The very first in-class prompt was to write from the perspective of the unknown/ or unusual, to put yourself in someone or something else's shoes....I wrote from the perspective of my future self, after I'm at my goal weight...I modified some of it, and tweaked it, and this is what resulted:
Beep. Beep. Beeep.
The alarm drills into my semi-sleeping brain as I reach my hand out and slam the snooze button. I open my eyes, blinking a few times, stretching my arms above my head. Something doesn't feel right. I stretch again, and look at my arms; I freeze in place, and just stare.
My heartbeat starts racing, and I sit up quickly, glancing down at my legs under the covers. Something's not right at all. I fling back the comforter, shocked by the fact that I have shorts on. Shorts? Since when have I worn shorts, ever?
I run over to the mirror, (yes run, in the morning, me!), and stare at my reflection, not believing for a second that it truly belongs to me. I reach out to touch the image, and a hand reaches out to mine. Where flabby skin use to wiggle, toned muscles on my arm stretch back as I pull my hand away. I gasp as I turn around, looking at my future-skinny self, head to toe.
I still can't get over that I'm wearing shorts--and the fact that I think I look good in them. Walking over to my closet, I turn the light on, and my mouth drops open. Dresses, multicolored tank-tops, and size 10 jeans hang on a multitude of hangers. Discarded scarves and wraps, along with about 50 pairs of different shoes litter the floor. I reach out and touch a black satin dress. I have a little black dress?! An LBD that fits me?!
"Today is a new day," I mutter to myself, grabbing the dress, and heading for the shower.
I have awhile to go on my journey; I've lost almost 60 pounds, and although I have far to go, I just have to think about how far I've already come. Someday, this future will be my reality.
06 December 2011
Stress (A code word for "procrastination")
A final draft of a paper on Tabloid journalism- due in three days. 1500-2000 words.
A final draft on the obsurd Twilight phenomenon in America- due in three days. At least 6 pages.
A final draft of another Creative Nonfiction essay- due tomorrow.
Two final tests next Wednesday.
The stress of the end of the semester piles up on anyone, and for most people, time management skills are at the bottom of priority lists. Most students, myself included, just let the work pile high next to them as they watch their favorite show on TV, play video games, or drive off to do whatever, leaving behind notebooks and binders in the dust.
And the best part is, we, as students, think we have the right to complain about all the papers we have to write, projects that need to be completed, and unclear instructions on assignments the night before something is due.
The popular Facebook status this week? All about people wishing they could be a different major, or "OH EM GEE" I have so much work to do, or my personal favorite: living in the library for the next century.
Let's go back to the beginning of this entry:
A final draft of a paper on Tabloid journalism- due in three days. 1500-2000 words. (assigned three weeks ago)
A final draft on the obsurd Twilight phenomenon in America- due in three days. At least 6 pages. (assigned 3+ weeks ago)
A final draft of another Creative Nonfiction essay- due tomorrow. (assigned 3+ weeks ago)
Two final tests next Wednesday. (known about all semester)
So why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we stress ourselves out so much that we want to pull our hair out rather than write a final paper? I'll be honest, I procrastinate so much it's insane, and one day, it will screw me over. I'm totally aware of this; but now, in my 5th year of college, am I really going to change my ways of how I accomplish assignments?
Procrastination is a way of life, it's an addiction. I can''t imagine piecing things together, days at a time, weeks in advance of a due date. I hope eventually I learn to use my time better, after all, my future writing profession will demand that I do. But for now, I'm going to join my fellow peers, and freak out about the last week of school:
OH MY GOD, WHY THE HELL DID I WAIT THIS LONG??
A final draft on the obsurd Twilight phenomenon in America- due in three days. At least 6 pages.
A final draft of another Creative Nonfiction essay- due tomorrow.
Two final tests next Wednesday.
The stress of the end of the semester piles up on anyone, and for most people, time management skills are at the bottom of priority lists. Most students, myself included, just let the work pile high next to them as they watch their favorite show on TV, play video games, or drive off to do whatever, leaving behind notebooks and binders in the dust.
And the best part is, we, as students, think we have the right to complain about all the papers we have to write, projects that need to be completed, and unclear instructions on assignments the night before something is due.
The popular Facebook status this week? All about people wishing they could be a different major, or "OH EM GEE" I have so much work to do, or my personal favorite: living in the library for the next century.
Let's go back to the beginning of this entry:
A final draft of a paper on Tabloid journalism- due in three days. 1500-2000 words. (assigned three weeks ago)
A final draft on the obsurd Twilight phenomenon in America- due in three days. At least 6 pages. (assigned 3+ weeks ago)
A final draft of another Creative Nonfiction essay- due tomorrow. (assigned 3+ weeks ago)
Two final tests next Wednesday. (known about all semester)
So why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we stress ourselves out so much that we want to pull our hair out rather than write a final paper? I'll be honest, I procrastinate so much it's insane, and one day, it will screw me over. I'm totally aware of this; but now, in my 5th year of college, am I really going to change my ways of how I accomplish assignments?
Procrastination is a way of life, it's an addiction. I can''t imagine piecing things together, days at a time, weeks in advance of a due date. I hope eventually I learn to use my time better, after all, my future writing profession will demand that I do. But for now, I'm going to join my fellow peers, and freak out about the last week of school:
OH MY GOD, WHY THE HELL DID I WAIT THIS LONG??
Pretty Princess
After studying creative nonfiction all semester, I've been experimenting with the genre in my own writing. I decided to reflect back on the important moments of my life, and write a little segment about when my sister was born.
Hospital waiting rooms overflow with deafening silence. I hear only the click, click, click of my grandmother playing her hand-held poker game in the corner by the door. Time stands still as I wait anxiously for my parents to come back through the double doors. A sister--who really needs one of those? Nana tells me it’s been two hours so far and asks if I’m excited to get a new baby sister. I nod, rolling the plastic ring around and around my finger. I smile, remembering Dad putting the same ring on his hand during our last game of Pretty Pretty Princess (a board game that requires the players to wear numerous plastic jewelry items). I guess my parents decided to buy me the game as a consolation prize in case too much attention is put on the new baby. Dad even reluctantly put the tiara on during the game; this sister thing must be a big deal. The couch cushions crinkle as I roll over and stare at the clock, a kaleidoscope of numbers that my four-year-old self can’t begin to decipher. I inhale a sharp breath of hospital smell: rubber, cough medicine, and week-old Band-aids. Time inches forward, measured by the click, click, clicking of Nana’s game, my heartbeat deafening to my ears. The door swooshes open, leaking light into our dimmed private room. My face lights up with a grin as I behold the greatest hero I know, my dad. My feet hit the ground running and he picks me up in a hug, whispering in my ear, “Let’s go see Mommy.” I’m vaguely aware of Nana following behind us, I barely see the nurse in green pajamas that passes us; all thoughts are focused on my new baby sister. Will I like her or hate her? Hate her, I think as I squeeze my Dad’s neck tighter, wanting to keep my parents all to myself. Dad jostles us through a huge brown door, and there’s my mom, looking exhausted and holding a blanketed bundle in her arms. I fight the impulse to stare at the blankets and look away. Dad leans down and lets Mom kiss my cheek and I see a tear trickle down her face. “Kayla, this is Lauren,” she whispers, smiling brightly. I peek down and look through the folds in the blankets, swallowing hard. Awed by the flaming red of her hair, I reach out to touch her little hand that’s balled into a tiny fist. As her beady brown eyes find mine, I realize I no longer have to play the game with Dad; I have my very own Pretty Princess in front of me.
Idea for CNF #3
So, for my final creative nonfiction essay, I decided to take my first essay, and change the perspective and content a bit. This piece is going to be a sequel to my first project, and told in my dad's point of view. Here's a section of it that I've been working on:
Dora the Explorer echoes from the living room, as I pull out the pan of chicken from the oven. After receiving a steamed-facial from the heat of the stove, the cool draft of air from the opened backdoor feels welcoming.
