Rachel Thompson's Blog, page 31
August 11, 2012
Dog Days of Summer Promo
Welcome to the Dog Days of Summer Promo – We have 3 books for 99 cents – go shopping.
Read all the way to the bottom, cause you can win a $50.00 Amazon gift card also
Mancode: Exposed by me
I write about men, women, sex, & chocolate. My experiences, my truth, my martinis. If you’re looking for satire, love and romance, and sex depicted with humor, buy this book!
You can find me most days on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, providing social media tips on my own interactive Twitter stream and popular blog, consulting with social media clients (See BadRedhead Media), or promoting her books A Walk In The Snark and The Mancode: Exposed, both Kindle bestsellers!
Pick up a copy on Amazon for 99 cents
Nearly Departed in Deadwood by Ann Charles
“The first time I came to Deadwood, I got shot in the ass.”–Violet Parker
Little girls are vanishing from Deadwood, South Dakota, and Violet Parker’s daughter could be next. She’s desperate to find the monster behind the abductions. But if she’s not careful, Violet just might end up as one of Deadwood’s dearly departed.
Once upon a time, I thought my crush on Deadwood, South Dakota was going to be just a summer fling. Boy, was I wrong. I had fallen head-over-heels. Deadwood had gotten under my skin. Its golden history filled my mind with daydreams; its promising future spurred tales that needed to be told.
Nearly Departed in Deadwood is a contemporary mystery full of colorful characters that have been taking root inside of my noggin for almost three decades. The seed was planted when I was a young teenager sitting on the bench outside of the old Prospector Gift Shop on Main Street, waiting for my mom to get off work. Over the years, the seed sprouted as I hiked all over town, strolling around Wild Bill Hickok’s and Seth Bullock’s gravestones at Mount Moriah Cemetery, sitting on the steps outside the Deadwood Public Library, walking up and down Main Street, perusing the tourist shops.
As times changed, so did Deadwood. The drugstore where I used to buy candy, the clothing store where I bought my favorite Levi’s, and the Prospector Gift Shop are all gone now. At first I was sad to see them go, but then I realized that Deadwood had to transform and grow in order to survive. Just like I did.
A couple of years ago, I was driving down Strawberry Hill on my way into Deadwood when an idea hit me. It was a “what if” moment that sparked the fire of a story in my head. This time, the “what if” involved a single mom, living in Deadwood, struggling to make ends meet with two kids–twins–for whom she had to provide. I had one young child and another on the way at the time, so taking care of kids was front and center in my mind (and my body).
As I drove through Deadwood that day, memories ran rampant in my mind, and the story you hold in your hands began to take shape. I could see it clearly. I’d name the heroine Violet, an old-fashioned name. I could hear her voice; see her in her favorite purple cowboy boots. I knew exactly the location of the realty office where Violet would work, the street she’d live on, and how I’d pull Deadwood’s past into the story and intermingle it with the present.
Over the following month, I plotted this story. My poor husband was forced to listen to my ideas morning, noon, and night; there was no shutting me up. Then he caught the Deadwood bug, too, and he joined me in brainstorming and planning. Before I even wrote the first line, I knew that one book was not going to be enough to tell this story, but I had to start somewhere. Finally, after months of writing, I reached “The End” of Nearly Departed in Deadwood, the first book in a series, with much hooting and hollering in celebration.
Now, after several rounds of editing and a lot of polishing, I want to share Violet’s story with you. If you have half as much fun reading it as I had writing it, you’ll close the book when you’re finished with a big grin on your face–especially since you know there is more fun to come.
Thank you for joining me in this adventure. Hold on to your hat!
Welcome to Deadwood.
Nearly Departed in Deadwood is available on Amazon
In Leah’s Wake by Terri G. Long
The Tylers have a perfect life–beautiful home, established careers, two sweet and talented daughters. Their eldest daughter, Leah, an exceptional soccer player, is on track for a prestigious scholarship. Their youngest, Justine, more responsible than seems possible for her 12 years, just wants her sister’s approval. With Leah nearing the end of high school and Justine a seemingly together kid, the parents are set to enjoy a peaceful life…until Leah meets Todd, a high school dropout and former roadie for a rock band.
As Leah’s parents fight to save their daughter from a world of drugs, sex, and wild parties, their divided approach drives their daughter out of their home and a wedge into their marriage. Meanwhile, twelve-year-old Justine observes her sister’s rebellion from the shadows of their fragmented family-leaving her to question whether anyone loves her and if God even knows she exists. Can this family survive in Leah’s wake? What happens when love just isn’t enough?
Terri Giuliano Long has written marketing pieces for print and online media, edited technical articles, and written news and feature stories for numerous publications, including the Huffington Post. She lives with her family on the East Coast and teaches at Boston College. In Leah’s Wake is her debut novel.
Please visit her website: www.tglong.com Or connect on her blog (www.terriglong.com/blog), Facebook (www.facebook.com/tglongwrites) or Twitter (www.twitter.com/tglong).
In Leah’s Wake is available on Amazon
Now for the good part – you can win a $50.00 gift card. Just enter below and then go shopping for some cheap books.
