The Dreaded P-Word

Imitation is the highest form of pissing me off. Quit stealing my content and violating my copyright. ~Jen T. Verbumessor

When I was in high school I made the mistake of taking a journalism class. It wasn't long into the semester that I realized I wasn't going to do well at the journalistic style of writing. But early on, the class was split up into groups and I landed in a group with a funny skater guy, the vice-president of our junior class, a dark and rather odd guy, and a funny girl who reminded me of Marty, the Pink Lady. Among these people, I was more than a quiet, bookish girl who never wore jeans. Each of us was smart, but I was the writer of the group and I began to feel a little more at peace with the class.

For some reason, though, the journalism teacher didn't like me. If it had been simply a personality conflict, I could let it go but I've never gotten over it. Because one day she accused me of plagiarism.

It was a one day assignment, due at the end of class. We were to write a brief and informative news story demonstrating a certain style. I was happy to be creating something and even appreciating the challenge of writing journalistically (just the facts, ma'am) while still getting across all the beautiful details I couldn't bear to leave out. On that day I wrote a story about a chemical fertilizer being sprayed over orange groves in Florida and the devastating harm it was doing to the state's bumblebee population. By the end of the story I had girl scouts in beanies skipping through the orange groves cleaning up the mounds of dead bumblebees. I named my chemical something like A-430 and had the girl scouts singing The Bumblebee Song as they went about the chore.

In short, it bordered on ridiculous, closing in on hyperbole.

The next school day I received back my paper with a bright red "F" across the top next to the word "Plagiarized." I was beyond mortified. The rest of my group was suitably outraged and patted me on the back as I tried to stifle tears and waited for my bright red blush to die down. I knew I'd have to confront the teacher with the mistake since there was no way my GPA was going to take a beating with an unearned "F." To this day I've never felt shame like those moments before I refuted the charges of plagiarism. Anyone who writes knows that this is the worst possible offense to be charged with. "Hack" is kinder than "Plagiarist."

I took the paper up to the teacher who tried to stare me down when I denied that I'd copied any work and continued on to remind her it was a paper written right in class. She changed my grade then, basing it on my writing alone. I don't remember what grade she gave me, only that I asked her to cross out the P-word and initial beside it so my parents wouldn't get upset.

Even when the incident was over I was still shaken and, truth to tell, I still get angry now when I think about it. To accuse someone of plagiarism is serious and should never, ever, ever be done without irrefutable evidence at hand. Someone is bound to ask me to name the teacher who did this and I'm telling you now, I won't do it. I did, at the very least, learn all about libel in that class.

National Kevin Day

Yesterday was a special celebration in our household. National Kevin Day comes every year after the EOGs (End of Grade tests) are completed, when our boy is so tired from the hours-long testing that we give him a little celebration of his own devising.

So I took Kevin to Crazy Fire for dinner where we piled our bowls with raw meat and lots of veggies, dumping lime ginger sauce and garlic oil over all and then watched as the whole concoction sizzled away on the grill. Back at our table I realized Kevin is an interesting person.

We were rolling laughing at each other. He did his Jim Gaffigan "Hot Pockets" imitation (if you don't know who that is, look it up in the videos... you'll love him). Then he told me how he and his friend, Ian, had devised a scheme to get each other out of answering tough questions in class. When their algebra teacher called on Ian yesterday, Kevin stood up next to him and said, "I'm sorry, my client is not taking questions right now. And no pictures, please." Kevin says the teacher laughed at it and until I get the call from the Vice Principal, I'm going to assume all is well.

And would I have had that kind of nerve in 8th grade? Um, let's say "NO." Also, for some reason I found it hilarious that one of his teachers is named Mr. Wright and they call him, what else? Mr. Wrong. Apparently, he doesn't find it funny and I don't blame him but I did laugh about it.

I'm wondering now as I type this if perhaps the guy at the grill didn't cook my scallops all the way through. Would that have made me loopy? Or maybe just really, really childish? Encouraging delinquency in a minor, especially my own minor, is no small potatoes.

After dinner National Kevin Day continued with the viewing of our latest Netflix movie "The Pursuit of Happyness," a movie Kev had been waiting "forever" to see. Turned out to be a depressing watch, a movie I actually found myself holding my breath through most of, but a really good object lesson for my boy who is inordinately smart but kinda lazy about it. He made up his mind last night that he would be going to college "for sure" in order to ensure that he and his future child need never live in a homeless shelter. I declared that it was a good plan to have.

I hope whatever comes in the next few years, Kevin's teenage years, that he and I can remain friendly like we were last night.

After all, National Kevin Day only comes once a year.

Feel the Heat

Summertime here is hot, hot, hot. The air feels like wet cotton and the plants are growing like the jungle. But there's a certain joy in the overwhelming heat and then more joy in the cool rain when it comes.

For some reason, this year I've been back outside during the good weather. I haven't spent any time actively outdoors since I was, well, definitely before the reading bug kicked in. Long, lazy days on bicycles and in the pool, walking around the neighborhood, waiting for the ice cream truck, forming "exclusive" clubs and having slumber parties in tents in the backyard. You know, kid stuff. Right up through the age of, what? Eighteen? Twenty? Well, definitely into high school before the whole "cruising down the strip" thing took the place of bikes and treehouses.

A few months ago, Rich bought himself a bicycle and he and Kevin have spent hours and hours riding, coming back soaked with sweat and exhausted. Well, Rich has been exhausted. Kevin just comes back in for a drink before going back out to "play" some more while Rich collapses on the couch. But Rich has started looking so good lately and I figured if I went out riding with them perhaps I would benefit in the same way.

So I bought a bike. It's a pretty aqua blue mountain bike, a Huffy, just like back in the good old days. We had to trade out the teeny little seat on it for something that better supports my more, well, womanly, build. But soon after that, one morning when all the neighborhood kids were off at school and it wasn't yet ninety degrees outside, Rich took me on a ride.

We rode, that first day, all through our own subdivision and then through the next one over. All the way up, almost, to the Sheetz store. I had no idea that it was an uphill incline to that store. I couldn't make it that day and we had to turn around and come back. Two days after that we went out again and I managed the hill, went into Sheetz and got my prize: a blue raspberry icee. The three of us sat in the shade and drank our drinks. Cool, refreshing, familial bonding over biking.

