The Next Big Bestseller or How Word-of-Mouth Marketing can Make YOU the Next Big Thing

As a bookseller I have learned the power of Oprah. On any given day,  the Dayton area Oprah-ites would decend apon our store to buy the book she featured on her show. A few years ago, it was Steve Harvey. After pimping his book "Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man: What Men Really Think about Love, Relationships, Intimacy, and Commitment" (available at your local Barnes and Noble Booksellers), they came. Women of all ages wanted--NEEDED--this book, and they wanted--NEEDED--it now, RIGHT NOW! (Oprah, give a little heads-up, okay?). Unprepared we were caught with only a handful of copies in stock. Never disappoint an Oprah-ite; they do not like to hear the words "3 to 5 shipping dates, free express shipping with a Borders membership." This is known as the Oprah Effect (I may have just made that up; if so, I hereby copyright it).

But often, the publishers back an author with everything they got and do a media-blitz that saturates and numbs us. If this is the case, we receive millions, billions, all the -illions you would ever want--or not want--by that author. A great example is Sarah Palin's book "Going Rogue". Yes, it was a best seller, but not in Dayton. At Borders--and every other bookstore--we received box after box after box of this book. We may have sold one box's worth of this book. As a cashier, I was well aware of the way this book did not sell; we would ask each other if any of us sold one and we would monitor our store sales. We did not hide this book. It was featured on many displays including the main table right at the entrance. So, just to let you know, WE TRIED VERY HARD TO SELL THIS BOOK! But, the tea baggers would not open up their wallets, and our bookstore went bankrupt; thanks, Mrs. Palin.

Side note One:  From the beginning, it was all about the money. Customers would gripe about the price of the book written by their demigod and want to know when the paperback version was coming out. We would tell them our stock line: 'that depends on the publisher's contract with Mrs. Palin and the sales of the book'. When the mock-book "Going Rouge" by the editors of Nation came out, people mis-took this straight to paperback book as Palin's book. Being sensitive to the needs of my customers, I would ask them if they wanted this book or the Palin book (yes, I profiled them). They would ask what the difference was. Here are the covers:


 Can you spot the differences?






Side note Two: My Borders was in the first round of closures when the corporation went bankrupt. During liquidation, we became the repository of items that were not selling well at other stores. So not only were we stuck with all the -illions of  "Going Rogue" languishing in our stockroom, we got  extra-illions of this book! Back it went onto the promo table, and on the shelves, and under the tables and behind the register; everywhere! Whereas the liquidators were still at the 20% off phase, this book began at 40% off then quickly jumped to 70% off. We would tell customers--jokingly because we really didn't have any power--we would throw the book in free with any purchase; we could not give this book away.

Authors have loyal followers who know when the next book is coming out, even after said-author is dead: Robert Jordan (deceased author of the fantasy-genre "Wheel of Time" series), James Patterson (who is basically a corporation with a sweatshop of writers in his attic), Lauren K. Hamilton (who--like Mr. Patterson--has a two inch margin framing her "story" which is written in size 32 font), Nora Roberts/J.D. Robb (each book the same, with covers that almost differ), Charlaine Harris (she of True Blood fame), and to quote the King from the musical The King and I, "Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera". But then there are the authors that become viral by word-of-mouth. Authors like Dan Brown, Khaled Hosseini, Elizabeth Gilbert, William P. Young, and E.L. James.

Dan Brown, wrote "The Da Vinci Code". Legend has it that a bunch of publishers decided to take a little known author with a so-so book (this is according to legend, but I found the book to be filled with too many cliches, coincidences and it was really just so-so) and begin a word-of-mouth marketing campaign. They manipulated us and made us think it was a phenomenal book, which many people think it is. Then they made it into a so-so movie and everyone became rich.

Khaled Hosseini beat the odds as an author with a very un-American name overcoming stereotypes while pocketing our American dollars. He is the Afghan-born American author of "The Kite Runner" and "A Thousand Splendid Suns". This overachieving author/physician/Goodwill Envoy has sold over 38 billion books (thanks, Wikipedia). "The Kite Runner" was made into a movie in 2007, and in 2015 so will "A Thousand Splendid Suns".

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote "Eat, Pray, Love" and is a recipient of the Oprah juggernaut. Her book makes women feel good, I have heard; I haven't read it. But, it was made into a movie starring Julia Roberts. It may have been a good movie, but I did not see it. But now she is rich and famous.

William P. Young made 15 copies of his book "The Shack" and handed them out to friends. A couple of very supportive friends worked with him on some revisions and they went out to sell the book to publishers. They were rejected by 26 said companies (again, thanks Wikipedia) before deciding to create their own company. With a $200 marketing budget and a word-of-mouth campaign, the book became the number one trade paperback fiction best-seller in 2008. While working Sundays at Borders, the after-church crowd would come through my line to purchase this book. Sunday was also a big day for porn purchases (yes, from the same crowd).

That leaves us with E.L. James. That's Erika Leonard's pseudonym. She began by writing fan fiction using yet another name: Snowqueens Icedragon. Her "Twilight" fan fiction grew into her  erotic trilogy: "Fifty Shades of Grey", "Fifty Shades Darker" and "Fifty Shades Freed", and sales of grey ties soared worldwide. My Barnes and Noble sold out of the first book the first day having only recieved a few copies; who knew? Certainly not the publisher because they had to go into a second printing of said first book and women everywhere had to wait impatiently for about three weeks for the next shipment.  I have never experienced anything like the phenomena of this series. Women of all ages are still coming in for this book and reading it in broad daylight (10 million copies sold!). It's a sado-masochistic book and grandma's are reading it! I am sure their men--and the men of all the women who are reading it--are reaping the benefits of this book. And yes, the movie rights have been sold.

So, dear readers, that leads me to list some authors that I think deserve a word-of-mouth shout-out:

1. Jasper Fforde If you want to read something imaginative, funny, and intelligent (meaning, he doesn't insult the reader's intelligence), you have got to read his "Thursday Next" series. Beginning with the book "The Eyre Affair", this series brings you into The Book World: a place where fictional characters move in and out of books and monitor all things fiction and non-fiction. Let the word plays roll!
2. Carlos Ruiz Zafon The third book of his trilogy is not being published in the US until July! I have been waiting forever. The books--in order--are "The Shadow of the Wind", "The Angel's Game" and "The Prisoner of Heaven". His books are a book inside of a book about a book. The first book is set in 1950's Barcelona. A little boy is taken to a place underneath Barcelona where books have been hidden to protect them from being destroyed and/or forgotten (this is during Fascism in Spain). He is told to pick one book from the -illions that he comes across; this is the book he will be responsible for. He chooses the book "The Shadow of the Wind" and becomes curious about the author, who is trying to burn every copy of his own book.
3. Wilkie Collins Mr. Collins was a contemporary and collaborator of Charles Dickens. I became interested in him after slogging through the book "Drood" by Dan Simmons. In Mr. Simmons book, Wilkie Collins is a dope fiend and very jealous of Charles Dickens. I read Mr. Collins' book "The Lady in White" and will eventually be reading "Moonstone". His writing style is much more accessible than Dickens and is one of the few Victorian writers that I will read a second or third time.

So, dear readers, do you have any word-of-mouth authors you'd like to share?

Being Left-Handed

"I'm used to being in the minority. I'm a left-handed gay Jew. I've never felt, automatically, a member of any majority."
Barney Frank

I'm not gay--I think-- and I am not Jewish. But I am a left-handed girl of Sicilian and Polish descent. So, growing up hearing jokes and jibes about  stupid pollocks and dagos in the mafia (these words are demeaning and used for purposes of shock and awe; please NEVER EVER use them),  I think that somewhat like Barney Frank, I also have never automatically felt like a member of any majority.

