I was scrounging around for a blog topic today, when VOILA! one was provided for me by a random series of morning events that ended up with me watching 1 1/2 minutes of some early morning news-type show. The commentator began the bit by describing a woman who carries a gene that makes her more likely to get breast cancer than the normal woman. The show then switched to interviewing the woman herself who said the following "I haven't had breast cancer yet. That makes me a cancer survivor."
No, it doesn't.
As a woman who's both battled cancer and who's been told she's three times more likely to develop breast cancer than the average woman, I have to say something to this. I don't intend to be nitpicky here. I understand the weight of carrying around a doctor's prediction that of all the people standing in a field of land mines, you're more likely to get your head blown off. That's a heavy weight to carry and it means proactively preventing and being smart about how you safeguard (and check up on) your health.
But it doesn't make you a cancer survivor. Not until you've heard those three awful, life-changing words "You have cancer," not until you've looked in the mirror and tried to wrap your head around the fact that your body has turned against you, not until you gaze at your children and worry you won't be here for Christmas, not until you've had surgery, and then another, and some chemo, and then some more, not until you've lost weight, lost hair, lost perspective on anything that doesn't directly help you fight the monster invading your body can you possibly say you're a cancer survivor.
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Etiquette of Contest Judging
The writing contest circuit is alive and kicking this time of year with the Golden Hearts, the Ritas, and various chapter contests all approaching the judging deadline. I judged in the Golden Heart this year, and I also judged our chapter's contest this past summer.
I enjoy it for a variety of reasons. For one, sometimes I read really cool writing that I know I'll be able to find on my Books A Million shelf in a couple years. For another, judging a contest (if one judges well) gives me the opportunity to encourage an up and coming writer who needs to know where they can improve, but also desperately needs to hear what they're doing right.
I never thought about writing a contest judging etiquette post until I recently saw some stuff on Twitter and Facebook that was an awful example of judging at its worst. I'll get to that in a minute. For now, I give you my (less than comprehensive, I'm sure!) list of what to do as a contest judge.
What To Do:
1. Remember you hold someone's dream in your hands. Treat it with the same respect you'd want someone else to give yours. This doesn't mean you inflate the score or give insincere compliments. It does mean you treat them as you would want to be treated were you in that writer's shoes.
2. Get perspective of the scoring range. If the highest possible score is a 9, the basic, average, "you've got a lot to work on" score should start at 5. Not 1. A 1 is "you don't know how to put two words together to form the most basic of sentences." A 1 is a crushing insult to someone who can, indeed, write basic sentences, but needs improvement in grammar, spelling, plot etc. If an entry is formatted correctly and meets the basic criteria for a story (has main characters, seems to have a plot, I'm able to read it, grammar errors notwithstanding), start in the middle and move up from there.
3. Don't let your personal pet peeves skew the score. If you hate sentences that start with "and" or "but" and you're sooo over vampires and the entry you're reading has both, look past it and judge the quality of the writing. If you honestly can't look past it, contact the contest coordinator and request the entry be reassigned. Being as fair as possible is crucial.
4. Learn how to offer constructive feedback. Saying "I don't like your character" isn't nearly as helpful as saying "I don't feel connected to your character because I don't have any idea how she feels about things. If you showed us her emotional reaction to the events in this chapter via body language, dialogue, and some inner turmoil, I think I'd be connected and care deeply about what happens next." Structure every comment with as much respectful, helpful guidance as possible.
5. Watch the negative comments. If the entry really needs a lot of work, focus on a few things that would make a big difference and touch on those. Be sure to include positive as well as constructive feedback. No one needs to have their spirits crushed when with a little thought and finesse you could get your point across with grace and respect.
6. Remember what it felt like to be new. Remember the rush of deciding you were going to finally pursue your dream of writing? Remember how you spilled words onto the page without much thought to anything but getting the story out? Remember when you thought that first manuscript was the best thing you'd ever write? Give the benefit of the doubt to the entrants. I'm not recommending inflating the score. I'm saying be gentle. Honest, but gentle. Choose encouragement over cruelty every time.
7. Be professional. Discreet. Respectful.
What Not To Do:
1. Do not, under ANY circumstances, tweet or post on Facebook negative comments about the entries you judge. This reeks of unprofessionalism. It's disrespectful to the writer whose entry you're judging and it makes you look rude. Don't blog about it either. If you really can't judge other writers' work without spilling negative comments online, don't be a judge.
2. Don't use sarcasm in your feedback. Even if you think you're being funny. Just don't.
3. Don't roll your eyes at mistakes you know you made when you were new. Help them fix it. If you're judging a contest where comments aren't included, take care how many points you knock off for different things. The goal isn't to grind the writer down.
4. Don't assume the responsibility of helping the writer "grow a thick skin." That's simply a poor excuse for you not remaining professional. Will the writer have to grow a thick skin (or at least the appearance of one?)? Maybe. But you don't have to be the cause.
I'm sure there are some points I've missed. Veteran contest judges (or writers who've had good/bad experiences with contests) feel free to chime in.
I enjoy it for a variety of reasons. For one, sometimes I read really cool writing that I know I'll be able to find on my Books A Million shelf in a couple years. For another, judging a contest (if one judges well) gives me the opportunity to encourage an up and coming writer who needs to know where they can improve, but also desperately needs to hear what they're doing right.
I never thought about writing a contest judging etiquette post until I recently saw some stuff on Twitter and Facebook that was an awful example of judging at its worst. I'll get to that in a minute. For now, I give you my (less than comprehensive, I'm sure!) list of what to do as a contest judge.
What To Do:
1. Remember you hold someone's dream in your hands. Treat it with the same respect you'd want someone else to give yours. This doesn't mean you inflate the score or give insincere compliments. It does mean you treat them as you would want to be treated were you in that writer's shoes.
2. Get perspective of the scoring range. If the highest possible score is a 9, the basic, average, "you've got a lot to work on" score should start at 5. Not 1. A 1 is "you don't know how to put two words together to form the most basic of sentences." A 1 is a crushing insult to someone who can, indeed, write basic sentences, but needs improvement in grammar, spelling, plot etc. If an entry is formatted correctly and meets the basic criteria for a story (has main characters, seems to have a plot, I'm able to read it, grammar errors notwithstanding), start in the middle and move up from there.
3. Don't let your personal pet peeves skew the score. If you hate sentences that start with "and" or "but" and you're sooo over vampires and the entry you're reading has both, look past it and judge the quality of the writing. If you honestly can't look past it, contact the contest coordinator and request the entry be reassigned. Being as fair as possible is crucial.
4. Learn how to offer constructive feedback. Saying "I don't like your character" isn't nearly as helpful as saying "I don't feel connected to your character because I don't have any idea how she feels about things. If you showed us her emotional reaction to the events in this chapter via body language, dialogue, and some inner turmoil, I think I'd be connected and care deeply about what happens next." Structure every comment with as much respectful, helpful guidance as possible.
5. Watch the negative comments. If the entry really needs a lot of work, focus on a few things that would make a big difference and touch on those. Be sure to include positive as well as constructive feedback. No one needs to have their spirits crushed when with a little thought and finesse you could get your point across with grace and respect.
6. Remember what it felt like to be new. Remember the rush of deciding you were going to finally pursue your dream of writing? Remember how you spilled words onto the page without much thought to anything but getting the story out? Remember when you thought that first manuscript was the best thing you'd ever write? Give the benefit of the doubt to the entrants. I'm not recommending inflating the score. I'm saying be gentle. Honest, but gentle. Choose encouragement over cruelty every time.
7. Be professional. Discreet. Respectful.
What Not To Do:
1. Do not, under ANY circumstances, tweet or post on Facebook negative comments about the entries you judge. This reeks of unprofessionalism. It's disrespectful to the writer whose entry you're judging and it makes you look rude. Don't blog about it either. If you really can't judge other writers' work without spilling negative comments online, don't be a judge.
2. Don't use sarcasm in your feedback. Even if you think you're being funny. Just don't.
3. Don't roll your eyes at mistakes you know you made when you were new. Help them fix it. If you're judging a contest where comments aren't included, take care how many points you knock off for different things. The goal isn't to grind the writer down.
4. Don't assume the responsibility of helping the writer "grow a thick skin." That's simply a poor excuse for you not remaining professional. Will the writer have to grow a thick skin (or at least the appearance of one?)? Maybe. But you don't have to be the cause.
I'm sure there are some points I've missed. Veteran contest judges (or writers who've had good/bad experiences with contests) feel free to chime in.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Commercial Fiction: One Writer's (Probably Intelligent) Rant
Today, I read something that made me mad. I won't link to it because I refuse to drive more traffic to this person's site, but in a nutshell, this writer stated that agents and publishers are choking off the existence of literary fiction by forcing the masses to only read commercial fiction which, by this writer's definition, is "low-brow and unintelligent." The writer speculated on the lack of talent, work ethic, and intelligence in those writers who would write commercial fiction and stated they must be writing it because they wanted publication enough to suck up to what publishers wanted.
As a writer of commercial fiction, this offends me deeply. Here's why.
1. The writer makes a big fat assumption that I write commercial fiction because I'm not smart enough to write something else. I despise sweeping statements that classify an entire group of people as if there aren't nuances to everything. Frankly, if someone is too elitist or ignorant to realize that there are individual people with individual choices behind every commercial manuscript published, I'm not ready to give credence to anything they say.
More to the point, I write commercial fiction because it's what I love to read. I'm intelligent, educated, well-read, experienced, have a firm grasp of the English language and many of its subtleties, understand the craft of writing, have mastered much of the art of story-telling, know how to weave symbolism into the thematic fabric of my work, and can plumb the depths of the human condition with one finely crafted sentence. I could write anything I want to and I do. I write commercial fiction. Not because I'm unable to write something else. Because I love it.
2. This writer's assertion that her manuscript hasn't been published because agents and editors refuse to allow "real" fiction to fall into the hands of the adoring public smacks of both sour grapes and a stubborn refusal to take her rejections like a big girl and move on. We've all written something that won't sell (With, perhaps, the exception of Stephenie Meyer.). We've all been told "no." Most of us will hear the word "no" far more often throughout our career than we'll ever hear "yes." Does that mean agents and editors have banded together to refuse our masterpiece a space on the hallowed shelves of Barnes & Nobles because we're too intelligent for the masses to comprehend?
No.
It means write something else. And then something else. And something else again until you write something that will sell. It's called paying your dues. Practicing your craft. Hitting your stride. Finding your niche. Getting lucky with the market.
If a writer thinks she should be entitled to bypass this because her manuscript is important enough to be called literary fiction, she needs to wean herself off the Entitlement Wagon and join the real world. No one owes you a publishing contract simply because you typed "The End." I don't care what genre you write.
3. Which brings me to what really bothered me: the assumption that literary fiction is somehow more important than every other genre out there. This is elitist snobbery at its worst. It's like saying classical is the only true music out there and everything else is a red-headed step-child crowding the airwaves and filling up the concert venues and night clubs because the masses are too stupid to realize better music is out there. I can't get behind anyone who believes one form of artistry takes more thought, more work, or more craft than another. Or that one genre is more important than another.
