Tag: life

Frankenboobies Revenge

~ Kiki Writes ~ 5 Comments

Warning! This post contains graphic details of my breast reduction surgery. It’s not for everyone and probably shouldn’t be read while eating anything. Proceed with caution.

 

In August, I wrote about my breast reduction surgery and here I am talking about my boobs again, this time about the negative aspects of my ta-tas.

Negative, you say? How can there be anything bad about boobies?

Well, there can be, and I’ll get to that. But first, I’m going to tell you why I have no trouble talking about my boobs.

When your boobs are as large as mine were, they sort of take on a life of their own. They become their own entity. My chest was large enough that it would knock things over. I’d unintentionally hit people with my boobs because, well, how could I not? They were between me and whatever I was doing. Reaching past someone guaranteed they were going to get some titty on them. Working in close quarters, an elbow to or a hand brushing a boob was common. My friends quickly got used to it.

Breasts that large attract attention. Comments were as common as accidental elbow blows. Men especially were fascinated by them. Of course. Men like boobs and boobs the size of mine are typically reserved for porn as far as they’re concerned. In high school, I had more than one guy ask if they could just feel them. It was less a sexual grope and more a need to satisfy a curiosity about objects that big.

I imagine that they thought what they saw in the bra was what they’d get outside of it. Little did they realize…

They are consequences to have breasts that large. Even breasts that aren’t that big, but grow rapidly end up with stretchmarks. That’s something you don’t see in the movies, porn or otherwise. I’ve got lots of them. They’ve faded with time, but in up close and personal situations , they’re noticeable.

The stretchmarks didn’t go away with my surgery, though with the smaller breasts I can at least be relatively sure that I won’t be getting more of them.

However, the smaller breasts came with a price of their own: scars.

I went into this surgery knowing that there would be scars. I don’t heal quickly and I don’t heal well. Chalk it up to the fair skin or genetics or whatever. It’s been that way since I was a kid. Considering the incision went from under my armpit, around my breast, and ended about half an inch from my breast bone, yeah, there was going to be a scar. It’s widest under my arms where the drain was implanted for my first week of recovery, but for the most part the whole thing has faded.

Due to the size of my breasts, I had to have what’s called a free nipple graft, which made for another incision scar. The surgeon cut up from the bottom of my breast and around my nipple. My nipples were then removed completely so the breast tissue could be removed and the remainder fung shui’d into a more functional and appealing fashion. My nipples were then reattached. The incision scars from this part of the operation have faded some as well.

Now, the risk of doing a free nipple graft is that the surgeon is taking off and then reattaching the nipple, meaning that if the nipple doesn’t get adequate blood supply, the whole thing could die and have to come off. I knew that going in and sure enough, it was a complication I had to deal with.

Before visions of a nippleless boob start bouncing in your head, let me assure you that wasn’t my case. I have both of my nipples, thank you. However, my left one didn’t get quite enough blood supply and the top layer of skin died and sloughed off. To me, it looks like long healed skin after a bad burn, that mottled pink and white, something-significant-happened-here skin. I have been reassured that it doesn’t look that bad, but no one can deny that it’s not a normal look.

My right nipple is fine and looks quite fetching, except for the tiny scar at the top where it pulled away from the skin a little after the stitches were removed.

With all of the scars and stretchmarks, my breasts have a kind of patchwork quality to them. I call them Frankenboobies as they were put together by man. And as glad as I am to have them and have them be this smaller, much more manageable size, I admit that I’m self-conscious about their appearance in the flesh, so to speak.

However, properly displayed in the right bra and shirt combo, they are fantastic and I have no trouble telling people that, too.

After all, if I’m going to talk about my boobs, I’m going to talk about the good and the bad.

Black Cats and Broken Mirrors

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I am a superstitious person.

Now, I have no problem with black cats (I’ve owned several). The worst part about a broken mirror is the clean-up (and being out a mirror). I’ll walk under a ladder, unless someone is on it, but that’s less superstition and more I don’t want them to drop anything on me. I’ve opened umbrellas in the house without any major repercussions.

But I am still a superstitious person.

I’ve got my own system of weird beliefs that aren’t grounded in reality.

For example, I’ve got a firm belief that if I put my shoes on during a tornado warning, a tornado won’t hit my house. I’m convinced that a tornado will only hit my house if I have to climb out of the rubble barefoot.

