Chapter 2: Hats

     One of the things I struggled with the most during my first year of marriage was figuring out what kind of wife I was going to be. It sounds dumb, but I have a very vivid imagination, and I often [temporarily] take on the personalities of the characters I am reading about in a book (or watching on TV or in the movies), or I imagine the fictional things that are happening to them, happening to me.  

     Once I realized this, I discovered something else about myself: A lot of my expectations of how life and relationships should be came from movies or books. The problem is, stories are stories because they tell the unusual. No one wants to hear about an ordinary camping trip where nothing goes wrong--they want to hear the story of how the bear attacked the family, after the tsunami, while the youngest child ran around uncontrollably in his underwear, juggling batons that were on fire. 

     Every single person, relationship, and scenario is unique, so my goal with The First Year was not to tell people what to expect or how things are, but perhaps show them how they might cope, should something similar to these stories come up in their own lives. Or at least assure them that they are not alone. 

     Because I had to learn how to separate my life from the stories I consumed, I decided to write "Hats," the second chapter of The First Year. It is the story of becoming comfortable in your new role as a spouse or partner. You can't force yourself to be something you aren't, and your husband fell in love with you, not the person that anyone tells you that you should be.  

     With that, here is the next excerpt from The First Year. 

Chapter Two:

Hats

—My White Hat—

     Chet always does so much for me. He makes me happy, but sometimes he makes me feel guilty too. Is he as happy as I am? Is he gaining as much from this relationship as I? He seems down lately. Maybe I should make him a candle-lit dinner. That’s what a good wife would do. Right?

     I cock my head at the mirror-me, my long black hair falling over my shoulder. Yes, I will make dinner. He loves steak.  I can’t cook steak. Maybe chicken. Chicken is simpler. I can do chicken. I’ll have to go to the store though . . . let’s see . . . I’ll write a list.

·         Chicken

·         Some kind of marinade . . . I think he likes teriyaki?

·         If teriyaki, I’ll have to buy some RICE.

·         Bag of frozen mixed vegetables

·         Bisquick  No, I have Bisquick

·         Cheese (for cheddar-garlic biscuits)

·         Chocolate chips

     Do I have eggs? No. Good thing I checked.

·         Eggs.

     Now to find my keys. Hm . . . maybe I left them in my jeans. Where are my jeans? I wore them yesterday, but they weren’t dirty, so I’m sure they’re on the floor somewhere. Not in the bedroom . . . ah ha! Closet. Found them. No keys. Damn. I bet I left them in the bathroom. I had to go really bad when I came home yesterday . . . yes. Keys. Purse. Phone. Ready.

---

     Is there a special way to marinate chicken? Even though I’m tall, I have to reach up on my tippy toes to grab a bowl. Dump chicken in bowl. Ew. Raw chicken is pink, slimy, and disgusting. I hate it. I’ll drown it in teriyaki marinade. Die, chicken, die! Now what? Um . . . shake it around a bit? No. I’ll grab a fork and flip the chicken over a few times. Crap. Splashed my new shirt. I’ll just take it off and clean it later. Cookin’ chicken in my bra, in my bra . . . puttin’ foil over chicken in my bra, in my bra. I didn’t realize how strong the air conditioning was until now. Breezy. Chicken in the fridge, Marissa in her bra, in her bra.

Rice: cooks in 5 minutes. Vegetables: cook in 10 minutes. Biscuits: total prep time = 12-14 minutes. That gives me . . . let’s say fifteen minutes to clean the house. Chet will be home in 30. Ready . . . go.  

---

     The living room and kitchen are clean. That will have to suffice, because I don’t have time to clean anything else. Close door on bedroom, into which I have thrown anything and everything . . . there. Clean as a whistle. Are whistles clean? Is that even the expression? I will clean the rest of the whistle, I mean house, tomorrow.

     Now to the cooking. Biscuits first, I think. I have to preheat the oven. 450 degrees? Done. Now, grate cheese into Bisquick and milk concoction . . . it’s hard to stir. My muscles are puny. I’ll use my hands. Ew. Sticky, slimy, cheesy . . . biscuits between my fingers. Gross.

