Don’t Forget, we’re supposed to be Free and Brave

I had a conversation a short time back with my mom. It went something like this:

"My hair is a mess so I’m wearing a hat to the game, I just hate taking it off for the Star Spangled Banner."

"But they say: gentlemen remove your caps, so you don’t have to because you’re a lady."

"I always take mine off. Why wouldn’t I? Just because I’m a girl I don’t think that should allow exemption."

She replied with a thoughtful, “huh, interesting point” and that’s where the conversation ended. But I was still wondering about the significance for a couple weeks so I started looking into the issue. Turns out, I can’t seem to find a concrete answer as to why we take off hats during the anthem other than it allegedly signifies respect.

But I can’t seem to uncover who, whom, what we are all respecting by letting the world around us see our hat head. Soldiers who died for freedom? The flag itself? The singer of the anthem? Winning a war?

I’ve never really questioned why I sing the words, why I take my hat off, and perhaps that’s a good segue into where this whole conversation of country, people, and respect is going.

Is it perpetuating a double standard for gentlemen to remove hats but not ladies? I’m a lady at the same sporting event. I’m singing along with the national anthem too. If I’m wearing a hat I don’t think it matters if I have a penis or not, out of respect – like I was taught as a kid – I’m taking it off.

And that’s the crux of what I want to talk about today. Double standards.

I’ve been mostly quiet on the whole NC bill that made it almost scary to be anything other than what those lawmakers want people to be. Which I believe is nothing more than “figured out” and has everything to do with fear, and nothing to do with getting to know who those people are.

But I’ll get back to that.

What I want to discuss is this whole Curt Schilling debacle. Before I go any further, I need you to understand that I fully support the communities which were negatively impacted by what the man wrote on social media. I also have a certain level of respect for Curt because of what he did in Boston in 2004 and beyond.

I would also like to point out that, in response to all of this, there are about a million people out there saying things like:

“Grow up, stop being offended by everything, we didn’t used to have these problems…”

And to those people I say, that is the problem. Because the reason we didn’t have these “problems” in the past can be summed up in a few facts:

• Many people who were outside the “normal” way people “should” be, were afraid to be themselves for fear of persecution or in some cases, even death.
• Submission was the key element we were all taught – children are seen and not heard, do as I say not as I do, loose lips sink ships – and then some.
• A grown adult tries to be who they know they are and then is told they’re not allowed to do that, no matter what the reasoning, if you aren’t offended by that kind of oppression then you’re part of the problem.

And probably a charlatan because I guarantee when it comes to your own crap you’ll be the first to yell and scream that you don’t get to do/say/be what you want.

Just like every human being. Welcome to your wake up call, we’re all oppressed by something. Take a number and get in line.

Consider this: I’m a pretty embracing person. I don’t care who/what you are just don’t be a jackhole and we’re probably cool. Maybe not BFFs or anything, but cool. But I shake my head when I remember that back when I was a kid we ran around using words like queer, gay, retarded, as insults. And why? What do those labels really tell us about a person? That they’re “different” than we are? Why does different constitute insult?

If we don’t pay closer attention to our freedom of speech we’re likely going to offend someone.

Because the entertainment industry is a good place to take a stand, a lot of those people are swinging so far in the other direction to show how “tolerant” they are that nobody is considering how both sides are coping. I think there has to be some kind of line.

I don’t agree with what Schilling posted. I think it skates down the razor blade of intolerance and ignorance. But who are the rest of us to tell him he isn’t free or brave for speaking his mind? A right afforded to everyone in this country.

Right?

Because that’s my point – does it matter who faces the wrath of intolerance? Because while we’re all busy lashing out at Curt for something he chose to publish in a public forum we’re missing the part where we’re all just as bad as he is for yelling at him for doing it.

Because, isn’t that backlash against the man nothing more than, well, intolerance, too? Intolerance of his potential ignorance?

What makes it any better when we persecute one person because of what they said about a specific group of people?

Consider this: we’d yell at someone for leaving a hat on during the national anthem but then start cheering and clapping in the middle of the song. Everyone thinks their way is right. The internet gives all of us a platform to say whatever we want (hell, I’m doing it right now).

Curt Schilling allegedly did what he did in response to the NC HB2 law that was recently passed (for a brief explanation read this article, for the full text go here). The meme he shared and comments attached were too much for ESPN to bear. He was promptly fired.

And he did share something truly awful (in my opinion) but, let’s be honest, ESPN knew exactly who the guy was before they hired him. It isn’t like this is his first offense on social media. Google his name and any or all of the words – evolution, buttclown, nazi.

But, yeah, this is the one that gets him fired.

Why is it okay in today’s society to all but light a flamethrower on one person who perhaps makes a mistake in his wording (or not) but his freedom of speech is somehow supposed to be limited for the sake of the general public because he works, essentially, as an entertainment reporter?

How else is a conversation supposed to begin? How else can a person learn to tolerate if they’re told they need to be perfect from the start, that if they make any mistake at all they’ll lose their job?

