Category: Blogging

Posted on

Scrabbled

[Part 1] [Part 2]
“I know you’re keeping something from me.”

Rhonda looked up, startled.

“Admit it,” Rob said. “You can’t hide something like this forever.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rhonda shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She was getting big. Too big to be sitting at the dining room table, too big to look sexy, and far too big to have any patience for games like this.

“You think I wouldn’t figure it out? You have the Q.”

Rhonda’s shoulders relaxed imperceptibly as she gazed down at the Scrabble board between them. She had been so careful not to have any further contact with Charlie since she had found out about the pregnancy. Almost every night she had lain awake, wondering if she had made the right choice. Her heart still raced at the thought of Charlie. The baby kicked in response.

She looked back up at Rob. “How could you possibly know?” She shuffled her tiles around, eyeing the openings on the board.

“The power of deduction.” Rob looked so pleased with himself. “There’s no Q on the board, I don’t have it, and there are only three tiles left.”

“How do you know the Q isn’t one of those three?”

“I don’t. I’m just pretty sure you have it. You have that look in your eyes like you’re going to score big. Besides, I left something wide open for you if you do have a Q.”

“Oh, you’re trying to go easy on me now?”

“Never!”

Despite her discomfort, Rhonda found her lips curling up into a smile. Playing Scrabble with Rob was one of the perks of their newfound intimacy. They still had their differences — sometimes they could really get under each other’s skin — but since she had announced her delicate condition, he went out of his way to spend quality time with her. He would rub her feet, cook meals for her, and even take her shopping. But the best part of it all were these game nights. She had forgotten how smart Rob was, how well-matched they were mentally.

With an over-exaggerated sigh, she pulled out a Q and laid it on the board, and followed it with an A and an I, to make the word “QAID,” attached perpendicularly to the first letter of Rob’s recent addition: DUMB. Their scores were so close that she worried about wasting the 10-point letter on a non-doubling or -tripling space, but as Rob had pointed out, there were only three tiles left. He could easily go out during the next turn, and then she’d be stuck with 10 points to subtract from her score. She’d always hated losing at Scrabble, and losing with a large point margin was unacceptable.

Rob broke out in a grin. “Just as I had suspected.”

“I fell right into your trap, eh?”

“Exactly.”

Rob’s phone rang, and she frowned at him as he pulled it out of his pocket. He gave her an apologetic look, but he still answered, putting it up to his ear and turning away from her.

She reached into the bag and pulled out the last three tiles, placing them on her tile rack. As she rearranged her letters, the baby kicked again. Who knew that a baby would bring the life back into their marriage? She thought things between them had essentially died before she had seduced him that night. Now they were treating each other with respect again. They were even having sex again, on a regular basis, and it was good. Not as good as it was with Charlie, a small voice in her head insisted. She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge that voice. It’s good enough, she told that voice. More than I deserve.

Rob hung up the phone and looked at it quizzically.

“Who was that? And did you tell whoever it was that you were busy losing spectacularly to your wife?”

Rob was silent for a few seconds. “Remember how I told you about that strange guy at the party?”

“The mystery crasher with the fancy mask? My girlfriends still can’t stop talking about him.” She kept a smile on her face, but looked at him warily. From her friends’ description, she could only guess that Charlie had crashed the party. She never saw him that night, however, and since his emails and texts stopped abruptly after the party, she figured his encounter with Rob that night made him realize that she’d never leave her husband. At least that’s what she had hoped.

“That’s the one. He wants to see me.”

Rhonda felt a huge lump growing in her throat. “How did he get your number?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What does he want to talk about?”

“He didn’t say.” He put his phone back in his pocket and looked straight at her. Deliberately.

“Be careful, Rob,” she said slowly, hoping her voice didn’t belie her nervousness. “Now that you’re running for office, everybody wants you to do them a favor.”

He shrugged. “It’s probably guy stuff. He’s a pretty decent dude; I wouldn’t mind helping him out.” As if to change the subject, he pulled out his tiles and laid them on the board, spelling TRUST. It was a triple word score, over which he wasted no time gloating.

She glanced at her tiles and gasped as she saw the letters arranged in the word that would give her the win. Charlie’s call had stolen the levity from the evening, and all she wanted now was to get as far away from Rob as possible. She needed time to think, to figure out a plan, some way to keep Charlie quiet.

Forcing her lips into a big smile, she made a show of slowly placing the rest of her tiles on the board. “I think you’ll find that your best efforts were in vain, babe,” she said just a little too happily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom for the 40th time today.”

Rob watched her leave, his brows furrowing slightly at her behavior. He looked down at the board and frowned even more as he saw Rhonda’s seven-letter winning word: SECRECY.

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge comes from rishaaa, who gave me this prompt:

She’d always hated losing at Scrabble.

