Dates

The kind you go on with a special someone. Not the fruit. 

The only other D word I considered was dogs and I’ve only had 2 of them and I just did cats.

The first date my husband and I went on was to a Lebanese restaurant in Waterville, Maine. It was across the street from his apartment. It was pretty popular but I always thought it was a bit out of place in Maine, but what did I know? I forget what we had. After that we had to go to something for our job (where we met.) I remember we held pinkies during the speaker.

I didn’t go on a lot of dates. Being a fat girl even then, I guess I didn’t generate much interest. I responded to a couple of ads in the Maine Times paper and met the guys. But meh–on both ends.

So, to liven things up, we’ll accompany Lily and Charlie on a date in their early relationship to the opening night of the Phoenix Film Festival. Which coincidentally opens here tomorrow night. (From Another Place on the Planet, Ch. 6)

 

My heart jumped into my throat when I looked out the peephole and saw Charlie waiting. “Calm. Down.” I whispered. It was only yesterday that I’d last seen him.

“Hey, Charlie,” I said warmly as I opened my door. My heart flipped at the sight of him in suit and tie.

“Lily Mayfield,” he crowed. “Good glory, girl. Let me look at you!”

Heat rose to my face, as I twirled once. He looked me over from top to bottom and back to the top. “Wow. That’s one lucky dress.”

“Thank you!”

His hands on my shoulders sent a shiver through me I knew he felt. Embarrassed by my uncontrolled reaction, I looked down.

“You’re stunning, Lily. Absolutely breathtaking,” he said gently.

“Thank you again,” I murmured.

“I’m sure you don’t hear that nearly enough. I have a little gift for you.” He pulled a jeweler’s box from his interior jacket pocket.

Caught completely off guard, I gasped. “That was entirely unnecessary.”

“It’s been a long time since I had a beautiful woman to give gifts to.”

The box held a slim circle bracelet shaped like a vine and studded with some small light colored gemstones. I slipped it on my wrist.

“Charlie, it’s lovely! Thank you!” Impulsively, I threw my arms around his neck. His response was to hold me to himself for a few seconds and kiss my cheek. Not much, but his breath in my ear was enough to cause the underutilized private places of my body to spring to life.

He pulled away abruptly and said with a husky voice, “Well, let’s get going, shall we?”

“Oh! A new car,” I said in the parking lot. “What kind is it?”

“Maserati.”

He opened the door and held my hand as I lowered myself into the seat.  The supple gray leather caressed my body with luxurious comfort. “I think I’m finding this Maserati sexier than your Ferrari if that’s even possible.”

He laughed as we roared through the parking lot of my apartment complex.

 “You look very nice, by the way,” I said. “Damn delicious, actually.” I slapped my hands over my mouth, shocked at my boldness.

He looked over at me, his smile soft in the spring sunset light. “Guys like to be appreciated, too, you know.”

“You’re very easy to appreciate. God, I’m sorry. I’ll stop now.”

He chuckled, caught my hand and raised it to his lips, thrilling goosebumps to glorious life. I hugged myself and turned to the window.

“You okay over there?” he asked.

“Sure, just keeping my mouth shut to stay out of trouble.” I recrossed my legs and pretended I was the cool, sophisticated woman I wanted to be.

He laughed again, and I got the impression it was something in his natural God-ordained personality he would do a lot if the hard things of life left him alone for a while.

“Congratulations on your award, by the way,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Oops!” he said with a chuckle. “It’s nothing. I didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

“Well, the Phoenix Film Foundation believes you’ve contributed to the community.”

“I’m on the board of directors and have a recognizable name.”

“That’s a result of your hard work and integrity. Why did you get involved here?”

He rubbed his jaw before he responded. “When I was building my house and thinking we’d be living here, I jumped into a few things but dropped out of everything but this. Maybe I’ll start a production company here one day.”

People pointed at the Maserati as we drove through the shopping center parking lot to the theater. With his hand on my back, we mingled with film buffs of all stripes. His charm enchanted everyone, and I was arm candy—which amazed me. All I did was grin like an idiot, standing with his arm around my waist. Often he would look down at me with appreciation, that seldom-seen expression. If I didn’t force myself to focus on the conversation, my thoughts raced to the future and all the possibilities, including how this could end and how much it would hurt, even if we spent no more time together.

