When the bell rang, we were the ONLY people talking. The whole school was utterly silent. And none of us who were in 2nd hour study hall had a clue what was going on, as no one was speaking. Everyone was just walking around in silence. I went to my locker and then got my stuff. I walked to my 3rd hour class: US Government. I was beginning to get a bit freaked out, as NO ONE WAS TALKING. My teacher, Mr. E, was standing in all his Nordic glory, but he had the gravest, freakiest face on in the world. (he kind of looked like Erik from True Blood, now that I think about it, when he's being all freaky serious). Usually, Mr. E smiled and greeted me as I entered, but on that day, he just stared at me. I was like, "What the hell is going on here?"

The TV was on, and turned onto CNN or something. I don't honestly remember which channel Mr. E chose to watch. I just remember sitting down and staring at the TV wondering what movie he was watching. Then, I realized, it wasn't a movie: IT WAS REAL.

It never sunk in what I was looking at. I just sat there the whole hour, watching the live footage, watching the other footage of when the first plane hit. I watched the first tower and second tower crumble that hour.

Then I went to lunch. I think I wrote that second half of my journal entry at lunch. Or not, as I think I sat with someone that semester for lunch. It was just so surreal going through the day. All I wanted to do was watch the news, even though I knew after the second tower fell, there wasn't much else we could watch. I spent the rest of the day shocked we were still going through the day. Only one teacher actually held class that day. Our physics teacher went on as nothing was going on.

My mother also picked me up because my father (who was indeed in SA and was supposed to fly home the next day) was fearful what the nutjobs in our town would do to the Islamic Center that was behind our high school. The cops had the same fears as they were out in full force when I got out of school. They were there for several days after as well.

The other clear memory was when I heard the first plane after September 11th. I was walking home from school and totally freaked out because I had no clue what the noise was. You'd think growing up under a landing pattern for O'Hare, I'd know what a plane sounded like.

I've asked Pilot Boy several times his memories on September 11th, but he can't tell me much of anything. Which is normal for Pilot Boy. He doesn't remember much of anything that isn't about flying an airplane. He doesn't remember half the things I remember clearly....like the first time I drove down to Purdue for 24 hours just to see him, when I first showed up to LEAD...and sometimes he doesn't remember clearly the events of the day he asked me to marry him.  At least he remembers me...

My Relationship with Irons

I like to iron. I have since I was a teenager and my mother handed me a stack of linen napkins after a major holiday and said, "IRON THESE AND GET OUT OF MY HAIR!"

OMG. I had so much fun!

When I was in 8th grade till my sophomore year, I ironed ALL MY CLOTHING. I am serious. The iron lived in my room. I ironed on the floor. I ironed shirts, tank tops, pants, skirts, and jeans. (Yes, I ironed my jeans....) This avid ironing lasted till I was 16. I was bad, sometimes I'd iron shirts and pants while I was wearing them. During the time I was 16, the mid-drift top was all the rage. All my tank tops were belly baring tops because that was the only length made. I had this white one, I remember it well. I hated wearing these tops, because at 16 I thought I was horridly fat down there. (Har har har.) Well, one spring morning, I was like, "I'm wearing my Gap outfit!" This outfit consisted of khaki pants, basic white tank top and a denim dress shirt that was short sleeved. After I was dressed and on my way out the door I noticed a huge wrinkle across the bottom of the tank top. I plugged the iron in, ironed out the wrinkled and left.

I barely noticed the fact my stomach hurt. It wasn't until gym 2nd hour did I realize what had happened. I was changing out of my gym suit and my friend Hilary asked, "What the hell is on your stomach?"

I looked down. There was a definite iron mark on my tummy. There were even holes. You could not mistake it for anything except an iron mark.

I had a scar there for years shaped like the edge of the iron.

After this, I stopped my relentless ironing of clothing. I don't remember why, other than I didn't have the time to do it...I also realized if you fold your clothes and put them away they don't get as wrinkled. And jeans...well, they unwrinkled themselves.

