A Little Girl Talk

I have a gripe this week. Actually, I have several. And this is girl stuff, woman stuff, really. So let me just cut loose with it. Why is it that the FDA has not endorsed and insurance companies will not pay for Gardasil injections for women over twenty-six years old? Let's review. Gardasil is a huge breakthrough in women's health. It's a vaccine that prevents the four most common forms of Human Papilloma Virus (HPV), the types most likely to cause cervical cancer. But it's only approved for girls and women between the ages of nine and twenty-six. Nine and twenty-six! The reason? The only one any doctor has been able to give me is that by the time you're twenty-seven, you've probably already been exposed.

Well, I replied, doesn't that assume that a woman of twenty six is never going to have a lover she hasn't already had?
No, said the doctor I spoke with. It assumes that she's already been with enough men to ensure she's been exposed by now or is in a stable relationship and never will be at risk.

But that is a mistaken assumption! Suppose a woman has been with only one man? Suppose she married young, has been faithful, has never been exposed to HPV, and suddenly finds herself single again, at thirty, or thirty five or forty or fifty? Why should she risk contracting HPV every time she takes a new lover? Why shouldn't she be able to get the vaccine?

Well, the fact is, she can get it. She's going to have to face a thirty minute debate with her doctor first, and she's going to have to pay out of pocket for it, because insurance won't cover it. But she can get it, and she should. I have a lot of friends who are newly single and (slightly) over twenty-six. And I tell them all to insist on getting that vaccine.

To me, the medical community's assumption that a woman any older has already had every lover she's likely to have, is just ridiculous. But worse, it's discriminatory, and it's putting women's lives at risk. Marketing Gardasil to pre-teens and young adults is a fabulous idea and a great service to them. But giving the general impression that any woman older than twenty-six needn't bother, is bordering on criminal negligence. Why aren't women screaming about this?

That's gripe number one. But as long as I'm on women's health issues, here's another, and this one's for all ages. Did you know that some antibiotics will keep your birth control method from working? Someone close to me was recently put on a powerful antibiotic, Clendomicin, and was shocked to start a period despite that she's on Depo-Provera (the birth control shot.) Upon doing a little research, she learned that Clendomicin can counteract the effects of the birth control shot. She was surprised that neither the doctor who wrote, nor the pharmacist who filled the prescription had mentioned this. She was even more shocked when she scanned the drug's label and the warning sheet that came with it, and found absolutely no mention of this side effect. What responsible doctor treats a twenty-two year old woman and gives her a drug that could have this effect without a word of warning? Where is the FDA where this matter is concerned? This is something that could severely impact a woman's life, for heaven's sake. This is not a tiny matter. As I understand it, there's more than one antibiotic that can have this side effect, so women, be careful.

Women's health issues really do have a long way to go, don't they? For now, I guess all we can do is ask a ton of questions, beginning with "Are there any side effects that aren't on the label?" I strongly recommend talking to nurses. They know a lot, and the easiest way to get a straight answer without putting them too terribly on the spot, is to ask, "What would you tell your daughter or your sister, about this subject?"

To derail a bit from the topic of the moment, my big fitness week kind of petered out, for me at least. A bad bug knocked me flat on my butt for the week and some family issues kept me off balance. But I'm back on track today, so visit me on the fitness list. (See last Thursday's post for details.)

Now, do you have women's health issues you'd like to vent about? What about tips and suggestions for all your sisters out there? Post away. I'd love to hear them.

Best,
Maggie

Great People (Tara Taylor Quinn)

Looking at the news - which I try NOT to do as often as possible - one could easily be convinced that our world is largely filled with avaricious people, cold hearts, evil, meanness and death. I fully realize all those things exist. All I have to do is look at today's local headlines. An ex-Bengals' football player who was part of four championship seasons is in his fifties now and is in court for writing a bad check for $13,000. And there was a baby found dead on the side of the road in Texas. Male. 3 months old. A car seat was found quite a distance away - almost as though someone had been driving down the road and trashed the kid, as though he were a used and unwanted candy wrapper. He's dead, of course. Here in Dayton, Ohio, the news has been filled with the picking of a jury for the China Arnold case. You know China, she's the woman who allegedly put her one month old baby in the microwave and cooked her to death. But she didn't really mean to, they say. She was too drunk to know what she was doing. Also here at home this week, a teen aged boy, a freshman in high school is in juvenile detention for stabbing another teenager earlier in the week outside a local library. They were fighting over money. And there's a ten year old boy in detention who's been charged with the rape of his seven year old half sister. I guess he admits doing it. They're throwing the book at him. And there's several articles about car accident deaths. And, of course, every single day an update on the Marine I wrote about last week. She's the one who was 8 months pregnant and found dead - with her baby son still inside her - and charred in the backyard fire pit of a fellow marine. She was twenty. He's apparently 21. He ran to Mexico, where he was born and the Mexican authorities wouldn't extradite him because prosecutors were going after the death sentence. So a deal was made. They wouldn't go after the death sentence only if he's arrested in Mexico. Now Mexican authorities have issued a warrant for his arrest. And her body was returned to Dayton where she will be buried, with her son, on Saturday.

Where's the news about the good things? About the great people? If all we spread is hate and meanness and law breaking and fear, then how can we expect to get anything but those things? If that's what we're going to put out there, that's what we're going to get back. We're manifesting an evil, fearful world, I fear.

Yesterday in the news there was a story about a local man, in his late forties, who was in jail for having solicited sex with what he thought was a minor, over the Internet. Turned out he was communicating with a police officer. But what about all those guys that really are talking to fourteen year old girls? And yet, we say that pornography on the Internet, for those over 21, is legal. So this forty something guy joins a site, and he sees lots of pictures of young woman who shave their bodies to make themselves look like young girls, and then we are shocked when the man suddenly desires one? What about that ten year old who raped his sister? He had her put on a skirt without panties. Where do you think he got that idea? Television maybe? Or the Internet? Used to be ten year old boys thought about hitting home runs and becoming race car drivers. Used to be that ten year old boys thought girls were gross. We just had a local coach found guilty of sexual activity with the girls on his soccer team. They were twelve and up. And a twenty-six year old male teacher guilty of having sex with at least one of his high school students. But we, as a country, say it's okay to put it out there. Heck, these days, people send pornographic jokes and pictures to friends as forwards and everyone laughs and thinks the jokes are funny. What in the hell are we doing here? What are we creating?

I have a few of my own news bites to put out. And while I used to write for the Dayton Daily News (way back in the olden days when my new husband was still my first and only boyfriend, the first and only man I'd ever kissed) I don't have the time to pitch these stories to them. So I'm publishing them here.

Gordon B. Hinckley Lived
The world has been a better place for the past 97 years because of a great soul that walked among us. Small of stature, the man moved mountains. Literally. He tripled the number of temples in his church in a few short years, without putting the church one cent into debt, so that people would have places for special worship without having to sacrifice everything they had to get there. He counseled with world leaders, including the President of the United States who counts him a friend, he kept his wife by his side, openly loving her for 67 years. At 95 he traveled to numerous different countries, harsh countries to spread faith and love to all those he saw. At 97, just last Friday, he was at work in his office, directing, making decisions, loving. Just as always. He wrote a book that made national bestseller lists. It's called Standing For Something and if one was only going to read one book this year - that should be it. He wrote another highly popular book for young people about the nine ways to be. I heard him speak in person once. His rhetoric wasn't all that great and yet I sat and waited for every single word because I knew that I would want to take them into me, upon me. And I was right. The positive life messages he imparted were accessible. Doable. Probably because he did them all. He lived them all. Nothing was beneath him. He farmed. He built parts of his own house. He worked on the railroad during the war. He was sickly his entire life - suffered terribly from allergies. And he lived to be 97 years old. Not only that, more than that, he lived with joy. He was a truly happy man.

