Month: July 2020

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Excerpt from Mira’s Awakening Chapter 10

Girl’s Night Out

“You and Mira have been friends for a long time, I hear?” Devan asks.

“Yeah. We met in elementary school, but our paths never crossed that often until middle school,” she smiles at me fondly.

“And we became inseparable!” I add. “We went to school together, we lived walking distance from each other, and we did theater together during our school years.”

“Did you ever compete for parts?” Devan inquires with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

We both laugh uproariously at the absurdity of the question.

“God no! Look at us! We are complete opposites in every way. Even our voices suit different parts. I’m an alto. She’s a soprano. So, we never competed, but we blew the house down when we got to play opposite each other.” Tess smiles down at me again. “She got all the girly roles. I got all the kick ass roles. It worked.”

“It’s true,” I confirm as I wrap an arm around her. “Tess is the Rizzo to my Sandy!”

Wesley sniggers while Devan stares in confusion. “I don’t get it.”

“Shameful. Just shameful.” I shake my head. “First, I find out you’ve never seen Supernatural, and now Grease?”

“Not sure we can be friends with him anymore,” Lara finally chimes in, the alcohol seeming to bring her back to life again.

“Hey, give the man a shot. Everyone can be taught and he seems like a smart guy,” Tess says with tentative approval.

“Thanks?” Devan quips.

“Yeah,” Lara agrees. “He might look like Danny Zuko but he has the brains of… Ummm…”

“Stone,” Tess and I say in unison. We both developed huge crushes on the character after seeing the musical City of Angels. Stone is sexy and smart and a little dangerous. Yes, please.

“You’re comparing me to a rock? Is that your way of calling me a blockhead or something?”

“No, silly,” Lara giggles sloppily, “he’s a character from the musical City of Angels. He’s a private investigator. It’s a compliment!”

“Do me now! Do me!” Wesley begs.

“Seymour!” Lara shouts with a giggle.

Wesley frowns. “For real? That dorky little dude in Little Shop of Horrors?”

“She’s kidding, Wesley,” I reassure him. “No, I bet when you’re sober you’re more like a Nathan Detroit.”

Wesley perks up. “Who’s that?”

“From Guys and Dolls,” Tess and I explain, again in unison.

Tess looks around thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, we could typecast the leads right here at the table.” She points to Devan. “Sky Masterson, the charming, dashing gambler, out to win the heart of the heroine.” She points to Wesley. “Nathan Detroit, the charismatic, irresistible comic relief.” She points to Lara. “She’s without a doubt an Adelaide.”

Lara nods proudly, clearly accepting the compliment. Adelaide is, after all, a bombshell. Of course, knowing Tess, she’s attributing the character’s flightiness and high-pitched voice to Lara as the most obvious comparison. 

“And my dear friend here is the sweet, strait-laced, God-fearing Sarah Brown.”

Bowing my head in mock appreciation, I revel in how she loves to tease me this way, mostly because of how much she believes it! It’s true I’m more conservative than, say, pretty much the entirety of San Francisco…but that’s not saying as much about me as it does about the city! Still, finding ways to contradict her perception and shocking her to speechless is one of my greatest pleasures in life.

“What about you?” Wesley asks Tess.

“Tess is an Ellen from Miss Saigon,” I interject.

Tess gasps in affront. “What? No I’m not! She’s a whiny bitch!”

“Nuh-uh! Her husband’s the whiny bitch! She’s kick-ass! She’s like, ‘You’re not taking my husband from me, you cow! I don’t care if you boinked him first and he was super depressed you were dead, but you actually weren’t! You had his baby? Whatever, we’ll just take him from you then.’ Wham, bam, bam!” I imitate badass chick karate moves.

Lara giggles while Tess stares at me like I’ve lost my marbles. 

“I don’t think that’s quite how it went!” Lara says.

“Last time I checked, Ellen didn’t kick Kim’s ass. Sadly, there are no ninjas in Miss Saigon. Or, maybe you saw some cracked-out interpretation of the musical without me somewhere along the way?”

I shrug. 

“Sorry. I’m not an Ellen. I’m an Oolie,” Tess says with finality.

I nod my head in agreement. “Oh, yeah, you’re definitely an Oolie.” I turn to Devan. “She’s also a character from City of Angels. She’s a tough-as-nails smart-ass, just like my girl,” I say affectionately, giving her a little squeeze. “No backsies on the Ellen comparison. That one stands, too, because she’s strong as hell.”

“OK, one more. Do Nicolas,” Wesley requests.

“That’s easy. Lara, can you guess what I’m thinking?”

“Yep.” She hiccups. Then burps. “Henry Higgins!”

I wink at her.

“Hey,” Devan exclaims, “I actually know that one! The professor in that movie… What was the name again? My mom made me watch it once. Oh, yeah! My Fair Lady!”