It's nice. Nice enough to make me relish slicking on the sunscreen, finding a hat to keep my hair from fading, and actually going outside for exercise. It feels so good I'm trying to talk Rich into resuming our shag dance classes soon.

Hope everyone's summer is starting easy. I have a feeling it's only going to get hotter.....

Cell Phones, Popcorn, & Opaque Black Tights

I got one of those bulletins containing a list of items to check to see if you're stupid or not. Now, I know I'm not stupid and I didn't take the quiz in case I incriminated myself. BUT, it did make me think right off the top of my head of a couple really brainless moments I've experienced in my life and me, being the kind and generous soul that I am, decided to share for your entertainment.


** A few months ago I was searching all over for my cell phone. I couldn't find it anywhere and walked all the way around the first floor of my house twice looking for it. I went out in the back yard looking, went out on the front porch to see if I'd left it in a rocker, went out into the garage where I hadn't actually BEEN to see if it had gotten up and walked out there on its own. I complained to my mother about how I couldn't find my cell phone and she asked me why didn't I use the house phone to call it. We don't have a house phone and it was then I realized I was talking to her on my cell phone.

** Several years back I was attempting to pop a pan of popcorn on the stovetop. I put the pot on the stove, poured in the oil and covered it. When I opened the lid to pour in the kernels, fire shot straight up from the pot. I screeched and picked up the pot, removing it from the heat, but instead of sitting the pot in the sink and tossing flour on it, I set the pot on the floor and put the lid back on. Now, the fire smothered but the pan burnt a hole through the vinyl floor. There's a reason micorwave popcorn is such a success.

** When Rich and I had been dating a few months I went to his parents' house with him for a weekend. He told me we were going out for the evening with friends so I put on a pair of black tights, my Doc Martens, a black miniskirt and a long sweater. (Shut up, it was 1994!) We drove over to a convenience store, picked up a case of beer and then picked up a couple of his brother's friends, drove to the top of an abandoned coal mine and sat up there for hours, drinking beer. This is only stupid because of the tights and how hard it is for women to pee outside anyway. In my defense, though, where I was from "going out" meant going to a bar.

In previous posts I've already listed the incredibly stuipd incident about the haircolor and the fiasco with the car and my garage door so I think I'll stop for now. My ego can only take so much of a beating at once. But if you haven't read those, you should. There are valuable lessons to be learned.

Really, there are valuable lessons to be learned from any mistake we make, no matter how stupid we may feel at the time, no matter how embarrassed we may be or how expensive it is to fix. So don't overlook the stupid things. Even if they are only good for a laugh!

It's a Thinker

My husband is working in Puerto Rico (yep, WORKING in Puerto Rico. I feel bad for him, don't you? ) and so I'm a little at loose ends. But my minion and I got into an interesting chat earlier from which arose this question. It's an interesting question for a lazy, lazy Sunday. Feel free to play along.

If you could have a free, lifetime supply of one of the following, which would you choose? Housekeeper, masseuse, landscaper, personal secretary, childcare. And why? (Well, you know I'm going to ask why. A multiple choice is never as fun as an essay, is it?)

I'm having a struggle with this question. I can skip the childcare right away as non-essential since the in-laws are so close and I don't have to leave the house for work. And I'd love to be able to nix the masseuse as unnecessary as well, but I've had good massages and the ability to get them frequently is mighty, mighty tempting. Especially if said masseuse might be tall, blonde, muscular and named Sven.

Where was I? Oh, yes. I hate housekeeping and yardwork equally with a fury that should burn away all the dirt or leaves, but does not. However, I sunburn easily so I'm going to have to get rid of the housekeeper too in favor of the landscaper. The personal secretary is so tempting but seems incredibly indulgent to me. I'm going to have to go with landscaper. It kind of makes me breathe easier just to think of it.

So? What do you think?

Multicolored Checkered Vans

A few minutes ago I saw my son's shoes laying, of course, in the middle of the living room floor. These were the shoes he begged everyone for at Christmastime, the Vans skater shoes, size 9, black and white checkered but with cute multicolored checks in there too, just for fun. Kev wore these shoes all the time, everywhere, except for lawn mowing and rainy, muddy days. On his birthday in March he asked for Mr. Clean Erasers so he could keep the soles of his Vans clean. So I was kind of surprised to see them abandoned in the middle of my living room floor.

In the past several months of his eighth grade career, Kevin has turned from a black hoodie-wearing punk-rock-looking kid into something far more interesting. He doesn't try to spike his hair into mohawks any more, instead letting it grow out in a halo of blonde natural curls that he literally wets down and shakes out until it falls into his eyes in the mornings. He's discovered a wide array of wardrobe colors besides the black and he no longer drapes his pockets with chains every day. In one short year he's grown twelve inches in height, now looking me straight in the eyes with a twinkle in his own that says this is only a brief pitstop on his way to Six Feet Tallville. And the other day I had to buy him a new pair of shoes since his beloved Vans were getting just a little too tight for him, he said.

A few minutes ago, I put my feet into those too tight Vans and walked around. There was a gulf inside those shoes that my own feet wouldn't fill. I kicked the shoes off easily and watched them fall in a heap, one laying on its side up against the other. They will stay where I left them until Kev puts them away in his own room. But I can't get over that his outgrown shoes are too big for my feet. It feels like a sign of things to come as my 13 year old boy finishes middle school at the end of next month.

You Know it Only Gets 10-12 MPG

What kind of driver are you?

Do you drive peacefully, leaving yourself enough time to get to your destination, singing along to the radio or talking with your spouse or child or friends in the car with you?

Or are you a raging maniac who feels possessive of the road, not wanting to share with drivers around you in your morning commute?

I'm driver number one and this morning I encountered driver number two.

Driver number two, also known here as The Woman Driving the Tank, pulled right up behind me as we waited for the green light to cross Capital Blvd. Crossing Capital is stressful in any situation and the fact that they never have gotten the lights timed correctly doesn't help. So this WDtT is sitting on my back bumper and when the light turns green, she stayed there. Right on top of me.