Lee Ann Williams Touches Lives
Lee Ann is a small person, too - in body that is. Small boned and feminine with a sweet voice and big heart. She lives in a small town in Northern Michigan. She works in a factory and has for many years. She's a mom and a wife. A daughter, a cousin, a friend. And she is an icon. This is a woman who refuses to let life stop her. Bad things happen, you don't run, you don't hide, you take them on and make life good. Even when bad is happening life is good because she continues to love and be loved, no matter what. She was left alone with a small child to raise, no money and a house that needed repair. Lee Ann worked hard to buy her daughter those things she needed - and then filled the gaps with time and love, good cooking, games, quilts and memories. And she taught herself how to do everything else. When the bathroom needed repair, she built a new one. By herself. Floors, tile, tub, toilet, all of it. She bought. She laid and installed. She's married again now, to a wonderful man. A man she adores. Who adores her. They have a much larger house. And are raising a beautiful, smart and kind teen aged daughter. And now Lee builds beauty on the outside. Walking through her gardens is an experience - and takes a while. She can name every flower, every breed. She can tell you colors and smells and growing seasons. Mostly, no matter what she's doing, Lee Ann shares joy. She likes life. She's happy to be alive. Being around her makes me happy to be alive.

Paula Eykelhof Is The Best
Paula Eykelhof is my editor. She has been for more than ten years. Probably closer to fifteen. In a working sense, she is my partner. Together we create books that we send out into the world with bated breath, hoping that they are well recieved. That everyone likes them. When a published author group voted to give out an editorial award each year, Paula was the very first recipient. From what I'm told from contest people the number of votes she received was overwhelming. I've traveled a lot in this business. Met with many many professionals on all sides of the publishing gamut, and always, when Paula's name is mentioned, there is respect, an acknowledgement that she is the best. And she is. She feels her work. But it's more than that. She uses her work to contribute to the world, to make the world a better place. She uses her talents and gifts unceasingly, giving every bit of herself into every project, believing in every project, in her authors, and investing the energy into their lives and their work so that the end result is always far more than it would have been without her. Paula has brought her love of the written word, her gift for 'hearing' the story, into my life and made me more complete. She's allowed me to have a happiness that I otherwise would not have known.

Timothy Lee Barney Is
I left this one last on purpose because it is the news bite closest to my heart. Here is a man who truly IS. As we all scramble around trying to figure out who we are and what our purpose is, Tim lives. He's fit and strong and well. He has a college education, a white collar job that he's had for years, great benefits, a nice retirement, owns a nice home and drives a nice SUV that he owns free and clear. In a worldly sense, he's got it made. He's a success. But none of these things are what make my news bite. Tim is a man that stands out not just because he's the love of my life, but because of WHY he is. This is a man who knows himself. Who makes no apologies about who he is. This is a man who likes himself. He is real - no matter if we're at a swank cocktail party in New York, or removing an old toilet from our bathroom. He lives life to the fullest. He's multi-faceted. A boy who throws caution and plans to the wind and plays without guilt. A responsibility general. A shopper. A builder and a fixer. (He could give Tim the tool man a run for his money.) A biker and a rollerblader. A camping aficionado. He's a dancer - the man can clog, I kid you not. He's an adventurer. And he likes to veg out in front of the TV and watch some weird guy eat gross things. He quotes from the discovery channel. He's a wordsmith and a jokester. He's not fond of politics but has a deep and clear understanding of the economy and the needs of the people. He's a father who isn't ashamed to cry over his children. And a husband who tries, always, to do his best. When he comes upon someone in need, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out what's there, handing it over. And ninety mornings out of a hundred, when this man gets up, he smiles. He faces the day, no matter what it might be, with an eye for finding the joy. For being happy. Every single day, he challenges me to do the same.

And I challenge all of you. Let's not manifest evil or bad or meanness. Let's manifest kindness and good. Greatness and happiness. In our lives, but right here, today. Come on everyone, even if you've never posted before. Tell us something good. Give us a good news bite. Lets see if they really are out there in numbers to compare with the bad.

Let's make life worth living.

Physically Phfffffft (Suzanne Forster)

Okay, so in keeping with my idea of revisiting my dreams, but starting small, which was the theme of last week’s blog, I began a course of physical therapy on my left knee. What a humbling experience. I knew I was out of shape, but geez. Even the toe raises were too hard for me. My new therapist wanted me to do one set of twenty toe raises on each side. I’ve had physical therapy on this knee before, and I told her I’d always started with one set of ten and worked up to three sets of ten. That got me a raised eyebrow for my trouble. No way was she having any of my piddling excuses.

I will say in my own defense that twenty toe raises turned out to be too many for my poor patella tendon. It got very cranky later that night, and my kneecaps weren’t too happy, either. Fortunately, when I called the new therapist she agreed that we would go back to sets of ten rather than twenty. I had high hopes for the next session, but once again, I found myself doing things that felt too aggressive for the condition of my knee and a few exercises I didn’t recognize at all. Long story short, I switched to a therapy group that specializes in knees and now I’m back in a more traditional program—with a therapist who even does some massage. :::blissful sigh::: My knee and I are much happier.

There is a downside though. I’ll be moving very slowly in this program, which is what I wanted, right? Well, yes and no. I’m incredibly impatient. I want the knee fixed yesterday. I want to be out walking from pier to pier tomorrow morning. So often that’s the problem with reclaiming a long-lost dream. We’ve been waiting a long time, maybe a life time, and we want the payoff now. On the other hand, I’ve already had one minor setback and don’t look forward to spending another night with a cranky patella tendon and screaming kneecaps, so I’m going to take a deep breath and remind myself that my knee and I didn’t get here overnight. If baby steps are needed, then baby steps it will be. There may even be some crawling involved, lol.

Tomorrow I start a full session that includes a warm up on a recumbent bike, followed by lots of stretching of anatomical things called the IT band, the hamstrings, and the hip extensors. She tells me my calves are as tight as piano wire and will need considerable attention. And I can also look forward to supine knee raises, lumbar bridges, side-lying leg lifts, and maybe even some ball squats. And of course, the deadly toe raises. Wish me luck. I’m going to need it.

I can tell you from past experience that even my first ten-minute warm-up on the recumbent bike will be a challenge. The only exercise I’ve been getting regularly for the last year or so is cavorting with Mandy, our Tabby, who loves to play hide and seek. The problem is her timing. She’s decidedly nocturnal and doesn’t even want to get started until after midnight. Thank goodness, I’m a night person and usually up working at that time.

The game involves her chasing me around, with me hiding, peeking out at her as she searches for me, her spotting me and me high-tailing it to the next hiding place. So, yes, there’s some activity involved, but it’s much better exercise for her than me because I’m the one who gets to hide—and it has to be this way. Mandy doesn’t like to be chased.

She was my mom’s cat, and there was plenty of evidence that she’d been abused before mom got her. For two weeks she hid under mom’s bed, only coming out at night to eat and then crawling on her belly to the food bowl. It was distressing to watch, but she’s so much better now and pretty much rules the roost around here. So, that’s why sweet Mandy has to be the chaser, and I have to gasp with surprise and run away every time I see her, which she seems to love. Every once in awhile while we’re creeping around in the dark, we meet completely unexpectedly in the hallway, at which point, I scream in earnest and we both run in opposite directions. It’s fun. Maybe not the best exercise ever, but definitely fun.

On a slightly different, but related topic, if you happen to be flirting with the idea of a fitness program, but haven’t found the right motivation to get you started, I just ran across a rather unconventional approach called a commitment contract. I’m not recommending it, just passing it along, although I do suspect it would work. It might even be fail-safe, if you could get yourself to do it.

It seems Dean Karlan, a Yale economics professor came up with the idea of forfeiting a considerable sum of money as a consequence of not making his weekly weight loss goals. He’s lost thirty-eight pounds in the last six years and has kept all of it off because of what he calls commitment contracts. The contract involves putting up hundreds of dollar a week to ensure that he’ll lose an agreed-upon amount of weight that week.

Karlan claims never to have lost any money, and I’m pretty sure I’d make my weekly goal too, if I had hundreds of dollars at stake. Of course, you could put up a lot less, but I doubt if it would work unless the dollars lost were significant enough to really hurt and therefore motivate you like crazy to lose the weight rather than the moolah.

I wonder, though, what happens when you’ve lost the pounds and you’re finally content with your weight. Do you still put up hundreds every week to maintain it? I suspect if that’s how you got there then that’s what you’d need to keep doing. Money is an external motivator and if the internal motivation isn’t there to replace it, I doubt anything else would work. Maybe if I were a gambler that idea would have more appeal. But I think I’d rather reach my goals because I loved the feeling of being fit and healthy and the satisfaction of taking good care of myself. I have little doubt that the commitment contract is powerfully motivating, but I wonder if the desire to change, as well as the will, doesn’t have to come from inside if it’s going to be an ongoing part of who you are. I don’t know. I’m just asking.