Nobody is perfect but we sure do expect a lot more from our public figures don’t we? And we have zero tolerance when they fuck something up. So instead of helping someone learn the benefits of tolerance we treat the person like they need to be voted off the island.

We’re a bunch of hypocrites.

Schilling is a public figure. So is ESPN. So are all the transgendered people who spend their days and nights trying to live how they feel they were meant to live. Nobody should bring discomfort on purpose. But then again, my question is this:

Who wins?

If we’re not allowed to speak our mind anymore (no matter how reprehensible some people might perceive the words coming out of it) then who really wins? Isn’t it the freedom of speech that makes this country a terrific place to live?

I mean, I don’t agree with what the guy posted but I also don’t agree that he should have been fired for what he said. ESPN missed a glorious opportunity for inclusion and a lesson in tolerance with this one.

Because, suppose for a moment the internet goes into full-on tizzy over his post, but, instead of firing him ESPN uses the moment as an opportunity for teaching. Teaching Curt as well as their television viewing audience that it’s okay to be who you are no matter what profession you work in or state you live in.

Get an openly gay player in the studio. Male. Female. Both. Talk to a team full of transgendered people (I’m sure they’re out there somewhere).

Bring awareness. Celebrate differences. Teach. Learn.

Division of people is what’s gotten us into this mess to begin with. It’s time to embrace, not disgrace.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Womanly Woes

Right off the bat, in case the title didn’t give it away, I need to warn all of you that this is going to be one of those posts. An honest and frank, Bridget Jones esque ranting about all things girlie. So stay and read or feel free to leave because shit is getting real.

Right now.

From the time I was in 8^th grade until about 8 or 9 years ago I weighed 110 pounds. Don’t hate, that’s just who I was, and because I had a raging metabolism I could eat whatever I wanted without much consequence. Look, like I said, don’t hate.

Despite my (total lack of) effort to think myself into that body type and shape forever, close to a decade ago I started developing weight in the wrong places. I know, shocker right?

Thing is, I was never really a fan of sweets (even as a kid) so candy, cakes, soda? I’d go for it sometimes but generally it didn’t hold much appeal. Also, I’m a grazer by nature meaning I eat small bits of stuff throughout the day, not three huge meals. And since I don’t go for sweets I almost always skip dessert.

What I do like is French fries, chips, salty stuff. And exercising is so boring to me. Plus I work on average 10 hour days every day so I decided it would be easier to be lazy than to try to find time for working out.

When I say weight in the wrong places, I’m talking about all the places many women pad to make them look more full. I can’t do that, it just never felt comfortable. Anything push-up is always uncomfortable to me.

I used to wear a 34B bra size. Predictable. Easy. Right off the shelf. I loved my tiny chest. Nothing to sag, bounce, hurt my back. Men didn’t generally fall all over themselves gawking at the nothing that was there and that was fine with me. Plus, I could go without a bra and not end up on the worst dressed list.

I also used to be a size 4. Oh the good old days.

As a human I get the fact that certain parts will change as years go on. Spread, shift, etc. Even a small chest will start to sag eventually because, hello, gravity works on bricks and feathers in the exact same way.

But now I want to smack myself for letting it all grow before it started to sag.

The day I knew things changed was the day I went into my old place of employment to grab a new bra. When they measured me I discovered perhaps the most disturbing fact of all.

Not only had my boobs apparently decided to finally come in at about age 35, but their rate of growth was, um, off. My chesticals were two different sizes.

Sigh.

It isn’t a huge difference but that difference makes it impossible to wear an off-the-rack bra. Well, at least the styles I was comfortable wearing. And forget about anything with a wire or other form of support. Even from a specialty store like my old workplace.

Fabric is fabric and to fit the larger side means things are too loose on the smaller side. Or vice versa of course. Which meant I was going to have to make a choice:

Get off the sofa and try to move my body so the collected fat melts off and I can fit in something more standard, or, accept the fact that I’d be sporting the one long boob look in a wireless shelf bra for the rest of my life.

A friend of mine calls this effect boob log. She’s so right.

A shelf bra will keep them upwards (to a point) but there’s no separation. Just one continuous boob. Nope, that won’t look at all like I’ve given up. Sooo sexy I think they should sell a stick along with the bra so I can beat back all the dudes trying to get up in there. Please guys, I’m a married woman.

Yeah, that will happen.

For a long time, boob log was the lot I allowed myself in life. Always knowing I had two bumps under there but looking at a horizontal tree trunk every time I looked in the mirror. I had to adjust the kind, cut and style of clothing I wore to accommodate the shoulder strap width, too. A thickness akin to a bungee cord, and with just as much elastic.

The problem with that, and honestly the main reason I won’t go bungee jumping, is that elastic wears out eventually. Especially here in the dry desert. Not to mention the water here is so hard it may not actually be water but a liquefied calcium, magnesium, chlorine blend.

So, after washing for just a couple years now, my admission-of-middle-age bra is starting to act elderly.

Sagging has started. The fabric is stretched out and causing folds so large that even Botox couldn’t lift that shit.