I decided to continue the story of Rhonda, Rob, and Charlie. If you haven’t read the previous posts and you’re a little confused, start here and then continue here.

You can find Dee’s response to my prompt here before the end of the week.

Posted on

Project No-Poo (Part 3): Conditionally Unconditioned

[Part 1: Why no poo?] [Part 2: Becoming a dirty, dirty hippie]

Day 4: the curls are slowly coming back

Throughout the week-long detox period, my hair continued to frizz, although some of the curls were coming back on their own. But it’s difficult to style your hair when you know that whenever you touch it, your curls are going to fall apart and become big old frizzballs. Luckily, the weather was helping me; I knew I was going to have to put my hair up every day because of the heat, so I kept my hair bound in braids, which I thinkhelped trap moisture in my hair.

I read through the Terressentials instructions again and saw that people with my hair type (wavy, coarse, salt & pepper) should use not the fragrance free hair wash that I was using, but one of the washes with some essential oils added. Luckily I had also bought samples of the Lavender Garden and Sultry Spice hair washes, so I started using those. Just that little bit of essential oil made it so much easier to run my hands through my hair in the shower. I was pretty amazed. And it smelled nice, too (although, as my husband pointed out, it still didn’t smell like me).

Day 5 - it's still too frizzy for my taste.

Still, once my hair dried, it would get frizzy again, and I was beginning to get a little skeptical about the whole process.

Morroccan Oil

I was talking over my hair woes with my friend Becky, who recommended to me that I use Morroccan Oil. “It does have some synthetic chemicals in it,” she said, “but it’s really great for my hair. I only use a tiny bit each day, and it keeps my hair from frizzing. I love it.”

She gave me a tiny bottle of it, just to try for myself and see if I like it.

At this point, I was willing to try anything to get rid of the frizz (because I’m impatient like that), so I put some in my hair the next day.

Bad idea! First of all, I started out with a very small amount and ran it through my hair with my fingers. The trouble is, I have a LOT of hair. That little bit may have made a few strands nice and shiny and moist, but did nothing for the rest of my hair. And the more I ran my hands through my hair, the frizzier it got. I tried using a little bit more oil for more coverage, but with no good effect. I gave up and braided my hair. Again.

Secondly, the smell was very musky, and not my favorite at all. It made me feel a little woozy and I was sneezing all day long, which makes me think I was allergic to something in the product. I checked the ingredients.

Cyclopentasiloxane, Dimethicone, Cyclomethicone, Butylphenyl Methylpropional, Argania Spinoza Kernel Oil (Aragan Oil), Linseed Extract (Linum Usitatissimum), Fragrance (Supplement), D&C Yellow 11, D&C Red 17, Coumarin, Benzyl Benzoate, Alpha Isomethyl Ionone.

Yikes! So much for being a tree-hugger. Then I read this blog about Morroccan Oil. I probably should have read that FIRST…but like I said, I’m impatient.

Coconut Oil

I clearly needed SOMETHING to moisturize my hair. After some research on the internet (and if you read it on the internet, it must be true, right?), I decided the next best way to control the frizz is with coconut oil.

This stuff is wildly popular, especially amongst women with really kinky hair. I easily found a small jar of really cheap coconut oil at my local drug store and tried it out.

My first impressions just opening the jar: the smell was much nicer. It reminded me of Hawaii and my dad’s coconut tanning oil. But I immediately thought of another friend who hates coconut…what if he stopped hanging out with me because of the way I smelled? I decided to take the risk and apply it to my hair.

This coconut oil was in a thick, solid, almost-gel form, which was easier to apply than the very thin Morroccan Oil. On the other hand, it was kind of goopy and got all over the place. My hair did not respond to the oil right away, but like most gels and mousses, it made my hair easy to style. I could create finger curls very easily. I was just hoping that my hair wouldn’t dry all crunchy the way it does when you put gel in your hair.

When it dried, my hair was nice and soft. I was pleasantly surprised! But the next day in the shower, it was really sticky and hard to get my hands through my hair. I had to go through two washings with the mud hair wash to get my hair back to its natural state.

Confused, I looked at the jar again. The front says “Pure Coconut Oil,” but the ingredient list says: Petrolatum, Coconut Oil (Cocos Nucifera), Jojoba Seed Oil (Simmondsia Chinensis), Paraffin, Mineral Oil, Fragrance, BHT.

Definitely not purely coconuts, and most of it not natural. The petrolatum and paraffin were probably what was making my hair so sticky.

Curse you, deceptive packaging! (I wish I wasn’t so impatient. I need to start reading the labels BEFORE I stick stuff in my hair.)