     The cookie sheet is under the oven . . . my hands are dirty. Hm. Dilemma. Grr. Okay, I’ll quickly rinse off my hands in the sink . . . good enough. Ouch. Why can I never remember that the cookie sheet always gets hot from the preheating oven? My fingers are burning a little. No worries, it’s fine, everything is fine. I’ll just stick my hands in batter . . . aw, cool and slimy. Heaven-sent. Alright, biscuits on cookie sheet. Biscuits in oven. I think I’ll cook the rice next.

     Thank God for Minute Rice. For four servings, use two cups of rice . . . better just use one. Add two . . . no, one . . . cup of water. Balls. I was supposed to bring the water to a boil before I added the rice. Oh well. Lid on. Good enough.

     Right. Rice is on the stove. Oops. I should have done the vegetables first. I will do them now . . . where did I put those frozen vegetables? Oh duh. The freezer . . .

Chapter 1: Security

     This was the story that started it all. While I was in a creative writing class at BYU, I had my mom proofread "Security" (since she's an English teacher, and I trust her opinion), and she read it, gave me a few suggestions on how to make it better, and then told me I should write a book filled with short stories about the first year of marriage. I thought it was a really good idea, and so this is my first chapter--the story that inspired this project (5,837 drafts later). 

     My husband and I got married on August 20th, 2011. Josh was working at Shopko at the time, and he sometimes had to work freight. He had to be there at 5 am on those mornings, which means he left me, all alone, in our small little apartment. I have a problem with anxiety, so I just knew that someone would be watching our apartment, see him leave, know I was home alone, and then break in and kill me (or worse). My paranoia is particularly bad in the morning before I've fully had a chance to wake up, and I struggled with his absense. One morning, I had a very vivid dream that a man broke in and pulled me out of bed by my feet. I legitimately thought it was real. 

     This experience inspired "Security," though my various outbursts of paranoia, in all their varieties, soon took the back seat. Now, it is primarily a story about financial stability and differences in opinion, but it's also a story about feeling secure in your marriage: You have to know that the other person isn't going to leave you, no matter the disagreement, because you two love each other deeply. It's also about being secure enough in your relationship to be yourself, because there is no room for you, your husband, AND your alter-ego in a marriage. 

     These were just a few of the lessons I had to learn my first year of being married to Josh, and I hope you join me as I share with you all the nuggets of wisdom I was able to glean from my own personal experience. In the meantime, please enjoy the first 700 or so words of "Security," the first chapter of The First Year, by Jillian Torassa. 

Chapter One:

Security

            I felt like one of those people in the Claritin commercials, you know, before they take the miracle allergy drug that magically brings their world back into focus. My world wouldn’t come back in to focus until after the sun came up, and that occurrence was still several hours away. I lay with my eyes closed, listening to Charlie rummaging around in the closet. But that soon got old, and my focus shifted to the sounds outside. It sounded wet. My brain may have felt foggy, but I could always tell when it had been raining because the cars sounded different. Yes, there were always a few cars zipping down the Avenue, even in the dead of night. I don’t understand it either.    

             Charlie opened the door to the walk-in closet, which was as big as our entire bedroom, and the warm, yellow light assaulted my eyelids. I slowly opened my eyes, squinting up at him.

            “Hey, babe. Sorry to wake you.”

            I shrugged my shoulders, closing my eyes again. I still wasn’t all there.

            “I’m going now. I’ll see you when I get off.”

            I dreaded this time of year. Every summer, for the last five years, Charlie worked construction to earn money for our future. He refused to marry me until he reached some magic number in his savings account, so I thought it might stop after we got married. Ha. I really hated being left alone in the middle of the night, and I especially hated waking up without my husband by my side. It was horrible. I always heard noises.

            “I love you,” I said. My throat was dry, but I couldn’t drink water before I was truly awake. It always had a horrible taste as it washed around the germs that had been accumulating in my mouth during sleep.

            “I love you too.” He leaned down and kissed me on the forehead.