There’s no logical basis for this thought other than I don’t want to be barefoot if a tornado hits my house and therefore, I put my shoes on when the siren goes off and because a tornado has never hit my house when I’ve had my shoes on (a tornado had never hit my house, period), it stands to reason that putting on my shoes wards off tornadoes.

Thought it’s a very logical progression to get to that last point, there’s no basis in reality for it, but I still put my shoes on when the siren sounds, no matter what time it is, no matter how I’m dressed. The need for a bra during a tornado is somewhat less than the need for shoes.

I’m not exactly sure how this sort of thinking developed for me. And since I like to think of myself as a logical person, it’s kind of funny that I would fall into this sort of thought process. But I suppose it can happen to anyone. Even the most reasonable people have quirks to their thinking.

Lots of people have lucky numbers and numbers to avoid. Most people think of 7 as lucky and 13 as unlucky. My lucky number is 3 and any multiple of 3. I don’t like 5 and I’m wary of 8.

I don’t have to knock wood, but I do have to close my calendars on the last day of the month (so the old month’s mojo doesn’t bleed into the new month).

For the most part, these superstitions don’t affect my functioning. They’re so particular that they don’t often come up. Unless I point them out, most people don’t even know that I have them. And I’m sure that the same could be said for the people in my life, too. I’m sure that it’s not just chain letters that they’re superstitious about.

Sometimes I wonder about the silliness of my superstitions. Then I realize it could be worse.

I could be wearing the same underwear to preserve a winning streak.

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Pregnant Lady?

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

As a human being, I have my quirks and my fears and my quirky fears. I chose to forego any of the typical phobias like bugs and snakes and decided to jazz up some of the more traditional fears like heights and death. I can only guess at the sources of some of these out of the ordinary hang-ups. Friends and family have no desire to understand them. They just filed them in the “weird” column of my personality and moved on.

So, what scares me?

Mascots- Okay, lots of people have this one. I’m definitely not alone. And it’s more of a love-hate thing with them. I think mascots can be a lot of fun and very funny. I just don’t want them close to me. I don’t want them coming at me. I don’t want them interacting with me. Mascots are fine…over there.

The big headed mascots really freak me out. The bobbleheads at Chase Field, the Presidents at Nationals Park, Rosie Red at Great American Ballpark. I don’t even like seeing them on TV. I don’t think I could handle them so well in person. There’d be a lot of walking in the opposite direction.

This is a late blooming fear, as I don’t remember ever having a problem with mascots before my twenties. Even at DragonCon, people in certain mascot-like costumes caused me concern. The Pennywise Clown, complete with balloons and evil grin, in the elevator, however, did not.

Pregnant Women- I think this is a product of seeing Aliens at a young age. While I fully understand and recognize how amazing it is that you can grow a living creature inside of your body, you’re growing a living creature inside of your body and it’s going to want to come out. I see a heavily pregnant woman and I think it’s just a chestburster incident waiting to happen. And no, I don’t want to feel the baby kick because I don’t want to be too close when it decides it’s done incubating and claws it’s way through your belly button.

Okay, that’s ridiculous and I know it and considering the fact that people close to me have been bearing children pretty regularly for the past ten years, I’ve had lots of opportunities to plaster a smile on my face and pretend not to be creeped out by the fact that there’s something MOVING in my friend’s gut.

I imagine that should I ever get pregnant, I’ll spend the entire time pretty skeeved out and possibly flapping my hands like a girly-girl that’s just seen a spider every time the kid moves.

Wait. Why would I even consider getting pregnant if I’m scared of pregnant women? Hold that thought. I’ll come back to it.

Falling- I don’t mind heights. I don’t mind being in high places, looking out over the land, taking in the view. I don’t mind working on roofs or climbing ladders. I love ferris wheels and the Power Dive at Great America. I have no trouble with heights.

It’s the falling from heights that bothers me. I don’t get too close to the railing. I don’t like other people to get too close to the railing. We were sitting over the bullpen in Kansas City and this guy carrying his baby boy stood next to us and the whole time I was in a highly tense state because his baby was too close to the edge. Logically, I know that Daddy isn’t going to drop the baby, but on the other hand I have this overwhelming desire to not risk it and please step back, sir, you are making me nervous.

