Meredith First's Blog

Gridley Girls is almost here!

It’s been a while since I’ve posted.  I’m still suffering in a Lyme-fog world and doing the best I can to function while trying to launch a book and a daughter at the same time.  What was I thinking when I agreed to that timing?

Gridley Girls hits the stores tomorrow!  Do you have your copy?  If so, I’d love for you to post a picture of yourself with it on social media and tag me.

We’re having a few book events coming up.  Just hit the News & Events page for details.  6/30/16 at Excelsior Bay Books in the Twin Cities and 7/16/16 in Gridley, CA.  Hope to see you there!

Many people think this is just a release of the old Gridley Girls in paperback and that couldn’t be further from the truth.  I spent the last two years rewriting this book and I promise, it’s worth the purchase.  There are 150 pages of new material on the girls’ adult lives and a few new characters that set up the storyline for the sequel (coming in 2017).  It really is a new book and I’m really proud of it.  And for the price of a fancy cocktail, how can you go wrong?

If you still have Graduation gifts to buy, it’s the perfect gift for your Grad of the female persuasion.

Would love for you to post a review when you’ve read it.  It takes a village to launch a book and you’re mine.  I need you!

Thanks for all the love and support throughout this process and the nasty Lyme disease.  I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for all of you and I appreciate it more than you know.

Happy reading and YAL!

It’s True. I’m Not Just Slow — I Have Lyme Disease.

If you follow me on social media (and if not, why not? @meredithfirst) you know that I’ve been working hardest in my life at recovering from Late Stage Neurological Lyme Disease.  I’ve been pretty open with it on social media as a way of coping.  For some reason though, I haven’t been able to write about it in my books or on this blog.  I used to wonder why, but didn’t think too much about it and decided that I would be able to write about it when I was ready.

Then one day, during meditation, which has been critical to my survival, I figured out why.

I’ve been ashamed.

Isn’t that insane?  I’ve actually been ashamed to have Lyme Disease.  Like I had a choice that some stupid tick would implant itself on my head on a Sacramento area golf course in 2004.  I don’t even like golf!  And frankly, I still blame golf.  The only redeeming thing in this whole scenario is I now have something on which to blame my awful golf game.

But back to the shame.  When I asked one of my medical care providers (Lymies know, it takes an army of medical providers to keep us trying to live our normal lives – most of whom we have to pay out of pocket as insurance doesn’t cover most care) told me that was perfectly normal.  “Perfectly normal” is music to any Lymies’ ears.  “Normal?  I’m normal?” I asked, as I wiped tears away from my eyes wondering why the heck I was crying at this seemingly innocuous confession.

“The Lyme spirochete is like a parasite and it’s normal to feel dirty when your body has been invaded by a parasite.  It’s human,” she said, as she worked to open up my lymph system and drain the toxins that build up as your body kills the Lyme spirochetes (much like how a body reacts during chemo).

I didn’t think I felt dirty but just being given permission to feel shame and release it was huge for me.

Coincidentally (though I don’t believe in coincidences) the next day, my publicist sent me a list of questions to answer for the cover reveal of Gridley Girls and I wrote about Lyme Disease.  I’ll attach that article below and hope you’ll read it, as it’s the first time I wrote, in such a public setting, of what it’s like to try and maintain a life and career with a disease that ravages your body and mind.  A disease that separates your mind from your soul in a way I never knew existed.  A disease that has a considerably high suicide rate among it’s victims.  A disease that turns you into a shell of your former self.  A sucky disease that needs to be stopped before more people lose their lives, their livelihoods and their minds.

But never their souls.  That is our saving grace.

Our souls are forever.

That is what keeps me going.  Keeps me writing.  And keeps me alive.

http://gosparkpress.com/gridley-girls-cover-reveal/

YAL,

Meredith

From the Front Lines of the Modesty Wars…

So it was a typical Tuesday morning in the First home:  hubby trying to get out to the office, Baby Girl refusing to eat breakfast and rushing out to school when I hear hubby say, “Are you going to let your daughter go to school wearing that?”.  Two things come to mind.  1.  It’s not good because whenever one of us says “your daughter”, it’s never good.  2.  My daughter must be bearing her midriff or her a$$.  It’s always one or the other.

I long for the 70s when we wore prairie dresses and they were the height of fashion instead of making us look like the Sister Wives of a polygamous cult.

