Speech Enhancers, and Crazy People

I recently sent in some audio for my part in an upcoming skit at one of the podcasts I enjoy. The podcaster emailed me back, letting me know that there was something resembling a "noise gate artifact" left in the audio, and could I please check and remove any effects. I hadn't added a noise gate, and didn't even know what a "noise gate artifact" was, Google being no help at all.

So, I was retelling the story to some of my band students today, and they were all laughing at me. My trombone player, who is a skilled musician on other instruments and whose father is a musician as well, explained to the class. "A noise gate is something you do to your audio to reduce clicks, pops, and other background noise from your recording. It uses some of its' own sound to cover up the unwanted sounds, so a noise gate artifact is when the sound it uses to cover up unwanted sound creates its' own unwanted effect."

"Oh, cool," I said, trying to act like I'm still the musical expert. "Well, it turns out that there wasn't a noise gate at all. But when you do a Basic Voice track in GarageBand, it apparently adds a Speech Enhancer effect by default."

"What's a Speech Enhancer effect?" asked one of the other band kids.

Mr. Trombone Know-it-all piped up again. Without as much as a teeny smile, he explained, "That's the effect that fixes it so when you say (faking his best redneck voice) 'Gee, golly, I ain't feelin' good at all today' covers it up and makes it say (sounding like a British robot) 'I. Am. Not. Feeling. Good. Today.'"

And you guys wonder why I like teaching band... Shame on you!

Checking out the news today, I'm just heartbroken over how a group of people can take their rage over a legitimate issue and turn it into something so out of control that they lose all credibility. When things don't go the way you think they should, that's a perfect opportunity to speak out in a confident but measured way to work toward greater justice and understanding. When you take that opportunity and completely violate it, you should not be surprised when people begin to make even greater generalizations and misunderstandings about the group you are claiming to speak for, whether you're truly speaking for the group or not. Freakish anger, vengeance, hatred, and random violence have never solved the problems of any individual or group, and will always just create more problems in the end.

Spastic Museum-Goers

This story takes me back in time a bit.

In 11th grade, I took the National French Exam and came in 3rd in my state. In 12th grade, I came in 2nd (only because another bigger nerd than me from my same French class who had no friends and studied all the time beat me by one question). So, when our school coordinated a trip to Paris for some of the French students, I was first in line to go! It was a blast, and I spent most of my time translating off the walls of cathedrals, trying to avoid smelly tour guides, and making sure my vegetarian friends ordered the right kind of pizza at Pizza Hut outside of the Pompidou center. I got to go to Pere Lachaise cemetary, and witnessed a super-bizarre marijuana-smoking and wine-drinking ceremony at Jim Morrison's grave (the highlight of the trip, from my teenage perspective). I saw the Louvre, the Museum d'Orsay, and the palace at Versailles, spent all my shopping money on pastries, and got to hear the Red Hot Chili Peppers at the Zenith.

At the Louvre, I was busy talking to friends (like 17 year old girls do) and not paying attention to where I was going. I tripped over something, and then regained my balance and continued talking to my friends while walking along. I heard my friends shouting, "You eeeeeeeeeee-diot! Look where you're standing!!" That was about the same time I saw the grimacing security guard charging toward me. It was only then that I looked down and realized I had tripped over a small barrier edging, and was standing in the middle of an ancient Greek mosaic artwork that had been painstakingly relocated to the floor of the museum, one tile at a time.

Smooth move, right?

At least I didn't break anything.

My little girl did well in 1st grade today. The teacher said she finished her work before everyone else, picked up quickly on some of the new material, handled the 1st grade math with ease, and had to be moved up to the 2nd grade reading book because 1st grade was too easy for her. God bless private schools, because I wonder how amenable to meeting her individual educational needs the public schools would be. The school my kids are at is far from perfect, but it is perfect for us, for now. :-)

Challenger

Watching the news on TV about the anniversary of the Challenger disaster, I remembered that I was in 5th grade when it happened, which made me feel really, really old. But, I'm 30. It's been 20 years.

I remember sitting in my classroom and my teacher, who had wanted to step out of the room to watch the liftoff, had us all raise our hands over our heads and hold them there. "Don't move a muscle-- I'll be right back," she said, and then she darted out of the room. When she returned a few minutes later, she was crying.

Sixteen years later, the Challenger incident would take on a new and more personal meaning in my life. At church, I befriended a new family who had just moved to town from Houston. The wife became a good pal of mine, their youngest child was the same age as my son, and their older daughters were great babysitters. When I first met them, I was chatting with the husband.

"So, you just moved here from Houston?"

"Yeah. I worked for NASA."

"Oh. What did you do for NASA?" (Expecting some sort of engineer or management kind of response.)

"Well... I was an astronaut."

By this time, I was about to fall over. Somehow, I sucked it up and tried to act cool-- "Oh, well I guess that's pretty cool."

"Yeah, I guess," he said.

So much for cool, I decided, and asked the typical stupid non-astronaut question. "So, what's it like being in space?" DOH!

"Do you mean before or after you quit throwing up?" he asked.

"Haha... heh... Uh, so, where'd your wife go?" That was it for that conversation.

Over the next year or so that I lived in their town, we got to know their family much better, and actually had many more (far less dorky) conversations about the space program, being an astronaut, and aviation (his real passion). I learned (through my own snooping at the NASA web site-- not through his bragging) that he had done over 800 hours in space, including over 18 hours of extra-vehicular activity (space walks to repair the hubble, I think). Way cool.

But his wife was my real best buddy, and my partner in crime. She didn't have to work, as she had saved wisely from her many years as an executive for one of the major oil companies. Like me, however, she was an armchair psychologist who loved people too much to just stay home. So she took a job pouring coffee at a local coffee shop, and I would go by three days a week to study and chat the morning away. We talked about life, about God, about human nature, and about family.

And then Columbia fell apart, and our discussions shifted focus. She had never been scared before, she said, when her husband would go on his space missions. She'd keep her mind occupied, stay busy, and have fun with their girls. It wasn't until the Columbia disaster happened that she felt the reality of the risks he had taken full force, and was terrified of what her life would have been like without him. Each night since the disaster, she said, she had held him, often crying, as she fell asleep, not wanting to let go.

Hearing one of my closest friends at the time say this, it was very easy for my heart to just ache for what the other people had lost. No, it wasn't my friend or husband lost in the Columbia disaster, or the Challenger disaster for that matter, but it was someone's spouse, parent, child, sibling, or loved one. And having that understanding made even more real in my life, my heart broke even more for the loss of precious lives, big dreams, and determination to do more.

My former astronaut pal and I would sometimes be in the coffee shop together, visiting with his wife on the same days. When she would get busy and have to leave us for a while, we'd sit and read the paper together, and talk about the news. Reading all the reports post-Columbia that questioned the importance of continuing space travel and implied that sending people into space isn't worth the risk we are taking, my friend was not happy. Everyone who enters the space program understands the kinds of risks they are facing, and knows that death is an unlikely, but possible, fact of the job. And yet still, many continue on, pursue careers as astronauts, and take the risks that come with it. NASA is obligated to do everything in its' power to make it as safe as possible, but there will always be a risk, just as there will always be people willing to take on that risk.

I guess my point is this: Every person on those shuttles knew what kinds of things they were facing, and still moved forward with courage and determination to discover new things that could, in the end, help those of us who are not willing or able to take those risks ourselves. Honor their memory, but also their courage. They were, and continue in our memory to be, awesome examples of bravery and dedication.

In other news, I'm in a foul mood today and almost didn't even write this post. (Deleted because problem has been resolved.)

And whoever it is that found this site by searching for "strippers in san diego"-- get a life. I'm glad you didn't find what you came here looking for.

Grrrrrrr.... I'm a grouch today.

Attempts at real blogging

As much as it is one of the simple joys of my life to incessantly discuss strippers and porn, enough of that for now. If I get an interesting interview with a current or past stripper for my podcast at some point, then I'm sure we'll revisit the issue. But for now, I want to avoid giving the impression that my life is all about hot chicks.

Let's talk about something more sensible. Like body hair.

Gentlemen: If you're that obsessed over whether or not your woman shaves daily, weekly, or never, you need to rethink a couple of things. For starters, time. If a lady is running late and doesn't take the time to shave in the shower, too frickin' bad. At least she showered. Get over it. And if it's winter-- puhleeze. If she wants to run around looking like she's wearing some hairy legwarmers, she can. If she doesn't complain about your body hair, man stench, and beer belly, she can be hairy. And yes, (name omitted to protect the not-so-innocent but someone I like a lot anyway), I am talking to you. ;-)

Wait... That's not a whole lot better than talking about strippers and porn, now that I think about it.

It might even make me sound weirder. Maybe I'll go put some strikethrough on it and try again.

Ugh.

My 5 year old daughter has been dragging for the past few weeks, when it comes to getting up and getting ready for school in the mornings. She finally broke down this morning, started crying, and told me that she hates school. I'm sure part of it has to do with the fact that it's been pretty cold and rainy lately, and they aren't getting as much outside time at school as kindergarteners should. But part of it is that she's bored. She started sounding out words when she was 3, and finished reading all two hundred eighty-something pages of her children's Bible before her 5th birthday-- all by herself. She can do double digit addition and subtraction in her head (don't really know how she picked that up; she's been doing it for months), and loves to write letters to people (wonder where she gets that?). "Mommy, they make me do math and Ms. Debbie makes everyone count sticks, and I can do it without counting sticks. And they make us spell things one letter at a time, and I can write the whole sentence all by myself!" And the complaints went on and on.

I remember my school years vividly. Like a big nightmare.

I was a lot like my daughter, and learned to read and do math early. When I went into kindergarten, my teacher gave me a hard time. Why did your mom have to teach you to read early, anyway? Mom never really taught me to read-- she just read to me and answered my questions. In 1st grade, they realized I was drowning in my own boredom. So, worried that letting me skip to 2nd grade might cause emotional adjustment issues, they came up with a much more bizarre plan. Beginning in first grade and lasting all the way through 7th, I was in two grades at once. I would go to school with the kids my age for social studies and math (and they all thought I was the weird smart kid), and then I would go to school with kids a year older for language arts (and they all thought I was the little nerd).