Being left-handed has influenced my life in many ways. As a child, I conformed to my right-handed family and suffered the excruciating difficulties of learning to write and tie my shoes. I was re-taught to throw with my right hand so I could use my brother's mitt; I blaim this forced-conversion to my inability to aim. In school--and at home--I used right-handed scissors and was labelled as a messy student because I couldn't cut straight. My friend Linda and I were the only lefties in our grade and we were put in the back of the class to teach ourselves penmanship. My papers and hand were always smeared with ink. Unlike Linda, I never perfected the left-hand-rainbow-writing-technique.

As a musician it has come in handy. I have a very strong left hand which my piano teacher just loved. While my peers were playing pretty little pieces composed for long, slender and delicate hands, I was wowing the crowds with thunderous pieces that fit my short, stubby and powerful left hand and equally independent and strong right hand. 

When I was around ten-years-old, my grandmother found out I was left-handed. She had a few issues with the whole southpaw population: she threw herself on the floor, clawed at her face, and said some things in Sicilian that I am pretty sure were not in praise of my uniqueness. Family rumor has it that she stopped her sister from emigrating by telling her they don't allow lefties in America. Now here was the spawn of her daughter. Patty: the personification of evil. There is some justice in that; maybe I was made this way just for that moment, scary as it was. Vindication for my aunt alone and forgotten in Sicily!

And that is how she and others had--and still have--viewed anything left-handed. What brought about this preoccupation with a person's dominant handedness? Let's read some of the superstitions and folklore.

1. The devil is associated with the left hand and is depicted as such in art. He baptises and greats his friends with his left hand. Be careful when you look over your left shoulder because the devil may be there. That's why we throw salt over our left shoulder; to rid the evil spirit lurking there.
2. The right hand of God is the place to be. If you are there, you are one of the sheep, one of the chosen. If you are on the left, you are a goat, one of the fallen.
3. Want to symbolize corruption, shame, or misfortune? Use imagery and words that depict left-ness (my word). Even poor Joan of Arc, as she is shown burning on the stake, was depicted as left-handed just to make sure no one forgets she was evil.
4. Because anything female is scary for men, right hand symbolises man, and left hand symbolises woman.
5. Watch it at the bar! It is bad luck to pass a drink with your left hand. Also make sure to follow a clockwise pattern.
6. Clumsy? You have two left feet. Adept at using both hands? You are ambidextrous which means you have two right hands.

 Now for some modern data.

1. Lefties are more likely to  be schizophrenic, dyslexic, or suffer from Mood Disorders and ADHD. On the positive side, lefties are more capable of divergent thinking.
Scientists think this may be because lefties are more apt to not have a dominant brain hemisphere. Because having one hemisphere is more efficient, when neither one steps up to be in charge, there is more chaos. This leads to all that stuff listed above.

ME: When I was in college, I minored in psychology. As part of this, I had to sign up for student-led experiments as part of my grade. It was almost impossible to find tests I could participate in because they needed to exclude lefties so their data would not be skewed. Why? Because of our divergent thinking! But,at least I am not dyslexic or suffer from schizophrenia...yet. However, I have been diagnosed as being ADHD and suffer from anxiety and depression. None of this is fun, BUT I have found that the way my brain works is kind of cool. I do see things differently than most people do and my lack of having any filter makes for fun times. But my brain feels like an aquarium with only one fish darting around, and that fish's name is Dory. Or, like some guy in a movie so aptly put: it's like my brain is constantly reshuffling the deck...a deck without any cards.

2. Lefties are more accident prone and apt to die earlier than righties.

 Seems we die earlier because we are clumsy. Be it in a car, on a bike or just walking we are more likely to cause mayhem. We therefore have more opportunities to die--you can knock off 9 years from our life expectancy. This may be why we are also so easily scared and more apt to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorders.  Some say it is our distorted depth perception. This world is made all upside down and backwards for us. However, there seems to be data out there that says we are not more accident prone.

ME:  The only time I ever heard my mom laugh to the point of peeing her pants was when she was telling stories about all my falls and concussions. Steps and bikes were my chosen venues although I did get one concussion by passing out and hitting my head on the outside church wall. I can attest to the above "fact" as being true. And until you are left-handed, you never realize how right-handed this world is. Yes you adapt, but every once-in-awhile you let your guard down and WHAM! you're down for the count.You see, we are always having to reverse things; add this into our problems stated in #1, it's no wonder we are always distracted.

3. Living in a right-handed world.
 Yes, it is skewed to the right.

• School supplies: Desks that make us contort and do funny things with our writing hand. And before the invention of quick-drying ink, we made a dirty smudge of our work and perminent black-ink marks on our hand. Scissors with the blades on the wrong side so we have a harder time cutting which makes our stuff look messy.
• Utensils and gadgets: ladles with built in spouts, measuring cups with the measurements written on the wrong side, manual can-openers, knives (especially serated knives), potato peelers, and try using a tape measure left handed: the numbers are all upside down and backwards.
• Eating with righties: I don't mean to make a stereotyped comment here, but my esperiences with dining with righties is that they like to take command of the entire area by sticking their elbows way way out as they eat. I eat with my elbows crammed into my sides and hunched over my plate. If any contact is made, it is usually pointed out that it is my fault because I'm a southpaw.

“Damned infernal gizmo. My kingdom for a left-handed can opener.”
Mr Burns, The Simpsons

Because we are thought of as being creative, I leave you with the words to this song found at: http://www.lefthandersday.com/lefty_lament.html

Left-Handers Lament by Ian Radburn

Now here's the story of my life,
I've had fun but lots of strife,
For I was born left-handed, but I'm proud
To be one of the elite, right-handers we can beat
We're the 10% that stand out from the crowd!
But as a little lad, oh the problems that I had
Winding clockwork toys was just a mystery
Tying laces was a pain, couldn't get it in my brain
Everything was back-to-front it seemed to me

Chorus
We're the Cack-Handed Kings, we're the LEFTIES
You right-handers just haven't got a clue
'Cos if you'd been through what we've been through
Then maybe you would feel superior too!

At 5 I started school where I was treated like a fool
Being left-handed I stood out from the pack
And learning how to write was not a struggle - more a fight
For I had my left hand tied behind my back

"Now get it in your head" the sympathetic teacher said
"You use the right and not the Devil's side"
Those supposed men of vision caused me pain and such derision
Is it any wonder often times I cried?

We're the Gibble Fisted Friends, we're the LEFTIES (repeat chorus)

Time then came when my voice dropped
And my face was one big spot
But I was glad to see my teenage years arrive,
Because I use my left, I was different from the rest
And the girls saw me as something of a prize!
I learned some handy tricks in the back row of the flicks
It used to drive my girlfriends all berserk
For their eyes would keep apace of my right hand - just in case
And they never saw my left one go to work!

We're the Southpawed Princes, we're the LEFTIES (repeat chorus)

Well I'm married now, worst luck
But my wife has given up
Asking me to help with chores like peeling spuds,
Or trying to cut the bread, I'll get a 4 x 2" wedge
Lose three fingertips and half a pint of blood
I would love to be a dad, but we've hit a little snag
If you can help please tell us what to do
The problem simply said, is that I'm a left-hand thread
But my wife you see, now she's a right-hand .....OH, YES WE'RE THE
Scrummy-Handed Heroes, we're the LEFTIES (repeat chorus)

Now we reach today, where you stand and watch me play
And yes, I play right-handed it is true
For the very simple fact is that I've had to adapt
Something all we southpaws have to try and do

We have trouble tying ties, writing cheques out, using knives
and scissors made for use in your right hand
And when it comes to sport once again we are left short
In hockey and in polo we are banned

We're the Cuddy Wifter Winners, we're the LEFTIES (repeat chorus)

Now I've finished off my song and as you move along
Please bear in mind the things I've had to say
And please show some respect for your friends who use the left
Thanks for listening to me this Left-Handers Day.  (Left-Handers Day is August 13).
Copyright: Ian Radburn, 2004

Sincerity and Dismissiveness

 There is one phrase that never fails to infuriate me: "That person has way too much time on their hands". This is usually said in response to something they have read about or seen on their computer or television that relates to anything artsy, obscure,  unconventual or odd. I embrace the artsy, the obscure, the unconventual and the odd; it is what makes us neat. It is what makes us, well, us.