“Well done,” Tess says patronizingly as she pats him on the arm.

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Mira’s Awakening: An Excerpt from the Prologue

Prologue: The Twenty-First Day

“Are you ready?” she asks.

Ready? Am I…ready? That has to be the stupidest question I’ve ever heard. I don’t actually know this woman but it doesn’t matter. I despise her. 

I’ll admit, my hatred was set in stone the moment I knew what she was here to do, so she never actually had a chance. But then, she seriously had to ask me if I was ready? For God’s sake! Don’t they get training in this kind of thing?

I can’t bear it. She disgusts me. I imagine her as an adult from a Charlie Brown cartoon, trombone riffs replacing her words and protecting me from their meaning.

Strange how the brain works. I’m aware that I’m experiencing the psychosomatic symptoms of trauma and can acknowledge that my mind is shielding me from her words. You’d think that understanding how the brain works would make me stronger in this type of situation. Nope. Doctorate degree be damned. What good was all that education if I can’t even apply it to myself? Story of my life, I guess.

Am I ready? No. No, of course not. Who the hell would ever be ready for something like this? This might be just another day for her, but it’s my worst nightmare.

God, I’m exhausted. I can’t take it anymore, so I flip my switch and fade to gray.

Every one of my senses is dull to the point of obscurity. I try to respond to her question; try to turn my head; try to make eye contact. I fail. I’m a million miles away: so far removed from everything and everyone in the room that I give up completely, surrendering to the sorrow once more. I’m underwater, sinking slowly to the black depths of the San Francisco bay. And at the moment, I really don’t care that I’m drowning.

Is this really happening? It feels surreal, as if I have been living in a bad dream for twenty-one days. Maybe I have been. If this were only a nightmare, I could wake up and everything would be fine. I would tell him about the nightmare over breakfast, and we would laugh about it in relief. Eventually. It might take a while to learn to joke about it. After all, some nightmares take a few days to shake off; some take a lifetime.

I would recover in time, though, because in this new reality I would wake up, roll over, and he would be there: warm, healthy, and whole! I would hold him closer than ever and he’d smile sleepily. Then, of course, he’d fall right back to sleep (because that man can sleep), but I’d be in his arms so it would be OK. I’d let him sleep in every day for the rest of our very long lives together if only he would wake up now. 

Just wake up. Please?

I’m tired. So tired. Sleep has been a disorienting thing lately. Actually, it has been a terrible tease. No matter how horrific the day was or how little I slept, the next morning began with a little reset button. A clean slate. Each day I woke cold and alone, yet with ineffectual hope that today would be the day he would recover and all would be well.

Sometimes the hope stemmed from the fogginess of sleep. In sleep, my mind could journey to the glorious fantasy world it created to escape from this torment. When I woke, I was granted a moment or two of contented bliss. Bliss! Imagine that, at a time like this! Until reality set in and I remembered. Then I would get to the hospital. “No change.” “Worse condition.” “No hope, sorry. But, you never know, so…maybe?” “No. No chance at all. Prepare yourself.” (As if there was a way to prepare for this!)

Some days were different. I would wake fully aware of my circumstances but with hope that today would present the miracle we all prayed and prayed and prayed for. It was easy to get out of bed the mornings I woke with hope. I could eat without forcing it down. Hell, I would even smile every now and again! I believed I would get to the hospital and his beautiful, knowing eyes would finally open. He would grin and complain about the hospital food. Oh, to hear him complain about something! Knowing him, he’d turn it into a quip about bureaucratic conspiracies that would have me rolling my eyes.

I didn’t wake with hope today; no reprieve from the sorrow. It was as if my subconscious grieved all night long…no chance to forget. My emotional roller coaster of recurring hope, desperation, faith, and despair has now come to a screeching halt. Today I face my new reality. Am I ready?

This morning was a devastating prelude to the worst day of my life. I opened a text message from an unfamiliar number, innocently believing it to be more words of support from one of Peter’s friends. Of course, I could not have been more wrong about this particular text. 

I don’t know who sent me that hateful message but it jolted me to this state of eerie existential acceptance I’m stewing in now. It’s a little scary, if I’m being honest with myself (or, at least, it would be if I weren’t too numb to care), because in it lies emptiness. I’m in a sensory deprivation chamber and there is no door, all thanks to a single text message begging me not to murder my husband. Warning me I would regret the consequences. Who does something like that?

Anyone with the correct knowledge of his situation would never say anything so heinous! Not if they had cried and agonized and prayed alongside me, had met with the doctors, had heard the news become bleaker each day, had felt my despair in finally accepting the doctors’ advice. No. That person, whoever it was, understands nothing. Nothing.