Rafflecopter code ($50 – open to all) click the link to enter
August 5, 2012
I Can Taste The Grief by guest @LK_Editorial aka Loren Kleinman
Beyond honored to have author and editor Loren Kleinman join me today. I’ll let her amazing voice speak for itself.
From I Want No Paradise
By Loren Kleinman
“Even so distant, I can taste the grief,” writes Phillip Larkin.”
In its longest silence, trauma is even more present. Trauma is the unsaid, the uncertain, that prolongs feelings of loss. How do we define this notion of presence and absence? What is the paradigm? Poet Li-Young Lee offers an analogy regarding presence and absence: he equates them to inhaling and exhaling breath. Our presence is marked by the inhalation. Oxygen spreads into our lungs and bloodstream, nourishing our bones, our cells, and our skin. Breath is life. The exhalation manifests an absence or a silence, but still there is life. When we inhale speech terminates; communication is stunted. As we exhale speech is regained, but nutrients exit the body; the organs weaken; the lungs lessen in size. Lee describes this as “dying breath” **. When we speak we use dying breath. Meaning grows in “opposite ratio to presence and vitality” **. He suggests a kind of paradigm for life, especially in the case of trauma in that as we die meaning is declared. The “less vitality we have the more the meaning of our lives gets disclosed” (Lee qtd in Chang 19). That absence in our bodies translates as presence. Trauma narrative is born out of this relationship.
Thinking about trauma narrative, its types of witness and psychoanalytic process, I imagine my own trauma memory. It is often hard for me to separate myself from the research, and even harder to write about personal trauma in such an objective manner. My personal encounter with trauma began on May 28, 2004, when I was forced into an empty bathroom and raped by the doorman at a nightclub. I remember him following me around the dance floor. I couldn’t get away. My friend had left me to go to another club, and I was alone. The days following the assault are something I can’t even begin to imagine how I survived. Like most survivors of trauma I was living my life under a siege of silence, with the hope that someone would eventually hear me. For me, silence equated to a type of guilt: somehow I must have done something wrong to deserve this. Who would believe me if I spoke? Who would help me? This experience altered the way in which I lived my life, and for seven months I suffered from severe anxiety attacks, nightmares that replayed the rape, paranoia, i.e. the fear that it would happen again, health-related problems, flashbacks, and depression. I remember one repeated nightmare:
I am waking up alone in the bathroom stall of the nightclub, and all I can see underneath the space between the stall door and the floor are my rapist’s bare feet. He doesn’t move, just waits for me to come out. My mother is at home, I call to her. My father is at home, and I call to him. My sister is at home, and I call to her. No one can hear. I sit on the toilet seat and wait for him to go away, but I just wait. I don’t say anything. All I can see and hear, through a crack in the door is my doctor’s face. He is yelling at me and holding a vaginal clamp.
A large percentage of raped women I met with during my recovery mentioned similar feelings of absence and presence. I remember trying to explain what had happened to me to my mother and her reply was: you just have to move on. Get over it. I didn’t want to hear that, I wanted her to just listen, and not judge the progress or lack of progress I was making. I wanted her to hold my hand and tell me everything would be all right. But my mother is also an alcoholic. Sick in her own skin, she couldn’t have helped if she wanted to. (I forgive you mom.) I realized as the months went on that my only salvation was my art; my art was the one place I could go to; that if no one listened, the page would–it had no choice.
During my recovery, I also became obsessed with other people’s trauma. Not only was I obsessed, but also I became completely empathetic with their situations. It was depressing and sad, and I felt like my recovery was going backwards at times. My own trauma connected me so profoundly with the world around me that at times I felt I would break. I cared so deeply about every tragedy in the world, whether true or imagined, and it was cracking me in two. I empathized with their pain. I knew…
I also felt overwhelming guilt: I survived. What about all those pretty girls that committed suicide because such a violation was too much to handle? What about all those pretty girls who were raped and then dumped in a desert somewhere? What about the families that sit alone in the darkness of their daughters’ rooms, sad? I made it. I am here to talk and blog and write about it. (This doesn’t make me special. It doesn’t make me stronger.)
My recovery became a full-time job. It consumed me. Everyday I thought: Why? Why does this world turn in on itself? Maybe I was really saying: why did this happen to me? I knew inside that it wasn’t my fault; however, I still felt an overwhelming guilt. My coping mechanism became my writing. I felt compelled to tell my story, to continue to speak. Like Roland Barthes’ discourse on love, this was my discourse too. The love I had for myself pushed me to understand my trauma, and forced me to break the silence.
Even if no one cares to listen, you are remaking your place in the world; you are retaliating against the boundary your suffering has imposed on you .***
Please leave your comments or question below. Find Loren here: 
e. loren@lkeditorial.com
w. lkeditorial.com
Find her book Flamenco Sketches on Amazon.com.
Sources
*Larkin, Philip. “Deceptions.” Collected Poems. London: Faber and Faber, 2003. (pp 67).
**Chang, Tina. “The Totality of Causes: Interview With Li-Young Lee,” in American
Poet: The Journal of American Poets. Vol. 26, Spring 2004. (pp 16-21)
***Fridman, Lea. Words and Witness: Narrative and Aesthetic Strategies in the Representation of the Holocaust. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2000.