In 4th grade, I moved to a school that had a good gifted program called PELICAN. It meant that several other gifted kids my age and I got pulled out for a full day one day each week to do hands-on projects, experiments, and study units, and it was SOOOOOOOOOO COOL! But my time in the regular classroom was still painfully boring, so they started pulling me out a second day each week to go to PELICAN with the older kids, too. So, I was in 4th grade for a half day and 5th for a half day three days each week, pulled out for 4th grade gifted program one day each week, and pulled out for 5th grade gifted the other day each week. That was when I was 9.

Sixth grade brought another cranky teacher who was annoyed that I needed to do a different reading level. I don't know why you can't just do the same book everyone else does! Um, because I did it last year?

Eighth grade brought band (woo-hoo!), and tracking, which meant that I got fed into all the honors classes and could finally be in one grade, with kids my age. It also meant that things got pretty easy, and I could skate by without doing my homework. That lasted through high school, and I never really developed anything that could be considered a study habit, much less study habits, plural. I rarely ever did homework, but could ace the tests if I listened even a little bit in class, and graduated high school with a good bit of AP credits and dual-enrollments and was accepted into the honors college at USC-- which I immediately bombed out of, having no study habits, no self-discipline, and having had any true enjoyment of education beaten out of me by a history of whacked out attempts at engaging me academically.

Enter the homeschooling idea. I homeschooled my children up until this school year, so this whole school thing is pretty new to me. I had enjoyed homeschooling because of the freedom to challenge my children, teaching them at an individual rate that wasn't to pushy but that did encourage self-discipline and taught my children the joy of a good challenge.

I don't want to look like a freaky parent who is controlling or delusional about my child's capabilities, but I sure as anything don't want them being bored. I have seen firsthand how boredom with the educational process can create bad study habits, instill a lack of self-discipline, and generate a general disregard and disrespect for the educational process in general, and educators in particular. I don't want my kids growing up with that. I want them to always challenge themselves, to always know that education is SUCH a gift and a blessing, and to enjoy the process of learning new things as much as they did back when we were homeschooling.

Hmmmmmm.... Not sure what to do.

See, this is the kind of wacko post you get from me when I'm sleep deprived from staying up too late to edit the podcast. I didn't quite finish, but it should be up by tomorrow, and this is going to be a good one. AND a reporter from the local newspaper sat in with me so that she can write a feature article in Saturday's paper about podcasting and local podcasters. Oh wait, I'm the only podcaster in my town (that I know of). ;-)

And I promise to those of you who listen to the 'cast that after this, I have several in-person interviews planned, so you will be spared the skype audio quality, at least for a little while.

Ho-hum. Better start my day.

MFP Episode One: Acceptance and Change

So, I don't do a very good job of keeping secrets about myself, particularly when I think there might be something to be learned from the experience. This has, over the past few years, led me to embarrass a few people by awkwardly telling someone something that, while not so big of a deal to me, freaked them out just a bit. It's not intentional, trust me. It's just that my experiences are, well,... just part of my life to me, and I sometimes forget that we each have our own comfort level (based on our own unique experiences) with what experiences we consider to be just a normal part of life, and which ones we consider to be pretty far out of the mainstream. But I'm rambling...

I've been thinking a bit about acceptance in how we share the love of Christ lately, and it has brought me to thinking about one of the more bizarre parts of my past that you, dear reader, may or may not really want to be privy to. So, I will start to categorize these more bizarre, possibly TMI posts under the "My Freaky Past" headings, and today, I'll start with Episode One: Acceptance and Change. Read at your own risk. :-)

The Background

There was a time, back when I was in college the first time around, when quite a few of my female friends from college decided to go get jobs as topless dancers. Over the course of a year or two, I had the chance to see how working in that kind of environment affected them emotionally, spiritually, and academically, and got more of an insight than I was ready for into what happens to girls who work in the sex industry. During that time, I had a chance to get to know several girls who worked as dancers, call girls, and porn actresses. Many of them came from rough childhoods in which a good number of them had been sexually abused, and most of them had drug and alcohol problems ranging from excessive drinking and pot smoking to doing hard drugs. And then there were a few who were really nice girls-- just very much confused and struggling with who they were. I became close friends with a couple of the nicer girls who weren't scary-- just scared, and wanted to find a way to help them out.

At the time, I was living in an apartment completely paid for by Double Agent, who was rarely ever in town. I hated living alone, and needed a roommate anyway, so I approached one of my pals who was a dancer, and made her an offer. The offer was like this: she could move into my spare bedroom, rent-free, if she wanted to quit dancing and get her life back on track. She was welcome to stay with me as long as she wanted, as long as she didn't go back to work in clubs, and didn't do drugs. She took me up on it, quit dancing, and stayed with me for almost a year before moving out to get married.

Over the next year or so, I had a small handful of girls take me up on a similar offer, and almost always had at least one roommate. Some of them left to return to dancing and partying it up, and others left to get back into college or some other form of somewhat normal life. Word spread.

The Story

One day, during one of my roommate-free phases, I got a call from a complete stranger. "Hi, Christy. You don't know me, but XXXXXXX (who used to live with you) gave me your #. I'm coming into Columbia for a photo shoot and need a place to stay. Do you mind if I crash with you for a few nights?" Being 19 years old and stupid enough to let a stranger come stay with me (I figured that since I was friends with the photographer, it couldn't be that bad), I agreed. We made plans, and a week later, A* was on my doorstep.

Now, A* was not doing a photo shoot for Good Housekeeping, and while I won't mention the specific magazine, it is one of the higher end, less-trashy, erotic magazines. And in line with what I would have expected, A* was a real party girl. But she was also a single mom with a sweet streak and big heart, who loved discussing psychology and human nature during late night heart-to-hearts, and who was open to new experiences. I didn't treat her like anything other than a true friend, and we became instant best buddies. A* invited me to go to a local bar to sing karaoke with her, and I did, and we had a blast! I invited A* to come to an Advent-wreath-making dinner at my church, and she did (even though she had to borrow some of my clothes to have something appropriate to wear). I also taught A* how to make these cute little craft wreaths out of fabric scraps and straw wreaths, and she LOVED it! I'll never forget how hard we both laughed when some guy who had gotten her number at the bar the night before called, and she told him she couldn't go out because I was teaching her how to be Martha Stewart (before the prison time) and she was having too much fun making wreaths to go party with him. I think he was more-than-a-little-bit offended.

To make a long story a little shorter, what was supposed to be a weekend visit turned into a 3 month roommate (with A* traveling home a few times over that period to spend time with her daughter). In a number of late night girl talks, A* told me that nobody had ever treated her like she was just a normal person before, and told me how nice it was to not feel judged or looked down on or stereotyped. The night before A* did finally leave to return home for good, we both sat up all night crying. All her friends back home were crazy women, strippers, and generally not very good people, she said, and she didn't know how to make real friends any more. But she went home anyway, and we stayed in touch for a few years after that. One year later, when I found out I was going to be a single mom, A*'s mother invited me to move to Tennessee to live with them, as they wanted to return the favor of kindness I had shown, but it just didn't feel like the right thing to do. A few years later, I heard she was married.

The Point

I think that most of us Christians (and other religious people, as well) insulate ourselves a little too well from those people we think are off the path, or led astray, or under the wrong influences, at the expense of truly changing people's lives. Granted, my life is different now. I have more responsibilities and a family to care for and help protect, so inviting random party people to come and live with me is not an option. As a dedicated Christian, teacher, and family person, I'm not really into the same kind of partying I used to do from time to time, back when my life was different. I might talk trash from time to time, but don't really have the interest or desire to do the kinds of things that would take me off the path. But I am still in contact with a good number of my old pals, and don't really feel that much discomfort or embarrassment about it.

See, A* was a big lesson for me on how a good number of people live according to the expectations placed upon and opportunities offered to them. Back in Tennessee, as an exotic dancer and model, A* had been a complete party girl-- living the life one would expect of someone in that position. But for the brief time she was staying with me, she actually enjoyed going to church, playing board games at the apartment, and getting to know my friends, who were all pretty mellow and straight-laced by that point in my life. She had a support system (me, Maher, and a couple of other pals of mine from Church) who encouraged her and had fun with her, all within the context of healthy friendships, complete acceptance, and good, clean fun. I didn't preach to her about the evils of her lifestyle, and she didn't complain to me about the boringness of mine; we just became part of each others' lives, took each other at face value, and accepted each other as humans. No preaching, no judging, no snobby lectures.

And that changed both of us for the better-- more so than anything else that we could have done together.

Here's the challenge, though: After A* left to go back home, she went back (at least partly) into the lifestyle from which she had come. As straight-laced and modest as she had enjoyed being while she was around me and my pals, once she was back around her old pals, she fell back in line with them.

Which brings me to the issue of acceptance. I am one person, and a flawed person at that-- insecure, hypersensitive, and moody. But I take people as people, usually treat them with respect, and am generally not very judgmental of the people who come into my life. Thinking of A*, and how being accepted changed her lifestyle and self-image a bit (even if only temporarily), I can't help but wonder how many more people's lifestyle and self-image could be changed if they truly felt accepted by those they consider to be normal, or typical, or mostly-good people. Granted, I know that only God can effect a true change in a person's heart, but how many people are closed off to even accepting the love of God in their hearts, when they don't even feel the slightest bit of that love and acceptance coming into their lives from God's people?

Those of us who are people of integrity know that we are humans-- flaky, flawed, and imperfect. But to someone who is now and has always felt like s/he has been on the outside looking in, we can seem a bit larger than life, and our judgments upon the people whose lifestyles we reject can do more to drive people away from God than we ever imagined.

