Open Commentary

Running towards a goal

2017-12-06T19:14:00.003-08:00

I was three glasses into a bottle of red wine one night in early February and feeling sorry for myself which had become a common theme. Instead of planning my husband’s birthday party which was looming in the next few weeks, I jumped on my laptop and decided to sign up for my first marathon. I tipsily typed in my credit card information and clicked register. When I found the email confirmation in my inbox the next day, I immediately thought “oh sh**, what did I just do?”

It's not like I wasn’t a runner. I had completed a half marathon in 2014, but then my parents had been involved in a motorcycle accident. I lost my dad and nearly lost my mom too. Life, especially my training life, came to a screeching halt. I spent most of my time working and visiting my mother and the rest tending to her financial affairs and medical paperwork. Home became just a place to sleep; I couldn't even be bothered to cook dinner for my husband and me. If I wanted to work out in the few minutes I could spare, I was too depressed.

However, the thought of running a marathon had always been in the back of my mind. I somehow had convinced myself that running 26.2 miles would give me the ultimate sense of accomplishment. I knew it would require discipline, dedication, and mental fortitude - qualities I lacked because everyone knew I was a quitter.

My parents knew it better than anyone. As a child, I gave up on anything that was too hard, but they would always push me to stick with it. My mother enrolled me in gymnastics when I was five, and I quit because I couldn’t do a complete cartwheel. How was I supposed to become the next Nadia Comaneci if my legs didn’t stick straight up in the air like a starfish as I tumbled on the mat? Little did I know that Comaneci wasn’t known as much for her floor routines as her for her uneven bar exercises, but I wouldn’t have been willing to work on my upper body strength anyway. I played varsity softball throughout high school but begged my parents every year to let me quit.

“Why?” my mother would ask with a pleading voice. “We love to watch you play.”

I could run, I could hit, I could field, but I never pushed myself to be better. My varsity coach Mr. Jubenville told me once that I had the most physical potential he may have ever seen in a player but “no talent.” He was right. I didn’t practice, and I stubbornly didn’t listen to advice. I believed that if I were born to be good at something it would just naturally happen without any training. So why did I think I was going to run 26.2 miles on a course that was labeled “challenging” for seasoned marathoners? (I read those reviews after I registered for the race.) Because 2017 was going to be different.

My first training run was on July 2nd, fourth months before my marathon. It was 6:45 am, and after choking down a banana in my car, I nervously approached the group of runners standing outside the store that was sponsoring the training program. I thought we were supposed to be running 9 miles that day, which was 3 miles longer than the 6 miles I had grown accustomed to over the months of running to my mother’s rehabilitation facility. In a group of about 20 people, who all knew each other, I felt utterly alone. My outfit reeked of newbie marathoner runner stench, right down to my Nike sneakers that I thought were good for long runs but as was later pointed out to me, they were worse than gym training shoes.

I picked out the running bib with my name on it. Carolyn - West Hartford written in swirly blue handwriting. You’ll be sweating all over this bib soon, I thought to myself. Looking around the room, I could see people using foam rollers or doing jumping jacks. My stomach churned with nervous excitement. How fast were these runners? They all looked sinewy and lean; their skin wrapped tightly around their sleek frames. I felt like a hulking mass. My quadriceps had always been extra bulky, built for intense, fast bursts of speed, and not long-distance running.

One of the coaches stood up on a bench and started speaking to the crowd.

“Thanks you all for coming today. I know we’re going to have a great training season together!” Her voice was saccharine and extra peppy. I was sure she was one of those people who leaped out of bed every morning at the crack of dawn to run.

I hated those people.

“I see a lot of familiar faces so by a show of hands how many of you have trained with us before?” The majority of the people in the group raised their hands
“Great! And how many of you have run a marathon before?”

Everyone raised their hand except for me.

“Wonderful! Well, for the one person who didn’t raise their hand, welcome. You’ve come to the right place,” she giggled as she said it.

Seriously? I was pretty sure when I had signed up for the training program that it expressly said it would help people train for their FIRST marathon - not their fifteenth. I would also later find out during the personal introductions that most of the runners were triathletes; even more alarming. I was only there to train for running. With my unreasonable fear of open water swimming, especially in lakes and ponds with slimy freshwater plant life - I would NEVER be competing in a triathlon.

A few miles into the run, I recognized a familiar face in the group. A woman named Fernanda whose mother was a resident of Bel-Air Manor, the skilled nursing facility where my mom had just spent a year in sub-acute rehabilitation.

I visited my mother nearly every day, and often I would find her outside her room, sitting in her power wheelchair and chatting with a group of women. Some of them were residents in the nursing home part of the facility and others were family members like me, diligently visiting their loved ones and trying to forget that the brightly lit room with tall windows and vaulted ceilings was, in fact, an institution and not a living room of someone’s home. Fernanda had run more than 30 marathons. She was a stay at home mother with four kids, so she was able to find the time to train. As we jogged together, we chatted about our mothers. Her mom was from Portugal and didn’t speak any English. Living at the nursing home as long as she had, everyone called her "mama," and so I did too when I would greet her. She would smile, exposing her toothless gums and wave. I looked forward to those visits because that was the only time my mother seemed to be at ease with the world. What was lost - my father in the motorcycle accident that also maimed her and stole her ability to walk - was not spoken of on those evenings, only the day's activities and nurse gossip.

When my mother's medical insurance refused to pay for further days at Bel-Air, my sister and I were devastated. It wasn't just the fact that she would lose her regular schedule of therapy, she would lose her friends as well. We were forced to find an assisted living facility, but we promised ourselves it would only be temporary until we could buy her a house and figure out a way to afford in-home care.

I told Fernanda all about this as I tried to forget we were in motion.

“That sounds nice,” she said. “She needs that; she’s too young to be in assisted living. With my mom, we had no choice, my sister and I simply couldn’t do it anymore. But your mom - she’s still got a lot of time.”

She was right. My mother was a 64-year-old widower. If had she lost my father but remained physically intact; her life would be completely different. Instead of worrying about constant personal care, my sister and I would be helping her to downsize and move into a cute condo near work and friends. Maybe she would even start to date after a few years, but now, that could never be the case.

Running had always given me the space to think, clear my head and focus on each breath, each step or to slip into deep concentration. On this Sunday morning, surrounded by all of these marathon enthusiasts, I was questioning my every step. I wanted to be able to give my mother the best life possible in a safe environment. However, after two years of taking care of her needs, worrying about every doctor’s appointment, every past-due bill, arguing with insurance companies, dealing with lawyers, accountants, financial planners, police and victim’s advocates; I was exhausted and losing myself. This is what had pushed me to sign up for a marathon because I was running myself ragged on a daily basis and not getting anywhere. I needed to prove that I could put myself first, to reach a goal of my own.

“Fernanda, can I ask you something?” I could barely push out the words as we slogged up a hill.

“Yeah?”

“Why did you start running marathons?”

“Because I needed to do something that was just for me,” she said.

“Thanks, I needed to hear that.”

I found out during the middle of our run that day that we were running 10 miles instead of nine. Already one mile past my goal, I was off to a good start.

The Finish Line is a Moving Target

2017-05-09T09:21:00.002-07:00

I ran a 10K this weekend from Burlington to Collinsville, Connecticut. It was a beautiful course that followed the Farmington River. When I signed up for the race a few months ago, I had made a promise to myself that no matter what, I was going to run and I was going to finish. In the past, I would have made myself nervous about the distance, worried about the fact that I hadn't run this long a race in three years, and that I hadn't been running on a regular basis. The night before the race I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned, thinking "what a stupid idea." Like I was going to spring out of bed at 6:30 a.m., bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to run 6.2 miles before my first cup of coffee.

I had carefully picked out my running attire the night before; my favorite fuschia color long sleeve shirt from the "Breath" line at Gap, a pair of soft, full-length tights that also contained hints of purple, black and brown, all mixed together in a heather pattern, and the pair of Nike Zoom Winflo 3 sneakers that my sister allowed me to buy over the winter with her Bloomingdale's employee discount. I even matched it with an Athleta head wrap, which would soak up my sweat and pull back my unruly bangs. Sure, it all looked good, but when I arrived at the start line, I would inevitably look around at all of the other runners and feel like I didn't belong. They'd all be wearing their Brooks running shoes, brightly colored compression socks, Camelbacks full of water (or booze or Coca Cola - who knows what's in those things?), and worst of all, their bragging rights t-shirts and tank tops from all of the other fancy races they've completed. Waiting in line to use the Port-o-Let, I stared at a man's densely muscled calf on which he had tattooed the Iron Man logo and thought, I'll never come close to competing in a triathlon, not with my ridiculous fear of natural bodies of water.

I've been an athlete almost my entire life. I've played many team sports including softball, field hockey, and basketball. I was never excellent at any of them, but one thing was clear - I could run. When I was younger, I was a sprinter and would expend myself, in short, controlled bursts, but as I grew older, I found that going on long-distance runs was a way to give myself space, free my mind and release stress.