How long have I been sitting here? I feel several sets of eyes burning into me. I can’t look at the nurse. At anyone. I know who’s here. The blurry blobs across the room are my mom and stepdad Brice. I can’t bear the sight of them so I won’t try bringing them into focus. They’re grieving because they loved him, too, so one look at them would push me over the edge.

My best friend Tess and her husband, Rick are here. I can’t see them. Wait, are they here? I saw them this morning, didn’t I? Yes. I remember, they were at my house right after I got the nasty text. Tess swore up a storm and then deleted the message so I wouldn’t be tempted to read it again. Rick stomped around the house like a raging bull. I was hugged so fiercely I thought I might burst. Maybe they didn’t come to the hospital? I can’t remember. 

The blurry blob sitting next to me is the social worker. I know that much. The doctor insisted she be here. A social worker? Really? That feels odd to me. I thought social workers just did things like removing kids from abusive households and such. But I studied psychology, not social work, so what do I know about it?

I can’t even look at Peter anymore. I’ve been doing that for three weeks and it hurts too much today. Instead, I stare at our intertwined hands. That’s the only thing I can see clearly. His fingertips are black. Black! I hide them under my hand so I don’t have to look at them. There. That’s better. But his hand feels different. It’s still big and callused in the same way, but now it’s just…stiff. And it isn’t as warm as it once was. And it doesn’t embrace mine anymore.

God, I hate the smell in here! I’ve been smelling it every day for three weeks. For twenty-one days. And if I never do it again, it will be too soon. And the soap! It’s noxious and nauseating. It doesn’t resemble flowers or fruit or spice. It reeks of medicine and dying, and when I inhale it makes me want to gag and rage and cut off my hands and toss them in a meat grinder. Why didn’t I just bring my own soap from home? I would feel better if I didn’t smell like this. Or not. Who am I kidding?

The social worker touches my shoulder. Touch is good. It always pulls me from my meanderings. And given that this is the worst woolgathering episode I’ve experienced in a lifetime of introverted withdrawals, I’m grateful for it.

I slowly drag my gaze from our hands to try to focus on her. Success. I have tunnel vision and now this stranger next to me gets all my attention. All that I have to give, anyway. She has the kindest smile. My eyes cloud at the goodness and compassion radiating from hers. Empathy. I wonder if she’s lost someone, too? Yeah, she has. It’s written all over her face.

She isn’t pretty per se. Dark, messy hair. No makeup. No defining features. Yet she exudes kindness. She looks like she does this all day every day and I’m convinced she must be the strongest person in the world for it.

I wonder how anyone can do her job and remain a functioning human being? Maybe she’s a raging alcoholic outside work hour or she moonlights as a stripper or she battles to the death in an underground fighting club to manage the stress. Whatever the case, good for her! The fact that she’s sitting next to me and telling me with her eyes that I’m not alone makes her the most beautiful person in the world. If she can be strong, so can I. Right? 

Am I ready? No. And I refuse to say I’m ready, because I will never be ready. Still, I manage a small whisper in the general direction of the nurse. “Go ahead.”

The nurse blob glides to the machine. The noises stop. She disappears.

“Mira, why don’t you tell me about him?” the social worker asks.

So I do. I tell her how incredible he is. I murmur stories of how we met, how we fell in love, and how brilliant and talented and loved he is. Was.

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Best Laid Plans

What’s a woman to do with herself when her plans are thwarted?

We had a move date. San Jose, CA to Foster City, CA on July seventh. We were all set. I gave my written notice to my landlord. I changed my address with the post office. I arranged my work schedule so that I would have time to focus on prepping the new house and the move itself. I scheduled movers. We purged and donated what felt like an entire household worth of stuff. I had a buyer in line for the appliances we needed to sell. We packed about half of our stuff. We took everything off the walls and patched it all up. Everything was all set. We made plans for where the furniture would go and the paint colors we wanted. We had two weeks left to our move date.

Until we didn’t. (Enter screeching noises here.)

To make a long story short, our new property hit a “snag.” (That is a euphemism, in case you didn’t catch it.) The icky, unpleasant snag led to one inevitable and very unfortunate conclusion: There was absolutely no way we would be able to move on time, and no way to know when the snag would be…unsnagged.

Well, crap.

In a panic, I rushed to contact my landlord and cancel our notice (thank God they didn’t have anyone lined up for the property yet). I contacted the woman who wanted to purchase our appliances and cancelled the sale, since she was on a timeline that no longer aligned with ours. I contacted the post office to cancel the change of address. 

Surprisingly, cancelling all our plans was not as tricky as it might sound. It probably took me a grand total of an hour to do it all. Everyone, including my rocking landlord, was understanding and sympathetic.

Phew. (Relieved sigh.)Yep. OK. Hmm.

The kids and I started sitting around staring at each other. Um…what do we do now?