Charlie received his Visionary Award from the film foundation’s president and gave a short speech. I stood with the rest of the audience for a resounding ovation. He remained onstage for a photo, then motioned for me to join him. “This is Lily Mayfield,” he told the press. “One day in the not too distant future, she’ll be making her own films.”

“Any plans, Ms. Mayfield?” someone asked.

“Nothing definite,” I said with a slight laugh.

“Your first encounter with the paparazzi,” Charlie said as we walked away.

“And my last.”

Cats I Have Known

A bunch of cats have passed through my life!

Critter. This orange tabby came strutting across the busy road in front of our house. His whiskers had been cut off and he was young semi-feral. He pooped in my dad’s car, in his work hat no less. The second time he didn’t have the good sense to leave the car and rode along with my dad to work. Dad heaved him over the fence into the lumber yard next to the freight truck yard where he worked. We kids thought he just ran away until we were told the truth a year later. We laughed and laughed, knowing Critter would survive because he had been an expert rodent catcher.

Daisy. A money cat kitten I was able to keep as a consolation prize for having to relocate with my family as soon as I graduated high school. She ate something bad and died under the car.

Meatball. Another yellow tabby, Daisy’s brother. I’m not sure of his fate after I left for college.

The Barn Cat. A black and white feral kitty who took shelter in the barn ell of the house my parents rented in Maine.

Harrison Henry Blackwell. Harry for short. He sat atop the kitchen cabinets next to a black cat shaped teapot.

Something Arabella Graymore. Both she and Henry came with the house my parents bought. She disappeared into the woods to die, we think. she had developed a hole in a facial that constantly drained onto her pretty kitty face.

Clytemnestra. A black female with cattitude. Named after the wife of Agamemnon from Greek mythology. She was my first cat completely on my own until she refused to move when I did.

Gorad. Black and white. The cat who refused to be named. My roommate’s boyfriend’s friend gave him that name. The same dopes who left the apartment door open. The same weekend the neighbors got a car for the first time. Gorad climbed into the engine. You know the rest. Right after I spent precious money (I was a senior in college) to have him fixed. It cost as much to euthanize him. He liked to sleep on my face. One of those.

Gandalf. A little white kitten who followed me on walks. One day he didn’t make it home. He was a sweetie.

Schuster. He came from friends who had a sibling, Simon. Yeah, like the publishers. My friends were readers (and dopeheads). Another blackie. He moved out to the woods with me and as far as I know he’s still there. He wouldn’t move to town with me. But that was a very long time ago.

& 12. Unicorn and Guinness. Brother and Sister, gray tabbies. They knocked down the Christmas tree I’d just set up with my fiance. Guinness ran away. My roommate adopted Unicorn when I moved out and got married.

Bridget. I don’t quite remember her name. Another black and white. She lived at the place where we were house parents for a few months. I helped her birth her kittens. One had to be pulled out.

Peachbottom. Adopted from my brother. We had to take her to a shelter because we were all getting bronchitis (2 kids by this time) and we thought we were allergic to her. Then we realized it was probably mold from the dirt floor basement of the house we were renting.

Schtuki Putz. Another cat who defied naming. A friend said she thought it meant cabbage head, but I don’t know about that. She was a tortoiseshell calico with a bad personality. She hated my daughter who wanted a cat from her friend’s litter. Schtuk like my husband and son best. She was a huge cat who made the journey west with us, yowling across the country. In February of 2013, she got out of the house and never came back. She was very old and emaciated and wanted to die on her own terms. I knew she was near the end when she started liking me.

Schtuki Putz, a female who preferred male humans until she grew old and demented then like me just fine.

Smoke. The softest gray kitty. He was fun and sat on my lap when I did school work. He got sick and died. We think he might have swallowed a rubber band that twisted up his innards. He was a sweetie.

Smoke. I didn’t name him, but it fit.

Twitch. Came with Smoke. A blackie as well, the fourth. He tells me when he thinks I should go to bed then waits patiently while I get settled then lays against my legs. His tail is funky, broken somewhere along the way. I adopted him and Smoke from a family whose kids were allergic. He’s outlived Schtuki, Smoke, and Tippy.