And it’s not just high places that this bothers me. It’s stairs, too. I am quite careful going up and down stairs because I’m terrified of falling down them. I think the last time I actually fell down a flight of stairs I was probably three or four and I wasn’t hurt. But be sure that if there’s a bannister, I’m hanging on.

Corpses- Yeah, I don’t like dead people (most people don’t). I’m not big on dead things in general, but I really have a problem with dead people. This means that I don’t do funerals. Period. End of story. Why? There are dead people there. I find it really disconcerting that there is a corpse laid out like a Thanksgiving centerpiece in the room.

I realize that this provides comfort to most people (for some odd reason), but it does nothing for me. As far as I’m concerned, the deceased person in question is already gone; their spirit or soul or what have you has left their body and all that’s left is a hunk of spoiling meat. And I don’t want to be in a room with it.

This goes for ashes, too. My grandparents both chose cremation and no funerals, which I thougth was great, but so long as Dad had their ashes in the jeep, I wouldn’t get in it. There are dead people in there. Nope. (Grandma and Papa have since been moved to Dad’s closet and I have no desire to get in there any time soon.)

Surprisingly, most of my family are very understanding about my funeral-aversion. They understand my problem with being in a room with a corpse and I’ve been given a free-pass for most funerals. Other people don’t understand it and think I’m just a selfish, uncaring bitch. And that’s fine. So long as I’m not in a room with a corpse, you can think of me what you like.

Fears are considered a sign of weakness in my family and I do my best to face them.

I spent most of the Cornbelters season getting used to Corny so I could get within two feet of him when I took my nieces to get his autograph (I still used the children as a shield). I like Corny. And he seems to respect my need for extra mascot personal space and I appreciate that.

I challenged my fear of falling by going on the Mine Drop ride at Great America (it takes you up a gazillion stories and then drops you straight down). Sure, I screamed all the way down, was shaking so hard I couldn’t get my harness off, and would never do it again, but I did it once and that’s what counts.

Same with getting pregnant. If the opportunity to have children arises, I would get pregnant despite that fear just to say I did it. Nine months is a lot longer than thirty seconds, but the reward would be greater for all of the time I’d put in.

The dead people thing I’m kind of stuck with. That’s going to be a tough one to get around. I’ve basically made a deal with myself that certain funerals I have to attend. I will probably sit as close the back as I can and do my best not to be anywhere near the casket, but I will go.

That’s right. If you’re really special, I’ll go to your funeral.

It’s Hip to Be Square

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’ve never been a cool kid. I’m sure you’re shocked by this revelation, but it’s true. Growing up, I lacked all of the necessary skills to be cool. I was too smart, too weird, too awkward, too shy. There was nothing about me that would have made me popular even in a one room school house with only two students. It was just not in my genetic make-up.

To take it a step further, I couldn’t even try to be cool. To this day, my sister has to keep me up-to-date on slang and explain the correct context in which it is to be used. In effect, my much hipper younger sister has to translate cool for me because I do not speak it. I march to the beat of my own drummer and that drummer tends to play the oldies.

Going through school as not very popular (not be confused with not having any friends, because I did and they were very good ones and I’m glad I spent my time with them), it baffles me now at the age of thirty bonus year that I would be thought of as cool and be popular, but I am, at least in a two very specific sections of the population.

The first section is Walmart. To pinpoint it even further, the people I worked with at my tiny Walmart here in town. Walking into that store is the closest I’ll ever get to being a rock star.

Okay, so this is mostly because I’ve worked there twice and racked up a few years and I got along really well with most of my co-workers. We chitchat and play catch-up. If I want to get out of there in under two hours, I have to time my visits very precisely.

However, I am something of a legend in that Walmart. I didn’t realize it until I went to work there the second time when I had associates that I’d never even met before know who I was. I guess that happens when you dye your hair mutliple colors, have fun at work (while busting your ass to do your job well), and aren’t afraid to get an attitude with the customers when necessary.

My legend, I’m told, continues on.

The other small contingent that thinks I’m cool are people younger than me. People my own age and people older than me look at me as something of a failure as I never finished college, never got married, never had kids, and live with my dad and a roommate while insisting that I can make some sort of career as a writer while periodically holding day jobs.

Younger people, however, seem to ignore all of that status stuff and instead hone in on the fact that I’m a quick wit that can give objective, practical advice when necessary. In some ways, I’m totally on their level. In other ways, I’m 100 years wiser. It’s an attractive blend, or so I’m led to believe. They think I’m cool.