As I may have previously mentioned, I don’t do well with waiting. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a completely impatient, impulsive brat or anything. Only just a little. Less Veruca Salt from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and more like Cher from Clueless. Toward the end of the movie, that is. Anyhoo, when I know what will happen and when, I can totally handle it! But my youngest son said it best when he declared, “Mom, what do we do now? It feels like we’re in purgatory!”

Well said, my eleven-year-old scholar. Well said.

The worst part about the situation was the sheer powerlessness I felt. All I could do was wait, without any idea if we would be able to move in one month or five! No joke! I couldn’t plan anything. I couldn’t tell my landlord a new estimate for when we would vacate our property. Nothing!

A few days later, I found myself working with my social skills group clients. (You know, for the job that actually pays me money?) We were working on this mindfulness exercise in which you actively challenge your thoughts and feelings about a problem. It dawned on me (duh!) that these lessons applied to me too. 

(Therapist, heal thyself, right?) 

So I quickly applied these strategies to my situation. I began by challenging my thinking. (Needless to say, my thoughts were not very nice.) I realized none of my unpleasant and even outright nasty thoughts were doing me any good at all. I didn’t fully understand the situation and there was nothing I could do about it anyway. Constantly stirring in negativity was a completely useless waste of energy.

Next, I challenged my feelings. What was I feeling? Frustrated, angry, helpless, and stressed as hell! I had to ask myself: what good were these feelings doing me? There was no outlet for them, after all. There was nothing I could do about the situation. 

What good is anger if it doesn’t act as a motivator for change? 

What good is stress if not used as a drive to get stuff done? 

I couldn’t help with the “unsnagging” business. So, what could I do? (I am a doer, and I always feel better when I am neck-deep in a project.) I realized I needed to do…something. But what? 

I thought about all the things I had planned for after the move. I wanted to paint all the walls, I wanted to redecorate, and I wanted to paint some furniture. Hmm. That gave me an idea. If I started on projects for the new house, I would feel productive and as if I were working toward the goal of (eventually) moving into it. That would keep me busy, keep my focused positively on our new home, and keep me from ruminating nastily on things outside of my control.

I found paint in my garage the very next day and got to work.

I started with my blindingly stark-white craft and office storage cubbies. I decided they were boring and needed a little zing.

At the time I did this, my impulsive nature took over and I didn’t even think about taking before and after pictures. Heck, I didn’t even think about blogging about this until a couple weeks later! Anyway, I dug into the archives of old photos to do my best at a before and after photo.

My craft and office supply cabinets…before and after,

I didn’t stop there! 

I decided our new living room is going to have a beachy feel to it. It might be an overdone concept, but I really don’t care. We’ve already established I have an obsession with beaches so why not live the dream?

I had an adorable and well-built circular table I had been using for the last fifteen years. It had a black granite table top that I didn’t like very much, and it certainly would not fit with our beach theme.

So, I spent some time on the oracle. (That’s Pinterest, for those of you who are new to my posts.)

I discovered it was really easy to paint furniture if you used chalk paint. Sweet! I purchased some from Amazon right away. I also discovered…WALLPAPER!

Did you know wallpaper is self-adhesive now? I didn’t! I found links to YouTube videos of people doing all kinds of crazy things with it! They aren’t just using it on walls. I saw people covering kitchen countertops, cupboards, and furniture with the stuff. Brilliant.

So, here’s what I did to my table to make it beachy. First I spray-painted the top with a white primer, because I didn’t want the blackness of the table to show from under the light-colored wallpaper. Then, I simply applied the wallpaper as if it were a ginormous sticker. The edges of the circular table were damned tricky to manage. There were multiple swear words involved in the process and they still didn’t turn out perfect. Still, I’m happy with the end result. 

My wallpapered table top.

I then painted the base of the table an off-white color, then distressed it so it matched the table top better. I decided I didn’t like it, so I repainted it again. Hey, I can be fickle if I want. That’s the nice thing about paint. It’s just paint! You can put it on, take it off, whatever. As long as you’ve got the time and patience, the sky’s the limit.

To distress or not to distress…

I absolutely loved the white color of the table. So, after it was done, I looked to my china cabinet and cringed. It was built in the late 90s and completely outdated. It was still a solid and completely awesome piece of furniture, but the color and style wouldn’t work for my living room plans.

Before you ask, yes, I know it’s weird to put a china cabinet in the living room, but the house is small and the dining room is being commandeered by my office. So the dining room is relegated to the living room. Deal with it, home deco snobs!

Yet again, I didn’t have the before-and-after foresight. . I dug into my archives once more and found this partial pic of the cabinet as it appeared before.

And after some chalk paint and new cabinet pulls, here is our beachy makeover! I think it is going to look stunning against the ocean blue paint we will use at the new house. As you can see, the drawers aren’t in the cabinet yet. We’re still waiting on the drawer pulls. They will match the cabinet pulls perfectly.