I did not have another disastrous run in with the iron until I began sewing when we lived in the Dirt Hole. Usually it was just small burns here and there on my hands. Then they started showing up on my arms. I have several light brown scars on my arms from where I whacked the iron with my bare arm. However, today, I did something really, really stupid.

I burned my whole left hand.

While holding a purse over the hand.

I don't know what the #@%^$ I was thinking. I guess it was like the days I'd iron my clothes while wearing them. But I held the purse on my hand, held up the iron, set the iron on it and steam came flying out of it and I yelped.

I burned my whole hand.

I ran to the bathroom, swearing up a storm and ran my hand under ice cold water till it was numb. Because it was my left hand, I was like MY RING WILL GET SWOLLEN ON MY FINGER! So, I spent ten minutes trying to pry it off. (It is all ready a bit too small. My finger is dis-formed from where its sat on my finger for the past two years unmoved....)

After I accomplished this task, I hurried downstairs and made myself an ice pack and have had it on and off my hand for the past.....six hours. My hand is still red, and some areas are beginning to swell, now that I've taken the cold pack off for the past 20 minutes or so to type this up. I figured since I have to drive somewhere tonight, I ought to get some use of my left hand before I leave. But this is pretty bad, you guys. My whole hand is still burning in pain. And my ring finger looks horrible. I'll have to wait till my hand heals to get my ring re-sized...but now that it's off, I know it needs to be re-sized.

In other news, I didn't get anything done because of my stellar relationship with irons.

I didn't even tell you about curling irons and me....we have an even more checkered past. And I mean checkered. My neck usually.

Smelling Things

I have a bad habit of smelling things and getting the items I smelled stuck up my nose. Often this happens with shampoo and conditioners. Or soaps. (Yes, I am that crazy lady who stands in the aisle and sniffs all the soaps before putting one in her cart.)

I have discovered, like music, certain scents remind me of places. Usually rather specific. For intance:

1. Dial White Gardenia liquid soap reminds me of the Dirt Hole, mostly the main bathroom. I used many kinds of soap whilst living in the Dirt Hole, but for some odd reason, this Dial soap reminds me STRONGLY of the bathroom at our house in Dirt Hole, from the plaid curtain to the gorgeous teal paint I painted on the crappy walls. I can still picture the old 1950s wood cabinet, the ugly handles and the stupid sink that never came clean due to the lime deposits that clung to the metal like it was going to go out of style at any moment. Also, the bathroom had two mirrors. A huge one over the sink and then a smaller one over the medicine cabinet. It was strange, but there were a lot of oddities in the house.

2. John Freida Brilliant Brunette Shampoo and Conditioner reminds me of the tiny stall shower on the third floor of Maclay Hall. (Number 18, Maclay Hall.) I was blonde when I arrived in Glasgow, but keeping it up while I was there was too much for me to handle, so I bought a box of 5 pound hair color in dark brown and some Brilliant Brunette so I didn't turn red. The smell of this stuff reminds me so much of standing in that tiny shower stall trying not to bang my head on the shower head. I also love the way it smells....but I don't seem to buy it often for some reason.

3. Old school Herbal Essence shampoo....reminds me of old school things. It was rather disturbing when I met Pilot Boy, as he used Herbal Essences. It freaked me out to no end. Luckily they stopped making it and he moved on to other things....though, now he head doesn't smell like much. The manly shampoos he uses now never linger like Herbal Essences used to. It doesn't linger very well any more either, as once the new line came out, I was standing in the aisles sucking up shampoo up my nose again. They all smell the same to me to begin with, and when I do use them, they don't linger like the old stuff used to. You could smell like Herbal Essenses for days. Now...not so much.

4. Aveda. I love how Aveda salons smell. It calms me down to no end. I had no clue what the smell was till I was in college, blond and needed a touch up. I associate the scent with wonderful, relaxing things. Also good haircuts. It also was a scent that someone I knew in college somehow managed to get their room to smell like. I also love how Aveda scents linger in your hair. Sometimes I spray myself with hair spray just so I'll smell it and relax the hell out. (I get stressed easily.)

That is all I can think of at the moment. Now you can go back to your regularly scheduled life.