We sometimes forget that everything around us that is manmade started out as an idea first--an idea that grew out of the imagination. Be it inane or sensible, it is created by human ingenuity. How fantastic! How can anyone be dismissive to that?

My favorite story about this is when George Frideric Handel composed his famous oratorio The Messiah way back in 1741.  We should all be familiar with the Hallelujah Chorus; I have put in a link where you could listen to it and read about why it is powerful:  http://www.npr.org/2008/12/23/98517850/the-pure-power-of-handels-hallelujah-chorus.

 There is that part where it just gets higher and higher and higher and higher. Well, during rehearsals, it went so high that the singers of the time could not sing it and it caused alot of people to get really pissed off at Handel. He had the audacity to go against the practices and musical conventions of the time. But that straining sound was just what he wanted; he wanted to personify the need for mankind to push and reach for God. He had a vision and a sound that he wanted: he wanted to exalt God and push our emotional buttons. And he didn't give up and no matter what your beliefs are, if you aren't moved by that piece of music, you are stone-cold and heartless.

Handel was sincere in what he was making and not only has it withstood time--almost 300 years, people--it was important to the evolution of music and culture. And he was willing to fight the egos and powers that be to maintain his integrity and sincerity. Could you imagine the piece without it?  Thank you, Mr. Handel.

So I say, HIP HIP HOORAY to all these people. People who:

1. Make movies that star Vincent Price or have names like "Donovan's Brain" and "House on Haunted Hill".
2. Make houses out of beer cans, grain bins, junk and broken glass.
3. Make art with food,  sand,  and buildings. Visit http://www.squidoo.com/oddart for some neat stuff to look at.
4. Started and run the Mutter Museum. That's the one with all the flayed human bodies.
5. Invent things and those who sacrificed for them. People like the Wright Brothers, Madam Curie, Leonardo Da Vinci, the Silly Putty guy and the Post-It Note guy.
6. Maintain the little kid inside, especially when they are really a little kid.

So, next time you experience a beautifully decorated cupcake, view art made out of books, listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, watch "Planet of the Vampires" or read Thomas Pynchon, remember that you are given a gift of someone's imagination and sincerity. You don't need to like it, but you do need appreciate the human spirit.

The Holy Library

I love books. I love their smell, their binding, and their heft in my hand. And yes, I often judge a book by its cover; some are just more interesting than others. At the end of this blog I have put in a link to a game; see if you can name the book by its cover.

This obsession with books began at a young age. In grade school, I would get all excited when the bookmobile would come, and impatiently wait outside for my turn to enter this cramped and wobbly library-on-wheels. When the Scholastic Book fliers would be handed out, I felt like I had received a catalog for Tiffany's, with each page boasting more exotic treasures than the previous. Page one:  Are you my Mother?; Frog and Toad; Velveteen Rabbit. Page two: Bread and Jam for Frances; Corduroy; Where the Wild Things Are. Page three: Caps for Sale; Little House on the Prairie; Wind in the Willows. Page four: Johnny Tremain; A Wrinkle in Time; Charlotte's Web. I'd scrape up or "borrow" enough money to buy something. But the truth is, I never read them; I just wanted them. I was a covetter.

On Saturday's, my dad would bring me to the Solon Public Library, a very sacred place to me. The doors to this brick rectangle opened into a wide hallway with display cases and bathrooms to the left. After getting a drink from the water fountain--that holy water was always satisfyingly cold!--we'd enter through the second set of doors and into the inner sanctum.

 It was like entering a Catholic Church complete with priests, altar, rituals, and contrivances.

• The Priests: Unlike those in the Pope-led Catholic Church, these priest's were women. Non-smiling women. Women who held the power. Women in polyester dresses.
• The altar and Ritual #1: Completely cut off from the congregation by a 3 foot horseshoe counter. Here you would approach the librarian with your pile of books to return either sin-free, or to ask for absolution:
•  Me: "Bless me, Librarian, for I have sinned. I have three overdue books."
• And receive penance. Librarian: "Give me fifteen cents and promise to never overdue again."
• The Contrivances:
• The Library Card: Tangible proof of your Baptismal Rite of Initiation
• The Take-Out Slip: Pocketed in the back of the book and presented during Offertory.
• Ritual # 2: The Blessing and Dismissal.

Our library was one big room with a row of tall book cases separating the kid's section from the not-kid's section. Dad would drop me off in the former and then go hang out in the latter. I can still conjure up its smells, colors, and textures. I'd go from right to left, removing books willy-nilly from the shelves based on my criteria of thier smell and cover art. Hardbacks with those plastic cover-protectors exclusive to libraries, were my favorites. I would avoid the wretched weathered and wrinkled paperbacks. My choices ranged from picture books to teen fiction. Stack in hand, I would go to the not-kid section to find my dad reading maps and reference books. When he was ready we'd go check out.

And there, at Ritual #2, I'd pull out the slips from the back of the books and use the midget pencil to inscribe my name: Patricia Krasowski. This was proof for the ages that I existed; that I was a member of this church, this denomination of readers! Although I was a poser, someone more intrigued by the accoutrement's of the religion and not its beliefs, I knew deep in my heart they understood but still accepted me. This is a very 1970's notion, by the way.

But our morning was not over:

• Ritual #3: The Tavern. After leaving the library, Dad would take me to the Tavern where we would partake of Communion. A Beer for him and Coke--in a bottle!--and pretzels for me.

PLAY THE BOOK COVER GAME!
 http://www.sporcle.com/games/g/bookcovers

The Farm

When I was a kid, Sunday usually meant a trip to The Farm. I always thought this trip took an hour-and-a-half until recently when I googled a map, traced the route and found out it was only a 45 minute drive; I had doubled the hell. Obviously, this was not a trip I looked forward to.

 I was--and am--prone to being motion sick. All you had to do was say "We are going to The Farm" for me to start sweating. We'd all pile into the car: three in back, Mom and Dad in front. As the youngest I would have to sit in the middle, the coveted window seats called for by my older brother and sister. They would make themselves comfortable--sprawl--and I was not to touch them.

Uncomfortable and crabby, I'd begin getting motion sick as soon as we backed out of the driveway. My dad would drive (insert favorite line from Mom: "You know I don't drive"). Going down hills would claim my stomach, curves took my brain, and lurches would suck out the last of my resolve. Soon, I'd have to stick my head in the paper-bag my mom had lined with a plastic bag, always at the ready (the stiffness of the paper bag made it a reliable receptacle and the plastic bag made for ease of disposal). To this day I suffer a Pavlovian response to the smell of paper bags.

The second reason was everyone on The Farm scared the shit out of me. Except for Tipper and Princess. They were the two dogs I remember the most, probably because they lasted longer than any other dogs after getting hit repeatedly by cars. They smelled really bad and had matted fur full of burrs. But they were happy, and bouncy, and Tipper would sit on me when I sat on the floor. I think they were angels sent by God. That's one of the reasons I love dogs.

My Uncle Tony and grandparents lived on The Farm. It was my uncle's farm, but my grandparents came to live with him. The story of my uncle's move to The Farm is a legend of Shakespearean proportions.