I was afraid to look.  I immediately wondered if it was hot enough for those hoochie-mama bum-revealing shorts (in her defense, she’s 5’10” so we have a difficult time finding anything to cover those colt-like legs of hers).

Turns out it was this shirt:

Now you may be thinking, “Meredith, have you lost it and taken this YAL thing too far?  That shirt is adorable and barely showing any back flesh.  Calm the f down.”

And you would be right.  EXCEPT for what you can’t see and what you don’t know.  So this is the rest of the story (as Paul Harvey would say).

This shirt was given to Baby Girl by her brother’s girlfriend when BG was recovering from a nasty skin cancer surgery. It’s her favorite brand and it’s adorable.  It’s also a bit like a cape so something has to be worn underneath it.  When she received it, I made it very clear that if she were to wear it to school, she needed to wear a cami under it so she wouldn’t go off to school with back flesh showing.  Yes, I have standards for BG:  no bum cheeks, cleavage, back flesh or midriff showing.  This would have all been taken care of had she gone to Catholic School but my husband’s a Lutheran accountant which means the kids go to public school, we police the clothing and he pockets the cash.  Everybody wins in his mind!

Back to the shirt.  I even went so far as to buy her two beautiful (and in my opinion, WAY over-priced bralettes to wear under this shirt when NOT in school.  This black, lacy bralette is what she was trying to sneak off in this morning.  Absolutely adorable for other social occasions.  Not appropriate for school.

“But why?” you ask.  “Clearly you need to be writing more and obsessing over your daughter’s back flesh less,” you say, with a smidgen of accuracy.

Here’s how I see it:  School is the gateway to the workplace where what you wear counts.  We are believers in the old adage of “dressing for the job you want to have”.  This is BG’s last year at home with us.  If we don’t teach her these lessons now, she’ll be that girl that shows up at the office in the inappropriate outfit who gets talked about in the break room or worse, has to be told by her boss to not wear it again.  That is a horror that I’d like to prevent.

The other reason is that she’ll remember today for years, hopefully long enough to teach this to her future baby girl.  She’ll remember how her father chased her down to the mudroom and blocked the door to the garage like a linebacker until she changed.  She’ll remember how when she yelled at me, “Mom, this is 2015.  You’ve got to quit oppressing me with your old school values!”, I laughed and snapped a picture of her for Facebook.

She’ll remember how when she yelled at us that, “This is sexist!  If I were a boy, you’d let me wear this!”, again, we laughed out loud since the last thing we’d do is let a son wear a midriff or back bearing top to school.  Even she had to laugh at that poor, go-to defense on her part.  Always with the sexism argument.  She knows how to play her parents, I’ll give her that.

She’ll remember how she ran and hid in her room for a few minutes, hoping we’d get distracted with middle-aged memory loss and forget about it.  She’ll remember how she darted back and forth trying to avoid my husband and his excellent linebacker maneuvers as she once again tried to make a mad dash to her car.

And because she never gets to see it like I do, I’ll remember for her, the redhead on redhead action of the two of them running about the house.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to the fighting of two redheads.  Not even two cats in a pillowcase.  I should pop popcorn and charge admission to their fights because I’d make a fortune.

Ultimately, she knew we were going to win and she needed to get to school so she went upstairs to change and stormed back to her car, yelling at me on the way out, as I tried to take an “after” photo, “I’m blocking you on Facebook!”.

Ouch.

“I love you too!”  I hollered back as she peeled out of the driveway (the neighbors probably called the police).

Fifteen minutes later, I got an electronic notice that she was tardy for her first period class (the miracles of technology) to which I’m sure I will get an earful about when she gets home.  It was worth it though, because eventually, she’ll remember that all we wanted to teach her was that there is a time and place for all clothes, hoochie mama or otherwise, but at school, we try and cover that flesh up!

Because, remember:  YAL, you’re a lady!

Countdown to Empty Nesterdom…

Today was the first day of Baby Girl’s senior year in high school.  And just like in kindergarten, I held a brave face, smiled and waved with excitement as she left.  Then I burst into tears and crumpled into my husband’s arms as soon as she was out of sight.

Why is it that children growing up and leaving you can sometimes feel worse than a bad teenage breakup?  That kind of breakup where, when it’s happening, you know the person breaking up with you feels sorry for you but as soon as you’re gone, is SO glad it’s over because they’ve already moved on from you.

Whenever I ask myself that question, I always flash on one of those inspirational posters in the office of the Ob/Gyn who delivered both my kids.  You know those posters that are sometimes on the ceiling of the office in hopes of distracting you from various tools being inserted in places you’d rather not have them inserted?  Thankfully, my doc never had a dangling cat with a “Hang in there Baby” poster but she did have one that has stuck with me for the last 21 years since I was a child-bearer.  It was a lovely water color drawing of a heart and it said:

Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ~ Elizabeth Stone

 

That says it all, doesn’t it?

Last week, I set that first piece of my heart up in his first apartment as he started his junior year in college, reminding me that he will most likely “never live with me again”.  A knife in the heart with extra salt thrown on as I spent a small fortune on inflated rent, housewares and groceries to keep the runaway alive.  At least when boys broke up with me, I didn’t have to support them financially.  I could walk away and pretend they never existed.

Now, with barely any time to regroup, I sent Baby Girl off to finish her childhood with us.  I had this same feeling three years ago when Baby Boy started his senior year.  It’s like there’s a fast running time clock above her head, shouting at me, “Quick!  Have you taught her everything?  Is she a lady?  Does she know how much you love her?  Does she know you’d take a bullet/jump in front of a train/fight that mean old lady at the Mall of America who pushed her out of the way in the bathroom while school shopping for her?  Does she know what to do if she gets in a car accident/gets stuck in a tornado/snowstorm/other natural disaster?  Is she prepared to go out into the world a responsible, law-abiding, respectful citizen who won’t just put herself first but think of others as well?  There’s only 11 months, 6 days, 13 hours, 33 minutes and 49 seconds left.  Does she know?”  It’s exhausting.

Baby Girl’s first day of senior year.

 

So I got into the app store and got a countdown app to Empty Nesterdom.  I figured that this is happening.  I can’t force my children to stay home, nor would I want to (well, I would like a time travel machine…).  So instead of dreading it, I will attempt to embrace it.  I will look forward to a clean house, life free of teenage drama, preparing smaller meals, a lonely dinner table, the quiet and much more time to write more books and the potential of a very sad house that I will need to make happy again.

I often wonder what I would do differently if I had a second chance with my children.  That is a topic for a post in and of itself and I’ll definitely write it, but the one thing I will say here is I wouldn’t have wanted to speed it up.  During those days of sibling rivalry gone wild, I wouldn’t have dreamt longingly for the empty nest because it sneaked (I unapologetically still refuse to say snuck) up on me and stole my children from me like a vicious coyote in the night.  So this afternoon, when your kids, at any age, are destroying your house, fighting with each other, talking back to you, not liking what you made for dinner or are giving you that look that made your mother say, “I’m going to slap that look right off of your face!” remember, they’ll be gone in a blink of an eye and you’ll be left crying like a jilted teenager.  Give them a squeeze and tell yourself, “This too shall pass.”

Because it will, all too fast.

 

“Mom, Why Didn’t You Tell Me You Were a Good Writer?”

Baby Boy and his dog, 2006 and 2015

My oldest son, otherwise known as Baby Boy, since I’m never allowed to tag him in social media without permission, is now 20 years old.  I don’t know how that happened since I’m still 35.  He was recently in full college student mode.  He had driven down to Iowa for a fraternity brother’s 21st Birthday and was having to make the four-hour drive back feeling “under the weather”.  He called to ask me to help keep him occupied while driving through endless corn fields.

As an ignored mother of 17 and 20 year olds, I jumped at the chance to be needed.  I think I often behave like that needy girlfriend that we all had when we were young.  You know the type?  You would lecture her over lunch because she was way too accessible to her boyfriend who never treated her well.  She jumped at the chance to spend any time with him even though he treated her like a third string shortstop who never got any playing time.  She was pathetic, in a word.

That’s me.

SO happy to get any quality time with the children I’ve sacrificed everything in which to raise.  Happy to get the crumbs of their time, just to be around them, even though they are less than…well…let’s just put it this way:  if we were actual friends, I would have dumped the both of them long ago!

So back to the car ride.  The first time Baby Boy did the car ride from Minneapolis to Ames, Iowa, he was rear ended in a hit and run accident going 70 mph. While he was unhurt (thank you, Jesus!), he did total our car.  Since I’m a fan of keeping my children alive, I was happy to help keep him awake and alert.  He mentioned that he wished he had a book on tape since music was making his head hurt.  “just keep talking to me.  What do we have to talk about?”

You’d think this would be easy for Chatty Cathy but I was speechless.  I had nothing to say.  He caught me when I was under some deadlines for my publisher and in intense thought about the direction of my Gridley Girls series of books.  Since the manuscript for the rewritten Gridley Girls was open on my computer, I asked, “Do you want me to read to you from Gridley Girls?”  I was half joking, knowing that Baby Boy is not exactly my target audience and had shown absolutely NO interest in reading my book in the last two years since it’s been available to him.  In fact, he said something to the effect of, “I tried to read your book but your voice is already the one in my head that I try to shake out.  Why would I want to add to it?”  Ouch.  But since I had a hypercritical mother myself, I get it.

“Great idea,” he said.  “But don’t just read anything.  I want you to pick your favorite chapter.  Only the best.”  He sounded like he was the father and I was the daughter.  It was a grownup role reversal that I appreciated.

And also a little too much pressure.  But I chose the Grease Rally chapter since that always seems to be a favorite for women my age.  Again, I knew he wasn’t my target audience but who doesn’t appreciate Grease, even a little?

So I read.  I pretended to be a big-time author who was actually recording her book-on-tape instead of the suburban mom I actually am.  I did voices (not too much) and gave my best.  After a few pages, he interrupted me and said, “Wow, Mom, you can actually write!  You never told me that!”

I almost fell out of my chair.  “Well thank you but how do you think I sold enough books to get a three-book deal?  Did you think I was spending all this time trying to sell junk?”

Silence while he thought.  “I guess I never thought about it.  And Meg, is that you?  I like her.”

I beamed through the telephone line.  He liked me. He really liked me!

“Yes, I’m Meg,”  I said.  When I was done, he went on to explain how surprised he was that my characters had dimension and were likable even though they had flaws.  He was glad they weren’t “ditzy girls” and was shocked that a guy his age would like this Women’s Fiction/Young Adult crossover book for girls.

And then it happened.

“Mom, can I read the book?”

“Are you kidding me?  I’ve been trying to get you to read the book for years?  Of course you can read it!”

The next morning, my husband was looking for Baby Boy and came up from the basement saying, “He’s downstairs reading Gridley Girls,” while shaking his head.

I almost burst into tears.

That afternoon, he came up with “notes”.  Apparently, I have a new editor.  The good news is I like his notes.  The better news is that he’s reading an old version and I’ve already made the changes that he’s noting.  He’s now reading the new version that very few people in the world have, just because he requested it because he, “doesn’t want to waste his time on the old book.”  The kid has an eye.  Proud mother moment.

How is it that those compliments from your teenagers and young adult children are SO incredible? Must be because you spend your life being the uncool mom or the old woman in their lives?  Or is it the old saying, “familiarity breeds contempt”?  Probably a combination of both.  Do families ever see each other in their real light?  My guess is no.  I think we’re just too close to fully appreciate the career aspects of those we grow up with.

I’ve made a mental note to try and see Baby Boy through clear lenses when he enters the career world in two years.  Those lenses will probably never be crystal clear since I’m the one who spent two months in bed just trying to keep him alive during pre-eclampsia and pre-term labor.  I’m the one who changed all those diapers, nursed him for almost two years (TWO YEARS!), took care of every strange and ordinary illness, every accident, poison control call, broken bone, hospital visit, surgery, ER visit, teacher conference,  tragic breakup with a girlfriend, cross-country move, college application, car accident, ticket, court visit for said ticket.

I’m the one who managed the homework, Confirmation work, volunteer work for church, the one who went with him on Mission Trips for church, dragged him across country for college visits, the one on the sidelines of every swim meet, game and concert, the one who tried to build him up to remember that he really is smart and really is worthy of getting into a good college.  The one who forced him to make good choices, chastised him when he didn’t properly break up with a girl (“You can’t just quit talking to her!  That’s not a proper break up!”).  The one who had the whole family go on senior spring break to Mexico with him (at his request) to keep him safe and teach him how to drink safely before going off to college.  The one who had the sex and birth control talks with him even though I just wanted to lock him (or at least his family jewels) in a closet until he was married).

I’m the mom.

So yeah, I’ll probably never see him through clear eyes.  But as I move him into his very first apartment next week, knowing that he may never live with me again, (Ever.)  at least I’ll be able to remember that I’m a good writer.

Cuz my son said so.

“No, you can’t go to college in Indiana. Or Arkansas!”

I haven’t been speaking up on any of these insane news stories surrounding gay rights lately.  Not because I don’t have an opinion.  We all know I have too many opinions.  Partially it’s been because I’m finishing the Gridley Girls final revisions for the paperback launch (8/4/15 — mark your calendars!) while also writing Gridley Girls Reunited (Book 2 due 8/2/16!).  Partly it’s been because I’m still recovering from Lyme Disease and its nasty co-infections.  And also, I’m just plain tired of bigotry.  Really, super tired of it.

My daughter is a junior in high school.  She gets inundated with emails from universities trying to entice her to visit them.  It’s a normal part of 11th grade.  Today, we sent one of them this reply:

First, there’s the crazy guy in my home state of California who wants to execute gays and jail and fine anyone (including me — gasp!) of spreading gay propaganda.  Seriously, not only would my friends and family be executed but I’d be fined millions of dollars and jailed simply for writing a book that shares the message of love towards everyone.  A book that celebrates the friendship between straight people and their gay best friends is now considered “propaganda supporting homosexuality”.  Well, if I’m a propaganda-spreading-homosexual-supporter then lock me up!  But don’t even think about killing my friends.  You’ll have to shoot through me first, because I don’t want to live in a world that would consider shooting my friends for living as God made them.  Period.  So forget the jail time, the fines and any other macabre ideas you have for me in this legislation.  Just execute me alongside my gay brothers and sisters.  Because that’s what we are:  brothers and sisters.  If this madman can’t see that, that’s his problem, not ours.

When this California based legislation hit the news, I had to talk my 17-year old daughter off the ledge as she sat on the couch reading it and crying, real tears, at the thought of her gay aunties, uncles and cousins being executed (she didn’t seem to have any fear of my impending jail sentence — not sure what to make of that).  Interestingly enough, when I told her that we would just line up to be executed with Rose, Debbie, Jimmer and Ryan as a family, she felt better.  I haven’t consulted my husband or son on this family pact but I’m moderately sure they’ll oblige.

But then there’s Indiana.  Really Indiana?  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  take homosexuality out of your bill and replace it with any other group.  Any other group!  African-Americans, Italians, Asians, British, Canadians, women, the disabled, the deaf or blind, lepers, deaf and blind lepers.  Any group.  Just insert another group and see if you would still want this legislation.  If you do, then as a state, you’re much worse off than I thought and no one can help you.  If you don’t, then it’s time for some real soul searching.  Is it possible that you’re trying to cover up you’re own homosexual tendencies?  I think that’s probably what’s going on with the crazy guy in California.  Shakespeare’s “the lady doth protest too much” keeps coming to mind here.

I’ve been asking people their opinions on Indiana and the most interesting point that I’ve been surprised at are the people who support this legislation who would also be considered very “gay-friendly”.  One person likened the legislation to the Apartheid and said they’d like to watch it happen so the country could freeze Indiana out.  Watch them fail from their decision.  Another said he’d like the legislation to pass so that others would follow, as a way to “bring all the bigots to the surface”. And look, it’s already happening in Arkansas.  I loved this idea.  It is much easier to go through life knowing who’s a bigot and who is not.  If only we could all wear jackets telling our true feelings.  Do we live in fear or love?

Fear is no reason to exclude an entire group of tax-paying, law-abiding Americans from anything.

Meanwhile, Indiana and Arkansas and any other state who wants to exclude any group from receiving services, please take my daughter off your email list.  There are plenty of inclusive universities for her to attend where she can receive an enriching education with humans of every variety.  Plus, clearly you wouldn’t want her gay-loving type around anyway.

I urge every college bound student to think long and hard about your education decision when considering states where this is happening.  And remember that including all people in their ability to receive services in no way says that you condone their way of life.  If your religious beliefs prohibit you from agreeing with homosexuality, that’s your right and we all need to work to protect that.  Just don’t force it on the rest of us by exclusionary tactics.  Being gay is not like “No shirt, no shoes, no service.”  They can’t change their shirt and quit being gay any more than you can change your shirt and quit being a bigot.

So back to the jackets — mine will for sure be pink.  What will yours look like?

And remember:  YAL,

Meredith

PS – Not that it matters, but I am a good Lutheran girl who votes fairly conservatively.  It is possible to love Jesus, low taxes, minorities and gays all at the same time — try it, you might like it!

God Be With You, Meredith Byrne…

Remember last year when the endless winter got me down and I asked you all to tell me what you’re grateful for to cheer me up?

I need that again, if you don’t mind. I woke up to a text this morning that Meredith Byrne passed away. 50 years ago, I was named after Meredith. Not in a sentimental-she-was-my-mother’s-best-friend way. In a sweet, small town way. Meredith was a classmate of my uncle and my mom loved her name. She wanted to name me Marcella and my dad said “anything but that”. Meredith is an old Welsh name and we’re Welsh so there it is.

Growing up in Gridley, every time I saw Meredith, I was excited. She was like a movie star to me, simply because she was the only other Meredith I knew and she was the one I was named after. Years later, when she grew up, she worked at Sycamore with my mom and they became good friends, as adults. When my mother died, too suddenly, and too soon at the age of 64, it was Everett and Meredith who made her funeral meal of trip-tip so special. Mom always said, “nobody really remembers anything about parties except how good the food is” and they made that a reality for her.

A few years ago, when Meredith was diagnosed with ALS, I was at the wedding of one of my BFF’s, when the bride’s cousin whispered to me, “how are you feeling?”. I said “fine” and wondered why she asked with such concern. She later told me she heard I was seriously ill but wasn’t specific. Her aunt overheard and said, “NOT Meredith Carlin, Meredith Byrne!”. That was how I got the news that Meredith had ALS. It was a nasty juxtaposition of emotions as we were relieved that I didn’t have ALS at the same time as being so sad for Meredith to have such a dreadful disease.

Less than a year after that, I got a few voicemails asking me to call back right away. The friends sounded strange so I called back but couldn’t reach them. My husband got similar strange calls but he was able to reach some of his callers.

Then I got a call from one of my BFF’s explaining it all. It turned out that colleagues of my husband were in a panic, thinking my husband had died suddenly. They were calling his offices in Sacramento, Minneapolis and San Francisco trying to covertly find out if my husband was in fact, dead or alive, because of the simple statement from my friend that “Meredith’s husband died suddenly”.

My husband experienced the surreal experience of realizing how much his friends love him in their pursuit of the truth of his death (or aliveness for lack of a better word) and I was left with the same juxtaposition of joy that my husband was still alive and intense sadness for Meredith and her children, that Everett had passed away just as suddenly as my own mom.

I’m so happy for Meredith that she’s out of the pain of her illness and reunited with Everett but her children, Mindy and Brannon, are alone now and that breaks my heart. I feel like a bit of a dork sharing this publicly, because it’s not like Meredith and I were close, but I wanted to reach out and count my blessings at a time when my own chronic disease is getting me down.

Relapses suck, but life can be short, so I’ll start this gratitude chain by saying I’m grateful for my family who sticks by me even though my fun moments are not as plentiful as my sick ones. I’m grateful for my friends who remember to text me the sad news as well as the good news, knowing that I hate to feel so far away. I’m grateful for a town like Gridley where we got to grow up in the security of a community that takes care of us in good times and bad and who I know will rally around Mindy and Brannon right now. And I’m thankful for all of you who may actually read this (much too lengthy) post and actually post your joy with me to live vicariously through. Thank you! Rest in peace, Meredith Byrne. God be with you ’til we meet again.

Why I’ll Let My Teenage Daughter Watch 50 Shades…

That was hard to write, but it’s true.  I’m hoping she’ll opt out, but here’s my plan, for better or worse.

She’s 17 so legally she can see this movie without me.  Emotionally, she is nowhere near ready for it, so my hope will be that she won’t want to see it, but I guarantee you that if I forbid her to see it, she’ll sneak out to the next showing faster than I could tie her to a chair (probably not the best analogy to use in these circumstances but it was accidental!).

Whether or not we choose to let our kids watch the movie, the discussions need to happen, regardless of how uncomfortable they may be.  As adults, we know what is acceptable behavior in a relationship.  As teenagers, if we don’t discuss it, they may very well think movies like this are actually realistic and an acceptable way for a woman to be treated.

This movie has caused such a stir in our culture that it’s created teachable moments for us as parents.  We’ve had full discussions (with her friends as well) on BDSM, sexual safety and how a man should treat a woman.  I can’t guarantee those discussions would have happened if not for the controversy surrounding this movie.  I can’t say I liked explaining what BDSM was.  I didn’t like having to google what the exact acronym stands for (it’s not a precise acronym – BDSM is vague – big surprise).

I did like discussing the fact that it’s not our place to judge what goes on in other people’s bedrooms.  I liked discussing the fact that no book or movie should glorify a woman being emotionally abused by a man.

I was absolutely proud when listening to her discuss it with her best friend (who had read the book).  Her friend said she didn’t think the main character was emotionally abused by the male lead and that quotes from the book were being taken out of context to seem abusive.  My daughter quickly replied, “If he didn’t say those things, they can’t be taken out of context.  No woman should tolerate that treatment from anyone, let alone a man she loves.”

Bingo!  It might have been one of my proudest parenting moments.  Being a mom of teens is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  Parenting a feisty, redheaded teenage girl is sometimes impossible.  I’m usually the bad guy and always the meanest mother in the world.  This is my role in life and on most days I accept it.

But it doesn’t mean I like it.  I hate being the bad guy.  When she was a tween, I was the fun mom.  I liked fun mom.  She was awesome.  I hope I’ll get my title back someday.

Meanwhile, I’ll accept being the meanest mom in the world.  I feel like I’ve armed her with a lifetime of religious, spiritual and moral teachings, the love of her family, a strong relationship with her father (that alone can protect her from so much!) and most of all, the example of a woman who won’t put up with misogyny.  My marriage is in no way perfect, but it is loving and my kids have spent their lives watching me defend myself if anyone in the family is disrespectful.  I may not be able to change other people’s behavior, but I can have a voice.

And boy, do I have a voice.

There can be light after depression, if you believe…

I am crying tears of joy and need to share.  I have had vertigo on and off for the last three years.

For the last two months, it’s been back only this time, it came with its BFF, the migraine. Of course, this was smack dab in the middle of my deadline to finish the re-write of Gridley Girls. I had to ask for extension after extension and luckily, my new publisher was nothing but wonderful.

For those of you who’ve read my book, you know that it is autobiographical, very personal and difficult for me to write since it’s so emotional. That can be very challenging when you’re one part dizzy and one part head-cracking-wanna-die.

So, two weeks ago, I was at the height of depression, feeling-sorry-for-myself and thinking I’d never finish. My family did all they could do to help, cooking, cleaning and running errands (Baby Girl is now the best shopper ever!) and were even good about making jokes of my depression, “Hey mom, looking good.” when I was in the same clothes for two days with crazy eyed, frizzy hair. All I had was prayer. The meds weren’t working, but I knew, eventually, prayer would, so I stuck with it.

Soon, the migraines ended (thanks Debbie Curcuru) and my meds started kicking in and the vertigo is slowly going away. But my head cleared enough to finish the edits.

I turned them in exactly 9 days ago. I have been praying every day, that my editor will love the changes and that I won’t have much more to do because frankly, while I love the characters in Gridley Girls (how could I not – they are my best friends?) I am SICK of that book and ready to move on!

Today, I received this email from my editor: “You KILLED it (and I mean that in a good way)!

You clearly took all our revision discussions to heart, and the new version is great. I really enjoyed reading it. It’s funny, heartfelt, and sweet. I’ve made just a few nit-picky clarification queries (see attached manuscript), but nothing major.

Let me know if you have any questions, and don’t forget to have some champagne and run a few victory laps around your house. You have earned it!”

Glory Hallelujah! Prayers get answered. Hard work pays off. Depression clears up. There is always a light at the end of the tunnel. When we’re in the darkness though, it’s VERY hard to remember that. Thank you, Jesus, for reminding me once again.

I am reminded again, of that morning when I woke up with this message in my head,

“Dear Meredith, When have I ever not provided for you? Love, God”

He always provides.

Now, I wonder if my vertigo will tolerate some champagne?