I tried to do what my mother always told me and ignore her. I DID. I was going the speed limit and I was, in fact, keeping pace with traffic around me. I learned to drive in West Virginia where they teach you that in order to tell a tailgater to "back off" you tap your brakes at them. I have since learned that North Carolinians never got this paragraph in driver's ed and here the brake tapping causes the tailgater behind you to stomp their own brakes and then swerve mightily as if trying to anticipate to which lane you will be moving. It's not pretty.

But this morning I waited for this fool WDtT to get it through her head that I wasn't about to speed for her pleasure. When she didn't get it and continued to ride close enough to touch through the back window, I simply bided my time until we reached the school zone and then slowed down another ten miles an hour, tapping my brakes three or four times to get there. The cars in front of me did the same but the lane to the right opened up briefly and the idiot WDtT behind me swerved to the right and sped past in a blaze of idiot glory.

When she went past I stuck my tongue out at her which is what I do instead of flipping people the bird. I found long ago (about the time we moved here) that sticking out my tongue at a rude driver made me feel like laughing instead of making me feel as rude as they are. Plus you get the bonus of their surprise and I always wonder if perhaps it makes them feel a little foolish. Probably not, but at least it doesn't make me feel any angrier.

Tailgating is the worst driving offense a person can commit. It's both rude AND stupid, two of the all time worst things you can be in the south, and yet, people do it all the time here. As if they're actually auditioning for a NASCAR race.

My personal weapon against this is my occupation. I'm a writer. I'm a mother. I work from home. I have no time clock and no one ever asks me why I'm late. Tailgating me only makes me drive slower. And I have all the time in the world.

So to that idiot WDtT, hear this: I won't be rushed. I got up on time, I'm already speeding, and I don't have to hurry just because you're late. One day I'm going to stand up on my brakes and let you hit me. Let's see who the police and your insurance company thinks is in the right on that day.

Anyone else want to complain about driving? It helps….

Nerves of Steel

So you all know I'm a writer. I have books piling up by the year and have been actively agent shopping. Which is tough, you know, with all the rejections you're naturally going to receive. I now believe this is the reason I dated so very, very many people in my younger years: rejection preparation. It worked too! I get these form letters in the mail saying, "Sorry, don't think so," and I move right on to the next on the list and keep plugging away on my daily word count for the works in progress.

Exciting isn't it? I know, keep reading.

On June the 9th I have an actual face to face appointment to pitch with the next agent on my list. I'm scared out of my mind but excited, nonetheless. It's been arranged by my local RWA chapter (Heart of Carolina Romance Writers, if you'd like to know!) and I got my first choice of the agents who were going to be there.

What I'd like from you, my readers, is advice or warnings from those of you who have done this, support from anyone who hasn't, and prayers and happy thoughts uplifted daily from you all! I'll have roughly eight minutes with her and I need to wow this woman with my charm, wit, and wonderful characters and plot.

Help?

In further news, I'm off to pick up a bicycle I found on craigslist yesterday. I haven't ridden a bike in several years and the last time I did, I crashed it through a bush and into a fence. Snort. I'm not the very most coordinated of people. Wish me luck that it's cute and that I don't fall down!

The Broken RIGHT Hand

So yesterday I got a call from the guy at Lowe's who is going to deliver my new washing machine. It isn't due to arrive at the store for two weeks and he's sorry. He hopes he hasn't ruined my day.

I laugh and briefly tell him how I spent the morning going from the orthopedic doctor (in Wake Forest) to the orthopedic therapist (downtown Raleigh) to have my son's right hand put in a splint. That as soon as I arrived home I had a visit from the insurance adjustor to finally write me an estimate for the damages I had done to our car a few weeks back (a few blog posts down....) and how HE, the Lowe's delivery guy, was the least of my problems. It made him laugh, anyway.

It really has been quite a week. Kevin broke his hand last Friday. The first day in five years I have a job outside the house to go to and he calls as I'm walking out the door to tell me he's broken his hand. I picked him up from school, took him to work with me, and then later to the ER. Well, his fingers all moved and he could make a fist. Who knew he had a broken hand? The ER doc was even surprised.

Oh, and if you ask Kevin how he broke his hand (his RIGHT hand, of course) he's likely to tell you it was due to kung-fu. It was actually due to him drumming his hands on a metal bench and his right hand banging just right on the edge of the bench. A horrible percussion accident. Which makes me laugh and he groans every time someone asks him what happened to his hand.

So, to sum up, I have a kid with a broken hand, a car that needs a week to ten days of body work, a broken washing machine with no hopes of a new one for two more weeks, and a husband who had no work at all this week. I'm going insane.

Maybe this is why I'm not sleeping again

My Sister

Some of my frequent readers will have noticed that it's been awhile since I've posted a new blog. I like to have at least one new post a week and I'll admit to being slack these last couple weeks. But it's an odd time of the year for me. It's closing in on my sister's birthday, her thirtieth.

On my own thirtieth birthday I bought myself a tiara and a purple feather boa, mixed up a pitcher of margaritas and sat outside on the deck all day reading a romance novel. Beth called me to tease me about being "old." She's five years behind me so I only told her I had five years to plan my revenge for her own thirtieth if she didn't leave me be. She wasn't worried. She laughed and told me that she was never going to turn thirty.

Beth and I always had a contentious relationship. We had a brother between us and one sister five years younger than Beth, but it was the two of us who were mortal enemies growing up. I recall once throwing a shoe at Beth, her ducking out of the way, and it hitting my father in the chest. The fact that the shoes were hers in the first place and she was perfectly justified in making me give them back was of no consequence. She and I fought about anything and hated each other with a passion. It was only after Rich and I moved our little family to Raleigh that Beth and I realized we hated each other so much because we were just alike. It was quite a blow for both of us but we took it in stride and began a friendship that sustained as much volatility as our past hatred. I thank God all the time for that friendship because precious as it was, it was also very brief.

On June the 8^th, 2003, Beth died in a plane crash. She was a pilot with a good job lined up and the only requirement left was for her to take a weekend course and get her multi-engine license. She came to stay with us here in Raleigh, arrived the evening before her class started, left early in the morning and never came back. To this day I beat myself up for not getting out of bed that morning to hug her goodbye. Can't get the idea out of my mind that she was dead while her cell phone kept ringing as I left her messages to let me know if she would be home for dinner. And I can't even think about the day that I had to go up to the airport and pick up her car.

