Yell At The Trees #advice

On the ride home from work yesterday, I gave a piece of advice to one of my slugs when he mentioned he had a bad day at work and punched his desk.

Smiling, I stared at the traffic-filled highway and almost giggled when I said, "Don't punch your desk. Go home and yell at the trees."

He laughed, but I meant it. Work is the last place you want to show your anger. Well, really anger gets you nowhere, but that's a different story.

So, when a friend called me and shared an experience that had me upset for her, I decided to take my advice and "Go yell at the trees."

But when I stepped into the woods beside my house, I couldn't scream. I couldn't vent my frustrations. All I could do was listen. So that's what I did. I listened to the trees, the bugs, the leaves shifting in the breeze. Cicadas vibrated and made their little buggy noises so loudly it sounded like a car alarm going off.

Squirrels scampered through underbrush, rushing from tree to tree as they took their prizes home.

Fence lizards ran in circles around the gnarly tree trunks.

Floral smells filled the warm, humid air, mixing in with the musty smell of damp leaves and dirt.

This path is featured in Shattered Secrets. This path is what Abigail walks down in the summers with Derick. Though the story starts out in the winter. This path is what sparks my creativity. My imagination runs endlessly when I'm out there.

I picture sword fights. I picture butterflies and fairies. I'm inspired by nature. I love nature.

I definitely don't want to yell at it, but at the same time, I feel as though the trees wouldn't mind. They would listen. They'd shift and try reaching out to me to tell me everything's going to be okay. They'd whisper encouragement. Maybe sprinkle a little pollen (yes, there was sneezing yesterday).

Nature is forgiving, kind, gentle. Ironically, nature is also harsh, brutal, and holds endless power. Exactly the kind of friend I like having.

So, the point of all this? When you're having a bad day, when you need someone to yell at, when you need a friend and no one else is around, go listen to the trees.

See what nature sparks in you. For me, it's definitely not anger.

What do you do when you have a bad day?

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Smell Those Effing Roses, Baby #inspiration

As usual on a gloomy, rainy morning, I sat in gridlocked traffic with my friendly slugs. Somehow, our conversation morphed into one of my regular riders mentioning how his former poker buddies were impressed with how well he's settled into his new life: new house, great job, nice things.

Ahh, to be young, unmarried, and kidless. (Nope, can't really imagine that being a good life. Despite all my crazy, hectic, hair-pulling schedules and issues, I wouldn't trade my family in for anything.)

Since I'm usually one to offer bullsh*t advice to almost strangers, I said to him, "You should be impressed and happy with yourself, too. Stop and smell the roses every once in awhile."

"Nah," he said, "Maybe when I own more, bigger, better."

Ha. (For those who know me well, you know what's coming: a cheesy piece of real life experience.) "I mean it. It's okay to want more, growth, but one day when shit falls apart you won't have any good memories to pull you through because you never stopped and said, 'Damn, I've done good.'"

Stop trying to correct my grammar. It was conversation.

Of course, when I offer advice to unsuspecting victims—I mean slugs—I look inward. Make sure I'm following my own wisdom.

I realized I wasn't. I hardly ever do.

My poor friend Susie listens to me lament almost daily about how I suck as an author, how my books are no good, how I'm no good, how I'm an imposter. She usually reminds me by saying something like, "Krystal, you've been published three times, have a ton of amazing reviews, have adoring fans, just snagged an agent for your newest book, and you're being considered by editors of the Big Houses. Seriously?"

Then I feel stupid, like I was fishing for compliments. Although, I wasn't. I want more, bigger, better. (Imagine me saying that in a dreamy voice with stars in my eyes, k?)

Maybe I need to stop and smell the roses. Maybe I need to live in these amazing moments and commit them to memory. One day shit will hit the fan. Something bad always happens. But without any good memories, how will I pull through?

Do you ever forget to pause and reflect? To say, "Damn, I've done good"?

Get out there and smell those roses.

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Epic Stank

The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and temperatures were somewhere around the mid-eighties. I pulled up to the Mine Road sign at the Pentagon and abruptly ended my phone conversation with my best friend and critique partner Dawna.