What are some of the motivators you’ve tried that worked—or didn’t?

Suz

Women's Voices: Anne Carson

Described in The Guardian as “a scholarly Joni Mitchell in cut-off denims and a billowy white shirt,” Canadian classicist and 50-something poet Anne Carson transcends categories. And can be a magnet for criticism, as when a gaggle of male poets, offended by who knows what, went online to berate her for being “pretentious.”

“I am a messy writer,” she admits, something many of us could say. But few of us could translate the poems of Sappho (©. 630 B.C.) into words that capture both the language and the universal emotions that resonate through the centuries.

This fragment—the last line is all that remains of what followed—was described by Longinus a couple thousand years ago:
“Are you not amazed at how she evokes soul, body, hearing, tongue, sight, skin, as though they were external and belonged to someone else? And how at one and the same moment she both freezes and burns, is irrational and sane, is terrified and nearly dead, so that we observe in her not a single emotion but a whole concourse of emotions?” (On the Sublime)

Jealousy

He seems to me equal to the gods that man
whoever he is who opposite you
sits and listens close
to your sweet speaking

And lovely laughing — oh it
puts the heart in my chest on wings
for when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking
is left in me

no: tongue breaks and thin
fire is racing under skin
and in eyes no sight and drumming
fills ears

and cold sweat holds me and shaking
grips me all, greener than grass
I am and dead — or almost
I seem to me.

But all is to be dared, because even a person of poverty...


And for a taste of Carson’s own voice as a poet, an excerpt from The Beauty of the Husband: a fictional essay in 29 tangos—

XII. Here’s Our Clean Business Now Let’s Go Down the Hall to the Black Room Where I Make My Real Money

You want to see how things were going from the husband’s point of view---
let’s go round the back,
there stands the wife
gripping herself at the elbows and facing the husband.
Not tears he is saying, not tears again. But still they fall.
She is watching him.
I’m sorry he says. Do you believe me.
Watching.
I never wanted to harm you.
Watching.
This is banal. It’s like Beckett. Say something!
I believe

your taxi is here she said.
He looked down at the street. She was right. It stung him,
the pathos of her keen hearing.
There she stood a person with particular traits,
a certain heart, life beating on its way in her.
He signals to the driver, five minutes.
Now her tears have stopped.
What will she do after I go? he wonders. Her evening. It closed his breath.
Her strange evening.
Well he said.
Do you know she began.
What.

If I could kill you I would then have to make another exactly like you.
Why.
To tell it to.
Perfection rested on them for a moment like calm on a lake.
Pain rested.
Beauty does not rest.
The husband touched his wife’s temple
and turned
and ran
down
the
stairs.

New Tricks For An Old Dog (Patricia Potter)

It’s excruciating for me to admit I’ve become set in my ways.

I’ve always considered myself a free spirit, ready to take off at a moment’s notice and infinitely curious about everyone and everything around me.

But lately time has become a treasure. With always present deadlines and an ill mother, I rarely have free time, and so I hoard it for those things I KNOW I like.

So I read the books I know I’ll like, in time periods I know I’ll like, and written by authors I know I like. I watch movies (on the rare occasions I see one) that – you have it – I know I’ll like.

Where has my sense of adventure fled?

I was forced to find out when, as president of my local romance group, I had to judge entries in this year’s contest for unpublished writers. I said I would take the entries no one else wanted. And thus I received a number of young adult books, along with two romantic suspense left-overs..

Groan on the first. Hurrah on the second.

To my great surprise I was blown away by the young adult entries. They were all extremely well written, imaginative and creative. Wanted to read more of all of them. Envied the editor who was going to be the final judge in the category. I would have bought each one of them.

Then I received my copies of the RITA books to judge. For those in this community who are not members of Romance Writers of America, the RITA is its top award for books published the previous year. Our members send in the books and their contemporaries judge them.

I received my packet six days ago. Seven books. I have a mixture from paranormal to historical to contemporary to spicy to inspirational. It always feels a little like Christmas when that box comes each year.

I never would have picked up any of them in the book store. Not because I thought they would be bad, or didn’t like the authors, but just because I save my time for something I KNOW I’ll really, really, really like.

I’ve since read two and am as happy as a pig in a mud bath They were fresh and different and delightful, and make me wonder why I don’t experiment more. Hey, I’ve been depriving myself of some very good stuff.

It made me think of a not-so-recent experience. I live in Memphis, have for ten years and visited for a number of years before that. Never had been to Graceland -- Elvis's legendary home. Never wanted to go. In fact, I avoided it like the plague. I was much too sophisticated in my tastes for that. But two friends visited with the sole aim of going to Graceland. I was forcibly taken to Memphis's most famous landmark. I was astonished. I loved it. I loved every moment of it. It was like being in a time warp. I was carried back to the sixties and seventies and was enthralled. So much for preconceived ideas.

So my new resolution is to break away from the old and tried and start experimenting again with new genres, new (as yet unread by me) authors and new experiences. That doesn’t mean abandoning those you love (particularly the Broads) but leave some time for something new. A new genre. A new author. A recommended movie that maybe you thought you wouldn't like. A short trip to somewhere you haven't been. A dish you haven’t tasted before.

It’s not exactly living dangerously, but it is adding a bit of spice.

So do you all try new books, new places, new experiences or stick to the tried and true?

Fools Rush In . . . (LynnK)

. . . unless they get tripped up.

That can be a good thing. Sometimes we need to be stopped, and the sooner, the better. But the death of a dream, even the most ridiculous one you ever had, is still a deeply felt loss.

I was devoted to my childhood fantasies—me as Commander-in-Chief of the Space Parol or maybe a king—but I never actually aspired to them. Even in second grade, it was pretty clear I wasn’t going into space. And I wouldn’t want to live in a country that would choose me as king.

My true dream, which began about the sixth grade and persisted through high school, was to become a Maryknoll Missionary Sister. Specifically, I longed to be a doctor-nun. So I read everything I could find about medical missionaries, which wasn’t a heckuva lot.

The Maryknoll nun is on the right. That's what I'd have been wearing in sub-tropical Africa.

In all my research, one theme never failed to turn up. Nuns take a vow of obedience, which means that nuns do what they are told. What if a misguided mother superior decided I should be a teacher, or a nurse, or an accountant?

Clearly, the vows I eventually decided not to take were already getting in my way. But I was a wily child. First, I’d become a doctor. Then I’d enter the Maryknolls. Surely they wouldn’t waste my education and wondrous talents.

So I set about choosing a medical school and settled on Johns Hopkins. I’d have applied straightaway, but it seems they weren’t taking middle schoolers. First, I’d need a college degree. Pre-med, of course, and admission to the program would require a good record in math and science.

My quest was sincere, if characteristically desultory, and I did in fact receive the Science and Math award on graduation from high school. By then, however, I had learned a few things about myself:

I utterly wilt in hot, humid weather;
I turn into a popsicle when the temperature drops below 50;
I am incapable of learning a foreign language;
I can’t stand bugs.

My missionary zeal having fizzled out, I entered instead a pristine and bugless community of nuns perched on a So-Cal hill overlooking a tony section of Los Angeles. But my dream was not altogether squelched. While my fellow postulants were inspired by scripture and the saints, my own role models were Dr. Kildare, Dr. Marcus Welby, and Dr. Ben Casey. Yup. I still wanted to be a physician.

At some point, I mentioned that to the Mistress of Postulants, and sure enough, I soon found myself in an Anatomy and Physiology Class at a nearby college. All was going well until the day we were divided into teams of four and presented with wet, stiff, almost unrecognizable specimens stretched out on large trays.

Each team was to dissect a cat!

By that point, the stench of formaldehyde nearly had us flat on the floor. We gazed helplessly on our hapless critter. I sought internal counsel. What would Ben Casey do?


Not what I did! Securing one of the notebooks into which our actions and results would be recorded, I bravely appointed myself Team Captain and proceeded to direct the festivities . . . from a distance.

Oh, and I declared that we should name our cat. We chose “Elfego Baca.” Long-time TV fans may recognize the character, modeled on a real-life guy who was also known as El Gato. The Cat.

We wanted our own little guy to have a identity, and I’m sure every member of the team remembers him to this day.

The dissection required several weeks of work. Our black postulant uniforms and blue gingham aprons began to stink. Back in the convent, noses wrinkled discreetly when we passed by. But only once, when my team demanded I get my own hands wet, did I actually pick up a scalpel and wield it.

And at that moment, nearly eight years after I first envisioned myself as a dedicated doctor, my cherished dream gave up the ghost and stretched out alongside the cat.

Anyone who knows me, even slightly, could reasonably ask, “What took it so long?” I dunno. But I learned that it’s as easy to persist in a delusion as in a reality-based plan. Easier, really, without pesky facts and humbling self-awareness getting in the way.

On reflection, I probably had a better change of becoming Commander-in-Chief of the Space Patrol. Or a king.

Women Who Love Too Much (Maggie)

This is one of my favorite pictures, even though it's not very flattering. It's me and my daughter Stacie on a day when we wanted to go running, but it rained, and we decided to embrace one of my favorite quotes and go anyway. The quote: "Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass. Life is about learning to dance in the rain." I'm not sure who said it, but I think it's brilliant and it fits with today's topic.

I'm feeling really sad today for a dear friend of mine who's going through a rough spot. And while I won't reveal her identity out of respect for her privacy, I know she'll recognize herself in this post, and maybe it'll help. More over, maybe a lot of you will recognize parts of yourselves in this post, and get a little help from it. My friend is an incredible woman. She's beautiful, and sexy and smart and extremely successful. She's upbeat and positive and usually the most happy person you could hope to meet. And yet, she's feeling none of those things about herself right now, and I'll bet you can guess why, can't you? If you're female, I know you can. It's a guy. Yep, same old story.

She is deeply in love with a man who, at times, has made her deliriously happy and at other times has made her feel horribly sad. That's her first mistake right there. You can't depend on anyone else to "make you" feel good or bad or anything in between. That's your choice. So before she can really be happy, steadily and consistently happy, she needs to learn how to choose to be happy regardless of what other people are doing. Gosh, if your mood depends on the whims of other humans, you're going to be fluttering through life like a leaf in a windstorm. Fortunately, she knows all that, and she's been getting better and better at it. Which is a good thing.

Lately, my friend's guy has been acting differently. Cold, distant, kind of closed off, from the way she describes it. There's suddenly very little affection being shown to her, and she's not sure what she did to cause it. He's still spending time with her, but she says it's like he's not really there. Not a good sign, for sure. She's questioning herself. Even though she's a beautiful woman, she's spending hours staring into the mirror wondering what it is that he sees that he isn't liking anymore. She's reviewing every conversation the two of them have had, wondering what she said that was wrong. She's wondering if he's met someone else, someone "better." She's feeling unwanted, unworthy, and overall, pretty bad about herself.

Mistake number 2, my friend. It's not your fault. This guy is in charge of how he feels. You can't "make him" feel anything either. Everyone's in charge of that for themselves. So stop looking for some mistake you made, or some flaw you have, or for some way to fix it. You are who you are. It is what it is. It's how you react to it that matters. You can't control the conditions, you can only control yourself.

Okay, so it seems like things might be cooling between them, on his part, at least, and she's feeling afraid that the relationship is ending. And she's devastated, naturally. She could be right. She could be wrong. It really doesn't matter. Because either way, my friend is still basing her life and her happiness on someone else's actions and moods. And that's just not going to work for her, or for anyone.

So here's my advice for you, my friend, and for any of you who are finding yourselves in relationships that maybe aren't quite everything you wish they were. Stop it. Stop it right now. No relationship is ever perfect. You have to find that fulfillment in YOU. You can't expect or wait around for anyone else to give it to you. It's already yours.

You are a worthy and wonderful person, and you deserve to be loved in exactly the way you want to be, but more than that, you deserve to be happy, regardless of what anyone else is doing. And you have the power to be happy. It's up to you!

So here's what you need to do. And no, I'm not going to tell you to dump him. Because it's not about him. And because everything could change tomorrow, if you can just stay positive. And because you can be just as happy with this relationship as without it, because your happiness is your job, not his.

It's all about you. You need to love yourself. You need to be aware just how good you are. You need to fill your life with things that make you incredibly happy, and just keep adding more and more of those things, which means you'll have less and less time to worry about how anyone else is acting toward you that day. You'll just be having too much fun to obsess about it. You need to stop basing your happiness on the mood of another. Raise your vibration. Find things to celebrate and people to love who love you back. Spend your attention and your time on them. Be who you are and stop trying to make other people happy. The only person you need to make happy is yourself. And that's really the key. Do not put your own needs aside to try to cater to the needs of someone else. Put yourself first for a change, hon. You're the only one who ever really will, anyway.

And start a mental list of the kind of relationship you want. Dream big, imagine the way you wish things could be between you and the man in your life. Write it down, if you want, and then be open to it and know that it exists because you wished it into existence. Spend a little time with your list every night before you sleep. Dream about this perfect relationship. Be open to it. Be happy in the certainty that it will come. Maybe with this guy, and I know that's your deepest hope, and it could happen--or maybe with someone else, someone who comes along out of the blue and fits perfectly with the image in your mind. If you build it, it will come, sweetie. And you have all the time in the world. So just relax about this. Relax, and focus on the good things in your life, and the good things in this relationship, and the good things about this man, because there must be some, or you wouldn't still be hoping. You couldn't love a man who was less than wonderful--I know you. So remind yourself of the things you love about him. And let the current of your desires carry you downstream to where your dream come true is waiting. It cannot be otherwise, and I know that you know that. So breathe. Stop worrying. He'll either be the one or he won't. And either way, you'll be fine.

And read on, because I have a plan of my own that might help distract you from your worries of the moment.

I've had a rough couple of weeks myself. We've had some very bad things happen to a very young, very innocent member of the family that have rocked us all. What can be done is being done, and aside from loving and caring for each other, there's not much more the family can do at this point. So we need to focus on positive things.

One of the things that always distracts me from any worries is working out. Another is writing. So I'm combining those two and jumping into a 9 day marathon of both. When the family doesn't need me, I plan to be holed up in my wonderful, beautiful, gorgeous old house, writing my brains out, and exercising my butt off (literally!) The endorphins will help clear my mind. The work will re-establish my firm belief in myself. I'm strong, and being strong on the inside is more obvious (even to yourself) when you're equally strong on the outside. And I love looking good. I look good now. I love the way I look, actually. But I bet I'll love it more 10 days from now. =) I love making money, and it's tight at the moment, but a writing marathon will get the next book proposal ready, and the book itself well on its way to being done, which means a paycheck, which will also perk up my spirits. And all of this activity will help keep me distracted from the problems of the moment.

I've decide to invite the members of my fitness email list to join me in this all out health jaunt. You can sign onto that list by sending a blank email to maggies-health-and-fitness-subscribe@yahoogroups.com Trust me, it'll make you feel better, whatever your problems are.

Okay, readers, here's your assignment. Help my friend by giving us your best relationship advice, sharing your experiences, pointing out the light at the end of the tunnel and how things are never really as bad as they might seem at the moment. You know, be perky! And join me on the fitness list for a week and a half of fun and inspiration and sharing, if you want!

Until next time, remember to look for the good. Just keep looking for things to appreciate and be happy about, and you'll be fine.

All is well, it truly is. And you are loved.

Maggie

I'm Not Dead (Tara Taylor Quinn)

This is me. I'm fourteen. Up in the hills of Michigan on a day of summer vacation. A perfect day. My best friend was there. We had a picnic basket full of goodies. Quiet. Privacy. And a bag of Harlequin Presents that we could read to our hearts content. I can still feel that day. The breeze on my face. The sound of the leaves rustling in the hundred year old trees, the birds chirping. I can still see the pinpoints of sunshine as they break through the dimmer light surrounding me under the many acre blanket of shade created by those trees. I can feel the freedom. And the security and happiness of having a best friend. Of not being alone.

I own the cabin now, together with my brother, that we were at that summer - and every summer of my growing up. I still visit those hills and feel the coolness of that shade. Those hills are one of the first places I took my husband last year shortly after he and I found each other after a thirty year separation. The best friend, to my heart's despair, is gone. She was killed in a car accident just weeks before her fortieth birthday.

I recently had a discussion during which I was told that the girl that I was when I was younger is dead. For a split second, if that long, I pondered the statement. I've pondered it a lot since. And I still feel and think the exact same way as I did in that first split second. EXCUSE ME!!! Followed by, who the hell made you God? And ending with, a very calm knowing that 'you are just wrong.'

A lot of times when we hear things that are difficult to hear, our initial reaction is denial. We put up defenses and fight against difficult truths. Depending on how good we are at this denial thing, we might even manage to go on without thinking of the statement again. Usually, however, those words will repeat themselves in our minds - generally at the most inopportune times like the middle of the night when one is trying to sleep - and eventually, we will most likely hear some truth in them. Slowly, we might even begin to accept them and maybe even use them as a catalyst to make changes for the better.

And then, every once in a while, we hear something that we deny simply because it is not true. Because there is no truth to be had. Those words might continue to repeat themselves, even in those inopportune moments, and still, they remain completely untrue.

Today, I have a little hand up in the air. 'Excuse me, I'm right here,' the girl within me feels compelled to say. 'I'm not dead. If I were your words wouldn't have hurt me so much. I might be silent, I might not have accomplished much, but I am very much alive.'

And something else occurs to me, too. Even when the difficult words we hear are not true, we might need to make some changes. The girl inside of me is very much alive. Very much not dead. But there's a reason she appears dead to those outside of me.

I have been living my life without her. She got hurt. She didn't know how to cope with that. She let me down. And so I wizened up. The way to not get hurt like that again, my wise self said, was to just stop letting that young girl's heart dictate my journey. And as I walled off her heart, I forgot to let that girl have any say at all. I've been so busy learning and deliberately choosing and accomplishing that I didn't let her do any of the things she loved to do. I haven't given her her due. Her time. She loved to play the guitar. I quit that in college. She loved to sing in choirs. I started to hyperventilate on stage and quit that, too. She loved to sky dive. I saw the dangers in that and haven't been up in thirty years. She loved motorcycles. And then her brother died and I haven't been on a bike since.

She used to read a book a day. From the time she was fourteen and discovered Harlequin romances at the grocery store check out she was hooked. She read at least one romance novel every single day. No matter what else the day required, she would find a way to work a full book into every day. On a perfect day she read several. She was a fast reader, even then so this isn't as time consuming as it sounds, but the point is, she did something purely for the fact that it gave her joy. I'm not a teenager anymore. I write those books now. But does that mean I can't still find the teen aged joy in simply, without responsibility, reading them?

I recently received a series of books to read for a contest I'm judging. As I unpacked the box, I faced the major responsibility and time commitment and tried to figure out how I was going to do the job justice. That's all I thought about. I have this many pages to read by this date, I have to put aside the time to make certain that I give each book it's due, to judge conscientiously. I'm looking at a pile of romances, and I have not one thought about the fact that I actually get to read! And not just one romance, but a pile of them!

So...I picked up a book. I have to say, as far as romances go, this particular book was truly not good. As far as writing goes, it was truly not good. I won't bore you with the details, but I can give one that will give you some indication of what I mean. The heroine was on a trip to see an ailing sister and the author couldn't remember what city her heroine was heading to. It changed. More than once. This was only one of numerous such happenings. Now, my point here isn't to trash a book. Because here's the thing - as bad as that book was, technically speaking, I took such pleasure in reading it! I was reading again. Alive.

Most of you know that over the past year my daughter has chosen to cut off all contact with me. I understand hurting hearts and anger and issues that need to be worked out and I love her completely and my job has always been to take care of her, to see to her best interests, so I succumb to the silence, as painful as this is to do, to give her what she says she needs. Space and time and silence. Months go by. Still nothing. And so, after much conversation and praying and searching, I begin contact again. And recently received word from her that nothing has changed. There is still to be complete silence. She treats me as though I am dead. I have one response to that. I am not dead.

I just read this morning that Brokeback Mountain star, Heath Ledger, passed away yesterday afternoon, apparently without foul play or signs of suicide. He was in his apartment, snoring in his bedroom at 12:30 and at 3:30 he was dead. At the age of 28. And I wonder about the people he left behind. Is there someone, today, sitting someplace, devastated because they didn't get a chance to fully love him? Because they didn't get a chance to make amends, to say one last thing, to spend more time with him, to tell him something that they felt but for whatever reason didn't bring themselves to say? Is there anyone who needed closure and now will never have it? Or someone who could have given him the love he needed but will now never have the chance to lavish that on him? Or who could have been blessed by his love but chose to have problems with him instead and will now not have that blessing?

I think about the twenty year old marine who was killed - and the mother who, when she thought her daughter was alive, talked about her inability to tell the truth as though this made her daughter somehow less. News reports said that their last conversation was a heated one. And this same mother, once she found out that her daughter had been murdered, now talks about how her daughter's struggle with truth made her vulnerable. I'm guessing she regrets many things. I'm guessing she thought she had a lifetime with that girl and that they had all the time in the world to heal whatever harsh words were between them. I'm guessing we all tend to think that way.

Today I'm giving the keys of my heart to the girl inside me. She's going to drive. I have no idea where we'll end up, what journey she'll take me on, what we're going to do. But you can be certain that it'll involve giving that heart to those she loves. After all, what else in life is more important than that? When I was eighteen, all I wanted was to love and be loved. What perfect conditions or possessions or activities could possibly mean more than loving and being loved? The girl in me was naive. She didn't know a lot of things. How to express herself or how to deal with some of life's challenges. She got hurt. And scared. She was stopped in her tracks and didn't trust herself anymore. She made some dumb decisions. She hid away. But she was pretty smart, too. I'm going to start trusting her again. Now. This minute. Because I don't want to be dead. I want to be alive. Fully, completely alive.

Today, all I can see is that life is a precious thing. The most precious thing. Whether we allow ourselves, our hearts, to fully live, or we show others that we are glad that they are alive, lets try to remember that we aren't dead. But that we could be.

When Losing is Winning (Suzanne Forster)

I almost missed this fascinating tidbit on an inside page of the L.A. Times Calendar section the other day. If anyone caught the very first episode of Survivor Borneo, which launched the series several years ago, you might remember a lovely blond sixtyish woman named Sonja Christopher. Sonja was—and is—a breast cancer survivor, a swimmer and a tennis player. Blessed with a vibrant personality, she should have been a strong contender to reach the show’s finals, but sadly, she stumbled in a race and was voted out the first episode.

Sonja was the show’s first loser, so to speak. Its winner was Richard Hatch, a man who seemed to have some nudist inclinations, was a skilled fisherman and an even more skilled manipulator of his fellow contestants. In those days, his take on human nature was decidedly cynical, and he was quite proud of it. I have no idea what his take is today.

As the first winner, he walked off with a million dollars, but the Cinderella story in the Times was not about Hatch’s accomplishments since that first season, it was about Sonja’s—and they have been remarkable.

So, what does this mean? Well, it means that the first Survivor winner is currently in jail and the first Survivor loser has just realized her dream. Years ago, when Sonja was interviewed about what she would do with the million dollars if she won Survivor, she said she saw no reason for a massive makeover of her thrifty lifestyle, but that her church needed a fellowship hall. When she was eliminated from the show, she donated her consolation prize of $2500 to start a building fund for the hall, and in a few years’ time that seed money turned into over a million dollars in donations from others.

Now, Sonja’s church has its fellowship hall, and Richard Hatch is doing time in a federal prison for income tax evasion. Sonja may have been labeled a loser when she left the show, but she didn’t let that crush her altruistic spirit. She had a dream and it lived on, even if some saw her as a failure. She gave what she had to start a building fund, believing that her vision could become reality, and her generosity inspired others. I wonder how many people were inspired by Hatch’s behavior, except possibly future contestants of the show.

It seems the ability to manipulate and connive for short-term gain, even when the gain is a million dollars, doesn’t hold a candle to the ability to sustain a life-long dream, especially when that dream involves helping others.

I’ve always thought Survivor had an interesting sociological aspect to it, but it also seemed that whatever lessons could be learned were limited by the omnipresent cameras and the possibility that the show was at least partially scripted, although those involved with the show have denied any such scripting. To me, the first season’s outcome was an intriguing but ultimately depressing comment on human nature, which seemed to prove Hatch right. The message suggested that good guys do finish last, that you have to lie and connive to win, and that loyalty means little to nothing. Now that I think about it, that’s not just depressing, it’s demoralizing.

For me, Sonja’s success in real life brings some much-needed perspective to the televised contest that Survivor recreates every season. Maybe it’s only when we compare the show to real life and specifically the real lives of the former contestants that it takes on full meaning. I’m now wondering how the other contestants have done since, both the winners and the losers. Does winning Survivor have anything to do with long-term success in life? I suppose that depends on how you define success. If it’s about fulfilling one’s dreams, then I would think Sonja Christopher is the big winner. I doubt it could have been Hatch’s dream to end up in jail.

I recently saw a television interview with a documentary filmmaker. His subject was a homeless man to whom he gave a hundred thousand dollars. The experiment was designed to see whether a large amount of money would solve the man’s problems and give him a new lease on life or create more problems—and the subject received medical and psychological exams to make sure he was healthy and able to take advantage of the help. Sadly, the documentary followed the man as he recklessly spent every cent of the money and ended up in debt and back on the streets. Prior to that he’d been homeless and broke, but he’d had no debts, so he was actually in worse shape than before the experiment.

Why didn’t the money make the man’s life better? Because he used it to prove to others that he was worthwhile. He tried to buy happiness, love, and respect. If there’s a moral to this story, it’s that money doesn’t make us worthwhile. It’s what we do with the money. It’s how we realize our plans, goals, and dreams. We are all born worthy, children of God or children of the universe, whatever you choose to believe the source is. I believe we’re all born with the ability to dream too, but life often does a good job of dashing those dreams and with it our sense of purpose and our intrinsic feelings of worth. When that happens, worth becomes external instead of internal. It becomes what we do and what we have instead of who we are.

When asked what she’d learned since Survivor, Sonja Christopher said she’d learned that giving was good. Sure, she wanted to win the million dollars, but it had never been her dream to live large or impress others in an attempt to feel better about herself. It had been her dream to give the money away.

She didn’t win the million, but she still managed to turn a little into a lot, exactly the opposite of the “winners” in my examples, who turned a lot into a little. And she did it because she had a vision of what life could be like, and she didn’t give up on it.

As we celebrate the legacy of Martin Luther King this week, it seems all the more appropriate to acknowledge that dreams are important. They can sustain us through the worst of life’s slings and arrows. Hang onto a dream and it can be your phoenix, lifting you up from the depths. It doesn’t have to be a grand dream either, though there’s nothing wrong with that. But don’t despair if your dreams are humble. You can help yourself and others by volunteering at a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving, or starting a day-care center in your home for kids, or designing high heels that don’t hurt women’s feet. (Please someone, do that!).

When it comes to dreams, no one else’s standards matter. It’s YOUR dream. I’ve had a bad knee since a running injury fifteen years ago. One of my current dreams is to be able to exercise using that knee again. I don’t need to run marathons. A thirty-minute walk would be great. Not a very grand dream to most people. To me it’s lofty—and one I should never have relinquished for so many years.

Lynn Kerstan blogged recently about childhood dreams. Are any of your dreams the ones you had as a child, or have they changed? Some of mine have changed. Others haven’t. Most are still attainable, although I doubt the American Ballet Theater is looking for a woman of a certain age with a gimpy knee. But what do I care? All I want to do today is walk down the beach again, pier to pier.

So, I’m in the process of revisiting my dreams. How about you? What about the little ones that you let go by the wayside, believing they weren’t important or that someone might make fun of them. Consider reclaiming at least one of them, grabbing ahold with both hands, hanging on and letting it lift you.

Onward and upward,

Suz

Spring Awakening (Anne Stuart)

Well, not actual spring. We're getting a high of 15 degrees and a low of 4, and we get snow in early May, so I'm not looking for any crocuses or tulips in the near future. But I'm coming back to life, creatively, and that's the most important thing of all.
I had a bit of a downturn this fall. I won't go into details -- everyone's got horror stories about the business, everyone's had disasters that they bounce back from.
Since I've been published since I was 25 (not counting my initial foray into paid journalism when I was seven) I've been through more disasters than most. And with this latest one I wasn't sure I was coming back. I mean, your heart can only be broken so many times before you just walk away.
But I'm back! The ideas are flowing - I have at last five solid ideas for a new book, I feel re-energized and hopeful, ready to concentrate on the story since I can't do anything about the business. And there are a number of things I can thank for it.

1. Collaborating with Jenny Crusie and Lani Diane Rich. If you've got the huevos for it, collaboration can teach you so many things, help you look at craft in an entirely different way. The only way to survive 30-some years as a writer is to keep evolving, and writing with the two of them (even if I occasionally got defensive) is a fabulous way to bring back the juice.
2. More sunlight always helps. It was pitch dark at 4:30 pm in December. Now we've got at least another half hour of sun, and I can feel it in my soul.
3. Time. You can only sulk for so long. Or let's say I can only sulk for so long. Then it's time to shake things up, move ahead, and fall in love again. (With a story -- I'll keep my husband).
4. Oh, changing your meds might help as well .

So I'm ready for a new year, a brave new world. Ready for new stories and whatever life will bring me.

How do you guys get through disasters? Got any tips for when this happens again? Because one thing I know about publishing -- it'll happen again.

Sky Songs

SPLENDOR of ended day, floating and filling me! . . .
You, Earth and Life, till the last ray gleams, I sing.

From "Song at Sunset" by Walt Whitman








"And though the last lights off the black West went . . .











Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—







Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods


With warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

From "God's Grandeur" by Gerard Manley Hopkins

What's In A Name (Patricia Potter)

Several months ago, I asked members in this community what they would like discussed. One reader asked about names and how we came up with them.

I was reminded of that as I was writing a proposal for a new book and was trying to find the best names for my next generation of characters.

It was easy in the beginning of my writing career. We all have names that immediately bring images to mind. In my western heroes, it was always strength. Short, stark names like Matt (though I think psychologically that came from my long, devoted association with Matt Dillon).

So my western heroes included Rafe, Rhys (an Englishman who tried to steal an earlier book and got his own), Wade, Ben, Clint, Sean and Ben.

Sometimes the name strikes me at the same time as a story line. One was MacKenzie. I knew from the very first inkling of the story line what his name would be. Couldn’t be anything else. MacKenzie was the half-breed son of a hermit Scotsman who loved Robert Burns.

He was an ruthless Army scout accused of killing a sergeant. In escaping army custody, he kidnapped the general’s daughter. Her name also came easily. She was thoughtful and kind, the exact opposite of the brooding, defensive Mackenzie. What else but April? Reawakening. Soft. Gentle.

He, of course, was just plain MacKenzie until the last two pages when we discovered he was actually Burns MacKenzie, named after the Scottish poet. It made a great ending, the unveiling of a vital part of his being.

Probably my favorite western hero was named Lobo, an illiterate Apache-raised gun for hire. Again the name came with the story. From the moment he was born in my mind, he was Lobo. Despised by Indians and whites alike.

His heroine too needed a name that described her. Willow was a school teacher well versed in the classics who got her job by submitting an application as W. George Taylor and who continually shocked her town. first by being a woman, then by taking in a collection of misfits. A willow, her schoolmaster father always said, is strong because it bends with the wind but never breaks. That's Willow.

So basically I try to find a name that fits the character. If she’s a strong tomboy type, I lean toward a name that can be shortened to a nickname: Samantha (Sam); Catalina (Cat). If she's a softer heroine, I use names like Sara.

In “Notorious,” my heroine was an ex-prostitute who ran a saloon and was hard as nails. She took on the name of Catalina, but everyone shortened it to Cat. It suited her well. She had sharp claws. And she was the perfect match for Marsh Canton, a cynical gambler who had hard-earned claws of his own.

Scottish names are fun and easy. I love Scottish names, mainly because I love all things Scottish. They’re just plain fun. Alex or Alexander is probably my favorite. Strong and commanding (think Alexander the Great). But I’m also a sucker for Patrick and Lachlan and Ian and Rory. I get most of my Scottish names from the histories of the Clans. Women’s names in Scotland are always soft-sounding. Elspeth. Felicia. Mary.

There’s more leeway, of course, in modern books, and I own four different baby name books. After fifty books, I do run out of names, and I retreat to those books. One in particular is invaluable because the names are sorted by country of origin. Need a Norwegian name? It’s there. Or a Russian one? Yep, it’s there.

But still it’s a matter of finding exactly the right moniker for the character.
In my current work in progress, my heroine nearly died as a newborn. Her mother found Kira in a baby book. It meant “light” in Latin, and to Kira’s mother her child was a special light. She is that in the book as well.

The hero came from the streets. He was abandoned and he hated the name he’d been given by a foster family. He had ambitions, and so he changed his name to Maxwell. It had the sound of someone of importance. But when he achieved a certain level of success he became Max. It suited him, being a little of both: gutter fighter and successful attorney.

And so names come from different places. Villains usually carry the name of someone who displeased me at one time in my life. The names of heroes and heroines from people I like, or simply because they’re just “right” for the character.

Last names? Except for the principal characters, I usually pick them out of a phone book at random. Otherwise, I have a tendency to use the same names repeatedly.

How does everyone else choose names?

Childhood Dreams (LynnK)

For donkey’s years, I’ve been on an e-mail loop with about a hundred women, nearly all of them writers. Their conversation (and support and friendship) is above the price of rubies. I treasure each and every one of them. And on occasion, someone poses a question that helps us know one another in a whole new way.

Just lately, in relation to a story about a young family man choosing how to live in the face of terminal cancer, we were asked about our own childhood dreams. What did we want to be when we grew up? What did we want to do before we died? Kind of like the “Bucket List,” viewed through young, healthy, ambitious eyes.

I’m among those who failed to answer the question. After consideration, I realized that with one exception—to be described in a future post—Lynn-child had few aspirations regarding the future. Unlike most of my buddies, I never even considered being a writer. But like many of them, I entertained hopes of dancing Swan Lake (which would require pudgy ballerinas to become all the rage) and breeding horses (although I had no idea how that was done). I wanted to win an Oscar.

Mostly, though, I was preoccupied with intricate and utterly fantastical fantasies, some of which played out over a period of years. That’s probably because my family was always on the move. By the time I reached 7th grade, I’d attended eight different schools (Navy Brat!) and had learned by necessity to entertain myself.

In early days, bored with playacting Cinderella and the other mostly helpless fairytale females, I turned my eyes to the stars. A radio show (we were the last family in the northern hemisphere to get a TV) caught my imagination and shot me off into outer space.

I still remember the voice-over lines that introduced the show: High adventure in the wild, vast reaches of space! Missions of daring in the name of interplanetary justice! Travel into the future with Buzz Corey, Commander-in-Chief of the Space Patrol!

I quickly changed the the hero's name to Roy Starr. My first pseudonym. “Buzz” just didn’t suit me. I also designed a classy black-and-silver uniform for myself, created a cast of supporting characters (after killing off the TV show’s nitwit sidekick, “Cadet Happy,” in my first adventure) and spent many hundreds of hours saving assorted planets from doom.

Absolutely no one knew about my secret missions. I made friends, went to school, rode my bike, became a Brownie, and secretly blasted bad guys with my ray gun. Hey. Girls just wanna have fun.

About the same time, probably influenced by historical swashbuckler movies and the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II (I watched it on a neighbor’s TeeVee), I became obsessed with swords, capes, and medieval-style pageantry. I decided to run another story on a parallel mental track, and in this one, I was a young, handsome, brave, reluctant king.

No, I never did want to be a man in real life. But when I was a kid, guys had all the adventures. Well, nearly all. I read—and honor—the adventures of Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, and even the nurse stories about Cherry Ames. I have never wished to change gender. I just thought opportunities should be open to every human being. I still believe that.

Of course, even if full equality came to pass, I’d continue to live most of my dreams in my imagination. In real life, I’m not royal or brave or remotely talented in any practical way. Turns out that I was destined to be a writer after all, even from my kindergarten days. Well, make that a storyteller. I’ve always been a storyteller. Even a story-liver. But writing the stories is damn hard work, harder even than saving my kingdom or the universe.


Nonetheless, all these years later, my imagination still teems with characters and roils with adventures. There’s a book in there right now. I am finding it and writing it. And in a way I cannot explain, I am living it.

Just the way I did in the story-dreams of my childhood.

So . . . what were your childhood dreams?

Stating the Obvious (Maggie)

Today the FDA has announced that over-the-counter cough and cold remedies should not be given to children under two years of age. It is expected (according to Dr. Nancy Snyderman on NBC's Today Show) that this is a first step on the way to a broader recommendation that they not be given to children under the age of 6. A logical leap would suggest the final step would be a full out ban, rather than just a recommendation. Dr. Nancy says the thing to remember is that these remedies don't cure the cold or other virus that's causing your child discomfort. All they claim to do is ease the symptoms, but studies have shown the risk of overdose is extremely high, and that the remedies often don't even do that much.

So you stop giving them. Honestly, I'd hate to think of trying to raise kids without over the counter medications, as often as mine were sick. But I guess that's just because we've become dependent on them, and have gotten a bit lazy about finding alternatives--because we haven't been forced to.

The obvious question to me is, if no one under six really needs over-the-counter medication to get over a cold, then how do we justify them for anyone else? If a six-year-old or a two-year-old or an eight-month-old can suffer through a cold without chemical help, why can't a grown up?

Good question, huh?

The answer--we can. And we probably should.

There are tons and tons of remedies that work as well as (and possibly better than) those over the counter chemical cocktails.
Tomato juice dosed with a dash of cayenne pepper, for example. Vick's Vapo-Rub, a dollop of it in a vaporizor will work wonders. For babies with croup, clap treatments every few hours. (That's where you lay the baby across your lap, face down, with her head lower than her bottom, and firmly pat the back, up and down for several minutes at a time, cupping your hand just so. It loosens the flem and congestion.)

Chicken soup actually works. They (and I don't know precisely who "they" are, but does it matter?) actually spent bucks on a study to PROVE that chicken soup works to ease cold symptoms. It has to be homemade, or so I'm told. Tea. Brandy. (Not for the kids, of course.) There are countless home remedies. Turn on the shower really hot and hold the baby in the steam that builds up in the bathroom. Warm baths and lavender scents help baby sleep. Mint helps a tummy ache. Rubbing the belly in a clockwise circular motion eases constipation.

Do you know that a cup of strong coffee can fend off an impending asthma attack, and cure a headache? Amazing, if you ask me.

Maybe if we want our kids to grow up without the risks of over-using over-the-counter meds, we should begin showing them by example. Maybe if we expect them to suffer through a cold with nothing more than ordinary, natural, home remedies, we should start doing the same. Because if we do, we'll really begin to learn which natural remedies work and which don't. We'll become experts in the field, through trial and error and our own experience. Our bodies will get tougher, learning how to deal with things we used to drug into oblivion. (Or did we just drug ourselves to the point of being unable to feel them?)

Why don't we try it for awhile and see how it goes?

And of course, the number one way to ease the symptoms of an illness, is distraction. It honestly is. Having friends over who make you laugh or just are so much fun you love seeing them can make every symptom fade to nothingness. Getting involved in a fabulous movie or book. Dragging yourself off the couch for a gentle walk, long drive, easy shopping trip, or visit to the corner coffee house are all wonderful ideas. So are soaking in a hot, scented bath, long phone conversations with loved ones, an hour spent with a favorite hobby like arranging flowers or sewing--all these things are distractions. In short, it's back to my basic and oft repeated philosophy--just reach for something that feels better. Do what gives you pleasure. Find a sense of relief, and go there, give your attention to that instead of to the problems. And the problems fade and die.

So for children, distraction can work just as well. For older kids, a favorite movie, or game or easy activity might work For younger ones, being held, rocked and cuddled is far better than lying in a crib all stuffy and feverish. Didn't you ever notice how much more they want to be held and loved when they're sick? It's because the attention makes them feel better. And snuggling is the best imaginable distraction from the illness, which is WHY it makes them feel better. And they get better faster BECAUSE they feel better.

(To get anything you want, you just practice feeling as if you already have it, and before you know it, you do! So to get over an illness, do things that make you feel better, and before you know it, you'll be better!)