Twitch. This kitty’s tail is bent up and shortened. He came that way. My most favorite of all the cats. He prefers our bed and other warm places.

Tippy. She spent her early life in a shelter and never really gained social skills. I think my mom felt sorry for her. It was years until she finally warmed up to Mom–after a move. She kind of warmed up to me until I had to take her when mom got sick and never like me again. She became ours shortly after Schtuk left. She was blind toward the end. You can see the cataracts in this picture.

Yeah, so I’ve known a few cats. I’ve been cleaning cat boxes for 40 years.

Are you a cat person?

Baseball

Welcome back to mt 2019 a to Z Blog challenge, day 2. Obviously.

Other possible B topics for today included birthday (mine is on Saturday!) bullsh!t, babies, beds, bathtubs and binge watching. I’m going with baseball. Obviously.

Note: If my posts are funky-looking, blame WordPress. They haven’t been allowing me to see previews lately. And I’m still figuring out this new block editor.

I used to watch the Phillies on TV with my dad, circa late 1960s to early ’70s. I found it easier to understand than football. Since I was a girl, the closest I could get to being a player was being a players wife. I figured my husband would be gone a lot and I could be independent but spend lots of the money he made. The closest I got to that is that my real husband, an ace pitcher in high school, was scouted by the pros, and got a baseball scholarship to Marrietta College. But in his senior year, he was in a major car accident (before I knew him). His recovery, while miraculous, wasn’t complete enough to allow him to be competitive.

As a kid, late elementary, early middle school, I sent away for the Phillie’s yearbook because I didn’t get to the stadium until after high school even though we were less than 2 hours away. I copied pictures of the players in action. Once when pitcher Steve Carlton was having a bad run, I sent him a letter of encouragement. For my efforts, I received an authographed photo, seen here. For some reason I kept it all these years.

 

I used to get really caught up in games and playoffs and championships. I was highly emotional, cussing, crying, all that. It wasn’t until I was an adult I realized the value of turning all that off. Wins and losses of my favorite teams didn’t affect my life at all. I never got one nickel if my team won the World Series. But now, as an Arizona Diamondbacks fan, I get great pleasure from detesting the Dodgers.

I even add baseball to my fiction writing. (Actually, there is a subgenre of Romance about baseball players. Here’s a scene from one of my published novels.

Another Place on the Planet, the start of Chapter 5, Snickerdoodles

Charlie continued to brood as we ambled around central Phoenix, my hand warmly in his. It seemed more like a habit than an intentional sign of affection. Not that I minded. I liked being seen like that.

“I wonder,” I said absently as we walked past Chase Field on Jefferson Street, “if the Diamondbacks open the season at home this year.”

“You like baseball?” he asked with the first smile I’d seen in a while.

“I do. I’ve been hoping to meet someone to go to games with.”

“If I go to some games here with you, you’ll have to go to Dodgers games with me in L.A.,” he said.

“Yikes!” I cried with mock—mostly—fear. “Going to L.A. to see the Dodgers? That might be a little more trauma than you’re worth.”

“What do you have against the Dodgers?” he asked, his step lightening a little.

“Everything. It’s a Phoenix thing. Like hating the Braves is a Philly thing.”

“A beautiful woman who loves baseball and understands its rivalries. I’m in heaven.” He kissed my cheek as we waited for the light to change. His mood seemed to lift a bit. Mine did.

Later in the book, there’s a poignant scene at a Diamondbacks game.

So, that’s a very brief history of my affection for baseball. Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment about how baseball has impacted your life. Or any other kind of comment. As long it’s friendly.

Arizona

Image

AtoZ2019A Welcome to day 1 of my Blogging A-Z 2019 event. This is the first year for me. Many posts will be short because I have other things to do. As, my Dear Readers, do you.

Among possible topics beginning with A, I considered: assholes (the jerky person, not the anatomical one), anger, angels, aardvarks,  and April (my birthday month!). I decided to go with Arizona, my state of residence to show off things here I haven’t experienced in the three other states I lived in: Pennsylvania, Maine, and Vermont.

Arizona has:

Prickly Plants

Pictured are a very small sample. Every plant around here wants to hurt you. You don’t even have to touch some of them.