I did find out later that there are coconut oils out there that are purely cold-pressed coconut oil, with no additives. But you can’t get them at a drug store; you have to go to Whole Foods or the natural section of the grocery store. I might still try that kind when I’m done with the rest of my experimenting, but for now, my jar of Softee Coconut Oil has gone in the trash.

[Coming Up: Part 4 – What happens when you put vinegar in your hair]

Posted on

Project No-Poo (Part 2): Becoming a dirty, dirty hippie

[Part 1: Why no poo?]

Right around the same time I decided on a new hair regimen, I was flipping through the channels and found myself watching Dirty Jobs. (Side note: I love Mike Rowe, and I don’t care who knows it. He is my TV boyfriend, second only to Jon Stewart). He was working at a company making hair wash — not shampoo! — out of mud.

I looked up the company, Terressentials, and perused their website. I then turned to various message boards for reviews on this mud wash, as well other no-poo hair wash alternatives. My biggest concern was how to get my hair clean without shampoo. The most popular no-poo methods these days are (in no particular order):

I ran through this list with my mother, and she recalled her grandmother using the baking soda/vinegar solution. This was back before shampoo as we know it was even invented. I wasn’t keen on putting baking soda on my head, though, especially since some of the message boards and blogs reported itchy scalp and even dandruff as a result.

I had heard good things about the DevaCurl product line, but I didn’t want to start off with products like this. First of all, it’s more than three times the price of my current shampoo; more importantly, it seemed awfully convenient that this book should endorse a haircare regimen and then provide the exact solution to the problems this regimen would cause.

So it was either castile soap (I’m a big fan of Dr. Bronner’s castile soap and use it daily as a body wash) or the mud wash. I decided to go out on a limb and try the mud. Because I’m crazy like that. Plus, I thought it would be a fun experiment.

I ordered the Terressentials hair wash online, and the bottles were at my doorstep the next day. When I opened up the box, there was a piece of paper with FAQs and instructions on how to go through a hair detox — the week-long period where my hair would adjust to being cleaned with all-natural products instead of synthetic molecules and detergents.

My first impression of the mud hair wash: it’s weird. This stuff really is made of mud — bentonite clay (and other clay minerals, I suppose), which is the same stuff people use to make clay masks. The clay adheres to the dirt and oils and other stuff in your hair; then when you wash the mud out, it takes the bad stuff along with it, down the drain. But you have to put mud in your hair, and that takes some getting used to.

Not only that, but I found that it was very difficult to run my hands through my hair with all that mud in it. That meant my hair got hopelessly tangled that first day, and I ended up combing it all out and putting it into a braid.

The second day, I was somewhat surprised to see my hair looked halfway decent before getting in the shower.

Day 2: This is my hair before getting in the shower.

However, after my shower, the result was somewhat worse: the multiple washings with mud just dried out my hair and made everything very tangled and frizzy.

After my shower, however, I started to develop a bad case of EMH (Early Music Hair)

Suffice to say I kept my hair in braids for the entire week of the detox and prayed my hair follicles would start producing those oils that would stop my hair from frizzing.

[Coming Up: Part 3 – Conditionally Unconditioned]

Some tips and resources for people interested in finding out more about the no-poo movement:

Posted on

Project No-Poo (Part 1): Why no poo?

It all started when a friend of mine asked if I had read Curly Girl: The Handbook. This was a couple of years ago, and my friend started telling me about how this book was encouraging people not to use shampoo.

“No shampoo?” I asked. “That seems a little silly. How do you get your hair clean?”

The point of it all, she explained, was that most shampoos contained sulfates and detergents that stripped natural oils from your hair, which was bad for you and bad for the environment. You certainly don’t need to shampoo every day; she said she was only shampooing her hair once a week, and that kept everything plenty clean.

Intrigued, I started cutting down on my shampoo use and found that it didn’t make any difference at all in my hair quality. I asked my friend a little more about this Curly Girl thing.

“You’re also supposed to not wash out your conditioner,” she said. “And stop combing your hair.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You can use your fingers to get the tangles out, but apparently even combs can break the hairs. Plus, you don’t want to separate the hairs from each other once they have curled. The conditioner helps hold the hairs together.”

I started going through three times more conditioner than shampoo, with pretty good results. My hair, for the most part, retained a curl, or at least a wave. And I love the way my conditioner smells, so it was all good.

Or so I thought.

Then, several months ago, another dear friend pulled me aside and told me that he was highly allergic to something in my conditioner. He didn’t know what it was, but he asked if I could please use less of it.

I was stumped (and a little bit hurt). I knew my conditioner was fragrant, but I had gotten many comments over the years about how nice my hair smelled. Plus, I had been using the stuff since high school, and the shampoo/conditioner combination that I had been using was somewhat of a signature and a part of my own identity. Never mind the fact that I could only find this brand at Whole Foods Market — a sure sign that it was full of organic hippie goodness. How could he possibly be allergic to something so crunchy granola?