I never expected that years after high school I would find popularity and some sort of cool factor, however minute and unimportant in the grand scheme that it might be.

Don’t worry. I won’t let it go to my head.

Avoiding the Limelight

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Teenagers crave attention. With the benefit of a few years of distance, I can see that clearly. Everything that happens to two them is either the best, but usually the worst thing ever. Every notable quality about them is better than any of your notable qualities. Every incident, word, interaction, look, and choice is magnified to the extreme, all for the sake of LOOK AT ME!

Now, I’m not just picking on the teenagers I know now. I was just as guilty of all of those things when I was their age and so were my friends. I have more than one memory of me acting in such a way that just makes me cringe now. If my parents had been paying better attention, I wouldn’t have blamed them for locking me in a closet for being annoying.

However, I was really BAD at getting attention. It usually backfired or was in some way ineffective. Mostly, I was out attention-got by someone else that was better at getting attention. In competitions like that, I’m woefully unskilled to compete.

Some people grow out of this ultimate need for attention. Some don’t. Some just evolve their attention getting methods.

I went in the opposite direction.

Once I realized that I wasn’t good at getting attention by any means, I gave up on trying to get it. And when those around me continued to get attention and tried to get attention, it really turned me off to trying to get it.

You know those people that have to one-up you? The ones whose lives are always worse/better than yours depending on the situtation? Yeah. I’ve been acquainted with too many attention-getters like that. It’s turned me off to sharing bits and pieces of my life because I’m tired of being used as a stepping stone to conversation stardom. I’m tired of being reminded about how their lives are so much MORE than mine.

So, I don’t share. Sometimes, I’d like to, but I think better of it and keep it myself. In the end, I have secrets.

I don’t tell people about my writing projects. There are people I haven’t told about my jewelry making. No one at the former day job new the actual extent of my new gig. I’ve gotten very comfortable with operating in the shadows and being overlooked.

But, it’s hurting me as well. You can’t live your whole life unseen (unless you’re some sort of James Bond spy, and I know I’m not cool enough for that life). I’ve gone so far the other way when it comes to seeking attention that to get attention is disconcerting. I get almost paranoid about it. Why are they looking at me? What do they want? Why does what I do matter to them?

It also doesn’t help because I’m at a point in my life when I need attention. I need the attention to create and grow a fanbase. I need the attention to sell books, sell jewelry, sell myself.

Going so long avoiding attention, I’m struggling trying to figure out ways to acquire that kind of attention.

It’s like wearing make-up. If you go for an extended period of time not wearing make-up and then you put it on, you think you look like a painted doll, even if you don’t. If you go for a period of time not trying to get attention, then you start trying, you think you’re being an annoying in a “hey, look at me!” kind of way.

As nice as it is in the darkened wings of the stage, I need to work my way back towards the limelight, even if I can only stand its glare for short periods of time.

The Worth of a Dollar

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’m not going to lie, money is important to me. The making of it, the having of it, the spending of it. I’m not too interested in other’s people money. I’m too busy thinking about my own. Or the lack thereof.

Money plays a big factor in my self-esteem. I’m worth not just what’s in the bank, but what I’m bringing in and how I’m paying the bills. My ego lives and dies by my checkbook.

It’s a pretty messed up measure of worth, I know. Never mind how the stock market keeps gyrating or the fluxuating price of gold; what’s it say on my pay stub?

Now one would think that since I pin so much of my worth on my money that I’d have gone through college and got myself a good paying job and ergo I would be in the position to think my shit don’t stink. Have we discussed that I like to do everything the hard way? Yeah, that was clearly not the case.

In terms of my self-esteem, it’s lunacy that I’m quitting a regular paycheck to go back to scratching out what I can. On the one hand, the struggle will make me happier because I’ll be doing what I want to do.  On the other hand, my self-esteem is looking to take a severe hit because the money is not going to be steady and I’ll be struggling to make ends meet once again.

Because of my money issues, I’m very good with my money. I’m good at going without. I’m good at saving. I’m good at paying the bills first. I’m good at making sure the obligations are taken care of before I do something fun, and even then I usually defer to responsibility and save my money instead of spend it. My dad likes to joke about how tight I am. I don’t know why he thinks it’s so funny. He’s the one that made me that way.

