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.

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.)

The World Turns, I Get Older

Last year, I kind of freaked out about turning 27. And by freaked out, I spent the whole day feeling old and...unaccomplished. Or I guess disillusioned would be a better word.

Well, I'm 28. And...I'm pretty much in the same spot I was last year. Only, I have more hair. And five pounds around my middle. (It comes with getting old, or so I am told every time I complain about it.) We also have more snow on the ground than we did a year ago. And I didn't shovel it. Unlike last year, when I went outside in a thin sweater and shoved the driveway without gloves. I whined this morning I can't find my gloves, so I can't do it.

Like last year, I am thinking about ten years ago. Why? Because I remember being 18, just as I remember being 17. When I turned 17, I honestly didn't remember being 7, as I don't remember much about being 8. Other than I had long hair. Useful, I know.

Anyways, when I turned 18, the following happened:

1. Monsters Inc came out. It was the ONLY thing I wanted to do for my birthday. Really, I want to go see a movie? On opening night? That's a cartoon, fine. It was all I wanted. I didn't get it. Due to teenage drama, the showing I wanted was sold out. So, I didn't see the movie till the following weekend and I was cranky. Because...of teenage drama. Today is Wednesday. No movies come out today I want to see. I have no desire to see movies. Because...I am old. And I am a hermit, so I'd rather stay in my house and use Netflix.
2. My best friend gave me a SUPER SIZED Hersey's bar. Seriously, it was like two pounds of Hersey's bar. And I kept it under my bed. Why? Because that is where I kept junk food when I was 18: under my bed. Gross, I know. Now days, at 28, I keep plastic bins, suitcases and boxes of junk that never got unpacked because it should have been left in Del Rio. (The Hersey's bar remained under the bed till the spring when my mother was like, WILL YOU DO SOMETHING WITH THAT?! So I made cookies. Or something. I don't remember. I just remember it was under my bed for the longest time and I was honesty tired of chocolate by the time I finally smashed it up to make cookies.)
3. I got my blue book back. Which I am currently staring at. Because a few months ago I had my mother send it to me along with all my other journals. I was a writing fiend as a teenager, especially at 18. I don't keep one now. I tried, but, I'm so boring and...not filled with teenage angst. I find keeping this blog hard enough.
4. I remember what I wore that day. And the fact I spent three hours curling my hair into tiny, tiny cork screw curls. The very ones one of the teachers asked me, with a look of awe on her face, "How long did that take you?" It took three hours and by the end of the day, my head hurt from the tug of the ponytail I wore my hair in with the complicated rolls I wore on top of my head. It was a very complicated style and I only wore it twice in my life. It was a total pain. And actually, kind of looked stupid.
5. I had never been in love. I thought I was in love at 18, but I really wasn't. I read a book last night that described falling in love perfectly. (Well a few, but this book really resonated with me, I'm not sure why, but I'm going with it.) You fall. You do not think about it. I just happens and requires no thought or doubt. At 18, I was filled with thoughts and doubts (I have five volumes of journals telling me so much). At 28, I just know. The first time I fell in love, I just knew. It wasn't dramatic. It was the simplest thing in the world. (The falling part, after that, not so simple.) At 18, I felt no relief, only angst and drama. I worried. I was paranoid. I listened to songs and the more angsty the lyrics, the more dark, more drama...the better. I...don't do that any more. I don't see relationship with Pilot Boy in angst-ridden, dark, dramatic songs. Now, I just see CHARACTERS that are in my head in songs I like. Seriously. I no longer have songs, my characters have songs. Stories get songs. My life, not so much.
6. Point six is mixed in with point five.
7. 18 was the first birthday I viewed as a total disaster that I remember. I honestly don't remember turning 15, 16, 17 or anything before that. Those just happened. 18 is the first birthday that burned itself into my mind and refused to let go. And until I turned 21, I had horrible birthdays. They were just...horrific. I always had a horrible day, there was always some sort of drama that unfolded that left me feeling like total shit by the end of the day. When I turned 21...nothing happened. I am serious. I was also deliriously happy, but on the actual day of my birthday, honestly nothing happened. Well, things happened, but nothing that happened due to the fact I was turning 21. I got up late, missed my first lecture, walked to my room in the early morning cold, changed for lunch and then just went about my day till I returned to my room on a hill and fell face first into my bed and fell asleep for an hour. I then woke up, made a Chinese instant meal, ate it in my freezing cold room, was dragged to a party downstairs for like five minutes and then fell asleep. It was...the best day ever. It was the day I fell in love with Glasgow. From that day forward, Glasgow was the best place on earth as far as I was concerned. So much so, I still write love stories about it. And...it's Glasgow.