Just to make sure I was right about the organic nature of my shampoo, I went to my bathroom and checked the ingredients:

Nature’s Gate Herbal Shampoo: Water, Sodium Cocoyl Isethionate (Coconut Derived), Cocamidopropyl Hydroxysultaine (Coconut Derived), Disodium Cocoamphodiacetate (Coconut Derived), Glycerin (Vegetable Derived), Panthenol, Hydrolyzed Soy Protein, Hydrolyzed Vegetable Protein, Simmondsia Chinensis (Jojoba) Seed Oil, Borago Officinalis (Borage) Seed Oil, Tocopherol (Vitamin E), Ascorbic Acid (Vitamin C), Achillea Millefolium (Yarrow) Extract, Chamomilla Recutita (Matricaria) Flower Extract, Lavandula Angustifolia (Lavender) Flower Extract, Rosmarinus Officinalis (Rosemary) Leaf Extract, Salvia Officinalis (Sage) Leaf Extract, Urtica Dioica (Nettle) Extract, Prunus Serotina (Wild Cherry) Bark Extract, Thymus Vulgaris (Thyme) Leaf Extract, Ascorbyl Palmitate, Sorbitan Sesquicaprylate (Coconut and Corn Derived), Polysorbate 20, Hydroxypropyl Methylcellulose (Plant Derived), Sodium Hydroxide, Glyceryl Undecylenate (Vegetable Derived), Phenoxyethanol, Fragrance*.

OK, so there were a lot more multi-syllabic chemical names than I expected; there is clearly a lovely herbal element to it, with the jojoba and borage seed oils, yarrow and rosemary extracts, but only after the large amounts of cocamidopropyl hydroxysultaine and hydrolyzed soy protein. These aren’t the worst things you could find in a shampoo, but the fact of the matter is that they are synthetically produced chemicals: not very crunchy-granola-hippie at all! I could have sworn that when I first started using this product back in the 1990s, I could understand the label a lot better, which signals to me that Nature’s Gate may have tinkered with the recipe over the years. Maybe it was a good thing that I wasn’t using as much of the shampoo anymore.

Then I looked at the ingredients in my conditioner.

Nature’s Gate Herbal Conditioner: Water, Quaternium-87 (Vegetable Derived), Cetearyl Alcohol (Vegetable Derived), Glycerin (Vegetable Derived), Polysorbate 60, Panthenol, Hydrolyzed Soy Protein, Hydrolyzed Vegetable Protein, Simmondsia Chinensis (Jojoba) Seed Oil, Borago (Borage) Officinalis Seed Oil, Tocopherol (Vitamin E), Ascorbic Acid (Vitamin C), Chamomilla Recutita (Matricaria) Extract, Urtica Dioica (Nettle) Extract, Prunus Serotina (Wild Cherry) Bark Extract, Lavandula Angustifolia (Lavender) Extract, Arctium Lappa (Burdock) Root Extract, Yucca Schidigera Root Extract, Lilium Candidum (Lily) Bulb Extract, Nelumbo Nucifera (Sacred Lotus) Flower Extract, Quercus Alba (Oak Bark) Bark Extract, Ascorbyl Palmitate, Phenoxyethanol, Glyceryl Undecylenate (Vegetable Derived), Citric Acid (Vegetable Derived), Fragrance*, Caramel.
*Phthalate free

So maybe one of those funky alcohols or molecules was emanating from my scalp and causing my friend to have an allergic reaction. I mean, what the heck was Quaternium-87 anyway? I decided it was time for a new hair regimen.

I decided to take the no-poo movement seriously.

[Coming Up: Part 2 – Becoming A Dirty, Dirty Hippie]

Posted on

Masked Man Fallacy

[For Part 1 of this story, click here.]

“Wait, who was that masked man?”

Charlie ducked into the hallway and flattened himself against the wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had crashed this party on an impulse and hadn’t really thought out any kind of plan. All he knew was that he had to see Rhonda.

He pulled off his mask to take a look at it. Who knew that such a little thing would attract so much attention? Yes, he’d made his own mask, because he had known that this party was supposed to be some sort of masquerade. But he’d imagined something along the lines of Kubrik’s Eyes Wide Shut, so he had created a papier-mâché Venetian mask with a certain amount of detail, including gold leaf and Swarovski crystals. He thought he would be able to blend in with the crowd.

Nothing was going the way he had expected. Rhonda, ever sensible, knew that most of her guests could not be bothered to come up with their own masks, so she had set up a table outside the ballroom with brightly-colored half-masks, some on strings and others on sticks, but none of them decorated. His elaborate design stuck out like a diamond in a plate of sand; he was instantly surrounded by people who wanted to know more about his mask, his art, and most especially, his name. Frustrated, he had fled the ballroom and now found himself alone in the hallway.