I heard him in the living room, pulling his bulky jacket from the coat closet. Then he was in the kitchen, taking a swig of orange juice and grabbing a handful of cereal as he rushed out the door. The door to the apartment slammed, the deadbolt slid into place, and I listened to his heavy footsteps as he hurried down the stairs. But then that faded away too, and he was gone.

            The cars still sloshed around outside. Where people had to go at four thirty in the morning, I would never know. That kind of stuff always interested me. I just couldn’t imagine where people had to go all day and all night. Why were the freeways always packed with people? Why was the Avenue never deserted? I really wished they would all just go home to their wives and leave me to have a silent, peaceful night’s sleep for once. 

            I pulled the comforter to my chin, snuggling a little deeper into the warmth. With Charlie gone, it was sometimes a struggle for me to keep warm. I squeezed my eyes shut, held, and released, trying to relax the muscles behind them. This was the part I loathed the most: Trying to fall back asleep, with nothing but the cars outside to protect me.

            Then it started happening, like it did every morning after Charlie left. I heard noises. Strange noises. And we didn’t even have an animal that I could blame it on. I kept telling Charlie that we should get a cat, or a puppy. It would really help my paranoia, I told him. But he just laughed, and tossed the suggestion over his shoulder. You don’t need a puppy, he would tell me.

            This morning, I heard sirens. My eyes flew open in horror, and my hands gripped the comforter. I just knew Charlie had been killed. He had been run over by one of the cars, speeding down the Avenue, and I would never see him again. Soon, a policeman would come up to our door, hammer on it with his fists until I was able to throw on a bathrobe and talk to him, and then he would tell me that my husband had been killed in a horrible accident. I threw the comforter over my head, trying to stay calm. I would just wait here for the cop . . . I wouldn’t panic until I heard the knock at my door. Praying never helped me in these situations. In my state of half-awakedness, not even a heavenly presence could console me. All I could do was focus on my breathing. 

100 Pages!

I've hit the 100 page mark on my latest project. Hurray!

That might not seem all that impressive, since I've been working on it for so long (and reaching 100 pages was my goal for before Thanksgiving), but considering the fact that I re-wrote the entire thing (changing it from third person to first person) BEFORE I went from page 80 to 100, I'm pretty proud of myself.

The work is progressing. Slowly, but surely.

And I feel like I'm on a roll!

Alligator Hunting

Today, I don't have anything new to say, so I decided to share with you a children's story that I wrote for a class a couple of years ago. I'm sorry there are no illustrations. Maybe I will illustrate it myself one day, but I doubt I will ever try to publish it.

Ooo, maybe I'll take special orders. If you like the story, I'll print it out and draw pictures on it for you, so that way every copy will be original. Haha. It's worth offering?

Anyway, here it is. I hope you like it! 

Alligator Hunting

By Jillian Torassa

It was a sunny day.

It only worked on a sunny day.

The alligators didn’t like the rain much.

Warren P. Vandoren III peeked out the window at the sky.

“No school and no clouds,” he whispered.

Today was the day.

He tip-toed to his closet and quietly packed his backpack.

Flashlight? Check.

Poncho? Check.

Box of crayons? Check.

String and paper clip? Check check.

Now all he needed was to sneak down to the kitchen and pack a peanut butter and honey sandwich, no crust.

“I’m going to go play with Kitcat!” he told his mom before he escaped out the door.

He hid his backpack so she wouldn’t worry.

Alligator hunting was a dangerous business.

Kitcat lived next door, and she was the one who first told Warren about the alligators.

“They live in the storm drains, and they only come out when it’s sunny,” she told him one day as they followed a stream of water racing down the sidewalk into the drain.

“But they won’t come out unless you promise to feed them a peanut butter and honey sandwich, no crust.”

Warren knew the alligators didn’t come out unless it was sunny and unless they had a peanut butter and honey sandwich, no crust, but…

He still avoided stepping directly on top of the storm drains. Just in case.

Kitcat was sitting on her porch, backpack ready.

“Did you bring the sandwich?”

“Yup.”

Kitcat grinned. “Then let’s go find some alligators!”

