Challenge #8 - Plot

You know, it's quite hard for me to write about 'plot' if I don't have a story in front of me. When Anne Lamott says "All you can give us is what life is about from your point of view," I have to sit and ponder for a bit. My life is not cut and dry, point A to point B and so on. I start off on point A, then jump to C, meander back to B, go all the way to Q, then I might go back and hit the rest of the points, or I might continue on from Q.

Right now, my life is pretty uneventful. I get up, I water dogs, I eat breakfast, I shower, I dress. Go to work, work, lunch, work, leave, and go home. My evenings are different. Tuesday nights I knit at the coffee shop (hi, Jessi!). Thursday nights, throw darts. Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays all depend on what seems like the best course of action to take. Most of the time it's Mr. Realist and I sitting and watching TV, WiiMario-ing, or him WoWing and me writing or dicking around on the computer. It's stagnant, and I'm beginning to hate it. I sort-of sell Pampered Chef, and I'm really glad that I went to the Spring Into Action conference today. I'd love-love-love to go to National Conference in July in Chicago, but I'm pretty sure that I won't have the monies it will cost me to go, especially after all of this doctor stuff for my knee.

(see, told you I can't keep a plot if it's not a story I'm writing)

My knee. I couldn't walk yesterday morning, and it's been giving me fits since last week. I don't know what I did to it. Today? Walking fine (just a slight limp). I'm still going to see the specialist tomorrow at 11am. Yesterday it was painfully tender to the touch; today, it's just sore. I don't know if it's just slipping in and out of place, but it's starting to piss me off. Yesterday, I had blood drawn and x-rays and the nurse practitioner scared the everliving shit out of me with telling me that they might have to 'tap it.' And that's not 'tapping' something in the good way (like an ass). Nope - this kind of tapping involved a six-inch needle the diameter of the one they stick into your arm veins when you give blood to starving vampires and they suck out fluid and grossness (LDs, making myself queasy just thinking about it). Seriously, it's starting to worry me. They're not going to find anything. They never do. Just keep billing the shitty insurance, right?

So, wish me luck tomorrow at the specialist. Maybe he'll tell me that it's antibiotics I need and a good jerk on the old knee joints to put it back into place, and I'll be good (for a while).

Heepwah, and be safe out there.

Your injured

Mrs. Dreamer

Page 55 of Bird by Bird, "All you can give us is what life is about from your point of view."

Plot is the main point of your story. Every blog post is a story, however short or long you create it. What is the point of this post?

Write a post with a clear plot- the point in which you are trying to make.

Did my plot bore you? Here are more:

Write of Passage, Challenge 7 (late)

Well, my LDs, I've neglected last week's {W}rite of Passage.

"Good dialogue is such a pleasure to come across while reading, a complete change of pace from description and exposition and all that writing." - page 64 Bird by Bird

Today post a dialog between characters, real or otherwise.

Unintentional, but I couldn't think of anything....and then I thought of Andrew and Ashley (yes, Bena, I will update...soon). There is a small conversation between Ashley and Cole (her daddy).

~

Several minutes later, I heard my father calling my name. "Ashley? Are you alright?" I turned my face toward him.

"Yes, Daddy?" I smiled.

"I've been standing here for a bit, saying your name. You haven't said a word. Just standing there with that bolt of cloth. Do we need to purchase it?" I looked down to see tarlatane cloth the same shade as Andrew's eyes.

"Yes, Daddy. This was exactly what I was looking for," I said, still in a dreamy daze.

"Darlin, are you ok? Are you ill?" he asked, obviously concerned.

"No, Daddy," I shook my head. "Just daydreamin'."

"Well, we'd better get moving. I've made reservations at the hotel restaurant down the street. We'll be meeting a colleague and his family there." I must have looked at Daddy strangely, because he asked again if I was ok.

"I'm fine. Whom are we meeting for dinner?"

"Paul Hale and his wife, Caroline, and their children."

"Andrew and Catherine?" I asked.

"How did you know?"

"They were in here, and Andrew accidentally knocked me down, trying to corral Catherine," I replied.

"She is full of energy," Daddy agreed. "Is that what's got you so dreamy? Are you hurt?"

"No, I promise I'm fine."

"Ashley?" Daddy asked warningly.

"He was a perfect gentleman. He told me he goes to the university for law and business."

"That he does. He's got a fine head for it as well."

"What do you think of him?"

"Well, he's a good-hearted young man. Knows what he wants and goes after it, kind of like his father. I will admit that I suggested to him that we get together for lunch so that you might meet Catherine...and Andrew." I was trying to figure out why he had not introduced me to the Hales before now. Frowning on the inside, I raised an eyebrow. "Besides, you don't need to be attached to your daddy's side all day long," he smiled. I could see in his eyes the excitement he was trying to hide.

"Daddy, I love being with you on our outings! Do you really think that I would come along if I didn't enjoy your company?" He brushed my cheek with a smooth hand.