But how do we show our acceptance of the people we encounter without giving a false endorsement of a lifestyle we may not like? I think we have a pretty good role model for that, and it sure isn't me. Jesus spent time with people that others in his day wouldn't go near, and the mere fact of his acceptance and friendship opened hearts, just as it continues to open hearts today. So, doesn't it make sense that we should follow that example, and somehow work to find that balance between honoring our own purity while still demonstrating the love of Christ?

I'm not a master at this, obviously, as I still have so much to learn and grow and live. But I think it's something that we should at least be discussing, thinking about, and praying about. What do you guys think?

Me, the Uptight

Through clicking on a series of profiles for people that commented in a friend's blog, I have discovered that I am SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO much more sheltered, straight-laced, and removed from what a lot of people out there are doing than I ever thought. Which is A GOOD THING, as far as I'm concerned. :-)

I may post more about this later, if I can ever get my jaw up off the floor. Or maybe I'll spare you.

In other news, someone found my site recently by searching for "unstructured bellydancing" on google. While my belly is somewhat unstructured at the moment, and I do love dancing, I'm still not convinced that they found what they came here looking for.

Lessons Learned

Figured I'd dispense a little unsolicited advice, just to start practicing so that it will come a little more naturally when I'm 50. So, read and learn, dear friends.

Gentlemen: if your lady calls you from work and asks you to bring her gym clothes when you come to pick her up from work so that she can go to the YMCA, ask a few specific questions before simply deciding to bring the first thing you grab out of the closet, which just happens to be the oldest clown-suit highwaters and too-tight workout tank top in her possession, which she really should have thrown out a few years back. And... if once you get to the gym you decide to play racquetball with her while she's still annoyed at you for forcing her to look like a fat and creepy clown around a bunch of extremely healthy and hard-bodied people, it's not likely to be a good idea to keep serving to her left, especially when you know she's not left-handed and can't return very well in that corner. Because... once you finally serve to her right, where she can aim (and with a good deal of power), she's likely to aim straight for the back of your head, just because she can. Just a suggestion, though. Do what you like.

Ladies: If you haven't worked out in a month or so, and decide to get back into the habit, an hour of racquetball followed by an hour on an elliptical machine is a good way to kill yourself. Fortunately, if you somehow make it through without severe injury or death, it is also a good way to guarantee your first good night's sleep in months.

And, I wrote a skit last night that will hopefully end up eventually being podcasted. I'm a co-leader for the 10-11 year old class in a national scouting organization for girls. They asked me what kinds of topics I could present on, and I told them that podcasting is my latest hobby. So, I wrote a skit about some girls learning what Locks of Love is. We're going to record our parts tonight, and I'm going to teach the girls how to do some basic audio editing at our next meeting so that they can edit it themselves. Then, assuming I can get parental permission to play it on my podcast, I may do one in the near future about some kids who have donated to and benefited from Locks of Love. Neat. :-) We'll see!

Reality, the Musical

I'm sitting here watching Scrubs as I write this which, while it's not one of my usual shows, is one that I enjoy a good bit when I do get a chance to watch. My warped sense of humor as well as my extremely visual sense of ... well, of everything, makes me a good fit for shows that so flawlessly blend nonsense, keen wit, good writing, sharp delivery, and slapstick to make both entertainment and a point. Currently on my television screen, the creepy janitor is dangling half naked outside a window suspended by the speedo that he's wearing, but the episode that came on just before this one actually touched on the issues of religion, honesty in relationships, parenthood, and childhood trauma. And it was funny! And not really in a sick and evil sort of way, as I really don't appreciate, get, or enjoy genuinely mean humor, but in a intelligent silliness sort of way. It's amazing that because the show engaged me in a less threatening way, through use of effective theatrical diversions, I was more relaxed, and therefore more easily receptive to the more serious messages the show had to offer.

Earlier today, I posted my most recent podcast, which was an interview with the author of Love Jerry-- the so-called "pedophile musical" I heard about just last week. The interview, while obviously about a heavy subject, was a wonderful experience for me and in the end of the interview, Megan thanked me for approaching her work with an open mind and said how refreshing it was to be able to actually talk about the play without having to constantly defend it. It's so important to me that each person who is a guest on my podcast look at is as having been a positive experience, and being 6 for 6 in that regard feels good.

Megan is heartfelt, friendly, thoughtful, intelligent, and clearly committed to being a part of the solution to end child sexual abuse, in whatever ways she can. People have made issues of three key facts about the play that could potentially be objectionable: 1) It's a musical, and quite a few people find that inappropriate; 2) Jerry is not demonized in the play, and rather than being presented as the manifestation of pure evil is offered up as a very flawed human whose horrible choices devastate his family's life as well as his own; and 3) A handful of people have proclaimed that child sexual abuse is not an appropriate topic for public entertainment.

Which brings up quite a few other elements, to my view. For starters, Megan made clear that this is not a musical in the style of Oklahoma or Li'l Abner. This is a play in which acoustic, natural, folk-style music is used as a way for the characters to express heartfelt emotions and truths that might not come out in any other way. That kind of music not only expresses a kind of emotion and sincerity that is difficult to express in any other way, but it provides a less threatening context into which to place an otherwise unsettling exploration of a terrifying social plague. It, in some ways, makes an intimate exploration of such an intense issue a little more palatable in the end.

Megan conducted a good bit of research on and interviews with actual sexual offenders and child molesters as part of her preparation for this play. One of the things that struck her was how human they seemed-- these were not creepy and sinister characters barren of emotion, living in solitude under the social radar, without family and community connections. Instead, they were people with families, dreams, feelings, fears, and worries-- people who would not stand out in a crowd as people to avoid. See, as long as we, as a society, continue to expect those who abuse our children to be dark and looming characters, we will miss out on the true threat to our children. Most sexual abuse is not by openly disturbed or threatening people. It's almost always someone the child knows-- a family member, trusted adult, or teacher. The real threat to our children isn't secretive and lurking people, as much as it is secretive and lurking ideas in our society regarding how we address sexual abuse when it does happen.

Which brings me to the question of what is or isn't an appropriate topic to address through theater. See, I am a big fan of the arts as a personal diversion, as well as of the arts as a way of working to effect dramatic cultural change. I grew up in the theater, performing on stage as a singer, dancer, actor, and musician. I understand how the experience of an artistic project, both as a participant and as a spectator, can change your heart and open your mind to new possibilities. Addressing sexual abuse as an issue, and only an theoretical and intellectual issue, it is far too easy to remove the issue from its' context, to throw away the humanity of the abuser as we address criminal acts, and to assault the epidemic with platitudes, narrow-minded (albeit well-intentioned) anger, and a completely useless rage against what is clearly an injustice. This does nobody any good, least of all the person who was abused, or whose child was abused, for whom platitudes are meaningless and the offender is often more human than their heart would have ever preferred. It's far too easy for people to theorize about what is or isn't an appropriate forum to discuss child sexual abuse when their own lives have never been touched, either through their own experiences or those of someone they love, by the personal and emotional devastation that child abuse leaves in its' wake. Those who have been through it are less likely to be interested in arguments about where and when sexual abuse should be discussed... they just want to see the discussion happening.

Megan brought up a particularly powerful point during our conversation-- a point that has replayed itself on the spectacular backdrop of my far-too-intense imagination over the last few days. We repress this, refuse to discuss it, and expect people to heal from their sexual-abuse-inflicted wounds quietly and without great fanfare precisely because it is a topic we're scared of. We can't define it in terms of genetics, microbiology, or a cure, so we are scared to stand face to face with what we can't control. If this were polio, or bird flu, or any other definable illness that was affecting one out of three girls and one out of six boys in this country, it would be on the cover of the papers every single day until we had found a solution. Sadly, I think our head-in-the-sand stupidity with regard to sexual abuse goes even deeper than that, as erectile dysfunction and frickin' male pattern baldness often get more play in the press than the violation of our children. (Of course, we plaster sexually abused children all over the media when they are killed by their abusers, which makes it easier to demonize the abuser, but what about the thousands of others who live daily with their scars? But, alas, that's another blogpost for another day.) Where are our priorities, people? Why is it that when someone makes an honest effort to address a societal epidemic, we tear her apart, assuming it's a perversion of reality, when it is sadly, horrifyingly, and inexcusably likely to be one of the most honest and genuine looks at sexual abuse to date? Sad, horrifying, and inexcusable not because she addressed this issue in the format of a musical that does not make the bad guy a monster, but sad, horrifying, and inexcusable because WE as a society have, in some way, allowed it to become (and continue to allow it to be) the epidemic that it is, through our own silence and unwillingness to be gently led out of our comfort zones.

Earlier today, I did a google search to find any press or blog coverage about Love Jerry. What I found was, in most cases, a collection of the most ridiculous, misguided, misinformed, irrational, knee-jerk reactions I've ever seen in regard to a topic. Bloggers, it's just a little too easy to fire off at the mouth, or the keyboard, as the case may be, without having ANY IDEA what we're talking about. Why do we do that? I'll admit, when I first heard about this play, my first reaction was that it must necessarily be an atrocity. But the first sentence I fired off about it wasn't in a blog post; it was in an email to the author of the play, to find out from the delightfully open and sincere horse's mouth what the real deal was. Do a technorati search, or some other blog search, on "Love Jerry" or "pedophile musical." I dare you. And then prepare to cringe, as you read what would be a ridiculously funny series of idiotic tirades by people who don't know anything about it, except for the fact that real ignorance is rarely ever funny. Pull your heads out of the sand of your self-presumed righteousness, and face the facts that we REALLY need to have open and honest discussions about what is happening to our children if we are ever to have any hope of truly protecting them. And please, if you have no idea what it is like to be a survivor of sexual abuse, a parent, or a friend of one, listen in intently on the discussion, contributing only when you feel you have something to say that brings a greater truth to light for the benefit of our society. Don't pretend to speak for the little people; chances are you aren't really speaking for them in the first place. And most of the adult survivors can speak for themselves quite nicely, thank you.

In other news, south clearly trumps north, according to googlefight. So there.