Before and after: the cabinet

Did you know you can use chalk paint on glass? Sweet. So, I painted the glass shelves white, too. I left them out of the cabinet for now. We are moving, after all! No point in putting the fragile things back in just to take them out again.

I couldn’t believe how long it took to paint the cabinet. There were so many nooks and crannies! It took me five days to complete it (with two coats each of chalk paint and protective topcoat), but it kept me busy, it was fun, and it was worth it. 

I didn’t stop there. I decided my new bedroom would be painted in pink, chocolate brown and suede. At least, that’s my plan so far. Regardless of how it actually turns out, most of my bedroom furniture would certainly be the wrong color. 

Time for more chalk paint! I love this stuff! I started with a few small things: my mirror and stool. I also added an embellishment to the stool. I pulled out my vinyl cutter (hooray that I hadn’t packed it yet) and put it to use.

This poor, sad stool had seen better days. Look at her now! Yay, me!
My espresso colored mirror is now blush pink

I guess this is my very longwinded way of explaining that our move was delayed, but we made the best of a bad situation. I’m proud of myself. I didn’t sink into a pit of despair about it, and actually kicked a little butt while waiting for things to work out.

Remember that I said my move was cancelled two weeks before we were supposed to move? Now, here we are once again, a month later, and it is two weeks before our move. For real, this time.

Everything has been resolved and we are once again set to move. We didn’t even have to wait longer than a month, thank goodness! Not too shabby. And, I got so much done in the meantime that I feel productive and positive about it.

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An Inspirational Journey: Part Seven

Home Again

After the lovely visit with our relatives in New York, we returned to San Jose. Was I feeling dejected? Disappointed? Yes. Yes, I was. After all, we experienced another fruitless search for a place to live.

No time to wallow. There was so much to do. Thanksgiving was over and it was time to prepare for Christmas. And write some more, of course.

In the meantime, I started the process of searching for an agent to represent my books. I didn’t start writing with the intention of publishing, but half way through the process, I became so in love with the characters and with the story that I wanted to share it with others. Maybe the story would matter to someone? Maybe it would touch them? Maybe even just one person? That would be enough to make it worth the effort. Though that is the truth, I must admit that I wouldn’t mind if it actually meant something to a lot of people and supplemented my income, too!

Sadly, my research indicated that finding an agent could take one to two years, so I got the process started right away, diligently sending queries to carefully-selected agents. (Time will tell how long my patience lasts in this process. As we have already established, I don’t do well with waiting…self-publication is looking better and better. Bets on if I can make it to the one-year mark?)

I shopped. I worked. I thought. I wrote. I queried. I shopped some more (it was the holidays, after all). I came to a few realizations.

At this point in my life, a search for the idyllic home locale might be a bit ambitious. Or, to be more precise, I might have been putting the cart before the horse. My eldest would be going off to college. My youngest would be going into sixth grade. I needed to be somewhere that he could get a decent education. I needed to make enough money to be comfortable and also afford a college tuition. As the clock ticked down to adulthood for my eldest (yoinks!), it became clearer and clearer. I didn’t want to move far from the bay area. At least not yet. The farther away I moved, the farther I would be from my eldest, who decided that he would remain in the bay area regardless.  

I came to another realization. As I wrote my story about family and a close-knit community, I realized how much I wanted that. I spent so many years feeling sorry for myself and secluding myself. Yes, I was an introvert and always would be, but that didn’t mean I should continue with my reclusive ways. Hell, I was half way to becoming a full-fledged hermit! I wanted to be closer to the rest of my family, too. Granted, I had family scattered all over the place, but I wanted to be close to my mom, in particular. The woman has wanted me to move closer to her since the day I left for San Jose State in 1993. Of all the people I knew, she pushed me the most to get out of my bubble and face the world. I needed that. Plus, I thought that she might need me, too, though in different ways.

Now, let’s talk jobs. I have never taken my job for granted since the day of my interview three years ago. I met with my boss and explained my time limitations, my extreme physical limitations, and my stipulation that if my back ever went out again, I wasn’t sure when I’d be back on my feet. Her response? “We’re so happy to have you! You’re hired.” I always felt damn lucky to have the job I had, mainly because of how flexible they were with me and my physical limitations, but also because they just…cared! Honestly! My boss actually cared that I was healthy and well! I mean, sure, she would always ask me to give as much as I could, but would always respect when I set boundaries. Always. Did I really want to give that up?

When it came down to it, there was one logical choice. A best-fit place to call home for this stage of our lives. A place close to family. A place that moved me farther from work and some friends, but not so far that I couldn’t continue to work and see friends as usual. A place I used to call home. A beautiful place with weather I could stand.