Saguaro cactus (pronounce sa-waro. If you pronounce the G we’ll laugh at you.)
Prickly Pear
Teddy Bear Cholla. Pronounced choy-a. The name is a lie. Don’t hug it!

Glorious Skies a

at my house
Near Tucson
Near Prescott

Chino Banditos!

Meixcan/Chinese/Jamaican fusion served in a funky location–an older strip mall in Phoenix. They have a newer one too but I’ve never been there.

Fake Lakes

Lake Pleasant. Man-made lake with a super cheesy name.
Maricopa “Lake” in my town is more like a pond. Complete with turtle!

Big-ass margaritas!

At a place in Tucson. The name escapes me. 2 for 1 on certain nights! Great Mexican food, too.

This chocolate cake!

Chocolate sauerkraut cake. Yes, you read that correctly. From Haus Murphy, a German restaurant in Glendale.

So, some of my favorite Arizona things. Thanks for stopping by. Come back soon!

P.S. All of the photos except the chocolate sauerkraut cake are mine. And I’m not a great photographer, so…

Zook’s Corner

ZC cover ebook 72I made a new book, now vunst. That’s how my family messed around with Pennsylvania Dutch. My siblings and I were always told we were part PA Dutch, although I don’t remember being told about a distinct relation. And we never knew any of the language. But some of the food made it onto our table. Chow chow (pickled veggies). Scrapple (what the devil eats). Red beet eggs. Yum. My nana used to say, “You’re Dutch.” A playful term of endearment.

But I’m not sure how much that influenced my book. One morning I woke up with the picture of the first house my husband and I lived in when we moved to Lancaster County from Maine. We had the first-floor apartment. It was located in an area known locally as Zook’s Corner. It’s not a real town or anything. The Amish and Old Order Mennonites have names for places that never make on Englischer maps.

So I had to write a story set there. And in November 2014, I sat down and started to do just that. And that’s how Angie and Ty and Scotty and Anna and Samuel and others came to be in my head and now on pages. It’s a story about strength, facing the past and making a way into the future. Also about redemption, forgiveness, and love, including the romantic kind.

Like my other main characters in my published and unpublished books, Angie is an artist and introvert. Much like me. I’ll save all that for another blog post on another day.

I had help from my faithful critique partners brought to me by the Women’s Fiction Writers Association who read through the entire story 10 to 12 pages at a time and showed me what didn’t make sense, what belonged, what didn’t. Also, my brilliant sister Lori edited it for me finding bunches of stubborn commas and spelling errors. Then it was back to me to format for Kindle, paperback, and Smashwords. Lots and lots of work. Definitely, a labor of love because so far, money hasn’t resulted from my writing career.

I shopped this book around to real literary agents and had a couple of requests to read the full manuscript which is a big deal. But I had many more flat out “no thanks.” I did receive some encouraging comments so at least I came away believing my writing does not suck entirely.

I guess what’s left of this journey is just to finish revising the paperback format, the never-ending promotion, and praying for reviews to hopefully fuel sales. I hope you’ll give it a look. You might like it.

Here’s a review from book blogger Jinger Ertle at Book Nerd Problems. She has a range of reviews on her new site.

Jinger Ertle’s review of Zook’s Corner

And finally, where you can buy Zook’s Corner. It’s on sale for 0.99 for a limited time.

Barnes and Noble

Scribd

Apple

Smashwords

Amazon

International Childfree Day

There is such a thing. It’s today. August 1st.

It could also be known as I’ll Never Be a Grandmother Day.

Both my kids have decided not to spawn. It took some getting used to.

At first, all I could think of was I was a bad mother. I readily admit I had many, many less than stellar mom moments. They all flashed before my eyes whenever someone complimented my husband and me on one or both of our amazing children.

One of the first things Kid #1 did when they achieved independence was to procure a therapist. Not that I blame them. I completely understand. Even though I like to think not all of their issues were about me. Hopefully, their therapist isn’t a Freudian. I mean, we have a great relationship today. (Uh, call your mother.)