It was after her funeral before I could go get the car. And when I did, it was out of gas. I put a little into the tank and drove home with the radio blaring, singing at the top of my lungs and howling crying like a lunatic. But it wasn't just the gas. When I gathered up her things, all of her toiletries were empty or very nearly almost empty. Bottles of hairspray, conditioner, lotions down to the very last bit. Eye shadow used down to the last crumbly little corner. Lipsticks worn to a perfect flatness and then feathered into with brush lines. Perfumes nothing but a whiff of scent. Everything was used up. She had no money in her checking account and only nineteen dollars available on her credit card. No cash was on her and none was in her car. Not a cent. That utter finality still gives me chills. She just wasn't meant to come back that day.

But, much as I'd like to eulogize her properly, it's hard to think of Beth with sadness. She was a force of nature and though she was only twenty-six when she died, she had done more than many people do in a lifetime. She lifeguarded on the Atlantic Ocean when she lived in Myrtle Beach, she waited tables in a nightclub in Providence, she was based out of Syracuse when she was a flight attendant and she traveled to Puerto Rico for vacation and went to Europe twice. She's seen the Eiffel Tower, the Arch de Triomph, Anne Frank's home, and Notre Dame Cathedral. She dated an Italian man who brought her back Italian stilettos from Italy. She dated a fellow pilot, an Irish man who brought her to meet his family who lived in the Netherlands. She dated a minor league baseball player who had his team sign a baseball because she wanted one to give her nephew as a present. In twenty-six years she squeezed in a lot.

She had a fierce loyalty to her friends and inspired loyalty in others. Her wake was packed with people who flew in from all over the place to offer condolences to us, her family, whom they had never met. She had been scheduled to be a bridesmaid in a wedding the weekend of her funeral. I remember calling the bride and telling her Beth wouldn't be able to come. And the whole wedding party drove eight hours to show up at her wake, a day and a half before their wedding took place. Rich tells me he had never seen anything like what happened at her wake. Mom, Dad, Scott, Kristen and I were lined up, greeting people and apparently it went on for hours, hours and hours. There was a line outside and around the block of people waiting to come in. I heard it was on the news.

What else can I tell you about Beth? I've always been a Christian but it's only been since she died that I feel absolute proof of an afterlife. Sometimes her presence is as heavy as if she's right beside you telling a joke or telling you a secret or telling you that your new red hair dye is too bright. When I dream of her, I can smell her and once when I was wearing a shirt that used to belong to her, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw her face in place of my own. That was strange, but not nearly as odd as the next day when my baby sister Kristen called and told me about a strange thing that had happened to her the day before when she looked in her mirror. See? That's just Beth through and through, making jokes from Heaven. Probably just taking a break from teaching a little group of angels all about leather pants and the lyrics to "Sin Wagon" by the Dixie Chicks.

May 14^th would have been her thirtieth birthday. I made up a bouquet for her mausoleum marker and I wanted in the worst way to make it black and funereal and all grim with the sentiments of a thirtieth birthday. Mom and I laughed like loons over the very thought and how mad Beth would be about it. But we knew it would be awful for any other visitors to her site and so I went with pretty spring colors and her favorite green for ribbon. It's been almost four years since she died and sometimes the pain catches me by surprise and takes my breath away, but next Monday I'm pretty sure I'll be smiling at the idea of her grinning down from Heaven with an "I told you so" look as I shake my head and think of how weirdly right she was that she would never turn thirty.

I'm So Not Scarlett O'Hara

It's been one heck of a long week for me and I'm behind on my feminism postings. I do have a couple other topics I wanted to touch upon, but for now I am tired and preparing to face another week of madness. However, I wanted to clarify my own positions in posting these topics at all. A friend of mine, a girl I've known since we were twelve, thirteen or so, pointed out a couple things in her comments to me that I want to clarify.

First, and most important, I want to make it clear that I'm not man-bashing. But pointing out the strengths of women in general is not showcasing men's shortcomings. And pointing out the present day inequalities that still give women a shorter stick than men should not be taken as anything other than a wake up call to each of us to negotiate for ourselves what our equally positioned but differently-gendered colleagues already receive.

Denise said, "I believe in women's rights (now) and believe that girls should aspire to be whatever they want. ... But I also have to admit that I don't like a lot of the ladies you mentioned ... I really think it's because I don't believe you have to lose your FEMININITY to be a FEMINIST. And I believe that a lot of the "pioneers" of women's rights did just that."

The pioneers of women's rights would celebrate your right to think however you want to about them. They did all of us a service, not expecting approval (for the most part, I assume) since what they were doing was a struggle anyway. Each of those women were fighting a narrow piece of the war for women's rights. There are so many rights we used not to have and I doubt the women fighting for them were concerned about their femininity as it must have been more of a shackle in many ways than it is for today's modern women. Besides, some women just aren't as naturally feminine as you and I are, Denisey-weesey. Remember those girls in gym class? You know which ones. Women, be they girly-girls ala Bree VanDeKamp or guitar-weilding Indigo Girls, have the right to freely be who they are. And when was the last time you saw a group of men discussing which of their ilk was more worthy to get ahead based on their level of masculinity? (ahem, leaving football out of the conversation momentarily.)

This sums up my brief and exhausted ramblings for now. To sum up: I love men, especially my own. And while I'm appreciative of the women of the women's rights movements through the ages, I don't think it's necessary to share their fashion styles.

I declare that mine hair shalt never be cut into a mullet, mine bra shalt never be burnt and mine shoes shalt always have a minimal heel to elongate my shackle-free legs. But seriously, let us as women lift each other up in encouragement, even if you may be encouraging a friend in a dream you cannot share or understand. It's the American woman's way.

In addition, I'm going to be traveling with Rich this week (ah, the glamorous life of a cell-technician) so I may only be in and out sporadically when I happen upon a strong enough wireless signal. I'll check in when I can. Love you all and TAKE CARE

I'm All Right. I'm Allllllllll Right.