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August 1, 2012
Content Curation Tips for Stellar Social Media via @PegFitzpatrick
TweetWhat is content curation? It is the act of finding content to share throughout social media platforms. Finding relevant, interesting, and informative content to post is important for anyone in social media. There is an art and science to finding the best content and it is well worth your time to be thoughtful and careful in what you share. Give people a reason to follow you and keep following you!
Per Beth Kantor, “Content curation is not about collecting links or being an information pack rat, it is more about putting them into a context with organization, annotation, and presentation. Content curators provide a customized, vetted selection of the best and most relevant resources on a very specific topic or theme.”
The first step is defining what your topic or focus will be for your content. What do you want people to be known for? What is your business focus? Pick several keywords for your content and be consistent. These words should also be used throughout your social media profiles so that people will find you when they search for keywords that interest them.
Here is Guy Kawasaki’s Useful Sources for Good Stuff to Post article which is a chapter from What the Plus! in which Guy shares his tips for content curation. Mari Smith is also a huge fan of proper content curation. Here is a video that Mari created with Social Media Examiner called 8 Ways to Find Great Social Media Content:
As Mari says “Always be curating (ABC) other people’s content (OPC).” Mari and Guy both like to use the phrase cherry-picking content from great sources, I am not sure where the phrase originated in social media, but they are both people who excel at content curation from great sources. They each have their own unique style and you need to create one of your own! One aspect of content curation is making it unique.
A few of my favorite sites for finding amazing content:
Pinterest: You can tweet or post to Facebook right from Pinterest. I would caution against pumping all your pins to Facebook, as with all curation, be thoughtful and considerate when sharing. Your goal is to enchant not turn off your followers.
StumbleUpon: Set up your interests, search by topic and be ready for great content at your finger tips.
Alltop: This is my Alltop page which will show you my favorite websites that I curate automatically on Alltop. Super easy!
Follow great curators and share their material! Make lists on Facebook and Twitter as well as circles on Google+ of people whose content fits your criteria.
Several ways that I efficiently share my curated content:
Buffer App ~ I adore the team behind Buffer but the practical reason I use this daily is that it is easy and effective. I use the Buffer App for Chrome so when I see content that I want to share, I can work it into my content plan for the week. Everything doesn’t need to be shared in one big group when I am reading blogs. This is a much more advantageous and balanced method for sharing. I also like the drag and drop feature for scheduling out your tweets or posts as well as the analytics. This is an example of what you see in the Buffer analytics section.
I also use Buffer to send Power Tweets from Twylah. Again, done to balance out my content sharing. If I spent a half hour reading my friend’s Twylah pages, I share the tweets that I want to send over a week. Smart!
More on Twylah here: Take Twitter By the Tail with Twylah
Do Share ~ Another Chrome extension that I use daily. Do Share allows you to schedule posts on Google+. It works for personal Google+ profiles as well as Google+ pages. Tzafrir Rehan is always around on Google+ so hit him up with a mention if you have questions.
PostRocket ~ still in BETA but I love the recommendations for types of posts to share on Facebook as well as the analytics.
It is important to be consistent when you are a content curator. Sharing at the times when your followers are online and active is always smart. Tweriod is a tool that tells you when your followers are active on Twitter. You can also share this information directly to Buffer from Tweriod. Brilliant!
A very important thing to remember is that you are curating other’s content NOT stealing it. Per Steven Rosenbaum, “Take the time to give attribution, links back, and credit. The sharing economy works because we’re each sharing our audiences, and providing the value of our endorsements. If you pick up someone’s work and put it on your blog, or mention a fact without crediting the source, you’re not building shared credibility. You’re just abusing someone else’s effort.” I would also add that this goes for tweets, posts or any other content. It is actually easier to share on Twitter, Google+ and Facebook than it is so cut, paste and steal someone else’s work. Hit retweet or share. Be cool. Don’t steal.
I hope you got a few tips from my post and some ideas from the resources that I shared. What are your best content curation tips?
Resources:
5 Tips for Great Content Curation by Steven Rosenbaum
Content Curation Primer by Beth Kantor
12 Most Mind-Blowing Content Curators to Follow by Susan Silver
12 Most Helpful Tips for Curating Content by Margie Clayman
Featured image courtesy of cizauskas via Creative Commons.
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Peggy Fitzpatrick
Me in a nutshell: a connector, positive vibe producer and friend.
Website: http://www.pegfitzpatrick.com/
Twitter: PegFitzpatrick
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2 Year Blogoversary Party by @BabsBookBistro: Big prizes!
I am excited to bring you, my followers and friends, this party. It is because of you I keep going.
I have updated the list so you can see what will be given away Friday.
The only rules are please follow me somehow as this is for my dear and loyal followers.
Besides the authors listed below I have a grand prize: [image error]
Now for the wonderful authors and friends who agreed to be apart of the party. If it wasn’t for them my blog would be pretty boring. I want you all to welcome them and enjoy the giveaways. * Below the authors names I will tell you how you can take part to win.*
M. S. Spencer……Guest post and giving away shiny new engraved pen
Emlyn Chan …… 4 winners pick one book from her
Farsighted, Open Heart, Honey the Hero, and Davey the Detective
Nancy Badger…..guest Post and winner picks one book from her list.