There are so many experiences they’ll never have being childfree:

Cold, lovingly prepared breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day. (true story)

Being told “You’re the best mommy I ever had,” at the end of a long hard day. (true story)

Hearing them tell the woman at the vision center that “Mommy broke her glasses when she threw them when she got mad. (true story)

Bursting with pride when they perform in front of a group. (true story)

Hearing at 9 PM on a school night, “Mom, I need poster board for a school project that’s due tomorrow.” (true story)

When their hard work pays off with improved grades or buying their own car. (true story)

Spending an entire weekend in cold rain or blistering sun at a sports tournament. (true story)

Suffering with them when their team doesn’t win a game all season. (true story)

Denying yourself coffee and alcohol for the entire duration of pregnancy and breastfeeding. (true story)

Just seeing your child for the first time. (true story)

Seeing them smile for the first time, or their first steps. (true story)

Of course, there are the really bad moments, the highly emotional fights where I wished I would have handled my side better, maybe trouble with the law, bad breakups, no boy/girlfriend, car accidents, scars, words that can’t be taken back. Everyone can do without those. But we have them and we find a way to do.

I was surprised when I found myself going through a mourning, of sorts, when I realized I would never be a grandmother. All my friends who are grandparents swear it’s the best thing ever, even better than being a parent. I’ll never know.

I was also surprised when I started getting sick of seeing everybody’s grandkids on Facebook. Fine. Your grandkid is the sweetest, smartest, cutest kid in the universe. To you. Until the next one comes along. And you’re lucky they’ll never face competition from mine!

And who do I crochet things for when I watch TV? I live in the desert so I don’t need hats and scarves and afghans. How many coats do my grandpups need? I guess I can inundate my childfree offspring and their significant others with the ill-fitting sweaters and bedspreads and throws and more dog coats until my fingers gnarl from arthritis.

But at the same time, I’m not overly optimistic about the state of the world. If the human race has some kind of dystopian future ahead of us as writers predict (as they did many things that exist in the present) I wouldn’t want loved ones to suffer through it. I mean, look at who our president is.

I’m glad our kids are confident to make choices their parents may not like. We have accepted that. I’ve had to learn not to throw innuendos or opinions on the topic into our conversations.

So, all you purposely childfree people, enjoy yourselves. Remember who gave up second honeymoons while you’re on your second or third or fourth. Remember who ate the burned toast so you could have the pretty toast and cooked your food after a day at work while you were running around the neighborhood with your friends. Remember who taught you how to do laundry while you’re buying “Dry Clean Only” with the money you could be spending on my non-existent grandchildren.

(Maybe I’m a touch bitter. Maybe that’s a little consolation.)

(I was going to find some graphics to post, but  as someone who actually sacrificed a few things for her kids because she loved them, I started to get pissed off looking at them so I’ll just stop here.)

 

 

 

 

 

NaNo Tip: First Drafts Are Shit

The first draft of anything is shit–Ernest Hemingway.

The Ernest Hemingway said this and his shit (revised and edited) is so good we’re forced to read it in school. (I preferred Steinbeck to Hemingway. I’m sure Steinbeck’s first drafts were shit, too.)hemingway shit

This is true. If you, oh novice writer, expect to dazzle the world, or even yourself, by what comes through the tips of your fingers and onto your screen, or paper, or whatever the first time, you are setting yourself up for failure.

Failure, I tell you.

You may be a literary genius waiting to be discovered. Your mind may be gestating the next Lord of the Rings, but with aliens and zombies, just what the world and Hollywood are dying to get their hands on. You may have imagined it in scintillating detail while bored in class, at work, with your friends when they’re talking about reality TV and sports. You’re there, staring off into space, creating the perfect battle, the perfect sex scene, crafting the perfect snappy comeback. Maybe you lose sleep over it at night.

And then you go to write it down. The words flow like wine at an ancient Roman feast. Many, many words. You get goosebumps from the elation of creation or the emotion of the scene. You are in the zone, living those orgasmic moments every writer dreams of.Feast_of_the_Gods_with_Marriage_of_Bacchus_and_Ariadne_0

Then you lose your steam because it can’t be maintained forever. You go back and read. Maybe the words are really good words in a great order and you say out loud so your cat looks at you, “Wow! These are really good words. I like–no–I bloody love these words. What happens next?” Your cat asks, “Meow?” And your mind goes blank. For days. Weeks. Lifetimes.

