Ring of the Magi

Soon after we were married, my husband Joe lost his wedding ring in a railyard. I was suspicious.

“Why did you take it off?” I accused. We couldn’t afford another.

“I might lose my finger or get electrocuted if I wear it at work,” was his excuse. Which made sense since he repairs electric commuter trains.

You can read here how I never took off my original wedding rings and got in trouble. Here I talk about my second set of rings that I don’t wear all the time.

In this post, I’m pondering why, after 37 years, Joe bought a wedding ring for himself. He never wears jewelry, even when he’s not working. So why, and why now?

His ring was in the store’s display case when he bought mine. The rings matched even though not a set.

“I thought if I waited to buy it, it’d be gone.” Like other missed opportunities due to finances?

But, since living together, a ring was never important to him. So why take on another bill two-years before retirement?

“After I retire, I’ll be able to wear it all the time,” he explained. I wasn’t convinced.   

Did Joe’s ring preface a new life? Maybe he’s getting ready for the big change. A change that can upend one who has worked so long that transitioning to a second act can unearth them.

And why does the ring catch my attention whenever Joe wears it? The band on his weather-and-work-abused mitt also catches my breath. Not because it’s an exceptional piece of jewelry. It’s not.

The new ring on my husband’s familiar hand bleeds my vanity. He still wants others to know he’s married. To me. The one with the matching rings. Whose hands are veining and crinkling. With a neck I feel sorry for.

Like the gifts in O. Henry’s short story The Gift of the Magi, our rings are unnecessary. They only symbolize a union already solid and unending, even in the face of change.  

Have a much-loved Christmas.

Thanksgiving 'What If'

"Chihuly Cornucopia" by ImageMD is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0 

The colonists left England with militia, including Myles Standish. They feared those already established in America could be hostile. I’d be afraid too. But even a gun can’t kill fear. And fear can block logic that sees potential in something “exotic.”

Would we be healthier if European immigrants had reproduced more with the original Americans? At what point does a pure race begin to inbreed and not know it? Was it possible for the pilgrims to welcome people, who looked and lived so differently, into their homogeneous community at all if they weren’t starving? The colonists had innovations Natives may have wanted to integrate into their societies even as the settlers learned from the Americans how to survive in this foreign land. How would greater mingling of knowledge and personal practices have affected the juvenile United States?

Native people weren’t worried about strangers taking their land. They couldn’t have conceived of this happening because they didn’t believe the land could be owned. It’s a basic necessity. I’m not so naïve to believe Native tribes never fought each other. But, at that time, was anyone worried about having enough land? The colonists hugged the coast. Most Native tribes moved with the herds. There was plenty of room.

In Euro-American thinking, landownership equaled wealth and power. You couldn’t even vote unless you owned land. I’ll not go into the fact that women weren’t allowed to vote until long after this law was changed. Or delve into the viability the colonists would ever adopt the matriarchal system that some Native tribes followed. That’s another ‘What if’ post.

If Native Americans had influenced the settlers’ society in more than just keeping them from starving, how would our civilization have matured? I can’t see a Native government official allowing the production of Styrofoam. The stuff never decomposes. A person who sees the earth as spiritual, and respects its delicate balance, would question a product’s disposability before allowing it to be sold en masse. Would unnecessary materials like plastic grocery bags have passed approval with an EPA that included Native people? Solar and wind power may have been invented earlier. Recycling? Duh. Dump chemicals in water?! 

If facts above are off, please alert me in the comments below.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Dollar Day Virgin

"Goodwill Store" by JeepersMedia is licensed under CC BY 2.0

Nine-fifteen Sunday morning, I passed a woman sitting on a cement barrier outside the Goodwill Store on my way to check their hours posted on the door beyond her. Another woman walked up next to me. I turned to her and said, “They don’t open until ten.”

In a gravelly voice, she replied, “I always get here early.” She peeked through a glass wall into the store. “I already knew the colors. Just checking.”

“It’s blue and yellow today,” said a commanding voice. The woman from the cement barrier walked up. Her words carried across the nearly empty parking lot. “We should block those guys when they show up so they can’t see the colors before the doors open.”

The woman with the gravelly voice turned to me. “Watch for two big guys. One’s thinner than the other. They usually get here when the line reaches the parking lot.”

I didn’t know the Goodwill Store was so popular. I’d been donating to, and shopping at, Goodwill for years, but this was my first Sunday morning shopping visit.

The loud woman inched closer to me with each exchange. “The last two weeks those guys stood over there near that blue pole. They waited until the last minute to slide in front of us, like they were checking the colors, but then they rushed the doors.” Her words cracked like a whip across my face and over the parking lot.

I stepped back.

“They almost knocked down the woman opening up,” Gravelly Voice added. “I don’t know why those guys want to get inside ahead of us. They’ve seen us going to women’s clothes. They always head straight for electronics.”

I wondered how big the men were.

“They’re usually here by now,” said the loud woman. “Let’s not let them through. As soon as they show up, we can all stand near the door and block them.” I didn’t commit to her woman’s movement for a shoving match to be first inside Goodwill. Glad that she had taken my hint and kept an appropriate conversational distance, I prepared to keep an appropriate distance from both women if the men showed up.

“Get a cart right away.” I was suddenly touched by Gravelly’s tip and Loud Woman nodding.