Different genres exist because tastes differ. That's something to celebrate. I enjoy bypassing rows and rows of genres I don't care to read on my way to the rows and rows of genres I love. Why? Because other shoppers are crowding the rows I ignore, discovering new authors or buying from those they already love and that's a good thing.
A good thing.
It's good that smart, talented, artistic writers like Nora Roberts, Stephen King, Laura Lippman, Maggie Stiefvater, J.K. Rowling, Dean Koontz, Jeaniene Frost, Lillith Saintcrow, Julia Quinn, Nancy Werlin, Lisa Mantchev and a host of others buckled down, worked like ditch-diggers, and wrote what they loved.
And I must make it clear that I'm not taking aim at literary fiction or those who love to write it. I'm responding to one writer's attitude only. I think lit fic has just as much place on a bookshelf as manga or romance or thrillers or YA and I believe all authors deserve respect for pouring themselves into their craft.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to crafting my own piece of commercial fiction in which themes of abandonment, choice vs. nature, and what must be sacrificed for the greater good go hand in hand with fainting goats and stealing a flock of chickens.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Open Letter To Whoopi Goldberg
Dear Whoopi,
Yesterday, in your position as co-host of The View you quantified Roman Polanski's crime as "not rape-rape."
I'll be honest. I don't care if Polanski's legal team was able to plead his charge down from rape to sex with a minor. A 43 year old man giving drugs and liquor to a 13 year old girl and having sex with her is RAPE, regardless of any plea bargains. I defy you to read the actual transcripts of the trial and call it anything less. In fact, I defy you to read those transcripts and not feel sick at the severity of his crime.
For you to call it "not rape-rape" implies there are degrees to the act of forcing another to have sex. That's like saying "Well, it wasn't murder-murder" when someone chooses to take the life of another. The end result is still one person dead by another person's hand. The same concept applies to rape. The end result is one person violated by another.
Setting aside the unbelievable response of the French ministry (Calling the arrest of a child abuser a travesty of justice? Go get yourself some priorities.), the sad but unsurprising Hollywood petition for Polanski's release being circulated by Woody Allen (Is anyone shocked Allen refuses to see anything wrong with Polanski's behavior?), and the technicalities of a Supreme Court judge considering overturning the lawyer's plan to count a mere 45 days of being held for psychiatric evaluation as consequence enough for violating a child, the real issue I have here is your coining a new term "rape-rape."
How many years have women fought to have rape seen as the heinous crime it is? It used to be rape only counted if you were a woman with a spotless life and enough money or influence to make the charges stick. It used to be children accusing adults of rape weren't believed or protected. It used to be date rape wasn't something the law took seriously. It used to be true that a woman who'd been raped was then judged on her choice of outfit, her alcohol consumption, her lifestyle, or what side of the tracks she came from in case the lawyers could spin it to say, in effect, "she asked for it."
Sometimes all of the above are still true but we've fought to change that. To stand up for ourselves. To protect our children. To say that if anyone, anyone, chooses to force themselves upon another, they deserve the full consequences of the law.
There is no such thing as "rape-rape" and not rape. There is only a predator forcing himself upon his prey. You shame the women of this country by suggesting anything different. How many teenage girls saw you call Polanski's despicable act "not rape-rape" and decided to keep quiet about their own situation because they might not be taken seriously? How many girls heard your words and formed opinions about what boundaries they could and could not draw for themselves with men?
Your words, indeed, your attitude are unconscionable. You have a daughter. I seriously doubt if a 43 year old man got her high and drunk and had sex with her you'd be parsing it out to see if it was really "rape-rape." I bet you'd hunt him down with every intention of seeking justice for your daughter.
Why would you deny it for someone else? Because the predator happens to be a talented, respected Hollywood director? I can't imagine any other reason. If the exact same situation happened only the perpetrator was Joe the Garbage Man, you'd be calling for his head on a platter. Wouldn't you? Or are you so out of touch with reality that you really think there is ever a situation where a middle-aged man should be allowed to have sex with a teenager?
As for your benevolent understanding of Polanski's decision to flee before his sentencing because the Supreme Court judge (who'd decided the lawyers' finagling to commute his sentence to the paltry 45 days served under psychiatric evaluation didn't constitute justice and was considering overturning the lower court's decision) might give him "100 years," I ask you this: Would 45 days be enough justice for your daughter?
In case you're searching for an answer, I'll give it to you: NO.
Polanski, armed with his expensive legal team, needed to face the music. If he was unhappy with the judge throwing out his lawyers' arrangement, he could file for a mistrial or an appeal. He could have worked within the legal system. He chose not to. He fled justice and I accord him no sympathy for that.
I am deeply disappointed that another woman could ever excuse his behavior or fail to see the seriousness of rape. Every rape. Every time. No matter what. With only 6% of rapists ever serving jail time for their crime, our country has a long way to go in stepping up to the plate to protect its citizens. Your words put weight on the wrong side of the scale.
Shame on you, Whoopi. Turn in your estrogen card. You don't deserve to carry it anymore.
Sincerely,
C.J. Redwine
Yesterday, in your position as co-host of The View you quantified Roman Polanski's crime as "not rape-rape."
I'll be honest. I don't care if Polanski's legal team was able to plead his charge down from rape to sex with a minor. A 43 year old man giving drugs and liquor to a 13 year old girl and having sex with her is RAPE, regardless of any plea bargains. I defy you to read the actual transcripts of the trial and call it anything less. In fact, I defy you to read those transcripts and not feel sick at the severity of his crime.
For you to call it "not rape-rape" implies there are degrees to the act of forcing another to have sex. That's like saying "Well, it wasn't murder-murder" when someone chooses to take the life of another. The end result is still one person dead by another person's hand. The same concept applies to rape. The end result is one person violated by another.
Setting aside the unbelievable response of the French ministry (Calling the arrest of a child abuser a travesty of justice? Go get yourself some priorities.), the sad but unsurprising Hollywood petition for Polanski's release being circulated by Woody Allen (Is anyone shocked Allen refuses to see anything wrong with Polanski's behavior?), and the technicalities of a Supreme Court judge considering overturning the lawyer's plan to count a mere 45 days of being held for psychiatric evaluation as consequence enough for violating a child, the real issue I have here is your coining a new term "rape-rape."
How many years have women fought to have rape seen as the heinous crime it is? It used to be rape only counted if you were a woman with a spotless life and enough money or influence to make the charges stick. It used to be children accusing adults of rape weren't believed or protected. It used to be date rape wasn't something the law took seriously. It used to be true that a woman who'd been raped was then judged on her choice of outfit, her alcohol consumption, her lifestyle, or what side of the tracks she came from in case the lawyers could spin it to say, in effect, "she asked for it."
Sometimes all of the above are still true but we've fought to change that. To stand up for ourselves. To protect our children. To say that if anyone, anyone, chooses to force themselves upon another, they deserve the full consequences of the law.
There is no such thing as "rape-rape" and not rape. There is only a predator forcing himself upon his prey. You shame the women of this country by suggesting anything different. How many teenage girls saw you call Polanski's despicable act "not rape-rape" and decided to keep quiet about their own situation because they might not be taken seriously? How many girls heard your words and formed opinions about what boundaries they could and could not draw for themselves with men?
Your words, indeed, your attitude are unconscionable. You have a daughter. I seriously doubt if a 43 year old man got her high and drunk and had sex with her you'd be parsing it out to see if it was really "rape-rape." I bet you'd hunt him down with every intention of seeking justice for your daughter.
Why would you deny it for someone else? Because the predator happens to be a talented, respected Hollywood director? I can't imagine any other reason. If the exact same situation happened only the perpetrator was Joe the Garbage Man, you'd be calling for his head on a platter. Wouldn't you? Or are you so out of touch with reality that you really think there is ever a situation where a middle-aged man should be allowed to have sex with a teenager?
As for your benevolent understanding of Polanski's decision to flee before his sentencing because the Supreme Court judge (who'd decided the lawyers' finagling to commute his sentence to the paltry 45 days served under psychiatric evaluation didn't constitute justice and was considering overturning the lower court's decision) might give him "100 years," I ask you this: Would 45 days be enough justice for your daughter?
In case you're searching for an answer, I'll give it to you: NO.
Polanski, armed with his expensive legal team, needed to face the music. If he was unhappy with the judge throwing out his lawyers' arrangement, he could file for a mistrial or an appeal. He could have worked within the legal system. He chose not to. He fled justice and I accord him no sympathy for that.
I am deeply disappointed that another woman could ever excuse his behavior or fail to see the seriousness of rape. Every rape. Every time. No matter what. With only 6% of rapists ever serving jail time for their crime, our country has a long way to go in stepping up to the plate to protect its citizens. Your words put weight on the wrong side of the scale.
Shame on you, Whoopi. Turn in your estrogen card. You don't deserve to carry it anymore.
Sincerely,
C.J. Redwine
Thursday, May 21, 2009
The Dangers of Silicone Valley
Last night, on American Idol, Kara totally showed-up Bikini Girl by joining her onstage and proving, without a doubt, that she can sing little miss Oops I Left The Rest Of My Outfit At The Store under the table.
Bikini Girl was mad. Humiliated. Uncomfortable.
It was a moment.
I found myself feeling a spark of compassion for Bikini Girl as she stood there flaunting her newly paid-for breasts and the tiny triangle of fabric she must have super glued to her skin to avoid a wardrobe malfunction. She was totally set up. She thought she was being given an honest award for best attitude (which shows just how far into the land of Oblivion she lives) and a chance to finally showcase her, um, talent for America. Instead, Kara took over and finished the song with a voice that made Bikini Girl's sound like the weak, shaky, non-musical instrument it truly was.
My spark of compassion flickered and died, however, when I remembered Bikini Girl's behavior over the course of the season. I think the nail in my sympathy's coffin was the moment she preened in front of the four judges at her first audition and accused Kara and Paula, who were--rightly--questioning her lack of musical talent, of being jealous.
Jealous.
When she didn't make it through Hollywood week, she blamed that on women's jealousy too.
In fact, Bikini Girl's entire outlook on life can be summed up in just one sentence: I'm hot in a skimpy bikini and that's why women don't like me.
I'd like to address that glaring misconception. I don't like Bikini Girl, but it has nothing to do with jealousy. Would I love to look that great in a swimsuit? Sure. But there are plenty of women who look better in a bikini than I do and I don't despise them. What's the difference?
The difference is Bikini Girl's attitude that a) she could get what she wanted by flaunting her body and b) she was entitled to success simply because she'd paid to have enough cleavage to hide the entire island of Puerto Rico.
That's why women--intelligent, strong, talented, hard-working women--despise her. We've struggled for decades to be seen as something more than a pin-up poster. We've fought to have the right to vote rather than be seen as empty-minded little delicate flowers. We've battled our way up corporate ladders, political hierarchies, and industries, demanding equal job opportunities and pay without resorting to sleeping with a man to get it. We've looked the male-dominated fields of science, film-making, literature, and art in the eye and said, "Move over, Mister, let me show you what I can do."
And we did it because we had the talent, grit, and heart it took to get it done.