Gale Stanley…..guest post and winner pics from her list.
Margay Leah Justice……Guest Post and giving away an e-book.
Anne Patrick giving away a PDF copy of Fire Creek and a Guest post for us to read.
Sedonia Guillone…winner can visit Ai-Press.net and pick what ever book you would like.
Kari Townsend…..Guest post and
Jodi Olson……. is giving away an e-book from her list.
Maddy Hunter…….. Guest Post
Rachel Firasek……giveaway Creating Fate e-book
Nat from Reading Romances…..guest post.
Rachel Thompson…giveaway a free e-book of a book off her list.
Donna Cummings…….guest post and a copy of Lord At Midnight
Terri G Long ………is giving away and Ebook or book signed and a gift bag
Lynda Frazier…… is giving away a $10.00 Amazon gift card
Nicole Morgan……Guest Post
babsbookbistro
Looking to be an assistant to an author if you are in need.
Stay at home mom to 4 boys, I blog about book reviews and product reviews along with tips etc. I am a writer, editor, along with being a taxi mom 
.
Website: http://www.babsbookbistro.net/blog
Twitter: babsbookbistro
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July 31, 2012
PEEK: The Virtue of Minding Your Own Business: from Sandcastle & Other Stories by @JustinBog
The Virtue of Minding Your Own Business was a runner-up in an Ernest Hemingway Short Story competition. A tale of madness, murder, and regret . . . it is also the first of two stories in my first eBook, Sandcastle and Other Stories. This story was inspired by the thought: What if the only thing someone wanted to be was a tree? The other tree story, touching on a different kind of madness, is Cats In Trees. If this excerpt hits your curious engines, please finish reading by visiting Amazon.
This photo is a shot taken on a wondrous summer picnic day from the small, public beach that encircles Watmough Bay on Lopez Island in the San Juan Islands, the first ferry stop from my home in Anacortes, Fidalgo Island. The day was made even more spectacular because our family friends from Munich were visiting. Zippy was three at the time and the water was even too cold for him. The Sound barely heats up, even in full summer. There was another small kid there who stayed in all day and when asked how she could stand it, she simply replied: “I’m numb.” Zippy wouldn’t go get his tennis ball after the first two throws, couldn’t blame him, but this seal-skinned child swam out ten yards and retrieved Zippy’s ball.
Zippy playing on the shore before he found out how cold the water of The Puget Sound really is . . . and he has two coats to keep him warm.
Zippy, like most dogs exposed to that yellow orb, chases tennis balls as if his very life depends on his capturing and mastering the sphere of bounce — it’s difficult to teach a shepherd how to become a retriever.
Zippy thanked these two kids (were they part otter) with a happy dog dance once they helped him carry on his love hate relationship with the tennis ball. A day to remember.
The Virtue of Minding Your Own Business
That’s how I find Rachel, anyway, in the backyard of her father’s vacation house on Maine Island, two miles offshore. One arm’s up and alive, and the other’s down and dead.
I’m the head gardener for Mr. Barrons, Jr. Usually I don’t feel awkward around Rachel Barrons, his daughter. She likes to watch me plant tomatoes near the back fence and she makes sure I give all the myrtle and alyssum enough water, and drench the begonias. I started them in scattered patches circling the oaks. By the end of summer season, Labor Day weekend, they should be puffy and vibrant green, white, deep pink and purple blossoms. When I work the annuals, the perennials, or the new trees into the soil, Rachel always has a half smile on her face, sort of hiding something almost, as if she might break if she showed too much. But she never gives me any trouble, doesn’t get in my way or waste my time yapping at me like Vicki Calmagalli, Rachel’s maid, does whenever I pass close by the main house to do the trimming along the front hedges. I have an assistant now, Russ Darnton, who I ordinarily send to do the close housework, but I like to keep my hand in, let the owner know I’ve still got my faculties.
Rachel is still in the backyard almost an hour later. She seems, to an outsider, to be practicing some form of artistic dance. Her slim frame bends at the waist, while her legs remain ramrod straight together with her feet splayed. Her movements change from time to time, her upper body contorting into a twist at the waist, and her arms swinging upwards, reaching for the light of the afternoon sun. Sometimes she stays rooted in the same position for hours. Vicki comes out with food for her: apples and nuts and other fruits from trees. The only thing Rachel drinks is water, and it seems like she won’t ever stop drinking from the plastic container Vicki hands her, but she does, lets it drop from her grasp, and then stares off towards the bay. Vicki picks up the water bottle and heads back to the main house, where she can start making a list of food to get on the mainland.
The story starts and ends with Rachel, and there’s a lot of junk left over, slivering its way into the mess. She’s my muse; I like to think of her that way; I’m a gardener who wants to come to terms; I’m a collector of information, and I write everything down. I’ve kept a journal since I was a boy at the Little Red Schoolhouse on Conway Road, across the water and in the country five miles. I won’t say I’m grammatically correct either; the words get written even if you think you know how to use them without a diploma. Three years ago the schoolhouse was made a historic site, with old photographs of the teachers and the children wearing knickers and sturdy shoes, winter boots and heavy wool coats stitched by hand. I’m in one of the pictures, small and curious, looking at the flashbulb, the brightness bringing me into the newness of the event, a moth to flame; on one side of me sits my twin brother, Edgar, the mirror image of us split down the middle like a rotten apple core. Sitting on the other side of me was one of the Dobbs’ girls, both girls dead of cancer in their middle ages. We were placed on a row of benches, with the tall people in the upper grades standing like lighthouses behind us. I had the urge to learn more than any kid in the whole district, but one thing can hold a child back, and only one thing. It still does, and that’s money. It can rule the world, and up in the wild of Maine in the early twenties, it ruled my world. I was even planning on running away once, to find a way of my own. Now, money, I’ve come to realize, haunts people. Take Rachel, for example. She’s a young woman, with all this modern technology available, who should be able to do anything she pleases, should be able to make her own way in the world, but the money twisted her like tree roots under sidewalk, made her world crack with pressure. I saw it all.
The Virtue of Minding Your Own Business concludes in Sandcastle and Other Stories. Thank you for reading and for sharing your thoughts. As always, your comments mean the world to me and help keep curious engines firing.
best always to you in your own life and writing life,
Justin
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Justin Bogdanovitch
Writer, reader, book/music/film/travel reviewer for In Classic Style, editor, cook, lawn mower, treat master to Zippy, Kipling, Ajax The Gray, & Eartha Kitt’n. Author of Sandcastle and Other Stories.
Website: http://justinbogdanovitch.com/
Twitter: JustinBog
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July 29, 2012
Cancer Sucks. Writer Sara Rose Doesn’t.
“Wherever there is forward movement, there is bound to be turbulence.” ~ Paul McElroy
(Taken from Sara Olson-Liebert’s wall—one of her favorite quotes.)
Somebody I don’t know well, an acquaintance really, a friend of a friend, is struggling with cancer.
Her name is Sara Rose. She’s a writer, young mother, wife, and bright light. In our interactions, she’s been amazingly upbeat and welcoming. It hit me how incredibly young she is – she was born two years after I graduated from high school and is already a wife and mother of two very small children.
And now, she’s fighting ovarian cancer with everything she has.
Read about her IndieGoGo campaign here – her insurance company refuses to pay for her treatment.
Don’t get me started.
I know we’re all pinching pennies right now. Believe me, I know firsthand. Still, I donated a small amount and I hope you will, too.
THE RIVER
I see her swimming as the wind blows past.
Smiling and hopeful, knowing she can make it to the other side.
Yet her body weakens as she struggles against the tide.
It’s a wide river to cross; seemingly impossible as she slices her tired arms through the powerful water.
Weaker now, she decides to let the current carry her where it will.
Floating. Exhausted. Lost.
But only for a moment.
She senses her love on the river’s edge, calling. She can’t hear what they say but sees the light in her children’s eyes.
In the midst of her pain, she sees her future, waiting patiently.
She changes direction.
And finds her way.
Thank you for allowing me to contribute and be a very, tiny part of your life, Sara Rose.
Please leave your comments, questions, and wishes here for Sara Rose or click over to her campaign if you can. Writers unite, baby.
July 22, 2012
Humor & Erotica by guest author @EdenBaylee
Humor and Erotica
I’m honored to be featured on Rachel’s blog to talk about my latest book, Spring into Summer — a book of four erotic novellas, two that take place in spring and two in the summer.
I love women who have a sense of humor. That’s why I’m a huge fan of Rachel’s. Her books had me in stitches because they explore the very real differences between the sexes.
Now, you may wonder if humor exists in erotica, and the answer is YES. I always insert playful wordplay into my stories. Why? Because reading sex should be fun. In “A Season for Everything,” the first story in my book, there is a funny scene between the main characters about what to call each other for “pet names.”
The story is extremely serious, and a scene like this helps to break up the tension by showing the human side of the characters.
You will find funny instances like this peppered throughout my book. I consider humorous conversations to be excellent foreplay, and though it’s not always the case, I use laughter as a prelude to sexual arousal.
I think many people can relate to being intensely attracted to someone who makes them laugh. If you’d like to know more about the funny, playful, and sexy parts of my book, I’d be tickled if you picked up a copy and tell me what you think.
Thanks, Rachel for giving me this opportunity to share about Spring into Summer.
Bio
Eden Baylee writes literary erotica. Her stories are both sensual and sexual, incorporating some of her favorite things such as travel, culture, and a deep curiosity for what turns people on. Spring into Summer is her second collection of erotic novellas. 
Links
Buy Links: Ebook formats
Thank you for hanging out over here, Eden. Please share your comments or questions for Eden. Learn from the best!
July 15, 2012
Red Flags: Trust Your Gut.
Red Flags: Trust Your Gut 
What is like to live alone for the first time?
Exhilarating and terrifying. When a young woman goes about her days and nights in a manner of true independence, there’s a quiet purity to that (even if she’s a total partier. I mean the being on her own part.)
Having had it with bizarre roommates, I decided to live on my own in an apartment in a decent area. I was probably twenty-three or twenty-four.
I kept to myself, working my sales rep job, traveling frequently, doing my own thing with friends, family, dating. I loved decorating my little place, making it my own.
When new neighbors moved in upstairs, I went out of my way to say hello to the skinny, young, pretty girl and slightly older guy, big and swarthy. She was friendly, he was not.