The time has come to replace the one bra in my drawer that I’ve sunk to owning. But, as you can probably surmise from all that flabby, saggy, lopsided talk up there, that task is the very last thing I want to do. Ever.

The last time I tried to buy one all that happened was me trying on 10 different types of bras in an array of size choices and going home with nothing more than frustration.

I made the fatal mistake of trying on something other than the boob log bra. Shame on me for wanting to feel like a girl again. For wanting to wear a tank top that doesn’t show my six-foot-wide bra strap at the shoulder. For wanting to have something on my oddly assembled body be a standard size. Like the good old days.

But, as they say, the good old days are gone. Which means the power is in my hands to turn this thing around.

I have actually started working out, walking every day. Why? Simply because I hate shopping. I never realized when I had the off-the-rack boobs not to take that fact for granted. That someday shopping to protect those blobs was going to be the most annoying, time consuming, mentally evil activity I’d take part in.

So my goal is to remove the negativity from my life.

Working out doesn’t change the fact that I still need to go and buy a new bra right now, of course. But maybe, if I’m really lucky (and super dedicated), this will be my last log.

The day I fit back into a bra I actually like I’m using said log to start my fire pit. In my less political,1960’s bra-burning throwback, I’m inviting all the ladies who have gone through bra fit issues in their lives to join me.

In other words, every lady I know.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Not Politically Correct

After this post I assure you fine readers that I will get back to doing what I do best  - being ranty but only talking about things like whether the ship will be named Boaty McBoatface.

But today, after the way I spent the better part of my evening last night, I don’t feel I can sit here silent.

Please bear in mind this is all my OPINION so I honestly don’t care if you agree with me or not. Also, because that’s how I feel, I went back and forth on whether to allow comments or not. I’ve decided to leave them open.

However please note: I will not tolerate threats, hateful speak or other crap that attacks anyone. If comments like that are left here I’ll delete them without response or remorse. Disagreement, debate and conversation is what makes us grow as people so please say how you feel but don’t be a dick about it. Being a dick isn’t cool.

With all that taken care of, here’s my thoughts on yesterday’s Presidential Preference voting.

Three words come to mind:

Atrocity.

Joke.

Cry for help.

Okay, technically that last one is three words, not one, but truthfully I think it could be the most important point to consider. Let me tell you a little story about just what happened yesterday and you can decide for yourself.

I started the day as I usually do – writing a blog post. In that post I talked about being turned away at the 2012 Presidential election and how I would not let that happen this time around. Then I went about my day working on book 3 in my Shaw McLeary series and getting ready to go vote.

Matt gets home and says: “Not even closing the garage door.”

“Wait, you want to leave right now?”

“Yeah, lines are allegedly really long, like an hour wait.”

“Oh, well I’m hungry so can we at least stop and pick up some fries or something on the way?”

“Sure!”

Thankfully we did. As we passed the polling place for our address on the way to get a quick dinner, I saw a line of at least 100 people and announced how happy I was we were getting dinner first.

Then, food in hand, we got to the church parking lot.

Because I’m blessed by the gods of parking we happened to find a spot as soon as we pulled in. That wasn’t the case for everyone even when they filtered into the overflow parking three buildings away. We approached what looked like the end of the line but I shook my head thinking it couldn’t be true.

Here’s where I’ll post pictures and tell you it is like the Grand Canyon. Unless you’re there in person there is no way to explain just how massive the thing really is. But I’ll still try.

Now that you’ve seen a sampling of the number of people, here’s a quick map I drew so you can understand why it took us 2 hours and 40 minutes (short compared to some reports I’ve heard by the way).

That pinkish-red line? Yes, that was the line you just saw in those pictures.

Before I continue I’d like to point out the following things:

• Top left corner of the map is southeast.
• Conversations took place all around us between people of all parties.
• I heard zero political conversations while in line.
• Electioneering only took place 4 times from what I saw and only for republicans.
• Loud laughter erupted from other parts of the line at random, more than once.
• Kids were running around the open spaces having fun.
• We turned the 4^th corner to face west along the parking lot after an hour+.
• The sunset was beautiful.
• The wind causing my earaches was not.
• We had just reached the door to vote when the line-end-lady (who capped the line at 7PM) turned the 4^th corner out of the driveway to face west along the parking lot.

It’s no secret that Arizona is a GOP state. We’re about as red as they get. It’s also no secret that I was born and raised in a state so blue they need a new word for liberal.

My political views and opinions may have been influenced in part by where I was raised. Which goes for anyone, anywhere. However, most of my views on the world, politics and the like can be summed up like this:

Because, and I’m being totally honest here, I really don’t care because I don’t think it matters very much anyway.

Yes I’m a woman, which brings up all kinds of arguments from people who think that means I should somehow magically want to participate in a totally fixed political system.

Defunding healthcare for women is happening, Suffragettes died for my rights to vote, if nobody voiced their opinion then what would happen to the world, blah, blah, blah…

In my opinion, I actually don’t think anything would happen. So many people in this country are fighting to protect the Constitution as it was written almost 229 years ago because of one simple fact:

People in power fear nothing like they fear change.