Also, listenership is up, thank you very much to the nice podcasters out there sharing about what I'm doing! And as exciting as the growing stats (particularly 1st day posting stats) are to me, they are not the true indicator of whether or not I have arrived as a podcaster-- I got my first piece of slightly inappropriate email feedback over the weekend. SCORE! From a guy. Who liked my accent. (What is UP with you Great Lakes states freaks? Seriously!) Truthfully, though, it made me smile on an otherwise boring day, so whatever. Also, today I noticed that I had my first review on iTunes-- 5 stars and a nice comment. Unfortunately, the review was written by my dad, and referenced my "sultry, southern drawl."

*crickets*

Thankyouverymuch.

I think I'm going to shove a bottle brush in one ear and out the other and scrub hard until that reference has been completely and totally erased from my brain.

age, or maybe growth, revisited...

From ages 18-20, I was a party girl. Not in the sense of going to bars to pick up guys or be picked up (I've never left a bar with someone I didn't go in with), or having one night stands (something else I've never done). But I really enjoyed getting lost in the intensity of it all-- the lights, the loudness, the fog... By daylight, I was rather mild mannered, nerdy, and insecure. In the right lighting, I could pretend I was someone else.

I think there's just a little tiny bit of that party girl left in me, in the sense that I'm a bit of a free spirit-- fun loving and silly-- but it's different. I'm more of a party girl in the abstract rather than in the tangible reality of my life. As much fun as I have blogging about what a wild woman I'm going to be, given the chance, it just isn't really me anymore.

In true fashion, I talk a big game, but am really a homebody. This morning, I snuggled in bed next to my husband and watched the sun rise over the ocean. My day since then was spent sipping chamomile tea while reading my Bible on the balcony of our room, and walking the beach and nearby pier with my family. I have a feeling that the rest of the day will be about the same, perhaps with a hot tub soak or pool swim thrown in. Last night hubs and I did go to karaoke, which was a blast, and I've talked my sister and her man into coming here for karaoke tonight instead of hitting the hot clubs. I guess, in spite of my grandest fantasies, that I'm a pretty simple girl, easy to please, who just wants to be with her family. Maybe, just maybe, there isn't as much in my life anymore that I want to escape, and my life is satisfying enough without having to be obscured by disco balls, fog machines, and thumping bass.

Hubs and I talked this morning about the whole protection thing... I think we figured out a few contributing factors to why we felt the way we each did-- things relating to past experiences. You know-- the baggage we tend to drag into relationships and carry with us over time. So, it's resolved. If we can both afford to go, we will. If not, I'll go. Simple. No hurt feelings, no sulking, no nightlife. I probably wouldn't really want to go out anyway, given my tendency toward talking bigger than I'd ever really try to be in real life. But I am a big girl, and could make a trip on my own if that's the way it works out, and he knows I'd spend the whole time babbling to anyone who would listen about him and the kids. They are my heart.

The whole guy behavior thing is an interesting discussion, though. I think that some guys think women are stupid when it comes to knowing what some guys are like, what they think, and how they behave. I think women get it much of the time; we just don't necessarily react the way that guys think women will react. I've said it before and I'll say it now-- the manly man national geographic strut and preen mating dance that some guys do really cracks me up! It does not turn me on or weaken my knees. It's just anthropology in action-- a fascinating display of usually misplaced effort.

Last night, I went down to karaoke, and hubs was going to join me later. I walked in, ordered a beer, and immediately picked up the karaoke song list. I'm here to sing, remember? A small crowd of sixty year old guys (late sixties would be a generous guess on my part), one of whom was extremely friendly and had an earring, were flirting with me. Old guys-- well, that's just kind of cute. I flirted back, because they were so funny, and went back to reviewing my song list. Within a few minutes, 1/2 my beer was gone, and I had found my song. I couldn't find a pen to write my song on the slip, though, and was leaning in toward the bartender to try to get his attention. After a minute, he came and sat another beer in front of me. "No-- I just needed a pen," I said. "Oh-- the drink is compliments of the gentleman at the end of the bar." I looked, and there was a forty-something guy with a tropical print shirt smiling at me. "Thanks," I mouthed, thinking about how I'll never see California after this. Less than 5 minutes in the bar, and old guys were hitting on me while some dopey guy at the end of the bar was buying me a drink.

But see, here's the thing. I'm guessing (because I'm not a man) that tropical man thinks, "Hey, I bought this chick a beer. She smiled at me. That must be because she wants me. Maybe I'll get lucky." And as far as I'm concerned, I don't really care if that was what he was thinking. I was thinking, "Kind of dweeby, but seems harmless. Free beer-- not bad. If that guy is married, he's a jerk. Maybe he's not, though, but what do I care. When's hubs coming to the bar? I can't wait for him to get here. I'll drink my two beers and sing love songs to him all night."

A few minutes later, hubs arrived to find me with a beer in each hand (not a normal thing for me, just for the record-- I drink a couple of beers per month when I'm on a roll). I smiled at him, kissed him, and then gestured down the bar-- "The second beer is compliments of the gentleman at the end of the bar." Hubs looked, and tropical guy smiled at him. Tropical guy then walked over, play slugged my husband in the arm, and said, "Hey, man, I was just getting her another beer so she'd sing-- haha!" Hubs smiled, because truthfully he's not a very jealous kind of person, recent hooha aside, and slugged tropical guy back. "Yeah, she's a keeper," he said, and laughed. I then spent the rest of the night singing country music to my man (with my voice, everything is country when I sing it), and dancing with a group of forty-something women who were there. We really had a blast, and before long my husband was even chatting with the old dudes, even the one with the earring. They really were friendly guys, and had neat stories to tell (old guys usually do).

So, here's the thing. I think some guys are pigs. Back in my party girl days, I had plenty of married guys offer to meet me for flings, and brazen single guys who expected me to be something I wasn't. I've seen men at their worst, trust me, so much so that I went for years thinking all men were horrible. But truthfully, most of the guys I know now are pretty good guys. I think guys put on this silly show because they think it impresses other people, and who knows?-- maybe sometimes it does. But most men I know now, deep inside, just want someone to talk to, to listen to them, to believe in them, and to cheer for them. They just usually don't expect that other person to be a guy, because it might violate the man code, which really is a silly thing to begin with. And guys, most women are smarter than you think. Even when they go along with your manly man act, it is usually with the awareness that you are in fact doing the manly man act, and that they are doing the easy female act. Don't flatter yourselves too much!

This vacation is a nice thing. Time to chill out, time to reflect, is rare in the daily grind. It's nice to get away from it all for a while. I feel good.

Dweeby Married Guys

So, I've been thinking that this fall, I need to go to Podcast Expo. For starters, I could use some guidance, ideas, and networking to help me improve and promote my podcast. Secondly, it would be fun, particularly since I've never been to California. I experienced it indirectly, through all my sister's Tahoe snowboarding videos, showgirl stories, and inability to speak the English language without excessive word ups, gnarlys, and peace outs (P.S. I found a pic of her to link to with clothes on). And I was at least close when we went to Sedona, Arizona, on our honeymoon. But I've never been there. Finally, I'm such a people person that it drives me ABSOLUTELY INSANE that I don't know what half my podcaster acquaintances look like. Grrrrrrr! (If any of you are reading, email a picture, just so my mental processes can be a little more well-rounded when I'm listening to you.) It drives me just as nutty when I don't know what my blogger friends look or sound like (skype, anyone?). I'm the kind of person who as I'm reading or listening to something, develops an intricate accompanying experience in my mind, complete with sound, visuals, and emotions. And I'm not much for mysteries. So, finally meeting some people I've come to like, admire, and enjoy having as a part of my life would be pretty cool.

However, the Christy family is not particularly wealthy, and I wonder if we'd be able to afford to get both me and my hubs out there. So, last night, I brought up the possibility of me going it alone, and the ensuing discussion was an interesting peek into the bizarre dynamics of my relationship with my husband. Here is my retelling of the incident. It isn't particularly accurate, partly because I can't remember word for word, and partly because, hey, it's my blog. I'll tell it how I want to.

I don't like the idea of you going out there alone.

Why not? What's the deal?

I don't know. I just don't like it.

So, you don't think I'm capable of going somewhere without you, successfully navigating the city, and not getting mugged, killed, or seduced in the process?

No, it's not that. It's just... just... I don't like the idea of you out there with all those computer geek guys.

It's not just guys, you know.

(glares at me) You're the one that told me the other day that you got an email from one of them that he sent to the podcasters in his address book, reading "Lady and Gentlemen."

Well, if you think they're all computer geeks, then what are you worried about?

You like geeky guys, for starters. (Faking a girly voice:) "Smart guys turn me on, ooh ahh," remember? Half the guys you've ever dated have been 34 year old geeks, even when you were 18.

So, you don't trust me?

No. I trust you.

Most of the podcaster guys I know are married anyway.

So. You know as well as I do that being married doesn't always stop guys from being stupid.

Apparently not.

Shut up.

I can't believe you don't trust me.

I DO trust you. I don't trust THEM.

You don't even know any of them.

No, but I know YOU. And I know geeky guys. And it just doesn't sit well with me.

What do you mean, (faking my best dorky man voice:) "I KNOW YOU"?

You're hot, for starters, easy to talk to, sweet, friendly, thoughtful, loving, lovable, beautiful, voluptuous, gorgeous, a genius, with irresistible blue eyes and keen wit to spare. (Okay, so I made up part of that. But he really did say some of it.) You make people feel special, and that really plays well to the geeky guy crowd.

Okay, what if I got V-dogg (my sister) to go with me?

(*crickets* *crickets*)

Seriously, hon. What if V went with me?

That's the making of a reality television special, there.

Don't be an ass. It would be fun. You don't even like going out, dancing, any of that. At least if I took V, I'd have someone to go out with. I haven't been out dancing in years (this is, sadly, a true statement). Hey, I haven't even been to karaoke in over a year, now. If V went, I'd have someone to go enjoy the nightlife with.

That's what I'm afraid of. I love your sister, but you going to California with her makes me even more nervous than you going alone.

Old fart.

Party animal.

(crickets chirp outside, as we both sit there, staring away from each other, like a couple of two-year olds in timeout for fighting over a toy.)