When Bikini Girl walked into her audition, preening like a playboy bunny, and simpered her way through her introduction, all the while making eyes at the men in the room and ignoring the women, she disrespected all the women who'd fought for us to be viewed as more than a man's plaything. She operated on the assumption that she didn't need talent if she had boobs and that because she looked great on the outside, the fact that her inside showed a distinct lack of intelligence and integrity wouldn't matter.
It made me sick. It still does.
So, no. I don't feel compassion for her getting a comeuppance last night. I feel disgust that she would think her body is her only commodity. I'm glad she couldn't find a way to trade it in for a spot at the top. I doubt she learned her lesson but I hope other girls, little girls, who watch AI did. I hope they compared her to Allison Ireheta, who blazed through the competition on talent and heart alone, and see that a pretty face hiding a shallow, scheming mind remains nothing more than a pretty face.
Bikini Girl was mad. Humiliated. Uncomfortable.
It was a moment.
I found myself feeling a spark of compassion for Bikini Girl as she stood there flaunting her newly paid-for breasts and the tiny triangle of fabric she must have super glued to her skin to avoid a wardrobe malfunction. She was totally set up. She thought she was being given an honest award for best attitude (which shows just how far into the land of Oblivion she lives) and a chance to finally showcase her, um, talent for America. Instead, Kara took over and finished the song with a voice that made Bikini Girl's sound like the weak, shaky, non-musical instrument it truly was.
My spark of compassion flickered and died, however, when I remembered Bikini Girl's behavior over the course of the season. I think the nail in my sympathy's coffin was the moment she preened in front of the four judges at her first audition and accused Kara and Paula, who were--rightly--questioning her lack of musical talent, of being jealous.
Jealous.
When she didn't make it through Hollywood week, she blamed that on women's jealousy too.
In fact, Bikini Girl's entire outlook on life can be summed up in just one sentence: I'm hot in a skimpy bikini and that's why women don't like me.
I'd like to address that glaring misconception. I don't like Bikini Girl, but it has nothing to do with jealousy. Would I love to look that great in a swimsuit? Sure. But there are plenty of women who look better in a bikini than I do and I don't despise them. What's the difference?
The difference is Bikini Girl's attitude that a) she could get what she wanted by flaunting her body and b) she was entitled to success simply because she'd paid to have enough cleavage to hide the entire island of Puerto Rico.
That's why women--intelligent, strong, talented, hard-working women--despise her. We've struggled for decades to be seen as something more than a pin-up poster. We've fought to have the right to vote rather than be seen as empty-minded little delicate flowers. We've battled our way up corporate ladders, political hierarchies, and industries, demanding equal job opportunities and pay without resorting to sleeping with a man to get it. We've looked the male-dominated fields of science, film-making, literature, and art in the eye and said, "Move over, Mister, let me show you what I can do."
And we did it because we had the talent, grit, and heart it took to get it done.
When Bikini Girl walked into her audition, preening like a playboy bunny, and simpered her way through her introduction, all the while making eyes at the men in the room and ignoring the women, she disrespected all the women who'd fought for us to be viewed as more than a man's plaything. She operated on the assumption that she didn't need talent if she had boobs and that because she looked great on the outside, the fact that her inside showed a distinct lack of intelligence and integrity wouldn't matter.
It made me sick. It still does.
So, no. I don't feel compassion for her getting a comeuppance last night. I feel disgust that she would think her body is her only commodity. I'm glad she couldn't find a way to trade it in for a spot at the top. I doubt she learned her lesson but I hope other girls, little girls, who watch AI did. I hope they compared her to Allison Ireheta, who blazed through the competition on talent and heart alone, and see that a pretty face hiding a shallow, scheming mind remains nothing more than a pretty face.
Monday, May 4, 2009
And Stay Out
I just returned from watching Wolverine with Paul and Dusty. You have no idea how accurate that statement is. I watched Wolverine. I would love to say I watched and listened to Wolverine, but that would be an overstatement of enormous proportions.
Why?
Because two idiots decided it would be a fine idea to take their toddler with them to the movies. To a PG-13 movie. With nary an animated character in sight.
To make matters worse, these two idiots decided to manage their poor decision by sitting on opposite ends of the aisle that bisects the lower portion of the theater and allowing their delightful little spawn free rein over the entire theater.
She ran. She climbed. She giggled. She screamed. She yelled repeatedly for her Daddy.
No one responded to her. No. One. We were sitting at the very top, scanning the sparse afternoon crowd (of maybe 15 people) for any adult to make a move toward this child and none did. We became worried the child was lost and had somehow wandered out of Monsters vs. Aliens and into Wolverine and somewhere her very concerned parents were frantically searching for her.
Then, I noticed that she launched herself onto a woman's lap and it all became clear. The idiots were used to tuning out their daughter's sound-barrier-defying shrieks. The idiots didn't care that the rest of us were not.
You will, of course, not be at all surprised to know that I am not the kind of person who sits and seethes in silence. Neither is Paul.
When the people sitting behind Idiot Number One got up and moved to the opposite end of the theater (not that it made a bit of difference since the child's voice carried over every single sound effect...perhaps DTS should use her for their annoying little pre-movie commercial?), we took action.
Paul called out "Seriously?" and "Shh."
The guy who moved called out "Shh" repeatedly.
Being older than both of them, I've had more practice dealing with idiots and I know subtlety is not their strong suit. I yelled "Get your child to be quiet or leave the theater."
Twice.
The idiots came to life. They realized their spawn's noise-level was disrupting others. They took their precious child out of the theater amid much apologizing...
Oh, wait. I'm sorry. For a moment there, I forgot myself. That's what should have happened. Instead, they told their little girl to "shh" and then ignored her antics for another five minutes. When more yelling from us commenced, the mother picked up her child and walked around with her. This did absolutely nothing to quiet the child in the least. The solution? Put her down and ignore her antics again. Or, even better from a "how-fast-can-I-warp-my-daughter?" parental strategy, point to the screen as if to say "Be a good girl, now, and quietly watch that nasty man get blown to bits inside that helicopter. Isn't that interesting?"
Paul left to complain to the management. The guy who moved complained twice, for all the good it did us. The manager was all of seventeen years old and terrified of confrontations.
I don't share that fear.
When nothing was done, either from the management or the idiots, and the movie ended, I expected the parents to rush out before any of the irate crowd could confront them. They didn't. Paul took one look at my face, pointed to the stairs closest to the couple and asked, "Are we going out that way?"
Oh, yeah. We were.
We headed down the stairs to the idiots, who were totally oblivious of the death glares being dealt to them from every single patron around them. I told you--subtlety is lost on idiots.
I walked up to them, leaned close to the mother, and said in a polite but firm tone "I was unable to enjoy the movie because of all the noise your daughter made."
The woman responded with "Well, I'm sorry but at least you didn't hear her screaming."
Huh? What planet were you visiting for the last two hours? Please.
I leaned closer. "Yes, I did. We all did. It was distracting and it ruined the movie for all of us. Next time, take her out and stay out. It's what I would have done because it's the respectful thing to do."
She opened her mouth to respond but I walked away. There was nothing I wanted to hear from her. And the key to managing a confrontation without it escalating into ugliness is to say your piece politely and know when to leave.
I didn't ask for a refund because Paul got us in for free anyway. But I hope I opened that woman's eyes, just a little, so that next time she either takes her child out or, better yet, doesn't bring her to such an inappropriate movie in the first place.
Why?
Because two idiots decided it would be a fine idea to take their toddler with them to the movies. To a PG-13 movie. With nary an animated character in sight.
To make matters worse, these two idiots decided to manage their poor decision by sitting on opposite ends of the aisle that bisects the lower portion of the theater and allowing their delightful little spawn free rein over the entire theater.
She ran. She climbed. She giggled. She screamed. She yelled repeatedly for her Daddy.
No one responded to her. No. One. We were sitting at the very top, scanning the sparse afternoon crowd (of maybe 15 people) for any adult to make a move toward this child and none did. We became worried the child was lost and had somehow wandered out of Monsters vs. Aliens and into Wolverine and somewhere her very concerned parents were frantically searching for her.
Then, I noticed that she launched herself onto a woman's lap and it all became clear. The idiots were used to tuning out their daughter's sound-barrier-defying shrieks. The idiots didn't care that the rest of us were not.
You will, of course, not be at all surprised to know that I am not the kind of person who sits and seethes in silence. Neither is Paul.
When the people sitting behind Idiot Number One got up and moved to the opposite end of the theater (not that it made a bit of difference since the child's voice carried over every single sound effect...perhaps DTS should use her for their annoying little pre-movie commercial?), we took action.
Paul called out "Seriously?" and "Shh."
The guy who moved called out "Shh" repeatedly.
Being older than both of them, I've had more practice dealing with idiots and I know subtlety is not their strong suit. I yelled "Get your child to be quiet or leave the theater."
Twice.
The idiots came to life. They realized their spawn's noise-level was disrupting others. They took their precious child out of the theater amid much apologizing...
Oh, wait. I'm sorry. For a moment there, I forgot myself. That's what should have happened. Instead, they told their little girl to "shh" and then ignored her antics for another five minutes. When more yelling from us commenced, the mother picked up her child and walked around with her. This did absolutely nothing to quiet the child in the least. The solution? Put her down and ignore her antics again. Or, even better from a "how-fast-can-I-warp-my-daughter?" parental strategy, point to the screen as if to say "Be a good girl, now, and quietly watch that nasty man get blown to bits inside that helicopter. Isn't that interesting?"
Paul left to complain to the management. The guy who moved complained twice, for all the good it did us. The manager was all of seventeen years old and terrified of confrontations.
I don't share that fear.
When nothing was done, either from the management or the idiots, and the movie ended, I expected the parents to rush out before any of the irate crowd could confront them. They didn't. Paul took one look at my face, pointed to the stairs closest to the couple and asked, "Are we going out that way?"
Oh, yeah. We were.
We headed down the stairs to the idiots, who were totally oblivious of the death glares being dealt to them from every single patron around them. I told you--subtlety is lost on idiots.
I walked up to them, leaned close to the mother, and said in a polite but firm tone "I was unable to enjoy the movie because of all the noise your daughter made."
The woman responded with "Well, I'm sorry but at least you didn't hear her screaming."
Huh? What planet were you visiting for the last two hours? Please.
I leaned closer. "Yes, I did. We all did. It was distracting and it ruined the movie for all of us. Next time, take her out and stay out. It's what I would have done because it's the respectful thing to do."
She opened her mouth to respond but I walked away. There was nothing I wanted to hear from her. And the key to managing a confrontation without it escalating into ugliness is to say your piece politely and know when to leave.
I didn't ask for a refund because Paul got us in for free anyway. But I hope I opened that woman's eyes, just a little, so that next time she either takes her child out or, better yet, doesn't bring her to such an inappropriate movie in the first place.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Oh No She Didn't
Yesterday a blog post by a writer of literary fiction gained the notice of writers and lit agents both. Links were posted on Twitter--as an example of a writer who didn't understand that publishing is a business.
I read the post, and while I didn't leave a comment there (partially because jumping into online arguments isn't my style and partially because it was clear in the comment trail that the post's author wasn't open to any argument but her own), it made me think.