The door next to him opened rather rapidly, and a tall man in a plain white mask, clearly agitated, brushed past him on his way to the veranda. Curious, Charlie followed him outside.

“Do you have a light?” The man already had a cigarette in his mouth, but was shaking his empty lighter despondently.

Charlie pulled out a cardboard matchbook from his jacket pocket and handed it to the man.

“Thanks.” The man tried to strike the a couple of matches, but the striking surface was very worn, and he ended up breaking off the heads each time.

“Here, let me do it,” Charlie offered. He deftly folded the matchbook cover backwards, pulled the match through, and it instantly ignited. Relieved, the man leaned forward to light his cigarette and took a few puffs in silence.

“I owe you, man,” the man said. “My wife has been trying to get me to quit. It’s not as easy as it looks.”

“It doesn’t look easy at all.” Charlie had already pulled out his own cigarette and held it up as a salute before he put it in his mouth. “I’m sure I’ll quit eventually…just not now.”

The man chuckled and held out his hand. “I’m Rob,” he said.

Charlie grasped it warmly. “Charlie.”

“So,” Rob asked as he sat down in a wicker chair, “who did you come here with?”

“Well…” Charlie hesitated to reveal the whole truth to his new friend. “I showed up alone, but I was hoping to go home with someone, if you know what I mean,” he said with a crooked smile.

Rob smiled. “Uh-oh. Who’s the lady? Maybe I can smooth the way for you.”

“I don’t want to tell you her name, in case I don’t get so lucky,” Charlie hedged.

“Oh, come on. Most of the women here love me,” Rob said with a smile.

Charlie sighed. Maybe it was time to tell someone how he felt. “She and I were together for a while. It was great. No, it was more than great: it was smokin’ hot. I’ve never felt that way before. But for no reason, she just stopped calling. She won’t answer my texts or my emails. It’s been six weeks, and I know I should just get the hint and move on, but I can’t get her out of my mind. I…er…heard she was going to be here, and so I came.”

“Maybe she found someone else.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I doubt it, though. What we had was unique. Earth-shattering.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” Rob said as he finished off his cigarette, grinding the butt on the concrete of the veranda. “All I can say is hold on to that feeling. My wife and I lost almost all interest in each other for a while and then out of the blue that feeling came back with a vengeance. Now she’s pregnant and I don’t know she feels for me from day to day. All I know is that if I don’t quit smoking before the baby comes, she might kick me out of the house.”

Charlie smiled and shook his head as he took a final drag off his own cigarette.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me her name? I am married to the hostess, after all.”

Charlie stopped breathing. “You’re Rob…Holmes?”

“I figured you knew I was that Rob.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s just…” Charlie fumbled around for words as he pointed to Rob’s mask. I’m in love with your wife.

“Huh,” Rob said as he removed his mask. “I didn’t realize how difficult it was to recognize someone without seeing the top half of their face.”

“Rob? Where are you?” Rhonda’s voice came from the hallway.

Charlie turned around quickly and started putting on his own mask.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rob sounded mildly amused.

He turned back around to face Rob, his mask secure on his face once again. “Do me one favor, man. Don’t tell her I’m here. She’s…kind of close to this girl, and I don’t want her to interfere.”

Rob looked at him quizzically, but then smiled. “No problem. I told you I owed you.” They shook hands, and Rob went back into the house as Charlie slipped into the shadows.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes from xtinabosco, who gave me this prompt:

A masked man

I decided to use it to continue the story of Rhonda, Charlie, and Rob, since I got so much positive feedback. Let me know if you want me to continue the story, or if you’ve had enough of the drama…

You can read Jamelah’s response to my prompt here by the end of the week.

Posted on

Song of the Procrastinator

One of these days I’ll be a world traveler,
Fluent in German, Italian, and French.
But I don’t have funds, so I’ll have to content myself
Reading through travel blog posts from the bench.

I have a project in mind for the garden,
Complete with gazebo and rose-filled archways;
But industrious weeds have some different intentions…
I’ll get around to it one of these days.

One of these days I’ll learn to play piano
Better than slowly tapping out Für Elise.
It’s tough, though, because if I want true proficiency
I’ve got to actually practice the piece!

One of these days I’ll knit a new sweater
But first I should finish that second green sock.
I won’t finish spring cleaning, not until autumn;
Forgive me if my messiness gives you a shock.

In the meantime, my hours are filled with such business
Of living and loving and writing always.
If I don’t reach my goals soon, I just tell myself:
I’ll get around to it one of these days.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Joelyn, who gave me this prompt:

One of these days…..

I also decided to challenge myself to write a poem, which I very rarely do, because I don’t really think I’m a good poet. But that line scanned so easily, I figured I’d give it a try.