Fishing With Ireland 3 dot 0

The past two weeks I've been rather silent due to the fact the family was in town. All three of them. (HA HA HA.) They flew up and then whisked us around Southern Alaska. One of the stops was Homer.

And in Homer, Pilot Boy wanted to go halibut fishing.

Ireland 1.0 doesn't fish. Ireland 1.0 does not do the following:
*fish
*eat tomatoes
*hike uphill
*eat potatoes
*like dogs
*mow lawns
*ride a bike
*garden

Ireland 2.0 does the following that 1.0 does not:
*hike up slight hills, while complaining heavily
*eat potatoes

Ireland 2.4 eat tomatoes.

Ireland 2.9 likes dogs and owns one. She will also ride a bike for less than 4 miles.

Ireland 3.0, The Alaska Version does the following that the previous version did not:
*hike uphill. Will complain.
*mow the lawn in a whirly pattern
*fishes
*gardens in a limited manner

Ireland 3.0 fishes only because she felt sorry for Pilot Boy, as no one else seemed too keen on the idea of fishing. His thought process was the following: Why would you go to the halibut fishing capital of the world and NOT FISH?

His head simply did not wrap around why no one wanted to fish.

So, since I felt sorry for him, I announced I would go. (This gets me into a lot of trouble, hence why Ireland 2.0 tended to hike up hills she did not want to hike up. And why 3.0 still keeps going on hikes, even though she still does not really enjoy hiking Pilot Boy style. He's got one setting: Fast. That is why he and Turbo Puppy get along so well.)
 

View out the window in Homer

So, on Tuesday morning, we woke up, lounged around staring at some mountains, then donned raincoats and had my parents drive us down to the Homer Spit. In our matching raincoats, we got me a fishing license and were told we might be put on another fishing charter because Bob didn't have enough people to take the boat out. So, after being driven to the docks, instead of going to C-17, we went to C-1. (Which wasn't as amusing as Pilot Boy flies C-17s for a living...)

We were the first people there. And we were wearing matching red raincoats and the sun was out. (It was only raining where we were staying, not in Homer itself. That's Alaska weather for ya.) For a long, long, long time we were the only people there. Finally, they got confirmation that the others had arrived and they let Pilot Boy and myself on the boat. After a round of introductions to the crew (Captain, Max (who from Arizona) and Josh (who was from Georgia, and not Atlanta, as he sounded southern)), we waited for the others to show up.

The others included a group of old guys who were from Washington who had spent the past three days fishing for halibut. Seriously, they had gone out with the crew we were with the day before and had so much fun, they signed up for another half day trip. They were all...crazy. They were also going to some salmon fishing cap after this whole halibut fishing thing. Least to say, they'd be eating fish for a few years....

There was a family from Boston, who did not sound like they were from Boston, so no one believed they were from Boston. They were doing The Alaska Tour. By this I mean they were attempting to do everything Alaska had to offer. They'd been to Denali and seen it from a plane. They were now in Homer going halibut fishing. They also had gone hiking at some point. Also, as we road an hour to the fishing spot, the mother realized they'd have a lot of halibut waiting for them when they were back in Boston. "What are we going to do with all that fish?" she asked. I wondered the same thing, as they had four people in their group. Halibut are kinda big. Even the small ones.

There was an older couple from Southern Illinois (not Chicago) who had been to Alaska before, but had failed to halibut fish on their previous trip. They were nice.

The last group contained a woman who had lost her fishing license, so she couldn't fish. She seemed rather cranky about this, as I would have been too. I kind of wished I was her by the end of the trip though....

The view from the boat

So, there you have it.

It was an hour ride to the fishing spot, which I spent sitting in the cabin next to the old guy named Scott, the mother of the Boston clan while the other Bostons stood around us. They all talked. I listened. Pilot Boy tried on numerous occasions to get me to go out on the deck, but I refused. I liked where I was. I learned a lot about the Old Guy named Scott, marriage, and the Boston Clan. They liked outdoor things. One of the sons did that crazy thing where you dive into freezing cold water in the middle of winter. The other did scuba diving or something.