Here, in her own words, is the gist of the complaint:
She goes on to rail against literary agents as killers of talent (indeed, that is the title of her post) and bemoans the fate of mid list literary authors who can't gain traction in a publishing industry focused on (shockingly enough) making money.
So, here's the thing. You can write anything you want. You can't, however, demand that it be published. Walking into the process of querying with an attitude that your genre is so much more significant and worthy than any other genre and publishers would recognize your goldmine of talent if only those interfering agents would move out of the way, shows at best a real lack of understanding of publishing as a business and at worst a hubris that, quite frankly, staggers me.
Writing is art. Publishing is the process of selling art. Who buys art? The consumer. Therefore, to stay in business, publishers must stock the shelves with books the consumers want to read. You are certainly free to write books other than what consumers are buying, but you have no grounds to stomp your feet and throw a tantrum when publishers refuse to buy your work. They have a business to run. They buy what sells.
Blaming your lack of sales on agents is just ridiculous. Agents find what they know their editorial contacts are looking for. Also, if you're firmly anti-agent, you're free to submit directly to any major publishing house you want. I know. I did that with my first novel and received a request right away from Grand Central. And complaining because your query has been rejected 50 times makes you look like a rank amateur. 50 times is nothing. Don't believe me? Ask John Grisham. Nora Roberts. Linda Howard. J.K. Rowling. Or any number of authors currently stocking the best-seller shelf at your local Barnes & Noble. 50 is a drop in the hat. It simply means you haven't found the right agent (the one who loves your voice or has room for another client or doesn't have anything similar on her client list right now) or your work isn't ready or--better hang on tight for this one--your work isn't what will sell right now.
Calling paranormal (vampires), romance, fantasy, chick lit, and detective stories flimsy bits the publishers are somehow required to turn into publishable books is insulting and demeaning to the cadre of writers out there who pour themselves into their stories and (gasp) get them published. Again, you're free to write whatever you want. But spewing scorn at other writers who choose to write what they want is inexcusable. Who knows which of these contemporary popular authors will one day be studied as part of our cannon of classic literature? Don't think it could happen to one of these pieces of "literary costume jewelry"? I guess you aren't familiar with Edgar Allen Poe (inventor of the modern detective story you so despise), Jane Austen (romance anyone?), Mary Shelley (paranormal's mama), J.R.R. Tolkien (the godfather of fantasy), Mark Twain (YA, here's looking at you), Charles Dickens (first published as serial chapters in a local newspaper) and others.
I understand the frustration of creating art and having nowhere to go with it. But levying your anger and bitterness at literary agents and authors of books that climb the New York Time's bestseller charts is foolish, unproductive, and flat-out offensive. If you want to be published, keep working on your craft. Query until you find an agent. Write the next manuscript. And the next. And the next after that.
Write. Revise. Query. Repeat as necessary. And back off the unbelievable hubris that assures you your writing is so much more valuable than that of those writers who do manage to snag an agent and a huge publishing contract with their flimsy bit of literary costume jewelry.
Writing is an art. Publishing is a business. If you're determined to combine the two, put your head down, attack your craft with tenacity, and treat your colleagues with respect.
I read the post, and while I didn't leave a comment there (partially because jumping into online arguments isn't my style and partially because it was clear in the comment trail that the post's author wasn't open to any argument but her own), it made me think.
Here, in her own words, is the gist of the complaint:
The substantial and nearly unassailable wall that separates you from us has been under construction for decades. You can find the names of its architects and gatekeepers on your telephone-callers list, and in your email in-box. They are the literary agents—that league of intellectual-property purveyors who bring you every new manuscript you ever see, those men and women who are so anxious to gain access to the caverns of treasure they believe you sit upon like some great golden goose that they would likely hack one another’s heads off were they not united by one self-serving mission: to ensure that quality fiction never hits your desk.
I can answer that question for you. I can tell you why your desk is piling up with flimsy bits of vampire literature, fantasy, romance, detective stories and the kind of first-draft bubble gum that used to be called chick-lit but is now shuffled in with other women’s writing in order to give it heft—although as far as you can see, neither the quality nor the subject matter has improved—which you are required to somehow turn into publishable books. It is because the vast majority of literary agents do not, in fact, have any interest in literature. They are only interested in jackpots.
These purveyors of literary costume jewelry seek out the kind of quirky but unsubstantial mental junk food that is as similar as possible to last season’s bestsellers
We submit our pitches in good faith by email or snail mail (depending on the dictates of the individual agent-god. They tell us how they want us to submit right on their websites!) where they are read by interns with little experience of literature or life, and are rejected.
Some of us have had our query letters rejected more than 50 times.
She goes on to rail against literary agents as killers of talent (indeed, that is the title of her post) and bemoans the fate of mid list literary authors who can't gain traction in a publishing industry focused on (shockingly enough) making money.
So, here's the thing. You can write anything you want. You can't, however, demand that it be published. Walking into the process of querying with an attitude that your genre is so much more significant and worthy than any other genre and publishers would recognize your goldmine of talent if only those interfering agents would move out of the way, shows at best a real lack of understanding of publishing as a business and at worst a hubris that, quite frankly, staggers me.
Writing is art. Publishing is the process of selling art. Who buys art? The consumer. Therefore, to stay in business, publishers must stock the shelves with books the consumers want to read. You are certainly free to write books other than what consumers are buying, but you have no grounds to stomp your feet and throw a tantrum when publishers refuse to buy your work. They have a business to run. They buy what sells.
Blaming your lack of sales on agents is just ridiculous. Agents find what they know their editorial contacts are looking for. Also, if you're firmly anti-agent, you're free to submit directly to any major publishing house you want. I know. I did that with my first novel and received a request right away from Grand Central. And complaining because your query has been rejected 50 times makes you look like a rank amateur. 50 times is nothing. Don't believe me? Ask John Grisham. Nora Roberts. Linda Howard. J.K. Rowling. Or any number of authors currently stocking the best-seller shelf at your local Barnes & Noble. 50 is a drop in the hat. It simply means you haven't found the right agent (the one who loves your voice or has room for another client or doesn't have anything similar on her client list right now) or your work isn't ready or--better hang on tight for this one--your work isn't what will sell right now.
Calling paranormal (vampires), romance, fantasy, chick lit, and detective stories flimsy bits the publishers are somehow required to turn into publishable books is insulting and demeaning to the cadre of writers out there who pour themselves into their stories and (gasp) get them published. Again, you're free to write whatever you want. But spewing scorn at other writers who choose to write what they want is inexcusable. Who knows which of these contemporary popular authors will one day be studied as part of our cannon of classic literature? Don't think it could happen to one of these pieces of "literary costume jewelry"? I guess you aren't familiar with Edgar Allen Poe (inventor of the modern detective story you so despise), Jane Austen (romance anyone?), Mary Shelley (paranormal's mama), J.R.R. Tolkien (the godfather of fantasy), Mark Twain (YA, here's looking at you), Charles Dickens (first published as serial chapters in a local newspaper) and others.
I understand the frustration of creating art and having nowhere to go with it. But levying your anger and bitterness at literary agents and authors of books that climb the New York Time's bestseller charts is foolish, unproductive, and flat-out offensive. If you want to be published, keep working on your craft. Query until you find an agent. Write the next manuscript. And the next. And the next after that.
Write. Revise. Query. Repeat as necessary. And back off the unbelievable hubris that assures you your writing is so much more valuable than that of those writers who do manage to snag an agent and a huge publishing contract with their flimsy bit of literary costume jewelry.
Writing is an art. Publishing is a business. If you're determined to combine the two, put your head down, attack your craft with tenacity, and treat your colleagues with respect.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
For The Love Of Biscuits
I see a lot of rather bad behavior from people in my line of work, but the one that gets to me the most is when someone thinks it's somehow appropriate to throw a tantrum over food. And by tantrum, I mean yelling, tossing their silverware down on the table, and going on and on about how their life is absolutely ruined because we ran out of meatloaf.
The other night, a man pitched a fit over biscuits. Biscuits. I'm used to grown-ups behaving like a spoiled two year old denied his favorite blankie at bedtime, but on this particular day, I just couldn't take it.
Setting the Scene: Last Friday, a mere five hours after I'd watched Carly die and only one hour after a tornado devastated our neighboring city--killing a mother and child and wiping out blocks of homes.
The Conversation:
Me: *bringing their dinner to their table a scant six minutes after they'd placed their order--even for us, that's really fast.* Here you go. We've got fresh biscuits coming out of the oven in just a moment so I'll be right back out with your bread.
Man: *slaps his hand down on the table* Well that's just great. How long do I have to wait? Is my food going to get cold?
Me: Not if you start eating it now. By the time I walk back to the kitchen, the bread will be ready and I'll be right back out.
Man: *throws his spoon onto the table* You've just ruined my day. I can't believe this *^$#.
Me: *realizes that maybe he's just come from Murfreesboro and lost everything* I'm sorry. You've had a bad day? Did you get caught in that tornado?
Man: *looks at me like I have three heads* I wasn't having a bad day until you brought out food without the biscuits.
Me: *slowly realizes that yes indeed this man is having a fit over something as unimportant as bread* So, you're only upset because the bread is coming out two minutes after your dinner?
Man: Only?! I like my biscuits with my meal. I want them now! I don't want to wait for two minutes and you've ruined my dinner now.
Me: *feels thin grasp on temper snap with a resounding crack* Let me get this straight. The only thing that's gone wrong for you today is your biscuits arriving shortly after your plate of food? You haven't lost a loved one? Haven't watched anyone die? Haven't been told you have cancer? Haven't lost your job? Haven't had your entire home turned into kindling at the whim of Mother Nature? It seems to me that you've got nothing to complain about and getting angry over biscuits is insulting to everyone else who does.
And I slapped his plate of food in front of him, fetched his biscuits and slapped them down too, and then watched as he crumpled up a one dollar bill and threw it onto the table as he left. I don't think I got through to him, but maybe he'll think twice next time before deciding something an inconsequential as food is worth such poor behavior.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
An Open Letter
Dear Mr. McCain, Mr. Obama, and President Bush,
Dictionary.com's definition of the term socialism is this:
Socialism is the slanted ground between capitalism and communism.
To see the end results of socialism, please visit China, North Korea, Cuba, or the debris that is now Russia.
The fact that you assume I, as a middle class American, am too panicked by the constant media frenzy over a potential economic meltdown to understand a sweeping piece of socialism when I see one is insulting.
The economy is in trouble because banks speculated too much and gave loans to anyone with a paycheck and a pulse. Since I bank at an FDIC insured institution and have less than the $100,000 insurable limit in my account, their crisis is not mine.
The economy has slowed down because a) recession happens and b) bankers were idiots and tied up all their profit in bad debt.
I understand this. I realize we need to pull together to create jobs and liquidity in the financial industry. I also realize that it is not the government's job to hold the hand of failing banks. I don't want the government owning a large chunk of our economy. I've seen how successful you've been with public education and social security. I sincerely do not want that "success" repeated with my money.