First, the legend:
ME: After much planning, Uncle Tony runs away from his home on Green Road in the dead of night. He tells his secret plans to no one except my mom. He absconds from the Cleveland home he shares with his parents, and moves to his own personal Idaho: West Farmington, Ohio, an Amish area not far from the Pennsylvanian border. A few weeks later, my grandparents show up unannounced and unwanted on his doorstep, bags in hand, and ready to move in with their forty-year-old adolescent.

Now, the damper as applied by my sister:
PAULA: They had put the house in Cleveland on the market before he moved and it was assumed that Nani and Nano--that's what we call our Sicilian grandparents--would join him later.

The truth, somewhere in the middle:
MICHAEL: Although I like my story better, I thought I'd ask my brother. Paula and I both partially right: the house in Cleveland was put on the market, but Uncle Tony was making his move for freedom which wound up being very short lived.

So back to why The Farm scared the shit out of me: Uncle Tony, Nano, and Nani.

Uncle Tony picked on me--and probably others--constantly. Yes, I was told that this was his way of showing affection, but it was mean-spirited and personal. In retrospect, I can now see he probably felt very impotent, and I don't mean in the way you may be taking it. It's just the best word I can think of to describe what he must have felt like; he never got to be the bachelor farmer he wanted to be, he never was able to sever the ties. But at age 6+, I didn't know that, and it does little to erase the sour memories and feelings of my own impotence.

Nano and Nani never really learned English. I never knew what they were saying, even when they were using English words, and I was too scared to ever approach them. I only remember Nano from after he had his stroke. He gave up on life at that point and what I remember the most is him in his wheelchair reading the newspaper and saying he was going to die. Nani had some mental issues. When she found out I was left-handed, she threw herself to the ground and began flailing, speaking gibberish, and clutching at her hair and face (I later learned she told her left-handed sister back in Sicily that they didn't allow left-handed people in America). I also have memories of her killing chickens--for food, not demonic reasons--in the yard, and me helping her make sausage  in the dark, damp, and smelly basement.

There were some things that were fun about visiting The Farm:

• The hay loft in the barn
• Picking berries in the fields behind The Farm
• A fleeting memory of a free-wheeling jeep trip in the mud 
• The man-made pond behind the new house (the original home was a century home and was moved; very cool) which we called The Lake
• My dad taking me to the general store in town to buy an Archie comic book and sample Baby-Swiss cheese

I also remember some quirky things:

• Helping Nani feed the sheets through the mangler: a hand-cranked machine with rollers to remove water and eat fingers
• Ice that tasted like Romano cheese
• Undrinkable water because of the iron content
• The cookie drawer with ginger snaps in brown paper bags and Archway molasses and windmill cookies
• The dining room table's pedestal that was carved like a lion (this is where the left-handed incident took place)
• Nani's collection of 1930's  ceramic lady heads
• The train track and late night trains

When the visit was over, we would return home. I would get car-sick the minute the car left the gravel driveway. I'd always look for Mosquito Lake because I thought this meant we were almost home, only to be repeatedly reminded by everyone in the car that we weren't. The same hills, curves, and lurches would attack me and I would be handed another Mom-made barf bag. Soon, I would desperately crave something salty and potato-ee. So when we got home, I'd lay on the couch with my head and stomach swirling, and my dear sweet, dad would go to McDonald's--we never ate at McDonald's!--and get me french fries. Dad was an angel sent by God. That's one reason why I love my dad.

You may be wondering why I call it "The Farm". Well, that was what we all called it, caps included. It was like an institution, an historic site. A place that really didn't belong to us, but we belonged to it. I wonder if this is what Uncle Tony felt.

Why, Oh Why, do I Listen to NPR?

I listen to NPR every morning on my way to work. I love the blend of stories and news as well as the incidental music and sound effects. Don't you enjoy listening to the sounds of the wind and walking that accompany many of their stories? Even the names of their reporters are eclectic, exotic, and musical: Lakshmi Singh, Soraya Sarhaddi Nelson, Andrei Codrescu, Rene Montagne, Korva Coleman and Mara Liasson, just to name a few.

But every once-in-awhile, they report a story about something I never heard of or dreamt of, and I get all steamed up. That is what happened to me this morning. The story was about virginity tests of Egyptian women who were arrested for protesting in Cairo.

To paraphrase: Seven detained women were brought into a room populated by a doctor and several inappropriate and unnecessary male soldiers. They were stripped and penetrated by some unnamed object to see if their hymens bled. The reason it was reported is that these women came forward and the case was brought before the military court which--you guessed it--found no wrong doing. The ruling  basically said it never happened. To read more, please visit: http://www.npr.org/2012/03/29/149547892/egyptian-activists-push-to-end-military-trials

Reality-check time: a test like this can be accurate. Normal physical activity,day to day living, and tampon use can break a hymen. Also, not all women are born with one. And besides being degrading, it's illegal in many countries and IS CONSIDERED A HUMAN RIGHTS VIOLATION BY AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL.
 
There aseems to be three main reasons the testing is done:

1.  Prevention of disease and pregnancy The logic is that if a girl has a hymen, she is not able to spread HIV or be pregnant. If you are a cynic--like me--you may see this as a way for some men to find little girls to have sex with or to sell into sex-slavery.
2.  Royal Affirmation One must be a virgin and be certified to dance before the king.
3. Immigration Until 1979, the United Kingdom still did these tests. The logic is virgins were more likely to tell the truth about why they wanted to live in the UK.

So what were these Egyptian guys looking for with the virginity test? I couldn't find the answer. Nor was I able to find out:

1. What would be done with the information? Do they receive stiffer sentencing if  there is no blood?
2. Do  the women received any documantation as to their virginal status? For example,if they were able to cause a woman to bleed, does she receive a certificate of authenticity?
3. How often can you test a girl? And will this give her a pass on any other virginity testing she may be subjected to in the future?
4.  What are the age parameters? If a girl of 12 doesn't pass, do they use the information to investigate for possible rape?

The NPR article only stated that it's a remnant of the past. Again, the cynic in me is sure it is done for some very sick and private reasons on the men's--ahem--part.

 Here are some other examples of the ways girls and women are abused:

• Rape
• Sex Trafficking
• Genital Mutilation
• Dowry Deaths
• Honor Killings
• Forced Sterilization
• Femicide (killing female babies)
• Early and forced Marriages
• Maltreatment of Widows

Please read the following for more information on violence against women:
http://www.humanrightsimpact.org/fileadmin/hria_resources/R4C/Mapping_VAW.pdf

In the USA, we don't think this happens because this all sounds extreme. However, our culture has become so inured and desensitized that we don't give it a second thought. But there are many ways a culture can abuse its girls and women.

Some timely and relevant examples that are a less exotic:

• The male dominated decision making concerning women and our "issues".
• Sexualization of little girls
• Violence against women in movies, television, games
• Verbal assaults 

So, NPR, thanks alot for bringing all this reality to me. I should have stuck with listening to my oldies station.

Happy, Smiley, Shiny Things

I wish certain words and phrases would just go away. These are banal, insulting, trite words like:
             
Baby Mama                                       24/7   

                                Have a good one                Sperm Donor

                                                             Bitch                                                  Whatever     Closure                                                                      Literally
                                                                                                         Baby Bump
                       Uber                                      Hypocrite
                                 

 Other words and phrases should be said more often. These are happy, smiley, shiny words like:

       Thank you                                             I love you
                         Marshmallow
                                                                       Sorry                You're welcome

Lemur                                                         Can I help you?    
                                              Serendipity                 conundrum

But some of my most favorite words are the ones I grew up with. These are cultural, made up, mispronounced words like:

Snudik   A piece of string. Used as a term of endearment and for talking about a piece of string.
Sentence: Excuse me, sir, but there is a snudik on your pants.