Or the words really suck. They’re stupid words, rudimentary and awkward, not coming close to what you imagined. It’s like you’re back in 3rd grade. “Hi! My name is Theresa and I’m going to tell you about zombies and aliens.” And you think, “And I have a degree in __________________?” So you give up, pour a glass of wine and remember The Bachelorette is on TV. Your cat yawns and stays put.images

Or the words don’t come. Like sitting on the toilet. You know there is shit in you, but it’s stuck. You stare at the white screen and think too hard. You don’t know how to begin because you know whatever you write, it will be, well, shit. So you don’t write. You don’t push. You don’t want hemorrhoids in your brain. Your cat is nowhere to be seen. Besides, The Bachelorette is on.

Here are some things to know:

  • Every writer has been there, some are there now, even experienced bestsellers. Even the ghostwriters for some of those bestsellers.
  • Everyone who has written a novel was a beginner once.
  • Every novelist writes shit, but goes back and fixes it.
  • The more you write and study the craft of writing, the easier it will be to write less shit and easier to recognize and fix it during revisions.
  • Your novel will NEVER be as great as you want it to be. Eventually, it may come close with lots and lots more work (known as revising.)
  • You have to write the shit. You have to write when you don’t feel like it. You know how crappy you feel when you’re constipated? That’s how you’ll start to feel. And you’ll be grouchy. And the people you have to see will think you’re weirder than usual. And people who know you will know you’re constipated and give you prunes. And your writer people will tell you, “Just sit down and write the shit.”

Writing a novel is a long, huge process, and you’re doing it alone. But you’re doing it! Don’t give up on your story because it’s not behaving like you want it to. You didn’t listen to your parents all the time, and they still fed you, right?

Remember, shit happens. It has to happen. It’s called the first draft.

Just Trying to Keep Up Here.

Handmade birthday card from my daughter.

I turned 60 last month. It’s a milestone. Actually, lots of milestones. I had a friend who turned 60 about 20 years ago. She said, “My grandmother said when you turn 60, you can say whatever you want.” That was when her grandmother’s life expectancy was probably 65-67. Now, if you start saying whatever you want when you turn 60, you most likely have a good 20-25 years to piss people off, including your kids who will be making arrangements for your care in your dotage.

No, I’m still biting my tongue. Mostly. Because I have a lot to learn still. If I want to do things like earn points from Starbucks, I have to learn how to download and use their app and figure out how to use the code I got to get a free drink. So I did that today. I also learned I can order ahead and my drink will be waiting for me. I also learned, having done that, it was quicker to park my car and run into the shop than to wait in the drive-thru line.

(On a side note, we have Dutch Brothers Coffee around here. If you don’t know they’re little kiosks taking up space in what used to be a usable parking lot. They’re manned by hyperactive teens (do employees get free coffee?) Their lines are always a block long. Nope. My days are numbered. I don’t got time to spend in too many drive-thrus anymore.)

Of course, I had to delete about 4 other apps from my phone to download the Starbucks one because my phone doesn’t have a lot of memory. Because I’m poor. One of the apps was the Square Point of Sales. I have a Square reader that can be used to collect payments for my little sewing business and maybe for selling books. Because nobody carries cash anymore.

Woodstock stamp. The now iconic music festival was not well-received by mainstream society in 1969.

Or buys stamps. I use maybe six stamps a year, not including Christmas cards. Most of the people I know don’t use stamps, even at Christmas because I don’t get cards from them anymore. But I still feel neglected and forgotten. There’s no app for that yet. Unless it’s a game you get addicted to and you forget about the real world.

Fred always had a gray suit in my world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advanced technology when I was a kid was color TV. We didn’t have one. There is probably more computer power in my 8 gig cell phone than there was on any Apollo space mission craft when I was a kid. Actually, I imagine a gigabyte of computer memory back then was unimaginable. I would look it up, but my time is precious.

I guess keeping up with technology is good for my brain. When I can no longer do it, I’ll have to sit back in my zero-gravity chair watching reruns of The West Wing, Breaking Bad, and Law and Order on my smart tv that is a lot dumber than the virtual reality glasses people use when they’re flying around in their driverless cars while probes inject emotional reactions from TV and movies directly into their nervous systems.

 

By the way, can somebody help me get this package of batteries open?