My dad grew up poor. Real poor. Poorer than I grew up, for sure. My dad harbors a bitterness that my mother (who did not grow up poor) gave us things when we were kids. Never mind that a lot of our toys and clothes were second-hand, it was just the fact that we had them. That my mom spent money to give them to us. Now, my mom did run us up in quite a bit of debt with her shopping, but still, my sister and I were far from spoiled in the material sense. Money is a big deal with my dad. He never has enough and he doesn’t want to spend it. Ask him. He’s always broke.

When I moved in with him during my sophomore year, I didn’t ask him for anything. I wouldn’t even ask him for lunch money. I lived off of what I had in my savings account from babysitting and working in my mom’s daycare. It wasn’t until I’d lived with him for a while that it occured to him that he didn’t know where I was getting my lunch money. Then he started giving it to me.

My sister had to have her appendix out when we were in high school. All I can remember from that is my dad bitching about the doctor’s bill. So when I fractured my ankle before senior year, I refused to go to the hospital. I didn’t want to listen to Dad bitch about how much I cost him (yes, we had insurance, but there’s that whole deductable thing and then what insurance won’t cover, and all that jazz). Over a decade later, I’m paying for not having my ankle properly set.

There’s no worse feeling than asking my dad for money. The disgust is palpable. So I do everything in my power to have my own. To make my own.

I’m hard enough on myself. I don’t need him to add to it.

The true test of this next venture is to make enough money to pay my bills. I pay my bills, the self-esteem stays happy and my dad continues to see me as legitimate person dwelling in his house. It’s a win-win.

Sure. No pressure.

Keeping It Loose

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I, like most people, have an aversion to being trapped. I like to have options. I like to have choices. I like to have the freedom to make those choices.

It’s part of the reason why I didn’t move out as soon as I turned 18. If I’d have done that, then I’d be stuck in whatever job I had just so I could pay the bills. And considering the crap jobs I’ve had in my course of employment, it’s not like I’d be making enough to make ends meet and then have something to put aside for savings in the event that I needed to make a hasty exit from an unhappy job situation.

It’s why I’ve yet to buy a new car. Payments are like a ball and chain, both to the car and to the job providing the money for the payments. And it’s not like I change cars often. My current car I’ve had for ten years. But that payment obligation makes me uneasy.

Even blogging is a trap that I eye carefully. It took me awhile to commit to a blog and a theme and the schedule and the whole nine. And even when I finally decided to go through with it, I had to make sure I have myself enough room to change my mind and go in a different direction if I want to.

That’s the trick for me, I suppose. As much as I want safety and security, I’ve also got to have an escape route. I have to have room to jettison if I feel the need. I have to have the opportunity to be able to do at least some things on my own terms.

I’ve been struggling with that for the past couple of years. It feels like I’ve worked myself into trap after trap after trap. Every escape plan just leads to more trouble. There’s nothing more frustrating to me than to be working so hard to get out of a jam only to seem like I’m getting deeper in it. Like a fly thrashing in a spiderweb or a hapless adventurer flailing in quicksand, whatever I do I’m just making it worse.

I’m at my best when I’m keeping it loose and unfortunately, I’m  not in the position to be loose. Due to my choices I’m exactly where I don’t want to be. I’m trapped.

Now is the time for me to stop flailing. Now is the time for me to stop struggling. I need to be still. I need to assess my situation. I need to come up with a new escape plan. And then another one. And then another. I need to make a few options.

Now more than ever I need to find a way to get loose.

And then I need to stay that way.

The Reading of the Lips

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Papa was hard of hearing. He had a good ear and a bad ear, and over the course of the years, the good ear got worse. We learned at a very young age to make sure we had Papa’s attention before we spoke and to speak loudly and slowly. Papa could hear some, but he also read lips to help fill in the blanks.

I grew up understanding the concept of reading lips, but as someone who could hear, didn’t really think much about it beyond knowing it helped Papa undstand us.

Then my mom turned me on to baseball and the Cubs.

The manager when I was a kid was Don Zimmer and he was a fiery, round man who liked to argue with the umpires. I remember him getting thrown out of several games. There’s nothing like a kid’s curiousity and I was dying to know what Don Zimmer said to get thrown out of the games. Since I couldn’t hear, I decided to do what Papa did and learn to read lips.