Bacowsa A word I thought was Sicilian for bathroom, but was really my grandfather's thickly accented English. He was saying "Back of the House", which meant the outhouse behind the house. That was what he would say to indicate the bathroom, so I guess it's not too far off.
Sentence: Excuse me, sir, but can you point me to the bacowsa?   
 
Prutt  This is an actual Swedish word. It means fart. Take THAT you disbelievers.
Sentence: Excuse me, sir, but did you just prutt?

There are so many more, but I will leave you with this last one:
Schatzi Treasure. Used in our family as a term of endearment, and most often my Aunt Sophie.

Her Sentence: Eat, schatzi, eat.
                                



E

It Doesn't take Much to Embarass a Daughter

I honestly can think of only one time my mom embarrassed me in public. I was a sophomore  at college and my parents had come down to UD to bring me back home for the summer. Some friends of mine--who happened to be males--helped load my car. When they were done and we were ready to leave, my mom gave them hugs and kisses. My mom was never a spontaneous or demonstrative person and this was too much! She barely gave me hugs and kisses. What was she doing?

Well, I now have two girls of my own, both sophomores: one in high school and one in college. I am twelve years younger than my mom was when I was a sophomore at college and I now know what it was all about: my mom was getting herself some sugar from a few young men.

When you become a certain age, you can do things that you never would have thought of doing in public when you were younger AND GET AWAY WITH IT... unless your daughters are with you. Well, you still get away with it, but you have to listen to your daughters tell you that they are so embarrassed.

I don't go out of my way to do this. I take after my dad who could--and would--talk to anyone he came across. We just can't help it. If you make eye contact with us or say hi, we take this you being open to our friendly advances.  I also don't have a working filter: if it enters my head, it will come out my mouth. I can pretty much go up to anybody and start talking. And now that I am a married old woman, I flirt...alot. I am no longer tongue-tied around men no matter their age or level of hotness.*

I know I am oblivious, but I don't think too many people are that put off by me. In fact, I think people can sense that I mean no harm. I am here to make contact and do good. And sometimes--actually many, many times--people reciprocate. Especially old men shopping with their wives. Those guys are worst than me!

Although my girls say it has embarrassed them, it has also come in handy. Like when we needed help moving Leanne's mini-fridge into her dorm room. We were lucky enough to have a very fit/muscular young man come our way. I asked, he said yes, and we got the mini-fridge up two flights of stairs and to her room. I made sure to stay with him to open doors and keep him safe. Along the way, I learned his name, that he was taking some time off before starting grad school out of state, and that he used to play football. Too bad he already had a girlfriend because he was a very nice young man.

And yes, I have actually told a very nice young man that he was "a very nice young man". I may have done it more than just this once, but there is one Leanne remembers the most. It may have been a contributing factor to her not choosing to attend that particular college.

I do try to temper my actions and speech in public, but my girls don't believe me. I am just not as hyper-aware as they are. Leanne is old enough to not care as much, but I know it is not easy when I:

• Sing and dance in public
• Get distracted by bright and shiny things
• Talk loudly everywhere
• Think out loud in front of strangers
• Argue with myself in front of strangers
• Misbehave and get giggle fits in solemn places and situations
• Find sexual innuendo in almost everything
• Write a blog entry about showering with Christopher Meloni 
• Knock things over with my errant right hand**

Will they embarrass their kids? They'd better. When you get become a mom--or a dad--it's the one thing that gives you happiness. I think it's good to teach your children not to take themselves so seriously. I also think of it as training to prepare them for when I become really old and do some of the things my mom did in her latter years. Things like touching items at the art museum and gleefully exclaiming in a public restroom that she was finally able to poop.

Yes, I think my girls will be great parents to me when I become older.

*Well, there was that one time when I was working at Borders and I helped this guy that took my breathe away and I am pretty sure I just giggled.

**As I finished typing this line, I knocked over my lemonade with my errant right hand. Luckily I spilled it mostly on my pants.

I Dreamt I took a Shower with Christopher Meloni

Saturday night I dreamt that I took a shower with Christopher Meloni. So on Sunday,  I shaved my legs..and my armpits. I also grated the dead skin off of my heals, Vaselined my feet, and wore socks. All of this just in case he showed up in my Sunday night dreams. 

My PG-13 dream? There I am, in the shower, when I feel something warm and muscular and hairy on my back. I turn and see him; that manly man best known for Law and Order:SVU, and Oz--a show where he had appeared naked a few times, even in the shower! And that is when I wake up.

My dreams never get me to the good part. Usually, I experience a What the hell is this! moment of clarity and wake up.  Why did he invade my subconscious? I haven't thought of him or seen him on TV lately and here he is. Why now? And why do I have to be naked and under fluorescent lighting? Can't it be somewhere where it is dark? Maybe a moonlit beach with me in a white dress, and him dressed any damn way he pleases.

This dream I put into the "Parkway Drive" dream series because it takes place in my childhood home. Some of my dreams take place here, but mostly my dreams take place at school--any school--where I haven't been all semester and I can't find a bathroom, and I am in my pajamas.

In my Christopher Meloni dream, I am in the upstairs bathroom taking a shower. There was never a shower in this bathroom and usually when I have a shower scene in a dream, I am in the little recess that had shelves; I am also fully clothed. But now the shelves are gone and I am taking a shower naked as a 40-something jaybird. And the whole bathroom is being showered on and I am standing on my bed because now the shower is over my bed.

But in this adapted scene, I am in this bathroom taking a shower but the shower is now in the middle of the bathroom and I see that adjacent to this is a bathtub and I say to myself, When did Dad put in that bathtub? That must make it easier for the twins. That is when I notice Christopher Meloni and I wake up.

When next I went to bed, I thought the best way to get him back in my dream was to think of him--and only him--as I went to sleep. So Sunday I tried to make up stories with both of us in them. However, I couldn't find a logical way to get us together into a plausible situation. I couldn't work out any reason we would be together, even if he just happened to be  some really manly man I chanced apon that looked alot like Christopher Meloni. I must have fallen asleep while trying to work this out and was disappointed to awaken the next morning without him... in my dream that is.

On Monday I decided I didn't dream of him for two reasons: I had worried too much about my bedtime story and I should have looked at pictures of him to get a visual fix. So I googled "images of Christopher Meloni". The first seven pictures can be categorized like this:

1. Head shot' face only
2. HALF-NAKED upper body; lying on his stomach, showing a tattooed and muscular shoulder. On a bed
3. Head shot, wearing a suit
4. SHOWER SCENE
5. HALF-NAKED  Upper body; lying on his back. On a bed
6. Head shot, face only
7. HALF- NAKED Same as picture #2 except you see more of him, like the swell of his covered butt

Armed with the the appropriate visual stimuli, I went to bed and told myself this story:

One day, Christopher Meloni toiled and sweated alot. He sweated so much that he had to take off his shirt. He was working hard at manly things like cutting down trees and building a boat. When he got home he was very, very dirty because he had worked hard doing manly things. So he took a shower. In the shower he thought about this woman he has always thought was out there but had never met. He had always felt an empty spot in his heart, one that only this woman could possibly fill. She would be his soul mate, and her name was most likely Patty. But he would call her Patricia.

Too distraught to get fully dressed, he goes to bed half naked and stares off into space wondering about her. He thinks of her as he falls asleep and in the morning he remembers a dream he had about a woman in a shower...

I did not dream of him last night but I hope tonight I will.

Just a List of Books I Like, Part I; Tell me Yours

Today I give you Part I of my list of books I really, really like-- just like the title tells you. There is no particular reasoning to the ordering of this list. I look forward to comments.