The boys and I had a long talk about it, and everyone seems content. When Christmas Day came around, we announced it to our whole family: we would be moving to Mom’s townhouse in Foster City. Everyone cheered, seemingly happy that the move brought us closer to them. Mom cried. Seeing her tears of joy, I knew it was the right choice.

It’s not a perfect place. Cost-wise, it is going to be about what we face in San Jose, but not as costly as it would have been without the “friends and family discount” my mom offered us. Traffic is bad like in San Jose. It is also over-populated like San Jose, though it is a much smaller town. However, it’s cooler, being so close to the bay. It is beautiful, and sure to provide me with more inspiration for upcoming books. My mom will be very close. One of my sisters and her family lives just minutes away. My boys already have friends in the area, due to all of the time they have spent visiting my mom’s church over the years. I can keep my job. I can continue writing, of course, and see what I can make of myself.

So, that’s that, and I’m at peace with the decision. I’m going home. Though I grew up in San Mateo, I lived in Foster City for a couple years when I was a teenager. Actually, the city always has and always will remind me of my dad. We lived together for a year, just the two of us, in an apartment facing the water. Then he and Mom bought a townhouse when I was a senior in high school. They lived there together until he passed away in 2001, just weeks before we discovered I was pregnant with my first son.

When we were kids, my dad used to have little random sayings or parts of songs that he would spout out. He was kooky that way. Whenever we were traveling home from a trip, long or short, he used to say, “Home again, home again, jiggity-jig.” I have no idea what that’s from or what the hell a jiggity-jig is, but as I was writing the title to my final entry in this series, the thought of my dad brought a huge smile to my face. I can even see him grinning his wide, gap-toothed grin as he said it.

When we pull into the driveway for the first time next month, I’ll be sure to weird my kids out with the same random phrase. “Home again, home again, jiggity-jig.”

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An Inspirational Journey: Part Six

Buffalo, New York

My youngest son and I took the redeye to Buffalo during Thanksgiving break. After battling nasty jet lag (he got hit with it way worse than I did this time: I just stayed awake for 24 hours), we enjoyed the company of my in-laws. We also enjoyed the snow!

AJ and I played in the freshly fallen snow

My fabulous sister-in-law, who I totally want to be when I grow up, gave me a tour of one of the local public schools. Before going on, I must explain. No offense to schools in San Jose, because they do what they can with the resources they are provided, but the resources they have are…limited. Very, very limited. The schools my kids attended through the years have been old and outdated, the class sizes are way too big, and the schools are so over-populated that they had more classes in portable buildings than in the school building itself. Again, I can’t blame the teachers or administrators for this. I absolutely believe that they do the best they can.

When I toured the school in New York, I seriously wanted to start singing, “I Think I’m Gonna Like it Here.” I felt like Orphan Annie, seeing Daddy Warbucks’ mansion for the first time. The Lancaster school I visited brought literal tears to my eyes. It was new and beautiful. The class sizes were small. They had room to move around and work in the classrooms and also in cute meeting areas that reminded me of something you might see at a trendy coffee shop. They actually had regular access to music, arts, and other extracurricular activities provided by paid staff including a weekly individual lesson… the list went on and on. (Needless to say, I loved the school.)

Next, I had my interview with the one and only company in the entire county that specialized in my particular field. No pressure.

The interview could not have gone better. I immediately respected the woman who interviewed me, the company had a great reputation, and I felt that we were a good fit ethically and otherwise. I would definitely have something to offer them, and visa versa. Phew.

We spent time with my nieces and nephews, all of them in college or headed that way. They were all confident and brilliant and talented in their own unique way. All of them would be wonderful role models for my son should we move to Buffalo.

Did you know Buffalo is about 20 minutes from Niagara Falls? True! We visited Niagara Falls many times in past visits. It is one of those places you must see in person to experience. It isn’t just a couple pretty waterfalls. No. The power…the intensity of the falls must be felt not just seen. Talk about a humbling experience! Here are some pics from past visits.

Niagara Falls as seen from the rotating restaurant at Skylon Tower (Also known as The American Falls)
Niagara Falls: the Canadian side (also known as Canada’s Horseshoe Falls). This was also taken from the top of Skyline Tower. Yes, it was a touristy place to visit, but the view! Amazing.

This time, my in-laws suggested we do something different. We visited the Niagara Power Project. Check it out here:

https://www.nypa.gov/power/generation/niagara-power-project

It was fascinating! There were historical displays, movies, demonstrations, and interactive exhibits about how New York used the power plant at Niagara to send clean energy to the entire state. My son (the smarty-pants) loved the interactive exhibits, and probably would have stayed the entire day if the rest of us old fogies hadn’t pooped out on him.

Later, I got the opportunity to have drinks with my sister and brother-in-law and their friends in downtown Buffalo. I quickly came to realize I was not nearly cool enough for the city. I also came to realize that I’m a lightweight. They all outdrank me by two, and gave no signs of slowing or even indicating any level of intoxication whatsoever. Sheesh. Must be a New Yorker thing.