Anyways, we reached the spot. That was when...the...fun...began....I'm not sure if I'd label it as real fun...I mean, I enjoyed it, but not the actual fishing part. I could have done without the fishing part. Why?

I'm on a Boat

Ireland 3.0 might fish, but she's not any good at it. I lost my bait a total of five times. I was just FEEDING the halibut. Josh liked to tell people my "secret" but he seemed determined I'd actually catch a fish. I wasn't sure why. I sure as hell did not care if I actually caught one. It looked hard. I had enough trouble casting the damn fishing pole and then pounding it on the bottom of the ocean. Yeah, halibut live on the bottom of the ocean, so you cast the stupid thing down some 200 feet, with a three pound weight plus the stupid bait. I was not surprised in the least I seemed to fail at life when fishing. This seemed to surprise Josh, as he couldn't figure out what the hell I was doing to keep loosing my bait.

"We're going to have to charge you for bait," he joked more than once as I spent hours upon hours wheeling my stupid line in to get new bait. The crew all seemed to easily be able to tell when I'd fed the halibut. I had no clue. I didn't even know when I had a bite. That is how brilliant Ireland 3.0 is at fishing.

I also had a great talent for getting my line tangled with others and not knowing it. A few times I thought I had a bite, but in reality i was just tangled up with someone down the line. I spent a great deal of time chasing after Josh around the boat as he untangled my line. He also kept moving me around in order to aid me in catching more fish. It did not seem to matter where I stood.

Eventually, though, Josh informed me I had a bite and I had to reel him in.

Reeling in an actual fish is harder than simply reeling up the stupid 3 lb weight. Plus, being a girl, I have little upper body strength because I do not lift weights on a regular basis. All the poles were the same size and weight and I found it very awkward. Also, there seemed to be this yellow gunk all over the reel pulley thing. So, I ended up covered in this unknown yellow substance. I ended up jamming the pole into my upper thigh in order to stabilize it to the point where I could turn the wheel thing a few times before loosing my grip on the pole and having to rest it on the railing and starting over. It took forever to reel the dumb fish in. Josh came over as I was nearing the surface (so I didn't have to scream COLOR out, which was what we were supposed to do once it got near the surface so Max or Josh could get it out and do step 3 in fishing.)

He cursed when he saw what I had dragged to the surface.

I looked down and it simply looked like I had a huge fish of some sort, but not the flat, ugly halibut I was supposed to be catching. I had dragged a huge, dumb cod to the surface. And I had managed to hook it through the upper and lower lip. Josh wrestled with the cod and the hook for awhile, blood flowing all over the deck. Oddly, I was fascinated by this. (Ireland 3.0 is strange, I know.)  Josh assured me the cod would be all right (I think since I was a girl, he assumed I was squeamish about blood and hoped for a nice, full life for the dumb ass cod. I kind of wanted to bash it in the head, as it was HEAVY and I had DRAGGED IT UP only to have to TOSS IT BACK.) A minute later, Pilot Boy hooked a cod so well, it had to be moved to the table to have major hook removal. Josh threw it back and assured me once again, the cod would be all right. Only this time, instead of swimming off, the cod simply floated a moment before it sunk.

I'm pretty sure it was dead. Good and dead.

After loosing a few more pieces of bait and hooking another cod, Josh took the reel over and did something for a while before he announced, "Another bite. Begin to reel." He handed me back the pole and I almost dropped it as there was a big tug. I began to reel it in. I was going to beat the cod if it was indeed another dumb cod. By this point, almost everyone all ready had their two fish. Pilot Boy had one fish. I was literally the only person who had yet to catch anything worth while.

I hated reeling in. Even if nothing was on the line, it sucked. And it was hard. And I don't like hard things. I know for a fact I looked like a pathetic excuse for a fisherman while attempting to reel in the dumb fish. Josh helped me a few times and then cursed again when he saw what I had hooked (or he had hooked, but who really cares? I might have hooked it for all I know.) I sighed deeply and finished reeling in the dumb cod, though as it got closer to the surface, I didn't think it was the cod Josh originally thought it was.

Josh returned a few moments later while I stood dumbly looking at the fish a few inches below the surface of the water (I refused to bring it to the deck without someone who knew anything near by).