1. Lamb by Christopher Moore   In this book, we learn about Jesus's missing years. What was he doing all those years? Well, according to Mr. Moore, he was travelling with his friend Bif in search of the three wise men who visited him at his birth. He hopes they will tell him what God has in mind for him since God won't give him a straight answer.
2. Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte   Everyone is familiar with this Gothic tale but as my family knows from having to listen to my diatribes, most people do not appear to get what Ms. Bronte was trying to get across in this book. Jane is the anti-heroine, having nothing in common with any of those shrinking violets of her time. She is not very nice to my Mr. Rochester and even at the end she plays mean psychological games with him. Great book.
3. When will There be Good News ? by Kate Atkinson  The third of her books to feature Jackson Brodie. I just love how she brings together the three seemingly unrelated characters and their stories. She does this with great storytelling and characters.What's it about? Well, hard to say but it fits into mystery/literature.  Case Histories and One Good Turn  are excellent as well.
4. The Comfort of Strangers by Ian McEwan A young couple from England are on holiday in an unnamed city somewhere in Europe, most likely Italy. While lost, they meet up with Robert who eventually brings them to his bar and later offers them friendship. They wake up naked  in what they eventually find out is the home he shares with his wife, Caroline. Instead of thinking there is something really fishy going on, they get drawn into the sadistic nature of Robert and Caroline. Their passivity really pisses me off and that is why this is a favorite of mine.
5. Misery by Stephen King One of the few books I have liked by him and what makes it so scary is that it is so believable. Annie Wilkes saves her favorite author--Paul Sheldon-- after he crashes his car. Instead of bringing him to a hospital, she decides to nurse him at her home. He is the writer of a series of books featuring the heroine named Misery. She is unhappy that he has decided to kill her off and insists that he write a new book that brings her back to life. Through the process, she does all kinds of sadistic things to him while he comes back to life by finding his long lost joy for writing.

Making Babies

After conducting comprehensive and  exhaustive research--google searches, reading my John Hopkins's Family Health Book, hands on activities--this writer  has come to accept the following as an irrefutable fact:

SPERM --> EGG = BABY

Without the sperm entering the egg, there is no possibility of making a baby.*

So I asked myself: Why is it such a controversial and mysterious thing? Am I the first to realize this? Why hasn't this been addressed? Why is this the most pressing issue for my country's presidential candidates and my Catholic Church/Pope--both of which are very patriarchal and overly concerned about the bodies of women? Isn't this just biology?

According to my research, boys are the makers, carriers, and the deliverers of sperm. They carry and control the key that unlocks the door to making a life.** When this sperm is inside of the bodies of boys, the eggs of girls are safe from being fertilized. The girl is taken out of the equation and our patriarchs can rest easy. It is once these persistent little buggers get sent out into the world like a frenzied mob and sniff out a girl that our eggs become the prey of the sperm's prime directive to propagate the species. If they are kept away, biological mutations won't occur.

THE ANSWER: MALE AND/OR SPERM QUARANTINE

Think of it this way. Mary Mallon, AKA Typhoid Mary, is thought to have infected at least 53 people with typhoid. It is safe to say, some of those 53 people were men.  For public safety, she was forcibly quarantined--twice.***

Or this way. During the Black Plague, religiously frenzied men self-flagellated****  their way through the streets spraying their blood, saliva, sweat and skin all over the walls, streets and people. One man could be responsible for the death of an entire city. Entire cities.*****

Now let's apply this to baby making:

SPERM-->EGG = FERTILIZATION WHICH LEADS TO CELL MUTATION AND EVENTUALLY A BABY INSIDE OF A WOMAN

INCUBATING WOMAN= 9 monthes--about 270 days--of egg mutation. Therefore, one womb of baby output, one incubator out of commision.

 MAN=270 days of sperm shooting. Therefore, a man is capable of epidemic proportions of egg fertilizing: at least 270 eggs; more if he makes it an hourly profession. Even more if he is young, virile, and willing.

WHICH SHOULD WE BE CONCERNED ABOUT?

Therefore, if we quarantined men--like we did Mary Mallon--our public would be much safer. But how do we quarantine men? They're everywhere and have a very vocal and powerful lobby--including but not limited to those mentioned in paragraph two. I don't think they will go for it. But they can do the following:

FIND A WAY TO KEEP THEIR SPERMS FROM MEETING AN EGG.

My research--which included field trips to Target, Kroger, and CVS--found these things called condoms which come in all sizes, shapes, colors and flavors. Go online, and order them delivered right to your door. No embarassment at checkout. You can put them discretely in your pocket, wallet, glove compartment, nightstand, or shoe. I think a boy/man can handle this.

Therefore, if sperm is quarantined, men won't have to be quarantined.

If sperm is quarantined, women won't have to take the pill or any other form of contraception.

If women do not have to use contraception, presidential candidates and the Pope will not have to worry about it.

AND

IF THE SPERM MEETS AN EGG AND FERTILIZES THE EGG, THE SPERM DELIVERER NEEDS TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE ACTIONS OF HIS SPERM.

Kind of like when your dog bites someone or your car is involved in an accident or your kid punches someone or you yell FIRE! in a crowded theatre.

Therefore, if  the sperm does not fertilize the egg, girls and women will not become incubators.

When girls and women do not become incubators, they will not seek out abortions.

If women do not have abortions, presidential candidates and the Pope will have nothing to worry about.

With these out of the way, we would be able to concentrate on more important issues; those that a presidential hopeful or Pope could/should address. We won't have to fixate on the parts of women hidden from male view. We will realize these parts are not unruly children to be controlled by laws or demons to be expelled by priests. We would be able to look a little higher: our eyes and our brains are up here and we are able to think for ourselves.

 And our society as a whole can stop getting distracted by the next sound bite and quit convincing ourselves that a candidate or religious leader can control or do any of the stuff they say they can control or do. And as men--which the majority of them are--they would do best to control themselves which would make all of this a moot point.

ASTERICKED THINGS

*Cloning and anything else that you may think of that is either science fiction or otherwise does not count. Even in a petry dish, the sperm gets inside the egg.

**Sometimes this sperm is expiated without the need of another living human being and, to quote David Bowie, "Falls wanking to the floor."

***She died after nearly three decades altogether in isolation.

****Flagellate: to whip or beat with whips, rods, or any other item one wishes. To self-flagellate, you do it to yourself. Akin to asterick**

*****Granted, they didn't know at the time that this was part of the problem, however, someone had to have thought it wasn't a good idea. That, improper sewage removal and overall icky living conditions.

Grade School

I recently decided to try to find at least one memory for each of my grade-school years. I was surprised to find I had alot more than I thought. Please travel with me as I relive the parts of my grade school youth that I can remember.

Kindergarten That's my Kindergarten picture I use for my blog
I went to Roxbury for Kindergarten. I was in the morning class and the girl who became my bestest friend--Linda Gries-- was in the afternoon class. We got to know each other because we shared the same cubby. What serendipity!

In Kindergarten, we got milk--chocolate milk--in little cardboard milk cartons. We used laddie pencils--blue, fat pencils made for chubby and inexperienced hands.

I read Dr. Seuss's Are you my Mother for the class. I remember this distinctly because I am pretty sure I was faking it.

One day we pretended to take a train ride. I brought my shiny, red suitcase with the black straps and metal corners to school. I had to remove all the dolls that lived in there for this occasion. The days before this, we had colored a large backdrop to look like the inside of a train and made rows with the chairs. We got on the train with our luggage and went for a ride. I remember us bumping along to our trip to nowhere.

On Halloween, our teacher went into a room and never came back. Instead, a witch came out. She did something to our teacher and I cried.