So yesterday I drove our car into my garage door. I actually HIT our house with our CAR. My father-in-law came around the corner of the house, saw what happened and said, "You'll laugh about this one day."

That day has not yet come.

One of our garage doors is all drunk crooked, the metal track is bent like a Romanian gymnast, and broken brick abounds. Two of the four glass windows on the door are newly broken. One of the other two was broken a few weeks back when Kevin was bouncing a tennis ball off the garage door for reasons passing understanding. But that's the damage to the house.

And then there's the car. God bless the Mitsubishi people. The Montero is a beast. Front bumper is all weirded out and ugly and there are smears of white paint on the headlights from the poor garage door but it's driveable and actually doesn't look bad if you're just glancing. Of course, if you're standing there obsessing and beginning to hyperventilate, it's a little more terrifying.

My darling husband can't understand how this happened. Fact is, I hit the gas instead of the brake when I was right in front of the closed garage. I was thinking perhaps it signified early onset Alzheimer's, but he wasn't amused with that theory. Hey, the insurance adjustor said I was number five for this exact incident since the beginning of the year. I tried to get him to put that into writing for Rich, but he laughed like I must be kidding.

It's not a good story and it might not be very interesting, but since Kip said one day I'll laugh about it, I thought I'd give you guys a jump start. I'm just not there yet.

Drive safe.

Why are the Pill & Viagra Disparate Issues?

Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels. ~Faith Whittlesey

Why does women's health insurance cost so much more than men's? Even taking the maternity package out of the picture, women's heath insurance costs on average two-thirds more than men's. And yet, despite the fact that we have to pay a huge add-on for maternity coverage, contraceptive measures are often not covered. The good ones, the best Pill, the one that makes physical symptoms of menstruation fade like a bad memory? That Pill isn't covered. But the one that makes you even more nauseated and bloated and does not a single thing to control cramps? Yep, they'll pay for that one. But can you guess how long Viagra was on the US market before being covered by a majority of health insurers? Two weeks. And at a time when the only covered contraceptive device for women was sterilization. Now, I'm all for better, longer-lasting erections, but should that really equate to stunted measures of population control?

Insurers say that it is because women USE their insurance, going to the doctors regularly, that they pay more for it. Apparently, men's insurance costs begin to rise when they reach late middle age, because they didn't visit doctors frequently enough before that and by that time have developed health problems that require monitoring and continuous treatment. Does all this seem as counterproductive to you as it does to me?

And don't worry. I'm not about to break into the whole abortion rights issue except to point out that if an old white man was told he couldn't care for his body any way he wished, he'd kick up a fit, too. I do not begin to understand why this is a legislated issue. Seriously. And now I'm going to slowly back away from the "A" word. For now.

But get with me on this. Take a look at health care issues and turn the tables on these rules. Would men allow others to force them to make incredibly personal choices based on politics? Would they pay lots more money for the privilege of seeing a doctor and then accept an inferior prescriptive product because the one that really worked was exorbitantly priced? Would they sit back and watch the other half of the species revel in their newly extended orgasmic capabilities while no one produced anything remotely similar for them? I'm guessing not. Women, why do we let it happen to us?

Thoughts on Feminism

No man should ever publish a book until he has first read it to a woman.

~Van Wyck Brooks

I'm kind of ticked off today. Those are words that would typically strike fear into my darling husband's heart, but today it's not him I'm ticked at. It's the entire male gender. I think Dan Brown's little book opened thoughts in my head about the sacred feminine, specifically the unholy swiping of our own power by men who didn't understand it for what it was, seeing only through the film of their own ideals.

As women, we're raised in subtle ways to think that men are smarter than we are, to think that they have better logistics skills, to think they are stronger in more ways than simply physical. And as a mother of a teenage boy, I see clearly the influences leading him to believe in his own rights and strengths, his ability to reach for whatever he wants with no superficial limitations placed on his goals. And none of those influences should be changed. But why, as girls, were we not afforded the same influences? Those positive influences that were proffered were often presented or referred to in common culture in an unsympathetic light as feminist nazi bra-burning free-love hippy chicks. Susan B. Anthony, Gloria Steinem, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Margaret Sanger, Sojourner Truth, Betty Friedan, Abigail Adams. The list of women who battled for their rights and those of others can be endless and is peopled with an assortment of class, race, and age. And I'd challenge anyone to call the second First Lady of the United States a hippy chick.

I said above that I was ticked off today. I'm not sure what's set me off specifically, but I've been watching the news coverage of the Virginia Tech shooting and I'm pretty sure the image of an angry man rampaging around with a gun, taking innocent life without thought beyond his own puling slights might be at the root.

Taxes, Politics & the feeling that Something is Amiss

Every year I swear, I SWEAR I will do our taxes early. I know a family who filed and recieved their tax return and already spent it on a family vacay to Florida. I picked them up from the airport when they returned, tanned and refreshed. Sadly, I've only just started on ours. AGAIN.

This is what I do every year. I procrastinate and then spend a week pulling at my hair, gnashing my teeth, crying and fuming, cursing the IRS then praying they won't find any mistakes and come after me. Generally, since moving to NC anyway, it all ends in a nice return for us which we'll spend paying down debt. Sigh. I hate being practical.

But on the news, politics as usual is taking a turn for the nasty for the current admin. Just this weekend President Bush's chief campaign strategist broke ranks from the narrowing circle of aides who still stand with the president in his decisions. His article in the NY Times is enlightening, an eye-opener, and probably the way many, many people who were taken in by Bush's apparent disingenuous attitude feel now.

NYTimes article on Michael Dowd

And it's not only Bush's advisors trying to turn him around. Yesterday in a 5-4 vote, the Supreme Court ruled that the EPA has the power to regulate greenhouse gasses under the Clean Air Act. Apparently global warming exists after all and some people think there might be value in attempting to slow its degeneration of our planet. Huh. In other news, the Earth is found to be round and the Sun shone on time this morning.

But even that is not all the bad news for the sitting president. Turns out that the new democratic majority in congress might have a backbone after all. After the president's childish admonition to the congressional leaders that he be allowed as much money as he wanted and the freedom to spend it any way he wanted and a personal threat to veto anything but a blank check arriving at his desk, they actually found the wherewithall to say no.