Mr. McCain, you voted for this ridiculous bailout. This 700 billion dollars of buying up bad debt with taxpayers' money. Now you say you want to allocate $300 billion of that to buying individual mortgages from people who are in trouble. Are you serious? Does ANYONE really want the government to own the home they live in? This is a serious escalation of the scope and role of the government and does little to help right the economy. You are simply responding to the outcry of those who think the government somehow owes them the bread they eat.
I encourage you to re-read your Constitution, bone up on the definition of capitalism, listen to economists rather than pollsters, and try again. A leader doesn't pander to the loudest group with band aids that don't fix anything. A leader assesses the facts and makes the best decision for the group, even if the decision is difficult. You're a war hero. You know that. You've just forgotten to apply it to politics.
Mr. Obama, you voted for this bailout too. And you were the first to suggest the government put its sticky fingers all over individual mortgages. You claim the way to help our economy is to raise taxes on the rich and call it their patriotic duty to pay more. This shows, at best, a serious lack of understanding of fundamental economics and at worst, a dangerous disregard for our Constitution (a disregard apparently shared by a majority in Congress). Those who make over $200,000 a year already pay the vast majority of taxes, most of it going for services they'll never use. We have a system where 20% of the people shoulder over 90% of the tax burden. Before you pat me on the shoulder and tell me that the middle class deserve a break, allow me to do my own calculations. The tax code limits the middle class to paying 15% of their income in taxes. I consistently pay 4%, and that's without cheating or finding shady little loopholes.
I don't need a break, Mr. Obama, and I don't believe you plan to give me one. Over-taxing the very people who have the capital to create jobs cripples the economy. Stop trying so hard for my vote and look at logic instead. Taking from the rich because those who don't have as much are clamoring for more is the anti-thesis of capitalism. It's socialism. Besides, you've repeatedly voted to raise taxes on the middle class and the many promises you are making have to be funded somehow. I smell another tax hike in our future.
I encourage you to re-read your Constitution as well. There are rights listed therein. Many of what you promise to somehow fund for us as our rights aren't listed in the Constitution at all. If you believe in making those things rights, go about a Constitutional amendment and then we'll talk.
President Bush, shame on you for pandering to panic within the financial institutions. Get rid of capital gains tax to make investing more lucrative and enticing to those who have capital, and you instantly generate movement within the housing market. Listen to economists who have no election on the line and work on rates, tax breaks for businesses who keep jobs in the U.S., and increasing the FDIC insurable limit for account holders. Flushing 700 billion into bad debt is just plain stupid. If the debt was bad to begin with, buying it with taxpayer money doesn't suddenly make it good. This isn't a loan that will ever be paid back. This is an albatross around our necks.
I'm disgusted with the rampant disregard for our Constitution, for capitalism, and for good, plain common sense. I hope one of you, Mr. McCain and Mr. Obama, can pull your head out of your polls long enough to look up the definition of socialism and take a stand.
Dictionary.com's definition of the term socialism is this:
Any of various theories or systems of social organization in which the means of producing and distributing goods is owned collectively or by a centralized government that often plans and controls the economy.
Socialism is the slanted ground between capitalism and communism.
To see the end results of socialism, please visit China, North Korea, Cuba, or the debris that is now Russia.
The fact that you assume I, as a middle class American, am too panicked by the constant media frenzy over a potential economic meltdown to understand a sweeping piece of socialism when I see one is insulting.
The economy is in trouble because banks speculated too much and gave loans to anyone with a paycheck and a pulse. Since I bank at an FDIC insured institution and have less than the $100,000 insurable limit in my account, their crisis is not mine.
The economy has slowed down because a) recession happens and b) bankers were idiots and tied up all their profit in bad debt.
I understand this. I realize we need to pull together to create jobs and liquidity in the financial industry. I also realize that it is not the government's job to hold the hand of failing banks. I don't want the government owning a large chunk of our economy. I've seen how successful you've been with public education and social security. I sincerely do not want that "success" repeated with my money.
Mr. McCain, you voted for this ridiculous bailout. This 700 billion dollars of buying up bad debt with taxpayers' money. Now you say you want to allocate $300 billion of that to buying individual mortgages from people who are in trouble. Are you serious? Does ANYONE really want the government to own the home they live in? This is a serious escalation of the scope and role of the government and does little to help right the economy. You are simply responding to the outcry of those who think the government somehow owes them the bread they eat.
I encourage you to re-read your Constitution, bone up on the definition of capitalism, listen to economists rather than pollsters, and try again. A leader doesn't pander to the loudest group with band aids that don't fix anything. A leader assesses the facts and makes the best decision for the group, even if the decision is difficult. You're a war hero. You know that. You've just forgotten to apply it to politics.
Mr. Obama, you voted for this bailout too. And you were the first to suggest the government put its sticky fingers all over individual mortgages. You claim the way to help our economy is to raise taxes on the rich and call it their patriotic duty to pay more. This shows, at best, a serious lack of understanding of fundamental economics and at worst, a dangerous disregard for our Constitution (a disregard apparently shared by a majority in Congress). Those who make over $200,000 a year already pay the vast majority of taxes, most of it going for services they'll never use. We have a system where 20% of the people shoulder over 90% of the tax burden. Before you pat me on the shoulder and tell me that the middle class deserve a break, allow me to do my own calculations. The tax code limits the middle class to paying 15% of their income in taxes. I consistently pay 4%, and that's without cheating or finding shady little loopholes.
I don't need a break, Mr. Obama, and I don't believe you plan to give me one. Over-taxing the very people who have the capital to create jobs cripples the economy. Stop trying so hard for my vote and look at logic instead. Taking from the rich because those who don't have as much are clamoring for more is the anti-thesis of capitalism. It's socialism. Besides, you've repeatedly voted to raise taxes on the middle class and the many promises you are making have to be funded somehow. I smell another tax hike in our future.
I encourage you to re-read your Constitution as well. There are rights listed therein. Many of what you promise to somehow fund for us as our rights aren't listed in the Constitution at all. If you believe in making those things rights, go about a Constitutional amendment and then we'll talk.
President Bush, shame on you for pandering to panic within the financial institutions. Get rid of capital gains tax to make investing more lucrative and enticing to those who have capital, and you instantly generate movement within the housing market. Listen to economists who have no election on the line and work on rates, tax breaks for businesses who keep jobs in the U.S., and increasing the FDIC insurable limit for account holders. Flushing 700 billion into bad debt is just plain stupid. If the debt was bad to begin with, buying it with taxpayer money doesn't suddenly make it good. This isn't a loan that will ever be paid back. This is an albatross around our necks.
I'm disgusted with the rampant disregard for our Constitution, for capitalism, and for good, plain common sense. I hope one of you, Mr. McCain and Mr. Obama, can pull your head out of your polls long enough to look up the definition of socialism and take a stand.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Taking a Stand
I saw this headline today. Bravo, ICC. It's about time the world did more than watch a few relief agencies do their best to stem an overwhelming tide of violence and hate against the Darfur tribes in Sudan.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Excuse Me?
My hubby's radio show recently signed a deal with a local television news program to do some sort of cross-broadcasting promotional whatnot. I'm pretty fuzzy on the details. All I know is that because of this deal, my hubby is in a tv commericial, a fact that delights my children to no end, and now he has to watch Dancing With The Stars, a show which, up until this point, we've treated with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for finding spiders in your shower or science experiments lurking in the veggie drawer.
My hubby is on his second week of watching DWTS (No, no, that doesn't stand for Dimwits...). I stayed with him the first week, out of a wifely obligation to mitigate his suffering as much as possible. This week I decided he had a husbandly obligation to soldier through it alone while I stayed upstairs and read books with the kids.
Not watching with him, however, does not excuse me from a blow by blow of his brief excursion into ballroom hell and so after the show finished, he found me upstairs and began telling me the dramatic highlight of the evening. Apparently, near the end of their routine, one couple was unable to truly finish because the man injured his arm and was unable to fully extend, much less lift with it.
Immediately following their botched ending, the host cut to a commercial break and medics swooped in to ascertain the extent of the injury. When the commercials ended, the host gravely informed the viewing audience that the man (now swathed in bandages) was experiencing a severe muscle cramp.
Well ouch. No wonder he couldn't lift and separate. I nodded my head in token sympathy but my hubby wasn't done.
Once this announcement was made, the judges swiftly invoked their deepest sympathies for the pair's unfortunate piece of luck and then, when the dancers went backstage to recieve their scores, all of the other dancers stood and gave them a standing O.
Umm, okay. I guess. I don't really get it, though. Aren't standing O's reserved for incredible, once-in-a-lifetime performances or acts of sheer bravery in the face of nearly insurmountable odds? Since when are standing O's handed out to make someone feel better about a reality tv show? It's not like he's Kerri Strug running, vaulting, and freakin' nailing the landing on a broken ankle to push the U.S. team into gymnastic gold. Now that deserved a standing O and still makes me a little choked up to remember it.
But whatever, right? I don't really care about any of this. Until my hubby informs me that after the next duo performs their dance, the judges congratulate them on being able to pull it together and perform after what just happened.
Excuse me?
So, just to recap: A man gets a muscle cramp in his arm, thus hampering his efforts in a show designed to breathe stale life into an already flagging B-list career, and because of it he earns sympathy, a standing O, a trip to the hospital for observation and care, and those who must perform in his wake are given kudos for being able to shove aside their emotional reaction.
Well now DWTS (hmm, maybe it does stand for Dimwits...) earns an emotional reaction from me. Cramps are painful beasts, there's no denying. Any woman over the age of 14 knows that. In fact, we bear cramps every 3 to 4 weeks that make a solitary arm cramp look like child's play. We endure agony twisting through our lower abdomen, piercing our ovaries, radiating up our spine, and setting up camp like a rowdy troop of Boy Scouts in our posteriors. We cramp so hard, some days we can barely walk, much less dance. We pop Midol way beyond the recommended dosage and chase it down with brownies and cheap wine. We stifle road rage, pits of depression, and sketchy plans to waltz into over-stuffed Walmarts with Mace and a yen to bring down anyone thinner or happier than ourselves. And we do this every single month.
I must admit that no one has ever given me a standing O for that.
So, DWTS, you'll forgive me (and the thousands of other women watching your show) if I cannot summon up deep wells of sympathy and admiration for a man having to deal with a cramp in his arm. However, let him take on the female version of cramping for just one hour and successfully finish his ballet routine and I'll be the first one on my feet.
My hubby is on his second week of watching DWTS (No, no, that doesn't stand for Dimwits...). I stayed with him the first week, out of a wifely obligation to mitigate his suffering as much as possible. This week I decided he had a husbandly obligation to soldier through it alone while I stayed upstairs and read books with the kids.
Not watching with him, however, does not excuse me from a blow by blow of his brief excursion into ballroom hell and so after the show finished, he found me upstairs and began telling me the dramatic highlight of the evening. Apparently, near the end of their routine, one couple was unable to truly finish because the man injured his arm and was unable to fully extend, much less lift with it.
Immediately following their botched ending, the host cut to a commercial break and medics swooped in to ascertain the extent of the injury. When the commercials ended, the host gravely informed the viewing audience that the man (now swathed in bandages) was experiencing a severe muscle cramp.
Well ouch. No wonder he couldn't lift and separate. I nodded my head in token sympathy but my hubby wasn't done.
Once this announcement was made, the judges swiftly invoked their deepest sympathies for the pair's unfortunate piece of luck and then, when the dancers went backstage to recieve their scores, all of the other dancers stood and gave them a standing O.
Umm, okay. I guess. I don't really get it, though. Aren't standing O's reserved for incredible, once-in-a-lifetime performances or acts of sheer bravery in the face of nearly insurmountable odds? Since when are standing O's handed out to make someone feel better about a reality tv show? It's not like he's Kerri Strug running, vaulting, and freakin' nailing the landing on a broken ankle to push the U.S. team into gymnastic gold. Now that deserved a standing O and still makes me a little choked up to remember it.
But whatever, right? I don't really care about any of this. Until my hubby informs me that after the next duo performs their dance, the judges congratulate them on being able to pull it together and perform after what just happened.
Excuse me?
So, just to recap: A man gets a muscle cramp in his arm, thus hampering his efforts in a show designed to breathe stale life into an already flagging B-list career, and because of it he earns sympathy, a standing O, a trip to the hospital for observation and care, and those who must perform in his wake are given kudos for being able to shove aside their emotional reaction.
Well now DWTS (hmm, maybe it does stand for Dimwits...) earns an emotional reaction from me. Cramps are painful beasts, there's no denying. Any woman over the age of 14 knows that. In fact, we bear cramps every 3 to 4 weeks that make a solitary arm cramp look like child's play. We endure agony twisting through our lower abdomen, piercing our ovaries, radiating up our spine, and setting up camp like a rowdy troop of Boy Scouts in our posteriors. We cramp so hard, some days we can barely walk, much less dance. We pop Midol way beyond the recommended dosage and chase it down with brownies and cheap wine. We stifle road rage, pits of depression, and sketchy plans to waltz into over-stuffed Walmarts with Mace and a yen to bring down anyone thinner or happier than ourselves. And we do this every single month.
I must admit that no one has ever given me a standing O for that.
So, DWTS, you'll forgive me (and the thousands of other women watching your show) if I cannot summon up deep wells of sympathy and admiration for a man having to deal with a cramp in his arm. However, let him take on the female version of cramping for just one hour and successfully finish his ballet routine and I'll be the first one on my feet.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
And the IDIOT OF THE WEEK is...
First runner up:
The man at work the other night who asked for sweet tea with no ice because he claimed (and he was dead serious) that he is allergic to ice.
Winner!:
The person driving the dark blue Honda, circa early 1990's, on the 65 North today around the Peytonsville exit who decided to change lanes to get around a semi, even though it meant literally cutting off an ambulance with full lights and sirens.
Congratulations! For making a choice based on perceived personal gain, regardless of the fact that you may have cost someone their life (but hey! You saved three seconds!), you win the coveted IDIOT OF THE WEEK award.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Considering Killing A Dutchman
I just read this article about a Dutch diplomat and his wife who adopted a girl from South Korea when she was a baby (she's now 8) and are now "returning" her to foster care.
Their excuse is that Jade (their daughter) is emotionally remote and has been diagnosed with severe fear of attachment.
You think??
And dumping your daughter because she has emotional difficulties is going to what - make it better?
The father said that Jade never assimilated Dutch culture and food (and yet he never, in all their years petitioned for Dutch citizenship for her. Why not?) and that was part of why they are rejecting her now. Seriously, you want me to believe that a child living in your home since she was 4 months old doesn't eat your food?
Give me a break.
Nannies and caregivers who've worked for the family were interviewed and stated that Jade was mostly cared for by nannies and was rarely in her mother's arms and that her mother treated her as if she weren't her "real" daughter, especially after two biological children were born to her.
The family, of course, says that isn't the case but what I found telling was the father's comment in an open letter to a Dutch newspaper: "We are Jade's parents. We feel responsible for her well-being."
Unbelievable.
You feel responsible for her well-being? What about love? I can promise you that I do a whole lot more than feel "responsible" for my children's well-being. I feel responsible for my plants. I feel all-consuming love for my kids.
This is a tragedy for Jade and a blow to the cause of international adoption. Stories like this make the news where all the millions of success stories never do and an outcry goes up from the child's original nation and officials begin to cut off adoptions (Guatemala) or make them prohibitively expensive (Russia) and where does that leave the millions of orphans who have no one to love them?
A child is not a possession to be returned if they aren't easy to raise. Any child, biological or not, can have difficulty attaching, can have health or emotional issues that are challenging, can have a personality that doesn't mesh easily with yours. Guess what you do? You roll up your sleeves and meet them where they are and just love them.
You just love them.
At the heart of this (and it makes me sick) is this Dutch couple's basic belief that their adopted daughter was a trial run. Or a faulty product. Or something that they could back out of when things weren't easy.
That is abusive parenting. That is NOT adoption.
When you bring your child home, you've made a lifelong commitment to them and that doesn't waver, no matter what. You aren't a parent for what the child can bring to you. You're a parent for what you can bring to your child.
Their excuse is that Jade (their daughter) is emotionally remote and has been diagnosed with severe fear of attachment.
You think??
And dumping your daughter because she has emotional difficulties is going to what - make it better?
The father said that Jade never assimilated Dutch culture and food (and yet he never, in all their years petitioned for Dutch citizenship for her. Why not?) and that was part of why they are rejecting her now. Seriously, you want me to believe that a child living in your home since she was 4 months old doesn't eat your food?
Give me a break.
Nannies and caregivers who've worked for the family were interviewed and stated that Jade was mostly cared for by nannies and was rarely in her mother's arms and that her mother treated her as if she weren't her "real" daughter, especially after two biological children were born to her.
The family, of course, says that isn't the case but what I found telling was the father's comment in an open letter to a Dutch newspaper: "We are Jade's parents. We feel responsible for her well-being."
Unbelievable.
You feel responsible for her well-being? What about love? I can promise you that I do a whole lot more than feel "responsible" for my children's well-being. I feel responsible for my plants. I feel all-consuming love for my kids.
This is a tragedy for Jade and a blow to the cause of international adoption. Stories like this make the news where all the millions of success stories never do and an outcry goes up from the child's original nation and officials begin to cut off adoptions (Guatemala) or make them prohibitively expensive (Russia) and where does that leave the millions of orphans who have no one to love them?
A child is not a possession to be returned if they aren't easy to raise. Any child, biological or not, can have difficulty attaching, can have health or emotional issues that are challenging, can have a personality that doesn't mesh easily with yours. Guess what you do? You roll up your sleeves and meet them where they are and just love them.
You just love them.
At the heart of this (and it makes me sick) is this Dutch couple's basic belief that their adopted daughter was a trial run. Or a faulty product. Or something that they could back out of when things weren't easy.
That is abusive parenting. That is NOT adoption.
When you bring your child home, you've made a lifelong commitment to them and that doesn't waver, no matter what. You aren't a parent for what the child can bring to you. You're a parent for what you can bring to your child.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
How Uncouth Can You Be?
So last night was our company's Christmas party. This means several long tables of buffet style food. We had everything ready and called all the employees and their families to get in line and start filling their plates.
One of our newer employees was at the head of the line. I watched in complete amazement as she went through all three tables of food, filled her plate, and then grabbed a chair and pulled it up to ONE OF THE BUFFET TABLES, shoved her plate in between pans of food, and started eating.
Who does that?
We have an entire dining room full of available seats and you sit and eat where others need to get their food?
People were passing by her, staring, and NO ONE was taking food from the dishes right next to her plate. I decided to fix that situation so when I approached the table, I started moving the dishes away from her immediate vicinity. As I reached beside her to shove another casserole dish to the left, she belched.
I don't mean she burped.
I don't mean she quietly hiccuped.
I mean she belched.
At me.
And then looked at me and said, "Oops, that one got away from me."
Ugg.
Words fail.
One of our newer employees was at the head of the line. I watched in complete amazement as she went through all three tables of food, filled her plate, and then grabbed a chair and pulled it up to ONE OF THE BUFFET TABLES, shoved her plate in between pans of food, and started eating.
Who does that?
We have an entire dining room full of available seats and you sit and eat where others need to get their food?
People were passing by her, staring, and NO ONE was taking food from the dishes right next to her plate. I decided to fix that situation so when I approached the table, I started moving the dishes away from her immediate vicinity. As I reached beside her to shove another casserole dish to the left, she belched.
I don't mean she burped.
I don't mean she quietly hiccuped.
I mean she belched.
At me.
And then looked at me and said, "Oops, that one got away from me."
Ugg.
Words fail.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Heart Failure Imminent
In October, my hubby and I added our surrogate teenage daughter (who doesn't live under our roof but might as well) to our cell phone plan because she's 15, gorgeous, starting to date, and had no cell phone. Not the safest situation. For various reasons, her father wouldn't get her one himself so we added her to our plan (with his permission), ordered the free phone that went with it, charged her $15 a month, and, in a stroke of sheer brilliance on my hubby's part, signed up for unlimited texting at the same time.
My hubby did all of this online. One stop shopping...open your account page, add a member, choose a phone, adjust your family plan's minutes and texting options, and off you go.
Easy.
In her first week, our daughter sent over 3000 texts. 3000. In one week. We warned her of the dangers of carpal tunnel and arthritis and marvelled that anyone could find 3000 things to say through texting.
And we congratulated ourselves on having the foresight to sign up for unlimited texting.
A week ago, our bill arrived.
$1300.
Excuse me???
1300 frickin' dollars? My hubby clutched his chest and rapidly scanned the bill...texts, texts, texts...thousands of texts at 15 cents each. He grabbed his phone and dialed our provider, all the while muttering things that sounded suspiciously like death threats under his breath.
Here is a transcript (as close as I can recall) of that conversation:
"Thank you for calling Idiots-Are-Us, my name is Tom, how can I help you today?"
HUBBY: Yeah, I just got a bill for $1300 from you guys and it's all these texting charges but I signed up for unlimited texting under my family plan last month. *hubby's tone is irritated but calm - this should be a simple mistake to fix*
TOM: Hm, well let me pull up your account information. *long pause because apparently one of the largest cell phone providers in America still has dial up on their customer service computers* Okay, Mr. Redwine, I see you added a phone line to your plan in October.
HUBBY: *wondering what this has to do with unlimited texting on his family plan* Yes and at the same time, I signed up for unlimited texting.
TOM: *gives a rueful little chuckle* Well, sir, you did but the package you chose was for just one of your phone lines. Your number has unlimited texting. None of the others do.
HUBBY: No, I signed up for unlimited texting for the whole family. It's right there on the same page as adding a line and increasing minutes. I had three options - $9.95 for 200 texts a month, $15.95 for 500 texts a month, and $19.95 for unlimited. *hubby's tone moves from irritated to angry*
TOM: Well, that only applies to one line. *manages to sound sympathetic and condescending at the same time. not wise*
HUBBY: But it's on the same page as signing up for more minutes. Are those only for individual lines too? *tone is stubborn, challenging*
TOM: No, that covers the whole family.