"Hey, Chicago! I think you got one!" Old Guy Scott announced. He was standing near me, trying to catch a bigger halibut for his second fish.

The Big Fish

"I think you did, Ireland," Josh said, picking up the line and bringing the flopping, ugly brute to the deck. He handed me the weight and took the fish off the hook. He then walked off with it and I simply stood there dumbly waiting for more bait. I secretly hoped that in all the excitement (someone else caught something) they'd forget about me and I'd be able to sneak away. But Josh returned a few minutes later and gave me more bait. Sighing deeply, I watched him cast it and then hand it to me to let it hit the bottom. It hit with a thunk and I bounced it a few times.

After loosing the bait and catching another cod, it was nearing the time we had to leave to go back to Homer. There were only three people still fishing at this point. Me, Boston Pop and the Old Guy I never got a name for. Oh, and I guess Pilot Boy, so there was four. Oops. So, we were still fishing. Josh came over to check on me (as I am lame still, and I think he figured out I'd never know if something bit me or not). He informed me I had a bite, and begin to reel it in. He showed me how to reel easily, and it wasn't any easier. I was pretty sure I had lost whatever was on my hook, so I wasn't really in a hurry to get it up. Nothing was tugging any more. So i was minding my own business, trying to reel up slowly, so by the time I had done it it'd be time to go home.

This did not work.

Josh came over again, informed me there was still something there, and went to get the banana.

I did not like the banana belt. He stuck it around my waist and told me to put the pull in it. This belt is supposed to make it easier to reel things in. It does not. It was actually highly annoying and I would have rather simply dug the pole further into my thigh. And killed my left arm further.

I was still pretty sure there wasn't anything on the end of the line, but oddly, when I saw the weight again, there was something that looked freakishly like a halibut on the other end of the hook.

"YOU DID IT!" Josh shouted at me, pulling the stupid fish up to the surface. I stared at it as it flopped on the deck.

"Good job, Chicago! I knew you had it in you!" Old Guy Scott told me.

I smiled (which was what I had been doing all afternoon instead of actually speaking) and removed the dumb belt, handed my pole to Max and quickly exited. I sat down next to Pilot Boy, who had caught his last fish a few moments before I had. Now Boston Pop was left, as well as the Old Guy Whose Name I Failed to Learn. He had two poles going, somehow.

After the last two guys had gotten their last fish, the engines began and the fun began.

Fish Guts on My Leg

I know, the whole fishing part as supposed to be the "fun" part, but honestly, it was not the highlight for me. I was not all that excited when I caught the fish, I was more relieved. It was like, I had this goal of two fish and once I reached it I was relieved to just sit down. Halibut fishing is hard. Totally.

The fun began after the boat started. Josh and Max began their post fishing dance. They cleaned the deck, went through the crate of fish trying to find the biggest fish and then hung them up to photograph them.

This is when I got fish guts all over my jeans. I had managed to stay pretty clean throughout the whole fishing thing, save the unknown yellow junk. However, within minutes of the engine starting, I had red fish guts on me. And it was kind of gross and fascinating at the same time.

After I got fish on me, Josh and Max continued their dance, which concluded with the tossing of fish carcasses. Josh flayed the fish in a very fast and precise way and then tossed the remains off the boat for the gulls to feast upon. There was a lot of blood and fish bits on the deck, so at the end of the dance, they both washed the deck down in water. Least to say, I was glad I had my hiking boots on, as they are the only water proof shoes I had with me.

Fish Go Flying to the Gulls

After we reached the spit, we split for home. After dinner, I took a very long shower and Pilot Boy drove four hours back to our house, as he had to go to work the next day.

The next day...oi. I had no use of my left arm the next day. My left arm was the arm I used to pull the pole back and forth while my right hand operated the reel. My wrists hurt the night before, by the next day, my left arm failed to operate. I walked around with it bent (I could not straighten it out) and looked like I had a broken arm. As the day wore on, I noticed the spot where I had steadied the pole on my leg was turning a nice shade of green and purple. I seriously looked like I had taken a good pounding on my upper thigh. It felt like I had taken a beating as well, as every move I made, ached. I have no clue how the Old Guys managed to do this three days in a row. I'm 27 freaking years old, and I could hardly move the next day. And I hadn't been drinking beer for three hours either, like they had.