The same can be said for why I am in an MFA program now. When I was younger, I wasn't the best student, but I could write my way into or out of anything. It was the defining characteristic of who I was and everyone in my family labeled me as "the writer." During my undergraduate program, I was too distracted to identify the fact that I needed writing as a creative outlet. Instead, I identified what I thought was going to be the quickest route to getting a job and starting a career and I chose Journalism.

Now, years later I am giving myself the time to earn a degree that will honor my writing and vindicate my identity as a writer. However, with each class that I start in this MFA, I experience the pre-race jitters, the self-doubt, the apprehension - it's all part of a lifelong battle with self-esteem.

I remember reading some of my classmates' posts the first week of my first course, and it felt just like being amongst that sea of runners who were faster, stronger and more athletic than me, but in this group, it was their brains that were tattooed with Iron Man symbols. Their beautiful phrasing and advanced vocabulary made me feel just as unqualified and inferior as when I get into the queue at a race. I'm a middle of the pack type of person. I don't necessarily excel at anything in particular, but I hold my own most of the time.

As the first semester played out, I had my ups and downs with craft pieces. I was doing a lot of "throat clearing" at the beginning of essays and rushing through scenes without adding the proper description or dialogue. I took on three classes but realized that with my job and personal responsibilities I was taxing myself and so I promised not to do that again. I didn't hit my stride until the middle of the second semester when I started to write about the most defining incident of my life; my parent's accident and my father's death. Throughout that semester and during the summer writing seminar in Dingle, Ireland, I worked on a piece that I hope to ultimately turn into my thesis and figured out what strategies I need to employ to get through this degree. When it came time to choose a professional track, I chose Publishing and immersed myself in learning about an industry of which I knew very little, other than what I had seen in movies and on television (another shoutout to Younger my TVLand binge-worthy series).

Which brings me to the current semester and the internship I've completed at Cleaver Magazine. As an editorial intern, I have read submissions for Creative Non-Fiction and aided in the proofreading of Issue 17. My favorite part of this experience by far has been reading and voting on the submissions. Until this point in the MFA program, I was only critiquing the work of my classmates. With the notoriety of Cleaver, I've had the privilege to read the work of writers from across the world and from all different backgrounds and levels of experience. Reading these submissions and having my opinions about them taken into account when considering them for publication has been incredibly valuable. Now, I'm not only an aspiring writer, but I'm an editor who can help other writers. And I'm not finished yet! Cleaver is a quarterly publication that receives hundreds of submissions and there is always the need for editors, and so I've agreed to stay on as an intern indefinitely, helping out when and where I can. As a runner, the idea of pushing a finish line back could be the death knell, but in this case, I see this as an opportunity to help grow my overall appreciation of different writing styles and genres.

This weekend, I finished my 10K with a decent pace of 8:23 per mile. As I stood in line at the race results tent, I watched the tall, lean blonde woman in front of me house a cup of free chili and cornbread. I remembered seeing her in a bright pink tank-top on the course, she had finished at least 10 minutes before I did and I was jealous. But then I listened to her and her friend talking about the attempted feat of a Kenyan runner who just days before had come within 25 seconds of running the elusive 2:00 marathon. I was reminded that we're all chasing something, whether it's a real milestone, a social status, an educational goal, or an emotion and we're often envious of those who seem to have what we want. Later in the day when I logged on to my computer, I checked my email and found the link to the race photos. I scanned through the proofs and found this picture of me - middle of the pack. But then I zoomed in and saw that I was smiling as I was running. You can't really make it out with the pixelated version I've posted, but I know that I was happy while I was running.

Burlington to Collinsville 10K, 5/7/17

In April 2015 I lost my father and have spent the last two years taking care of my disabled mother, whose future is still uncertain but getting brighter every day. There have been many times that I have doubted my ability to shoulder life's responsibilities while still trying to carve out a piece of sanctuary for myself but I'm slowly doing it. My MFA, my running, my well-being are things I'm striving for and maybe, just maybe I'll get there in the end.

Between a Rock and a Generic

2017-03-09T06:28:00.000-08:00

I received a disturbing automated text from my pharmacy yesterday, informing me that it could not refill my prescription because my medication was "out-of-stock." What in the world does that mean? I questioned as I quickly dialed the CVS Pharmacy that I've been picking up prescriptions from since I moved to Hartford 14 years ago.

To fill you in, my prescription is my birth control, and for as long as I've been patronizing the same CVS Pharmacy, I've been taking the prescription - OrthoTri-Cyclen Lo. If you're a woman, you understand how personal and important your choice of birth control is to your everyday well being. I was prescribed Ortho many years ago because the hormone level in the pill was the lowest on the market and for me, that is paramount because hormonal imbalance causes a condition that I like to call "batshit crazy." I went through a stretch in my early twenties when I suffered from this condition and let me tell you - it was not pretty.

Everything was working out swimmingly with Ortho until last May when the FDA approved a generic form of the pill. This was not the first time that a generic form of Ortho Tri-Cyclen Lo had been developed, the first time was eight years ago, but that generic was quickly pulled from the market due to a patent infringement battle between rival drug fabricators. However, this brings me back to present day and my current predicament.

"The generic we have been filling your prescription with is currently out-of-stock, so we've tried the second and third best option but haven't been able to find any of that either," my friendly pharmacist explained to me over the phone.

I know what you're thinking right now, why doesn't she just ask for the real thing? Good question, the answer would be that if I opted to actually fill my prescription with Ortho Tri-Cyclen Lo at this point, it would cost me $400.

I have really good health insurance. My husband is a state employee, and our insurance plan is through Anthem Blue Cross, Blue Shield. Up until May of last year, I was enthralled to be picking up a three-month supply (which they mandate) of Ortho Tri-Cyclen Lo for $0. To say I was spoiled is an understatement. However, our insurance also mandates that if there is a generic offered for a name brand drug on the market, you must take that generic or pay full price. The last time I paid full price for my birth control was 2003, and at that point, a monthly pack of Ortho was $56. During that time of my life, I was working three jobs and was lucky to have a "value plan" health insurance option at the television station where I made close to $16,000 a year. The generic wasn't offered then, and my insurance wouldn't pay for any brand name drug, so I didn't have a choice. There were months that I skipped my prescription because I simply couldn't afford it and that brings me to my broader point - the onus of birth control.

When I relayed this situation to my husband last night, his response was "why don't you just call the insurance company and explain what's happening?" Rather than get into a heated argument about why insurance companies don't give a shit about the fact that my generic birth control is not in stock or why I shouldn't have to come up with the money to pay full price for a birth control that saves our asses from getting pregnant every month and paying for a lifetime of childcare - I let it go. In fact, I called my insurance company first thing this morning, but their helpline wasn't open yet.

Why is it that women must pay ridiculous costs for prophylactics when we are only half of the scenario when it comes to reproduction? As of today, I have to figure out a permanent solution to a problem that I will know will continue to resurface. This isn't going to be the only time the generic is out-of-stock and given the current situation with national healthcare, there are most certainly going to be fewer people who care. So my options are 1.) Get my tubes tied - absolutely not because I might actually want to have a child one day. 2.) Research IUD's - which I did last year around this time and was scared off by the dozens of Internet forums with comments that warned of excessive weight gain, uncontrollable and incredibly painful cramping, and even worse, the possibility of it falling out or getting dislodged somewhere in the uterus. 3.) Pray like hell that my pharmacy finds a generic to fill and fast. 4.) Abstinence. Seriously?

Reproduction planning is our burden as women, and when situations like mine occur they seem minimal at first but then you look at the broader arguments that arise regarding abortion, and you wonder why we rage at times. It is because our healthcare system makes it costly to be responsible and then punishes you when the inevitable happens. So here I am, waiting for the helpline at the insurance company to open so that I can plead my case, be denied and then pray, pray, pray. And I'm not even religious.

Romantic Beginnings

2017-02-08T17:51:00.001-08:00

I spent last night like I do every night, watching television with my mom in her apartment at the assisted living facility. I usually arrive at around 6:30 p.m., traffic permitting, and we settle in and watch reruns of All in the Family. It's one of my mom's favorite shows because Archie Bunker always reminded her of her father.

The synopsis of last night's episode was Gloria (Sally Struthers), and Michael (Rob Reiner) make a trip to the Poconos to "rekindle" their romance. At one point during the show, Gloria comes to the conclusion that the love has left their marriage and she comically whimpers that maybe they should get "a di, a di-di, a divoooorce." Michael freaks out and locks himself in the bathroom, and the audience hears him whaling from behind the door. I won't make you watch the whole episode, so I will just tell you that they end up making out on the floor of the bathroom after Gloria attempts to ram her way through the door at the same exact point that Michael opens it.

Where am I going with this? Romantic relationships are most often compared to and sometimes live or die upon the circumstances of their origins. At the beginning of a romantic partnership, there is this nervous, kinetic energy surrounding everything you do. It is the promise of something wonderful or something terrifying, but you and your engorged heart and libido take the plunge anyway. Infatuated folks are so willing to conquer the unknown with complete strangers when sex is involved, and it makes me wonder why we all don't take these types of risks with anything else in our lives. Think about all the things we sacrifice for blind passion - family, jobs, financial security, houses, lifestyles, moral and religious beliefs. It seems the only thing we're not willing to give up these days is political affiliations, but that is a whole other beast to tackle.

What if we treated every beginning in our life like that of a lovestruck teenager? Naivete aside, would we make better choices? As I am at the beginning of my editorial internship at Cleaver Magazine, I feel the same anxiety that I have felt when entering a new relationship. Do they like me ... do they really like me?

In my first weeks, I am just starting to navigate Submittable. I have a personal account and receive emails notifying me of when I have been assigned a piece to review. I set up a folder and a filter so that my abyss of an inbox would not envelop these notifications. I certainly did not want to realize weeks from now that I was slacking on my workload. I specifically read for Creative Non-Fiction although Cleaver accepts submissions for all types of pieces including Poetry, Fiction, Flash and their newest endeavor Radio Plays. To date, I have voted "YES" to accept three submissions, expressed a "Maybe" on a piece that I felt had potential but needed lots of editing and a "NO" on quite a few.

In my first blog post two weeks ago, I expressed a fear of not being able to properly critique a writer's work based on my limited experience. I was also afraid that writers who submitted their work could see my comments. Not that I would be cruel in any way, but I was worried that people far more qualified as a writer than I would be worried that their work was being passed over by some intern hack. It was a very real source of anxiety until Cleaver's Editor in Chief, Karen Rile, emailed me directly to assure me that my remarks would not be seen, they are kept private and can only be viewed by the editorial staff. I immediately let out a sigh of relief upon reading that first sentence but then immediately became self-conscious that Karen read my blog! However, she followed it up by saying "you're doing a great job."

And just like that, my heart is full, and this relationship's beginning is filled with ever more promise.

36-year-old Intern

2017-01-22T20:33:00.000-08:00

The definition of an internship is "a student or trainee who works in an organization, sometimes without pay, to gain work experience or satisfy requirements for a qualification." If someone had told me fifteen years ago, that I would be an intern at 36 years old - I would say my life had taken a turn for the worse.

In 2002, I was a first-time intern at a local television news affiliate in Hartford, Connecticut. It was a dream com true to work at the same news station I had grown up watching. That internship blossomed into my first professional job as an associate producer and launched my career in broadcast journalism; a career I thought I'd have for the rest of my life. However, things change.

Now I find myself starting my fourth semester in an MFA program for Creative Non-Fiction, and yes, I'm once again an intern. This is an excerpt of the email that I received about a month ago from the Editor in Chief.

Thwacks so much for applying to the Editorial Intern program at Cleaver (Magazine). We would love to invite you to be an intern in Spring 2017!

Please send us a contributor's photo and a 50-100 word bio for our masthead. You can check the masthead for samples of other bios. We are very excited to have you on board! Chop! Chop!

As an editorial intern, I will be reading the non-fiction essays submitted to the magazine. Already, I've received 11 submissions and technically the semester hasn't even begun! I'm expected to read submissions that I think fit the style of the magazine and provide feedback to the writer. It's a lot of pressure when you consider that I've only been subjectively reading other people's work for less than two years. Some of the cover letters of these writers intimidate me to no end! I have never published any of my work, anywhere. So, when I read submissions from writers who have published books, had their work featured in several important journals and magazines, I think "who am I to judge?" I certainly wouldn't want some hack intern pouring over my words and picking apart my craft if I had spent months or possibly years writing a piece.

And therein lies my problem, I always worry about what other people are thinking of me. While I'm concerned that a "thumbs down" vote in Submittable is going to garner me hate mail and scorn from an author for years to come - they have probably moved on and submitted their work to a half dozen other magazines. I need to reign in my fear and realize that being an intern provides me the space to make mistakes, to learn and to grow. (However, is it possible to get fired from an internship?)

I'm looking forward to reading the work of other, more accomplished, writers. I hope that over the next few months, I will learn to pick pieces that will express the artistic view and genre of Cleaver Magazine. In the meantime, check out my cool new masthead - notoriety that I never experienced as an intern at the television station.

Eyes on the Prize

2016-11-05T12:07:00.002-07:00

What is it like to be at the helm of the editorial process for a small publishing company whose mission is to promote dignity while igniting hearts and minds? I found out a few weeks ago when I had the distinct pleasure of interviewing Susan Lumenello, Managing Editor of Beacon Press, an independent publisher of serious non-fiction based in Boston, Massachusetts.

Susan has a bachelor’s degree in Political Science and a master’s degree in Writing and Literature. Before coming to Beacon Press eight years ago, she worked at Harvard University, writing for the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences’ alumni magazine. She also freelanced as a copy editor for the Asia Center at Harvard.

In my naïve view of publishing, I'm always trying to draw parallels. Susan entertained me as I explained the role of managing editor as I had known it from my years of working in television news. I thought I was clever by calling the ME a position that was akin to a liaison between the production staff and the senior level management. She must have smiled to herself as I said those words. Then she laid out what her day to day function is like at Beacon, and it's a whole lot more than just liaising.

"There's a lot of stuff to do at any given time," Susan said. "The description for my job is to maintain the editorial integrity of our books, so it's important that I try to make that happen."

Not only does Susan personally edit books, but she also oversees the editorial staff, the production staff and also deals directly with the authors. Beacon Press puts out two to three publication lists per year, so that is a hefty workload for a managing editor but she says there are lulls.

“Sometimes the manuscripts are with the authors, or sometimes the manuscript is with the typesetter, so it's out of my hands for a brief period, but I'm laying my eyes on every book to greater or lesser degrees. ”

It's a huge responsibility, to say the least, but that is what Susan loves about her position. She helps improve manuscripts that become books that inform people and are useful to society.

The mission of Beacon Press is to promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person; justice, equity and compassion in human relations; acceptance of one another. With the works they publish, Susan and her colleagues hope to achieve the goal of a world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all. In a nation that’s become increasingly polarized and in a year that we’ve heard such vitriol from presidential candidates and their supporters, this mission seems more important than ever.

Outside of her role at Beacon, Susan is also a playwright. In 2010, her play “Easy to Love” which poses the question of what if homosexuality were the societal norm was a featured reading at the Provincetown Playhouse. Susan is also a native of Cape Cod, having grown up in Yarmouth.

Seeing this as a departure from her day job, I asked her if writing a play was hard.

“The plays that I finish are not that difficult. It’s the ones that I don’t finish that are difficult and that’s why I’m not able to finish them. It’s a creative act and it takes some time and effort but it’s all a good time, generally. I can’t say it’s challenging – if it was that hard I wouldn’t do it.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised by her response, after all, she consumes more words on a daily basis than most people probably do in a year. Perhaps her practical nature is the result of her grinding work schedule, the frenetic production cycle that never ceases. And she notes that being incredibly busy is better than being out of work.

“Considering all the publishing that’s left Boston over the many years, it’s a good thing that we’re still here. I think we’re all proud of that.”

Imprint

2016-10-06T19:21:00.000-07:00

Full disclosure: I binge-watch crappy television, it’s my thing when I have nothing else to do. On one such day, I found the TVLand series “Younger” and plowed through the entire first and second seasons on-demand. As I watched this show about a 40-year-old divorced housewife from New Jersey who is posing as a 26-year-old assistant to a Cruella Deville-type Marketing Director at Empirical Press in New York City (I know, ridiculous premise but don’t judge), I was inadvertently introduced to a lot of publishing industry terms.

In one episode, Kelsey, an ambitious young book editor, threatens to leave Empirical for a competitor. The Editorial Director recognizes that Kelsey is an asset (when does that ever happen?) and decides to create an imprint, for her to run, in order to keep her at the company. The imprint is called “Millennial” and Kelsey is tasked with signing authors and writers who will appeal to the millennial generation. More full disclosure – I had never heard nor understood the concept of an imprint as it applies to the publishing world.

Through this week’s reading and perusing of websites, I found the term again – this time defined on bookjobs.com. Imprint: The identifying name of a specific line of books available from the publisher. Publishers may have many imprints.

In the television series, the imprint is a departure from the style of other Empirical authors and published titles. Attracting wider audiences, creating more business, driving more revenue is the strategy and desire of all businesses and in this sense, I see where imprints help publishing companies diversify.

It also occurs to me that television is the way I've stumbled upon many concepts. I was never a bookworm, more of a television and cinema consumer and so it only makes sense that my writer's path is being paved more by what I watch than what I read. So, thank you to Darren Star and the other creative minds behind “Younger.” You have opened my eyes to the publishing world, albeit in a fictional, generalized fashion with predictable plot lines (I'll forgive you for that because you brought me "Sex and the City.")

My Dad's Suit

2016-09-16T17:48:00.003-07:00

I'm in the second year of my MFA program for Creative Writing Non-Fiction. I feel I've definitely pushed my writing to another level, and while I am still trying to find my voice, the following piece is some of the best work I've completed this far.

My Dad's Suit

The sign hanging on the door of the Men’s Wearhouse store read Give a suit. It had only been two minutes since I’d shut off my car engine but as I sat there in the hot July sun, with the windows rolled up, I was starting to perspire. Of course, I had waited until the very last minute to bring my father’s suits to the store to donate. Their campaign would be ending in two days.