My son and I agreed that we loved the weather. (We both hate the heat.) That being said, his dislike for the heat didn’t stop him from complaining nonstop while watching the traditional firetruck parade at night in the freezing cold. (We left early, despite all the candy he scored in the process. Hot cocoa, anyone?)

The suburbs of Buffalo were idyllic: affordable, lovely, spread-out, small towns with friendly, easy-going people. Finding housing I could afford with my current income would be a piece of cake.

A snow sculpture we made for my sister-in-law. Sadly, it melted by the time she got home.

To top off all of the amazingness…I was offered a job two days after my interview. Buffalo is sounding pretty sweet, right? Well, it was. Except…

I discovered that the 25 years of experience I accumulated in my highly specialized field was meaningless in New York, as they required an even-more-specialized license to practice in the state. It would take about a year to obtain it, and I could only obtain it while living in New York. Meaning, I would have to reside there before beginning the licensing process. Just a formality and not a big deal at all, except for one thing. The salary the company offered me was about half of what I was comfortable with. Not only would I be paid less, but I would have to work much longer hours. The position offered to me was full-time, thus risking the health of my back.

Another down side? This was the one and only company in the entire county. What if something happened? What if the company went under or I got laid off? My son and I would be stuck across the country with no job prospects at all!

Finally, my eldest made it clear he wanted to stay in California for college. This might have been OK if I were making enough money to afford to fly him to us several times a year. Alas, that was not going to happen.

The bottom line was that it was tempting, even with the ginormous pay cut, but simply not worth the risk to our future nor the risk of not seeing my eldest son for epic periods of time. No way.  

Dagnabbit. There went all my dreams of spending all my spare time writing with Niagara Falls as my backdrop. Not to mention the kick-ass school my son could have attended. And so much more. Spite.

Back to the drawing board…

Posted on

An Inspirational Journey: Part Five

Preparing for Buffalo and Dreaming of Humboldt While the Novel Writes Itself

I was on the phone with my mother-in-law, whining pathetically about my disappointment that Humboldt County didn’t pan out as I had thought it would, when she said five words that rocked my world. “What about moving to Buffalo?”

Huh.

Honestly, I had never considered moving to the east coast! I don’t really know why, other than that I’ve always lived on the west coast. I love the east coast. My brother lives in Maine, which isn’t too far from Buffalo. My in-laws and my sister-in-law and her whole family live in Buffalo. We love them all and we have visited multiple times, of course, but never with a “could we move here?” set of eyes.

I’m titling this one “Revenge of the Younger Sibling” (taken during a previous trip to Buffalo proper)

Here’s the thing. My youngest, AJ, has had very little contact with his father’s side of the family. His father passed away when AJ was two months old. As hard as we all tried to keep correspondence up after my husband passed away, it has never been easy from all the way across the country. 

Let’s talk housing. Holy cow. Rent was so much more affordable than the bay area, it made me want to weep! The downside, and this was a big one, was that I knew my eldest would not move with us. He made it clear he wanted to stay on the west coast for college, which he would start the following year. That being said, the housing prices in the Buffalo area were so low that I would be able to fly him to us several times a year. Or we could fly to him. Not ideal, but we could make it work.

That settled it. We were overdue for a visit to the in-laws, anyway! I immediately bought plane tickets for Thanksgiving break. 

That done, I needed to consider work prospects. I couldn’t keep my job in California while living in New York. I needed to determine if I could even find work in my highly specialized field! After hours of research, I found a grand total of one agency doing my sort of work in the entire county. Just one. 

OK then. I contacted the company, scheduled an interview for the week I would be there, and hoped for the best. That done, there was nothing left to do but wait. And wait. And wait some more.

It might be worth mentioning that I don’t do well with boredom. Or waiting. We simply do not get along. This kind of waiting is the worst, though. It’s one thing to wait with a definite plan in place. At least I could keep myself busy, knowing what to expect and when. But not knowing where or even when? It made me feel like I was in limbo. Purgatory! I knew I wanted to move at the end of the school year, but where? When, exactly? I was twiddling my thumbs. No plan in place and bored! So bored.

Even as a kid, I liked to keep my brain busy until the very last minute, whether with a creative pursuit, a movie, or a book. These days, I tend to fall asleep with my finger hovering over Pinterest posts. (But I still like to color.)

Meanwhile, I kept busy by journal-writing. I have done this on and off my entire life. I have always loved writing. In the process of working on my journal, I found myself re-reading some of the older journal pages I had written over the years. As I did so, I felt myself slowly sinking. Each page I read made me feel more and more depressed. The more I read, the sadder I became. I started asking myself where I went wrong? What happened to me? My life story did not read as very inspirational. It was quite the opposite. 