You can find the answer to my prompt written by octoberesque before the end of the week.

Posted on

Love, or Good Intentions

Photo by Loralynn Cross

Pregnant.

Rhonda placed the pee stick gingerly on the sink counter, staring warily at the evidence that had appeared moments ago. She took a deep breath and tried not to cry.

Pregnant.

She lifted her gaze from the sink to the mirror. So this is what a pregnant woman looks like, she thought. She leaned in and peered more closely, trying to find something different, that glow that people keep talking about. She didn’t really see anything particularly different.

She took off her robe and stared down at her belly. She definitely wasn’t showing yet, that’s for sure. But then again, it’s not like she had the tight, svelte figure she’d had in college anymore.

Sighing, she turned on the shower faucet and grimaced as the frigid water hit her arm. It was January, and she knew it would take several minutes for the hot water to make its way up three floors into the bathroom. She shut the shower door and let the water run while she ran a comb through her hair.

Funny, she’d always wanted children. When Rob had proposed to her back in college, he had told her that he’d wanted kids, too. “As many as we can make, babe,” he’d said as they lay in his dorm room, naked and sweaty and tangled.

God, he was so desirable then. And she was so young.

Steam rose from the shower and began to fog the mirror. Rhonda stepped into the shower and adjusted the temperature as the warm water pummeled the top of her head. She stood there for a minute, doing nothing but letting the water run down her face in rivulets, washing away the tears that she could no longer hold back.

Pregnant.

She lathered up her bath sponge and started scrubbing her body, covering her neck, her breasts, her belly, and every other part of her where hands and mouth had been. She didn’t want to wash him away. She traced the path that his mouth had taken, feeling that familiar heat building up deep in her core. She would need that heat to sustain her now.

More tears came now, this time in frustration. This wasn’t supposed to happen, she thought. I thought I couldn’t have kids. I thought I was safe.

She and Rob had come to the realization several years ago that they had only married to appease their parents. They thought they had loved each other; turns out they’d just had good intentions. Divorce, however, was out of the question. Rob was going to run for a Senate seat, and Rhonda’s position as a development director for a big charity was contingent on her social standing. No, it was better in the long run, they decided, to stay together.

And then she’d met Charlie. Beautiful, sweet, young Charlie, with long blonde hair and washboard abs. He was a playboy — oh, she was well aware of that fact! — but he made her feel like she was the only woman in the world for him. In public, they acted cool and casual; in private, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

She picked up her razor and began to shave her legs. In long, deliberate strokes, she pulled the blade up her calf, careful to reach the more difficult curves behind her knee.

Maybe this is good, she thought. Maybe this is exactly what I need to get away from Rob, from my life, from everything. It could be a fresh start.

But Charlie? To say he was a free spirit was putting it lightly. A self-proclaimed starving artist, Charlie never held down a job for longer than six months. Sometimes his only meal for the day would be a $5 burrito from the Mexican place down the street; he preferred to spend his money in bars every night. Not exactly the ideal father figure.

She flinched as her razor nicked her thigh. Blood welled up and was quickly diluted by the water. Shaking her head, she rinsed the razor and put it away.

What would Rob say? What would he do?

Oh God, what would he do?

She spent one more minute in the warm shower, rinsing all proof of Charlie’s touch and her grief down the drain.

Well, not ALL proof. She touched her belly.

Turning the faucet off, she stepped out of the shower and rubbed herself briskly with a towel. Even though the steam had warmed the bathroom, it was still cold in the house, and the water on her body was making her shiver.

Or maybe she was shivering because she knew what she had to do.

Slowly, deliberately, she rubbed her naked body with moisturizer, that scented stuff that Rob liked so much. She dabbed a couple of drops of perfume behind her ears for good measure. The smell made her gag.

It must be the hormones, she told herself.

She picked up the pregnancy test and looked at it one more time before throwing it into the trash. She closed up the trash bag and set it aside for the housekeeper to throw out later. She knew Rob wouldn’t be rooting around in the trash, not if he didn’t suspect anything.

Donning her robe, she stepped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He was in bed, she knew, but probably not asleep.

She had to do it now. While she still had the courage.

“Hey, babe.”

Rob looked up from the book he was reading. They hadn’t called each other that since college.

“I…um…” she opened her robe and let it slide off her body slowly.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he did not protest as Rhonda crawled on top of him and began to undress him.

[Click here to continue to Part 2]

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came to me from the fabulous Jason Hughes, who gave me this prompt:

Love is more than good intentions.

You can find Katri’s answer to my prompt here before the end of the week.

Posted on

Ohana (Family)

Me, age 7-8 (?) in the yard of the Honolulu house

For as long as I can remember, I have looked forward to visits to Hawaii.