Two garment bags containing never worn suits and a third suit hung from the hook in my backseat. The gray, wool suit with white pinstripes still had wrinkles in the sleeves where my dad bent his arms. The elbow crease always wrinkles after being worn but I was pretty sure my dad never had the jacket pressed or even dry cleaned.

I remembered being thirteen years old, sitting in Ramani’s Clothiers on Main Street in Middletown, Connecticut, watching my dad get fitted for that suit. He looked uncomfortable as he always did when he wasn’t wearing his trademark grease-stained jeans and t-shirts. He was a mechanic and rarely ever had the need for a tailored suit, but my mother’s father, my grandpa, had passed away earlier that week.

“Why can’t I just wear the brown suit?” my father had asked at home earlier that day.

“Ronald! That brown suit is from 1972,” she barked. It was now 1994.

“Here, let me just try it on,” he said, as he squeezed his thick, muscular arms into the thin sleeves. And as he was trying to pull the jacket up over his shoulders there was a loud rip.

“Okay, Hulk,” said my mother. “I’m taking you to a tailor.”

As a man who stood 6 feet, he wasn’t impressively tall but he was imposing with his broad shoulders. The gray suit fit him perfectly. To go with it, he bought one maroon tie, a crisp white button-down shirt and a shiny pair of black loafers.

There was a soft rain falling at the cemetery the day of my grandpa’s funeral. After the priest’s eulogy and the 21-gun salute, the soldiers folded up the American flag that was draped over his coffin. I started to weep as they handed the triangular-shaped flag to my grandma, my mother and her siblings crowded around her as I stood back. But then I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder.

“I loved him too,” he said and I turned to bury my face in his chest.

The scratchiness of the wool suit rubbed against my tear-stained cheeks and as I racked with sobs, my father’s strong hands held me close. I had never felt so comforted by him in my life.

I remembered the texture of the wool as I grasped my father’s arm while he walked me down the aisle at my wedding. My mother had pleaded with him to buy a new suit before my big day but I was okay with him wearing the same familiar suit. As he handed me off to my soon to be husband, he gave a wink to the justice of the peace and then took a seat next to my mom. That night we danced together to “In My Life” by The Beatles and as he twirled me around the floor, I gleamed with pride.

Now back in the store parking lot, I let out a deep breath and opened my car door. I needed to make this drop off quick if I was going to be back to work on time from my lunch break. I collected the suits from my backseat and walked into the store. The swift, cool breeze of the air conditioning hit me immediately and sent a chill down my spine.

“Hi, can I help you?” The saleswoman greeted me.

“I wanted to donate some suits.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful – this has been such a great campaign! All of the suits are going to men who are trying to re-enter the workforce.”

“Yes, that’s why I wanted to bring them here.”

“So, are these your husband’s suits?” she pried.

“No, they were my dad’s.”

“Oh, would you like me to write the tax credit to him then?”

“That won’t be necessary – he’s deceased.”

Even though it had been a few months since the accident, it still felt awkward to say. Even more awkward was the fact that my sister and I had gone through all of our dad’s clothing without my mom there to consult. Her injuries so severe that she was still confined to an inpatient rehab facility. When we’d asked her if she wanted to keep anything of my father’s she said, “Do what you think is best. I trust you.”

“I’m so sorry,” said the saleswoman. “I’ll just make it out to you then.”

I felt bad that I had just ruined a perfectly good conversation with a stranger by telling her my dad died.

As I handed the garment bags to her and then the hanger with the gray, wool suit with the pinstripes she said: “Oh, now this is a good suit, very timeless style.”

“I hope it goes to a good man,” I said.

I hurriedly collected the paperwork she handed me and ran out of the store, holding back my tears until I hit the sidewalk. With all my heart, I wished I felt that hand on my shoulder and hearing my dad say something, anything to me. I had donated his suit for another man to wear and hopefully embody everything that my father was during his life.

Hot Coffee on the Highway

2016-09-08T07:44:00.004-07:00

It's embarrassing that I've been in an MFA program for Creative Non-Fiction for a year and I'm just getting around to dusting off my blog. Thanks to the fact that I have three Google accounts, it took me 10 minutes to sign out of one identity, retrieve my password, create a new more cryptic password, that I will ultimately forget in 10 minutes, and then sign into my blog. Whew, I'm tired.

Is it a sense of accomplishment that I have three Google accounts; one for work, one for personal and one that I created after my father passed away to collect messages from people who read his obituary in the newspaper or online? No. It just makes my life more complicated.

Is it a sense of accomplishment that after years of wanting to write for myself that I applied for and was accepted to an MFA program? I know I should consider this an accomplishment but instead, I believe the reason I was accepted was due to the fact that I already worked at that particular higher education institution. Full disclosure, I suffer from imposter syndrome.

All my life I've struggled to find my own merit. As a child, if I colored outside the lines on the page I would scrap the whole picture and move on to the next. Everything had to be perfect or it wasn't good enough, which lead to me quitting a lot of things over the years. I quit sports, school plays, learning Science and Math (I really wish I had kept up with those). My first instinct is to give up when things become challenging which is why I probably haven't felt successful or accomplished.

However, that all changed about a month ago. As part of my MFA program, I participated in a 10-day writing seminar in Dingle, Ireland at the end of July. I'll admit that when I made the decision to go on the trip it was less about the writing and more about my need to have a vacation alone but what I took away from it was so much more than I'd expected.

From the moment my plane touched down in Dublin, I was on my own. I'd made the decision to drive from Dublin to Dingle in a rental car. A four and a half hour trek, driving on the opposite side of the road. I even arranged to pick up a classmate and her daughter along the way. Normally I don't share anything with people I've barely met and here I was accepting passengers on a journey across Ireland. Who was I?

The hills are alive! My best Sound of Music impression, the Ireland edition. Photo taken by: Heidi Fettig Parton

During the writing seminar, I received positive and constructive feedback on my pieces, which meant a great deal because the subject matter was incredibly personal. At the end of those 10 days, I truly felt like I had found my voice as a writer and felt accomplished in the fact that I had made the right decision to pursue writing not only as a hobby but possibly as a career.

More importantly, perfection is no longer the monkey on my back. While driving from Dingle back to Dublin at the end of the trip, I spilled an entire cup of scalding coffee on myself. I slammed on the brakes in the middle of the M7 while screaming bloody murder and almost caused a massive pileup. Clearly, I wasn't meant to achieve driving success and I won't be featured on the next episode of Top Gear but there's a bigger lesson.

I've learned that life is messy, imperfect and the goals that you set for yourself should be flexible. Success and accomplishment will come on your terms if you accept that there will be some stumbles along the way. Color outside the lines but don't scrap the bigger picture.

A tale of two cities

2013-06-09T16:06:00.000-07:00

I just returned from a week's vacation in Maine with my husband and boy do I feel refreshed! It was a vacation for which I bought a souvenir that I never expected to buy and now it has me thinking.

We were in Portland, Maine on Friday and unfortunately, the rain was preventing us from doing much of the sightseeing we had looked forward to so we ducked into an art gallery to regroup. The gallery was full of cityscapes drawn by an artist of whom I was unfamiliar but his work was extraordinary. As we marveled at the detailed drawings of New York City, Chicago, St. Louis and of course, Portland, the gallery owner walked up and started a conversation.

"Where are you folks from?" he asked. Most people in Maine can spot out-of-towners a mile away and are merely being polite when they ask you where you are from.

"Connecticut," we replied. A defeated reply at that because we had been in Maine for five days already and the question was getting a little repetitious.

"Oh, from what part?" the gallery owner asked.

"Hartford," we said. No, we don't live in Hartford, we live in the town next to it but it easier to say that because almost everyone in New England has a geographical idea of Hartford, Connecticut and where it is.

The gallery owner obviously saw us staring at the cityscapes and told us that ironically, the artist had sketched one of Hartford as well. He lead me to the back of the shop and there it was, a print of the Hartford skyline circa 1980.

Found on the wall at Mainely Frames & Gallery

The gallery owner said the artist, William C. Harrison, sat on the Route 5/15 overpass, also known as the I-84 connector, for four hours and drew the scene in pencil as the traffic whizzed by him at 60 miles per hour. It is a harrowing atmosphere having experienced it myself once when I blew out a tire on that same overpass and was forced to change it by myself, in a dress.

As I looked closer at the print, I was able to see the differences between Hartford in 1981 and the present day. The old Connecticut Natural Gas building which was imploded in 2001 to make way for the Front Street and Adriaen's Landing development was still standing in this picture. There was no band shell on the bank of the Connecticut River or Riverfront Plaza near the Founders Bridge. The Hartford Aetna National Bank building, which used to sit at the corner of Main and Asylum Streets, was still part of the skyline. Hartford 21, now the tallest residential building in Hartford, wasn't even a thought in a developer's mind. And last but not least, in the print, Harrison took great care to write "Hotel Sonesta" on one of the signs atop a building on Constitution Plaza. That hotel has been abandoned, much like most of the other buildings on Constitution Plaza, for more than 10 years. Standing next to that building was my old workplace, the WFSB Channel 3 television studios. If you look hard enough in this print you can see the zig-zag roof pattern of that building, which was torn down several years ago and is now just a hole in the ground at the corner of State Street and Columbus Boulevard.

My former place of employment ...

It must have appeared as if I was having some sort of emotional catharsis while looking at this picture because the gallery owner piped up and said, "You know, I have another print somewhere. Let me see if I can find it." He rifled through the prints securely cellophane-wrapped onto cardboard backings and he found another Hartford, CT cityscape just for me. I am now the proud owner of print # 40 out of 1,000 and it feels good.

My piece of history.

Possibly it is because I used to work in a building that is now a gaping hole in the ground that this print makes me nostalgic and sad when I think about Hartford's future as opposed to its past. Maybe it is because I possess happier thoughts of Hartford from my younger days when my family and I used to go to the Civic Center for events and check out the Christmas lights on Constitution Plaza. Then again, maybe it is because never again might a man sit patiently on a highway overpass and sketch a scene of Hartford.

I wish so many things for the city of Hartford but mostly I wish that it will once again be a city that artists, intellectuals, and innovative people will want to visit and capture in some creative way. There is so much of that in Hartford's history but there needs to be more of it in the future.

As I walked around Portland, ME I experienced a wonderful selection of food, art, history and maritime culture. Maybe it is because I live so close and I take Hartford for granted but I was really thinking that Portland has it all over Connecticut's capital city. But it doesn't have to be that way.

As we sat at breakfast at Local 188 in Portland on the last day of our visit, we overheard a couple talking about how much they loved living there. Could I say the same thing about Hartford? No, I couldn't and that was sad because ten years earlier I had turned down a job in Portland to stay in Hartford! This recent trip out of state and my subsequent purchase have inspired me to fight for good things in my own backyard.

Here is one thing you can do to help. The gallery owner of Mainely Frames & Gallery said he is looking for more people who would like to buy the Hartford, CT cityscape print by William C. Harrison. He will frame the print and ship it for free to anyone who is interested, you just need to get in touch with him. This is in no way a plug for his business, just a small, personal campaign. Maybe if more people get in touch with the old Hartford, they will want to fight for the new Hartford.

Making the most of Winter

2013-01-27T10:45:00.002-08:00

I have a confession to make. I do not like winter. It is cold and bleak. There is less daylight. My dry skin feels like sandpaper. When it snows I have to shovel. My car is permanently dirty from all of the road salt. For all of these reasons, I am mostly miserable throughout the season. I have tried to enjoy winter through outdoor activities like skiing but with mostly disappointing results. All of this makes me feel guilty because I end up not enjoying a quarter of the year. So how do I pull myself out of a winter funk?

Here is how:

When I was 13, my family went on a vacation to Disney World. We visited the Epcot theme park and went to the Canada pavilion, which is part of the park's World Showcase. Once in "Canada" we watched a 15 minute movie that featured the main attractions and sights in Canada, "our great neighbor to the north" (and yes, the narrator said that at least three times). The movie was shown in a 360 degree theater. We stood in the center of the room with large screens surrounding us on all sides, making us feel like we were actually in the movie. There was aerial footage of cornfields and mountains and city-scapes, all breathtaking but sort of boring. I had almost written off the entire experience until the footage showed people skating on a frozen river. The point of view footage made it seem as though we, the viewers in the theater, were skating down the river with people on all sides.

At the time, I loved ice skating. I went every weekend to a local ice rink but I had never skated outside. In that moment, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the cold air rushing past me as I skated down a frozen river mid-day, surrounded by happy strangers. It was an exhilarating thought but after we walked out of the theater and into the hot Florida sun, I quickly pushed it from my mind.

Fast forward nearly 20 years to present day. Last night, as I surfed the Internet for travel deals, I found that feeling again. It is as if I bit into a York peppermint patty. I saw this picture and was automatically transported back to that adolescent memory.

Courtesy: Ottawa Tourism

This is the famed Rideau Canal in Ottawa, Ontario. For the past 43 years the city has opened the frozen waterway to skaters during the coldest months of the year. This year, the canal opened to skaters on January 18, 2013 and will stay open as long as the ice is safe. Workers test the thickness every morning and post the results on a local website. The canal not only serves as the world's largest skating rink but while it is open, people also use it as a means of transportation. Residents can be seen making their commute to work during the morning and evening hours. Imagine that, a rush hour on the ice!

I look at this picture and think about how Canadians embrace winter in a way that I do not. During February, Ottawa hosts Winterlude, a three-week festival that celebrates all things winter. The Rideau Canal is one of the main focal points of the festival with vendors set up along the banks. People enjoy local food like Beaver Tails and spirits, huddle around fire pits and listen to live music. There is the Snowflake Kingdom, an amusement park set up for the festival. There is also plenty of outdoor splendor at Gatineau National Park in neighboring Quebec, where you can snowshoe, go dog sledding and even ski.

So the moral of the story is, there is a lot to love about winter. For people like me, it is all about finding the right image or tapping into the right emotion to find that affinity. I think I have found it, but now I have to make the trek to Canada!

Burgers in Texas

2013-01-05T15:23:00.002-08:00

It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you without a dope beat to step to ...

I know it's cliche to talk about New Year resolutions in my first post of 2013 but I actually have a relevant way to incorporate a resolution into this story.

Resolutions seem trite. Every year people make promises to themselves to live better, "give back" or "pay it forward" or join whatever cause is trendy. That is usually on December 31st before the ball drops. Then the first few days of January are great. We wake up early and go to the gym to exercise and shed those unwanted pounds. We balance our checkbooks every day and organize our bills. We say a friendly "hello" to everyone we meet. But as the month drags on, our resolve diminishes and so do our resolutions. By the time February rolls around, most people are revising their resolutions or just abandoning them all together. I think it is because they are realistic and not outlandish. Every year we promise ourselves that we will set our lives on the straight and narrow and it never really ends up working out. So why not set fun resolutions?

My resolution or goal is awesome and it was presented to me through the wonderful world of Twitter. For a while, I have known of a town in Texas that is the same as my last name -- Freer. Recently, I was followed on Twitter by the City Secretary of Freer, TX. I was amazed!

How did they find me? Unless I'm watching a live relief concert or the Grammys, I'm usually never tweeting. I immediately tweeted back "I've heard there is a Carolyn Street in Freer, TX. Is that true?"

I hate to call it a bucket list item because I don't like the term but I just had to know. I mean, doesn't everyone want to have a street named after them so that they can ultimately steal the sign and hang it in their room? Or is that just me and my juvenile friends? However, the answer I received soon after was even better!

What?!? As God (or any other omnipotent being) as my witness, I will travel to Freer, TX and walk down Carolyn Street to get a hamburger! I may also steal the street sign after my meal but that will probably be a spontaneous decision.

Who thinks this is the greatest New Year resolution of all time?

Change of scenery

2012-10-19T11:10:00.000-07:00

Puerto Morelos, Mexico

I love vacation! I know that no one in their right mind would say they hate vacation but I truly looooovvveeee vacation. There, it's out and I'm not taking it back. I'm in Mexico for five days to celebrate a wedding. Wait, didn't I blog the last time I went out of town to a wedding? Yes, I did. Perhaps it's the romantic in me that likes to talk about going to other people's weddings. Possibly it's because I really like my friends and I am happy when I get to share a special occasion with them. Either way, I love having a reason to go on vacation.

We're in Puerto Morelos and the resort we are staying at is utterly fantastic. It's an all-inclusive* resort and I've never been to one so everything is new and exciting to me. Today, I woke up early and ordered room service for breakfast. I am 32 years old and I have never ordered room service. I used to work as a housekeeper at an inn and I cleaned up my fair share of room service trays (and ate leftover food off of them - don't judge) but have never been the one to take the plunge. I ate everything on my plate with a goofy grin on my face.

Then when I read the sign that said the mini-bar was free ... well, I almost passed out. I am one of those people who drinks the $4.00 bottle of water in the hotel room and then refills it with tap water and screws the cap back on to make it look unopened. Yeah, it's safe to say I feel like I've died and gone to heaven here. A beautiful, Mexican heaven where they give you a hairy eyebrow if you don't order alcohol at all times of the day and eat constantly. No wonder people are so ga-ga for these places and to think all these years I've stayed at run-of-the-house resorts like a sucker.

It's not even the extensive amenities that have me so over the moon right now. It's the fact that we're in a gorgeous locale with great friends to celebrate a very happy day and to just rest and relax. I sat on the beach all morning reading a book I purchased on a whim at the airport and it felt wonderful. Even a rain shower didn't disrupt my mood. I sat on the balcony and listened to the raindrops hit the pool water and it was so sublime.

Sometimes just need a change of scenery to help you relax and let go.

*The one thing that isn't free is the WiFi. That is why I'm blogging now instead of after the trip. I have to get my money's worth for the $25 I paid to check Fantasy Football scores and check work email.

Foray into Fantasy

2012-09-04T20:16:00.000-07:00

I drafted my first fantasy football team over the weekend. I've never been one to understand the game of football. I used to watch with my dad when I was young and ask a million questions. It became tiring and once he stopped watching the games, I stopped paying attention.

Fast forward 20 years and now everyone and their dog is joining a fantasy football league. They're talking about it ad nauseam, in public and gathering for drafting parties. Even women are holding draft parties where they all fight over the ownership of Tom Brady. So I figured, why not? Let's find out what the hoopla is all about.

I went into the draft not having the slightest clue what I was doing. In the days and weeks leading up to draft day, people offered friendly advice but it would just go in one ear and out the other. I read Matthew Berry's articles but didn't recognize most of the player's names. What good would a name do me if I didn't know which players were starters and which were bench players? Plus, I still require my husband to explain most positions on the football field.

Then I tried watching NFL Network and ESPN in the morning and hoping I would learning something through osmosis but that didn't work either. I don't know why but the sheer mention of fantasy football makes my eyes glaze over. Yet, I am the one who asked to be included in a league.

How was I going to draft a good, solid team? The answer: I was not going to. One of the only things I did learn by hearing people talk about fantasy leagues is that newcomers usually don't fair well their first year. So, I was okay with being a rookie held to low expectations.

Draft day arrived and armed with my cheat sheet and a random list of names, I completely winged it. I made mistakes. I severely underestimated the importance of drafting running backs early and I could have done way more research on which players start and which are backups but I still think I made a few good moves. All the team owners in our league sat in a room with our laptops, watching the clock tick down. I have to admit, my heart started to pound the closer it got to draft time.

Once the draft started it was a frenzy with collective groans resonating as good players were quickly snatched up. My first pick overall was a quarterback - Matthew Stafford. (I know. I should have grabbed a running back.) My second pick was a receiver - Wes Welker. (I know. Running back.) My third pick was a running back - Darren Sproles. By that time most of the top running backs were gone so my draft got worse after that.

My starting team roster:

QB - Matthew Stafford, Det
RB - Darren Sproles, NO
RB - Ronnie Brown, SD (I picked him up after the draft)
WR - Wes Welker, NE
WR - Jordy Nelson, GB
WR - Denarius Moore, Oak
TE - Vernon Davis, SF
D/ST - 49ers
K - Sebastian Janikowski, Oak

Do I expect to do well with this team? No. Will I win a game? Maybe. Will this team provide me a reason to talk to people during the football season? Yes.

Rookie season - here I come!

Thank your body

2012-08-30T19:03:00.000-07:00

I've been going to a yoga class on Thursday nights for the last few weeks. Its been years since I've gone to yoga on a regular basis and I'm starting to wonder why I ever stopped. For those of you who do not subscribe to the principles of yoga, just try to put your judgment aside and hear me out.

Don't we all wish we could do that?

A lot of what intimidated me about yoga in the beginning was the fact that the instructor would (and still does) correct my form. I always felt like I was being singled out or picked on because I wasn't a master of movement and form. However, over time I've learned yoga is not about having the perfect form and its not about how flexible you are. Yoga is about feeling your body and realizing how capable it is.

I'm a very self-conscious person so for me to be able to practice yoga in a room full of strangers who can fold into a beautiful lotus and stand on their heads is amazing. I admit, most of what I'm doing is out of my comfort level but something the instructor said a few weeks ago helped me.

As we sat in the dark, legs crossed, listening to our breathing, the instructor said: "I want you to thank your body for what it does for you on a daily basis."

Never do I stop and thank my body for anything. In fact, most of the time I curse my body for its restrictions and unsatisfactory performance. We all do it. We get mad at our body when we feel sick. We get mad at our body when it breaks down with aches and pains. We bemoan its physical appearance. We poke and prod and pull at excess fat or skin that we wish would disappear. But never, have I ever, taken the time to thank body for carrying around my fat head for 32 years.

Instead of our brains working against our body at every turn, wouldn't it be nice if they could work together or at least appreciate each other? That is what yoga is about; consciously appreciating your body and its form and ability at any stage.

Sure, I don't appreciate sweating all over myself in a 90 degree yoga studio but I know that sweat is my body's way of cooling itself and releasing toxins through the skin. Our bodies do amazing things that we don't even need to think about - like breathing. Thanks body for keeping that on lock and thanks for the thousands of other processes that you perform on a daily basis.

Thank your body today and it might just thank you back or respond with a resounding: "You're Welcome."

My Facebook Addiction

2012-08-28T20:39:00.002-07:00

How is it possible that I have been away for nearly four months and the visits to my blog are actually higher than when I am posting on a regular basis? Damn you, "50 Shades of Grey" (my last post) and your infernal popularity! Even when someone trashes the book it generates interest.

I know its been a long time away when my husband actually urges me to write "something." And the reason I've been away is shameful to admit. Lately, my Facebook usage has spiraled out of control and I have been tasked with writing a blog post every time I have the urge to log on to the social network that has ruined society.

Like most people I know, I check Facebook daily (incessantly). Yet, if you were to ask me why, I would despondently reply "I don't know." Because I really do not know why I am seemingly obsessed with looking at boring and unimportant information from almost strangers or friends of friends. I much prefer Twitter for it's newsworthy and thought provoking posts. Maybe its the voyeuristic quality of Facebook that attracts me; the fact that I can view hundreds of pictures and literally lose myself for hours in other people's lives.

Today I checked Facebook no less than 15 times. Ugh, what is wrong with me? I gleaned nothing from any of those visits and to admit that I checked it so many times sets off a major creeper alert.

I admit it. For a few months I ran out of things to say and I didn't feel like doing much more than using the Internet for pure entertainment. I have to stop. The whole purpose of this blog was to help me progress and to detract me from doing the same things that make my life feel so static.

I guess I should pose the question to everyone out there: are you addicted to Facebook and if so, why?

What does Facebook add to our lives? I know it gives me a reason to tell my mom and other assorted relatives "I saw/heard so-and-so is doing whatever now." I grew up in a small town so for years my mom would always call and update me with the latest gossip. Those days feel utterly prehistoric. Now, I can just jump on Facebook and in 5 minutes, I could tell you exactly what is going on with people to whom I have no association.

It almost takes the fun out of stalking. Who wants to pick through some one's garbage when you can just troll them on the Internet for a hot second and know everything down to their bank account password?

That's why I'm getting out of the voyeurism biz for a while. Facebook, you may have won the battle but you have not won the war. No, I'm not deactivating my account (that's just silly) but I am taking a well needed break. That is, right after I share this post on my Facebook page. I need the publicity ... Fail.

50 Shades of ... blech

2012-04-24T21:03:00.003-07:00

Courtesy: thinkprogress.org

I finally caved to the pressure and purchased a copy of "Fifty Shades of Grey," the New York Times best seller that has every woman and their mother buzzing. I had resolved myself to not reading it. I dismissed it like the "Twilight" series after I read some poor reviews on Amazon.com.

However, I watched an interview with the author, E.L. James, on the Today show and my friend was so hyped about the book this weekend that I thought, what the hell? I mean, James is a British television executive, which puts her in a totally different category from housewife turned vampire romance novelist Stephenie Meyer. Maybe this woman can actually write.

Also, the erotic content piqued my interest. I won't lie, as a teenage girl I totally stole all of my mom's romance novels, read them cover to cover and dogeared the "dirty" pages. However, this book is "50 shades of fucked up" (not my words, but a direct quote from the mercurial character of Christian Grey) and not in a good way.

First, the book is written in first person, which is such an annoyance. Due to the fact that the heroine, Anastasia Steele, tells the story in her own voice, you never really get a good idea of what she looks like. She also carries on a constant conversation with her abusive, nagging subconscious and her mute, mentally challenged "inner goddess." On the other hand, the author spends ample time describing the handsome Christian Grey. However, Grey is more like a caricature than a character. He is a sexual dominant who is searching for the perfect "sub" or submissive but then he gets all doe-eyed and weak-kneed around his beguiling Ana who ... IS. SO. SWEET. Please.

Grey is supposed to be this alpha male, billionaire playboy with a dark, deviant sexual past yet he follows around this low self-esteem blob like a lost puppy. I have read plenty a romance novel. The alpha male as the main character is standard procedure. However, the heroine is usually a little more self-assured, even headstrong. Ana is just naive and annoying. What any man, especially an alpha male like Grey, would see in her is a mystery to me. This book could break so much new ground and could turn the classic romance novel on its head but it falls into the same trappings.

Grey is a dominant with a "playroom" and boundless amounts of ball-gags, restraints, and leather whips. He even writes up a contract for his subs to sign. Yet, he falls under the spell of a virgin and decides to throw his contract and his aloofness out the window when she wants "more."

Possibly I am unable to suspend my disbelief because of the present-day setting of this novel. Its always easier to think that anything can happen in the Victorian-era or somewhere further away than Seattle circa 2011. The one thing that is believable is Ana's trepidation when it comes to entering a relationship with the dark and mysterious Mr. Grey. Any sane woman would have run the other way the first time a man mentioned signing "paperwork" before fooling around. That is clearly a red flag. However, I've never been privy to a real dom/sub relationship so I wouldn't know. Also, Ana's fear that she is becoming a "whore" is completely justified. Anyone who buys you an Audi, a computer, a Blackberry, clothes and an antique book set in one week is probably expecting a little more out of you than just cuddling.

My favorite part was the end of the book, where the love story actually doesn't work out. Of course, there are two more books in this trilogy that I refuse to submit myself to. I'm guessing these star-crossed lovers wind up together in the end, but thankfully, I won't have to read about it. Nope, its one and done for me.

I've always compared the romance novel to the heavy metal rock ballad. Its all well and good when you're singing about how much you love a woman within the span of a 4 minute song with some powerful guitar and a great chorus. But you know what happens when that song ends? The lead singer forgets about the girl he wrote that song for and he goes and bangs a groupie on the tour bus. I can only wish the same for Anastasia and Christian -- because that's real life.

The Great American Summer

2012-04-10T20:16:00.000-07:00

I was driving to work today and a beer commercial came on the radio. I believe it was for Coors Light (my beer of choice when I was 21). Like every other light beer commercial around this time of year, it was about celebrating the greatness of summer with an ice cold beer in your hand. I HATE summer beer commercials and I will tell you the selfish reason why.

Courtesy: Sodahead.com

I haven't enjoyed the summer depicted in beer commercials in years. My summers don't consist of endless backyard barbecues, ice cold beers by the pool or ... fun.

Unlike the other drab days of the year, summer days are just days where the sun is up when I go into work and it's still up when I leave work. I've even experienced the joy of working summer weekends for years, which means the backyard barbecue that I could have been attending at 3 p.m. has usually disintegrated into a dark night, drunken mess by the time I arrive.

However, why is it that makers of generic light American beers are always the ones who prey on people's longing for those sunny summer days? I don't ever remember seeing barbecues, girls in bikini tops tossing beach balls, and turquoise pool water splashing all over everyone in a Grolsch commercial. (Okay, I've never actually seen a Grolsch commercial but you get my point.) It is always the Bud Light, Michelob and Coors Light commercials that make me angry that I can't have a carefree summer day and if I could have one, I wouldn't waste it drinking their beer.

Obviously advertising is all about projecting an image for consumers. Of course I want to spend a nice sunny day at the beach or at a cookout eating, drinking and having fun. I just wish that we could all have more of those summer days that we enjoyed as children, when work and other obligations didn't get in the way.

How about a beer commercial that speaks to the real American summer? A man/woman drives to the package store after work, picks up a six-pack, comes home, mows the lawn before dark, eats dinner from a microwaveable tray, cracks a can of beer and sips it while cleaning out the DVR, and checking their email on their Smartphone.

Insert tagline: Summer ... it's not what it used to be ... so drink up!

Bring back 80's movies

2012-03-29T19:51:00.002-07:00

Why can't they make good romantic comedies like they did in the 1980's? I'm sitting here watching "Pretty Woman," one of my favorite movies of all time, and I am thinking ... they just don't make movies like this anymore.

Sure, Gary Marshall has tried to recreate the magic of "Pretty Woman" with his recent movies like "Valentine's Day" and "New Year's Eve" but to no avail. They are a parade of current stars, including Julia Roberts, that just don't give you that warm fuzzy feeling. Nothing says unlikely love story like pairing a corporate big shot with a prostitute who just happens to have a heart of gold. Underscore it with an amazing soundtrack and you've got one of the greatest movies of all time.

Last weekend we watched "Dirty Dancing," at the urging of my husband no less, and do you know why? Because every girl in my second grade class can't be wrong. This is a great movie ... end of discussion. Another one of my favorites is "Overboard." Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, hello? I will stop whatever I am doing to sit down and watch that movie for the billionth time because it is pure 80's magic. "Working Girl" starring an undeniably handsome Harrison Ford, and a skinny Alec Baldwin ... drool. I blush every time Melanie Griffith says "I've got a head for business and a bod for sin."

The movies I have watched recently just don't get it. They are all over the place. The heroines are not endearing and the love stories are realistic. Ummm, no. I want my love stories to be incredibly fantastical and improbable. Otherwise, I would just watch home videos or read my diary.

Give me Richard Gere rolling up in a limousine, blaring opera music and then climbing a fire escape with a bouquet of flowers clenched between his teeth. What happens after the knight in shining armor rescues the princess? She rescues him right back.

That's right, and nobody puts baby in the corner, either. Nuff said.

Bitter little pill

2012-03-18T16:41:00.000-07:00

Is it the conservative campaign strategy this year to cause all sane women to lose their minds? Because I am officially losing mine over the ridiculousness that is coming out of congress, nearly every state in the union and Rush Limbaugh's mouth. First of all, it really goads me that we are once again in an election year and the focus is being steered away from the important issues. The economy and gas prices are taking a back seat to non-issues like birth control and whether it should be a government concern or a moral value. Since when do my lady parts matter more than creating jobs? Sure, they serve a great distraction for a lot of politicians, but they shouldn't become public policy.

I am a woman and I take birth control. Why do I take birth control? Because I am a married woman who doesn't want nor can I afford children right now and I like to show my husband that I love him. Put two and two together. Does that make me a slut, Rush Limbaugh? I am not a co-ed law student who wants the government to pay for my birth control but I do receive my birth control through my husband's insurance and ... he works for the state. Yes! I use birth control that is paid for by an insurance plan through the state of Connecticut. Surely, I will burn in Hell for eternity. But I don't feel like a prostitute and don't you dare say that I should be videotaped.

Rush Limbaugh has been married four times and he has no children. Surely there was some kind of contraception involved in Rush's previous relationships. Don't get me wrong, I understand Rush's argument. He doesn't think it is okay for taxpayer money to support universal health care or birth control. However, that same plan covers prescription painkillers. (Rush Limbaugh announced on his radio show in 2003 that he was addicted to painkillers.) So that means half of the entertainment industry could literally feed their addiction on the government's dime but a woman who wants to protect herself from an unwanted pregnancy or treat a painful or life-threatening uteran condition is a drain? Unreal.

Oh, wait, I forgot. Rush Limbaugh is a lover of women, just not a lover of giving them equal rights.

"I'm a huge supporter of women. What I'm not is a supporter of liberalism. Feminism is what I oppose. Feminism has led women astray. I love the women's movement — especially when walking behind it." Rush Limbaugh, 2010

You walk behind Rush ... far behind because some day, one of those women is going to kick your ass. That is the equivalent of saying "I support the fight against breast cancer because I love boobs."

What if the tables were turned? What if the responsibility of contraception was left completely up to men? I have a sneaking feeling that our world population would be a lot larger than it is right now.

I took Philosophy in college. It was mostly a waste of my time, except for the all important abortion debate. I had never witnessed a more polarized classroom full of slacker college students. We had to read "The Famous Violinist" thought experiment written by Judith Jarvis Thomson:

You wake up in the morning and find yourself back to back, in bed, with an unconscious violinist. A famous unconscious violinist. He has been found to have a fatal kidney ailment, and the Society of Music Lovers has canvassed all the available medical records and found that you alone have the right blood type to help. They have therefore kidnapped you, and last night the violinist's circulatory system was plugged into yours, so that your kidneys can be used to extract poisons from his blood as well as your own. ... To unplug you would be to kill him. But never mind, it's only for nine months. By then he will have recovered from his ailment, and can safely be unplugged from you.

Who is to say that the famous violinist's life is any more valuable than your own? That is why this argument is brilliant because it encapsulates what it feels like to be a woman with an unwanted pregnancy. Sometimes, no amount of "fibbing" or vaginal wand ultrasounds are going to make that woman want to sacrifice her body and let's face it, the rest of her life, for that child. "Kidnapped" is a play on words because the woman is literally abducted by the child. Everything a woman does for the nine months she is pregnant is for the benefit of the child. The famous violinist will be back on their feet after nine months and will be gone with hopefully a "thank you." Raising a child takes a lifetime. A woman who becomes pregnant either through a mistake or through brutal force, like rape, should have the freedom to choose whether they want to keep the child or not.

How about this scenario. A woman, who could have taken birth control if only it were paid for through her insurance, becomes pregnant and then finds herself alone. The person who impregnated her wants nothing to do with the child that she is about to have. Once she gives birth, she is unable to support herself and her child financially; her job doesn't pay enough and she doesn't receive health insurance. Also, daycare is far too expensive. So now, it makes more sense for her to stay at home and take care of her child. Instead, she receives support from the state and federal government.

I am not a mathematician but the money that her insurance could have paid for in birth control is probably (definitely) a lot less than what the state and federal government will end up paying for that child over the course of their lifetime.

What is the argument now? Teach abstinence in schools so that young adults do not have sex before marriage. After marriage people will most assuredly be able to pay for the children they have during their only pro-creation sex interludes. Please. Why do you think the Duggars have 20 children and allowed their life to be turned into a reality television show for TLC? It's because they like to have sex and they need money to pay for their dozens of children. Sex is enjoyable and if people think that it should only be pro-creation then they are missing out.

So this is my message to conservatives: get off your high horses, mingle with the heathens and leave my lady parts alone!

Tell me I'm pretty

2012-03-02T15:17:00.000-08:00

You're pretty. Sometimes it's what a girl needs to hear. I know that this sentiment goes against the popular opinion today and I agree that women should be honored for much more than their looks. They should be honored and respected for their character, their strength, their compassion and their knowledge. I agree with all of that. I am also a woman who has grown up in a time in which enormous strides have been made for the equality of women. I have seen the first women CEO's and the first woman presidential candidate. All that aside, the little girl in me just wants to hear "you're pretty" from time to time.