"Kayla!" I yell, getting out the digital food scale and plates. Pushing the power button, I think of how happy I was that Melinda got this for me for our anniversary. It measures food perfectly. Kayla comes out, cell phone always glued in her hands, and stands at the kitchen door, as I scoop out a few pieces of chicken onto a plate.
"Okaaaay, that's six points, andd..." I reach up to grab the broccoli, steamed to perfection in its Ziploc bag, out of the microwave. "...and with this, the whole plate is seven points." She starts measuring out her two tablespoons of the Chili sauce she likes for her chicken--I don't know how she eats it, it would probably burn my tongue off. I eat my chicken plain, lately.
"Thanks Dad," and she walks back into the living room, where Landon is probably still glued to the television, following Dora and Boots on their adventure. I quickly measure my chicken and broccoli out, a habit that I don't even realize I do anymore, and walk into the living room, sitting next to Kayla at the table. She's already halfway done with her plate; I shake my head, thinking she really needs to learn to slow down.
"So what do you want to interview me about for this essay?" I ask, cutting up the chicken with the side of my fork. Landon comes waddling over, juice cup in his hand. "Buggy, want some broccoli?" I ask. He shakes his head and goes back to Dora.
"I don't know, just tell me whatever you want," she says, making a piece of chicken glide through the leftover sauce on her plate. I smile, remembering something she'd probably find amusing.
"Well the other day, I was finishing the laundry, and after I was done folding everything into piles, I started freaking out, I couldn't find my jeans," I said, eating some broccoli.
"Yeah? Where were they?" she asked, starting to stand up to clear her plate.
"I mean, I knew I washed a pair of my jeans, I just couldn't find them. Here...I folded them and automatically put them in Melinda's pile...because I thought they were hers, that's how small they looked." I glanced at her and smiled, still in shock.
"Wow Dad, that's awesome! That's nuts..." She couldn't stop smiling, her mouth open in surprise.
"Yeah, can you believe that?" I chuckle, as she yells, "Wow" again from the kitchen. I glance at Landon, still laying there, content with his show, and take another bite of chicken.
Dora the Explorer echoes from the living room, as I pull out the pan of chicken from the oven. After receiving a steamed-facial from the heat of the stove, the cool draft of air from the opened backdoor feels welcoming.
"Kayla!" I yell, getting out the digital food scale and plates. Pushing the power button, I think of how happy I was that Melinda got this for me for our anniversary. It measures food perfectly. Kayla comes out, cell phone always glued in her hands, and stands at the kitchen door, as I scoop out a few pieces of chicken onto a plate.
"Okaaaay, that's six points, andd..." I reach up to grab the broccoli, steamed to perfection in its Ziploc bag, out of the microwave. "...and with this, the whole plate is seven points." She starts measuring out her two tablespoons of the Chili sauce she likes for her chicken--I don't know how she eats it, it would probably burn my tongue off. I eat my chicken plain, lately.
"Thanks Dad," and she walks back into the living room, where Landon is probably still glued to the television, following Dora and Boots on their adventure. I quickly measure my chicken and broccoli out, a habit that I don't even realize I do anymore, and walk into the living room, sitting next to Kayla at the table. She's already halfway done with her plate; I shake my head, thinking she really needs to learn to slow down.
"So what do you want to interview me about for this essay?" I ask, cutting up the chicken with the side of my fork. Landon comes waddling over, juice cup in his hand. "Buggy, want some broccoli?" I ask. He shakes his head and goes back to Dora.
"I don't know, just tell me whatever you want," she says, making a piece of chicken glide through the leftover sauce on her plate. I smile, remembering something she'd probably find amusing.
"Well the other day, I was finishing the laundry, and after I was done folding everything into piles, I started freaking out, I couldn't find my jeans," I said, eating some broccoli.
"Yeah? Where were they?" she asked, starting to stand up to clear her plate.
"I mean, I knew I washed a pair of my jeans, I just couldn't find them. Here...I folded them and automatically put them in Melinda's pile...because I thought they were hers, that's how small they looked." I glanced at her and smiled, still in shock.
"Wow Dad, that's awesome! That's nuts..." She couldn't stop smiling, her mouth open in surprise.
"Yeah, can you believe that?" I chuckle, as she yells, "Wow" again from the kitchen. I glance at Landon, still laying there, content with his show, and take another bite of chicken.
Word Prompt and Sentences
"Did you ever do that? You start with a word, and then next write a word that starts with whatever letter the word before it ended with...and you keep going, and if you can't think of anything you repeat the last word over and over..." Ali suggested, while my group was presenting in the front of the room.
"Whaaat?" A few people in the class were clearly confused. Ali explained it again, to which Dr. Morris responded, "Let's do it." My group wrote five words on the board--I wrote the word "Losing" (Why? Because I'm losing weight? Because I feel like a loser sometimes? Because it has a negative connotation? It says a lot about me)
This is what I came up with in about seven minutes time:
Losing. Gain. Never. Remember. Really. Yes. Smile. Easy. Young. Grow. Worry. Yell. Lurch. Humble. Humble. Humble. Energy. Youth. Happiness. Sense. Elevate. Elevate. Ever. Reaction. Nurturing. Gamble. Emergency. Yuck. Kindness. Spirit. Spirit. Tame. Eloquent. Tragic. Capture. Erupt. Temper. Ration. Rational. Rational. Love. Excite. Early. Yap.
I can't get over how many words actually end in E, or how many Y words I don't know.
Anyway, I'm going to try to make sentences with these words:
Losing love and gaining experience--you never remember the fact that you're supposed to really learn something from heartbreak. Yes, you need to smile, it's easy because you're young; grow up and don't worry so much.
So it's bizarre how I can link words that I just rambled out...maybe it's a good exercise to do more often. I've learned a lot through the writing prompts in this class, especially when I reflect upon the work I come up with in just a matter of minutes.
"Whaaat?" A few people in the class were clearly confused. Ali explained it again, to which Dr. Morris responded, "Let's do it." My group wrote five words on the board--I wrote the word "Losing" (Why? Because I'm losing weight? Because I feel like a loser sometimes? Because it has a negative connotation? It says a lot about me)
This is what I came up with in about seven minutes time:
Losing. Gain. Never. Remember. Really. Yes. Smile. Easy. Young. Grow. Worry. Yell. Lurch. Humble. Humble. Humble. Energy. Youth. Happiness. Sense. Elevate. Elevate. Ever. Reaction. Nurturing. Gamble. Emergency. Yuck. Kindness. Spirit. Spirit. Tame. Eloquent. Tragic. Capture. Erupt. Temper. Ration. Rational. Rational. Love. Excite. Early. Yap.
I can't get over how many words actually end in E, or how many Y words I don't know.
Anyway, I'm going to try to make sentences with these words:
Losing love and gaining experience--you never remember the fact that you're supposed to really learn something from heartbreak. Yes, you need to smile, it's easy because you're young; grow up and don't worry so much.
So it's bizarre how I can link words that I just rambled out...maybe it's a good exercise to do more often. I've learned a lot through the writing prompts in this class, especially when I reflect upon the work I come up with in just a matter of minutes.
03 December 2011
Middle, Beginning, End
I feel blood clotting the napkin that I held, pressed tight against my mouth. My uncle fumbles down the payment, carrying my five-year-old body away from the playground. I can still hear children playing and laughing as I try to think of anything, anything but the pain.
My mouth feels like it's aflame, my heartbeat thundering through the napkin that's blocking my screams in place. Tears stream freely down my face, as my uncle races me back to the house.
I think back to the moment of impact, when I tripped, open-mouthed and shattered my face against the side of the park bench, tasting nothing but cement. And blood. Lots of blood.
Blood and pain are all that consume me. In the distance, I see my cousins running ahead to tell my mom what happened. Houses blur past us; through my water-filled eyes, I can't tell where one city block ends, and another begins. I blink back more tears, shuddering at the severe ache that is my mouth, my uncle rubbing my back, trying to soothe me as he runs.