"That's my darlin' daughter. Are you ready for dinner? I'm famished!" he said, holding out his arm for me to take. I laced my arm through his and we walked down to the first floor to make my purchase.

~

I'm leaving it here for now. Don't want to give too much away, do I? Anyway, I'm going to try to get back into the {W}rite of Passage workshops and I'll keep you updated.

Heepwah, and be safe out there.

Your favorite bookie,

Mrs. Dreamer

A Dream Job...

Reville. Although my watch was always set five minutes earlier than the strains of the bugle coming at 5.55am.

Shower. If you get there early enough, there might be hot water left for you.

Breakfast. Mug of hot tea laced with copious amounts of sugar and milk. Breakfast casserole was the bomb.

Head count. Gotta make sure all thirty-seven or thirty-four or forty girls are present and accounted for

"What are we doing today?" (heard every morning)

Could be anything. 

Riflery. Archery. Canoeing. Boating. Hiking. Handicrafts. Horsemanship. Woodsmanship.

Lunch. Eaten picnic style on the trail or hiking back to the mess hall.

Then back to whatever was on the schedule. You got to do each activity twice during the week.

Shower. Hey, summer's hot, and the afternoon icy showers felt pretty good after you'd just been on the wrong end of a warm horse fart. :)

Inspection. A rainbow of colors on the parade grounds (the parking lot), each unit trying to outdo the others in timing and perfection.

Dinner. Eaten out by a fire or in the mess hall.

Evening activities.

Grotto fire (welcome to the place you'll lose your heart. Not to a boy or to friends, but to nature)

Unit fire (can you call Garnier from Daniel?)

The Game (now what the hell did Spies and Secret Agents have to do with camping?)

Overnight (Kane Lake. Pakentuck. Pine Alley. Wayne's World. Timmy's Well.)

Lodge (Indian dances and drums and flaming arrows and Simon's intentional slip)

Closing fire (trying to say goodbye to friends that have changed your life, and you theirs)

Taps.

~~

I did this for two glorious summers when I was in high school. 

My first real paying job was one of a summer camp counselor where I'd been a camper the previous five summers, one week at a time.

They say you need to dress for the job you desire most.

I dress in tie-dye and sandals every chance I get.

Challenge #5 from {W}rite of Passage. 

Re-create for us your first job, your first "real" job, your last job. Tell us details about your first day, or last day. Not generalities like, "My boss sucked" because we've all learned from Dooce not do to that.

But pick a day of your life in a significant, or completely insignificant, job and make us feel like we're living it with you.

I know. I decided to do an entire week. As a camp counselor, you can't just take one day. They blend together like perfectly prepared pizza ingredients. Camp could never be insignificant.

At least, not to me.

Looking for a new job? Check these out:

The Christmas Gift...

Tom and I had only been dating just over three months. This is Christmas. His mom's house.


"Here, honey. This one is for you."
"Um, wow...that's quite a big box."


*unwrapping sounds*
*removal of paper stuffing*


"Aww, isn't that sweet? You're trying to trick me!"


*unwrapping sounds*
*removal of paper stuffing*


"Um, Tom?"
"Keep going."


*unwrapping sounds*
*removal of paper stuffing*


With raised eyebrow "Are you serious?"
Just a smile.


*unwrapping sounds*
*removal of paper stuffing*


"Ok, not that I'm trying to sound ungrateful, but seriously?"
A snicker.


*unwrapping sounds*
*removal of paper stuffing*


There is a rock (not a diamond, but a run-of-the-mill garden rock) duct taped to the bottom of the box with a tightly folded piece of paper taped to it.


*unfolding the paper*
*reading to self* 
"Ha Ha!! Check the backside of the TV stand clock. Love ya. Merry X-mas. Thomas"


"You ass!" 
Mind you, this is in front of his mom, sister, and stepdad.
*checking the back of the TV stand clock.*


There is a small grey box.
It holds a ring. 
A pink ice heart with two tiny diamonds on either side.


"It's a sweetheart ring. I love you."


~~
Week #3 for {W}rite of Passage
Write about the Christmas Gift you remember the most. Why? Who was it from? Where were you? What is the significance of it?


When I read the Challenge for this week, this is the memory that flashed first. I'm sure there are others, but this one makes me smile.
This was my first piece of jewelry from my now-husband. We were in the living room of his mom's house (we were in college during the year), and by the time I was done opening my "presents," there was wrapping paper and newspaper stuffing and boxes strewn all about the tiny living room. 
This was the first time he'd said "I love you" in front of anyone else.


I haven't worn this ring in several years due to its smaller size. 
I type this as light catches the pink heart and tiny diamonds on the ring finger of my right hand, where it fit, twelve years ago...the same as it does today.


I love you, Thomas.


More than you know.


See what everyone else received for Christmas: