Susan Thatcher's Blog, page 2

My New Year’s Resolution

I know we’re almost done with February, so a New Year’s resolution isn’t timely. The ads for diets and gyms that plastered the airwaves have faded, the gyms aren’t overcrowded, and we don’t see Ray Liotta for Chantix quite as much.

Although there are some who used to tell me what they thought I should (or should not) do to improve my life, they have no hand in this resolution, except perhaps being the architects of its necessity.

This year, 2019, I’ve resolved to like myself.

Or at least work at it.

It’s a hard thing.

I had heard for years, from people whom I trusted, that I was lazy, fat, self-indulgent, my own worst, enemy, a thief, a liar, irresponsible, slimy, bad sister/bad daughter/bad granddaughter, burden,user. I exercised too little and read too much.

Every time something goes wrong, my first thought is that this is what I deserve. If you’re raised in the Christian (not Evangelical, but basic Christian) mode, you are raised to believe that good people are rewarded and bad people punished, even if there isn’t a direct correlation apparent at the time.

We are told that we must love ourselves as we are. A lot of times, this is followed by “then you can make the changes you need.” Until I set fingers to keyboard to type this, I had not considered the absurdity of that concept.

I am a student of the Law of Attraction/Manifestation movement and that has taught me (though I don’t remember the specific source) that the two most powerful words are “I am” for what follows is what you believe about yourself.

So, it’s time to change the internal dialogue (and I do talk to myself in my head. You do, too. Don’t deny). It’s not easy. We’re talking 50 + years of habituated thinking to overcome. It’s not going to so much be positive, ego stroking as not condemning myself constantly.

Part of the change of thought needs to be the self-acknowledgement that, although my past choices may be biting me in the ass right now, I can’t go back in time and change them. I can only deal with the current situation and (even if it hurts) make the right, best decisions now without beating myself up for how I got there.

There are so many situations and issues that require my attention and effort right now that I want to curl up into a ball and hibernate (I know things are bad and stressful when I can sleep at the drop of a hat). However, I have only me to depend on, so no matter how tempting to ignore things, I must take action. No matter how much I want to wail about the unfairness of life because there are people (women) out there who would get help, goods, services thrown at them for a hangnail, but I have to take on bullies by myself. The internal dialogue has convinced me that I have gone to the well too many times, my causes (whatever they may be at the time) are not just, and “you made your bed; lie in it.”

I’ve not been in a 12 Step program, but I am familiar with the broad strokes, especially the “making amends” steps (I owe a lot of my knowledge to “Mom” and Mom). When I take these steps (usually financial) to deal with the consequences of previous decisions, I do not permit myself a “pat on the back” for having done so. The habituated thinking is “Had you not _____ in the first place, you wouldn’t be in this position!” I allow myself to think in terms of “that’s done.”

Like I said, most of my transgressions have been financial. Growing up, my family, although we weren’t given lessons in running a checkbook or responsibly using finances and credit, had an undeclared fixation with money. It was used as a means of control, family members would figure out ways of getting it out of each other. You were “good” if you didn’t ask for it, if you saved it, if you didn’t object that it wasn’t repaid in kind. One memorable explosion by my father was when I withdrew $5.00 from my own savings account. “Susan, you CHEAT!” He never elaborated on why or who I was cheating. Like I said, money equaled control. A lack of it reflected a moral failing. (On a grander scale, this is how we seem to regard poverty and weight. Not being on the “right” end of it is a clear indication of bad character).

I am still cleaning up after years of financial folly. Part of the “tape” in my head is my mother calling me a “thief” for running up  credit card debt and not repaying it. These comments always came after some debt collector had contacted her looking for me. (By the way, I have learned a ton about debt collectors and what they can/cannot do. One of their favorite weapons to get a promise to pay is shame. They should have hired Mom). Anyway, I hear her voice every day telling me that my circumstances are my own doing, I need to deal with it, and if I’m only getting paid $11.50, I should be grateful because clearly that’s all I’m worth. I hear my older sister telling me what a fool I am because I’ve earned a bunch of licenses and degrees and I’m not using any of them. Sure. Had I tried a little harder, I could have gotten a job as a lawyer. Had I been smarter, I would have maintained my relationship with Fidelity Investments to keep my Series 7 valid. If I applied myself harder, I could be coding websites now. It’s all my fault for expecting things to just happen for me.

In addition to paying back the IRS (I have a payment plan), I now have the US Dept of Education garnishing my wages, and frankly, with the shitty pay I get, I can’t afford to keep myself going, let alone Betsy Fucking DeVos. I THOUGHT the loans had been discharged through a bankruptcy court error in 2004, and I have managed to hold off collection efforts until now by sending a copy of the discharge to the collectors. Apparently no, and BFdV wants over $125 grand from me. (Oh, and that BK, which was really intended as a negotiating tactic for some creditors to work out a payment plan? My mother called me “slimy” for it) So I have THAT shit to shovel now, too.

As you can see, I don’t do things the easy way.

You hear a lot about “self-care” these days, and it’s a term applied to a universe of actions and thoughts. I don’t care for it, seeing as it’s a fashionable term and the concept is wide open to abuse, I think, as a rationalization for narcissistic behavior. I don’t believe I’ll indulge.

The negative self-talk is reinforce the self-loathing, which is beginning to morph into, “you know, you’re over 50, alone, and struggling. You’re not getting a decent job anytime soon. Why not exit stage right? Yeah, you saw the video today of the guy who jumped from the Golden Gate and survived, but that’s not you. You’re a giant damned failure and not going to redeem yourself.”

You see why I need to stop it. At least, for now, I still have to will to stop.

So, I will “cancel cancel” on the negative thoughts and work to reprogram. I will keep on keeping on. Detest my current job, but still do my very best at it while looking for something else (Pro tip: Sutherland Global Services is a crappy place if you’re not going in as part of management, and good luck with that because Command and Control is overseas).

It’s a step. We’ll get to the more positive thoughts later.

 

 

 

 

In a Word, It Isn’t

There are actors and actresses who can “sell me a ticket,” as I put it. You know; they are the reason you go to a particular movie.

Rebel Wilson is not one of them.

I have nothing against her. What I had seen of her work didn’t really make me a fan. Or hate her on sight. (I saw one or two episodes of her ABC sitcom, whatever it was called. Haven’t seen the “Pitch Perfect” movies)

Same with Adam Devine.

And Liam Hemsworth, although I enjoy living on a planet with multiple Hemsworths. The idea of standing in the middle of them is an entertaining one.

Nothing against any of them, but none of them have ever motivated me to buy a movie ticket.

And yet, I went to “Isn’t It Romantic?”.

Part of my motivation was that I wanted something undemanding and stupid. My expectations were exceeded. What could have been a light-hearted and witty handling of skewering a genre turned out to be leaden, heavy-handed, and a waste of talent.

The plot: our heroine, Natalie, watched a shit ton of romantic comedies as a child and eventually turned on them. We have the near-standard “hit your head and end up in a parallel universe” (I think we blame “The Wizard of Oz” for that one) where the entire world is romantic comedy clichés. Of course, she fights against all of it, comes up with a big message, and wakes up back in her world, the end.

I seldom want to walk out on a movie, but this one, I wanted to run. However, since I saw it as part of my AMC A-List, I couldn’t get a refund, so I stuck it out. What can I say? Sometimes I’m a masochist.

If you don’t know me already, let me tell you something about myself: I’m fat. This will be important in a sec. I have a friend who prefers the term “juicy girl,” which (for the moment. That’s another post) is not as laden with negative baggage as the word “fat.” Going forward, we will talk about Rebel Wilson in juicy girl terms.

Here’s what REALLY bugged me about this movie: facial inequality or inter-facial dating, as I’ve seen it called.

Natalie (Rebel Wilson) has a professional job, architect. Not assistant or support staff or office manager. She is one of the ones to be assisted. She is smart, she’s gainfully employed (I wouldn’t judge it by her “In Real Life” (IRL) apartment because rents in New York City are ridiculous. She may be living in a closet, but she’s not sharing it with 3 other people). She is making it on her own. In actual real life, she’d be considered a good match (Honey, romance and falling in love at first sight is great for storytelling, but stability keeps things fresher longer). In the movie, she spies Blake (Liam Hemsworth) and falls in lust with him (Mama Hemsworth has some very handsome sons), while being friends with Josh (Adam Devine) whom she thinks is lusting after the woman in an ad. She is ignored by Blake while she ignores Josh. I would ignore Josh. Adam Devine is a skilled comic actor, but he’s not a Hemsworth by any stretch.

In the parallel head bonk universe, Blake Handsome falls in love with her, Josh Friend falls for the woman in the ad, Blake turns out to have jerk tendencies, and at the last minute, she realizes it’s been Josh all along blah blah blah.

We’re living in a world where the importance of representation is finally dawning on Hollywood, but it’s missing from this piece.

What we’re seeing here is reinforcement that fat people are not supposed to be with “pretty” people. Fat has been successfully demonized for decades as a moral failing, a physical manifestation of weakness and shame, and proof of a person’s bad character. If you want to see a fat person depicted as human, capable of being loved and admired, go see “Stan & Ollie” (which is EXCELLENT). And even then, they put John C. Reilly in a fat suit.

Fat women get short shrift in romance. It’s only in the fantasy realm that Natalie is considered a suitable partner for handsome, successful Blake. In her “real world,” she’s only good enough for Josh. As I said, Adam Devine is a very skilled comic actor, but he’s not a leading man.

Let’s let that sink in: the leading lady in a romantic comedy does not get the leading man type. Rebel Wilson is capable of leading a romantic comedy, but they’re not letting her get the handsome guy as, perhaps, Anna Kendrick or Jennifer Lawrence would have.

Yes, Blake is a jerk and Josh is a better person. However, I think other filmmakers would have engineered things a bit differently for another actress with another attractive (not necessarily Hemsworth) man in the Josh role, but with glasses and schlumpy clothing until the big reveal.

Why can’t fat people be seen as attractive? Would it upset the diet industry too much? Would it put Marie Osmond out of a job shilling for Nutrisystem? Too many billions of dollars at stake to let Rebel Wilson be anything more than a joke or second banana. (This thing needs to fail and when it does, they’ll blame her, not the crappy writing and execution)

Melissa McCarthy is revered. And she led a successful sitcom for years on “Mike & Molly.” Once again, though (and I enjoy the show in reruns. Great comic cast), she was paired with someone who was not a leading man (again, Billy Gardell is a deft standup and comic actor, but he’s not a Hemsworth).

In “Isn’t It Romantic?”, the pretty people are depicted as ultimately vain and shallow (another stereotype) and not worthy of love. But, I think the was to reinforce Josh as a more suitable choice for Natalie.

(Here’s where I honk my own horn)

I wrote “These Foolish Things” which depicts two people in their forties falling in love for the first time. Ty is Hemsworth (or Clooney) handsome and successful, Liz is overweight (not necessarily fat), has a professional career, lives on her own, and is a good, stable match. She’s insecure because, well, fat is a moral failing, dontcha know?

I wrote this as a response to all the romantic stories depicting the leads as twenty-somethings with perfect looks. I get escapism, but c’mon. How many kidnappings by motorcycle gangs, vampires, shape shifters, nobles in disguise, vampire motorcycle gangs, and undiscovered fashion models are too many?

Why not have a story where one could easily see herself as the heroine? “Hey! She’s like me!”

Are we trying to convince people who don’t fit the current model of beauty that they are not attractive? Of course, we’ve got a President* – who was just officially declared obese – who calls women who oppose him “fat pigs.” When I’ve been attacked on social media, the first thing they go for (usually men) is my weight or my looks (with makeup and hair done, I look okay. Without, meh). Men are usually running the studios and deciding which films get made under what conditions. What came out with the #MeToo movement was stories of male film execs making casting decisions on whether or not they thought a particular actress was “fuckable.” Not seeing much change going on.

What we have is a celluloid world (well, technically it’s digital these days) that refuses to depict juicy girls as genuine romantic leads. (I’ve seen pictures of these guys. They’re not Hemsworths)

So much for representation.

Even if you are a huge Rebel Wilson/Adam Devine/Liam Hemsworth fan, save your money on this one. “Isn’t It Romantic?” isn’t.

 

“Aquaman” Review (Yes, there are spoilers)

“You are not the intended demographic for a comic book movie. Why the hell did you go?”

This.

Any questions? By the way, the audience was at least 50% women my age. What can I tell you? Some of us like to window shop.

Seriously, I wouldn’t have gone but Jason Momoa in “Justice League” was the most fun thing in it (and I went because I love Henry Cavill. And whoever fired him as Superman screwed up). He’s not my movie hunk type; this is:

However, Jason Momoa is not only easy on the eyes, he seems to be a pretty decent human being. Fer chrissakes, he grew up in Iowa. Repnasty Steve King aside, Iowans are decent, grounded folk. Well, for the time being:

Anyway, in interviews, when he’s being Jason Momoa, he comes across as a mensch with intelligence and some humor. What can I say? I like a man with a brain. Things that can get caught in zippers aren’t good for decision-making.

This was not a good movie. it hit the superhero cliches: the backstory is either one of not having/knowing one has powers or manboys avoiding their destiny. In the present case, we have Arthur Curry (Momoa is the sexiest Arthur you’ll ever see. And, later in the movie, we get a fairly “duh” parallel to another Arthur. There is foreshadowing.  So much foreshadowing. Dear God, the only one who does heavier handed foreshadowing is Dan Brown) as a big lug, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, rejecting his heritage. Cliche Number 1, check.

It’s not a super hero movie without villains.

 

Black Manta, who looks like he came from a 1950s B movie (Yes, Fanboys, I know this get-up is from the comic book. Don’t get your tighty whiteys in a bunch). He gets the back story. And, once he looks like this, about 5 minutes of screen time before he’s out of the movie altogether. It’s a shame because in the inappropriate-for-the-bad-guy “getting ready” montage (complete with a comedic “oops, I don’t know my own strength” flourish), he put a shit ton of work into looking like something Raid makes a spray or motel for.

Here’s the REAL bad guy:

 

Aquaman’s half-brother, Orm.

“Aquaman” should come with a subtitle: “Mom Always Liked You Best!”

If you saw “The Incredibles,” you’ll remember Frozone and Mr. Incredible reminiscing about their superhero days and Frozone talking about Baron von Ruthless monologuing. BvR has nothing on these two. We are  talking speech patterns bordering on Victorian for this guy. Loong speeches. He could have been throat-punched repeatedly, or given an atomic wedgie (since Arthur was still in big frat boy mode at that point). Perhaps fatally. I was hoping. I was also so uninterested in what he was saying, I was more focused on figuring out what perfume the woman sitting next to me was wearing (No. It wasn’t obnoxious, and neither was she. However, I got a few whiffs and spent time trying to match a name to the scent. Much more engaging than the movie at that point). (Somewhere around Orm’s third speech, I realized it was “Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds.” It’s a lovely scent, but only certain people can wear it successfully. Before you buy it for yourself or someone else, take it on a test run)

I digress.

I like Patrick Wilson as an actor, despite my introduction to him being “The Watchmen.” (I have no idea what I was thinking) As you can see, he was made up to look like the lost Malfoy. And when he was talking about kicking Momoa’s half-human ass, I was thinking, “Oh, Honey. It looks like he’s got at least 9 inches you and about 50 lbs more of pure muscle. And he’s playing the title character. Give up.”

Undulation. Hair. Seaweed. Capes. Many, many capes. Edna Mode would have killed herself.

(“Seriously? Why did you go?”)

 

This.

There was a underwater rumble. Several of them, in fact, but the first one had guys on seahorses facing off against guys on sharks. My thought: this is not exactly West Side Story. You know, Jets v Sharks? Huh? Huh? “When you’re a Seahorse, you’re a Seahorse all the way…” Nah.

Heroes go on quests. To find themselves, mentors, or stuff. In this case, stuff, so in addition to two bad guys out to get him, we have a Heroic Scavenger Hunt!

Goody! Go to Point A to find Clue 1, nearly get killed, then go to Point B, which is where Clue 1 sent you, nearly get killed again, until Clue 2 sends you to the object’s resting place (Threes. Pay attention, Kids: attempts, clues, etc. come in threes. If it’s only the second attempt or the second strike, our hero will not succeed).

On the way, we meet weirdo sea creatures. There was a trailer for “Godzilla: King of the Monsters” before the movie and I wondered if we had a crossover going. There were also extinct ones and I checked my ticket to make sure I wasn’t in “Jurassic World.”

At this point, the Heroic Scavenger Hunt is successful and we see Arthur Curry finally in the yellow and green Aquaman outfit. He looked like a cross between a metallic evening clutch and a 57  Cadillac (Costume tailfins. So many tailfins)

 

See what I mean?

Jason Momoa was in “Game of Thrones” as Khol Drogo. We got to see his butt. It’s an asset. (See what I did there?)

http://www.susanthatcher.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/12/Khal-Drogo.mp4

In “Aquaman,” we get one shot of covered butt. Speaking for the rest of the audience that matched my demographic (and we were numerous), there should have been more.

DC, maybe have me write a movie for you. Rehire Cavill, let me put him in a buddy movie with Momoa, maybe scamming an intergalactic villain played by Josh Brolin by faking horse races and …no. That’s “The Sting.” Damn good movie.

However, we did get wet Jason Momoa. And that’s a good thing. Lots of wet Jason Momoa. He undulated at times. Everyone did cuz, you know, they were underwater. And when he wasn’t underwaterd, he was mostly wet. Hmm.

Maybe DC was writing for middle-aged women after all.

I’m Still Here

How many times have I said that? (I know, I know)

I’m not a Stephen  Sondheim fan (I recognize his genius, but his music doesn’t resonate with me).

It’s been 364 days since my last blog post. That was about how I felt since the death of my friend 15 years ago. I have sisters (more on them in a bit) but that was the loss of a soul sister. Given the number of blunders I’ve made in that time, I think I relied too heavily on her superior common sense and smarts for guidance and didn’t really work to develop my own.

2003 was a suck-ass year.

Followed by 2005.

So was 2008.

And 2015.

2018, too.

I self-diagnose as having situation depression. It manifests as a form of emotional paralysis: I don’t want to do anything. Everything is overwhelming. I just want to hibernate until things are better. I don’t want to be medicated because that won’t resolve the issues (and that goes for drugs and alcohol. They don’t solve the problem, so why bother?).  I can’t afford to go to a psychiatric hospital because I don’t have insurance or the means to pay for it (or a regular prescription. That shit’s expensive). And I don’t want to be on meds anyway. (Sort of a middle finger to Big Pharma)

I looked for an image for this post of a woman wrapped in chains to illustrate the point. However, the ones I found (including strait-jacket photos) were all a bit too BDSM to use. Yeah, no.

Lost a good-paying job in March. Managed to scramble, financially through most of the year, but found another job in September that pays 63% less. No, that was not a typo. Call center. White collar work, but not a living wage. I have never been so over-managed in the 34 years I’ve been a working adult. At any given time, at least 4 people can be monitoring a phone call located in Florida, New York, or Mumbai. The task does not play to my strengths: problem-solving. And my co-workers tell me it’s obvious to them that the manager does not like me. At all. However, I did win a 43″ Sharp smart TV at the Christmas party, so there’s that.

The way out…

In the time in between jobs, I SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED a course in Web Design and Program Development. Me. I learned HTML, CSS, Bootstrap, JavaScript, JQuery, some graphics work, PHP, and MySQL. The JavaScript and the PHP  haven’t stuck too well, but the coding community is extremely supportive, in terms of fora (plural of forum), chat rooms, and websites to learn/practice coding.  I made what I think is a kick-ass website for my final project (no, I’m not providing the link right now. It’s supposed to be uploaded to here somewhere, but we’ll see if I was successful). Starting wages for web development are still about half of what I was making in mortgage due diligence, but more than what I’m making now.  And I can create tools for folks to complete better, more accurate mortgage reviews.

I am standing in my own way in terms of lacking self-confidence. Potential employers will give you puzzles to code and I am too chickenshit to complete them. Practicing code on a website in order to refresh memory and boost confidence.

And, once again, I need to find a home. (And save my stuff in storage. Seriously. If anyone reading this has a spare $150,000, that’ll pay off all my debts and purchase a nice little condo for me with enough to move CA storage stuff to FL, furnish home, acquire two kitties).

I’ve been ready to throw in the towel for eternity for months. I’m serious.

This week, an old wound that I’ve been trying to heal by ignoring it has reopened. This is where my sisters come in. One of them posted an old photo of the two of them wearing hats from my grandmother. I remember when the picture was taken. In the posted photo, I was cropped out. I’m being erased from my family. And that broke my heart.

I imagine they would say this is all my fault due to issues I had with my mother, but 20 some years ago, I could see that the unity and bonding that my dad wanted so much for us wasn’t going to outlast him. I thought I had worked towards healing old wounds and rebuilding relationships, but I was wrong. Back in 2000, at my sister’s wedding, her co-workers challenged me when I said I was her sister. They pointed at my other sister and said, “No, that’s her sister over there!”

How nice. Of course, she has family pictures all over her houses, but I never saw myself in any of them. Granted, we had a bad relationship as kids. After I moved out, I discovered that she had broken some of my collection of horse statues (including Breyer collectibles which appreciate in value. Dumb fucking move). I don’t think it was accidental. Nor was cutting up my prom dress to make an 8th grade graduation dress without asking me (Thanks, Mom. You knew better). Her boyfriend/husband was not very friendly and the first time I saw her kids beyond being little babies, they thought it was great fun to hit me with duck decoys while their parents stood by and laughed. I should have known.

Of course, the usual comment that follows is “Well, you hold a grudge.” Actions speak louder than words. My words, your actions.

The cropped picture brought it all home. If you bitches wanted to hurt me, you fucking did it. Congratulations. I hope you’re happy with yourselves. You tried to trap me into moving home and being a caretaker for someone who disliked me only slightly less than you did.

Why was it decided that my life and happiness mattered less than yours?

Whatever. You can block me on Facebook, refuse to acknowledge my existence, not communicate with me unless you want something (which has been the case since we were teens. I only exist if I’m useful to you. The sad smile and tears with “We really should be closer” only comes out when the wine flows. I’m willing to be closer, just not on your terms). However, like science, whether you like it or not, I’m still your sister. Those were my parents. I don’t even know what you did with the bodies. NONE of you had the maturity, courage, or grace to reach to tell me my mother was dying, was dead, the date/time of the memorial, or even offer me the pictures of myself from the hall. I didn’t want money (this was a discussion I’d had with Mom several times. And Dad. Because he and I were both ATTORNEYS who had studied wealth transmission, we knew the best estate planning was to spend it all (including transfers) during your lifetime). All I wanted were the cross-stitch pictures I’d made for them, the photos of me as a baby and little girl, me with Ralph, my graduation pictures, the Fidelity publicity photo of me wearing a headset. That’s it. My stuff. Given the treatment years prior of my collectibles, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were tossed the first day of cleaning out the Rutland house. And I’m pretty sure I was lied to about them.

Anger is like  drinking poison and hoping it kills the other person. I have to forgive you for myself. I can also forgive you because you have to live with yourselves. I don’t.

I have been working on some short stories. I will finish those sumbitches if it kills me. Which is ironic because they’re supposed to be funny erotica, not Swedish death metal (shout-out to a friend). And not under my name. Someone I respect told me I need to focus and commit to something, then success will follow. Also commented that the comerotica (comedy + erotica. Portmanteau word. May catch on. May not) would be successful. I can do that.

And that’s the state of me right now.

Still here. The Iron Rose will bloom again.

 

 

Since You Left

February 1, 2003 was the worst day of my life, but I think you know that. I’d like to think, if the situation was reversed, it would have been equally as devastating to you.

You left.

I don’t kick myself because I had turned off my phone and didn’t get the call when Ellen made it. This wasn’t Dad or Gram with some warning that they were about to leave. You and I had a great conversation the day before. Truth? I was surprised as hell that you picked up the phone. That almost never happened. You know how, after someone has suddenly left, the stories come out? “Just out of the blue, Jeremiah called/dropped by/sent an email/text/Facebook comment and the next day, he was gone.” That phone call the day before was one of those stories. I don’t remember what the hell we talked about, except I was light-headed after giving blood, and you ragged on me for being an airhead blonde because of it. And I said, “Fuck you.” You said, “Fuck you.” . And a bunch of other shit. Our usual shit. I think I forgot to say, “Talk to you later.” That was odd. I always sign off a phone call that way. Maybe that was another sign that, no, I wouldn’t talk to you later. Or ever again.

It’s been almost fifteen years. I lost you, I lost Toulouse, I lost my housing (through my own folly). That was the last time I had a home of my own. 2003 was a real festering turd of a year. And I am not recovered from it. Your departure is still a raw, oozing wound. It doesn’t heal. It won’t heal. I don’t want it to heal. I don’t want to get over losing my soul sister.

Yeah, sister. You have one of your own. I have two. I think it’s fair to say, we were closer to each other than to them. I couldn’t and cannot talk to Kathy and Laura like I could talk to you. I was like the alien in the midst of the Thatcher family. We kept each other’s confidences. We talked about stuff that would get me puzzled and dismissive “You’re weird” looks from K&L. You and me, though, we got each other.

I don’t think it’s a secret that I needed you more than you needed me. You had my back. Maybe I took it for granted. Yeah, I did. I have no idea what it was I did for you. Made you laugh? Got you into some Lucy & Ethel type capers? I think maybe part of my ongoing, decade-and-a-half-long grief is guilt. Guilt for taking, for not giving back enough, for being selfish. I took your presence in my life for granted, and I also took it for granted that we would be on the Earth together for decades. 1979-2003, not even a quarter-century. it’s not fair.

You’ve missed a lot. You missed me coming in third on Jeopardy. You missed me on “Reba.” (and Ms. McIntyre was kind and gracious when I almost burst out crying all over her because you would have loved that I was on her show).  I needed to talk to you about what I saw of Dad with dementia and how scary that shit was. You weren’t here to consult over the issues that drove the final breaking wedge between the rest of the Thatchers and me. If ever I needed a soul sister, that was then.

You should have been here to torment me on my fiftieth birthday. I should have been able to mock you on YOUR fiftieth birthday. Coward. You skipped Earth before that milestone. Forty years was enough, I guess.

By the way, I’m the one who put the yellow rose in the bouquet that was the center of your memorial service. Ellen went along with it. And I’m sure you dumped the picture into that bouquet. Our final “Fuck you” to each other?

You’re the one who kept my feet to the fire writing. I should have been able to consult you about publishing. By all rights, the first copy should have gone to you, not just the dedication.

I still have trouble referring to those closest to me as “best friend.” That’s your job, and fuck you, Bitch, you quit on me. What happens if I call someone else “Best Friend”? Is she going to quit on me, too?

I’m angry, still. How dare you leave? And should I feel guilty over being angry? Doesn’t change the fact that I’m angry, bereft, abandoned. Yeah, you were over a year younger than me, but you had more big sister energy. I feel like I’ve been  cut loose since then, tumbling from a plane without a parachute in a high wind. It’s not your fault, but I wonder if I’d have been blown around so much or made so many bad decisions if you were still here. Or maybe you would have ended the friendship because I’m too much of a pain in the ass.

I don’t know. You had a lot of nerve to be able to get tanked, barf,  and not have a hangover the next day. Such a bitch for being smarter, better self-disciplined,  and more responsible than me. How dare you have your shit together.

Whatever.

I miss you. Every day. I just thought you should know.

 

 

 

Jennifer Siddoway’s new release “Down in Flames”

??RELEASE BLITZ??

***Shares greatly appreciated***

Title: Down in Flames

Author: Jennifer Siddoway

Genre: YA Paranormal Romance, Fantasy

Cover Designer: Bridgette O’Hare/Wit and Whimsy Cover Design

??Release date: October 28, 2017

??Amazon Link: http://amzn.to/2zuJpOT

 

 

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Links:

Dealing with the Devil (Book 1): http://amzn.to/2qjfLqK

The Devil’s Due (Book 2): http://amzn.to/2qjF7o8

Blurb:

Months after living in the Demon Realm, Wynn finally manages to break free. Her return is met with confusion and mixed signals, especially from her mother, Michele, who is awake on the other side. Aidan has vowed to destroy them both and won’t give up until he achieves Wynn’s complete submission.

Caleb is hurt after being abandoned suddenly, and isn’t ready to forgive her yet. Even still, he reluctantly agrees to join forces and bring Aidan down once and for all.

Wynn knows what she has to do, and their journey takes them on a voyage through Heaven, Hell and the Garden of Eden, collecting the sacred objects, and people, necessary for their success.

Will they bring the Demon Lords to their knees, or is her story destined to end going down in flames?

 

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09/14/2017

In “Slaughterhouse Five,” Kurt Vonnegut describes the hell of surviving the firebombing of Dresden (In Slaughterhouse Number 5. Sorry if that’s a spoiler), then emerging the next morning. Billy Pilgrim is surrounded by manmade destruction on a nearly incomprehensible scale. In the middle of this hellscape…

…a bird starts singing.

In the middle of death and devastation, life reasserts itself.

I live in South Florida and Hurricane Irma came through last weekend. The winds picked up on Saturday, getting stronger through the day and the main event lasted most of Sunday. I could hear hollow booms from time to time. I knew my home was well-positioned for winds coming from ESE (home is in a condo building on the WNW side) and the household had taken steps to prepare.

Before the storm hit, as we were clearing the porch, I was watching the Muscovy ducks and white ibis that hang out in the canal behind the house. The water level had been lowered in anticipation of heavy rain and the birds were probing for worms and bugs. I wondered where they’d go for shelter, whether they’d be able to survive a Category 4 hurricane.

Once the wind started, I put up a pretty good show of being cool and brave for those around me. And for myself. In the wisdom of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s “Whistle a Happy Tune, putting on the performance convinced me, too. It seemed like the winds wouldn’t stop increasing, that the water level in the canal behind the house wouldn’t stop rising, one more good gust hitting a palm tree would bring it down.

Let me tell you, it was a long damn weekend. And the nights were worse. No quietly whirring fans to block the noise of the wind. The dark seemed even darker. But I could see the silhouettes of trees under assault from 80 mile an hour gusts. I could hear thunder. Lightning flashed. With no power, I was keeping my phone off to save battery. We had been getting tornado warnings, flash flood warnings, lightning strike warnings, but with the phone off, I wouldn’t hear or see them. Sleep was fitful.

I had had a chorus of people on social media telling me to evacuate, and when it became clear that I wouldn’t,  telling me to check in and be safe. Every few hours, I’d turn on the phone and post, starting with “I’m still okay,” describing the conditions, and finishing with “I still have gummy bears.” (I’d started a running joke about gummy bears being among necessary hurricane supplies. More than a few people agreed). One of the last posts, when the winds really did start to ease, I reported that the gummy bears were gone. There were expressions of sympathy.

The winds died down. The rains stopped. We still didn’t have power, and it was cooler outside than in. My roommate and I ventured out to see the damage. Huge trees had fallen into some of the other buildings in the neighborhood, crashing through porches, landing on roofs. Here was the source of those booms I’d heard.  These buildings faced directly into the storm and many units had tattered or missing screens. No golfers were out on the course; too much debris.

We were lucky. Our electricity was out for 36 hours. The internet was fully functional a day later. I wouldn’t call it PTSD, but as I’ve been working, I’ve heard a deep “thrum” and checked the trees to see if the winds have returned. They haven’t; it’s the fan. I know they haven’t, but I still check the trees to be sure.

Tonight, 3 days later, I went to the store to pick up a few things and I stood in the parking lot for a moment. It was a normal September night, warm, humid, pink and orange sunset. The frantic energy was gone. It was quiet. But for the leaf litter and branches on the ground, you wouldn’t know what had gone on.

The morning after the storm, I looked at the canal. And had my own Slaughterhouse Five moment. Amid the downed branches on the other side of the canal, there were the Muscovy ducks and white ibis.

Life reasserts itself.

INDIE BOOK FEST 2017

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Over eighty fabulous authors, panels and workshops for both authors and readers . . . two

amazing parties and a huge signing . . . where in the world can you find all of this awesomeness

in one event?

Indie BookFest, of course!

This premier author-reader event, in its fifth year in central Florida, takes place September 28 th

through October 1 st at the Westin Lake Mary.

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Indie BookFest is the only non-organization- affiliated author event to offer a dedicated Industry

Day, with representatives from a variety of service companies presenting workshops,

participating in panels and meeting with authors. This year, industry reps include those from

Written Word Media, Draft2Digital, Robin Reads, Bublish and more.

But IBF isn’t simply an author education conference. We also offer an entire evening and day of

Reader Appreciation panels and presentations—PLUS FanFare, an evening where the authors

entertain the readers.

And if that wasn’t enough, there’s also a three-hour signing that is free and open to the public, on

Saturday from three to six.

Tickets to Indie BookFest 2017 are available now. There are several options for readers and for

attending authors:

–INDUSTRY DAY Ticket: This option provides admittance to and participation in all the

panels and workshops offered on Friday, September 29 th . Topics will apply to both new and

established authors, as well as to others in the publishing field. This ticket allows attending

authors and those interested in exploring the possibility of authorhood to participate in the entire

weekend; it also includes FanFare, Reader Appreciation Day participation, the signing and

Saturday night party. Thursday night’s Dinner with the Authors is not included.

–VIP TICKET: This option provides admittance to and participation in all aspects of Indie

BookFest, including access to the entire weekend EXCEPT the Thursday night dinner (available

at an additional charge), including the Green Room, all panels, workshops, parties and signings.

VIP ticket holders also receive a special VIP swag bag.

–GENERAL ADMISSION TICKET: This option includes access to FanFare on Friday night,

reader workshops and panels on Saturday, the three-hour signing on Saturday, and the Saturday

night party, as well as access to the Swag Tables.

–YOUNG AUTHOR EVENT: The Young Author session will take place Saturday, September

30, from 9:30-11 AM. Attendees must be under 18 to attend. A panel of authors will lead the

workshop, which will explore all nuances of writing and publishing a book. Very Important:

This is an add-on ticket to the main event. You must purchase either a general admission/VIP

or Industry Day ticket to add this event.

— THURSDAY NIGHT DINNER WITH THE AUTHORS: Join authors from Indie BookFest

2017 as we kick off the event with a lovely buffet meal in a beautiful setting.

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For more information and to purchase tickets, visit our website and Eventbrite page.

I Fear For My Nation

I really do.

This post is gong to be an inarticulate mess. You are warned.

Someone said, and I agree, that what we’re seeing with the Nazis in Charlottesville (Boys, you had swastikas. Own it) is the death throes of a poisonous snake. It’s dying, but it still has the potential to kill.

Over the past few years, we’ve seen protections in the Voting Rights act expire and states not even waiting an hour to file legislation to make voting more difficult. Planned Parenthood has come under attack. Access to birth control and women’s health through the Affordable Care Act has been litigated because employers (certain employers) don’t want to pay for it. “Mad Men,” a TV show set in an era when white men were the undisputed kings of the US (Yes, I know they still are, but a lot of us are arguing the point) being a cultural touchstone. I saw that show’s success as a nostalgia for that power structure. And I took it as a warning sign.

And then came Trump. (Sorry, I understand that I should show respect for the Office of the Presidency if not for the holder of that office. Right now, that’s like asking me to generate spit after running a marathon with no water breaks) Even before he ran, he was hounding President Obama via that vile Twitter account. He was the most notorious “birther,” questioning whether Barack Obama had been born in the US (Not a peep about John McCain, who was born in the Panama Canal Zone. He did criticize Ted Cruz, born in Canada, but Cruz is Hispanic. McCain is white, in case you’ve forgotten). We’ve known for years he has no respect for women; a string of divorces and comments like “hot piece of ass” were our first clues. His candidacy announcement referred to Mexicans as rapists (“Although some, I assume, are good people”), mocked a disabled reported, dismissed the aforementioned John McCain’s time as a POW in the “Hanoi Hilton” (North Vietnamese prison camp): “I like guys who don’t get captured, okay?” (Sure thing, Mr. Five Deferements. How are those bone spurs?)

I could see the writing on the wall: once he got in, he was going to find ways to stay there.

Yet, he was elected. Any news critical of him has been denounced by him as “fake news.” (Despite documented evidence). There is now “Trump TV,” hosted by his daughter-in-law. (BTW, look at the wives of Don, Jr. and Eric. They have a “type.” It’s their sister). The Sinclair Broadcast group owns (currently) 173 TV stations in 80 markets. They cover 28% of the US. They now have “must run” spots that could be considered Trump propaganda (the talking head is Boris Ephsteyn, a Trump advisor). Also, the “Terrorism Alert Desk,” which continues to stoke the anti-Muslim sentiment.