I press the napkin tighter, refusing to look at it, thinking about what it's like to be pain-free. I can't remember.
Shuddering, I recall walking over to the park bench, where my cousin Zach was laying, making hand-airplanes against the sky. "Whatcha doing?" I asked, stepping up and then, the middle of my sneaker catches and I'm slammed back to the present, to my uncle carrying me, and whispering to me.
"Just hold on, Kayla, hold on."
My mouth feels like it's aflame, my heartbeat thundering through the napkin that's blocking my screams in place. Tears stream freely down my face, as my uncle races me back to the house.
I think back to the moment of impact, when I tripped, open-mouthed and shattered my face against the side of the park bench, tasting nothing but cement. And blood. Lots of blood.
Blood and pain are all that consume me. In the distance, I see my cousins running ahead to tell my mom what happened. Houses blur past us; through my water-filled eyes, I can't tell where one city block ends, and another begins. I blink back more tears, shuddering at the severe ache that is my mouth, my uncle rubbing my back, trying to soothe me as he runs.
I press the napkin tighter, refusing to look at it, thinking about what it's like to be pain-free. I can't remember.
Shuddering, I recall walking over to the park bench, where my cousin Zach was laying, making hand-airplanes against the sky. "Whatcha doing?" I asked, stepping up and then, the middle of my sneaker catches and I'm slammed back to the present, to my uncle carrying me, and whispering to me.
"Just hold on, Kayla, hold on."
"Whiskey"
About two months ago in class, we did a 'Gunkholing' exercise--basically, each of us picked a word out of a jar, and we had to write a story about whatever came to mind. Most of the people who picked words related to alcohol had hilarious tales to tell about unwanted hangovers, ridiculous behavior, and total I-really-did-NOT-do-that moments.
Needless to say, I picked the word "Whiskey"--however, I went an entirely different route than my classmates did:
I'm discarded, forgotten, sitting atop a high shelf in the dining room. Twins, a boy and a girl, crawl along the carpet, hands playing with anything in their path, weird gurgling sounds coming from the small openings of their mouths. I watch them, through the glass of my prison, thinking ruefully that their parents won't touch or drink me for weeks. I blame the kids entirely.
I'm half-empty, waiting for a purpose, waiting to soothe a depression, burn a sore throat, or complete a celebration. My buddy, Captain Morgan, sits next to me, tall and strong, watching the babies with contempt as well. We are both equally ignored, equally placed out of reach; the empty shot glasses grate annoyingly against my side, a reminder of good days past.
The teenager in the living room gets up, tiptoeing around the twins, eyeballing the clock and the front door nervously. What is he doing? He reaches up and grabs my neck and I swoosh, swoosh inside my container. Excited by the attention, I look up at the Captain with triumph.
Triumph is cut short when I'm poured into a juice cup, however. A juice cup?! No respect, I think grudgingly. This kid has no idea what he's doing. He looks around as if someone is at home watching him, and quickly takes a sip.
I burn his tongue and throat and he spits me out all over the kitchen sink, while coughing up a lung. The babies start crying from the dining room, as a part of me that I'll never get back lies glistening in a million fragments in the stainless steel sink. The teenager hacks some more, drinks some water, and quickly goes to attend to the babies, red-faced.
Please put me back on the shelf, I plead silently. I'm a game for grown-ups, a tosser for the experienced, a shot for the daring--not for a teenaged moron who's supposed to be babysitting. Five minutes later, I'm back on the shelf, my label now facing the wall, not seeing anything but the cheap flowered wallpaper in front of me.
I sigh. The only sound I hear is the Captain having the last laugh.
Needless to say, I picked the word "Whiskey"--however, I went an entirely different route than my classmates did:
I'm discarded, forgotten, sitting atop a high shelf in the dining room. Twins, a boy and a girl, crawl along the carpet, hands playing with anything in their path, weird gurgling sounds coming from the small openings of their mouths. I watch them, through the glass of my prison, thinking ruefully that their parents won't touch or drink me for weeks. I blame the kids entirely.
I'm half-empty, waiting for a purpose, waiting to soothe a depression, burn a sore throat, or complete a celebration. My buddy, Captain Morgan, sits next to me, tall and strong, watching the babies with contempt as well. We are both equally ignored, equally placed out of reach; the empty shot glasses grate annoyingly against my side, a reminder of good days past.
The teenager in the living room gets up, tiptoeing around the twins, eyeballing the clock and the front door nervously. What is he doing? He reaches up and grabs my neck and I swoosh, swoosh inside my container. Excited by the attention, I look up at the Captain with triumph.
Triumph is cut short when I'm poured into a juice cup, however. A juice cup?! No respect, I think grudgingly. This kid has no idea what he's doing. He looks around as if someone is at home watching him, and quickly takes a sip.
I burn his tongue and throat and he spits me out all over the kitchen sink, while coughing up a lung. The babies start crying from the dining room, as a part of me that I'll never get back lies glistening in a million fragments in the stainless steel sink. The teenager hacks some more, drinks some water, and quickly goes to attend to the babies, red-faced.
Please put me back on the shelf, I plead silently. I'm a game for grown-ups, a tosser for the experienced, a shot for the daring--not for a teenaged moron who's supposed to be babysitting. Five minutes later, I'm back on the shelf, my label now facing the wall, not seeing anything but the cheap flowered wallpaper in front of me.
I sigh. The only sound I hear is the Captain having the last laugh.
Daydream
If I had a million dollars...
Walking down 5th avenue, my brand new Jimmy Choo black boots scraping along the pavement, the wind blowing my freshly dyed and straightened hair off my face, I hail a cab. Smiling at the driver, I state my destination. "Gershwin Theatre." It's not everyday that I come across VIP tickets to go see Wicked with the girls. Well- it's not everyday that I can afford something like that.
Wait. Hold up. Is this really my daydream of "If I was rich?" Would I seriously be wearing Jimmy Choo heels and be living in New York City? No.
Change of scenery: The Coliseum looms, overpowering before my eyes. I smile at it's physical presence, one of the oldest structures I had ever laid eyes on. Having just left France, I thought nothing would awe me more than the Eiffel Tower, or seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time (although people are right, she's very tiny in person)- but then I saw the architecture of Rome.
"Gladiator doesn't do it justice, does it?" my sister Lauren says next to me, gaping open-mouthed at the ancient arena. I shake my head, and close my eyes, imagining the historical roars from the crowd, cheering a favorite champion to win against the beasts below.
"Kayla- thank you, again...you didn't-"
"-have to pay for your summer-long trip to Europe? Lauren, you say that everytime we see something fantastic...which is pretty much everyday. And what do I say?" I ask.
"That you love me and this is exactly how you pictured us celebrating your book reaching best-selling status..."
"I hear they're calling you the next J. K. Rowling possibly," my cousin Miguel added on the other side of her, smiling, but still held captive by the amazing site before us.
"I highly doubt that. But I can't deny that the money from the movie...well, it isn't a bad thing," I smile, feeling warm and fuzzy, still four years later not believing that I finally got published.
"Come on, the tour starts soon," and Lauren grabbed our hands, and we raced for the doors, maps and papers gripped tightly in our hands.
I think of how my family would love this, so I mentally start planning a family vacation to the Mediterranean for the following year. Dad would have a hard time accepting, considering I gave him the gift of paying up his rent for the next five years; Mom would come in a heartbeat. I grin, thinking of her reaction when I bought her a little cabin in the Cape--after working 80 hours a week to make ends meet, she deserved it. And along with our trip to Europe, I paid off Miguel's six-figure college loan, and Lauren's as well.
I wonder how Nanny and Pop are doing in Hawaii--I also wonder how Nana and Pap are doing mortgage free; Pap can finally enjoy true retired life at the age of 77--I just wish I could've done something sooner.