When I was little, my mother and I would get on a plane to Honolulu almost every summer for family reunions. She and her four sisters grew up in Hawaii, and my grandfather still lived there, so we always had a place to stay. Sometimes all my aunts and cousins would show up at once, but most of the time, each family unit would have overlapping vacations so that there wasn’t too much chaos at my grandfather’s house.

Even then, I remember the sleeping arrangements becoming more and more creative, what with three generations sleeping under one roof: there were two guest bedrooms, a basement apartment (which always smelled like mildew), the living room, a two guest rooms down the road at the Friends Meeting House (available at reasonable rates for our family, as we were Friends), and a tent in the backyard. I remember my cousins (all boys) vying for tent privileges; sleeping outdoors in the middle of Hawaii is not a bad way to spend your vacation, let me tell you!

My grandfather (we all called him “Gung-Gung”) had an amazing garden, resplendent with as many fruit trees as he could get away with on the property. A plentiful harvest of bananas, starfruit, guavas, mangos, and even breadfruit graced the table every morning. He also had macadamia trees, the nuts of which he would harvest, peel, and roast all year long. Our Christmas packages always included a jar of his very own macadamia nuts.

The best part about vacationing in Hawaii with our family is that we knew all the local hangouts. We would forgo the tourist-laden beaches of Waikiki and instead hop in the truck to Ala Moana. If we wanted to snorkel, we’d go to Hanauma Bay (this was before it was well-known; I thought it was our own little secret).

Invariably, we would all take a day trip to go to the North Shore. We would always stop at Matsumoto’s for a shave ice on our way to the Haleiwa house. Gung-Gung had built this one-bedroom house all by himself, and from time to time he rented it out. At the time that he had purchased the land, everything around it had been owned by C&H, and I remember driving through a forest of sugarcane to get to a house on stilts proudly standing in the middle of a rectangular area of cleared land.

Sam (but I knew him as "Gung-Gung")

Gung-Gung was fearless. I remember one time we were driving down the highway, and he spotted some ripe coconuts on a palm tree near the road. He directed my uncle to pull over, and my cousins and I watched in disbelief as he shimmied up the tree to retrieve the coconuts. His legs were cut from the rough bark, but he had the biggest smile on his face as he held up his trophies.

Now Gung-Gung is gone; he passed away in 2003 from Alzheimer’s Disease. My mother had moved to Honolulu a few years earlier to help take care of him, and now she is the new resident local family member. She lives in the Haleiwa house that Gung-Gung built, and she always encourages us to come visit as much as possible!

My cousin Sam, in the same yard that I posed in almost 30 years prior.

When I got married in Hawaii, the trip ended up being a three-generation affair once more. My cousin’s daughter (named Sam after Gung-Gung) was one of my flower girls, and her grandmother (my aunt, who she calls “Po-Po”) was also there. Everybody stayed in neighboring bungalows on the beach, and that large extended-family comfortableness that I recalled from my childhood was back, just as I wanted.

I think there is something very magical about Hawaii, especially where my family is concerned. I know my husband loves Hawaii (“Everything moves at my pace,” he says), so the only discussion we have about vacation spots is where in Hawaii we want to visit next. If/when we ever have any children, there is no question we will be making family trips out there regularly so my kids can be infused with that same magic.

This week’s Indie Ink Writing Challenge came from Tara, who gave me this prompt:

A three-generation family vacation.

I challenged xtinabosco, who will answer her prompt by the end of the week here.

Posted on

Featured Writer – Studio 30+

I have been asked to write a featured post on the website Studio 30+, which is a gathering place for bloggers over the age of 30. I think I fit in that category nicely.

Anyway, as I was trying to come up with topics, there was one thing that I’ve been meaning to write about for a while: the side show that is Jackie Evancho. I have a feeling my singer friends who read it will be nodding their heads in agreement. I’m not so sure about the avid Jackie fans who think she’s a prodigy with a bright future. Please feel free to leave comments, as always!

Also, the video I reference in the article didn’t embed for some reason. Here it is:

Watch the full episode. See more Great Performances.

For those of you who can’t find your way over there (although you should; it’s a great place to find new blogs!), I’ll be reposting the story on this blog after a couple of days.

Posted on

Famous People

On Friday, I spent the whole day with a famous person.

Well, okay, he’s not A-list celebrity famous (my husband had never heard of him), but in the music world — the choral world, especially — he is quite well-known.

Photo by Malcolm Crowther

His name is Gabriel Jackson, and he wrote a song for The Crossing, which will be premiered Sunday, June 5. He has written an awful lot of gorgeous music, much of it choral (which is why he’s a bit of a celebrity with choirs), and The Crossing was able to commission him to write the first piece for their commissioning project, Seneca Sounds (works based on the writings of Seneca the Younger).