First Grade
I went to St. Rita Catholic School for grades one through eight. There were about 40 kids in each grade and they were the nucleus of my grade school experience. Linda went to St. Rita too, but we were very rarely in the same home room. We wore uniforms: jumper, white shirt, saddle shoes, and knee socks for the girls; blue shirts and blue pants for the boys. Girls who cared also wore shorts under their skirts for the obvious reasons. I wore rubber bands to hold up my socks.

My teacher was Sister Mary Elizabeth Seton and she was young, sweet and pretty. I found out that she left the convent and got married. She had beautiful handwriting and in my report card she wrote that I needed to read and talk more (be careful what you ask for).

There was this girl in my class named Dawn. She had a hat with ear flaps; I thought--and still think--this was cool. One day, as we ate our lunches at our desks, she fell backwards--desk and all--and began laughing. She laughed so hard, milk came out her nose.

Second Grade
Second grade is where I began to notice I was the younger sister of either Michael or Paula. I say either because the one-sided conversation between the teacher and me went like this:
           "Oh! You're Paula's sister!"
           "Oh....you're Michael's sister."

I don't think Ms. Meck was my homeroom teacher, but she belonged to team Michael. In Michael's defense, I was glad she didn't like him; she was mean.

This was the year we began penmanship. Linda was in my homeroom. We were the only lefties and were made to sit in the back of the class to teach ourselves. Linda had that curvy-wristed style many lefties have: the kind where the arm and hand eclipse the words from above. I had the whatever-I-felt-like-that-day style; the kind that usually smeared my printing.

I think this was the year Mike Sedlak tripped me during a very violent yet satisfying game of dodge ball. I landed eyebrow first into a voting machine (they were stored where we had gym class). After being told I was bleeding all over the place, I was sent to the "nurse". the room had a framed collection of butterflies on the wall; I felt bad for those pinned-butterflies. It was decided no stitches were necessary, just a butterfly bandage. I still have the scar.

Third Grade
Third grade moved us to the top floor of the building. There were only four classrooms for each floor--two for each grade level. Mrs. Swansiger was my teacher. I think she belonged to team Paula. It was a good year.

We would play the Catholic version of "Mother may I" on the steps: the top step was heaven, followed by purgatory, limbo, and hell. If God/Mother got you down to hell, you would be chased. If caught, you stayed in hell.

One morning, while waiting in line outside, Jim Leffel put a big, fat worm in my hair.

On the last day of school, Mrs. Swansiger performed witchcraft and told us our futures. She told me I would become a third grade teacher (I did eventually teach music to third graders).

I think this was the year I broke Linda's front tooth when I tagged her way too hard and pushed her into the building.

Fourth Grade
My teacher that year was a nun with a man's name. She kept mint melt-aways on her desk that she let us help ourselves to.

That year, we learned the Blue Danube Waltz. My mom made me a dress that I think was the same dress I wore for the bi-centennial; it eventually got shortened into a regular dress. It had a light blue long skirt and a white and blue eyelet bodice. I had to dance with Richard Toth. This meant his hands would be on my hips and my hands on his shoulders with enough room for God to fit between us comfortably. We went to someplace and danced on a stage.

One day, someone stole something from somebody's desk. We were made to stand outside in the hallway and take turns going into the classroom. If we were the thief, we were to put that item on the teacher's desk. This was all done to maintain annonymity. I don't remember if the item was returned, but whenever someone came out of the classroom we would ask if there was anything on the teacher's desk.

This was our last year in the "small building." For grades five through eight we would go to the building across the street. We were all afraid because we were told to beware of Sister Mary Monster.

Fifth Grade
We were now in the "big building", which was about the same size as the "small building" only newer. We were on the top floor. I think these four years were not good for me and I have blotted most of it out. I think these were four years of hell.

The metric system was pushed hard by Sister Mary Monster because we were told that in ten years the country would be converting to it.

Mark Korkowski kept hitting me on the head with books. Bob Graham told me that it was because he liked me. I liked Herb Giesler. One day we got in trouble for talking during the Pledge of Allegiance. Our punishment was to write out the pledge one billion times. I couldn't remember the words and had  to place my hand over my hear to recite it. That was the first time in my life being left handed played in my favor. In high school I saw Herb waiting for the bus that would take him to Channel, the all-boy Catholic school. He was beautiful.

Sixth Grade
In English class, we made our own magazines. I remember having a cartoon/joke section that contained things related to college football such as the orange bowl and cotton bowl. These had oranges and cotton balls bowling.

We got measured for new uniforms that year. These consisted of a skirt and vest instead of the jumper. I remember the nuns having girls kneel to make sure the hems reached the floor (some girls rolled up the waistbands of their skirts to shorten their hems).

It was at this time that my friend Mary got her period. She, Linda and I were in the bathroom when Mary's head popped up from behind a stall door and she told us she got her period. Mary was very tall and this image has been burned into my memory. I stayed with her while Linda went to get help from a teacher. A very long time later she finally came back. She had gone to a nun who told her she had to go to the convent to get a pad. Linda walked to the convent only to be told she need a dime/quarter to pay for the pad. Linda walked back from the convent and told a lay teacher. She gave Linda the money. Linda walked back to the convent, got the pad, and came back. We got in trouble for being late to class.

Seventh Grade
I think this was the year Rita Ternai, Carol Gendre and I began playing guitar for our school masses. Yes, my first playing gig. We went to church at least one a week. I remember waiting in line for confession and noticing how long kids were taking in the confessional. Feeling bad that I thought I was too good to sin, I made up sins for the priest. Yes, I lied in the confessional, but was probably absolved by saying my ten Our Father's and five Hail Mary's.

Shawn and Kathy were seen committing PDA: holding hands in the hall. They separated us by boys and girls and gave us "The Talk". That year we also went to the Health Museum to get more of "The Talk". I say we were pretty progressive.


Eight Grade
Last year before high school. Many of us would be going to Solon High school. To prepare us, we did alot of sentence diagramming on butcher paper, and alot of math. Mrs. Benlak was the math teacher. I blame her for all my high school problems with math.

Sister Mary Monster died that year after suffering--and I do mean suffering--from liver cancer. In life, she had been a very large woman. In death, she was nothing more than skin and bones. They had a school funeral service for her. I later went to confession and told the priest all the bad thoughts I had about her. He was kind; I think there were any of us confessing the same thimg that day.

We had a picnic at the end of the year at a park. We got to wear regular clothes. I had no regular clothes only play or church clothes. It was not fun for me. I was to get some kind of award--awards chosen by the alpha members of our grade-- but it must have been mean-spirited because Linda found out and obliterated the words.


I recently went through my grade school yearbook from eight grade. I had cut out the pictures and name of some boy that I no longer remember. I had to ask Linda; she remembered. She told me he was mean to me during those years. I already forgot his name. I also asked Linda what was written on that award and she of the steel memory told me she forgot. That is why Linda was--and will always be--my bestest friend.

Things I have Observed while Working Retail

As some of you may know, I work at a bookstore and what I like the most about my job is that I work with some really great people and I get to meet some really great people. It's like a family with a whole bunch of dysfunctional people. I LOVE IT! AND HATE IT! Some days I'm bookside and other days I'm at the cafe serving up froo-froo beverages to the masses. Each has its own set of advantages/dis-advantages and good points/bad points. And if I was asked to give examples, there is only one thing that fits all of the above mentioned categories: people.

So what have I observed while working retail?