Change empowers larger masses. Change means the jig is up. Change means things actually, well, change, and if that happens then all the powers that be have to admit they’ve been suppressing the voices of the masses for hundreds of years.

So they use their worst nightmare against us.

They use fear to keep all of us in line. Three hour lines if you had the balls to stick it out.

Because, let’s talk for a second about that line. How many people do you suppose drove up to their voting location, took one look at the line and said “oh hell no!” and turned right back around, discouraged from voting yesterday?

Then there’s the other issue that only my current residence state could have pulled off. Voters (from what I understand these people were in both parties but primarily democratic) were turned away and told they were registered as independent when they had actually chosen a party affiliation on the only 2 sides accepted***.

Don’t even get me started on the fact that independents couldn’t come out to voice their preference yesterday, that’s another issue that makes me mental and question our entire system. But with that said, if you picked a side (yes 9 months before the election) and did so in time but still got turned away anyway without being given a provisional ballot, you just got the political equivalent of being roofied and raped.

And as far as I’m concerned they did that shit on purpose.

Whether it sounds like a conspiracy theory or not, people in Arizona who didn’t do early voting (having your ballot mailed to you, filling it out and either mailing in advance or dropping the night of preference voting) were given the sharp end of the knife last night.

Obviously nobody was forced to leave no matter how long the lines were.

Unless of course they had to get to work, school, bed, home to feed their kids, dinner, or a million other reasons why people shouldn’t be forced to stay on their feet for up to 5 hours. From all I heard and saw on the news it was like that ALL DAY from 6AM until whenever the last person filtered through the tiny building for their ballot.

And for what? After Matt and I stood in line for close to 3 hours here’s what happened.

I was handed a ballot, walked to a little booth thing, picked up the provided pen, and connected a small arrow (empty in the middle) designating the candidate of my choice. The line I had to draw was about ¼” long. The ballot went into the box and I went home.

I have no opinion on who you want to vote for, nor will I try to convince you to vote for who I want to vote for. The problem with yesterday’s debacle has to do with the voting itself.

What I am trying to say is that the whole thing just reminds me how very out of control the people really are and just how broken the entire system really is.

Because, yes, even though the ratio of ‘waiting’ to ‘doing’ was too high I was happy to have the chance to do something. And yes, it looked like extreme voter turnout because of the lines.

Just remember, the lines wouldn’t have been there and maybe just as many (more?) people would have gone to do their thing if the Recorder didn’t allow only 30% of the normal number of polling places to be opened for business.

Inadvertently (I hope) discouraging people from doing what they have the right to do is why I think the political system is at a turning point.

Like I said, the proverbial cry for help.

I just hope that enough people stand up and talk about it, fight for things to move away from the bullshit we’re being slung right now, and maybe for once the powers that be will forget their fears and embrace the changes that could actually help this country come together.

Because 229 years ago the world was a radically different place. We’ve moved ahead, grown and should be celebrating our advancements as a nation, not trying to take it back to 1787. We’ve moved so far past that. Haven’t we?

***I hear Green party was also okay but didn’t meet anyone in/voting in the party so can’t confirm if they were allowed to pick or turned away.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Waiting Patiently

It’s Primary day here in Arizona. Well, actually, that isn’t entirely true. I mean it is true that voting happens today but the actual AZ primary isn’t until the end of August. Today is Preference day. But not for everybody.

Things in this fine state get even more complicated when it comes to voicing your choice depending how you registered. If you’re living here and registered democrat or republican then get on out there and make your vote count!

Registered independent? Go on ahead and stay home. There’s no room for your choice on the ballot.

Yup. That’s right. Here in Arizona the independent voters – AKA: people who haven’t yet made up their minds and want to keep all the options open since, you know, this thing doesn’t happen for another eight months – get the shaft.

Because in AZ it kind of only partially, sorta, kinda, a little bit, counts to say who you’d like to see get the nod. People who want the freedom of choice don’t get a say. Which, frankly, sorta, kinda, a little bit, stinks.

I feel for those people, in truth they’re the bulk of the entire voting system and they don’t even get a say. Well not yet anyway. But by the time those registered independents get to punch their card, tap on their screen, or whatever, it could be too late.

Their initial candidate of choice might just be out of the thing entirely. There’s a long way to go before the general election.

As someone who hasn’t always been granted an opportunity to voice their opinion, I can understand the frustration that registered independents are likely feeling today.

Four years ago, I tried to vote. My first presidential election as an Arizona resident! I was all kinds of excited when Matt and I were heading out to our voting location.

But I must have done something wrong. I thought I’d registered. After all, it’s free and really easy. All I have to do is check the little box when I renew my registration online and voila! Registered.

Apparently however, I was either an idiot or something was broken because when we showed up, waited in line and presented ID, I was told they didn’t have me on the list. No matter what I did, identification I tried to present, or way I tried to get in there to do my freaking civic duty I was turned away.