Here’s John Oliver discussing Sinclair: https://youtu.be/GvtNyOzGogc

North Korea has one TV channel and that’s Kim family propaganda. We’re getting there.

People were alarmed by the new staff in the White House: Steve Bannon, formerly of Breitbart News (and got a waiver to keep doing business with them), the aforementioned Boris Ephsteyn, who is fervently anti-Muslim, Stephen Miller, who used to work for Jeff Sessions, who was rejected to be a Federal judge for displaying racist tendencies, but that’s okay for enforcing civil rights as Attorney General. Sebastian Gorka. another fervent anti-Muslim warrior (and his wife, who, significantly in light of recent news: “Along with President Donald Trump aides, she worked to eliminate a CEV grant to Life After Hate, a group that opposes white supremacy. When the list of new CEV grant recipients was released June 23, 2017, Life After Hate was not included. This decision drew significant attention when a 20 year-old white supremacist attacked a group protesting the Unite the Right rally less than two months later, killing one.[  (Wikipedia ). ”

I was given a statistic today: 6% of American household own 40% of the guns.

We have over 300,000,000 guns in circulation in this country.

Those statistics worried me, but I was comforted by the knowledge that the US military has Predator drones, Blackhawk helicopters, and trained soldiers. Then I remembered who the current Commander in Chief is.

The Confederacy died 152 years ago. It was defeated. Nazi Germany died 72 years ago. It was defeated.

And yet,

Here in the United States, the country that defeated both of those powers (although I do not imply it was single-handed in the case of World War II. Not by a long shot), Friday night we were treated to the spectacle of respectably-dressed (Polo shirts and khakis. Aryan casual) young men (mostly. There were women) carrying swastika flags, Confederate battle flags (the Stars and Bars), and tiki torches, parading through Charlottesville, VA to protest the removal of a statue of Robert E. Lee. They were chanting Nazi slogans. They showed their faces (much to the chagrin of some who have since been identified and lost their jobs. Or families).

For those about to scream “First Amendment,” let me counter: You absolutely may say what you want. The First Amendment says the GOVERNMENT can’t stop you. However, YOU ARE NOT IMMUNE FROM THE CONSEQUENCES OF YOUR ACTIONS. If your employer decides to fire you, if a contract is cancelled, if a job offer is withdrawn, it’s all legal. In the age of social media and privately held (for now) cameras everywhere, you are never not representing your company. There is no “I’m on my own” time, even if you’re not getting paid.

The First Amendment ended with the first swing of a tiki torch at a counter-protester. The first blast of pepper spray (and one of the Unite the Right organizing sites told the marchers to bring pepper spray). That becomes assault and battery. The next day, it became vehicular homicide (and those Nazi fuckers want to find out where and when Heather Heyer’s funeral is so they can send people. Even Westboro Baptist Church wouldn’t go that far. And they’re assholes of the highest order).

What does our President do? First, there was a feeble comment that assigned blame to both sides. It took another day and a half to call out the white supremacists, but he back-pedaled. Today, the 45th President of the United States referred to the Nazis as “fine people.”

His racism has been litigated through the NY court system for 40 years. Thanks to his Twitter account, Howard Stern, Morning Joe, and other TV/radio shows, we’ve known exactly who he is for years. Four CEOs quit the President’s council on American manufacturing. Which one does he attack on Twitter?

Kenneth Frazier of Merck

Trump’s idea of a black friend:

May not have been a murderer yet, but a known wife-beater. The term for our President is “starfucker.”

 

The Charlottesville Nazis claim to be afraid of the loss of “White European culture” due to progress in women’s rights, civil rights, immigration rights, gay rights. They complain about missing out on jobs due to immigration and affirmative action (the Sessions Department of Justice is more interested in suing colleges and universities over affirmative action than investigating and stopping American Nazis. Telling. Very telling).

Boys (you are not men. You are pasty-faced whiny little boys raised on participation trophies. No wonder you’re defending Confederate statues. Another pack of glorified also-rans): Trust me, white male European/American culture is still dominant.Note the lack of diversity in blockbuster movies, in rock music, at the top of Fortune 500 companies. Read the stories of harassment and hostile work environments. It’s damned difficult to get justice, let me tell you. As for the lack of jobs, look at automation, not immigration. Between better robots and software, automation will put 71% of Americans out of a job by 2025 (8 years from now). I got that from the Huffington Post, link below:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/technodisplacement-the-political-tsunami-bigger-than_us_58de136de4b0efcf4c66a7ae

Learn to build or repair them. By the way, your hero Trump hires foreign workers for his resorts (very restrictive HB-2 which do not permit the workers to seek other employment when they’re here) and NONE of his merch is Made in USA. None. You could have taken pride in making ties, MAGA hats, whatever. Profits have no loyalty.

As for “erasing” white history: no. We’re just ending the glorification of treason and white supremacy. Those generals may have been military geniuses and they deserve to be studied for that, but they chose to take up arms against the United States. Statues on their battlefields, yes. It links to the history, there is a context to its placement. Nathan Bedford Forrest may have been one of the greatest, most daring cavalrymen of all time, but he was also the first Grand Wizard of the KKK (although, he did eventually leave when they got too crazy even for him) and putting his statue in a historically black area is an insult and implied threat. We’ve been hearing charges of “revisionist history,” but my counter is that the  revisionist history is the one we’ve been taught all along. The one where white men are the heroes and saviors of the world. The one that makes Columbus a hero worthy of a holiday even though he was responsible for genocide, kidnapping, and murder. (Replace Columbus Day with Juneteenth, the day slavery ended in the US).  History books (and American pop culture) paint indigenous Americans as murderous savages who deserved to be killed and driven from the land. The ones I was raised on did not teach a history of slavery in the US except for its end.

An offensive comment on my Facebook page today referred to people who want to remove the monuments as “pussies who want to rewrite history.”  The term “Political correctness” has been weaponized to deride people who show respect for other races, faiths (or lack thereof), sexual orientation, ethnicity, etc. This usually comes from people who want to use slurs without consequence. Who believe in superiority/inferiority based on race, faith, sexual orientation, ethnicity, etc.

And those are the assholes who were marching in Charlottesville. They dressed like the IT guy at your place of work (and some of them, apparently were, but are no longer), but should have had Nazi khaki uniforms (too hot a night in Virginia, perhaps) if they’re going to hold these beliefs.