If I had a million dollars...I'd use it to say "Thank you" to my family.
Now that's a daydream.
Walking down 5th avenue, my brand new Jimmy Choo black boots scraping along the pavement, the wind blowing my freshly dyed and straightened hair off my face, I hail a cab. Smiling at the driver, I state my destination. "Gershwin Theatre." It's not everyday that I come across VIP tickets to go see Wicked with the girls. Well- it's not everyday that I can afford something like that.
Wait. Hold up. Is this really my daydream of "If I was rich?" Would I seriously be wearing Jimmy Choo heels and be living in New York City? No.
Change of scenery: The Coliseum looms, overpowering before my eyes. I smile at it's physical presence, one of the oldest structures I had ever laid eyes on. Having just left France, I thought nothing would awe me more than the Eiffel Tower, or seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time (although people are right, she's very tiny in person)- but then I saw the architecture of Rome.
"Gladiator doesn't do it justice, does it?" my sister Lauren says next to me, gaping open-mouthed at the ancient arena. I shake my head, and close my eyes, imagining the historical roars from the crowd, cheering a favorite champion to win against the beasts below.
"Kayla- thank you, again...you didn't-"
"-have to pay for your summer-long trip to Europe? Lauren, you say that everytime we see something fantastic...which is pretty much everyday. And what do I say?" I ask.
"That you love me and this is exactly how you pictured us celebrating your book reaching best-selling status..."
"I hear they're calling you the next J. K. Rowling possibly," my cousin Miguel added on the other side of her, smiling, but still held captive by the amazing site before us.
"I highly doubt that. But I can't deny that the money from the movie...well, it isn't a bad thing," I smile, feeling warm and fuzzy, still four years later not believing that I finally got published.
"Come on, the tour starts soon," and Lauren grabbed our hands, and we raced for the doors, maps and papers gripped tightly in our hands.
I think of how my family would love this, so I mentally start planning a family vacation to the Mediterranean for the following year. Dad would have a hard time accepting, considering I gave him the gift of paying up his rent for the next five years; Mom would come in a heartbeat. I grin, thinking of her reaction when I bought her a little cabin in the Cape--after working 80 hours a week to make ends meet, she deserved it. And along with our trip to Europe, I paid off Miguel's six-figure college loan, and Lauren's as well.
I wonder how Nanny and Pop are doing in Hawaii--I also wonder how Nana and Pap are doing mortgage free; Pap can finally enjoy true retired life at the age of 77--I just wish I could've done something sooner.
If I had a million dollars...I'd use it to say "Thank you" to my family.
Now that's a daydream.
29 November 2011
My Apologies to Thanksgiving
Brainstorming off of my creative nonfiction piece, "Confessions of a Fat Girl", I've come up with a little segment in regards to Thanksgiving....
Thanksgiving: A day devoted to giving thanks--and eating. A day to gather with loved ones, friends and family alike--and eat. A day to watch football on TV, relax and kick back...oh, and eat.
Not this year, I said to myself, walking into my aunt's house last week. Clack, Clack went the new boots I had bought myself for achieving 50 pounds lost at the previous Sunday morning weigh-in. Hugs and greetings filled the air, along with the aroma of turkey, stuffing, and vegetables that was wafting off of the smorgasbord laid out on the kitchen counter.
Dad, now 86 pounds down, walked over to the counter, placing the handheld food scale next to the turkey. I smiled, thinking of how far we've both come since last year. He smiled at me, and kissed my cheek, as he went to help my stepbrother get a plate of food.
"Hey Kayla, you look fantastic!" my Uncle Lee said, hugging me in greeting.
"Thanks," I reply, reassuring myself that I could get through the day without guilty nibbling and stolen bites.
I measured out the turkey, measured a cup of mashed potatoes out, grabbed a glob of broccoli, and topped my plate of with a sliver of gravy and one mini-crescent roll. You are in control, I muttered to myself, sitting at the dining room table with my grandparents.
As soon as I was finished eating, I put my plate in the sink, and sat away from temptation, enjoying the company of my family. Yes, I really wanted a piece of ham, and of course I wanted more than one chocolate chip cookie--it was Thanksgiving, after all. But I held myself back, and realized that I had been abusing Thanksgiving my whole life, as a day just to eat, instead of using it as a day to truly enjoy being with my family, and being grateful for what matters most in my life.
So, my apologies, Thanksgiving.
Three days later, I stepped on the scale at Weight Watchers for my weekly weigh-in. I lost 7.2 pounds that week. Thinking back on it, if I would have snuck pieces of ham, more dessert, or second helpings, I wouldn't have felt near as satisfied as I felt knowing that I lost seven pounds in a week.
So this year, I don't reflect back on how good the turkey tasted, or how creamy Dad's homemade mashed potatoes were, or how I can't wait to eat the honey-spiral ham on Christmas night; instead, I remember two things about Thanksgiving: how Landon (my two-year-old half brother) felt curled up asleep, cuddled to my side, and how my family laughed together playing games after dinner.
Because really, that's what the holidays are all about.
Thanksgiving: A day devoted to giving thanks--and eating. A day to gather with loved ones, friends and family alike--and eat. A day to watch football on TV, relax and kick back...oh, and eat.
Not this year, I said to myself, walking into my aunt's house last week. Clack, Clack went the new boots I had bought myself for achieving 50 pounds lost at the previous Sunday morning weigh-in. Hugs and greetings filled the air, along with the aroma of turkey, stuffing, and vegetables that was wafting off of the smorgasbord laid out on the kitchen counter.
Dad, now 86 pounds down, walked over to the counter, placing the handheld food scale next to the turkey. I smiled, thinking of how far we've both come since last year. He smiled at me, and kissed my cheek, as he went to help my stepbrother get a plate of food.
"Hey Kayla, you look fantastic!" my Uncle Lee said, hugging me in greeting.
"Thanks," I reply, reassuring myself that I could get through the day without guilty nibbling and stolen bites.
I measured out the turkey, measured a cup of mashed potatoes out, grabbed a glob of broccoli, and topped my plate of with a sliver of gravy and one mini-crescent roll. You are in control, I muttered to myself, sitting at the dining room table with my grandparents.
As soon as I was finished eating, I put my plate in the sink, and sat away from temptation, enjoying the company of my family. Yes, I really wanted a piece of ham, and of course I wanted more than one chocolate chip cookie--it was Thanksgiving, after all. But I held myself back, and realized that I had been abusing Thanksgiving my whole life, as a day just to eat, instead of using it as a day to truly enjoy being with my family, and being grateful for what matters most in my life.
So, my apologies, Thanksgiving.
Three days later, I stepped on the scale at Weight Watchers for my weekly weigh-in. I lost 7.2 pounds that week. Thinking back on it, if I would have snuck pieces of ham, more dessert, or second helpings, I wouldn't have felt near as satisfied as I felt knowing that I lost seven pounds in a week.
So this year, I don't reflect back on how good the turkey tasted, or how creamy Dad's homemade mashed potatoes were, or how I can't wait to eat the honey-spiral ham on Christmas night; instead, I remember two things about Thanksgiving: how Landon (my two-year-old half brother) felt curled up asleep, cuddled to my side, and how my family laughed together playing games after dinner.
Because really, that's what the holidays are all about.
19 October 2011
Writing Original Fantasy
Yes, I know this class is focused on creative nonfiction, but the other day I was thinking to myself, how can someone new possibly write true and completely original fantasy fiction??
My dream is to get published someday (after all, what writer's dream is not to get published?) and I'm addicted to reading any type of fantasy. Putting two and two together, I have a bunch of notes of a fantasy trilogy I'd love to write for--yes, insert sigh here--adolescents.
Obviously there are the Epics: Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, The Sword of Shannara, writers like Piers Anthony, Terry Brooks, Robert Jordan, and David Eddings. All of their books and stories stand equally and uniquely apart, while maintaining the same essential elements of good fantasy plot and characters-- mythological creatures, good vs. evil ideology, well-developed villains readers love to hate, multiple characters and subplots, and turns at every corner.