While Matt had the opportunity to check off all of his selections I sat in the car scrolling through Facebook or something. Getting jealous about all my friends who were able to get that little red, white, and blue sticker indicating they got out and did the thing we’re all supposed to do.

So this time I made sure to do things the right way. I think.

I have my voter registration card. I have my designated party affiliation and it allows me the opportunity to go and vote this month instead of waiting until August. Or whenever people who registered indie get their say. All of that is still very unclear to me.

Locations are open until this evening so Matt and I are going to wait and head on out together a little later today.

It feels good to put my pen to paper (or whatever) and make my pick. Only problem? I still don’t know who I’m voting for.

Seriously.

I don’t like to get super political over here most of the time. In fact, it’s my right as a voter to not tell anyone, even Matt, who I vote for. Which candidate is the one of choice for me.

However, since I have a vagina and a uterus you can probably surmise that I won’t be voting right. That presumption is 100% accurate. And while focusing on only one side, it still doesn’t help me narrow down from the eligible candidates left on the page.

I have strong feelings for and against both candidates who reside on the left. Some of those feelings are based on my gender and the unique challenges that come with it from pay to healthcare. Some on my feelings about legalization of cannabis. Some on education, taxes, small business, war, the food I eat and how it was grown.

Hilary and Bernie are both democrats, sure, but they couldn’t be more different if they tried. Which is the very reason I’m dreading making the choice later. If the ballot was in front of me right now, I honestly have no idea who I’d pick.

Between watching the news, reading the articles, listening to their own words in countless speeches and debates I am at a literal 50 / 50 split.

I guess I know what that means. For the next 11 hours I need to read more, listen more, watch more. Maybe even write out the pro and con list for each candidate.

But I’m a realist enough to know, in the end none of that shit will even matter. My choice will come to me in the moment. As it is with every American, my choice will be based on nothing more than my personal choice of who’s face and voice I want to experience for the next 4 years.

Or maybe not. Because making that choice and keeping it to myself is my American born right.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Seeing the Person for the Politics

In doing all this research for real estate agent blog posts, I started noticing a trend. No matter where I focused my attention one of the top things people look for is a neighborhood full of nice people.

That’s it. Plain and simple. People don’t want to be surrounded by assholes. Shocker, I know, but it really got me thinking about what’s truly important about our neighborhoods.

Also, what makes someone “nice” as opposed to not nice?

That was a biggie for me to consider. Especially in these months leading up to a presidential election.

I mean, are you a dick because you share a differing political view and put a sign in front of your home for a candidate I don’t support? Because you want solar panels on your roof that I’ll have a view of from my back yard? Because you let your dog sit outside in the backyard and bark all day long at everything? (Okay to be clear, yes, that last one makes you an awful person, take better care of your animals for goodness sake.)

The world is made up of lots of different kinds of people and it feels sometimes like we’re more divided now than we ever were before. But why is that?

Is it because of niceness or of perceived niceness?

I have no idea what political party my neighbors are affiliated with because they don’t have signs out front. But let’s just say they were backing a candidate I loathed and displayed as much with signs and banners, that wouldn’t make me any less likely to wave and smile as I passed their house. Because that’s the literal depth of our relationship. And I like that, it’s nice.

If I started yammering in their face about why their candidate sucks so bad or why they should choose someone else, well, that would make me the dick. Frankly, I don’t know those people well enough to become an opinionated asshole trying to change their already made up mind.

I don’t hang out with my neighbors, never have and probably never will. I don’t know how they treat their spouses, children, pets (except that freaking dog, seriously), friends, family. I do know they always smile and wave. So I do the same.

Because of politics, could I change my mind about their niceness? In short, sort of, but not on purpose. If everyone in my ‘hood put signs in front of their house wouldn’t we know exactly who they are just because of some rectangular piece of cardboard displaying the name of another person?

I’ve been conditioned to believe certain things about each candidate and in turn apply all of those convenient labels to the people supporting said candidate, right? I mean, haven’t we all?

In this particular presidential election I think that’s the essential driving force behind every candidate. Yes, every candidate.

If you support Clinton you support a liar, hence you must be a liar.

If you support Kasich you clearly don’t support equal rights for women. Women hater.

Bernie? Idealistic socialist.

Cruz? Conservative Christian.

Trump? Racist, sexist, misogynist with no political experience or soul.

Because each of these messages is the thing the news media wants us to believe about each candidate. Nobody cares whether the facts are 100% true or not. All we care about is that we support X, Y, or Z and the other ones are all idiots. All wrong.

But that’s exactly the opposite of how we should look at this thing.

I know someone who supports Kasich, we had a conversation about it last weekend. This person is someone I consider to be one of the nicest people I know. Fun, loyal, supportive.

All I said in response was:

“There’s no way I could vote for that guy, I have a vagina.”

Because, in response to the politics, the things he does or doesn’t support as a matter of policy, I can firmly state that he would never be my candidate of choice.

Again, I have no clue if Kasich is a nice man or not. We don't jam on Friday nights. But I’m not about to judge someone I already know to be nice as not nice just because they support the guy and I don't.