I went fishing a week ago. My leg still looks like a war zone. But, I can move my left arm again. It took two days, but I can move it again. And use it.

I bet the big question on your mind is....Would I do it again?

Yeah. I would. Even if I had a pain of a time fishing. I'd do it again. It was...fun.

Ireland 3.0 has fun.

Agreeing with 13 Year Old Me

When I was 13 I read a book. Well, I read more than one book, but this book was so important, I wrote about it in my journal. The journal I was actually writing for my future daughter, an idea I got from another book I read when I was 13. Okay, so I read a lot of books when I was 13, but THIS ONE I REMEMBER THE TITLE OF.

Well, kinda.

I remembered the author.

Kinda.

Because when I decided I wanted to buy the book on my Kindle, it took me a few searches to get the named spelled right.

It was Tamora Pierce. Not Tamara Price. Not Tamora Price. Nor was it Tamaro Priece. (Spelling was never a strong suit in the first place.)

When I was 13, for reasons I do not remember, I decided to check out a book called Alanna: The First Adventure. I also checked out the book next to it called In the Hands of the Goddess. No clue why I did this, as if I am honest with you, I was not into these sort of books as a kid. At 13, I was searching for books about romance. Or boys. Or romances with boys. Or hair. Popularity. Stuff like that. So, no idea how the 13 year old me came across these books.

Actually, I know how I came across them...because after I'd do searches on the computers for books and not find anything, I'd go to the stacks, pick a spot and begin to look for interesting titles or books with bright colors.

Which this book did not have. So I still do not know why 13 year old me picked it up, but I did.

And they made a huge impression on me, to the point I began to consume books by Tamora Pierce. I read EVERY single book the local library had by her. FOR YEARS I would go to the spot in the library where her books lived and religiously checked for new books.

I had a favorite author and her name was Tamora Pierce and I always called her Tamara Price. (Because I was that lame.)

I believe the last time I checked the area her books lived in the library was when I was 22. It was right before we went on vacation and I needed books to read during our time in the middle of nowhere. I had learned the previous year books would save me. Tragically, I had all ready read the newest Harry Potter book, so I was at the library trying to find something to amuse myself with. I do not know what possessed me to walk over to the YA section, an area I had not visited since I graduated from high school, but I went over there. To only the section where the Pierce books lived. I don't remember what was there, or why I went, but I noticed there were two very new looking books sitting on the shelf. I picked them both up and discovered they were part of the series I had first fell in love with (well, kinda).

I checked them out.

I read them in a day.

A piece.

I fell in love with the characters from the original series all over again. I vowed I was going to start at the beginning and re-read all the Tortall books again (Tortall is the "land" where the books take place.)

I never did this.

I don't remember what happened to prevent me from doing this, as I honestly had no life that summer. I had no job and the only thing I did was re-write The Novel. First major overhaul, which oddly was inspired by reading the Trickster books. 

Flash forward to today. I am not 13. I have very little in common with my 13 year old self. For one, I hate scrunchies. I am embarrassed I ever had so many. I also don't like to wear oversize t-shirts and don't wear pants that are two sizes too big for me and drag on the ground. I also will never wear clogs in the winter and think it is cool. I do not wear big old glasses nor do I have a mouth full of metal. (though, ironically, I do have braces at the moment...) I have boobs and hips. And I do not wear my hair in a ponytail on a daily basis, even though I paid over 20 dollars for a fancy haircut no one ever saw. (I pay for fancy haircuts still, but I wear them out and about these days because I know how to use a hair dryer.) I do not write in a journal any more and I have no clue where the volumes of journals are that I wrote for my future daughter. I bet my mom put them somewhere where I will never find them...like the trash can... or the box labeled IRELAND'S JUNK in the basement...