Tomorrow, I'm going to blog about what a dork you are.

I don't care.

(More silence...)

Seriously, man, you can't really be this big of a dork!

Well... I guess if you had to go alone, or if you went with your sister, it would be okay. I wouldn't like it or anything, and I'd worry about you while you're gone. It's a man thing, you know, and I can't protect you if I'm not there with you.

One wrong move on the part of anyone out there stupid enough to mess with me, and I'll break out some of those martial arts skills-- a bit of Pitida Fu would put him soundly in his place.

Now who's a dork?

Whatever. Anyway, it's still several months away...

...............

And that was the end of the conversation. So, if any of you have any ideas for comebacks, pleading my case, or whatever, should the issue be addressed again in the near future, send them my way. :-)

*Edited 2:00 pm to add: In his defense, we've never really been much for doing things that aren't family-oriented. Homeschooling hippies, remember? Anyway, I spent my first night away from my children EVER in June of 2004, and have only done it twice since then. And my first night away from everyone-- kids and family-- was in October of 2004, when I went back down to Florida for a quickie visit to perform a funeral for a good friend's grandmother. My friend's mom had specifically requested me, back before I left my ministry position, to do the funeral for her ailing mother, and I also married both of her children, so it seemed the right thing to do and I kept my commitment even though I had moved out of state in the between time. I spent 17 hours traveling by bus to get there, about 4 hours there, and then another 19 hours to get home. I haven't spent the night away from my husband in our entire marriage, except for the two nights I spent sleeping on that bus. So, for all you well-traveled geeks out there wondering what the big deal is, this isn't a typical thing for us.

In other news, it's amazing what a good night's sleep can do for a foul mood. I need to get away this weekend, and since the convent wasn't an option, I went to plan B. An old friend, mentor, and previous employer from my childhood and teen days now owns a good number of hotels, timeshare, and condos in Myrtle Beach (where I grew up). I have an open invitation anytime I want to go visit to stay, for free, in one of his properties. So, I called him this morning, and my family will be checking into an oceanfront hotel tomorrow evening to stay for the weekend. Excellent. ;-)

openness, secrecy, and shame

As many of you know, I have a podcast in which I interview different people who have something about their experiences that I find interesting. My theory, though I will never have the chance to put it to a scientifically solid test, is that just about everybody has something in their life stories, experience, past or present, that is incredible, fascinating, inspiring, or otherwise unique. We just don't often hear about it, which sucks, really, when you think about it. So many little lessons of how humans can overcome great tragedies, come up with grandiose ideas, or generally experience life in a wide-open, fun-loving sort of way, and most of us are missing out on them.

For as long as I can remember, there has been a stigma attached to certain kinds of situations-- disability, adoption, abortion, child abuse, rape, sexual abuse, disability, gender and gender identification, and a million other things to which we, as people, are often exposed. Someone doesn't want to admit they were abused as a child because they love their parents and wouldn't want to embarrass them; as if we expect all people we encounter to be narrow-minded idiots who don't understand that most parents do the best they can, and that however small or large their failings may have been at different times, people change and grow. Someone doesn't want to say that they were adopted; as if that somehow makes them less of a family. Someone doesn't want to discuss the fact that they or their child was sexually abused; as if it is somehow their fault, their child's fault.

It's sad, really, the way we all censor ourselves in the name of not making anyone else uncomfortable, preserving the peace, or whatever reasons we tell ourselves we have for stuffing all of our potentially negative experiences deep down inside where they can't be of use to anyone. As if someone who has experienced a disability, adoption, physical or sexual abuse has something to be ashamed of. That's quite simply a load of crap. If there is any shame to worn, it belongs elsewhere.

Shame belongs on the person who can't seem to believe that someone with a disability has genuine human feelings and can contribute meaningfully to the world. Shame belongs on the one who refers to "real" kids and "adopted" kids, as if there could ever be a difference in a healthy parent's heart between love and love. Shame belongs on the unrepentant abuser, the rapist, the pedophile. Don't ask the victim to stay quiet to keep those around him or her comfortable in their ignorance. As long as we have that expectation of those who have been exploited or abused, there will always be an undercurrent that somehow blames the victim and shames him or her into silence.

If anyone should retreat into silence and shame, it should be the offender. As for the people who have been abused, if speaking out gives them a feeling of strength and courage, of power over the situation, then they should speak out when, if, and however they please. No place is more lonely and frightening than the silent place in your heart, where few people hear and nobody cares. Just reaching out-- it's often enough, even if those to whom you reach out never reach back. And if you happen to be one of the ones someone trusts enough to reveal a darker place in his or her experience, don't worry if you don't know what to say. Chances are they don't expect you to say much; just to acknowledge what they are dealing with, continue with the friendship, and be at least vaguely aware of the pressures they're facing in their lives.

I'm tired. Very tired. I'm tired of looking around and seeing a culture in which we really don't give a rat's rear if children are being abused and violated, if women (and men) are raped, or if people's pain is incredibly immense-- as long as that pain doesn't reach into our own lives. I'm tired of having a culture of acceptance-- "these things happen," so it must not be that big of a deal. It is a big deal. It's a really, very, incredibly big and rotten deal, and you never know what cards are coming up in your hand next. Until we have a culture that embraces a zero tolerance attitude toward innocents being violated, we will continue to see Samantha Runions, and Carlie Bruscias, and Jessica Lunsfords, and thousands of other little boys and girls whose parents, thankfully, can still hold them in their arms, but whose lives have been forever altered by someone else's selfish, destructive, disgusting, and offensive acts.

People who haven't been there have no idea how it affects a person. They don't understand the lifetime of self-doubt, fear of relationships, and emotional struggles that the abused child faces. They can't understand what it feels like for the woman who has been raped to anxiously look for well lit parking at night, or be afraid to go jogging, or be scared- really scared- on a date or at a party. They don't have any idea what it feels like to question if you fit into your family, to wonder if you're fully accepted as a person, or to live daily with common societal misconceptions and fears. They can't understand the amount of courage it took for the person who just had a stroke to speak publicly in front of one person, or a million, knowing that his recovery is not, and may never be complete. They don't understand... until they're faced with it themselves.

A few unsettling statistics:
1 in 6 American women has been raped. 67% of them were raped by someone they knew.
1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 or 7 boys will be or have been sexually abused.
8% of all Americans report a disability that interferes with work. Many of them became disabled unexpectedly during the course of their adult lives.

Long story short: If it hasn't happened to you or someone you love, it will. Unless we start working, right now, to create a culture in which the victims and survivors are encouraged to speak out until society can't stand the horror of it any more, and does something about it.

I'm tired. It's been a long week, and my patience is wearing thin. Maybe tomorrow... maybe this weekend, I'll post something fun about doing the robot, wearing silly clothes, or playing board games. Maybe, over the weekend, great silliness will ensue in the Christy household, and I'll barely be able to contain myself until Monday, when I'll tell you about it. But for now, this will have to do.

Christmas Eve Shenanigans Part Two

Prayer, presents, kryptonite bellydancing, midnight hobo runs to Walgreens, and cursing some complete stranger in Hong Kong. What could make Christmas Eve more fun than that?

Part Two: Christmas Eve at Home

As a family, we prayed, read scriptures, opened a few of our presents, and then sent the kids to bed. That was when I realized that I had left a few of the kids presents at my office. So, at about 8:30 pm, I dashed over to the warehouse. While I was there, I figured I'd go ahead and put some content on that snazzy little iPod I got. So, I opened up iTunes, and figured I might as well download a music video (something I've never done), just to see how it looks on the iPod. But, I knew that my husband the cheapskate was bound to make fun of me for buying a video to watch on a 2 X 1.5 inch screen, so I knew I had to choose my video wisely. I knew it had to be one with which he could not argue. I bought my video, updated my podcasts, and transferred it all over to the iPod. I called my husband to talk me through my exit (the warehouse is near a bit of a creepy, drug-problem and murder kind of neighborhood, so I always keep him on the phone with me while I leave, close the gate, and get back into the car), and headed home.

Once home, I broke out the iPod to show Daddy-O how cool it was. "I bought a music video," I said. He rolled his eyes and looked at me disapprovingly, but kept his silence. "What, you don't think I should have?" I asked. Silence. Glare. I started the video playing and smiled and danced. Still silence. Still glare. Now head-shaking. "You aren't right," he said. And then I flipped the iPod around to where he could see it and held it out as if threatening someone with a weapon. His eyes left my face, and landed upon Shakira in her full glory, bellydancing out of the ocean, strutting through a stampede, and crawling through mud. It was like kryptonite. "Oh, you bought a video-- cool!" The man was putty in my hands, and when I added in a few bellydance moves of my own, the argument was officially over.

I then set myself to the task of putting cool new Star Wars skins onto the 2 gameboys I had bought for my little guys. Piece of cake. Then I broke out the pearlized pink gameboy hard-shell case I had bought for my daughter, which required the complete disassembly and reassembly of her gameboy. It was quickly clear to me that I did not have a screwdriver small enough for the job, so I jumped up, pulled on my husband's sweatpants and hooded sweatshirt over my nightgown, and shoved my sockless feet into some fuzzy Emus. "You look like a hobo," my husband said. "I don't care-- it's not like I'm going to see anybody I know at Walgreens at midnight."

Walgreens was packed with people. I got my screwdrivers and went to check out. "What are you doing here, and not at home with your kids?" I hear from across the store. Nice. Someone I know. It's the 18 year old boy who started karate around the same time I did last year, and who was my sparring partner when we were both orange belts. I babbled something about the stupidity of buying things off of eBay from Hong Kong and the world's smallest screwdriver, did my best hobo jig, and darted out the door. Very Ashlee Simpson.

I was up until 1:30 AM assembling that stupid Gameboy and getting the last few things ready for the kids, and then played tetris for 1/2 and hour before bedtime. I'm getting better at tetris, by the way, and can now make it to level 15 with ease.

connectivity

It's amazing how we, as humans, have this innate desire to connect with each other-- to be accepted by, reach out to, and be reached by others. We're social creatures, really, not just in the sense of meeting a sociologically evolved need for protection, but in the fuller sense of having our own humanity and experiences validated by contact between, friendships with, and respect from other people.