You know what my biggest worry was before I met him? That I wouldn’t have anything to say. I always get tongue-tied around celebrities.

My celebrity complex all started, I think, when I met Peter Tork. Apparently my dad and he used to be close, back in the day, and once my dad realized Nickelodeon had made me a fan of The Monkees, he thought it would be the coolest thing in the world to introduce me to Peter. And it was such a cool thing that I turned into the most awkward, shy preteen you could imagine, and even though I knew I had every capability of being smart and funny, I couldn’t formulate a single witty thing to say.

When I was a freshman in college, I went to a masterclass and recital by Frederica von Stade, my favorite mezzo and idol at the time (I still love you, Flicka, but I have since broadened my horizons!), and my friend convinced me to go backstage and say hello. I was at the end of a long line of well-wishers, and I think she may have been getting a little tired by the time I got to her. This was our exchange:

Me: You were great.
FvS: Thank you.
Me: I’m from the Bay Area too.
FvS: Oh?
Me: Yes. Say hello to San Francisco for me! (nervous, high-pitched giggle)
FvS: …uh…okay…have a good evening.
Me: You too! (walking away with a smile pasted on my face and the distinct urge to bang my head repeatedly against a wall)

After that, I gave up trying to make conversation with famous people. I was riding the subway in New York about ten years ago, and this older gentleman got on the train and sat down next to me. I glanced at him briefly, and here was my thought process:

That guy looks a lot like Henry Winkler.
Heh…I bet he gets that a lot.
Can you imagine being mistaken for Henry Winkler?
OMG, that actually IS Henry Winkler.
Henry Winkler is sitting right next to me!
Henry.
Frickin’.
Winkler.
The Fonz!
What do I do? What do I do what do I say what should I do?
Okay, be cool. Just be cool. Act like you don’t notice.
He doesn’t want to be bothered.

At that moment, some guy got on the train, took one look at him, and said (in a really loud voice), “Hey, you’re the Fonz! How are you? That’s the Fonz, man! Eyyyyyyyyy.”

Henry Winkler just nodded, mumbled, “Thank you,” and got off the next stop. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had not offended Mr. Winkler like that rude guy. But I realized that I was pretty darned close to doing the same thing, and if I had opened my mouth, something idiotic like that would have come right out. I’m sure of it.

So all of these botched celebrity meetings made me doubly nervous to meet Gabriel Jackson, a composer who I seriously admire, and whose very rhythmically complicated music I had been practicing for the last week, trying desperately to get perfect. And what was I going to say to this man? What was he going to be like? I had to pick him up from Newark Airport and take him to his hotel in Philadelphia, a good two-hour drive. Would he be cold and distant? Cranky from the long plane ride? Sleepy and jetlagged?

Was I going to say something incredibly stupid?

When I arrived at the airport, his plane had just touched down, and it took another 30-45 minutes for him to retrieve his baggage and go through customs. All the while, I was nervously waiting with the other limousine drivers, my sweaty palms clutching the paper proclaiming “GABRIEL JACKSON” in big letters — bigger than any of the other drivers’ signs, I noticed. Was that a faux pas? I sighed. His more difficult passages played in a tape loop in my head. Over and over again, my mind subconsciously practiced while I waited for him to appear.

People started trickling out of customs into the waiting area. I studied the face of every man that came down the hallway. Oh, no, I thought, would I recognize him? I’ve only ever seen his headshot! I know he has a big mustache, but maybe he shaved it off before the flight. Well, at least I have the sign. If I don’t recognize him, he will surely see me with the sign.

Turns out, I had nothing at all to fear. Not only did he still have the mustache, but he was wearing the same hat he wears in his photo. I knew it was him the moment he rounded the corner, and I saw him long before he saw me. I waved at him.

He didn’t see me.

I waved again, this time, bouncing his sign up and down.

Finally he saw me. And we shook hands as he entered the waiting area.

“How exciting,” he said in a charming English accent. “I’ve never been met at the airport by someone with a sign before.”

All of a sudden, the pedestal I had been holding him up on disappeared, and he was just an ordinary musician, just like me. We spent the long drive chatting about all sorts of things, from politics to human nature to religion and everything in between. I enjoyed his company immensely, and he even convinced me to come out for a drink with a few folks after rehearsal (which, for those of you who know me, I do very rarely! I’m such a homebody).

Maybe I should stop thinking of famous people as being famous and start remembering that they are just people. I mean, heck, if I ever get famous, that’s how I would want folks to think of me.

Oh, also? If you’re wondering about this group, The Crossing, that I mention from time to time, they just released this video that gives you an idea of how much we singers love being in this ensemble. Seriously, it is AWESOME.

And come to Sunday’s performance. You might even get to meet Gabriel Jackson too.