The Magic of Facebook

People like to make fun of Facebook:  it’s a time-waster, a marriage-killer, it’s been taken over by your mom (that last one’s probably true) but for me, it’s been joy.  Facebook came into my life by accident.  I was that mom who got an account because my 13-year old son had one and I needed to keep an eye on him.  Little did I know that my accidental account, acquired a few months after moving across country, would become my lifeline to home.  My ability to keep in touch with my family and friends in California has allowed me to adjust to life in Minneapolis much more easily.

Twenty-seven years ago, when I was a broke California college student, on exchange from Oregon State University to the University of London, I walked into a suburban pub where Simon LeBon had worked before he became Duran Duran (!) and asked for a job, since in the states, I had recently helped train on the same computer system this pub and restaurant just acquired.  I had no legal right to work in Britain, no papers, no whatever numbers the Brits have that equate to a social security number, nothing but the drive to continue to shop in the new city I called home that had, in my 22-year old mind, the best shopping in the world.  The world, I tell you.

Sure, the world wasn’t that large to me at the time, only having been to the western states, but San Francisco and LA have decent shopping, right?  Not like London.  London was like Heaven to a clothes-horse girl.  I’m pretty sure I heard angels sing the first time I walked around Knightsbridge, but I digress (as usual).

I looked at the older women kvetching over the computer and scratching their heads in confusion (it was 1987, this was a big deal) and getting madder and madder and I knew I had this job.  I could feel it.  I’d been working with older women and computers since I was 14.  I asked if I could show them a few things and told them not to be afraid.  I found that’s what always worked the best when dealing with computers and older people.  ”Don’t be afraid.  Show it who’s boss.  It can’t do anything you don’t tell it to.”  That usually works for most things in life, doesn’t it?

I got the job on the spot.  Not only did they save my behind (when I maxed out my credit card the day before and told my father, he was very quick to remind me that I was to be paying my own way on this gig and I better figure it out on my own) by giving me that job, it turned out to be the second best thing (next to the wonderful family I lived with) about living in London.  They worked around my travel schedule (still had places to see), my theater schedule (was a liberal arts student – it was part of school) and they made me feel at home.  It was like Cheers, with bad teeth.  I was the Yank, the token Californian that they loved to make fun of.  They thought I had an accent.  It was then I discovered that I used “like” entirely too much and people outside of California didn’t say “Omigod” every three seconds like we did.  I had always thought Californians were the only people without accents.  I thought California was the center of the universe.  I thought everybody knew that.

They didn’t get that memo in England and they let me know that often.

I was taught how to properly “pull” a Guinness.  This took many tries of wasted Guinness that seemed heartbreaking to the regulars.  Sometimes I thought they’d cry if I pulled another bad pint.  I was taught how to use the crazy Queen’s measurement of hard liquor with the upside down bottles that pour exactly the right amount.  Thank God, the people of England do not drink frou-frou drinks in pubs.  I never had to learn how to make anything fancy.  How can you be fancy when you don’t even refrigerate your beer?  The first time I had to take a bottle of lager (what they call beer) off the shelf and serve it to someone at room temperature, I was horrified.  They were just as horrified that I needed a glass full of ice to drink anything, regardless of how freezing it was outside.

I was a novelty and embraced as one of their own for just the three short months that I worked there.  Two of my sisters came to visit during my last few weeks there and traveled through Spain with me.  We went back to London before returning to the states so they could meet my exchange family and my pub family.  My pub family gave me a pen and ink drawing of Pinner High Street that everyone signed and it still hangs in my dining room today.

A few months ago, I found out that my exchange Mum passed away.  Through that horrible news, I was reunited with my exchange Dad and brother on social media.  That got me thinking, “What about that great guy who gave me a job?  Wonder if he’s on Facebook?”  This afternoon, I heard from him.  After 27 years, I’m back in touch with someone who probably doesn’t think much about me, but was significant in my life.

All because of Facebook.

While Facebook can’t keep me warm during an endless Minnesota winter, it continues to surprise me and connect me with people who before, were just distant memories.

Thanks Facebook!  And Per Hogberg, I look forward to catching up with you on Facebook and someday, we’ll have to have a pint.  You should pull it though.  Pretty sure I’d ruin it.

Per Hogberg
Meredith Carlin
1987 – not our best looks!
Roast Inn/Hand in Hand

Who wouldn’t want to wear that awesome uniform?