Today, on my lunch break, I spent a bit of time speaking with a woman from my church for my next podcast (which should be out in a day or two). I met her through her little girl, I*. I* is a beautiful 5 year old girl with long eyelashes and gorgeous latte-brown skin, and she's in the Wednesday night kindergarten girls' class I taught at church until just last week. She's smart, sharp, and thoughtful, and was one of the two girls in that class that could always read the memory verse (my daughter is the other). Each week, I'd ask for prayer requests before our prayer time, and each week she would say, in her precious little voice, "please pray for my daddy." So, each week, we would pray for I*'s daddy, along with grandmas and grandpas, pets that had died, and boo-boos that needed healing.

I*'s mom volunteers each Wednesday night in the infant nursery at church, and I've always seen her as a quiet and shy kind of person. She's always alone taking care of her 3 children (ages 5 and younger), and blushes a bit when I tell her how wonderful I* is to have in my class. A few weeks back, at Wednesday night dinner before classes, I mentioned to her that I* always asks us to pray for her daddy. Her mom, K*, smiled and said that I* is always so thoughtful, and then told me why I* requests prayer for her daddy. It turns out that he has been in jail for the past two years without a trial, although he has a trial date set for May. Although K* believes firmly in his innocence, he stands accused of a serious crime, and there are no guarantees that he will be coming home any time soon. K* is now 25 years old, and went from dedicated wife and mother to single mom in the 20 minutes it took for her husband to be arrested.

I spent two weeks deciding if, when, and how to let her know I'd love to give her the opportunity to share her story on my podcast, before just going up and asking last week. I was so nervous, not that she would say no, but that she would think I'm an idiot or a jerk for even asking. Instead, she almost started to cry: "People almost always seem to forget that there's a family left behind... We get lost... I would love the opportunity to share my situation with others...." So, we set a date-- today at lunchtime.

I was nervous going to her home-- I'm not a professional at this, and would I know the right questions to ask? Would I put my foot in my mouth? I have a good bit of counseling training from seminary and over 2 years' experience at pastoral counseling from my time as a chaplain, but this was going to be different. I'm not there to counsel; I'm there to listen, to be a friend, and to give a voice to someone who has spent far too much of her life, to use her words, lost... ignored.

I pulled in to the drive and went past a long row of beat up singlewide trailers before finding hers. After her husband was jailed, K* had to quit her job, and relocated to a mobile home that had been given to her, on a lot with extremely low rent. In spite of the humble housing, it was warm and home-y, with nice candles burning, a tree decorated in the corner, and several small boxes wrapped neatly under the tree. I sat down onto the slightly lumpy, old, brown couch, and started to set up my recording stuff (I bought two new lapel microphones to try to get better sound quality on the outings this time). I was wondering how to begin the conversation, when K* spoke up.

"I can use our first names only, can't I?"

"Sure. You can say as little or as much as you want. This is your story, and I'll let you tell it the way you want."

"What if I start to cry-- is that okay?"

"Hey, I wore waterproof mascara today, just in case I cry with you. If you need to stop at any time, let me know and I'll shut off the recorder. And I can always go back in later and edit out anything you tell me you'd rather not have in."

"Talking about what got me through this, I'm going to talk a lot about God. Is that okay?"

"Of course. I don't censor content-- this is your story to tell."

There was a bit of a silence while K* thought for a while. When she spoke again, my heart dropped.

"I gave a baby up for adoption when I was 16. Can I talk about that before you leave? Will you put that in your podcast?"

It was then that it hit me-- hard-- how much we, as humans, crave being heard... being understood. I guess that's a big part of the premise behind my starting the kind of podcast I have. So many people out there-- people we just pass right by every day without ever giving a second thought, people we see as quiet and reserved, people who walk through our lives each week and we never even get close enough to realize that they're just barely putting one foot in front of the other, hoping that somehow, they'll make it through-- with a story to tell. I've been there. It's lonely. And sometimes, getting to tell someone the contents of our heart isn't an obligation or a chore; it's an opportunity for outpouring that is welcomed into a life in which you feel nobody wants to listen.

I assured K* that although I may not fit it into this episode of the podcast, I definitely would welcome her story, perhaps for a future podcast incorporating several different perspectives about adoption. Several times over the course of the interview, K* asked me to turn off the recorder, and shared even more about her life that strengthened my conviction that she is an overcomer of great character. After recording, she joined me for lunch, and we had some of the best conversation I've had in a while.

I'm sure there will be plenty of people with amazing stories of heartache and/or triumph that will not want to talk with me about it at all, much less for public broadcast. But if I'm right, and I suspect that I am, many of us are suffering from the way our society has tended to rip us apart from meaningful social networks (unless we deliberately preserve and create networks for social connectivity). And if, from the quiet and unspoken suffering of our isolation, we could reach out to others, be heard, speak out, and change perceptions, I think many of us would jump at the chance.

...................................

I'm about to leave my office, and head home for the night. I'll be driving home to a relatively small apartment, with three children who fight too much and a husband who wishes he could give us all more. We have the same crappy fake Christmas tree we've had for the past 3 years, and half of the beautiful matching Christmas ornaments I bought last year have been broken. There are more presents under our tree than in recent years, thanks to a generous holiday bonus I got at work. When I get home, my husband will go out for a few hours to study for his upcoming teacher certification exams, and I'll try to keep the kids from killing each other until bedtime, all the while trying to catch up on the cleaning that doesn't get done during the day. After the kids are in bed, I'll start to edit the audio from today into a podcast, and hearing it will remind me of some of the less-than-enviable things we're now going through as a family. I'll cry a little, and edit some more, and pretty soon my husband will come back home. At some bizarre hour, I'll crawl into bed next to my soul mate, and as I'm laying there having trouble falling asleep, like I've done every night for the past month, it will dawn on me that I am so completely blessed to have my children and my husband, a home that meets all our needs, a job where all the employees are treated well and spoiled rotten, and a life about which I really can't complain.

Look around you, people, and then give thanks. For every thing we can each find wrong with our lives, there are so many things that are right. Thank God.

Great Smoky Mountains

A few weeks ago, my daughter, who is 5, commented that some hill we were driving by was "a really big mountain."

"Sweetie, have you ever seen real mountains?"

"Yeah, mom, remember? We played on some big clay mountains at Mema's house." My Mema and Papa's house has a big hilly red clay area out back. This child has never seen real mountains, which means that her little brother hasn't either.

So, Daddy-O and I decided that rather than go home on interstates through Atlanta, we would go up to Chattanooga and then cut across the Appalachians. We didn't say anything to the kids about it-- we just figured we'd wait to see how long it took for them to notice the change in scenery.

It was a brilliant plan-- the kids loved being in the mountains, and we stopped off a few times for good views and little creeks. Then came the part that wasn't in the plan: Short Stuff, who had really bad chest congestion all weekend, started puking up mucus once we were about 45 minutes off of the interstate and on curvy mountain roads. We stopped a few times to take care of him and change his clothes ("We don't have to tell anyone I was outside in the mountains in my underwear and no pants, do we, mommy?"), and finally found an old McDonald's bag and gave it to him for if he got sick again. "Mom, do you have a pen?" asked Funky Monkey. "No, Funky Monkey, we are not going to write 'barf bag' on it," I asserted. Apparently his 9 year old sense of humor had been thwarted by my momminess--"Aw, man!"

By the time we got the puking all taken care of, the kids were getting hungry (we had eaten an early lunch), and we stopped for dinner. We got back on the road, and the sun started to set. That was when it occurred to us that we had picked some of the most mountainous, curvy paths to take, so that the kids would have stunning views the whole way home. We did not anticipate being delayed by a few hours, and taking these roads at night, with neither of us being experienced mountain-drivers.

Can I just say that the "Great Smoky Mountains" are not so great to navigate after dark when you aren't familiar with the roads and are not a mountain native? We spent FOUR hours driving 15 mph in the dark on winding mountain roads with terrifying dropoffs and no guardrail. Sassy Pants started crying about 1 hour into it.

"Why are you crying?"

"Because I'm scared?" *blows nose*

"Oh, baby, don't be scared! Why are you scared?"

"Because we're lost." sniff sniff

"Honey, we're not lost. We have a map, and we know where we're going."

This is where Short Stuff (the 4 year old firecracker) chimed in: "I think I saw a sign back there that says there's monsters ahead!"

Sassy Pants again: "Shut up! I know there's no such thing as monsters!"

Short Stuff: "Well, I thought I saw a sign, anyway."

Me: "There are no monsters, no signs about monsters, and we're not lost. I saw the map, and this road does go to South Carolina. It's just a curvy, hilly road, and we have to take it slowly. That's all."

This quieted the fretting for a bit, until we had been driving for another couple of hours on winding roads, and came upon a state line sign: Welcome to Georgia!

Funky Monkey read the sign out loud, and major freaking out ensued in the backseats.

"We are lost! I knew it!"

"I thought you said this road went to South Carolina?"

"Oh, great. Georgia. We're never going to get home."

I did my best stern mom bit: "Chill out, guys. We're not lost. We are going to South Carolina." Then I turned to Daddy-O, and under my breath muttered, "check the map."

Turns out, Highway 28 does a bit of a turn through Georgia for a few miles before heading into Oconee county, South Carolina. No problem. Not lost.

The rest of the drive home was pretty uneventful, which is fine by me, as driving 4 hours on death-trap roads was event enough. Oh yeah, one final note: If you are ever passing through South Carolina and see a sign for a town named "Walhalla," please be advised that the locals do not say "wall' ha la" like my Sarasota-raised Floridian husband does. If you're in the Carolina lowcountry, it's pronounced "Wawl hah' luh." If you're in the upstate, where we live and where Walhalla is actually located, you gotta get a little more redneck with it. "Wawl holler" will suffice.