Warren yippy-ed, but his stomach hurt a little. He would never tell Kitcat, but he was secretly afraid of alligators. Just a little.

They held hands and walked to Cinderella Park.

Cinderella Park had the best storm drain in town, and Kitcat said that was where the alligator headquarters was.

Big Man Boss Gator made sure no one came in or out, unless there was a peanut butter and honey sandwich, no crust, involved.

Kitcat knelt over the drain, dangling the sandwich.

“Yoohoo! Mr. Boss Gator?” she sang out.

A low rumbly noise came from inside the drain.

“We have a peanut butter and honey sandwich, no crust!” she said.

Warren heard the sound of scratching claws. The alligators were in there. And they were going to come out.

Then they started coming out one by one. Alligators. The size of moms.

Warren trembled a little. But Kitcat did the talking.

“We want you to take us on an adventure,” she told the biggest gator, who was Big Man Boss Gator himself.

The gator tilted his head.

“Do you have a flashlight?” he asked in an alligatory voice.

Warren quickly opened his backpack. He took out the flashlight, and showed it to Big Man Boss Gator.

“What about a poncho? And a box of crayons?”

Warren took those out too.

“Very well,” Mr. Boss Gator grumbled, “but do you have the most important thing of all?”

“What is the most important thing of all?” Kitcat asked bravely.

“A paperclip tied to a string,” Big Man Boss Gator said.

Warren grabbed the string and paperclip from the bottom of his backpack as fast as he could, and tied them together.

“Good,” Mr. Boss Gator said. He sat low on his four legs.

Kitcat climbed on first. Warren was scared, but he took Kitcat’s hand, and climbed on behind her.

“How did you know we would need all that stuff?” she asked him.

Warren shrugged. “They just seemed like things an explorer and alligator hunter would need.”

Kitcat turned around and smiled. “Good thinking.”

“Are you ready?” Big Man Boss Gator called over his shoulder.

“Ready,” said Kitcat.

“Ready,” said Warren.

“Then let’s go,” said Big Man Boss Gator.

And in they went.

First they entered a dark tunnel.

“Flashlight on!” Mr. Boss Gator instructed.

Warren turned on his flashlight, and looked around.

The walls were covered in sparkly jewels and green slime.

“Gator slime always attacks humans, unless it is exposed to light,” Big Man Boss Gator explained.

Warren was glad he had brought his flashlight.

“Now put on your poncho,” Mr. Boss Gator said.

Warren and Kitcat both crammed into the poncho, just in time to go under a giant waterfall.

Warren was glad he had brought his poncho. He had a feeling he wouldn’t want to have wet clothes in this alligator lair.

“Now I must leave you,” Big Man Boss Gator announced. “But if you draw anything on this wall, it will come to life in this room. Have a fun adventure, and remember: choose wisely what you imagine.”

Then, he was gone.

Warren pulled out his box of crayons. “What should we draw first?”

“I’m hungry,” Kitcat said. “Let’s draw ice cream.”

Warren took out a brown, pink, and green crayon.

Kitcat drew strawberry ice cream, Warren drew mint chocolate chip.

And sure enough, ice cream cones started popping out of the ground, like spring flowers.

“Cool,” Kitcat breathed.

After eating lots of ice cream, Warren and Kitcat were very sticky.

“Let’s draw a bubble bath,” Warren suggested.

They each drew a bubble bath. Warren’s had blue bubbles, Kitcat’s had pink.

And just like that, two bubble baths fell out of the ceiling, and Warren and Kitcat washed away the ice cream.

Warren was sleepy, and his tummy hurt a little from so much ice cream, so he drew himself a bed.

“Goodnight, Kitcat.”

“Have a good nap, Warren.”

But Kitcat wanted to draw some more.

She picked up the crayon box and started thinking.

She peeked over her shoulder to make sure Warren was really asleep.

Then she drew a flamingo.

Then a gazelle.

Then a hippo.

Then a tiger.

Warren woke up when he heard a low growl.

There was a tiger starring him in the face.

“What did you do, Kitcat?” he whispered. He didn’t want to provoke the tiger.

“I just wanted to see if it would work.” Kitcat whispered back. Warren could tell she was finally scared.

