The Red-Headed Monster
Five Years Ago - Pearl Harbor Day at AOL
Written by Alice Jester
I was reminded of this by a good friend and ex-coworker through a Facebook photo today. It was my entire department at AOL, five years ago on Decemer 7th, drinking at a nearby establishment we called “Building 9”. We all had just lost our jobs.
Happy Most Depressing Day Of The Year!
Written by Alice Jester
M x NA
Almost a Black Belt
Written by Alice Jester
This week, I received my new Taekwondo ranking, Senior Red Belt. That's one rank away from Probationary Black Belt, the lowest black belt ranking. That statement alone can be considered a miracle in some circles. I see it more as beating the odds.
When I started this journey back in February 2007 as a White Belt at the age of 39 years old, I couldn't imagine my body would hold up that long. Given the aches and pains I come home with now, I'm certainly pushing limits. Still, after almost keeling over from sparring for two intense minutes a 13 year old that flies like an aerialist with jumps I can barely manage to get a few inches off the ground with, I recover and show up a few days later, ready for more. I'm insane, but I'm a determined insane person.
In the past eight months I've rolled my right ankle twice. Those old creaky knees take their turns over which one will fail on me while doing a side kick on my form. My left hip often prevents me from getting in a round kick above the knees, let alone to the head like everyone else. I won't even go into how winded I get after taking a class where a good chunk of the students are half my age.
Last week's test was the worst one yet. We had three chances to do the form correctly. I was the only one told to do the form a third time. I don't know why because I remember doing it right the second time, but maybe there was something that wasn't right. Maybe it was that stumble on the slow rear leg side kick, or the running jump kick that barely cleared an ant hill, or the 360 jump spin in the air that only went 280. The third time went much better, but was it enough?
Then I had to do three rounds of sparring, two minutes each. I got paired with all teenagers. They had no choice since there are no other adults in my rank, or even close to the higher levels of colored belt. Of the ones that I started with, they've either dropped out or gone onto black belt. Each round I'd lose steam about 1 minute 20 seconds in, and the referree would whisper messages like "keep up the pace Mrs. Jester." Isn't there some sort of grading curve when a 40 year old woman has to go against 13 and 14 year old boys?
Then there was breaking wood. Even though I routinely crack on the first try, I missed the first time. Maybe it was the fatigue, the lack of focus, or the sore ankle, but I was mad. In a final show of frustration, I went up there at my second attempt and cracked it good. I think I scared some people.
Still, I nervously listened for the phone on Monday, wondering if I was going to get that call that I wasn't good enough and failed the test. That the black belt dream would be pushed back two months. No call came, and there was an intense amount of pride going through me this evening as I struggled through my aches and pains wearing that new red belt with the black stripe for the first time. It made me want to go on, even though the less than half my age instructor berated me for trying to do intense drills on the bad ankle. Older adults are quite pig headed, for we have something to prove. It goes to show though they are watching out for all of us.
My ten year old daughter tested at the same time, although she was in the kids division. She passed easily, but is still one ranking behind mom. That's my hellbent goal, to get that black belt first. I have until December, in which my sparring test involves going an intense round with a higher ranked black belt, so I've already got the Rocky like training regiment planned. Except the raw eggs, I'm not doing that!
In the meantime, I need to get up and get those fresh ice packs for my hip and ankle. After all, I have class again in two days.
Beware CW!
Written by Alice Jester
For again screwing Smallville and Supernatural with promo photos this year, just remember CW, Karma's a bitch.

(Credit for this picture comes from a poster on the Moonlight forums).
I'm Not Giving Back My Soul
Written by Alice Jester
Why do I write? Because I hate my job.
Okay, in this day and age, who doesn’t? Actually, forget this day and age. The story is as old as time. A person shuttles off to work everyday, sitting hopelessly at his or her desk, being lost in daydreams of life as a secret agent or sitting on a beach with a fancy umbrella drink, or wishing that their life meant something. Then that person goes home, kisses the spouse and kids, and experiences an exhausting evening of quality family time. The family has a nice meal, enjoys the roof over their heads, and is thankful for the steady paycheck that paid for all that. Who needs to be driven by passion when there’s security?