And there are "Epics" for young adults as well: Harry Potter, Eragon (The Inheritance Cycle), The Mortal Instruments, His Dark Materials, The Hunger Games- I REFUSE to include Twilight for obvious reasons. Please.
But, how do I sit down and write a web of a tale, and do it in an original way? I started writing about two brothers, one good and one evil, and I paused. It's been done how many times? I started writing about dragon knights, but stopped before I got too far--I was afraid it sounded too much like Eragon; I tossed it in the trash. I thought of centering the story around a girl who becomes the first female dragon knight--but hasn't that been done also?
It's very frustrating to come up with original material when I read so much. Things all sound the same to me. So if anyone has any ideas on how to come up with something truly unique and original, I'd be glad to hear it. Or maybe I should just realize that all fantasy is alike; it's pulling different elements into your own story and tweaking them that makes it different.
Here's something I've been working on:
My dream is to get published someday (after all, what writer's dream is not to get published?) and I'm addicted to reading any type of fantasy. Putting two and two together, I have a bunch of notes of a fantasy trilogy I'd love to write for--yes, insert sigh here--adolescents.
Obviously there are the Epics: Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, The Sword of Shannara, writers like Piers Anthony, Terry Brooks, Robert Jordan, and David Eddings. All of their books and stories stand equally and uniquely apart, while maintaining the same essential elements of good fantasy plot and characters-- mythological creatures, good vs. evil ideology, well-developed villains readers love to hate, multiple characters and subplots, and turns at every corner.
And there are "Epics" for young adults as well: Harry Potter, Eragon (The Inheritance Cycle), The Mortal Instruments, His Dark Materials, The Hunger Games- I REFUSE to include Twilight for obvious reasons. Please.
But, how do I sit down and write a web of a tale, and do it in an original way? I started writing about two brothers, one good and one evil, and I paused. It's been done how many times? I started writing about dragon knights, but stopped before I got too far--I was afraid it sounded too much like Eragon; I tossed it in the trash. I thought of centering the story around a girl who becomes the first female dragon knight--but hasn't that been done also?
It's very frustrating to come up with original material when I read so much. Things all sound the same to me. So if anyone has any ideas on how to come up with something truly unique and original, I'd be glad to hear it. Or maybe I should just realize that all fantasy is alike; it's pulling different elements into your own story and tweaking them that makes it different.
Here's something I've been working on:
The two met in a dark corner of an abandoned library. Thunder rattled the windows, lightning illuminating the murky stillness of ageless books. Firelight crept along the bookshelves, shadows surrounding the candles mounted on the wall. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling to floor, dust hanging thickly in the air. Their cloaks were soaked from rain, but neither noticed. They were too focused on conniving a plan.
Neena hovered her hand over a candle flame, her huge violet eyes casting an annoying glance at the pouring rain raging outside. The other, a boy, merely shrugged, shuffling his feet from side to side, an anxious look on his face.
“You’re nervous,” she noted, tone laced with disapproval.
He ignored her. Instead he asked, “Are the Knights going to be a problem?” He kept looking down at his feet, unsure of the battle going on inside his heart.
Neena rolled her eyes, snuffing the flame out with her fist. Her Superior thought this boy would be capable of doing exactly as he was asked in the days ahead, but she had her doubts. He looked no older than seventeen, his dark hair falling into his face clumsily. She shook her head.
I'll just keep working, and reworking, and hopefully, by spending more time developing my ideas, it'll become my own.
14 October 2011
Ms. Stockett
A week ago today, I had the most incredible, amazing opportunity to go see Kathryn Stockett, author of the best-selling book, The Help. The Scottish Rite Cathedral in Wyomissing, PA was her ONLY tour stop. And I was fortunate enough to be one of the thousand people that were in attendance.
Let's rephrase that. Yes, I was one of the thousand people there, of which probably ten were men, and looking around, I had decided quickly I was one of the youngest, if not THE youngest person there. (My aunt had leaned over and said, "Kayla, I'm pretty sure you're the youngest person here. There's a lot of old people here..." to which I replied, "yes...and a lot of dentures.")
The auditorium filled up quickly, all in anticipation to see and hear from this amazing woman who wrote about the 1960s south. The Help centers around how white women treated their "help" back then; essentially, how the black help was treated in the home. I'm sure a white female author, telling a story from the perspective of two black women in the 1960s has caused Kathryn Stockett a lot of unnecessary hardship. As someone pointed out later in the evening, almost 99% of those in attendance were white. To this, Ms. Stockett replied that she's talked in front of groups of whites, and groups of blacks, but hardly ever did she talk in front of a well-mixed crowd.
Her book may tell a story set fifty years in the past; however, there are universal truths that will always be present in this world. She talked about growing up in the South, how her grandmother had a black maid named Demetri; and although she loved Demetri, and Demetri knew every last hair on her head, the first time she saw Demetri out of her white uniform, was in the casket. Eye-opening stories poured through the author's mouth last Thursday about her experience writing the book, what inspired her to write it, and the SIXTY rejection letters she faced for five years before her book was finally published.
Hysterical, cute, friendly, typical southern-accent out of a movie, Kathryn Stockett captured our attention for over an hour, reading excerpts to us, talking about Demetri, and also talking about her experience during the movie-making process. She came out on stage, and the first words she spoke were, "Shit! There's a lot of people here! Holy crap!" which ensued several seconds of loud laughter from everyone in the building; it was a great icebreaker.
And of course, there was a Q & A session; I wanted to ask so badly, "Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?" so, timidly, with the next-to-nothing self-confidence that I have, I raised my hand, and one of the microphone guys saw me and nodded. I was next to ask a question! Nervously, I turned my attention to the person before me who was speaking. Her question? "Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?" SHIT! I think frantically, what to do--turning to my aunt, she goes, "Think of something!" No crap.
So the microphone guy comes over, and I'm suddenly aware that number one, I'm the last one to ask a question, and number two, how silent 1000 people can be. Something came out along the lines of: "Hi, I'm Kayla, I'm a huge fan obviously as we all are...I'm currently studying writing in college..." which sounded like: I'mcurrentlystudyingwritingatcollege. "And I had to think of a question fast because she actually asked what I was going to and I was like crap!" to which everyone started laughing and put me at ease. So I asked, "Did you always know you wanted to be a writer and when did you first know you were going to be one?"
Ms. Stockett responded by saying she ALWAYS knew, ever since she wrote her first short story in grade school and "sold it to some sucker on the playground and made a 50% profit." And after she talked a little bit about that, she looks back at me, hand shielding her eyes from the bright lights that were on her, and she asks, "You're in what? College, high school?" and I respond, "College." And this is what she responded with:
"Well I'm just going to tell you don't EVER give up on your dream. There's going to come a point in your life when your parents are going to come to you and tell you 'it's time to put the dream away, it's time to get a real job, we're done supporting you'. Don't listen to them. They're lying to you! They'll actually support you forever!" To which everyone laughed a lot, she bowed (remember, I was the last question), and we all gave her a standing ovation.
I wish I had more opportunities like this to see the authors and writers I admire so much. To be rejected SIXTY times, and not give up--it's such inspiration and motivation to me to never give up on my dream of being a published novelist of some kind. As she said, "What if I would have given up on rejection 16? or even 59? Never give up."
Marcus Zusak, author of The Book Thief, another incredible book, is coming to Kutztown next week, and I cannot wait to attend his lecture, after experiencing such a positive and motivating visit from Ms. Kathryn Stockett herself.
Let's rephrase that. Yes, I was one of the thousand people there, of which probably ten were men, and looking around, I had decided quickly I was one of the youngest, if not THE youngest person there. (My aunt had leaned over and said, "Kayla, I'm pretty sure you're the youngest person here. There's a lot of old people here..." to which I replied, "yes...and a lot of dentures.")