He looked at the tiger, He looked at the hippo. Then he looked at the gazelle.  

“Put this on.” Warren threw the poncho at Kitcat. The tiger’s tail twitched.

Warren reached into his pocket for the string and paper clip.

“When I say three, grab my hand, and hold on tight,” he said.

“One.”

The tiger’s ears flattened.

“Two.”

The tiger growled.

“Three!”

The tiger pounced, but not before Kitcat had grabbed Warren’s hand and Warren had lassoed the gazelle tightly around the neck.

The gazelle ran for the waterfall, the string holding the paperclip, Warren holding the string, and Kitcat holding Warren.

The tiger ran after them, but they escaped just in time.

The gazelle and tiger both disappeared as soon as they touched the water, and Warren and Kitcat rolled safely onto the ground on the other side.

 “I told you to be careful, didn’t I?” Big Man Boss Gator shook his head.

Warren was dripping wet, since he had let Kitcat where the poncho. He shivered. His teeth chattered. His shoes started to squeak whenever he moved.

“Mmm…mmm…Mr. Boss Gator?” he asked. His voice shook a little. Big Man Boss Gator was a very big gator. And his shoes were wet and squeaky.

“Yes, Warren?”

“I’m cold.”

Big Man Boss Gator dropped to the floor. “Then it is time for you to go home.”

Warren and Kitcat climbed onto Big Man Boss Gator’s back. He brought them back through the sparkly and slimy tunnel, up to the mouth of the storm drain, and into the sunlight.

There were clouds on the horizon.

“Alligators don’t like the rain much,” he said.

Warren and Kitcat nodded.

Big Man Boss Gator turned and went back into the storm drain.

Kitcat turned to Warren. “I’ve had enough adventure for one day,” she said.

Warren couldn’t have agreed more.

She grabbed his hand, and they started off toward home, where Warren knew his mom would have a peanut butter and honey sandwich, with crust, waiting just for him.

Silly alligators. The crust was the best part. 

Feeling somewhat agitated today...

After a long weekend of moving, organizing, and cleaning, I am ready to get back to writing. I miss my characters...I'm excited to see them again and manipulate their lives in the manner in which I see fit. Maybe I'll kill one of them off, just because I can...

I encourage anyone who has anger or control issues to be a writer. It is a healthy outlet, that hurts no living soul, into which you can channel your negative impulses. 

Not that I have those issues...just sayin'.

Now, whose life do I want to cut short today?

[I'm just kidding. I'm not really a sadist, though I've been told I should be in order to be a good writer...] 

6 Reasons Why I Love My Life

My family isn't very touchy-feely. We don't really hug, we don't really say  "I love you," but we all are very close nonetheless. In this time of my life, I don't really know what's going to happen next. It's easy to get majorly stressed out, but I try to count my blessings, so that I don't get discouraged, scared, or buried in life. I'd like to take this opportunity to tell my family that they're six of the reasons why, no matter what, I have a wonderful life, because I don't do it often enough. So here goes.

Joshua Torassa He is my best friend forever. He is smart, funny, handsome, hardworking, thoughtful, caring, patient, talented...I don't know what I'd do without him. He takes care of me when I'm sick, he works hard to support me, he is so much fun to hang out with, he's interesting to talk to, he is a great cook, and he wants all the same things out of life that I do. Last night, as I was lying next to him, a thought popped into my head: Love means having a warm, golden light fill your whole chest; it's a light that can't be anything but the light that fills Heaven. Since most things I think of right before I go to sleep or right after I wake up sound brilliant at the time, and then are totally stupid later, you can take or leave that thought as you wish. But it's hard to explain the love I feel for my husband, and I just wanted to try. Josh, thank you for giving me a reason to love my life.

Laura Reid--She is my beautiful mother. She has been a good example to me throughout my whole life by being hard working, willing to serve, reliable, patient, and loyal. I get my love of Jane Austin, Britain, books, and musicals from her. She has taught me the importance of travel, shoes, chocolate, cleaning only when procrastinating, and hard work. She exercises ONLY so that she can eat whatever she wants, and she doesn't care what other people think of her. I want to be more like that some day. I am proud to say that I take after her in three very important categories: 1) Lack of domesticity 2) Love of English, and 3) Being a cat person. Mom, thank you for giving me a reason to love my life. 