That’s the kind of shit that got us into this name-calling firestorm to begin with.

The other night we were watching the NatGeo series Generation X and I was taken back to my youth. To a time before I even knew what politics were. Before I knew that the president could never be the sole decision maker for our country.

I have no clue how little nuggets get trapped in the brain, things we remember forever even if we rarely access the memory. Things like how to make pasta sauce, shortcuts in our hometowns after not driving those roads for decades.

Or maybe even the chorus of a super cheezy afterschool-special-esque stage show that I saw maybe once about 30 years ago (or more).

Before I knew what hit me I was singing the entire chorus to Matt, word-for-word, straight from memory. The show?

Up with People.

Did you ever see it? Did the troupe make the rounds to your school back in the late ‘80’s, early ‘90’s? They made it to Arlington and I loved it. The cast looked like extras who all jumped out of the cafeteria on Saved by the Bell with their brightly colored clothing and khaki pants.

Or maybe they were the backup dancers for The Jets.

Either way their message was all about being positive, being nice to each other. As a kid who was bullied for a lot of my youth it was super inspiring to hear adults singing their little hearts out about being kind, caring towards each other.

I felt like, maybe, once I got out of school I’d find where all those nice people were and we’d start our own little think tank of love and positivity.

Throw a fist into the air in stop-motion while smiling! Let’s dance! Woo!

All I’m saying is, sometimes, I like being idealistic. It allows me to go back to that time in my youth where I could assume everyone was nice unless they acted like a dick to me on a personal level.

But it had nothing to do with politics or party affiliation, what neighborhood you lived in or the color of your scrunchie. It had to do with being open hearted, accepting of differences, and understanding that while those differences may not be your personal choice, they were their choice and the right to choose is the very thing that should bring us together, not push us apart.

Maybe all of the candidates and their supporters need to be reminded of that moment in their youth when they believed that anything was possible.

This one’s for you guys.

“It don’t help nobody up when you put somebody down.”

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In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Counter Attack

Yesterday was planned as one of those rare, lazy days. We did all the errands required for the weekend and upcoming week on Saturday, said screw it to cleaning the house all weekend, and plopped our asses down on the sofa for the entire day.

Last year I started binging Fringe on Netflix and finally wrapped up about a month ago.

As a Lostie I was very invested in checking out another J. J. Abrams show. I’m a person who likes a good concept show based loosely on a twisted conspiracy theory. Fringe perfectly fit the bill.

And as soon as it was done I wanted to start it over again, catch what I might have missed the first time around. Knowing Matt likes similar stuff he started watching with me and was hooked right away.

So all day yesterday we sat on our lazy asses and binged I have no idea how many episodes of the show.

The stuff we were supposed to adult – dishes in the sink, a bag full of recyclables, the calcium crust building up on our bathroom faucet – all sat in wait.

That was, until just before dinner time.

I went to pee and when I got to the living room all I heard was:

“Ergh, spring has sprung.”

I responded by asking Matt if he was having a sneezing fit then rounded the corner into the kitchen. I was supposed to cook some veggies. The plan was finish dinner then get lazy again.

People often ask me how I can keep going and going like that silly Energizer bunny. How can I get up at 7:00 most days, work from 7-5:00 PM, stay awake until close to midnight and then get up to do it all again the next day.

How can I maintain that much energy? I only drink 1 cup of coffee in the morning. It isn’t drugs. I just have one of those personalities where I need to be doing something functional and useful all the time.

But nobody can keep that up forever either. So there are weekends where I try for a day like yesterday was supposed to be. A day I can just sit on my ass and pretend I’m the me I was once upon a time. The procrastinating, indolent teenager.

So when I rounded the corner to see Matt standing in front of the sink holding our vinegar spray bottle in one hand and a paper towel in the other I knew what was going on before I even heard him say:

“No. Ants.”

Motherfucker.

I really thought (Hoped? Prayed?) we’d taken care of that problem last year. But apparently being Irish means Murphy will come and point while laughing at you for thinking you might get an entire day off to just chill.

An hour later Matt was done with pork chops and our veggies. The ones I was supposed to cook but didn’t have time to do. Instead, I spent all that time vinegar-dousing our countertops, unloading and reloading the dishwasher, scrubbing every inch of the sink (right down to the drain catcher thingie), stove and floor all around the countertops.

We went to the back of the house, I swept out all the leaves and a healthy number of ants that appeared up near the foundation of the house. I then looked up natural ways to get rid of ants while Matt sprayed some chemical nightmare along the foundation.

Disclaimer: I’m usually pretty green and want as humane and natural a solution as possible. Last year we tried vinegar, cornmeal, a host of other kitchen-based products and I think they all just encouraged the assholes to come at us even harder.

Well, I don’t go walking around their house outside so they shouldn’t be anywhere inside mine. Trust me, it isn’t my first choice to use that awful stuff but we’re going to kill them one way or another, don’t have kids or pets and nothing edible is planted anywhere near where the ants trail. So chemical-bomb them we did.