8. I have something in common with my 18 year old self, though. At 18, I still thought, deep down, I'd be a writer some day. I was beginning to give up this goal, as I had realized sophomore year there was no money in it and I wanted lots of money, but I didn't really give up the writing dream till much later on in my life. And I didn't pick it up till roughly a year or so ago. And since then, I've been working. While Pilot Boy might not think I am "working" I think I am working. I might not be getting paid at the moment, but I write, edit and revise daily. I read for research. Hell, I do research. I never did that before. I just wrote. I thought writing was just about writing the story. I always wrote what I knew, but even doing that...research is needed. I have spent the past year researching colleges, cities, staring at maps of Glasgow, London, Dublin and Chicago. I research names, last names, first names, middle names, back stories, houses, floor plans, and meanings of words in dead languages that no one knows how to speak. I draw maps, I look at maps, and I create entire universes in my head. I spent a whole day figuring out the Scottish schooling system and then another four hours making a freaking class schedule for a character. I spend time scouring the internet for snip its of Scottish/English/Irish/French/Southern American/Etc in order to be able to write out what I hear. I read books I would never read in the name of research. My 18 old self...read Harry Potter.
9. I didn't feel any different when I turned 18. I was an "adult" and yet I did not feel very adult like. I honestly felt like I was not old enough to do the things that 18 year old kids are allowed to do. I didn't think I was old enough to be voting in elections and I had no desire for cigarettes or any of the other things 18 year old kids can buy. I still don't honestly feel like I am old enough to do some things. Something happens after you turn 25, though. You forget how old you are. I walked around this past year, when I was 27, thinking I was 28. Pilot Boy tried to convince me the other day he was only 25 and I was 26. I had to actually do the math to figure out how old I was. And was really confused to find out I was 27. I did the math like five times. At least, this year, while thinking I am 28, I'll actually be 28.
10. 18 year old me burned herself with the curling iron. Often. 28 year old me burns myself, but not usually with the curling iron, as I don't use one as much as I used to. I do, though, usually burn my fingers because I refuse to wear that stupid heat proof gloves that came with the rod thing I bought and use because it makes the most natural looking curls. No, 28 year old me (who was 27 when most of these things happened) just burns herself on the oven, the stove, and the iron. And sometimes the hair dryer. But not as bad as when I was 15 and I dropped it on the back of my neck. I used to balance it in a tissue box over the side of my dresser and then sit under it and blow dry my hair straight and flat. (This was before I knew what a straightening iron was.) One day, the blow dryer fill, right on my neck when I had my head bowed to dry the back of my head. (This was the year of the mushroom hair cut, so I had short hair.) Least to say, I had an ugly red mark on the back of my neck that looked alarmingly like a hickey. And I had no boyfriend to give it to me. I had to go to church and everyone saw it, as I didn't know it was there till I got to church. No one believed I had burned myself either, as it was on the back of my neck. How do you drop a hair dryer there? I had no clue why no one believed me, either, as I thought it was rather well known I had no boyfriend.

Well, there. My birthday entry. Today has nothing speical in store. Other than some eating. I ought to eat lunch today before three pm. Which was when I ate yesterday. Because I forgot. 18 year old me always ate lunch at 10.30 am. As I had fourth hour lunch. 28 year old Ireland, has no lunch time. Sometimes she forgets to eat lunch.

Just when I thought I'd stop lauhging....

Tonight, I spent a half hour trying to stop laughing after watching "The New Girl." Then, I came up stairs to get ready for bed, read, and turn off. When I wake up, I'll be 28 and that, if I am honest, kind of freaks me out. Then, I found this. And I was like, "WFT, he can freaking sing too?"

But, it did get me laughing again. Hopefully it won't be like the other night when I could not stop laughing. I was laughing so much and so hard, Pilot Boy thought I was crying. So, view at your own risk.