Some girls grow up living in pink rooms, hosting tea parties, playing dress up and attending dance classes. I grew up in a blue room with a blue carpet because until I was born my parents thought I was going to be a boy (my mom chose not to have an ultrasound). I played sports and was able to drive my dad's payloader by the time I was 9. I was always told I was smart, that I had potential, that I was going to succeed and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. So why is it that sometimes I just wanted people to say to me "you're pretty?" Perhaps its because we are a visual culture. I've even written about the media's obsession with the perfect body in previous posts and how it's damaging to women.

That is why I had to laugh when I walked up to my car in a parking lot a few days ago and found this note.

Gee, thanks!

It was stuffed into my door handle and for a moment, I was afraid. I thought I was going to find a note that said "I backed up into your car and I have no insurance. Sorry = (." Instead, I open the note to find that not only does a random stranger in a community college parking lot think that I'm pretty ... he thinks I'm beautiful. The little girl in me squealed for joy but then the adult noticed the poor grammar. The confusion of your and you're is one of my greatest pet peeves.

I'm a married woman. I have a husband who tells me that he loves me everyday. So why does a handwritten, albeit creepy note with a stranger's phone number on it put a smile on my face? Because it was unsolicited and just what I needed on a cold, gray day.

I know that this post will probably anger some people, but please search your heart and think about how it makes you feel when someone says "you're pretty."

Running is Timeless

2011-12-11T15:33:00.001-08:00

It figures that I would run my best time in a 5k to date and then not have the actual results to prove it!

A post race beer for the fierce competitors.

My friend, Jenn, and I ran the 27th annual Christopher Martin's 5k in New Haven this morning and I finished the race in under 26 minutes.

As I crossed the finish line I gazed at the clock in amazement but apparently my daze of glory distracted me from passing over the last timing bar, which would have logged my finish time. Shucks!

Oh well, I guess I'll just have to run another race very soon in order to prove to the world that I am really kicking some butt.

Some highlights of the race:

We met a 65 year old man who ran the race in his bare feet. Apparently he's been doing it for 40 years and he had the soles to prove it!

Runners donated unwrapped toys to benefit needy children this holiday season.

And, finally, free rolls of Chabaso bread and beer! Now that's a post-race must have.

The spirit of Christmas

2011-12-06T19:42:00.001-08:00

It was a December night in 2003 when I lost my Christmas spirit. I was living in downtown Hartford and walking home from work when a woman, using a cane, hobbled up to me and told me that she desperately needed money for bus fare. She said she had just been discharged from the hospital and even produced her release papers. At this point in my life, I of all people really couldn't spare any cash but I didn't mind giving money to strangers as long as I felt they deserved it.

I opened my wallet with the intent of giving her a dollar but saw I only had a $10 bill. I thought to myself, "its Christmas, the time for doing good deeds, just give her the money and you'll get it back somehow." I handed her the $10 bill, said "Merry Christmas" and we went our separate ways. A few moments later, I turned around to watch her walk away and I saw her sashaying down the sidewalk with her cane slung over her shoulder. I'd been had. She didn't just get released from the hospital and she most likely wasn't going to use that money for bus fare. That's when I lost that warm fuzzy feeling about the holidays and I've never been able to get it back.

I now see Christmas for what it truly is, a reason for people to spend or donate their hard earned money on what they feel will make themselves and other people happy. Why is it always about money? I feel so bombarded by the excessive commercialism of Christmas (and all holidays for that matter) that I don't even want to acknowledge the giving spirit. Perhaps its because our economy is in the dumps. I read an Associated Press article today that almost made me cry. It reported that kids across the country are asking for less toys from Santa because of the recession. If our children realize that its not wise to spend lots of money around holidays ... then why can't I get through a television commercial break without feeling like I have to shop 'round the clock until my bank account is sucked dry?

I'm not religious and maybe that's why I can't get to the root of the meaning of Christmas. However, I read an interesting fact today. Christians actually chose the day of December 25th strategically. It is not the same day as the birth of Christ, in fact, no one really knows the actual day. The day was chosen because it falls near the Winter Solstice, which was a Pagan celebration. Christians hoped to integrate Pagans into their religion by making the two coincide.

Don't get me wrong, when I was young, I used to creep downstairs in the middle of the night and marvel at all the presents under the tree. One year I even hopped on the newly assembled bike in the family room and took it for a little ride. Then, a few hours later I ran back downstairs and pretended I was so surprised when my parents presented it to me.

But I don't want bright, shiny gifts anymore. I don't want to feel like the whole world is going to come crashing down if I don't send out holiday cards on time or if I don't buy that perfect gift on sale. I just want to be happy around the end of the year. I just want to get together with my family and friends and enjoy the time spent together ... without focusing on gifts or money.

So, to the woman who fleeced me for $10 in downtown Hartford all of those Christmases ago -- I hope you enjoyed that money and whatever you spent it on. I don't know if I paid it forward but it did teach me what the spirit of Christmas is all about.

If not now, when?

2011-11-29T08:27:00.000-08:00

For the past few years I've caught myself at the beginning of a familiar phrase: "I'll be happy when I ...."

Usually these words are followed by some type of goal or achievement:

I'll be happy when I ... finish school and have my degree.
I'll be happy when I ... pay off my debt.
I'll be happy when I ... get a better paying job.
I'll be happy when I ... finally take that trip to Europe.
I'll be happy when I ... reach my perfect weight.

I believe all of these goals are attainable but how long will it take to achieve them? Who knows. It's like an endless car ride and I'm stuck in the backseat asking the driver, "are we there yet?" And I know a thing or two about long car rides. Ultimately, you reach your destination but the drive never seems as long when finally you arrive. You forget how interminable the journey felt and end up basking in the glory of reaching the finish line. However, most would argue the journey is the most important part.

Take, for instance, the daily journey to work. Unless you LOVE your job, you probably hate the commute to work. Even if you work out of your home, those few steps from the bedroom into the office seem incredibly hard to take. Me? I'm usually a late riser. My alarm goes off and I press the snooze button (at least three times) and then I wake up in a panic when I realize I'm already 20 minutes late. Ugh. That means I have to jump in the shower, plan an outfit that matches and doesn't make me look stupid, pack my lunch and scarf down breakfast or make a coffee run before work. This usually translates into me driving 80 mph on the highway, weaving in and out of traffic and generally making the other drivers around me feel uncomfortable.

I get so caught up in when I get to work that I completely gloss over the now of the situation. However, I realized there is one thing that can highlight the now of my drive: being in complete control of the radio. There are a few morning shows that I love to switch between as I hurtle perilously down the road. Most importantly, no one is sitting in the passenger seat and judging me by my poor taste in radio morning show fodder or the fact that I'm sometimes laughing out loud.

This may seem like a terribly simple solution. It probably will not change the fact that most people look toward a promising future when their current situation seems so mundane but it's a start. I have dreams and goals for my life but if I'm not enjoying what I'm doing to obtain them, the time I've spent seems wasted. What if I don't achieve any of my goals? Will my life be wasted? No. I have a great family, great friends, great co-workers and that is the now. I'm a funny person who can laugh at myself even when I'm facing a sisyphean task and that is what is important.

In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was a king punished by being compelled to roll an immense boulder up a hill, only to watch it roll back down, and to repeat this throughout eternity.

I felt the need to write this down because I've been caught up in the when I mentality lately. It usually hits around the holidays, when I stare down the path of another year and the possibility of more (un)attainable goals. So take it from me, put the pedal to the metal, crank up the radio and try to enjoy the NOW.

Me, Julie & Julia

2011-11-19T15:36:00.000-08:00

I jumped on the elliptical tonight (yes, the cold weather has reunited us) and turned on the television to find that one of my favorite movies in recent years, "Julie & Julia", was just starting. Perfect, I love watching good movies while I exercise, it keeps my mind off ... working out.

As I watched the first part of the movie, I remembered why I like it so much. The lead character, Julie Powell, is me. Stuck in a dead-end job and miles from her original career path, Julie decides to start a blog about cooking. The movie rings even more true now because, like me, Julie works in a call center. In one of the opening scenes, Julie sits at her desk, in her cubicle, taking phone call after relentless phone call from people who yell at her and show no compassion.

Eventually she decides to start her blog to take her mind off her horrible job. She assigns herself the task of cooking her way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking, which was co-authored by Julia Child. She gives herself a year to cook all 524 recipes in the book. In 2009, after watching this movie, I started this blog to take my mind off my stagnant career. I assigned myself the task of writing 20 blog posts by the end of that year. You need only to look at the right side of the web page to see if that actually happened. However, I have to thank this movie and the real Julie Powell for pushing me to do something I should have done a long time ago. I'm also sure that I am not only person who started a blog after reading her blog, her best-selling book or watching the movie. (I would also suggest reading the blog Waiter Rant and the subsequent book it inspired. Another great example of taking a negative job and turning it into a positive career move.)

Will my blog ever turn into a best-selling book or screenplay? Doubtful. I can't even make more than $0.15 on page clicks by monetizing it! The important thing is that writing has always been my thing and my blog gives me a reason to put my thoughts out into the world. So what's next? I've always wanted to try standup comedy ...