 

It shouldn’t be this hard to be a girl

A poem I found through Our Stories Untold, a website about sexual harassment and abuse in the Mennonite church. The author is unknown.

Untitled.

 

When I was six years old, I gave my first blowjob.
“It’s a game”, said He. “Don’t you want to play?”
It was too big, and I threw up on him.
He said I’d do better the next time.

When I was seven years old, I watched a group of fellow second graders cheer as a boy in my class tried to kiss me. He hugged me from behind, giggling all the while.
I threw sand in his eyes, and was sent to the Principal.

When I was eight years old, I had an elderly teacher ask me to stay behind in class. He carried me on his shoulders, and called me pretty.
“Teacher’s Pet!” my friends declared, the envy visible on their faces.
They ignored me at lunch that day.

When I was nine years old, an older girl on the school bus would ask me to lift my skirt up for her. She was pretty and kind, and told me that I could only be her friend if I did what she said.
I wanted to be her friend.

When I was ten years old, a relative demanded that he get a kiss on the cheek every time we met. He was large and loud, and I proceeded to hide under my bed whenever I learnt that he was visiting.
I was known as a rude child.

When I was eleven, my auto-man told me that we would only leave if I gave him a hug every day.
He smelled like cheap soap and cigarettes.

When I was twelve years old, I watched as a man on the street touched my mother’s breast as he passed us. She slapped him amidst the shouts of onlookers telling her to calm down.
She didn’t calm down.

When I was thirteen years old, I exited a restaurant only to see a man visibly masturbating as he walked towards me. As he passed, he winked lasciviously.
My friends and I shifted our gazes down, aghast.

When I was fourteen, a young man in an expensive car followed me home as I walked back from an evening class. I ignored his offer to give me a ride, and I panicked when he got out, only to buy me a box of chocolate that I refused. He parked at the end of my road, and didn’t go away for an hour.
“It turns me on to see you so scared.”

When I was fifteen, I was groped on a bus. It was with a heart full of shame that I confided in a friend, only to be met with his anger and disappointment that I had not shouted at the molester at the time when it happened. My soft protests of being afraid and alone were drowned out as he berated my inaction. To him, my passiveness and silence were the reasons why things like this continue to happen.
He did not wait for my response.

When I was sixteen, I discovered that Facebook had a section of inbox messages named ‘others’, which contained those mails received from strangers, automatically stored as spam. Curious, I opened it to find numerous messages from men I had never seen before. I was propositioned, called sexy, asked for nudes, and insulted.
Delete message.

When I was seventeen, I called for help as a drunken man tried to sexually harass me in a crowded street.
The people around me seemed to walk by quicker.

At eighteen, I was told that sexism doesn’t exist in modern society.
I was told that harassment couldn’t be as bad as us women make it out to be.
That I should watch what I wear.
Never mind you were six, never mind you were wearing pink pajamas.
That I should be louder.
But not too loud, a lady must be polite.
That I should always ask for help.
But stop overreacting, there’s a difference.
That I should stay in at night, because it isn’t safe.
You can’t get harassed in broad daylight.
That I should always travel with no less than two boys with me.
You need to be protected. 

That it can’t be that hard to be a girl.

I am now nineteen years old.
I am now tired.

 

(This poem was anonymously submitted to Glasnost.)

Review of Mercury by Margot Livesey

284463685 of 5 stars
I still can’t pinpoint why I was so absorbed in this book, in Donald who is not a flashy man but is steady and devoted to his family. Maybe it’s the deep point of view or maybe it’s the hints that get dropped along the way or his humility as he confesses the small lies, omittances, and errors in judgment that led to a devastating event that changed his family forever.<br /><br />I missed Donald when the narrative switched to his wife Viv for a short time. But she filled in gaps in the story that Donald knew nothing about, why she did what she did based on unrealized dreams and her obsession with the horse Mercury that she didn’t own. When Donald comes back, knowing now what he missed before, he sees what his misperceptions were and how those gaps in his knowledge and his character shaped events.<br /><br />Livesey manages to weave themes of honesty, friendship, family, and marriage into a complicated, highly readable tapestry of modern life. I recognized her name on the library bookshelf because she had been a lead instructor in the MOOC Iowa Writer’s Workshop recent course of which I am a dropout. I hope to read more by her in the future.

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