Did you hear that? They said no. I almost fell down.

There is actually a group of senators banning together to forward the idea of pulling funds for the war. In response to which, the president shut his eyes and held his breath, kicking his heels into the floor of the Oval Office. I assume.

It's quite a game of chicken and it would be interesting to see who flinched first, if not for the overriding awareness that these are American, human lives in the middle of it all. Lives who haven't been fully funded or fully protected since day one of this war. Lives that have been thrust into a situation we KNEW we couldn't control from the very beginning. And if you don't think that's true, go pick up the book written by our president's father, George H.W. Bush. In it he explains in detail why America didn't take out Saddam when he had the chance back in the 90s. Alternatively, see this link:
Bush Sr. on Iraq

Cheney, or Dead-Eye Dick as I like to call him, put out a statement saying again that if we set a deadline ont he war, the terrorists will simply wait us out before attacking. Okay. Say we don't set a deadline. How many of them do we have to kill in the meantime to make it okay to declare victory and come home? And aren't these people who carry their grudges happily for years? Won't they continue to fight tooth and nail for as long as our presence is in Iraq? These folks like their revenge eaten cold. They will wait it out one way or the other. There is no victory. We've toppled Saddam. They've had free elections. They elected people we don't like and now they're in a civil war. What's confusing about all this?

And explain to me the fear we have about fighting "them" over here? They're fighting EACH OTHER. If we're so worried about terrorists coming to this country, perhaps we should have spent some of the trillions and billions of dollars on security for our own country in the last six years. You know, more than just taking off our shoes and tossing out our hand creams at the airport. We are spending 8 billion a month in Iraq. That's 2 billion a week, 267 million each day or 11 million each hour. For what we spend in three weeks we could make needed improvements to our public transportation security. For what we spend in five days, we could put radiation detectors in all of our ports. And for what we spend in two days in Iraq, we could screen all our air cargo.

But let's not worry about all that. I know it's more fun to talk about Sanjaya's hair.

Who Doesn't Love an Antagonist?

My villian showed up today.

Thank God.

Until he walked up out of the shadows, my work in progress was going swimmingly. Wonderful, complex heroine with actual problems, both internal and external. Wonderful hero, though not fully fleshed out, supportive and charming and mostly interesting with problems of his own, just about at the end of his rope in regards to our heroine. Cool subplots. Fun characters. Interesting locations.

Now, that's all good, but if you're writing a book, those things are expected. I mean, if you want anyone to read it you'd damn well better have all that and more, right? Would you pay $25 to read a book about a happy man and happy woman and their wonderful, lovely lives together brunching on champagne and caviar? Neither would I. Might like to visit that land myself, though, come to think of it. But a story should carry you away to fantasy land, and for that you need a bad guy. An antagonist. A villian.

Today, my villian showed up and I couldn't be more thrilled. He's pretty twisted, incredibly handsome, very charming, and possibly an arsonist. I don't know about that yet. I have a fire but I'm not sure if he set it.

Regardless of what he's done, I know he's the bad guy and now my cast is complete. There's a catalyst in the story that makes the other pieces into a cohesive engine that will actually run. He makes my subplots hum with purpose and causes my heroine to stretch way yonder outside her comfort zone in order to reach her goals. He gives an air of darkness, of mystery, of dark humor. And boy, is he great looking. There's a reason so many women keep falling for him. I'm starting to think that if he makes it to the end of this manuscript in once piece and keeps himself out of prison, he might be the hero of the work after the next one.

We'll have to wait and see about that. Either way, women love a bad guy. It's going to make it tough to create one who won't immediately fall under his spell.

I can hardly wait.

Yelling "Fire!" On a Crowded Resume

I'm a good person with a great personality. Anyone who knows me will tell you so. Seriously. Also, I'm funny. I'm cheerful, charitable, and compassionate. I'm smart, picking skills up quickly, finding creative solutions to problems, organizing even the most diabolical of storage rooms.

Why then, did I keep getting fired all the time?

Now, it's not like I've been fired from every job. No, sirree. On the list below, I was only fired from the ones with the asterisk (*) next to them. Some jobs I left under my own steam. Some of them I left under my own steam in less than two weeks (~). But in the following list of twenty-two jobs, which is probably significant for a thirty four year-old, I was fired from six of them. Three jobs in one year alone, the year we lived on Hilton Head Island, jobs 13-18. Look over this list and see what you think:

1) Church nursery

2) Rivers Edge Restaurant, bussing tables

3) * Van Burens upscale women's clothing clerk

4) Painted Clothes, basically a cart in the mall with weird painted outfits

5) * T-shirt printing shop

6) Third Base Video, Balloons, and Tanning

7) Hostess @ Damons, had to wear a necktie

8) * not-Blockbuster Video store

9) Bartender/Waitress at Grumpy's Bar, loud rock bands, dancing on the bar, whatnot

10) National Travel, corporate travel agent, the job that scarred me for life

11) ~ Life insurance sales, and why I thought I could do this???

12) AAA Travel, corporate travel agent again but in a nicer place

13) * Insurance front desk

14) ~ Preschool daycare worker, keeping charge of eight two year-olds all day

15) * Global Reservation System, booking time shares, harder than it sounds actually

16) ~ Travel agency again, vacation travel bookings at a nice little place

17) * Long's Travel, agent for the last time, better money but snotty clientel

18) Hallmark shop clerk where my feet nearly fell off from the pain

19) Legal transcriptionist, nice sit down at home job

20) After school daycare program manager, good work, great kids

21) Real estate office front desk, nice small office work

22) Office manager for court reporting firm, at home work again

I have been fired for many reasons, some justified, some confusing. At Van Buren's I was okay in the stockroom, receiving orders, steaming and tagging clothes, but I was awkward as a retail clerk. Seriously awkward. I might have had a hundred bucks in sales the entire time I worked there.

The T-shirt printing shop in the mall? That firing came as a huge surprise. I think I didn't keep the shirts folded correctly in the bins. I'm not sure about that one because the couple who owned the place spoke Vietnamese all the time.