HUBBY: So what you're telling me is that I can sign up for minutes under my family plan and it works for all of my lines but ON THE SAME PAGE if I sign up for texting it only applies to one line?
TOM: *not recognizing his imminent danger of bodily harm* Well yes, sir.
HUBBY: Where does it say that on the page? *grabs his laptop and opens the page* It doesn't say that anywhere on this page. There's not even an asterisk. Why wouldn't I assume that if I could change my minutes for the whole plan, I could change my texting too? What kind of unethical operation are you running over there? *abandons all pretense at a civil tone of voice*
TOM: You needed to sign up for the fourth option. It's $29.95 and it gives unlimited texting to the whole family.
HUBBY: There is no fourth option.
TOM: Yes, sir, you need the $29.95 option....
HUBBY: Tom, listen carefully, I am looking at the page - on YOUR website - that I can use to adjust minutes and texting and there is no fourth option. I signed up for the only one that says "unlimited texting".
TOM: Well, the fourth option is actually located in our terms and conditions area. Didn't you read our terms and conditions before you accepted the changes to your plan? *manages to sound shocked that someone wouldn't think to search for a fourth option under terms and conditions.*
HUBBY: Your terms and conditions are 29 pages of dense legalese. No one is going to read through all of that and your company knows it. Are you telling me that you don't offer the option you know I need unless I wade through 29 pages of this stuff and somehow find out I need to choose an option you haven't even provided me yet? *hubby's voice has reached dangerous levels*
TOM: Well, sir, you really shouldn't try to adjust your plan without first having the proper training. *said, apparently, with a straight face*
HUBBY: *loses it completely* Are you serious??! Every bill I get from you guys has an ad encouraging me to conduct all my business with you online. Change my minutes. Add a phone line. Alter my texting. Online. Nowhere in your ads or on your page does it suggest that I need TRAINING to do any of those things. That's bait and switch. That's unethical and illegal and I'll tell you what we're going to do now.
TOM: Sir, if you could just -
HUBBY: *rolls right over him as if he'd never spoken* You're going to take away every cent of these charges and make unlimited texting retroactive to when I first signed up for it. And you're going to give me something in writing that states that you are taking care of all of that and I am not responsible for this stupidity on your part. If you don't do that, I will gladly pay the $400 cancellation fee and take you to court in a class action lawsuit and make millions off of you.
TOM: Sir -
HUBBY: You're going to buy me a new house.
TOM: I really don't -
HUBBY: You're going to send my kids to college.
TOM: That's not -
HUBBY: How many other people have you done this to? Offered them only three options, hit them with a huge bill, and then told them it was their fault for not realizing they needed to read EVERY FRICKIN' PAGE on your site to make sure you were being upfront with them? I bet most people pay it because for them it's not too much extra. I have a teenage girl on my plan and this is a mortgage payment. I will own your company when I'm through with you.
TOM: Now Mr. Redwine -
HUBBY: Did I mention that I'm the morning show host on the number one rated station in Nashville? I have thousands of listeners and they'd love to hear about this. And my wife - did I mention she has a strong internet presence? We can have this story across America in less than 5 hours. Get rid of this bill and change our plan.
TOM: I'm not authorized to do any of that.
HUBBY: Well read through your 29 pages of terms and conditions and find out who is and get them on this phone.
TOM: One moment sir. *sounding properly chastened*
HUBBY: *spends twenty minutes on hold listening to a running loop of commercials all stating that he should adjust his plan online because it's safe, fast, and easy. Hubby nearly chokes on the irony.*
TOM: Sir? I've cleared it with my supervisor. We're waiving the bill and making the unlimited texting retroactive as you requested.
HUBBY: Of course you are.
TOM: Is there anything else I can do for you?
HUBBY: Change your page so no one else falls for your little trap. Someone somewhere is going to sue the crap out of you soon.
Three days later we received a letter from them (mailed, apparently, three days after they sent our bill and one day before our confrontation) warning us that they'd noticed our texting was unusually high and to be prepared for a larger bill than normal.
Gee, thanks for the heads up.
My hubby did all of this online. One stop shopping...open your account page, add a member, choose a phone, adjust your family plan's minutes and texting options, and off you go.
Easy.
In her first week, our daughter sent over 3000 texts. 3000. In one week. We warned her of the dangers of carpal tunnel and arthritis and marvelled that anyone could find 3000 things to say through texting.
And we congratulated ourselves on having the foresight to sign up for unlimited texting.
A week ago, our bill arrived.
$1300.
Excuse me???
1300 frickin' dollars? My hubby clutched his chest and rapidly scanned the bill...texts, texts, texts...thousands of texts at 15 cents each. He grabbed his phone and dialed our provider, all the while muttering things that sounded suspiciously like death threats under his breath.
Here is a transcript (as close as I can recall) of that conversation:
"Thank you for calling Idiots-Are-Us, my name is Tom, how can I help you today?"
HUBBY: Yeah, I just got a bill for $1300 from you guys and it's all these texting charges but I signed up for unlimited texting under my family plan last month. *hubby's tone is irritated but calm - this should be a simple mistake to fix*
TOM: Hm, well let me pull up your account information. *long pause because apparently one of the largest cell phone providers in America still has dial up on their customer service computers* Okay, Mr. Redwine, I see you added a phone line to your plan in October.
HUBBY: *wondering what this has to do with unlimited texting on his family plan* Yes and at the same time, I signed up for unlimited texting.
TOM: *gives a rueful little chuckle* Well, sir, you did but the package you chose was for just one of your phone lines. Your number has unlimited texting. None of the others do.
HUBBY: No, I signed up for unlimited texting for the whole family. It's right there on the same page as adding a line and increasing minutes. I had three options - $9.95 for 200 texts a month, $15.95 for 500 texts a month, and $19.95 for unlimited. *hubby's tone moves from irritated to angry*
TOM: Well, that only applies to one line. *manages to sound sympathetic and condescending at the same time. not wise*
HUBBY: But it's on the same page as signing up for more minutes. Are those only for individual lines too? *tone is stubborn, challenging*
TOM: No, that covers the whole family.
HUBBY: So what you're telling me is that I can sign up for minutes under my family plan and it works for all of my lines but ON THE SAME PAGE if I sign up for texting it only applies to one line?
TOM: *not recognizing his imminent danger of bodily harm* Well yes, sir.
HUBBY: Where does it say that on the page? *grabs his laptop and opens the page* It doesn't say that anywhere on this page. There's not even an asterisk. Why wouldn't I assume that if I could change my minutes for the whole plan, I could change my texting too? What kind of unethical operation are you running over there? *abandons all pretense at a civil tone of voice*
TOM: You needed to sign up for the fourth option. It's $29.95 and it gives unlimited texting to the whole family.
HUBBY: There is no fourth option.
TOM: Yes, sir, you need the $29.95 option....
HUBBY: Tom, listen carefully, I am looking at the page - on YOUR website - that I can use to adjust minutes and texting and there is no fourth option. I signed up for the only one that says "unlimited texting".
TOM: Well, the fourth option is actually located in our terms and conditions area. Didn't you read our terms and conditions before you accepted the changes to your plan? *manages to sound shocked that someone wouldn't think to search for a fourth option under terms and conditions.*
HUBBY: Your terms and conditions are 29 pages of dense legalese. No one is going to read through all of that and your company knows it. Are you telling me that you don't offer the option you know I need unless I wade through 29 pages of this stuff and somehow find out I need to choose an option you haven't even provided me yet? *hubby's voice has reached dangerous levels*
TOM: Well, sir, you really shouldn't try to adjust your plan without first having the proper training. *said, apparently, with a straight face*
HUBBY: *loses it completely* Are you serious??! Every bill I get from you guys has an ad encouraging me to conduct all my business with you online. Change my minutes. Add a phone line. Alter my texting. Online. Nowhere in your ads or on your page does it suggest that I need TRAINING to do any of those things. That's bait and switch. That's unethical and illegal and I'll tell you what we're going to do now.
TOM: Sir, if you could just -
HUBBY: *rolls right over him as if he'd never spoken* You're going to take away every cent of these charges and make unlimited texting retroactive to when I first signed up for it. And you're going to give me something in writing that states that you are taking care of all of that and I am not responsible for this stupidity on your part. If you don't do that, I will gladly pay the $400 cancellation fee and take you to court in a class action lawsuit and make millions off of you.
TOM: Sir -
HUBBY: You're going to buy me a new house.
TOM: I really don't -
HUBBY: You're going to send my kids to college.
TOM: That's not -
HUBBY: How many other people have you done this to? Offered them only three options, hit them with a huge bill, and then told them it was their fault for not realizing they needed to read EVERY FRICKIN' PAGE on your site to make sure you were being upfront with them? I bet most people pay it because for them it's not too much extra. I have a teenage girl on my plan and this is a mortgage payment. I will own your company when I'm through with you.
TOM: Now Mr. Redwine -
HUBBY: Did I mention that I'm the morning show host on the number one rated station in Nashville? I have thousands of listeners and they'd love to hear about this. And my wife - did I mention she has a strong internet presence? We can have this story across America in less than 5 hours. Get rid of this bill and change our plan.
TOM: I'm not authorized to do any of that.
HUBBY: Well read through your 29 pages of terms and conditions and find out who is and get them on this phone.
TOM: One moment sir. *sounding properly chastened*
HUBBY: *spends twenty minutes on hold listening to a running loop of commercials all stating that he should adjust his plan online because it's safe, fast, and easy. Hubby nearly chokes on the irony.*
TOM: Sir? I've cleared it with my supervisor. We're waiving the bill and making the unlimited texting retroactive as you requested.
HUBBY: Of course you are.
TOM: Is there anything else I can do for you?
HUBBY: Change your page so no one else falls for your little trap. Someone somewhere is going to sue the crap out of you soon.
Three days later we received a letter from them (mailed, apparently, three days after they sent our bill and one day before our confrontation) warning us that they'd noticed our texting was unusually high and to be prepared for a larger bill than normal.
Gee, thanks for the heads up.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Work For Free?
Want to understand what the whole WGA strike is about? Go here. It's a dangerous place to be culturally when we degrade and devalue art.
Umm, Hello?
Okay, today is the day Amazon.com gave as their "we'll send you an official email letting you know that your entry qualifies for our Breakthrough Novel Contest" and the chat forums on Amazon are absolutely buzzing.
This is the first day I've actually headed over there. I dislike reading chat forums as a general rule.
As I was browsing, I remembered why I dislike chat forums so much.
One contest entrant went on a rant about the sorry state of the publishing world today and how all the literary agents out there weren't giving the time of day to someone with a, and yes, I'm quoting, "fairly decently written novel".
Umm, hello??
You think you're going to get published with what you yourself admit is a "fairly decently written novel"?
Get real. Grow up. Learn your craft. And for Pete's sake, stop whining that you just want an agent to read your work, see past the amateur blunders (again, I'm not making this up, folks) and say, "Hey, you've got talent. Let me help you."
Go to some writing conferences. Meet some actual agents. Get some sort of feel for the massive scope of your competition and then go back to work.