First red flag.
Within about a week of them moving in, I heard him shouting at her long into the night. It went on for hours. I could only hear her crying, him yelling. Then I heard a thump. Then another one. Screams. More crying.
Shakily, I called 911. I explained that there seemed to be a domestic disturbance upstairs and could they come check it out?
In a state of high anxiety, I felt as though there were flies buzzing about me. Was this really happening? I wasn’t raised around violence. I felt like throwing up. I also felt trapped. I did not want to witness (hear) this violence, but I had no choice.
The officers arrived, asking me questions. I told them only what I’d heard. Cursing, shouting by the guy; screams and whimpering from her – like a wounded animal. Then the thumps and her cries, which worried me. They went upstairs to check it out.
You have to understand – I would have given anything to not be listening to their drama unfold. To not be involved. But…this (how do you refer to some jerk beating a woman – this just doesn’t cover it) was happening right above me. It sounded like she was in serious trouble. I couldn’t not do anything.
Everything got very quiet when the cops arrived. The noise upstairs stopped completely. The cops were no fools though – the guy had apparently roughed her up pretty badly, and she had bruises and contusions. They didn’t mess around – they arrested him.
I heard her cry all night. The next day, he returned (I could hear him on the stairs). I looked out my window and he flipped me off and slid his finger across his neck.
Second big red flag.
Scared, upset, and angry, I called the cops back to report the threat. This was ridiculous.
A few days later, I saw her on the stairs. Her face was bruised and she was limping. I started to ask her how she was doing and she responded: Fuck off. Leave us the hell alone, you bitch!
I was taken aback, but I wasn’t mad. I didn’t take what she said personally. It certainly would have been easy to. I just felt incredibly sad for her. She clearly loved him.
You see, I had experienced my own bad boy. Never violent like that with me, though I did feel scared of his raging temper on several occasions. I left my guy. His temper and cheating were way less than I deserved. But I understood the draw.
A few weeks later, I heard a thunderous roar on the stairwell. There must have been twenty young guys headed upstairs chanting, “Bachelor party!”
Wishing I had somewhere else to be, I was stuck at home working. I put on my music and settled in at my desk.
It wasn’t too long before I noticed a drip drip in my kitchen. What the hell? The ceiling was hanging down in the middle like a cow’s udder; plaster wet and falling, the ceiling about to pop. I didn’t know what the heck was going on upstairs, and didn’t care, but I didn’t want whatever was coming down to fall!
Rather than head upstairs on my own, I called the Super. An older gentleman who’d been around, he took one look at the ceiling and said simply, “Keg. I’ll be back.”
About the same time as he slammed my door, the udder burst all over my kitchen. There was beer everywhere. I don’t even like beer!
I heard the Super, knocking upstairs but no conversations. I set about cleaning it up and hoping I wouldn’t be held responsible (I wasn’t, of course).
Within about thirty minutes, the cops were back. This time they brought the paddy wagon. Apparently, this party was all minors. I waved as my neighbor walked out in cuffs. He spat at me.
Beyond red flag.
Months go by. I eventually tired of hearing the heartbreaking beatings, loud parties, and threats – I decided to move. I just never felt comfortable or safe there. Sometimes I was terrified to go to sleep.
Was it my own fault because I’d gotten involved?
On moving day, my next-door neighbors came over to say goodbye. A friendly, older couple, the man took me aside privately and told me: I chased off the idiot upstairs several times when I saw him peeping through your windows. I didn’t say anything to you because I didn’t want to freak you out.
I remember feeling pure rage. Rage at the violation, the invasion of privacy, and the sheer audacity it took for someone to peep into my windows. (I was also furious with my nice neighbor for never reporting it. I was mad at everyone.)
Awesome. Not only was Upstairs a wife-beater, he was also a Peeping Tom? Seriously? Or was his peeping something more – looking for a way in, perhaps.
I still shudder thinking what could have happened – not only to me but also to this skinny, pretty young confused girl. I’ll never forget the muffled sounds of someone deliberately hurting – no, beating — someone else. Cries for help she made but ultimately didn’t want; though I knew at some point, she would.
But I also learned this: trust your gut. Get out, because things don’t ever get better when someone threatens you or worse, hits you.
I always wondered what happened to that couple. I hope she made it out alive.
I’m glad I did.
Have you experienced something similar? Please share your comments below.
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July 13, 2012
How My 6yo Outwitted Me: I’ve Been Kobayashi Maru’d!
Another guest post this week from none other than Mr. RachelintheOC, my guy JP Thompson. He’s a huge sci-fi geek (more than I, if that’s possible) and when our children surprised us last week with some pretty cool ingenuity, he immediately thought of Star Trek. It made me laugh. I hope you enjoy it!
I’ve Been Kobayashi Maru’d!
New movie. Kirk during the Kobayashi Maru training simulation.
Alas, outwitted by my six-year-old.
As you all know, I am a big fan of Star Trek and this past weekend I had the opportunity to put my six-year-old son thru what I thought would be the equivalent of the Kobayashi Maru No-Win Scenario. Just as Captain Kirk was put to the test, so was my son.