After cleaning inside and outside and spraying that crap I suddenly had a thought:

“Ants are exoskeleton, right?

“Yeah, I think so.”

Thought it may not be any more natural than a chemical compound, I have a box of Borax hanging around. I use it to make laundry detergent. Controversy aside the stuff came from the planet so I am pro-Borax.

And that shit to an exoskeleton is like a human walking through a wood chipper.

I know this from our former experience many, many years ago with fleas infiltrating our house in Springfield. Borax sliced and diced those little monsters to death. Like a pile of tiny powdered Ninjas.

Apparently mixing it with powdered sugar and placing it near the entry point for the ants will have them gobbling it up. Then they bring it back to their home and it kills the colony.

You think you can outsmart me, ants? Yeah, think again.

You stole hours of my lazy Sunday. Forced me to work on my day off.

Me and my box of Borax will eradicate you into oblivion. Bitch, it is so on.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Those Who Can’t Teach

So a couple days ago I scribbled a note on a teeny notepad. Side note: I love teeny notepads. If you ever want to win over a writer give them a bucket full of teeny notepads.

Anyway, on that 2-1/2” x 1-1/2” piece of paper was the list of crap I needed to buy on Amazon and just enough space to also squeeze in:

What to do if I’m one of those who can’t teach?

Because you know that saying – those who can’t do, teach.

Well, last weekend I said it out loud and my sister, a former teacher, ughed me into oblivion (yes I made the word ugh into a verb, or, more accurately she did when she made the sound that went with the eye roll).

I never thought of it implying anyone is inadequate but the opposite. That there are some people in the world who don’t just do one thing, they train many people in many things. Share their gift with the world. The gift of knowledge.

And maybe that’s why I was intent on being a teacher for a while. I wanted to impart my wisdom on the young and impressionable.

For some reason I kept thinking that’s the way I had to go, that I needed to be the one to tell people how to do stuff. Stuff I can’t seem to figure out how to do.

If you can’t do…

Thing is, I can’t teach either.

I love telling people things but I honestly couldn’t give a shit less if they learn or not. I think I mostly just like the sound of my own voice since I don’t really get to use it all that often anymore.

Which of course left me in a really weird place in my head. Because if I can’t seem to figure out how to “do” the thing and clearly nobody is showing up for me to “teach” them the thing, where the heck does that leave me?

No do, no teach, no purpose or direction.

Truth is, I’m simply exhausted. Spent. I’ve given all I had to give for the past 4 decades and I’m just about finished. Because my body is giving out, my brain can’t handle it anymore. I’m tired of spending every day, alone, cooped up in this self-made prison where I have to work on things I couldn’t give a shit about so I feel that tiny rush of excitement when I sell one book and make a whopping $2.76 next month.

This life, this career I’ve built is a god damn joke. I’m nothing more than a fraud, a shyster, trying to smile and be fucking beautiful so everyone will want to buy what I’m selling.

Even if what I’m peddling is worth nothing.

And even just typing it out makes me crazy because it’s all the same crap I’ve been vomiting into this blog for the past month. Or for the past 8 years as the case may be.

Why? Because I never fucking learn.

I obsess over the same questions all the time, never answer them, or, more accurately, glaze over the fact that they’re the wrong questions in the first place, and still I think I’m actually going to get somewhere. It’s pitiful, that’s what it is.

Maybe it’s finally time to just admit defeat. Give in and leave all of this stupid bullshit behind. Let it all go. Kill her. Kill the dream.

When she disappears nobody will be all that broken up about it because she’s been nothing but a huge drain on everything for so many years – physical, mental, financial – that within months there will be such a noticeable shift out of the current state of affairs that pretty soon all the people who were supposed to be sad about her leaving will secretly be rejoicing inside to be free of the strain. Free of the hassle. Free of her forever.

Going on to live their lives the world will continue to function. Nobody will really be sad. Nobody will miss her.

I sure as fuck won’t miss her.

Who is she?

She’s the part of me I’ve been holding onto since age 19.

The girl who believed in romance and flowers and love and life being able to work out exactly as you want it to just as long as you skip down the street singing a song about unicorns under a rainbow made of roses and just believe that the world is going to work out.

Because the reality is that nothing ever “works out”, things just end and other things begin. Life is a motherfucker. It will kick you and punch you and laugh, pointing, in your face. People who say that everything happens for a reason make me want to hurl. Because the only reason they say that is to justify crap happening.

Free tip? Crap is going to happen. The reason? Because you’re alive.

Welcome to the real world where people don’t care. Where money never stretches like it should. Where hate is so prevalent we have to make up stupid inspirational shit just to make our precious little egos think that there’s still hope.

And oh my god, fuck hope.

Because hope is an illusion. A dangling carrot if you will. The thing we all wake up in the morning and put on our socks for. The most remote of chances that something we wished for, dreamed about, worked our ass off to get might actually happen.

When’s the last time you remember that happening? Oh it might appear at first like it does – you got that new car after saving for a year, finally installed that kitchen, got pregnant, graduated, started a business – but the moment you have it you realize the very nature of the whole thing was built on nothing more than a hope and a dream.