The auditorium filled up quickly, all in anticipation to see and hear from this amazing woman who wrote about the 1960s south. The Help centers around how white women treated their "help" back then; essentially, how the black help was treated in the home. I'm sure a white female author, telling a story from the perspective of two black women in the 1960s has caused Kathryn Stockett a lot of unnecessary hardship. As someone pointed out later in the evening, almost 99% of those in attendance were white. To this, Ms. Stockett replied that she's talked in front of groups of whites, and groups of blacks, but hardly ever did she talk in front of a well-mixed crowd.
Her book may tell a story set fifty years in the past; however, there are universal truths that will always be present in this world. She talked about growing up in the South, how her grandmother had a black maid named Demetri; and although she loved Demetri, and Demetri knew every last hair on her head, the first time she saw Demetri out of her white uniform, was in the casket. Eye-opening stories poured through the author's mouth last Thursday about her experience writing the book, what inspired her to write it, and the SIXTY rejection letters she faced for five years before her book was finally published.
Hysterical, cute, friendly, typical southern-accent out of a movie, Kathryn Stockett captured our attention for over an hour, reading excerpts to us, talking about Demetri, and also talking about her experience during the movie-making process. She came out on stage, and the first words she spoke were, "Shit! There's a lot of people here! Holy crap!" which ensued several seconds of loud laughter from everyone in the building; it was a great icebreaker.
And of course, there was a Q & A session; I wanted to ask so badly, "Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?" so, timidly, with the next-to-nothing self-confidence that I have, I raised my hand, and one of the microphone guys saw me and nodded. I was next to ask a question! Nervously, I turned my attention to the person before me who was speaking. Her question? "Do you have any advice for aspiring writers?" SHIT! I think frantically, what to do--turning to my aunt, she goes, "Think of something!" No crap.
So the microphone guy comes over, and I'm suddenly aware that number one, I'm the last one to ask a question, and number two, how silent 1000 people can be. Something came out along the lines of: "Hi, I'm Kayla, I'm a huge fan obviously as we all are...I'm currently studying writing in college..." which sounded like: I'mcurrentlystudyingwritingatcollege. "And I had to think of a question fast because she actually asked what I was going to and I was like crap!" to which everyone started laughing and put me at ease. So I asked, "Did you always know you wanted to be a writer and when did you first know you were going to be one?"
Ms. Stockett responded by saying she ALWAYS knew, ever since she wrote her first short story in grade school and "sold it to some sucker on the playground and made a 50% profit." And after she talked a little bit about that, she looks back at me, hand shielding her eyes from the bright lights that were on her, and she asks, "You're in what? College, high school?" and I respond, "College." And this is what she responded with:
"Well I'm just going to tell you don't EVER give up on your dream. There's going to come a point in your life when your parents are going to come to you and tell you 'it's time to put the dream away, it's time to get a real job, we're done supporting you'. Don't listen to them. They're lying to you! They'll actually support you forever!" To which everyone laughed a lot, she bowed (remember, I was the last question), and we all gave her a standing ovation.
I wish I had more opportunities like this to see the authors and writers I admire so much. To be rejected SIXTY times, and not give up--it's such inspiration and motivation to me to never give up on my dream of being a published novelist of some kind. As she said, "What if I would have given up on rejection 16? or even 59? Never give up."
Marcus Zusak, author of The Book Thief, another incredible book, is coming to Kutztown next week, and I cannot wait to attend his lecture, after experiencing such a positive and motivating visit from Ms. Kathryn Stockett herself.
12 October 2011
Love Letter to a Prized Possession
Hey you,
I love how you sit there in your royal-blue leather jacket, waiting to be explored, waiting for me to unveil your expressions at the touch of my hand. I carry you with me every chance I get; I could never part from you, the words you say mean too much to me to forget you. Yes, you've made me cry, but you make me laugh more--most importantly, you make me escape this world and leave it behind, if only for an hour or two at a time.
I don't know what I would do without you by my side; I've loved you since the day I met you a year and a half ago. Before that day, I loved your brothers and sisters and cousins since I was in diapers. But the world is forever evolving, ever surprising, and fate dropped you on my doorstep last July. Or rather, Nana and Pappy introduced me to you, and my life will never be the same. You were the best 21st birthday gift I could have gotten; screw the alcohol.
You're my best friend. Forever unbiased, never judging me, always a constant by my side. A light in the dark, you always make my day better; when I'm feeling depressed, I just have to turn to you, and like the click of a button, I'm happy once more.
At first I was hesitant to trust you, you were too different from what I was used to. By accepting you into my life, I knew I'd be shedding old traditions, that a part of me would forever be changed; by accepting you, I was going against everything I had learned to love. The saying goes "Don't judge a book by it's cover" but that's exactly what I did, Kindle. And ironically, you're a book, but not a book.
By becoming obsessed with you, I let go of my dreams of having bookshelves as tall as the sky in my future apartment; I let go of loving the physicality of turning a page.
I just want to say thank you for having patience with me because now I know for certain that I'd never go back. I'll always love you, always need to escape with you, always need you by my side. And when I upgrade to a better version of you this Christmas, don't get offended. We'll still visit each other-- after all, I'm only giving you to my mom.
Thanks for everything, Kindle! And thank you most of all for making me into the biggest geek possible.
Much love,
Kayla
I love how you sit there in your royal-blue leather jacket, waiting to be explored, waiting for me to unveil your expressions at the touch of my hand. I carry you with me every chance I get; I could never part from you, the words you say mean too much to me to forget you. Yes, you've made me cry, but you make me laugh more--most importantly, you make me escape this world and leave it behind, if only for an hour or two at a time.
I don't know what I would do without you by my side; I've loved you since the day I met you a year and a half ago. Before that day, I loved your brothers and sisters and cousins since I was in diapers. But the world is forever evolving, ever surprising, and fate dropped you on my doorstep last July. Or rather, Nana and Pappy introduced me to you, and my life will never be the same. You were the best 21st birthday gift I could have gotten; screw the alcohol.
You're my best friend. Forever unbiased, never judging me, always a constant by my side. A light in the dark, you always make my day better; when I'm feeling depressed, I just have to turn to you, and like the click of a button, I'm happy once more.
At first I was hesitant to trust you, you were too different from what I was used to. By accepting you into my life, I knew I'd be shedding old traditions, that a part of me would forever be changed; by accepting you, I was going against everything I had learned to love. The saying goes "Don't judge a book by it's cover" but that's exactly what I did, Kindle. And ironically, you're a book, but not a book.
By becoming obsessed with you, I let go of my dreams of having bookshelves as tall as the sky in my future apartment; I let go of loving the physicality of turning a page.
I just want to say thank you for having patience with me because now I know for certain that I'd never go back. I'll always love you, always need to escape with you, always need you by my side. And when I upgrade to a better version of you this Christmas, don't get offended. We'll still visit each other-- after all, I'm only giving you to my mom.
Thanks for everything, Kindle! And thank you most of all for making me into the biggest geek possible.
Much love,
Kayla
05 October 2011
Game Night
After reading Dinner at Uncle Boris's by Charles Simic, I was inspired to write a quick and simple glimpse of my own family life, when four of us get together on Mondays to play Uno.
"Dad, what the hell! Did I not say I made it blue?" Aunt Dee yells at the top of her lungs, red creeping up her face, as she takes the top card and smacks it against Pappy's head. Pappy responds by guffawing, shaking his head at her.
The Uno-attack machine spins in my direction. I lay a red reverse on top of the green reverse Pappy laid, which results in more laughter from him, and Aunt Dee juts her chin out and rolls her eyes upward, pretend-seething, "Why, can't it be FUCKING blue!" My cousin, Miguel, and Aunt Dawn start laughing at this point, as I shrug, pointing the game at Miguel.