Two gentlemen opened my car doors and climbed into the passenger seats, immediately bringing with them a smell like no other . . .

Mothballs!

I'm sure the little orbs of smelly repellent went out of style in the 80's, right?

RIGHT?

If they were ever popular to begin with.

But one of these guys sported the scent as though he wore the most expensive cologne known to man—or something.

I gagged. How the hell will I survive the fifty-mile drive to Stafford while holding my breath?

* Gasp * I couldn't.

Slug #2 popped a piece of gum in his mouth, so I knew the smell wasn't his breath. Neither of them wore suits appearing as if they belonged on a corpse. The origination would remain a mystery.

Turning up the radio, I tried focusing on anything other than the air quality inside my Jetta, or how I would get that stank out of the leather.

This is what I get for detailing my baby over the weekend!

Every time one of the guys shifted in their seat, sighed, moved an arm, a leg, or played with their cell phone, I swear they created rippling currents of mothball.

Why me?

To make matters worse, neither of them spoke to me . . . and we hit bad traffic. Cars crawled along the interstate, the drivers inching forward without any hint of the trauma I experienced.

Lucky jerks.

When I saw the sign for our exit, I drove faster, zipping in and out of lanes like a NASCAR racer.

I managed to drop the guys off without telling them they smelled like sh*t, but I was once again reminded that I will never stop being surprised by people I meet in the slug lines.

Why can't I work from home again?

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Many of you know I pick up "slugs" so I can use the HOV lanes along I-95 in Virginia.  Many of you probably also know that an occasional slug does something so outrageous I feel compelled to write about him/her (see "Letter to My Slug" or "Snoring").

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wilde's Fire: B&N, Amazon, Kobo, & iTunes.

Wilde's Army: Amazon, B&N 

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What's That Smell?

I wanted to roll down the windows, spray Lysol, or better yet, kick the slug out of my car. (For information on what a slug is, click here.) My stomach is made of figurative steel. My gag reflex is almost non-existent. But body odor-coughing-bad breath scented with Halls-newspaper reading-cell phone ringing constantly-moaning when he fell asleep GUY nearly caused me to lose my lunch while driving down I-95 yesterday evening.

Compassion is one of my better qualities. I understand we all have bad days. Sometimes we wake up late and there’s no time for a shower. We can’t help getting sick. Bad breath is a disease some of us can’t control. Snoring or moaning while we sleep is involuntary. And for crying out loud, we all like to read and play with our cell phones. But somehow with all these things combined, the man had to know he was annoying.

I considered the window and the fresh cool air being wasted outside my car, but decided this overweight-dressed-in-sweats man might take offense. Scrunching my nose, I beared it—without the grin—dropped the car to fourth gear and punched the gas.

Getting home quickly was of the utmost importance.

Turning up the music, I tried drowning out my woes with thoughts of my novels, with images that usually have a calming effect on me. But another annoyance greeted my ears and the music faded away, the beautiful scenes of my book’s characters disappeared.

A sound much like someone rubbing their arms when they’re cold grew louder and more fervent.

Was there a bug? Was my jacket hanging from the bottom of the car door, dragging on the ground? Was someone listening to some crazy music on their iPod way too loud?

Sure the sound was coming from the back seat, I glanced over my shoulder. A well dressed, middle aged man was shaking his leg in the most anxious of ways. I have a feeling he must have been struggling to maintain composure.

I was struggling to maintain composure.

Front seat monster was now talking on his cell phone.

My partner in misery and I shared a look, a look that said we were in this together till the end and if we ever saw chubby again, he wasn’t getting a ride with either of us.

Clicking my volume control on the steering wheel, I said screw the slugging etiquette. No one else seemed to care.

Approaching the end of the HOV lanes, I cringed. There’s a dump just off the highway, and lately it’s smelled of rotting eggs. Honestly I’d like to know if the trash has gone toxic, but I figured it couldn’t be any worse than the man next to me.

Wrong. I was wrong. All the scents combined had my stomach turning in on itself. Worse yet, traffic stopped.