Turns out the dream is never the reality.

Wait, what? Yeah, I know, profound right? Well sadly until about 6 months ago I sort of still believed those two concepts went hand-in-hand.

But then we all wake up to the reality when that car payment is too high, the house burns down a week later, you didn’t want a baby, now student loans are costing you every dime you have, you fail.

No matter how many health problems I give myself stressing out by working really hard, nothing ever fucking works out anyway.

At least not according to the doe-eyed imbecile I’ve been trying to pretend to be for the past couple of decades. The idiot who exudes sugary goodness and actually believes there’s a chance this will “all work out” because doesn’t everything?

The idiot moron who opened her eyes 23 years ago but pretended not to see. The girl who broke her own heart and couldn’t follow through.

So I’m shooting that sorry excuse for a person right between the eyes at point blank range.

That gullible idiot side of me is no longer as dumb as she once appeared, she’s tired of hope. Tired of platitudes. Tired of trying to convince herself that she can have everything she ever wanted.

She needs to die.

Because if I’m going to believe in anything anymore it won’t be based on hope. It won’t be based on dreams.

I’ll keep pulling the trigger until the wannabe teacher is cold, lying on a metal slab in a freezing room in the subbasement morgue.

Here lies hope, dreams, and the girl who once believed in both.

It’s time for the other side of me to rise from the dead, to ask the right questions and to finally start answering them for real.

Image courtesy Serge Bertasius Photography on freedigitalphotos.net

Are You Always an Asshole or Is It Just When You’re Online?

A couple months ago I joined a few groups on Linked In as a way to promote my work, get to know some other freelance writers (networking!), and possibly connect with people who (I’ve been told) frequent those groups looking for writers to hire.

I wanted to make sure I was in the right places if I was going to spend time in online communities chatting. It needed to be worth my while because I wanted to give the most benefit to the most people by sharing my experiences.

Weeding down to the basic groups that applied to my current position seemed like a smart idea. Groups geared toward freelancers, journalists, writers, etc. Everything was going great.

That is, until I started posting helpful articles.

Because as soon as I started sharing my experiences ofpersonal development as a freelance writer, the jack-assery started to fly.

Of course I want people to hire me but what I was sharing had little if nothing to do with asking people to do that. Quite the contrary, I really just wanted to help other writers. Because we’re all in this together even if what we do is a solopreneur enterprise most of the time.

I wanted to help struggling freelance writers see that it was okay to struggle, that it was normal to have questions. And then I wanted to help by giving my story of breaking into this industry as personal accounting for the answers to those questions.

But apparently some people don’t really want answers. Apparently many of the people in these groups spend little or no time reading the content and show up to do nothing more than attack the poster. It isn’t just my links, I’m seeing these same people belittle everything that’s posted.

They like to battle the advice, not in a challenging way that opens debate or engaging conversation. No. They simply set out to be mean.

And I just do not get it.

The reason it makes no sense is because those same people pose questions and they appear to be looking for answers. They ask how to break in, what kinds of things you need to do to break in, how to be a better writer. Then they stomp all over the people who provide those answers because it appears the advice wasn’t what they wanted to hear.

Sorry to disappoint but there is no magic formula to get rich overnight as a writer. Sorry if you didn’t want to hear that you’d actually have to work for a living. And work hard. That there are things you need to learn how to do before attempting to freelance for income online.

Now I’m not saying I think I have all the answers, I’m not that egocentric, but I have been doing this for a while, have found some clients and made some decent money from my efforts. I thought that’s what they wanted to know how to do too. You know, since they asked.

But apparently their main goal is to waste their own time and everyone else’s by being an asshole. I’m just glad I don’t have to live with these people. If that’s what you’re like online is that what you’re like in life? Yikes.

Maybe you should take some of that snark and channel it into a book or a blog post. Perhaps that’s your voice and you’ll find a few freelance clients who love to pay combative people who already have all the answers to the questions they asked in the first place.

There’s my free advice of the day to all the trolls who find it fun to battle those who came before you - Use your aggression in a more productive way.

Though I highly doubt you’ll take the advice if past history is any indication.

Go ahead, bring on the evil comments. I can take it because in the end my skin is thick enough to shake my head and sigh. Then smile because I’ll be helping the writers who want the help and both of us will be padding our bank accounts with client work that pays while you waste hours you could have been writing for money by being an evil online troll.

Sucks to be you.

I won’t stop posting my advice and suggestions because there have been a few people who have seemed to genuinely benefit from what I’m putting out there. But I won’t engage with people who feel it’s their duty to be a tool just to look like a big shot.

This isn’t grade school people, it’s the internet. Get over yourself.

And now I’m going to get over myself and get back to doing what I do for a living. Writing for writers who want to make money. Just like me.

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I'm Jenn, a Content Marketing Strategist, Blogger for hire and owner of Copywrite That. I can write your blog posts, articles, emails, newsletters, web copy and more. Contact me today: info[at]copywritethat[dot]com