The non-Blockbuster place? Yeah, I didn't show up for work on time one day. That sounds kind of innocuous but, unfortunately, that was the day I was scheduled to open the store. The district manager came by to rate us and there were people standing around outside forty-five minutes into the time we were supposed to be open for business. Um, whoops? "I didn't hear my alarm" wasn't a justified defense for that.

Number 13 was working front desk at a quiet little life insurance agency. I was there about a month when the office manager told me out of the blue that the owner didn't like me. This still pokes around in my head. How odd is that to get fired, not from bad job performance, but because the owner decides he doesn't like you? And how could he not like me? (See paragraph 1 at the top.)

The next was a time-share reservation place. I made the mistake of smarting off at a woman I worked with. Dumb, but I didn't know it would slap me in the face like that. No one else liked her either. Ah, well.

And the last time was the last travel agency. One day one of my swanky clients purchased an around the world first class ticket from me. I was ecstatic to make such an interesting arrangement. But he came in and complained to the manager that I'd gotten him a wrong connecting flight. He asked for a refund of his ($5000) ticket and the next morning, very first thing, I was fired. My boss asked me why I hadn't asked for help with the ticket. Do other people just ask for help with things they think they are doing RIGHT?

Obviously, the firings hurt. All of them hurt at the times they happened and they're a big part of the reason why I don't work outside the home now. It's never been hard for me to get a job and there've been several jobs I've kept for long periods of time. The first travel agency? I was there for more than two years. Hey, now for me, that's a stretch. The second one was for a year. And that year that I bartended and waitressed at the bar? That was interesting. And the legal transcription I did for years, off and on.

In order not to lose my mind over it, I have to keep thinking that I'm not cut out to hold a "real" job because I'm supposed to be writing. It is the only work that holds my focus. I'm praying one day to make money at it. Because Rich is great and he works his butt off so I don't have to, but I'd love to support him in return. And I'd love, just once, to have a career at which I can be successful.

Addendum

So I totally copied the last blog I posted from a bulletin my brother-in-law sent to me. The tone of it is kinda preachy and there are a number of grammatical errors, but I like the sentiments.

It's exhausting to be in the party of people who listen reasonably and try to understand problems in the world, discussing and debating solutions, trying so hard to make everyone happy, only to come off as a bunch of wimpy, spineless, bleeding hearts who can't make any decisions. But I cannot belong to a party whose members all share a single mindset, never waver from the talking points and bully anyone who disagrees with their message or methods. Though that must be a much more peaceful way to view the world. I bet you don't even have to read or watch the news to live like that.

How did it happen that a thirst for knowledge became "highbrow" to so many in our society today? Why is such a value placed on ignorance? Didn't anyone else feel offense when during the 2000 Presidential Election, George W. Bush was lauded as being "just like normal folks," when obviously what they meant was "he don't talk good." Excuse me? And he's wanting to run the country? That shouldn't be a problem.

I don't believe there is any such thing as having too much information, not for anyone. Knowledge is power, diplomacy is harder than war, and caring for others is charitable, not weak.

And with that, I'll climb down off the soapbox for now, retaining my right to jump back on later when something else sets me off.

A Day in the Life of Joe Middle-Class Republican

Day in the Life of Joe Middle-Class Republican

by John Gray

Joe gets up at 6:00am to prepare his morning coffee. He fills his pot full of good clean drinking water because some liberal fought for minimum water quality standards. He takes his daily medication with his first swallow of coffee. His medications are safe to take because some liberal fought to insure their safety and work as advertised.

All but $10.00 of his medications are paid for by his employers medical plan because some liberal union workers fought their employers for paid medical insurance, now Joe gets it too. He prepares his morning breakfast, bacon and eggs this day. Joe's bacon is safe to eat because some liberal fought for laws to regulate the meat packing industry.

Joe takes his morning shower reaching for his shampoo; His bottle is properly labeled with every ingredient and the amount of its contents because some liberal fought for his right to know what he was putting on his body and how much it contained. Joe dresses, walks outside and takes a deep breath. The air he breathes is clean because some tree hugging liberal fought for laws to stop industries from polluting our air. He walks to the subway station for his government subsidized ride to work; it saves him considerable money in parking and transportation fees. You see, some liberal fought for affordable public transportation, which gives everyone the opportunity to be a contributor.

Joe begins his work day; he has a good job with excellent pay, medicals benefits, retirement, paid holidays and vacation because some liberal union members fought and died for these working standards. Joe's employer pays these standards because Joe's employer doesn't want his employees to call the union. If Joe is hurt on the job or becomes unemployed he'll get a worker compensation or unemployment check because some liberal didn't think he should lose his home because of his temporary misfortune.

Its noon time, Joe needs to make a Bank Deposit so he can pay some bills. Joe's deposit is federally insured by the FSLIC because some liberal wanted to protect Joe's money from unscrupulous bankers who ruined the banking system before the depression.

Joe has to pay his Fannie Mae underwritten Mortgage and his below market federal student loan because some stupid liberal decided that Joe and the government would be better off if he was educated and earned more money over his life-time.

Joe is home from work, he plans to visit his father this evening at his farm home in the country. He gets in his car for the drive to dads; his car is among the safest in the world because some liberal fought for car safety standards. He arrives at his boyhood home. He was the third generation to live in the house financed by Farmers Home Administration because bankers didn't want to make rural loans. The house didn't have electric until some big government liberal stuck his nose where it didn't belong and demanded rural electrification. (Those rural Republican's would still be sitting in the dark)

He is happy to see his dad who is now retired. His dad lives on Social Security and his union pension because some liberal made sure he could take care of himself so Joe wouldn't have to. After his visit with dad he gets back in his car for the ride home.

He turns on a radio talk show, the host's keeps saying that liberals are bad and conservatives are good. (He doesn't tell Joe that his beloved Republicans have fought against every protection and benefit Joe enjoys throughout his day) Joe agrees, "We don't need those big government liberals ruining our lives; after all, I'm a self made man who believes everyone should take care of themselves, just like I have".