I turned the music up louder, legs shaking as rapidly as the man’s in the back seat, tried holding my breath, tried to think of home and the new Yankee candle plug-in I bought, tried to imagine my future rise to fame. Hah! None of that worked, but still, my stomach held its contents.

We inched along I-95. The sun was well below the horizon, leaving only a faint blue light at the edge of earth. The time change sucks, and this ride sucked more. Occasional whimpering moans had me staring at my slug and making funny faces at him. A couple times the man in the back snickered, but his finding humor didn’t work for me.

My attempt to quickly get home failed.

Another thirty minutes passed as we crawled the last five miles to our exit. Thirty miserable, breathless, uneasy minutes.

A bright-green rectangle outlined in white with Exit 143B marked on it relaxed my nerves. Almost there. We took the exit and managed to hit every light leading to the commuter lot, but once I pulled up to the drop off point and unlocked the doors, I didn’t care any more.

“Thanks,” they both muttered, opening their doors and stepping out of my insanely stank filled vehicle.

“Have a good one,” I said, rolling down the windows.

I drove off breathing non-toxic air for the first time in an hour and a half. The slugging system makes getting to and from work easier, faster paced, more bearable. But for just this once, I think I would have preferred being alone.

Faster is not always better.

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Snoring

Today is Friday. The weather clear and cool. The bright orange sun peeked over the horizon while I wound my way along the country roads. Then I hit I-95 and realized my gas tank needed a fill.

Okay, no big deal.

Stopped at the nearest diesel station, filled my Jetta with stinky, greasy fuel, then made my way to the commuter lot.

There was a line.

Okay, again, no big deal.

I played with my phone, caught up on some blogs, deleted fifty e-mails I received overnight and checked Twitter. Twenty minutes later, a couple guys got in my car. I cracked a joke about how they were late, to which neither responded—Grr! Does anyone appreciate humor anymore?—and got on my way.

The man in the front seat lives on the larger side of life. He had to recline all the way back, but the man behind him didn’t seem to mind.

Life was good—until we got to the first traffic light.

Man in the front seat started playing with his phone. I wouldn’t have cared if the volume was down low, but it wasn’t and every couple seconds I heard clack-clack-clack as he selected different things on his touch screen.

Okay, I’ll let it slide. He wasn’t as bad as Mr. Clickity Clears Throat.

Then heavy-set man in the front fell asleep and snored. Not just a little snore here and there…I mean he SNORED and SNORTED. Occasionally he’d do one or the other so loud, he’d wake up, click his phone—like he was pretending to be awake—then set right back to snoring.

What did I do? I turned the radio up louder and louder and louder and slammed on my breaks every chance I could get. In the end, they were probably dying to get out of my car and that was great, because I wanted nothing more for them to disappear.

Sigh.

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Letter to My Slug

Every now and again a slug takes a seat in my car and does something that earns him or her a name. Stinky Guy. Abortion Lady. Oh Shit Bar Dude.

Today was a very special day because the gentleman who sat in the front seat earned many a name. Of course, I’m sure I earned a name in both slug’s minds because I failed miserably at maintaining a straight face. Giggles escaped my mouth and I wore a permanent shit eating grin. I had to read road signs to distract myself because today’s slug just kept adding new things to his name.

What did he do you ask? Well, I decided I’d write him a letter. Let’s see how it turns out.

Dear Mr. Clickity Clears Throat,

I appreciate your decision to join me on my journey into Washington D.C. today. Without you, my commute would be long and arduous. Okay, more long and more arduous.

Now that I’ve dropped you at your destination, there are a few things I’d like to take the time to point out. Do you have a few minutes? Sure you do, this is a letter. Sit back, relax and for Heaven’s sake, put that damn clickity phone away.

What’s that you ask? It’s your blackberry, buddy. It’s clickity. You never stopped typing on it. My low-playing music was accompanied by click, click-click, click-click-click-click, click. Quite annoying if I do say so myself.

Don’t throw stones in a glass house you say? Well, I have a touch-screen. Ever heard of one? I suggest, with the amount of time you spend on your phone, you invest in one. Put it in “Silent Mode” and you’ll never hear me complain again.