There are thousands of would-be writers out there, all of whom think their "fairly decently written novel" should be good enough to get on the shelves. A literary agent I spoke with once averaged over 100 new queries/submissions on her desk every week. Do you honestly think that a novel with amateur blunders is worth her time?
Seriously, folks. You don't get to publish a book simply because you want to. You don't get personal time with a literary agent who isn't going to make a dime from you. This is where art meets business. To be successful, you have to master both.
At the moment, if you're proudly clinging to your "fairly decently written novel" and crying about the lack of response from the publishing world, I would say that you have mastered neither.
Learn how to write a tightly-paced page turner, learn how to query, learn which agents handle your genre, find a critique partner who is unafraid to rip your precious baby to shreds where it needs it, rewrite, rewrite, rewrite, and then maybe you'll have something that will make the publishing world sit up and take notice.
This is the first day I've actually headed over there. I dislike reading chat forums as a general rule.
As I was browsing, I remembered why I dislike chat forums so much.
One contest entrant went on a rant about the sorry state of the publishing world today and how all the literary agents out there weren't giving the time of day to someone with a, and yes, I'm quoting, "fairly decently written novel".
Umm, hello??
You think you're going to get published with what you yourself admit is a "fairly decently written novel"?
Get real. Grow up. Learn your craft. And for Pete's sake, stop whining that you just want an agent to read your work, see past the amateur blunders (again, I'm not making this up, folks) and say, "Hey, you've got talent. Let me help you."
Go to some writing conferences. Meet some actual agents. Get some sort of feel for the massive scope of your competition and then go back to work.
There are thousands of would-be writers out there, all of whom think their "fairly decently written novel" should be good enough to get on the shelves. A literary agent I spoke with once averaged over 100 new queries/submissions on her desk every week. Do you honestly think that a novel with amateur blunders is worth her time?
Seriously, folks. You don't get to publish a book simply because you want to. You don't get personal time with a literary agent who isn't going to make a dime from you. This is where art meets business. To be successful, you have to master both.
At the moment, if you're proudly clinging to your "fairly decently written novel" and crying about the lack of response from the publishing world, I would say that you have mastered neither.
Learn how to write a tightly-paced page turner, learn how to query, learn which agents handle your genre, find a critique partner who is unafraid to rip your precious baby to shreds where it needs it, rewrite, rewrite, rewrite, and then maybe you'll have something that will make the publishing world sit up and take notice.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Golden Poop
I saw an article today (click here to read) that introduced the world to America's latest accomplishment: the $25,000 dessert.
This chocolate sundae earns it's exorbitant price tag because it is laced with edible gold on a bed of edible gold and topped with - you guessed it - edible gold. A diamond crusted spoon is the eating implement of choice and the sundae goblet boasts a 1 car. diamond bracelet at its base.
The jewelry, I'm fine with. The spoon is, quite frankly, impractical to the point of being ridiculous. What are you going to do with one, diamond crusted spoon? Frame it? Buy another three sundaes so you can have a matched set?
But what gets me the most about this is the edible gold. Edible gold. Not gold you can wear. Not gold you can look at. Not gold you can save as a worthwhile investment. Gold you eat.
And what happens to everything you eat?
It turns, eventually, into poop.
I think this is a perfect example of greed swallowing us whole.
Don't get me wrong - I'm not against treating ourselves on special occasions, paying a little extra for something we love, or (and here I do my mother proud) owning some beautiful jewelry. But when we accept that it isn't enough to just own gold or wear gold - now we must eat it too just to prove that we can afford it or to assuage our own boredom or to say that we are somehow on the top tier of society above all the poor, non-gold-eating people who eat their sundaes with plain old nuts - we are sick.
Really sick.
There are children in our own backyard who don't have coats or decent shoes or a parent who cares if they ever eat breakfast.
There are elderly people in our own backyard who can't pay for medicine or heat or food.
There are shelters that offer hope to homeless, abused people and are desperately scraping together meager donations to keep themselves going.
There are millions of children across the world with no family and no hope.
There are women, here in America, and across the world who've been abandoned by their husbands and lack the necessary job skills to provide for the children they love.
$25,000 brings home 6 orphans from Guatemala, 4 from Korea, 3 from India, or 1 from China.
$25,000 feeds, clothes, and pays the utilities for a struggling single mother family for an entire year.
$25,000 feeds an entire village in starving Sudan for an entire year.
$25,000 keeps the lights on and food on the table for a rescue shelter for at least 6 months.
$25,000 can bring hope, relief, and love. Or it can give us golden poop.
This chocolate sundae earns it's exorbitant price tag because it is laced with edible gold on a bed of edible gold and topped with - you guessed it - edible gold. A diamond crusted spoon is the eating implement of choice and the sundae goblet boasts a 1 car. diamond bracelet at its base.
The jewelry, I'm fine with. The spoon is, quite frankly, impractical to the point of being ridiculous. What are you going to do with one, diamond crusted spoon? Frame it? Buy another three sundaes so you can have a matched set?
But what gets me the most about this is the edible gold. Edible gold. Not gold you can wear. Not gold you can look at. Not gold you can save as a worthwhile investment. Gold you eat.
And what happens to everything you eat?
It turns, eventually, into poop.
I think this is a perfect example of greed swallowing us whole.
Don't get me wrong - I'm not against treating ourselves on special occasions, paying a little extra for something we love, or (and here I do my mother proud) owning some beautiful jewelry. But when we accept that it isn't enough to just own gold or wear gold - now we must eat it too just to prove that we can afford it or to assuage our own boredom or to say that we are somehow on the top tier of society above all the poor, non-gold-eating people who eat their sundaes with plain old nuts - we are sick.
Really sick.
There are children in our own backyard who don't have coats or decent shoes or a parent who cares if they ever eat breakfast.
There are elderly people in our own backyard who can't pay for medicine or heat or food.
There are shelters that offer hope to homeless, abused people and are desperately scraping together meager donations to keep themselves going.
There are millions of children across the world with no family and no hope.
There are women, here in America, and across the world who've been abandoned by their husbands and lack the necessary job skills to provide for the children they love.
$25,000 brings home 6 orphans from Guatemala, 4 from Korea, 3 from India, or 1 from China.
$25,000 feeds, clothes, and pays the utilities for a struggling single mother family for an entire year.
$25,000 feeds an entire village in starving Sudan for an entire year.
$25,000 keeps the lights on and food on the table for a rescue shelter for at least 6 months.
$25,000 can bring hope, relief, and love. Or it can give us golden poop.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Crawl Back Under Your Rock
I know I've ranted here before about the pet peeves I've developed as a waitress.
I've said I hate it when I'm interrupted. When I'm treated like a faceless, nameless "it". When I'm run off my feet by a table too stingy to part with more than $2 (which is NEVER an acceptable tip, no matter what you ordered).
But honestly, all of my pet peeves come down to one simple thing: I detest being treated with disrespect.
Last night I had one of the rudest guests I've EVER had (and that is saying something). Another woman might have cried when he got through with her. I just got spitting mad.
This man complained incessantly about the size of everything served to him (even when he actually was given a larger portion than usual)and raised his voice at me when I tried to placate him. He demanded and demanded (never asked) and nothing I did was good enough. He snapped out incredibly rude answers to innocent questions (like me asking, "Do you want one check or separate checks?" and him saying, "Do I look like someone who wants separate checks? No? Well then I guess you'd better just give us one, hadn't you miss?") He was so awful to me, the manager and the other waiters still on the floor told me not to go back to the table...they would handle him instead.
He was dining with a friend. The friend was polite. When they got up to leave, Mr. I-Developed-My-Social-Skills-In-An-Outhouse walked out first and his friend turned to me and said, "I hope I left you enough to make up for how badly he treated you."
Excuse me?
I counted up the tip and it was $9, a generous amount for two people.
But no, that doesn't make up for it. Not one bit. You want to make nice with me and be a gentleman? Speak up and stop your friend from yelling at me, from being unspeakably rude every time I'm in a ten foot radius of your table.
Being a gentleman doesn't mean you toss money at me after the fact and hope I'm so hungry for a dollar that everything else gets washed away. I'd rather be treated with dignity and respect and get $3 any day.
Is it really that difficult to offer others the basic courtesy of respect and good manners?
I've said I hate it when I'm interrupted. When I'm treated like a faceless, nameless "it". When I'm run off my feet by a table too stingy to part with more than $2 (which is NEVER an acceptable tip, no matter what you ordered).
But honestly, all of my pet peeves come down to one simple thing: I detest being treated with disrespect.
Last night I had one of the rudest guests I've EVER had (and that is saying something). Another woman might have cried when he got through with her. I just got spitting mad.
This man complained incessantly about the size of everything served to him (even when he actually was given a larger portion than usual)and raised his voice at me when I tried to placate him. He demanded and demanded (never asked) and nothing I did was good enough. He snapped out incredibly rude answers to innocent questions (like me asking, "Do you want one check or separate checks?" and him saying, "Do I look like someone who wants separate checks? No? Well then I guess you'd better just give us one, hadn't you miss?") He was so awful to me, the manager and the other waiters still on the floor told me not to go back to the table...they would handle him instead.
He was dining with a friend. The friend was polite. When they got up to leave, Mr. I-Developed-My-Social-Skills-In-An-Outhouse walked out first and his friend turned to me and said, "I hope I left you enough to make up for how badly he treated you."
Excuse me?
I counted up the tip and it was $9, a generous amount for two people.
But no, that doesn't make up for it. Not one bit. You want to make nice with me and be a gentleman? Speak up and stop your friend from yelling at me, from being unspeakably rude every time I'm in a ten foot radius of your table.
Being a gentleman doesn't mean you toss money at me after the fact and hope I'm so hungry for a dollar that everything else gets washed away. I'd rather be treated with dignity and respect and get $3 any day.
Is it really that difficult to offer others the basic courtesy of respect and good manners?
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
In Remembrance
Today marks the sixth anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks against our country. While it is very important that we remember, truly remember, that men embracing hatred and violence against anyone different from themselves killed civilians in a cowardly act of war, there is a grassroots movement to do something even better.
To remember the outpouring of compassion and generosity that day and the days that followed as well.
250,000 have signed a pledge to do something kind and sacrificially generous for others (often strangers) on this day. (For the full story, click here)
This is a fitting remembrance for those who lost or willingly gave up their lives on September 11.
We can turn terror into hope. We can look boldly into the face of irrational hatred and not back down; not apologize for our freedom. We can pull together and show the cowards who strike at women and children that, for all her flaws, America's strength lies in the tenacity, the generosity, and the heart of her people.
We do this and the terrorists fail.
There is no more fitting remembrance than that.
To remember the outpouring of compassion and generosity that day and the days that followed as well.
250,000 have signed a pledge to do something kind and sacrificially generous for others (often strangers) on this day. (For the full story, click here)
This is a fitting remembrance for those who lost or willingly gave up their lives on September 11.
We can turn terror into hope. We can look boldly into the face of irrational hatred and not back down; not apologize for our freedom. We can pull together and show the cowards who strike at women and children that, for all her flaws, America's strength lies in the tenacity, the generosity, and the heart of her people.
We do this and the terrorists fail.
There is no more fitting remembrance than that.
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