"James, why would you use this bowl? I always tell you to use the bigger bowls for cantaloupe, but no, heaven forbid you'd listen," Nana nags from over by the sink, sighing loudly, shaking her head, as if the cantaloupe in the wrong bowl was the worst thing in the world. Pappy rolls his eyes and sighs equally as loud.
"Yeah, James," Miguel mimicks the nagging quality of the way Nana calls to our grandfather. I'm convinced that Pappy's real name isn't James at all sometimes; it's just Pappy. James is just a word Nana uses to substitute for annoyed or impatient. I look over at Nana, standing there in her pink nightie, never changing into normal clothes except when she leaves the house or for holidays, spooning out gobs of the orange-colored fruit. I smile, shaking my head, knowing that Nana loves Pappy with all of her heart.
I see Aunt Dawn roll her eyes in Nana's direction as she plays a card on top of the pile. Pappy has to hit twice; he has Uno, and isn't happy at all.
"Well, that's not very nice!" Pappy says, making a face, slamming the button, and the machine spits out 4 cards, with two stuck halfway out.
"Here, Ding-Dong, take these too, it's about time you got some fucking cards," Aunt Dee says, pulling the cards out and throwing them at him, as we all laugh. She lays a card down, saying, "Uno, green!" and I see the card she laid is black. We all have to hit once, and she wins the round.
"Pah-chang, people! I da weeeenah!" she says and stands up, dancing around in her fed-ex uniform, Pappy just continuously laughing, Aunt Dawn putting the cards away, Nana still dishing out the cantaloupe into the right bowl.
Miguel and I just look at each other, shake our heads, smile, and get up from the dining room table.
(Note: Game Nights happen weekly, and started about five years ago. It's Pappy's favorite day of the week; he HATES to miss it. Aunt Dee treks out to my grandparents' house as soon as she's done with work, no matter how tired she is, because she knows how much the Night means to him. Aunt Dawn comes dressed in her office attire, or gym clothing depending on if she had time to go between work and Game Night; Miguel obviously has no choice, he tags along with her. Game Night holds us together, and has brought us closer, in laughter, and in tears....of more laughter.)
"Dad, what the hell! Did I not say I made it blue?" Aunt Dee yells at the top of her lungs, red creeping up her face, as she takes the top card and smacks it against Pappy's head. Pappy responds by guffawing, shaking his head at her.
The Uno-attack machine spins in my direction. I lay a red reverse on top of the green reverse Pappy laid, which results in more laughter from him, and Aunt Dee juts her chin out and rolls her eyes upward, pretend-seething, "Why, can't it be FUCKING blue!" My cousin, Miguel, and Aunt Dawn start laughing at this point, as I shrug, pointing the game at Miguel.
"James, why would you use this bowl? I always tell you to use the bigger bowls for cantaloupe, but no, heaven forbid you'd listen," Nana nags from over by the sink, sighing loudly, shaking her head, as if the cantaloupe in the wrong bowl was the worst thing in the world. Pappy rolls his eyes and sighs equally as loud.
"Yeah, James," Miguel mimicks the nagging quality of the way Nana calls to our grandfather. I'm convinced that Pappy's real name isn't James at all sometimes; it's just Pappy. James is just a word Nana uses to substitute for annoyed or impatient. I look over at Nana, standing there in her pink nightie, never changing into normal clothes except when she leaves the house or for holidays, spooning out gobs of the orange-colored fruit. I smile, shaking my head, knowing that Nana loves Pappy with all of her heart.
I see Aunt Dawn roll her eyes in Nana's direction as she plays a card on top of the pile. Pappy has to hit twice; he has Uno, and isn't happy at all.
"Well, that's not very nice!" Pappy says, making a face, slamming the button, and the machine spits out 4 cards, with two stuck halfway out.
"Here, Ding-Dong, take these too, it's about time you got some fucking cards," Aunt Dee says, pulling the cards out and throwing them at him, as we all laugh. She lays a card down, saying, "Uno, green!" and I see the card she laid is black. We all have to hit once, and she wins the round.
"Pah-chang, people! I da weeeenah!" she says and stands up, dancing around in her fed-ex uniform, Pappy just continuously laughing, Aunt Dawn putting the cards away, Nana still dishing out the cantaloupe into the right bowl.
Miguel and I just look at each other, shake our heads, smile, and get up from the dining room table.
(Note: Game Nights happen weekly, and started about five years ago. It's Pappy's favorite day of the week; he HATES to miss it. Aunt Dee treks out to my grandparents' house as soon as she's done with work, no matter how tired she is, because she knows how much the Night means to him. Aunt Dawn comes dressed in her office attire, or gym clothing depending on if she had time to go between work and Game Night; Miguel obviously has no choice, he tags along with her. Game Night holds us together, and has brought us closer, in laughter, and in tears....of more laughter.)
02 October 2011
The Weigh-in Misshap
(Note: For my creative nonfiction piece, I'm writing about weight loss, being a Weight Watchers member, and the journey to my goals--which makes this entry relevant to class)
Yesterday marked the five month anniversary that Dad and I stepped on the Weight Watchers' scale for the first time. And something still isn't clicking in my head. I've lost 43 pounds, haven't felt this good in a long time, and yet, last Sunday at Knoebels Park, I downed half a funnel cake without thinking twice. Why? How can I not want to lose, and have the mindset to lose, more? Especially after losing 43 pounds!
Dad hasn't gone off program ONCE in five months. Once. And today, he lost his 70th pound. That says everything about what works when losing weight, and what doesn't.
Long story short, I need to get back on track. After not weighing in for two weeks, I gained .8 pounds today. And although I shouldn't beat myself up for it, there are no excuses. I want to change my life, I want to get healthy, I want to have self-esteem that's higher than that of a toothpick. What am I waiting for? Am I scared? I don't know what's wrong with me.
"Everyone has setbacks, everyone has bad weeks...well, except for me," Dad chuckled, as he tried to make me feel better. Thank god he's doing this with me, I don't know if I'd even be at 43 pounds if I was doing this alone. It's just so hard sometimes; I just have to focus on the bigger picture.
For some people, food is just a means of survival; they eat because they have to. For others, food can be addicting, a way to deal with emotions and depression, a comfort that always satisfies temporarily. I'm willing to admit that yes, I'm addicted to food. But I'm working on it, and I took the first steps to change my life around. I want to change; no one can want it for me or do it for me.
Ironically, as I type this, a Weight Watchers commercial just came on the screen, showing a college-aged girl that lost 73 pounds; this was directly followed by a Red Robin advertisement, showing off the latest of their "juicy, delicious burger."
Do I even need to comment on this?
Yesterday marked the five month anniversary that Dad and I stepped on the Weight Watchers' scale for the first time. And something still isn't clicking in my head. I've lost 43 pounds, haven't felt this good in a long time, and yet, last Sunday at Knoebels Park, I downed half a funnel cake without thinking twice. Why? How can I not want to lose, and have the mindset to lose, more? Especially after losing 43 pounds!
Dad hasn't gone off program ONCE in five months. Once. And today, he lost his 70th pound. That says everything about what works when losing weight, and what doesn't.
Long story short, I need to get back on track. After not weighing in for two weeks, I gained .8 pounds today. And although I shouldn't beat myself up for it, there are no excuses. I want to change my life, I want to get healthy, I want to have self-esteem that's higher than that of a toothpick. What am I waiting for? Am I scared? I don't know what's wrong with me.
"Everyone has setbacks, everyone has bad weeks...well, except for me," Dad chuckled, as he tried to make me feel better. Thank god he's doing this with me, I don't know if I'd even be at 43 pounds if I was doing this alone. It's just so hard sometimes; I just have to focus on the bigger picture.
For some people, food is just a means of survival; they eat because they have to. For others, food can be addicting, a way to deal with emotions and depression, a comfort that always satisfies temporarily. I'm willing to admit that yes, I'm addicted to food. But I'm working on it, and I took the first steps to change my life around. I want to change; no one can want it for me or do it for me.