My high school years were full of activity. Full of life. But once I hit college, things slowed down for me. I became lost. Sure, I found my career and I got married, but a huge piece of me was missing somehow. I got married, had my first child, then got divorced. Through it all, I was in a fog.

In walks Brian.

Liz (6 months preggers) and Brian, Christmas 2008

Have you ever met someone who sees you…really sees you…and still likes what they see despite every flaw? That was Brian. My second husband was my soul mate. He got me. I got him. Sure, we had ups and downs and a lot of outside forces complicating the holy hell out of things, but it didn’t matter. I was happy. And I felt alive again. Free.

His death hit me like a ton of bricks. Maybe it was the soulmate thing that made it so incredibly painful, or the fact that he died so young with so much yet to contribute to the world, or maybe it was that our son was still an infant. I don’t know. It was all those things and more, I suppose.

Daddy meets baby 2009, six weeks before his accident.

I was not one of those women who put on a brave face and came out on the other side of a tragedy a better person. No. I came out broken and sad and lonely and half the person I was before. That is the straight-up truth. I shut people out. I was depressed for a very long time. I did what I could to be the best mom possible for my kids, but it was hard every day.

To make matters worse, about four years after my husband passed away, the back problems I had my entire adult life turned into nearly unbearable chronic pain. What I thought was just another flare-up turned into a few years of praying I could get out of bed without agony that day. Praying I could get from my car to my son’s class to pick him up on time, or at least without crying in pain. And here’s the thing about prayer: it was hard to do after my husband died. Very, very, very hard. Still is, actually.

After my back went out, I couldn’t work at all. There was no way. To make matters worse, before I knew it, short-term disability dried up and I was refused long-term disability. I disputed it and I was still denied. Consequently, I found myself heartbroken, in a tremendous amount of physical pain, and with almost no income. 

It broke my heart, but I had to sell the home I loved in order to pay off my debts and live off the profits for a while. I just hoped that my back would heal enough to get back to work before the money from the house dried up. 

Our old house. Nothing exceptional, but it was ours. We still miss it.

Depressing, right? In case you’re wondering, I am a lot better now. I still have a lot of pain, but my back is stronger now and I’ve been able to work part time for the past three years.

OK, back to my point. Sorry about the major digression, but it was important to my writing process.

I was reading my journal and I thought, “God, this is depressing. Remember when I was happy? What happened to turn me into this negative, glass-half-empty person? I wasn’t always like this.” Then one day, a totally random thought entered my head. “What if I were a different version of me?” (I know that sounds weird, but I’m pretty weird, so it fits.) Then I asked myself, “What would a different version of me even look like, anyway? And why would she be different? What would happen, or not happen, to make her different?” Then I asked, “What if, after losing Brian, I met another ‘version’ of Brian?”

Those questions led to a few more, and a few more. Suddenly, I was closing up my journal document and opening up a new one. I started writing a fictional story about a fictional me. A me who grew up in San Francisco. A me whose father was still alive. A me who suffered the same kind of loss but who reached out to loved ones for help.

As I was contemplating what to write, I was still incredibly disappointed that Humboldt didn’t work out. The area just captured my attention so thoroughly. I might have become slightly obsessed, if I’m being honest. So, my imagination started churning. I was daydreaming about the beautiful forestry, the beaches, the small-town feel…

So, can you guess what the backdrop of my story became? One guess where my character moves to escape the city and recover after her tragic loss? Yup. There was only one choice. Humboldt County! I wrote about the beaches, the trees, the mountains, the eccentric people and places, and the small-town vibe that I loved so much.

I can’t explain the process fully because it all happened so fast. All I can say is that as we waited to take the trip to New York, I spent every free moment I had writing. And writing. And writing. And when my back pain became intolerable, I lied down and dictated the story into my phone.

I drove my kids nuts. I could not stop writing. The story poured out of me like from a spigot. I barely knew what I was doing. It was as if the story was simply telling itself. One idea led to the next without effort. I didn’t storyboard. I didn’t brainstorm. I didn’t create a timeline. (Though I did these things after the fact, during the editing process.) I just wrote, as if some supernatural force was working within me.

In my head, this is how I looked as I typed nonstop. The reality was more disturbing, I have no doubt!

Before I knew it, the first draft of the book was completed in less than two months time. And, after doing some research and realizing it was way too long, I realized I had actually written two complete books. 

How did this happen? Maybe it was that I had so many years of pent-up creative energy in need of an outlet that it developed a life of its own. Maybe it was that I have read so many books over the years, it was inevitable that I write one myself. Maybe I had a weird version of a nervous breakdown. A manic episode? Who knows?

All I know is that by the time we were ready to go to Buffalo, I was already working on the next book in my series and asking my dearest friends to patiently beta-read the first ones for me.

To be continued…