1. Alot of people shop while drunk or high and  then buy weird things

• There seems to be a transportation system out there that takes "discharged" patients from area hospitals and drop them off at the bookstore. These people have little money--mostly change-- and must call their mom/girlfriend to pick them up. So you let them use the phone, and you watch them push a whole bunch of random numbers. And they say to you "Dude, there's something wrong with your phone." So you say let me try and you dial the number for them and they talk to said mom/girlfriend and when they hang up, they tell you that said mom/girlfriend will be picking them up and to let them know when they get there. They then wander around and find weird things to buy like a globe, a bargain book about crocheting (for their mom/girlfriend) and a porno magazine. They make their purchase and continue to wander the store before going into the bathroom and then passing out in a chair (WARNING:NEVER SIT IN AN UPHOLSTERED CHAIR AT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSTORE).
• Some get the munchies so they make their way to the cafe where they try to order a beverage and a whole bunch of things from the bake case. As they go through their pockets for change--never any bills--they explain their drink: "Dude (I am always a dude), I want one of those drinks with that coffee stuff and milk. I like it when it's hot and has some flavor that is kinda sweet. But I don't like really sweet." As he tries to talk and search his pockets for money, he gets distracted. "Dude, I just got out of the hospital--I was in an accident at work. They gave me some wicked meds and they're making me sick. I'll be right back." He leaves his change there on the counter, which you move to the side. About 20 minutes later he comes back and, searching his pockets for change, he tries to explain his drink: "Dude, I want one of those drinks with that coffee stuff and milk. I like it..." At this point he frantically turn his pockets inside-out. "Dude! Someone stole my money!"
• Some come in with gift cards. They hand you their books and gift cards. They are unable to look at you, their eyes are all weird and bloodshot. This one makes you nervous. He's buying a couple math books, not math workbooks but books about math; deep, multi-syllabic math. He hands you his gift cards. There is money remaining on the second gift card so you hand it back to him. You ask him if he wants a bag (Yes, we have to ask that). "Dude, I don't need a bag. I'm really smart." O-kay.  I'll put your receipt in the front of this book. "Dude, I don't need a receipt. I'm really smart." He then takes his gift card and with the dexterity of the palsied, he begins swiping his gift card along the spine of one of his books. Eventually he puts the card in his pocket and begins to walk away. He stops, turns, and walks back. He removes the receipt, crumples it and throws it at you.

2.  Some self-involved parents are way too uninvolved as parents

• You are hanging out at the information desk like you're not supposed to, when a little boy ( I mean little, like 4 or 5-years-old) comes up to you and hands you a book. He says, "I left the store with this and my mommy told me to bring it back." You look all over for said parent and find both parents outside smoking. Beyond a reason of  doubt you are 100% sure these are the parents and that you have not handed this child to any stranger (although you begin to think the child may be better off with a different set of parents). You relay this story through the bookstore gossip chain and a co-worker comes up and tells you that those parents were out there smoking when he went out to take a smoke during his break OVER AN HOUR AGO. They had sent the child in the store while they stayed outside to smoke and they had never come into the store.
• You look at the schedule and find out you have the dreaded store-recovery task: the kid's department. It is 10:45 pm and the manager has announced that the store will be closing in 15 glorious minutes. So you go to begin your recovery. You hate this because it is Saturday, and although you have been going back there all night, it is a pigsty. The kind that makes you cry in despair for the decline of humanity.You see a little boy (different little boy than the previous story) this one obviously no older than 2; he's playing at the Thomas the Train table. You look around for the parent, but there are no adults. In fact the only adults are those regulars who have to hang out in the cafe until the very last minute. You don't want to leave the child, so you stay close by and straighten around him. After five minutes (yes, I looked at my watch) you call your manager (maybe I should have done this sooner; leave me alone. I was flabbergasted). That is when the mother comes out of the restroom with another child. You give her your evil-eye-death-stare which has no impact. You say, "Ma'am, the store is about to close and I kept an eye on your son for you." With a huff she explains "My daughter had to use the restroom. What do you expect me to do? Take him with me?" Yes, lady, that is exactly what I expect you to do.
• It is Sunday, the day when some families go to church and then to the bookstore, leaving everything they learned back at church. They take their children, drinks, and baked goods back to the kid's section. Mom and dad take turns going to the sections they like: mom to romance or cooking (sorry, this may sound sexist but when I clean up after them, those are the books I have to re-shelf) and dad to the magazines (Porn included. This really bothers me: you just came from church and your family is with you! Take a day off!). As they sip their fancy coffee beverages, their soy-milked and sugared-up wee ones tear apart the section, and I mean tear apart. They rip up books, empty boxed games, and climb displays (ALERT/DISCLAIMER: NOT ALL KIDS, JUST A NOTICEABLE MAJORITY). And then they leave.

3.  People like to complain As I write what appears to be complaining, I choose this as my last category. What do people like to complain about?

• Waiting in line. They are the third person in line and you see them doing the impatient dance (shifting weight, looking at watch/cell phone, harrumphing, etc). The people in front of them did the same thing. And just like the people in front of them, the third person in line will complain about waiting while we all wait for them to find their money/credit card/checkbook, change their mind, and ask you to look up a book for them. Which will then cause the third person in line behind them to do the impatient dance.
• The price of coffee. Really? The prices are on the wall. If you don't like it, don't buy it. Make your own or go to Speedway.
• The temperature of their beverage. THIS IS OE OF MY ALL TIME FAVORITES. They order and then walk away. Maybe they even ordered it extra-hot. You call for them, they do not come. You call again a few minutes later, and still they do not come. Eventually, they come and they complain their beverage is not hot enough or the milk has separated and their extra-dry cappuccino is no longer extra-dry or cappuccino-like. They demand, DEMAND! a new beverage. You have to make it for them. And this is one of the reasons for a high priced beverage (also corporate greed).
• You. They want to talk to the manager. Why? Because I couldn't help them Help them what? Find a book. Why couldn't you help them? Because this was their question: "Dude, I'm looking for this book I read like 15 years ago. The cover was yellow and I think the author was a woman. She was that woman, you know the one I'm talking about?" No ma'am/sir, but let's see what I can do. Was it fiction or non-fiction. "Dude, I don't even know what that means. It's a book. It had a yellow cover and was written by that lady." Okay, what was it about? "It was about this lady that had this thing happen to her and, you know, she went crazy. It was the best book I ever read." Can you remember what made her crazy? Maybe that was in the title or it may help me narrow it down. "Look, dude, I just want the book. It's your job to find it. Where's the manager?"

AUTHOR'S DISCLAIMER  I want to let you know I am also a person. And as such, I am often a consumer. This puts me on the other side of the counter. Because of this, I understand both sides. I have encountered rude and unhelpful retail people and it makes me mad.

So in closing, here are some examples of things I have said--or almost said--when I have functioned as a consumer:

1. I realize that I have come into your line right in the middle of your conversation with the bagger, but can you please just focus on the job at hand?
2. Please do not read each-and-every card I am buying. That is why I put them in upside down and under the envelope flap. So you can just swipe the bar-code.
3. (This one I have yet to say out loud, but I do make a point of leading by example when it is my turn). While you are waiting for the price check, why don't you start bagging the 50 items that you have already scanned? That way, all the people behind me--including me--will stop doing the impatient dance.
4. Yes the guy behind me is hot. But please, I'm trying to hand you my money. Take it.

OOPS! One last story.

A mother comes in with her teenage son. She is exasperated and he is doing his best I-don't-care-and -my-cellphone-is-more-interesting-than-you routine. It is the end of August and they are about the 5 billionth customer coming in to buy the book that was their child's Summer reading project (I give this mom credit. Usually it is just the parent running their child's errands). She hands me the list and we both try to get some input from him to see if any of the titles interest him. He says things like: "That sounds like a chick book...Are there alot of pictures...I only need a book with 200 pages." We--we being the mom and I--are able to find three that are sports related and in the store. Before walking over to the section, the teenager finally looks up from his phone and asks: "Dude, is this a library?"