Small Town Christmas

(Advance apology: I'm making this post from my laptop, which had almost all the keys ripped off a couple of years ago when Short Stuff was 2, and the M and W keys never went back on right. So, I will try to proofread, but if there is a missing M or W, love me anyway.)

Ahhhhhh... family time. Much needed, much wanted, much appreciated. It's funny how I tend to let things get more and more hectic, partially so that I won't have to think as much about some of what's going on in my life, that when I finally slow down, I can't decide if I'm going to cry, enjoy my weekend, or just fall asleep.

This part of Alabama is beautiful-- foothills, little winding creeks, and crisp, cold weather. We're visiting my mother-in-law and her family, and getting to visit also with Daddy-O's little sister, who is my age and a single mom of a little guy about the same age as Sassy Pants. It is nice. It is peaceful.

This morning, MIL asked if I wanted us to try to go to the Christmas parade. My mind went a little something like this: "Parade? Ack! Sitting outside in too-cold weather, trying to wrangle my children and keep them from running into the street, while watching one crappy small-town papier-mache'd float after another stroll along, cheesy beauty queens, and a guy with a cheap Satan Santa costume wave out of obligation... Sounds positively frightful." Call me a grinch-- I don't care. I'm really just a homebody, most of the time. But in spite of the humbug happening in my head, what came out of my mouth was, "Wow. That would be nice."

We rushed to get everyone ready in time, and sprinted out the door 20 minutes before parade time. "Mom," said Funky Monkey. "I don't want to go to some stupid parade. I'd rather just stay here and play." "Nonsense," I said in my most enthusiastic game-show-host voice. "This is going to be fun!" He didn't seem convinced. I leaned in a little closer, so that nobody else would hear me. "Listen, kid, I don't want to go to this parade either. But, it's going to be fine, we're going to have a good time, and Grandma is excited to be taking us. If I can stuff it and smile, you can, too." Now, realizing we're on the same team, he smiled and nodded. Our little secret, you know. He kind of likes the idea of us being in cahoots-- us being in it together and all. Camaraderie. Cool. Especially if you're 9, and your younger brother and sister are not in on the secret.

We arrived at the parade site just before the start time, and were shuffled by the local police into a parking zone near where a bunch of horses and riders were gearing up for the big hoopty-doo. So, I hopped from the car, toting both of my cameras, and we settled in along the route. Chelsea, Alabama, has a population of around 3,000 people. I'd estimate that about 400 of them were lined up along the route near us. Another 400 or so of them were actually in the parade. For all my grumbling, it turned out to be so much fun! For starters, any parade in which candy, stuffed animals, footballs, beach balls, green tea, and bead necklaces are thrown at you without any expectation of nudity is A-okay in my book. Some of the kids on the floats were so carried away, that they sadistically pelted the onlookers with candy, so much so that all would duck and scream when the floats came by. One float had a little boy on it who was gleefully and repetitively shouting, "We celebrate Hanukkah! Wheeeeeeeeeee!" while flinging candy violently at the onlookers. He seemed so happy and full of joy, I almost didn't mind when the dum dum lollipop he had fired at me like a spear almost took my eye out.

And then the float for the local Curves gym worked its' way up the road. I could see that they were flinging larger-than-candy objects off the float like frisbees. Could it be...? Is it really...? My heart raced with anticipation. I shot out of the crowd, tripping over roadside piles of leaves and knocking down small children, determined to claim mine... And then I saw it being sailed toward me, and I flew through the air with the kind of slow-mo agility seen in The Matrix, and caught it in my hand as I landed on the ground. A banana flavored Moon Pie. Ahhhhhhhh, the Deep South. Hallelujah and praise Alabama. I love Moon Pies. :-) Now, whether or not a weight-loss gym tossing Moon Pies into a crowd of sugar-crazed individuals constitutes a breach of ethics-- who knows. As for me and my Moon Pie, we don't care.

Shortly thereafter came the float for a local native tribe... As they drove by, I yelled out a heart-felt "Happy Holidays!" A lady on the float yelled something back that I didn't understand. Seeing my look of confusion, she added, "It means 'Merry Christmas' in Cherokee!"

After the parade, we came back to the house to rest for a while before opening presents.Three things about presents:
1) Whoever it is that designed the humongous Hot Wheels thingy that Short Stuff got from Grandma should be praised for his or her genius and creativity, shortly before being shot for creating anything that requires the painstaking assembly of 321 small parts and stickers;
2)Cabbage Patch Dolls still smell exactly like they did when we were kids, and my sister-in-law and I took turns sniffing "Nancey Tiffany" until my daughter, disturbed by the fact that we'd rather smell her new doll than play with it, forbade us from doll-play for the night;
and 3) A remote-control helicopter that really flies will put the kind of smile on a 9 year old's face that hasn't been there for a very long time.

The kids played with the presents until dinnertime, and then just as we were about to sit down for dumplings, greens, and sweet potatoes, we hear a ridiculously loud siren from outside. My husband and I, conditioned to think of sirens as a bad thing, hid under the coffee table. My MIL and SIL jumped to their feet and shouted, "SANTA!" We grabbed the children, threw on their coats, and ran into the front yard. Driving up and down the streets, at 6:30 pm in the evening, in the dark, a big, red fire truck was toting the fat red dude through neighborhoods, tossing even more candy to children. Up and down the street, children, in various states of dress and/or pajama goodness, stood in their front yards shouting and celebrating.

We came back in, ate tasty home-cooked vittles, and started a fire in the fireplace. The children were asleep almost immediately, and the grownups were mellow and satisfied.

Getting away for a bit has done me good already, and I still have a couple more days to go. Family time is a luxury I fight to maintain when back home in the daily grind; here, away from work and chores, it is my life... a good life. I tend to be one to let the worries of my mind and heart surround me, turning them over and over until I'm not sure I can escape the anxiety. Today has been different. Today has been good. It is starting to feel like Christmas.

Almost Winter

We had our first big winter-style weather during the night last night-- everything was frozen over on my drive to work today. Big pine trees lumbered over from the weight of the ice, almost like willows. It's cold. Really cold (for South Carolina in December). Last week, I wore a long-sleeved t-shirt one day and was fine. This week, winter has announced its impending arrival.

Signs of the season: For starters, I'm back down two shades in my foundation makeup-- I've gone from "Almost Pasty White #200" through "Slightly Pasty White #100" to "Damn, Whitey, Get Some Sun #104." When my youngest son, the firecracker, was 2, he went through a fascination with body lotion, and would get into my bathroom and cover himself with smelly girl lotions, simply because he was two and didn't know better. One day, he got into my #104 foundation, and thought it was body lotion. So, he stripped himself naked, and covered himself with my foundation from his chest to his knees. Ladies, when your foundation shade is a perfect match for your 2 year old's naked rear, you are WHITE.

Signs of the season: Static electricity! Having lived in Florida for the past 7 years, last year I was not accustomed to the way winter lights you up. Lately, it seems that every time I go to kiss my husband, a big zap connects us and it scares us half to death. Like some kind of Pavlovian conditioning, I've learned to slug him in the arm before kissing him, just to get out any electricity first. His response, equally conditioned? Kick me when he sees me coming to punch him. So, we have a mini-sparring match followed by a tender kiss. Nice. I mean, come on, I know I'd like some electricity between us, but that's not exactly the kind I was thinking of. Oh well, I guess after 6 years, we'll take what we can get.

Signs of the season: Navigation through the living room is now obstructed by the tree and the growing mound of gifts beneath it. I decided that this year, I was going to put all the items that weren't already boxed into boxes, so nobody could guess what it is from feeling it. And, working in a warehouse that stocks exterior building materials, the only boxes I could find are, say, the size of a shutter. Or a roll of PVC trim coil. Neither of which is actually small enough to fit under my tree, but hey, I'm creative, right?

Signs of the season: My beautiful children did their final performance of their church Christmas play, The First Leon, last night. My son's Leon made me cry on several occasions... He plays sweet and unassuming so well. Must be from 6 years of watching my husband, because it sure isn't from me! The child sings like an angel, and had everyone in the audience going, "Awwwwwwwwwww..." with his every word. My 5 year old daughter, who was a narrator with big words like "Caesar Augustus" and one line with more intos, out ofs, and untos than I could remember, was perfect! Even if her sequined headband (that was supposed to look like a halo) gave her that Olivia Newton John "Physical" kind of 1980s ambiance. And my youngest (the firecracker, remember?) dressed as a sheep and followed Mary and Joseph in at the end. Until he rammed himself head-first into the side of a front row pew, fell to the ground, and lay there on his back twitching like a dying cockroach for a few seconds before moving on. Then, during the finale, he jumped up onto the stage and did a stagedive, just for kicks. Oh, and the "Shepherd Boy Band" dance I choreographed and taught the boys? It stole the show. Nothing like a bunch of 5-11 year old boys breakdancing, doing the worm, and generally being ridiculous (exactly as instructed) to bring the house down! It was wonderful, even if my friend Maher (who is Muslim, but came to see the play to support my kids) declared us all infidels and made fun of my boy band dance. "They learned freak from the finest."

Not a sign of the season, but a fun thing I have to throw in: After the play, we came back to my place with Zaxby's take-out and some "party" supplies for my kids to celebrate their great job. After their bedtime, Daddy-O, Maher, and I sat up until 1:30 AM goofing off, telling stories, reminiscing about stupid things we did as teenagers, and engaging in what can only be described as the tetris armageddon. It was the battle to end all battles, but in the end, I think Daddy-O and I agreed that Maher was the winner. Quite possibly because while we were out dating, partying, and generally being heathens in high school, Maher was locked in his basement, playing tetris with a level of skill and dedication that is usually only reserved for surgeons and rocket scientists. His level of tetris mastery is simply not normal. He is a freak.