I am 27 years old (even though I keep thinking I am 28). But I still am in love with the books I read at 13. However, I have learned that even though I thought these books were the BEST BOOKS in the whole wide world, I totally did not READ them, as at 27, I had no clue WHAT THEY WERE ABOUT. If you had asked me last week, what these books were about, I would have told you something way out in left field.

Alanna is about a girl who decides she wants to be a knight instead of a lady, so she goes off to be a knight. That much 13 year old me understood. What 13 year old me failed to remember about the book was that a major plot point in the book took place. 27 year old me did not see that one coming. It was out of left field. (The other left field, not the one 13 year old me was standing in.)

In the Hand of the Goddess also was filled with many surprises. And things I never understood at 13, because I read fast and I only read the books once. (At 27 I know I ALWAYS must read books at least twice before I make any decision on them, as the first read through is always too fast. And I miss major plot points.)

Things in my 13 year old head were very jumbled up compared to how they actually occurred in the books. As I continued to read the Lioness series (the Alanna books), I realized I FAILED AT LIFE when I read them the first time. I did not understand or comprehend a lot of what was going on. I remember being pissed off at Alanna for not being queen. I had no clue who George was or why he was important. I honestly thought that in the books Alanna battled her twin brother, and sorcerer, Thom. Not the guy she actually battled, who when he appeared in my 27 year old read through, I was like WHO THE HELL IS THIS? I was making up my OWN STORIES about the books when I read them at 13. I did the same with The Immortals series, the next series I read by Pierce. That one I totally jumped ship as I had no clue when I read them at 27 what they were about other than I knew in the end the main character got together with the tall dude I called NICK through out the book in my head. His name was not Nick in the least by the way. I don't know WHY I even called him that. (Okay, I do. But I am NOT going to tell you.)

I spent the past week re-reading the Lioness and Immortal series. They are wonderful books, seriously, they are. I love the rich world Pierce creates. I love the characters for who they are and at 27, when I slowly read through them, I picked up on things that I did not see at 13 because I read through them too quickly. At 13, I got hung up on the various romances that Alanna had. (And totally missed one...go figure). At 27, I realized George was very important. On many levels. More important than Jonathan even (who at 13, I was madly in love with). I also noticed the sub-theme of how Alanna struggled to figure out her identity, which was something I totally flew passed at 13. I was mad at her throughout the last two books because she seemed to just whine about being a girl or something. I know I read the last two books, but until two days ago, I could not for the life of me actually tell you what they were about in the least. I just knew that in the end, Alanna got married. The end.

Anyways, one thing my 13 year old self got out of these books were they are GOOD. I am serious, they are good. So good, I went through a total of 8 books in a week. (A book and half a day. Or more.) I finished yesterday and was SO SAD that I was done with the first two series. (There is another four book series that takes place in Tortall and then the two Trickers books, but I am saving those for a later date. Or and then one that takes place before Alanna's time about a ancestor of George, but those are for a later date as well.) I am glad I bought them (even if I had to buy the last Immortal book through B&N and thus can only read it on my iPhone or computer...but I'll bitch about that later. Or not.)

If you are looking for a new series to get into (or get back into) check out the Song of the Lioness Series and The Immortals series by Tamora Pierce. Well worth a read or two.

Nice Day for a Wedding

At 11 pm last night, I concluded I did not want to remain awake till 3 am to watch the Royal Wedding live, as even though I adore all things British, I like sleep more.

So I went to bed.

I got up at nine, knowing the BBC was going to be running the thing all day long, and low and behold, I flipped on BBC America and sure enough, right in the middle of the wedding. Woot.

I settled int to watch, not really sure what point they were at as the preacher (or whatever he is called) was preaching. I didn't really listen to him, just kept glancing up as I read through Twitter, waiting to catch Kate's dress.

I adore her style. There I said it. Mostly because she wears things I WOULD WEAR (if I had the money). That and she's got long brown hair. I have long brown hair too.

Go me.

So, I was sitting there and they finally showed her. First thought: Who put her blush on? I know she's supposed to be a blushing bride, and I know she has to do her make up a wee bit different due to the fact she is on TV, but there was a streak on her face people. 