I taught myself by watching movies that I had memorized. I knew all the words, so I’d watch them without the sound on and watch how the actors spoke. From there it was just a matter of translating what I saw there to other people. It took some practice, but I got the hang of it.

The new skill served me well. I finally could figure out what Don Zimmer was saying when he argued with the umpires.

Turned out it was a long string of curse words, but the magic word seemed to be “mother fucker”. If you’re worried about my young girl’s mind being warped by being exposed to that word, please don’t. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it…er…read it.

Since then I’ve applied it to more than just baseball. I’ve developed my own troubles hearing in certain situations and lip reading has bailed me out of some awkward situations.

I’ve also developed the odd habit of watching TV with the sound off. I’ve watched a lot of TV shows that way and for the most part I can keep up with the show. Obviously, I’m at a disadvantage if the speaker has their back to me or if there’s a lot of movement. However, I have gotten pretty good at filling in the blanks.

Or in the case of SyFy movies, making the movie even more interesting.

Now that I’ve gone full circle in a sense and am back to watching baseball regularly, I find myself once again being thankful for my skill. Sure it’s great for arguing managers, but my skills have improved since I was a kid. Now I use it to see what guys are talking about in the dugout and on the mound. I get a heads up at what pitch is coming next and I get to see what the guys on the bench and in the bullpen are discussing (hint: it’s not always baseball).

I’m still stumped by Spanish, though.

That’ll be the next level.

Goodbye, Papa

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

At 4AM the morning of Saturday, May 7th, my beloved grandpa passed away. As luck would have it, I woke up at 5:30 that morning thinking I had to go to work and the resulting confusion woke me up enough that I decided to go to the bathroom before trying to go back to sleep. It was no surprise to find my dad awake in the living room as I passed through. It was on my way back that he told me the news and I realized that my roommate Carrie was in the living room, too.

The first word out of my mouth was “Really?”

It wasn’t that this was completely unexpected. Papa had been diagnosed with congestive heart failure years before and had a pacemaker/defibrillator. He had a slow progressing form of leukemia that he chose not to treat. He was on oxygen. He needed a scooter/wheelchair to get around. His health had been slowly declining since my grandmother died, partly because he wasn’t taking as good of care of himself as he used to.

He’d also been in the hospital for the past few weeks. Once the current trouble with his heart was straightened out, they realized his kidneys were shutting down. There was nothing they could really do for him. The goal was to get him strong enough to go home with my great-aunt so she could take care of him the rest of the way.

Papa never made it out of the hospital.

Part of that was because Papa didn’t want to do the therapies they were asking him to do. And he was being downright hateful about it. He was being nasty to everyone and wasn’t cooperating and they finally decided to move him off of the therapy floor and onto the fourth floor before moving him to hospice care. Without doing the therapy, there was no way my aunt could take him home to take care of him.

They moved him to the fourth floor on Friday night. He was dead Saturday morning.

I didn’t go see him in the hospital. I don’t regret that. The last visit I had with Papa was a pleasant one. He was in a good mood, feeling pretty good that day. We enjoyed a nice day of family and laughter and conversation and food. The last time I saw my papa was definitely a high note.

I never wanted to see him in the hospital. It had been hard enough watching the active, jovial, fun person I’d grown up with fade into the unkempt shadow of his former self. I know it sounds cliche, but it’s true. A lot of the life went out of him when Grandma passed away.

And judging by the stories Dad brought home about Papa’s behavior, I definitely didn’t want that to be my last memory of him. He was acting like an ass and my papa was never an ogre in my life. He read me and my sister stories, played with us, took us to the fair. He wasn’t this hateful, nasty person he’d become in the hospital, barking orders at people, bitching and complaining about everything, ignoring family because he was mad. I’m glad I never saw that. That tyrant wasn’t my papa.

Papa was a sweet, kind man who would go out of his way to help a person. If he liked you, you were family. It was just like that. Even though he was the youngest of ten kids, he was head of our large clan. Everyone looked to Uncle Jimmie for guidance. He kept the family in touch with each other, first with a family newsletter and then with a website.

Papa was a smart man. He never graduated high school and got his GED later in life, but he loved to learn. He loved to read. He loved technology. While most grandpas shunned the idea of computers, my grandpa dove right in. He was president of the Decatur Computer Club and is responsible for teaching me and my sister how to use them. I was one of the first kids in my school on the Internet, thanks to him.