Now that I’ve addressed your cell phone usage, I’d like to ask how the ride was for you. Was it too cold? Too hot? Did you need more air, less? I don’t know, but what I do know is that you were not comfortable.

Every couple of minutes you’d adjust the air conditioning vent and clear your throat. I was unsure whether I was supposed to take your bodily function as some sort of grunting language or not, but I grew more and more agitated by not being able to please you.

I speak English. I’m positive you do, too, but I was wondering if “eh-hem” was a language growing in popularity or not. Maybe you were speaking things to me in your head and you were sure they’d come across loud and clear in your clearing of your throat, but they did not.

So now here’s how one of my favorite songs sounded. Wild, click, click-click, horses, click, eh-hem, couldn’t, vent squeak, click, drag me, click-click, away, power seat adjuster, wild wild, click-click-click-click, horses, eh-hem, vent squeak.

If my music bothered you, I’m sorry. I had to keep turning it up to drown out your clickity clears throating.

If it was something else bothering you, you could have asked me to make an adjustment. I am always happy to help out when I can. We are in this commuting thing together, we should both be comfortable.

I hope you’ll consider these things before you take a seat in my car again.

Sincerely,

Click-click
Aggravated Driver

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The Adventures of Slugging

Going home from work, my foot rests heavy on the gas pedal. I push eighty miles per hour in the HOV lanes while being passed by people in a much bigger rush than me. The state troopers don’t mind the speed and neither do the hitchhikers, just so long as my car doesn’t break down, I don’t run out of gas and I keep the temperature at an even level.
 
Then we reach the last mile of our dedicated high occupancy lanes and have to merge from two down to one, then into the left lane of the dreaded Interstate 95. When traffic comes to a stand still, I shift the car to neutral, release a heavy sigh, turn down the music, then grab my phone to check my e-mail.
 
“I can’t believe you drive a stick-shift in this traffic,” says the passenger in the front seat, staring at my shifter like it’s a hideous beast.
 
This is something I hear frequently, and it’s something I have a generic response for.
 
“Oh, yeah. Special ordered this baby. Driving an automatic doesn’t give you the same control.” I return to checking my e-mail because I’ve had this conversation a million times and it’s lost the ability to hold my attention.
 
“Really? But doesn’t your foot get tired?”
 
Like I haven’t heard that one before. Twelve years of the same comments. People are so similar it's scary.
 
“No.”
 
Laugh at funny e-mail received via twitter.
 
Wait fifteen minutes.
 
Turn music back on.
 
Get bored and desire more conversation. “Well, I guess it does get tired on occasion.”
 
Bold-faced liar. I hate myself for it, but that’s what they want to hear, so that’s what they get.
 
“I’d imagine. Bet it makes you wish you had a time machine.”
 
Time machine? “You mean teleportation?”
 
“Oh, yeah. Don’t you wish they’d invent it already?”
 
This is another conversation I’ve had a million times, but I give in. Another heavy sigh. “Yeah. But telecommuting can do the same thing and we have the technology for that, but employers are too afraid to manage their people. So we all suffer for it.”
 
This always gets a rise out of people…especially when they are manager-types.
 
“There is no way to monitor people when they work from home.” Standard response.
 
“No? Won’t you know if the work is getting done—at home or at work?”
 
“It’s not the same,” says defensive front seat passenger.
 
A quick glance in the rearview tells me either the back seat passenger enjoys my provoking nature or is listening to iPod. Let’s pretend this back seat passenger is pleased with my skills of debate.
 
Satisfaction fills me. “I’m not sure why not. People either do the work or they don’t.”
 
“I see what you mean.” Meaning, I don’t agree with you, but would like to change the subject. “Sure would like teleportation to be invented.”
 
Sigh. Dear Managers, we have the technology to change the traffic problems. We have the technology to improve people’s quality of life and have them home more often. We have the technology to reduce emissions from our smog creating vehicles (I drive a blue diesel so I don’t want to hear any complaints). We have everything we need to fix the problems, yet control is what motivates. Control to have bodies to manage. Control to have people to yell at face-to-face if necessary.
 
So instead of using our wonderful technology, we daydream about teleportation. Something that will never in our lifetimes provide us transportation to work.
 
Think about it.

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