So, that's what's happening in the wonderful world of almost-winter so far this year. Hope you're all doing well! We're leaving tomorrow morning for Alabama, so posting may be sporadic for a few days, although I'll definitely be checking in. If you're much of a pray-er, pray for safe travel for us and a nice visit. We haven't been back since one of our family members there was killed, and it seems that both our lives and theirs have taken some crazy turns since then. It will be good to be with family.

insanity

If I were completely and totally insane, I would hatch a plan. In this plan, I would require that every single organization known to humanity would plan special events for 2 weeks straight-- school clubs, bands, scouts, camping programs, churches, children's programs, sports clubs, family get-togethers, and workplaces. (Did I miss anyone?) They would schedule so many activities, many of them purposefully planned for the exact same times, that any person or family who attempted to keep up and attend even 1/2 of the activities for the groups to which they belong would lose their minds.

As reality would have it, I am not completely and totally insane. Only mildly bizarre, hyper-sensitive, and generally kooky. So, the above is not my plan. However, it seems to be the plan of everyone else around me. Over the next 6 days, I have at least 16 hours worth of planned and structured activities in which I must take part. This is on top of the fact that I work a 40+ hour/week job (which is more than that this week due to year-end bookkeeping kinds of issues), teach music and band 6 hours per week, and try to occasionally make time to be a wife and mom. And I have to somehow fit in a bit more Christmas shopping to wrap that up before we leave (in 7 days) for a trip to Alabama. Time to be me-- just a woman enjoying some free time and a hobby or two? Bah, humbug. I'll be a woman later.

Mark your calendars, ladies and gentlemen, for Thursday night, December 15 at 9 pm. That is when it will all be over, no more programs, school officially out, etc. And it is also likely to be the precise moment that I have a nervous breakdown. I can hold it in until then.

In other news, just when you think it's all sorting itself out, it's not. No tidiness, no wrapping up. Just the continual reopening of wounds that you just wish had never happened. I need to get used to the idea that this is my reality for the foreseeable future.

pigs need not apply

Men. As someone who has finally found and married the most perfect man in the world (who just happens to have a birthday tomorrow), I don't really think about //men// as a concept, generality, label, or subgroup of the population any more. I don't have to worry as much any more about men who are liars or men who approach me with less-than-honorable motives, as the primary man in my life at this time is the kind of person who amazes me with his... his everything. Can't list it all, it's just all so good.

But that hasn't always been the case.
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I didn't really date much in high school-- I was more the freckled brace-faced geek in the corner wearing plaid flannel and Doc Martens, too scared to be social, sitting around listening to the Pixies, the Smiths, and They Might Be Giants so that I wouldn't have to talk to anyone at lunch time. I had a few boyfriends (mostly people I'd met while at band camps, drum major camps, and Governor's School). Truthfully, I had received two marriage proposals before even leaving for college, both of which I turned down. All in all, though, I wasn't much of a player on the dating scene. But when I went off to college at 17, that all started to change, at least a little.

Serious boyfriend #1: Losing the Race (I was 18, he was 23; 3 months)
In case you haven't noticed, I am white (for most purposes). My first serious boyfriend was not. I actually met him when I was a senior in high school and he came to my hometown (a major tourist attraction in South Carolina) for Spring Break. He and his buddies stayed in the hotel where I worked (operating a small convenience store part time), and made an unusually high number of trips to the store to buy stuff. It wasn't until later that fall, when I realized that it was the same guy in the USC marching band with me and we started dating, that he confessed that he had made up excuses to come into the store just to talk to me. It might be good to note at this point that 4 generations up my ancestry tree, I have a biracial great-great-grandfather. Knowing that he would have been born in the Deep South in the mid-late 1800s, the imagination doesn't have to travel far to suppose the kind of circumstance into which he might have been born, but that's another post for another day. For the purposes of this story, the relevance is that although I have fair skin, freckles, and very white features in general, I have at least one (that I know of) branch of my family tree that goes back to both white slave owners and black slaves. So, the fact that my entire family flipped their lids over me dating a black guy remains a complete and total mystery to me. In any case, I didn't dump him because of my parents hissyfits. In fact, I think I went a few months without speaking to them because of their hissyfits. But in the end, the stress and anxiety of my parents' reactions (and his) contributed to the demise of the relationship. VERDICT: NOT A PIG

Serious boyfriend #2: Double Agent (I was 18, he was 34; off and on for 5 years because I'm a glutton for punishment)
Not much to say about this one, simply because there's too much that I could say. For now, I'll simply caution married men out there: If you one day find yourself dissatisfied with your current marriage situation and decide to take on a lover on the side in another state, at least have the decency to let the potential "other woman" know that you are married with a family in another state sometime before she's been in love with you for a year, and preferably before you take her out trying on engagement rings, meet her family, and start a new family with her. A woman, however young and naive and stupid, deserves to be able to choose whether or not she will be a pawn in someone else's betrayal. VERDICT: PIG. Primarily because he was someone who had so much potential to be an incredible person, but has never seemed to want to light that potential on fire and use it to make the world a better place.

Serious boyfriend #3: I was the heathen (age 21 [and already a single mom], about 6 months)
This was my first experience of falling in love with my best friend. In an attempt to put some space between me and boyfriend #2, I had moved to Florida in May of 1997. After a couple of weeks of writing back and forth, it occurred to me that there was, in fact, at least one guy out there who had never treated me with anything but respect-- someone who had taken care of me during rough times, listened to me, supported me, shared with me, and participated in absolute silliness with me (an important element of any relationship, as far as I'm concerned), and who had never once taken advantage of my emotional struggles for his own benefit. I wrote a letter confessing my complete and total admiration and infatuation, which led to a few months of a great long distance relationship-- lots of phone calls, letters, and road trips. Eventually, #3 became the 4th person to ask me to marry him, and for the first time, I said yes. And that was about the end of that relationship. Turns out, his parents, who are the first generation in his family to come to the United States and who are not Christians, were very much opposed to him marrying into the family of the great white westernized Christian devil, particularly at such a young age, and being the kind of son most parents dream of having, he would not oppose their wishes. He is still a very close family friend, and has become a friend to my husband as well, and remains one of the men I think of when I think of integrity, honesty, and character. VERDICT: NOT A PIG

Serious boyfriend #4: Weenie Man(I was 21, he was 34; 1 year)
This relationship was doomed from the start. We met at church and had a great time, and I think he was just excited to find someone who was both Christian and fun, and who (like him) enjoyed art museums, indie films, ethnic foods, and mellow nights at home. We were also both disability advocates at the time-- me working with kids with autism, and him working in technology for disability rehab. Unfortunately, two major things led to the end. First, I was terribly insecure and not very trusting after the betrayal of boyfriend #2, and #4 was the geeky big-brother kind of friend to a horde of gorgeous young women who never made an effort to get to know me. Secondly, I was a single mom and no longer interested in dating "just for fun," and #4 had some MAJOR commitment issues. Note to any guy thinking about dating a single mother: No matter how un-needy this woman may try to seem, don't waste her time if you know in your heart that you aren't ready for a commitment. It just isn't fair or productive. As a side note, #4 is now in his forties, and still not sure if "Mrs. Right" is ever going to come along. He'll be waiting a long time, I imagine. VERDICT: NOT A PIG. JUST A WEENIE. No guts, no glory.

Serious boyfriend #5: Skeezy Porn Guy(I was 22, he was 34; 3 months)
I met this guy at a healing service at the church I started attending. He was one of the hands-on healers participating in the service, and I spent most of the service praying that he wouldn't come anywhere near me. Truth be told, I had just about had it with guys by this point, and didn't want to be touched by some jerk I didn't even know. Well, as things would turn out, he never did come to pray with me. But after the service, he came up to make sure he had not offended me: "You know, I just wanted to make sure you didn't think I was ignoring you or anything-- I just really felt it on my heart that perhaps you didn't want me to come into your space, so I wanted to be sensitive to that and not make you uncomfortable." A man who is sensitive, thoughtful, and spiritual? One like that exists? *swoon* After I found out he played in our local symphony, I was sold. At 16, I had been the youngest member to ever play in our local symphony back home, so it was a nice common bond. Once we started dating, I realized what a complete and total condescending, chauvinist a-hole he really was, and couldn't believe I had ever fallen for his act. He lied to and manipulated me, and told me lots of half-truths because he thought I couldn't handle knowing certain things about him and his lifestyle. Then I discovered the porn. Boxes and boxes of it. Videos, magazines, toys, and web histories that were pretty overwhelming by their sheer numbers; teens, barely legal, disgusting stuff, really. By this point, I had had it with guys wasting my time. I gave him an ultimatum-- get rid of it or I go. He babbled a bunch of excuses, and I left him. I probably would have left him anyway, even if he had gotten rid of it. He was a sorry excuse for a human, and the sad thing is that he probably still believes to this day that I was the one with the problem. VERDICT: PIGGIEST OF THE PIGS

That was the last guy I dated before my now-husband. Quite a passel of pigs, eh? (with a few exceptions...)
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So, the past few days, I've been thinking a good bit about my husband and how thankful I am for him, for his integrity, for his honesty, and for him being such a larger-than-life great guy for my children to look up to. His birthday is tomorrow, and our anniversary is next weekend, and I can't help but be overwhelmed and humbled when I think of how greatly he towers over most of the "men" I've dated in the past. It's so intense, my admiration for him, so much so that I think we should quit calling everyone with a penis a "man." There's got to be a better word. We really should think of reserving the word "man" for people who actually deserve it-- for those who set the standard for others to follow. Pigs need not apply. Now, I know that the only commenters I ever seem to get on my blog are men, and from what I have gathered thus far they seem to be pretty extraordinary men, and so for weeks, I've resisted the urge to post something that might be seen as anti-man. But for the women reading this who have been putting up with CRAP from guys for however long, and for the male readers I may occasionally get who are blissfully unaware that they are pigs-- be aware. Ladies, there are in fact real men out there-- men who will respect you, love you, lift you up, adore you, spoil you, inspire you, and be your best friend. Don't settle for less. And pigs, watch out. Those real men-- they will happen upon your women eventually, and when they do, all your flaws and secrets and silliness and control issues will be exposed for what they are, and you will be very, sadly, and completely alone. Change now, or prepare for the worst. :-)