Papa was a great cook. He used to have a New Year’s Day celebration at his house. He’d cram a hundred people in that tiny place to serve biscuits and gravy, ham and beans, and all kinds of pie. He’d spend days cooking to get ready for it and then spend all day in the kitchen while other family members took turns doing the dishes. He liked doing it and he just had a knack for it. He had scores of recipe books and there wasn’t a meal he wouldn’t try if it appealed to him.

Papa was my biggest fan. He was my sister’s biggest fan, too. You couldn’t ask for a more supportive, involved grandpa. I think that’s what I’m going to miss most of all. He never seemed to have trouble saying that he was proud of us.

It’s a comfort to know that Papa is back where he wanted to be: with Grandma.

Well, it’s a comfort to me. It’s probably not a comfort to him right now. There’s no way she’s going to let that last bout of hatefulness slide. I’m sure she was waiting for him with flyswat in hand to give him what for.

But once she’s done scolding him, I know it’ll be happily ever after.

Rest in peace, Papa (as soon as Grandma let’s you).

The Many Career Changes of Kiki

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

Like most kids, I wanted to be a lot of different things growing up. Unlike most kids, I never grew out of that changing career state of mind. Whatever it is I find that I’m interested in, I want to do that.

My first big career choice came early in junior high. I wanted to be a meterologist. Weather and storms fascinated me. I didn’t necessarily want to be on the TV talking about the seven day forecast, but being in one of those weather centers, tracking tornado spawning storms appealed to me. I thought it would be a fun, exciting gig.

It wasn’t very well received. Saying that I wanted to be a meterolgist conjured up the images of people pointing at maps on the TV and I got a lot of teasing for that. I decided that keeping meteorology as a hobby was better for my self-esteem.

Then towards the end of junior high I set my sights on being a marine biologist specializing in sharks. I love sharks. Shark week was made for me. I read a lot of books about sharks and shark attacks. It was particularly the attacks on humans that fascinated me at the time, but really all aspects of sharks and shark behaviors held my attention. There’s an air of mystery about them that makes them fascinating and makes me want to learn more about them. Being on boats for weeks at a time didn’t really bother me. In fact, my cousin’s grandma offered me a place to live if I wanted to pursue my degree down in Texas.

But, it wasn’t very well received by everyone else. The one thing I kept hearing was “do you know how much math and science is involved in that?” despite the fact that I’ve always been told that I was smart and held to the highest academic standards.

So I changed my mind and looked elsewhere.

I wanted to be a surgical technician.

Too much blood and guts.

I wanted to be an actor.

You won’t make any money.

When I finally got out of high school and into college, I first wanted to study English with the idea of being a proper writer, not just the amateur stuff I’d been not showing to people up until that point. No one said anything because by that point they weren’t interested anymore. I was in college (a community college that I was paying for) and that’s all that mattered.

The second time I went back to college, my eyes were on studying sociology. I’d become fascinated with it during my first college go round after I did a paper on prison rehab programs. I thought that might be a good gig for me.

That lasted as long as I was in school.

My last go round on the college merry-go-round, I was majoring in psychology with the ultimate goal being a forensic psychologist. There was no way I could be a therapist. I don’t have the compassion needed to succeed in that field. But analyzing and tracking down bad guys is something I think I could have excelled at. I was pretty dedicated to it, too. Took all of the psych classes I could get into (as well as all of the sociology classes; hadn’t quite given up using that) and was doing well in them.

Until I was looking into starting the math classes I’d need to get my associate’s degree so I could move on to get my bachelor’s degree, I realized just how long it was going to take me to get through all of the schooling I’d need (at least a master’s) to get my career started. That’s when I realized that I didn’t want to be a psychologist enough to spend years getting there, which would be even longer since I could only go to school part time while I worked.

It was also then that it dawned on me that the only thing I wanted to spend years struggling to do was what I’d been spending years doing all along: writing. I gave up on the idea that I needed any sort of formal education or validation and threw myself head long into making a career of it.

But that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about pursuing other interests as careers (most recently: helicopter pilot, personal trainer, and sports analyst). Of course, I always look at the time it will take to make those things happen and change my mind.

That’s why writing is the perfect career for me. With a little research and by living vicariously through my characters, I can be all of those things while spending my time doing the one thing I really love the most.