The scenario: I took the kids to Party City this past weekend and my son (6) and his friend (5) asked me to get them each a 79-cent Rubik’s Cube. After they had played with their cubes for awhile, and then told each other that there is no way they will be able to match up all the colors again, I saw my chance to spring the Kobayashi Maru on them.
Knowing my son is a Skylander fanatic, I announced that if they matched up all the colors again (solve the Rubik’s Cube), I would give them each a new Skylander. Bingo, no way a six year old can escape three Klingon Cruisers! My son sat back in the Captain’s Chair (his booster seat), and went to work. Seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, and then finally the distress call! The Kobayashi Maru is in trouble and losing power!
Dad, what if I do just one side? Me: Nope!
You have arrived at the Neutral Zone (home). My son and daughter (13) enter the Neutral Zone and disappear. All communication is lost.
Captain’s log: No way my daughter can help with the scenario. No way.
The three Klingon Cruisers are closing, attack formation. I pass by Engineering (her bedroom) and see them looking with confusion at the twenty-seven little square pieces of the puzzle lying on the table. It might as well have been a shattered dilithium crystal. I laughed. “It didn’t take you long to break that new toy,” I said. Kirk: “That’s okay Dad. Scottie and I are working on it.”
Captain’s log: “Another dream that failed. There’s nothing sadder.”
After awhile, I figured the Enterprise had been destroyed. Wrong! The youngest captain ever comes swaggering into Starfleet (the kitchen) and proudly presents me the completed Rubik’s Cube. As I look at it, I see the photon torpedoes destroying the Klingon Cruisers one by one as he announces to me, “You didn’t say HOW to put it back so all the colors match. Can I have the Skylander now?” Starfleet: ‘Yes, and you get a commendation for original thinking.’
Ha!
Epilogue: “Genius doesn’t work on an assembly line basis. You can’t simply say, ‘Today I will be brilliant.”
If you have comments or questions, please leave them below!
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July 8, 2012
Bad Things Come In Threes by guest @hiyacynthia
I ask my guests to dig deep. This is an especially harrowing guest post by writer and blogger Cindy Brown. I’m honored this is her very first guest post. When I suggested something 
raw and honest about her past, her first pass was about giving up cursing. It was great — but I knew there was more to this strong, sassy woman.
Giving her my typical Lorrie Moore quote: Write something you’d never show your mother or father, I in no way expected this level of truth. Astounded and proud, I asked her, “Are you sure about this?” “Yup,” she replied.
Please read, follow her Twitter, blog, Facebook…I’m honored to know her. We welcome your comments below!
Bad Things Come in Threes
I write a humor blog called Everyday Underwear. Recently, I wrote a piece titled, “Excuse Me, But Are Those Real?” where I talk about true things about me that at one time or another, people didn’t believe. The two I cited were humorous and normal observances: 1) My boobs are real 2) My teeth are naturally straight. There was a third thing, however, that didn’t quite fit into my humor post.
3) I’ve been raped three times.
I stared at the screen in disbelief. My stomach felt sick and a lump appeared in my throat, making it difficult to swallow. My face flushed hot and red, as a sudden personal heat wave permeated the cool room. My heart skipped a beat. I had bared my soul. I had put my story of hardship and healing out there for the world and this is what I get?
Online commenting was a new thing at that time. I anxiously waited to see what was said about my story. SAFE (Sexual Assault and Family Emergencies) had the idea to share my journey and they arranged for an interviewer from the local paper to come to my home. We agreed I would use a pseudonym.
I was so impressed that the newspaper not only put the article on the front page of the print version, but that it was available online as well – with a comment section! I hadn’t written the article. The article was about me. I couldn’t wait! By allowing my story to be shared, did I help someone come to terms with their own rape? Who would reach out? What kind of wonderful comments, support, and emotional sympathy would I receive?
I stared at the screen again and read the single comment. This couldn’t be! I stood up and paced the room. I was on fire, a burning soul filled with the fuel of anger. Who do I call? How do I get this removed? Who would do such a thing? I sat and read the comment again.
“This story can’t be true. Nobody gets raped three times unless they are in prison or asking for it.”
I stewed. I waited. I checked the page frequently. One more commenter thanked me for sharing, but the overshadowing of the first statement blackened my spirit. That was it; two comments. It’s a miracle I had the nerve to pursue being a blogger all of these years later. But I had helped someone. SAFE told me they had a client come in because she read my story. That gave me hope.
I could have let fear keep me from writing and sharing again. I could have said, “Forget it; there is only negativity in this world.” But no, I was determined even more now to share my story. “Later,” I thought, “in a book.”
The idea of fear controlling me came clearly to the forefront. It was fear that put me in the situation to be raped. The commenter (I assumed it was a man because surely a woman could not be so crass about rape, right?) was correct. I was neither a criminal nor a slut, but I WAS in prison.
My life had been a prison of fear and self-loathing since that first rape.
I’ll never forget that evening. I was so excited. I had been asked out by one of the most popular boys in school. Me! I wasn’t super popular. I was kind of middle ground. I had a friend who was in the upper echelon of popularity, and so by proxy, I was accepted at times. But nothing like this had ever happened.
I was just sixteen. I was ready for the date an hour early. I stared out the window, scanning the road for headlights, wondering if this could be the best night of my life, eager for the adventure. Where would he take me to dinner? Would we go see a movie? He hadn’t told me what we were going to be doing, but I was dressed and ready for whatever he wanted to do. He was an hour late.