It sickens me that this betrayal of “all men are created equal” exists in the US. We fought wars for this ideal. We shed blood defeating the enemies who wanted to impose the opposite view and oh, by the way, were enslaving and murdering those people unlike them.

I’m sure I’m going to hear from readers saying, “You know, we don’t want to read your politics. We want your stories, not your opinion.” I know I’m going to lose readers. Consequence of exercising First Amendment rights and I accept that (I also accept the lack of editing here). However, to be true to myself, I cannot, and will not, allow this homegrown anti-American bullshit go unchallenged.

Nazis, get lost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Good Bones

Still need readers/reviewers. Contact me if you want a free bracelet. Approx $50 value.

I’m good at writing. (Should be a bit better at self-editing, but…) I have an BS in Secondary Education with a teaching minor in English (and one in Social Studies) from the University of Vermont College of Education and Social Services Class of 1983. I took courses in Creative Writing and Expository writing and got top grades. I’ve had pieces published in the Vermont Cynic (UVM student newspaper), Boca Raton News, on NPR (they read one of my letters on the air), the Miami Herald, and was supposed to have a short humorous essay published in the Boston Globe – on September 12, 2001. I’ve written comedy sketches that were performed, short pieces on Dog News Team and two filmed sketches on there, too.

https://youtu.be/qNs1WzQsybg

https://youtu.be/gZWlZsh_dzY

(I just watched them again, and I still think they’re funny)

I’ve also rewritten resumes, edited term papers, edited letters (Yes. People who want to chew out someone else and get results. They come to me. I just sent a nastygram to the Florida Division of Corporations based on the actions of one of their lower level functionaries. And I freakin’ won. 12 years of customer service experience paired with 3 years of legal writing education – I get results).

Bottom line: I have credentials. I can walk the walk. Or write the writing, if you prefer.

I have a couple of tall stacks of books written by friends I’ve made in the indie author world. My intent is to read and review. The blurbs promise stories that should keep me turning pages. The concepts are great: these stories have good bones. (You’re saying to yourself, “I know there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere” Well, here it comes) The execution…

…leaves a lot to be desired.

 

This is a 1960 Jaguar convertible. It’s a beautiful car, a sexy car. You can see yourself flying down the Pacific Coast Highway in it (Or cruising A1A out here).

The truism about the Jag back then was you didn’t buy one, you bought two: one to drive and one for parts. If you watched “Mad Men,” you saw Lane Pryce try to commit suicide by inhaling carbon monoxide from his Jag’s exhaust.

He failed. He failed because the car wouldn’t start. And it was a new car.

You can have a great concept for a story, okay? You can dream up a riveting plot with intriguing characters that your audience wants to cheer for. However, you may not know how to effectively execute it. And that’s where you’ll lose readers like me. Bad mechanics, like poor grammar (unless  it’s in dialogue. That’s the only place to get a free pass), too many cliches, clumsy foreshadowing, not enough foreshadowing, continuity errors, anachronisms, or just plain being a rehash of someone else’s story that was a runaway bestseller but yours has enough details changed to avoid copyright lawsuits (Don’t get huffy. They exist).

“Well, what do you know?” You hardly sell any books and Gracie Twinkletoes just published her 25th Amazon #1 in Shapeshifter Science Fiction Military Romance! Why should I listen to you?” (Accompanied by a hair toss) It’s a fair cop. If I had to live on the proceeds of my book sales, I’d be dead before finishing this post. In fact, I would have been dead 4 years ago, but that’s beside the point.

Gracie Twinkletoes doesn’t know the difference among (and yes, that is correct because it’s more than two words) your, you’re, and yore. Or two, to, and too. Gracie talks about her characters “laying around” when it’s “lying around.” If you’re “laying around,” you’re putting down something, like pillows, candles, mousetraps, land mines, what have you.

This adage is applicable to writing as well. Okay, let’s go with the clothing analogy because it’s easy to visualize. Let’s imagine we’re all in an office where the dress code is business casual (no jeans, flip flops, or tank tops). What stands out more in this environment: a guy in khakis and a polo shirt or the guy who wears a pressed suit and tie?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, there’s nothing wrong with the casually-dressed guy, but in a world of casual dressers, the man who looks prepared to sit down with a CEO gets noticed. It’s why people study the works of Jane Austen, John Steinbeck, Herman Melville, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

I cringe when I read misspelled and  ungrammatical Facebook posts by authors and writers (that includes lifestyle bloggers, too). I get angry backlash if I point out the errors, usually along the lines of “It’s only Facebook. So what?”

It’s taking concepts from your head and putting them into words. It’s writing. It’s your craft. It may not be a book, but it’s you practicing your craft. Too many misplaced “yours,” “tos,” “aparts,” or BTW, OMG, LOL become bad habits; bad habits that will creep into the works you want to offer in the market place.  Practice is about honing your craft. Practice is about unlearning the bad habits. When you call yourself a writer or an author, ANYTHING you put to paper (or computer screen) is your craft.

I am mediating a panel on “Punctuation and Grammar and Why They Matter” at Indie Book Fest’s Industry Day on September 29th.

Okay, think of it this way: you get only one chance to make a first impression. Why not strive to present the best version of yourself even if it’s just a quick Facebook post about something crazy that happened at the grocery store? You never know who’s reading (like a top editor or literary agent that has entree into the major publishing houses. The ones that offer big advances).

As I’ve tried to read some of the stories in those two tall stacks of books, I’ve wanted to get a red pencil and edit the hell out of them. I’ve wanted to sit down with the writers (outside of a review) and say, “Look, this has the potential to be fantastic, but…,” or “instead of saying this here, say this instead,” or “don’t focus so much on the details unless they’re important later on.” Some of these folks are dear to me, and I don’t know if having a discussion like this will hurt their feelings. Some are selling more books than I am, and to a few, that’s all that matters. Fine.

If you are a writer, whether books, blogs, or essays (which is a blog post), I can help you become a better writer. If you listen to me, we can boost the quality of your work. I am offering my services as a copy editor and content editor. I don’t have a fee schedule yet, but if you submit a sample to me (there’s a contact form on this page. Use it), I will critique it for free. I know my stuff. You will learn something.

So, in  conclusion, bring your Jag convertible (or newest manuscript) to me. I can get that baby roaring down the road in no time.