Ironically, as I type this, a Weight Watchers commercial just came on the screen, showing a college-aged girl that lost 73 pounds; this was directly followed by a Red Robin advertisement, showing off the latest of their "juicy, delicious burger."
Do I even need to comment on this?
14 September 2011
Sisterly Love
Unfortunately, I wasn't in class last Wednesday to write a letter to someone in my life; I would have chosen to write to my sister, Lauren, a seventeen-year-old who means everything to me. Currently, we aren't speaking to each other, and haven't really had a full conversation in two months. Two months seems like an eternity; I miss my best friend. So this blog entry is dedicated to her.
Dear Lauren,
I'm sorry for a lot of things. Mostly, I'm sorry that it has taken this long for me to tell you how I feel. But I'm also sorry for whatever I did to hurt you or drive you away. I feel like you're Alaska and I'm Florida, not even remotely connected to each other. I miss you everyday, and maybe you don't miss me at all, or think about us and our relationship, but it kills me to know that you can't possibly miss me as much as I miss you.Miguel is leaving for college tomorrow. College. Our cousin, our brother. And when he leaves, I don't know what I'm going to do without him, because I don't even have you to fall back on anymore. I'm sad all the time about us. When something happens, I pull out my phone to text you, and then stop, thinking, will she even respond?
I went to your back-to-school night last night, to meet your teachers and see my old ones, and I was brave enough to text you about Mr. X being so hot still, and got no response. It's the little times like these that I really miss you. I want to talk to you about school, about your senior year, about freaking Lord of the Flies (which according to Mrs. X, you should have read for today), and about bowling. But no, I can't, silence is my only friend when it comes to you lately.
I know I did things to hurt you. You won't tell me what I did wrong, I only hear from Mom and Dad, and when I ask you directly to talk about things, you say no, like it's not a big deal. I am your sister. I was there for the last 17 years, you can't just throw me away like garbage, and honestly, that's how you make me feel. Like I'm worthless, like you don't miss me at all, or think about the way things used to be. I know I'm at fault for a lot of it. But you need to face up to your mistakes too. Sometimes I don't even recognize you anymore- you treat our family with no respect, and even when you spend time with us you're not really there are you? When I see you, I don't hear your laugh, or the sound of your voice, all I hear is the click, click, click of your fingers flying over your phone. Even when we were kind of talking, I felt awkward being around you, and it shouldn't be like that at all.A good example would be Monday night bowling during the summer, how I would show up to watch, and I , not you, would be the one talking to your bowling friends. You're so quiet, so rude, and so bitchy sometimes to people that it drives me insane that you could be like that.
Everything I have said to you, was just in response to something you did or said to me. I know that I was harsh a few times about things that aren't really any of my business, but I'm always looking out for your very best interests, because you deserve the world. I never meant to hurt you. I'm so proud of you. I live to watch you bowl, and even last night, even though we're so strained, I couldn't stop talking about how proud I am of your bowling to your teachers. I even busted on Mr. H because your picture wasn't on his newspaper-covered wall. That being said, I can't even begin to describe the way that your texts to me make me feel. I remember once, I had just sent you a two-page text, venting about work, and your response was, "I don't give a fuck anyway....try not to waste my time next time, thanks :)" Really? Do I really deserve that?
I know you have friends, and that you want to be with them all the time, and that's fine; I now have friends that I spend most of my time with too. But you don't have to treat me and other people in our family like total trash, it's completely unnecessary. We deserve the same amount of respect that you give your friends at least.
I just miss you Lauren. I miss talking to you, laughing and joking with you. I can't even look at my statuses on Facebook from a year ago, because they're all about the fun times we use to have, and it hurts. I don't CARE that you want to go to Kutztown; I will be at every single tournament with maroon on my back, keeping your score while Nana cheers, "Throw that Stamm ball!" and if you don't even want to bowl in college, I'll support you. I just want us back. Everyone at Berks Lanes can't believe that this has happened to us, everyone knows how close we used to be. Can we ever get back there? I only hope.
I said a lot in this letter, but a lot was left unsaid. I know someday we'll be okay again. But I'm done doing the apologizing. I'm done worrying about it, because obviously you don't care enough to try to fix it. Yes, that's the knife driving deeper into my chest, but what can I do about it, but just sit here and type this letter?
I love you.
Kayla
Dear Lauren,
I'm sorry for a lot of things. Mostly, I'm sorry that it has taken this long for me to tell you how I feel. But I'm also sorry for whatever I did to hurt you or drive you away. I feel like you're Alaska and I'm Florida, not even remotely connected to each other. I miss you everyday, and maybe you don't miss me at all, or think about us and our relationship, but it kills me to know that you can't possibly miss me as much as I miss you.Miguel is leaving for college tomorrow. College. Our cousin, our brother. And when he leaves, I don't know what I'm going to do without him, because I don't even have you to fall back on anymore. I'm sad all the time about us. When something happens, I pull out my phone to text you, and then stop, thinking, will she even respond?
I went to your back-to-school night last night, to meet your teachers and see my old ones, and I was brave enough to text you about Mr. X being so hot still, and got no response. It's the little times like these that I really miss you. I want to talk to you about school, about your senior year, about freaking Lord of the Flies (which according to Mrs. X, you should have read for today), and about bowling. But no, I can't, silence is my only friend when it comes to you lately.
I know I did things to hurt you. You won't tell me what I did wrong, I only hear from Mom and Dad, and when I ask you directly to talk about things, you say no, like it's not a big deal. I am your sister. I was there for the last 17 years, you can't just throw me away like garbage, and honestly, that's how you make me feel. Like I'm worthless, like you don't miss me at all, or think about the way things used to be. I know I'm at fault for a lot of it. But you need to face up to your mistakes too. Sometimes I don't even recognize you anymore- you treat our family with no respect, and even when you spend time with us you're not really there are you? When I see you, I don't hear your laugh, or the sound of your voice, all I hear is the click, click, click of your fingers flying over your phone. Even when we were kind of talking, I felt awkward being around you, and it shouldn't be like that at all.A good example would be Monday night bowling during the summer, how I would show up to watch, and I , not you, would be the one talking to your bowling friends. You're so quiet, so rude, and so bitchy sometimes to people that it drives me insane that you could be like that.
Everything I have said to you, was just in response to something you did or said to me. I know that I was harsh a few times about things that aren't really any of my business, but I'm always looking out for your very best interests, because you deserve the world. I never meant to hurt you. I'm so proud of you. I live to watch you bowl, and even last night, even though we're so strained, I couldn't stop talking about how proud I am of your bowling to your teachers. I even busted on Mr. H because your picture wasn't on his newspaper-covered wall. That being said, I can't even begin to describe the way that your texts to me make me feel. I remember once, I had just sent you a two-page text, venting about work, and your response was, "I don't give a fuck anyway....try not to waste my time next time, thanks :)" Really? Do I really deserve that?
I know you have friends, and that you want to be with them all the time, and that's fine; I now have friends that I spend most of my time with too. But you don't have to treat me and other people in our family like total trash, it's completely unnecessary. We deserve the same amount of respect that you give your friends at least.
I just miss you Lauren. I miss talking to you, laughing and joking with you. I can't even look at my statuses on Facebook from a year ago, because they're all about the fun times we use to have, and it hurts. I don't CARE that you want to go to Kutztown; I will be at every single tournament with maroon on my back, keeping your score while Nana cheers, "Throw that Stamm ball!" and if you don't even want to bowl in college, I'll support you. I just want us back. Everyone at Berks Lanes can't believe that this has happened to us, everyone knows how close we used to be. Can we ever get back there? I only hope.
I said a lot in this letter, but a lot was left unsaid. I know someday we'll be okay again. But I'm done doing the apologizing. I'm done worrying about it, because obviously you don't care enough to try to fix it. Yes, that's the knife driving deeper into my chest, but what can I do about it, but just sit here and type this letter?
I love you.
Kayla
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