That was my existence for years, until something clicked inside back in September 2003. I think it was a breaking point. After two and a half years of swimming in the IT trenches at AOL, dealing with all the politics and doing the dog and pony show just to get simple access to a data warehouse, I opened a word doc and started writing. I just wrote at random, anything that came to my head. I haven’t stopped since then. I can only compare this experience to when Forrest Gump started running and didn’t stop.
I’ve always had the writing bug, but there were always things more important. I had to drive hard to good grades in high school so I could go to college. Then I had to work hard toward that degree so I could go into a field that I bombed out in after nine months. Then I had to go back to graduate school to put my career path in the right direction, but once I had that there were no jobs in Michigan so I moved to Ohio to chase that big job opportunity. I met my now husband, so while climbing up the corporate ladder and learning premium technical skills, I got married, bought a house, had two kids, upgraded houses twice, accumulated pets, and got better jobs. Then the tech bubble burst, so I worked in a job long enough to get laid off because my name sat on the wrong side of an org chart. I found new work, the company went bust, I found new work, the company got bought out and downsized, I found new work, and spent four years watching one person lose their job to cost trimming, knowing my turn would eventually come.
From that breaking point on, I kept writing. It was the only thing keeping me sane.
I continued to balance job insecurity with daycare, gymnastics, little league, soccer, school plays, doctor appointments, vet appointments, and somehow having a hot meal on the table every evening after experiencing another day in the IT world where my soul was stripped to almost nothing. On car trips, lunch breaks, bathroom breaks, traffic jams, and late in the evening at the sacrifice of sleep, I kept writing.
No one but me knows that was the day I cracked. I’ve been well trained to keep up appearances on the outside, keep playing the roles that have been expected in me. But on the inside, something started happening. I found myself. I found my purpose in life for the first time ever. Granted, my name and publishing success don’t go hand in hand. I kept my work secret for two years and then finally got enough courage to post it on the Internet, hiding behind the usual off the wall screen pseudonym. At first, my work was blasted. It didn’t turn me off. It inspired me to do better. I found some communities, read other stuff, rewrote, and slowly the reaction got better. I found a fan base. It was small, but they were loyal and supportive and lifted me to new highs emotionally. My confidence grew too. I ended up supporting other people’s work as well, and we all formed our little online community just by sharing a common love. For two more years, I would spend every moment of my free time writing and eagerly posting my finished work, waiting for the instant reaction. It was a drug, and it kept me from losing it.
Ah, but released my inner passion as a writer has brought on the double edged sword. In the last year, my job satisfaction has hit new lows, while my writing life has hit new soaring highs. I stopped thinking of myself as an amateur writer and started believing I could do this for a living. Ever since that very first word hit the page, I’ve always used writing as a balance; left brain by day (technical), right brain at night (creative). Both sides have wildly fed off the other. In December though, there was no longer work for a seventeen year IT Application specialist like myself. There was no room in the budgets, even though I built a reputation for delivering some exemplary work. The creative side completely took over, while the technical side floundered. Now the technical side doesn’t want to come back.
Even today there’s still little demand for my technical skills in Columbus. Sure, I get solicitations all the time for contract positions in other cities, but here, I’m mud. I don’t care either, because I finally have the time to do what I was meant to do. I started on the fifth rewrite for a novel that I have been struggling with ever since all those random thoughts from that September were pieced together into a completed work. I wrote an article showing my intense love for a TV show I recently discovered and convinced a blog site to post it. That article became very popular worldwide with the show’s fans and was even picked up for syndication. Next thing I know, I have a regular column, and the base keeps growing. These last six months have been the greatest of my life.
Back to that double edged sword thing though. There’s a struggle, personal fulfillment verses a paycheck. The mere thought of doing IT work anymore breaks me apart inside. The money is great though, and it’s hard to scale back a family lifestyle, especially at my age. I’m back to work this week, doing short term busy work (contract), and every day I come into my little cube, sit down, and fight the urge to write rambling thoughts such as these. I don’t care anymore if a local bank is having issues with the data mart that’s preventing them from generating mandated reports. In the end, I’ll save the day with my SQL prowess, my efforts won’t be appreciated, and I’m back to looking for work, ready to find my future ex-employer. My resume is so damn long it rivals the novel I’m writing in terms of length.
I haven’t figured it all out yet, but I’m older, wiser, and crankier when it comes to denying my inner passion. Once the beast inside is unleashed, it’s impossible to put it back into the cage. All I can do is keep writing when I can, because the alternative is no longer acceptable. I’m not giving back my soul.
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