Tim Reid--He is my dorky father. He tries too hard to be cool, is a dirty liberal, and likes to talk more than people like to listen. He is brilliant, caring, ridiculous, and a great friend. He is a lot of fun to talk to, and he helps me through my crazies, because he's crazy himself. He always texts me to tell me he loves me and is proud of me, and I always roll my eyes. He's the most sentimental of us all, and gets crucified for it constantly. But it means a lot to me. He is supportive and encouraging, and he always tells me I'm perfect just the way I am. He also does yoga with me. I likewise take after him in three very important categories  1) Love of BYU, OSU, and 49er football, 2) Being the annoying picture-taker at family functions, and 3) Talking too much. Dad, thank you for giving me a reason to love my life. 

Jordan Reid--He is my handsome brother. He's pensive, smart, nerdy, funny, and awesome. He is the best to talk to about video games, comic books, music, superheroes, Star Wars, and other TV shows and movies, because his tastes are similar to mine, and he has interesting things to say about them. I love his sense of humor, and I love Pizza Fridays and Taco Bell Thursdays. We got to spend a lot of time together when we were both at BYU, going to the mall, eating Chinese food and Cafe Rio, and going to Harry Potter and Hunger Games premiers, and I miss that a lot. I value his opinion and his friendship, and I think he's smart, talented, and fun to hang out with. Plus, he totally looks like Wolverine.  Jordan, thank you for giving me a reason to love my life. 

Allison Reid--She is my beautiful sister. She's smart, talented, adventurous, caring, and faithful. I'm jealous of her sexy figure, her European travels, her acting skills, and the fact that she's more social than I am, but in a way where I want to be more like her, not where I am bitter about it. We haven't always gotten along, and I hated sharing a room with her (she always got deaf and/or obstinate whenever we had to clean our room), but that's part of having a sister. I love talking to her about boys and girly movies, and I think it's adorable when she tries to be funny. :) I can always trust her recommendations for books to read, and I'm grateful for her example. I'm sorry for all the times we fought (especially over stupid things, like what should count as an answer for Scatergories), but I know she forgives me. Allison, thank you for giving me a reason to love my life. 

Pippin--He is my adorable little kitten. He is every thing a cat should be: He is loving and cuddly like a dog, without being slobbery and gross, and he's playful, adorable, curious, and loves food as much as I do. I love spending my days with him, and I'm glad for his company, even though it's hard to write when he's sitting on my laptop, or snuggling up on my lap. He is a well-behaved, smart baby, and I feel like he was meant to join our family. Pipster, thank you for giving me a reason to love my life. 

Finished

Since Josh has the day off tomorrow, and since I am going to be moving into our new place all day Thursday, I thought I'd move my blogging days to Monday and Wednesday (and maybe Friday?) for this week.

So, I have finished The First Year. I'm sure it's not completely done at this point, but I am not going to edit it anymore before I start sending it in for publication.

I have a few different options:

1) Find an agent--It's going to be hard to market a collection of short stories, especially as a debut author, by myself.
2) Find some smaller companies that might publish similar things and try to get it published that way (and hope for a giant stroke of luck).
3) Divide up my 12 stories and submit them individually to magazines or writing contests.
4) Wait until after I've published some other stories (and presumably my name has become at least a little recognizable), and then try to sell The First Year. The project I am currently working on is a lot easier to classify, and also market, so it might be a better debut novel for me.
5) I can try and publish (probably in magazines or writing contests) other small things that I've written, just to get my name out there, before I send anything else in.

Writing is just like any other career--you have to have a resume and credentials in order for anyone to pay much attention to you. That's a problem I will have with finding either an agent OR a publisher, since The First Year isn't some sort of Blockbuster hit that will get lucky and get famous right off the bat.

Unfortunately, as with any other career, you can't get published unless you have credentials  and you can't get credentials unless you've been published.