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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)