I'd love to hear everyone's home remedies. We should compile a whole list of helpful suggestions for children with colds and sniffles who can no longer use over the counter meds, to help those poor moms get through what I often refer to as, "The Viral Years."

Maggie

I'm Confused (Tara Taylor Quinn)

People. Human beings. Think about us. We're exactly the same in that we have to breathe to live. We breathe in basically the same way. We have our bodily functions and most of us put on clothes on a regular basis. We even put on pants one leg at a time, no matter how rich or poor or successful or unhappy we are. We all need water. And love. We have language. And thoughts. We all sleep. We cry, feel anger and joy. We want to have fun. We crave good feeling. Unless something has happened to us to change our original form we all have two arms and legs and a head and ears and eyes and a nose and mouth. We all have the same organs that work in pretty much the same way. Fire burns us. Pain hurts. Sharp objects cut us. We all bleed.

And yet...take any two of us with eyes that see, have us look at a picture and I'll bet we see two different things. Have any two of us with ears listen to a speech, I'll bet we'd give two different exposes afterward. Some of us think Star Wars is the best movie ever made. Some of us are bored stiff by the very thought of having to sit in front of the screen while the film is playing. Some of us find blonds attractive. Others go for dark eyes. I detest squash. My husband likes it.

The differences go beyond just physical likes and dislikes. They go to the core of life. And that's what I find most amazing. In a good sense. And in a confusing sense as well. Two people can look at an action of another and one finds it atrocious and another finds it acceptable. Take 9/11, even. There were human beings who thought that flying a plane of innocent people into a building filled with innocent people, that massacreing thousands of people, was a spiritual command that would give them nirvana in the afterlife. I feel certain they found a much less palatable place awaiting them.

It gets so complicated. Our realities are shaped by every single thing that happens to us and since not one of us has walked the exact same path since birth (even identical twins walk on opposite sides of each other) not one of us has exactly the same reality. And when you take a society full of people with diversely different paths, you end up living side by side with diversely different realities. You end up co-existing in worlds that sometimes make no sense at all.

To one who grew up in a loving home where letting it all fly, no matter what words came out, was considered a freedom of expression, hard words are normal, healthy. To another, they're abusive, unloving. Cruel.

I'm simplifying here, mostly because this morning, I'm more baffled by life than on top of it. I have a villain who's committed heinous crimes and I've grown to like him. I hate what he's done, but his motives are pure gold. Heroic. He's the bad guy. He has to go down in this the last book of a suspense trilogy. The victims in all three of the books are waiting to see justice done. And yet, as I sit facing this deadline, the guy won't die.

And I look at life around me and I see so many parallels to this work of fiction, this thriller that chills my bones even as I make the stuff up, and I wonder what happens when people with such diverse realities are forced to mingle in the same space. When a yeller is in the same space as a peaceful kind worder, what happens? Does the yeller learn not to yell? Or does the kind worder have to get tough and take it? Can someone whose reality has always been one of making peace and trying to be kind, who truly values kindness and who is sensitive and needs kindness, live happily with yelling? Can someone whose instinct is to yell, to purge the bad stuff and go on in a more healthy frame of mind and emotion, still be healthy if she can't purge?

And there's more. No I'm not done yet. I wish I was. I'm not sure I'd be done if I continued on long into the night. Blogger might be done with me. You all might be done with me. But the questions continue. There's so much to consider. Like selfishness for instance. In some realities, looking out for self is the way to happiness. And the belief follows that if you're happy, you'll make those around you happy. But what about those around you that you hurt by putting your needs above theirs? Yes, we all have our own lives and an inalienable right to live them a we choose (As long as we stay within the boundaries of society's laws, but then who makes those laws? What reality gets to choose?) And what happens when the way I choose to live my life directly effects the life of someone else? Is the choice still mine alone? Can I act on my own cognizance, because in my reality it feels totally and completely right, disregarding the erroneous reality of the person next door?

Here's another issue. Turning the other cheek. When is it healthy and when is it allowing yourself to be abused? When is it right to fight back? Or is it never right?

And then there's the reality that believes there is no right and wrong, that judgement isn't authentic living, but rather, that we are charged to make the decision that takes us closer to our authentic purpose for existence, whatever that might be. And in that reality if we get results that appear to be negative, they aren't. They are simply providing an opportunity for learning and growth.

I got another Jewel cd for Christmas. She's not everyone's cup of tea, but this is a singer/song writer who speaks to me. Some think she's negative. I think she puts life out there in many of its realities and challenges her listeners to see that life is many things on many levels to many people, as opposed to just being aware of only our own reality. She challenges us to see that our own reality is only real to us. One line that has been sticking with me this week - everything ends if given enough time.

That confuses me, too. I guess she's right. On some levels. But I've got this spiritual thread that runs through me and won't let go and it argues with the pragmatist in my brain - and in Jewels - but is that just my reality versus hers?

I watched the movie Ever After the other night. It's a Cinderella story and starts with the Anderson brothers visiting an older woman. Makes sense. They write fairy tales and we all know that Cinderella is a fairy tale. But at the end of the movie, the old lady, in producing a shoe and a picture of her great great grandmother says to the fairy tale writers, 'and while they lived happily ever after, the important thing, gentlemen, is that they lived.'

I loved that. I'm still thinking about it days later and I've seen the movie numerous times. To that woman, Cinderella lived. She was giving thema different reality. And not only that, to her, no matter what reality anyone accepted, the important thing is that the realities are alive. And that's what's important. At least in my reality.

Well now, if I haven't thoroughly confused you, too, you may return to regularly scheduled programming. And I'll go back to this book that has taken over my brain and is searing thought cells as it finds it way out of me. Maybe, if I can type really fast and let the thing go, purge it with typing instead of yelling, I'll find the answers. The eternal truths.

Or maybe life really is just confusing. Anybody know?

The Longevity Experiment? (Suzanne Forster)

According to a new study from the University of Cambridge in the United Kingdom, it’s not that difficult to add an additional fourteen years to your life. And fourteen years, well, that’s not chopped liver. Just don’t eat any chopped liver, lol.

Actually, what I like about this seemingly simply four-pronged plan is that there’s only one thing you’re not allowed to do and that’s smoke cigarettes. Since I quit years ago, that leaves me just three prongs to worry about, and they really don’t sound all that difficult. All you have to do is exercise moderately, drink moderately (yes, they mean alcohol), and eat five servings of fruits and vegetables. Every day.

Here’s the link to the January 8th Yahoo! News article about the study: http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20080108/hl_nm/longevity_lifestyle_dc;_ylt=AnYLvRJwKO2a6YpcFpvwOB4DW7oF

Sounds like a cinch, huh? Especially the drinking? Uh, give it a try. First of all, I’ve discovered I don’t do anything every single day, except maybe breathe. Well, yes, there are a couple other bodily functions, but they fall into the too much information (TMI) category. From my experience, unless you’re a hyperactive rabbit with a wine cellar, it’s not that easy to drink, exercise, and eat a small mountain of produce every single day.

I first heard about the Cambridge study on Yahoo! News, and I’ve had trouble tracking down the specifics about how much drinking and exercising is actually necessary, but based on a separate study in the European Heart Journal, drinking moderately is one or two drinks a day. Other reports say moderate is one or two drinks a week, so there is some confusion. I suspect anything within that range is okay. The European Heart Journal study is clear on the drawbacks of heavy drinking. Apparently that, combined with a lack of physical activity brings about the highest risk of death of any of the groups studied, so all the benefits of alcohol are negated with anything more than moderate consumption.

I’m pretty much a lightweight by anyone’s standards. One drink and I’m ready for a nap. The health benefits of red wine have been widely reported for some time now, so I decided if I was going to drink anything, it would be that. However, timing my daily glass of wine was the problem. When I’m writing, I usually have my main meal in the late afternoon, and if I were to add wine, I’d be snoozing by the five o’clock news. On the other hand, if I were to start drinking in the afternoon, my books might get a lot more interesting.

Obviously, I still have to figure out how to schedule in all four prongs. It takes some time to consume five servings of anything and then exercise it off, but fourteen years is a pretty good incentive, so I’m working on it. And you just never know when the opportunity to imbibe may arise. This weekend, after fin