Once Upon a Bad Hair Day

I was born tow-headed blonde. By the time I was twelve my hair had morphed to ashy, mousy, blah-blonde. I was pretty sure that wasn't right. I had gorgeous white skin and green, green eyes. Surely I was supposed to be a redhead. My mother didn't agree. Dyed red hair looked "cheap" and my father would "throw me out of the house," she said. When I was nineteen I began what I'll call an interesting year, moving in with girlfriends as I worked (illegally-cough) at a bar. It took about three days before I realized my dad could no longer throw me out of the house and I took a trip to K-mart to buy some hair color. I was a little skittish on what to buy, so I went with the wash out stuff for awhile and got a feel for which reds were best.

After a couple of years and the birth of my son (I'm skipping some good stuff here which has nothing to do with haircolor.... we'll revisit "The Wonder Years" later) I longed for a permanent change. I made an appointment to get my hair colored, left my baby with my sweetie and drove joyfully, top down on the convertible, long hair blowing mousily in the wind, to the salon.

I should probably point out here that I never went to a salon. I never got my hair cut, only occasionally trimmed. Perms fell out under the weight (or slid out from the texture... never was sure which) so I typically just went my merry way with my big, long 90's hair teased out at the sides, just barely rid of the rooster bangs that were such a big hit for such a long time. Basically, I hadn't a clue what I was doing.

I arrived at the salon, met my stylist who looked about my age. Now, at 34 I would think, "Huh, new girl? No experience? I think not." But at 22? I was like, "A chick my own age to talk to! Cool!" The stylist handed me a big thingy of false hair in various shades of red and I chose what I thought to be a tasteful yet intense shade, sure to match my vibrant personality and offset my eyes. The stylist dyed, rinsed, and blew my hair dry, combing it out, looking a little wide-eyed as she worked, and turned me to face the mirror.

I gasped. I had thick bangs, straight across and a long fall of thick, straight hair. All of it was bright. Finally. I would never blend into a crowd again. I shook my head and watched all that bright hair ripple over my shoulders, waving down my back. I paid the girl and trotted out to my car where I spent five minutes admiring my vibrant self in the rearview mirror. I put the top down again, fastened all that hair into a ponytail, and drove off. When I got out of the slow city traffic and began crossing the Nitro/St. Albans city bridge, I caught a glimpse of something in the rearview. My car was on fire! But no, it was my hair flaming away like that in the wind.

Oh. God.

I pulled off the road into a parking lot and examined my hair again. In the bright sun my hair was the color of a carrot grown fertilized in nuclear waste. I gulped and endeavored to drive on. Surely it's not bad. It's bright! It goes with my chipper, upbeat, stylish personality!

When I pulled up to Rich's apartment he was outside with my baby, blowing bubbles off the front balcony to make Kevin laugh. I got out of my car and, I swear, I could hear him gulp. Kevin stared like I was a cartoon Mommy now. His little hand went right to my hair, twining it through his fingers, fascinated. Rich looked at me and said, "It's a little bright, isn't it?" That was when I knew I was in trouble.

I went home and took a long, hard look in my own mirror. I brushed all my hair out and then pulled it all up into a bun on top of my head, thinking maybe it wouldn't look so bad concentrated. It was so orange I kept being surprised that it wasn't burning my face off. My mother saw it and gasped, "What did you do?" My dad, contrary to popular opinion, merely said, "Hey, did you do something with your hair?" and went on his way.

At this point, I knew I could NOT appear on Monday morning in my corporate workplace with toxic orange hair. I called the Salon of Insanity but they had closed, probably as soon as they saw me drive away. (That salon went bankrupt shortly after this. I wasn't surprised.) So I pulled on a hat and went to the drugstore for damage control. I figured I could buy something darker and more conservative to put over the carrot.

The drugstore yielded a great surprise! Hair stripper! It was just what I needed. Get the nuclear orange out and start over. Genius. I bought the box of stripper and then picked up a more sensible color of red hair dye for use after the noxious color was removed. I headed for home with joy in my heart, flames again shooting around behind my head in the open air.

I read the directions. I swear my hand to God, I read the directions. I rinsed the stripper out earlier than directed when the crunchiness began to worry me. I rinsed and rinsed and rinsed, my long hair turning blonder and finally, a sickly yellow before my eyes. I ignored it as best I could and tried to drown out the sound of crunching by dousing my head with a bottle of conditioner. I got it in my right eye and sat winking, head hanging into the tub, praying I wouldn't have to carry off a Sinead O'Connor look.

After the final rinse and a slow, ginger comb out, I took stock, took a deep breath, and decided the new red ought to neatly cover what could now only be called hay-hair. I left the new color on only ten minutes. When I had it dried and combed out again, it was pink. But only from the ears down. The top of my head was bright yellow. I looked like a clown, a scary clown you might catch smoking a cigarette out of a frowny-painted mouth at a run-down traveling carnival.

I began to panic.

Sunday morning I skipped church for my mother's sake. I did, undoubtedly, look "cheap."

I debated not going to work, but when I called in my manager informed me I couldn't take off for a bad hair day. So I picked out a full-skirted dress and a wide-brimmed hat, pinned securely to my head with bobby pins. I faked an air of confidence that the wide-brimmed hat was totally appropriate in the workplace while, between all my incoming calls from clients, I frantically dialed beauty salons looking for one open on a Monday and where someone, anyone, could fix my poor, frazzled hair. Finally, I managed to get someone who could take me if I could get there immediately. I begged out with my office manager by pulling her into the ladies' and showing her what was under my hat. I left for the salon with her laughter ringing in my ears.

The stylist was kind. She didn't laugh at me (to my face-- who could blame her if she laughed with her husband later?) but she did fix my hair. To this day, I don't know exactly what she did, but when I left that salon I had relatively soft, medium brown hair.

The next morning I had flowers delivered to the woman with a note thanking her for my ability to go to work bare-headed.

In the last decade, I've again been every shade of red, settling in the last couple years on a nice, bright coppery color that I need to refresh every four weeks to maintain. I love my hair vibrant red. There are days when that hair makes me feel like my name should be Veronica, like I'm a dangerous woman to know. A spy, perhaps, or an elite member of the international jet-set. But every four weeks when I break out the box of color and comb out my hair in preparation, I remember my first permanent dye job. And slipping my hands into the gloves, I giggle.