Image from CBS News

I couldn't find a picture of that first time I saw her. It was an extreme closeup on her as she sat in the church during the preaching part. I was like, "Huh?"

Then she stood up.

And my jaw drop.

She was wearing my dress.

Of course, I do need to explain this.

When I was about 19, my friends (both with the same name, so they are both collectively known here as J...confusing, yes...not important though) and I had this sleep over where we "planned" our weddings. We got all the bridal magazines, we shopped for rings online, we planned the dates, the colors, the invites, etc.

I was going to get married on 31 December, because why not roll a wedding into a New Years Eve party? (At 19, I still seemed to believe I'd like parties someday.) At 19, I also had no boobs to speak of, so I didn't like the strapless gowns that were all the rage. Actually, I hated them. It was like HELLO SKIN. I hated that look, mostly because I hated my skin. I thought getting married in the dead of winter would allow for long sleeved dresses with high back sand fronts. In an ad of all things, I found what I was looking for. This (kind of): 

Image from CBS News

Well, pretty much. I hate trains, so I'd never have one. But that was what I had always imagined I'd wear. That was what it looked like IN MY HEAD, as I never did find the dress from the ad anywhere, and it was just a back shot of the dress in the ad I saw at 19.

Flash forward five years and me trying to find something to wear to my wedding. I gave up quickly on the whole 31 December idea, partly because by this point in time I knew for a fact that Pilot Boy would NEVER remain awake till midnight (strangely he did on our wedding night. We were still up and being social after midnight...shock). Also, it seemed not very ME and Pilot Boy to pick that day. This is how I picked the day I wanted to get married: I stared at my calendar on my desk at work and saw that the 27th of October was a Saturday. It looked like a good day to get married. I did this before he asked me marry him too, by the way. It also just fit. My parents got married in October, some 30 years before we got married. It struck me as horribly romantic and sweet. They celebrated their 30th and a few weeks later we got married.

I did not wear a dress like I had dreamed about. Know why? Sleeves were nowhere to be found. Granted I did not got an actual bridal shop...very unlike me. I hunted department stores. For a cream colored dress. That was all I wanted. I did not want an actual ball gown, did not want an actual white dress. I wanted a cream colored dress. So I looked at prom dresses. I refused to pay more than 200 dollars. And for me that was A LOT, as I had never bought a dress that was not on sale when I did buy formal dresses. (My whole wedding unfolded like nothing I had imagined. I am serious. It was like "anti-me" but me at the same time. Figure that out on your own.)

I found my dress at Macy's. With Pilot Boy. Then I dragged my mom to look at it. I could tell she thought it was right, but first she was like, "One, you're not officially engaged and Two, you will freeze."

She always thinks I will freeze. Because she knows me.

Anyways, he did ask, and I sat in the court room when I should have been listening to something about Conrad Black, but all I could think was "I NEED THAT DRESS." That evening, alone, I went to Macy's  and bought it. I also bought a cream cardigan to wear with it to appease my mother who was afraid I'd get cold in my strapless dress. (Yeah, you read that right. I had boobs by this point. Late bloomer.) I took it to the counter and paid 200 bucks for both the dress and the cardigan. Since I looked about 18 at the time, the lady told me to have fun at the dance.

The prom dress that became a wedding dress

I did not wear the cardigan and I sweat to death, as we got married next to a roaring fire. I wasn't even standing next to the fireplace. I can't imagine what Pilot Boy (who was next to it) was feeling, as the only thing he later told me was I crushed his hands as I was squeezing them too tight, which I did to distract myself from the fact there was seat dripping down my back.

I did not manage to see what sort of shoes the new Duchess was wearing, but I'll just imagine she was wearing a pair like mine, which I found at DSW shoes and perfectly matched to the point where I swear they were made out of the same material the satin trim on the dress pictured above. They also had a 1920s flare to them, kind of like the dress. (Which was what my mother told me, I was pretty sure they did not wear dresses like the one pictured above in the 20s.)

The point? I spent the entire three hours I watched the coverage before it circled around to where I showed up staring at Kate's dress and trying to figure out how she had managed to produce the dress that was IN MY HEAD. Unless she broke into my head when I was sleeping....