The doorbell chimed and my mother invited him in and greeted him while I tried not to look ready, even though I’d been waiting for two hours. I was so proud! This was a very popular boy (an upper classmen even) and he was taking me on a date. He was a preppy dresser and everyone liked him. Upon entering, the normally gregarious and verbally interactive young man seemed reluctant to talk to my mother. “Odd,” I thought, “maybe he’s nervous, but he certainly isn’t being very polite. What’s wrong with him?”
We went out to the car and I was caught off guard. Another boy was driving the car. My date gestured for me to sit in the back with him. I naively thought perhaps he had arranged for this friend to chauffeur. I was not prepared for what happened next.
It didn’t take two seconds after the car backed out of the driveway before he was all over me. I knew right then why he hadn’t spoken to my mother. He was stinking drunk. His breath was revolting, disgusting, and telling of why he was an hour late. He’d been drinking some kind of hard liquor; that was certain.
Our house was in a small subdivision just outside town. The driver, a boy I was familiar with but didn’t know well, drove us to a dark country road behind the subdivision and parked. He turned up the music. My “date” got more and more aggressive. I was embarrassed that he was doing this and not only that, but with another boy right there in the car! The driver ignored us, eyes forward, tapping the steering wheel to the beat of the music. Don’t ask me what was playing. My mind was elsewhere.
As he forced himself upon me, I received my first of many lessons in the meaning of the phrase “paralyzed with fear.” This is the part in the story where people who have never been raped ask the most stupid questions. Why didn’t you fight? Why didn’t you scream for the other boy to help you? These are the questions of a person who has never had the dead weight of a drunken boy on top of you, violating you in a confined space.
At first my voice was audible, “Stop, please stop, no!” I repeated the words over and over. There was no response to my words from either boy. The driver intended to ignore, and he did, or at least pretended not to notice what was taking place. My “date” was too busy with his agenda to hear my plea.
It was as though my voice became smaller and smaller and smaller until it literally imploded in a tiny “poof” and was gone. Adrenalin coursed through my body so strongly that instead of giving me strength, it made my muscles feel like jelly. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t move. I heard my heartbeat, but I was paralyzed. I was in shock.
When he was done with me, he got into the front seat of the car and told me they were going to a party at such-and-such’s house and he asked if I wanted to go.
I don’t remember my exact words, but I said something along the lines of, “No, I don’t want to go to any damn party with you. Let me out of this car!”
I stood on the edge of the road. As the car drove away in the night, I watched the taillights. I didn’t move an inch. They turned the corner and were gone. To this day, I can’t tell you who the driver was. I can’t tell you what the car looked like. I don’t even know the date that it happened, as my diary is long lost.
I watched my dream date drive away and marveled at how quickly he had transformed into my worst nightmare.
I left something very important in that car that night; those boys drove off with my self-respect. In a matter of twenty minutes, my life had changed forever. I would never be the same. My life as a woman, as a human, would be shaped and molded by this event in ways that wouldn’t be revealed or understood by me or to anyone else until eighteen years later in intense therapy.
The night was silent. I was neither cold, nor hot, but I don’t recall what time of year it was, other than I know it wasn’t winter. The results of trauma are strange. I remember the events clearly, but other details are inexplicably gone. In pattern form, the other rapes ended up just the same, clear memory of the trauma, all other details fuzzy. It’s an opposite response than many who have experienced such events.
I would rather be one of the ones who can’t remember the trauma.
I wasn’t even fifty yards from my house. I walked home, but was too humiliated to enter the house and tell anyone what happened. I sat behind the house on the sidewalk for a few hours and waited, waited, waited until the lights went out and I snuck back in.
I should have turned him in. I should have told someone. The humiliation and degradation of the night’s events were too much. I just wanted to forget it. I wanted to erase it. I wanted to be numb. I don’t remember ever seeing the boy again. If I did, I have blocked it from memory completely. I must have seen him at school. To this day, I’m sure he has no idea of the magnitude of the trauma he caused me and the resulting events that took place in the shattered life he left on the side of the road. As drunk as he was, he may not even remember raping me.
Twenty years later, I was on Facebook, trolling friends’ friends to find old classmates to connect with. I saw a picture and name jump off the screen. It was him. I literally shot up out of the chair and yelled out loud. I never thought I would see him again. But there he was. The trauma I thought I had dealt with in therapy came boiling to the surface again.
So many urges and thoughts went through my mind in that instant, I cannot even begin to explain them. The things I wanted to do! Oh, oh, oh, the things I wanted to do swirled above my head like a swarm of angry bees. Emotions spilled out and I screamed at the air in release. I felt as though I might pass out. Once again, I was in shock.
I stared at the picture, injecting venom into each pixel with my stare. His once lush head of thick hair… gone.
“Thank God, at least the asshole is balding,” I thought.
Cindy Brown, Humor Writer
If you need prescription medication to treat B.O.Y.B. (Bored-Off-Your-Butt)
syndrome, please check out my humor blog, Everyday Underwear…
http://www.everydayunderwear.com/ Twitter @hiyacynthia
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