I glanced at the line of shopping carts neatly hugging each other in their conga line behind the glass walls of the store. How could there be room in the store’s isles for all of them, and us?

“I don’t think I’ll need a cart. I’m only looking for a few blouses and a dress,” I said.

Gravelly’s eyes focused beyond where I stood. I braced myself to see two large men. Instead, as I glanced behind me, two petite women got in line and smiled.

Gravelly lowered her voice. “Take a cart anyway before they’re gone. Everything marked with a blue or yellow sticker is only a dollar. Fill your cart. Even if some things don’t fit, you still make out. I go right to women’s size 8. They sell fast on e-bay.”

A line of people started forming next to the barriers and blue poles. I couldn’t believe my luck in being mentored by seasoned shoppers. And being part of their confident heat outside the front doors to Goodwill.  

I faced sideways to include others in our conversation. One of the petite women said, “I was shopping at another store and asked the sales guy where the women’s section was. He said, ‘Feminine clothing on the left. Masculine clothing on the right.’ Some people are so sensitive. Why do they have to be politically correct all the time? I just wanted to know where the women’s section was. If you’re not a woman or a man, what are you?”

“A person.” Somehow, this switched the topic to breast feeding in public.

In the pleasant fall morning, outside Goodwill, our conversation became a benign community exchange.

“I’m glad I came early,” I said to the people around me. “I didn’t know about the sale. If I saw this line when I pulled up, I would’ve gone home.”

“The sale runs every Sunday,” said the loud woman. Was she encouraging me to come back next week?

Gravelly Voice added, “They don’t tell you what the colors’ll be. My niece works at a different store. She’s not supposed to say, but she tells me the colors before I get here.” This sensitive information, offered with a childish titter by a well-coiffured woman wearing clothes that looked like they were tailored to fit her, made it hard not to titter along with her.

The woman repulsed by babies breastfeeding in public, said, “I usually wind up buying clothes for my niece because I have trouble finding my size. But I like coming every week anyway.”

The Rocky Horror Picture Show announcement ‘Virgin’ that’s yelled in the theatre when someone was experiencing the show for the first time popped into my head. “I feel like the Goodwill Dollar Day Virgin.”

We laughed. Then straightened our line. Someone inside the store came to the glass doors. Forty-five minutes had time warped. No man had slinked in front of us, but the gravelly-voiced woman had gotten in front of me. Was she being protective, or taking advantage? I didn’t care. I was enjoying being part of the group’s entity.

The person inside unlocked one door. “Just let me get out of the way before you come in,” she said as the gravelly-voiced woman pushed on the door.



The two dresses and two blouses I purchased didn’t have blue or yellow stickers. No sale benefit from Dollar Day sapped some of my excitement. However, at regular Goodwill prices, they were worth more than I paid.

I arrived home feeling like I had returned from an adventure. Between waiting outside Goodwill, going through racks of clothes, standing in line for the changing rooms and to check out, I needed to grab a late lunch and put my feet up. However, I’ll value my Goodwill Dollar Day Sunday initiation forever.  

Juliette Writers' Group Meeting

"week 48 - Inspiration" by Sweet Dreamz Design is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0 

This meeting was inspiring. We meet again in January.

October 15th @7:30pm 

Barnes & Nobles 

1311 Nixon Dr. 

Moorestown, NJ

This is our last meeting of the year. See you in January.  

Learning to Be Two Again

Our four children had become young adults. Our busy life of running to schools, games and practices, church activities and play dates had wound down. Sitting in front of the TV snuggling with Joe had taken the place of frantic evenings. But without the plethora of responsibilities to coordinate, our conversations dwindled.

One evening after Joe and I arrived home from work, with the kids out, I faced my husband in the middle of our living room, and the stillness of our once lively home struck me. I voiced my anxiety that we might be better together as parents than a couple.

“Joe, do you think we’ll get that empty nest syndrome when the kids leave? So many people we know are divorcing. If they can’t keep their marriages going after years of trying, maybe it could happen to us.”

Joe, standing opposite me in our quiet space, said nothing. But his face burned with angry, wounded feelings, and his body language raged. He stomped upstairs. It was his way of saying, “How can you think that after everything we’ve been through together?”

I got it. I never hear God’s physical voice, but I continue to meditate in His presence and believe in our relationship. Joe and I may not speak much about our relationship, but it is vital in an unexplainable way, even beyond our family.

Alone in the room, I realized our home had become a to-do list instead of a “home.” We were a well-oiled machine working singly in the house: I vacuumed, Joe cut the grass; I did laundry and dishes, he did home repairs.

I decided to make a dinner date with Joe. He didn’t question the reason for it, but he didn’t stand me up either. That was the start of enjoying our empty nest status together.

Today, our three daughters have homes of their own. Our son graduated from high school this year, our thirtieth year of marriage. These almost empty-nest parents woke to the fact that we can still enjoy being a part of fun activities. Only now, we are shuttling ourselves to and from forty-plus hockey practice, eating out, sightseeing and volunteering. It is still a full life, far from an empty nest. 

With This Ring

Here, I talked about having my engagement ring and wedding ring cut off my finger. I hadn’t removed them since my husband put them on me 35 years before. In that post, I gushed about how, even though small and modest, they have great sentimental meaning. 


Only 2 years later I’m now very sentimental about the new engagement ring and enhancer my husband bought me for our 37^th anniversary. I was ashamed to admit that I found myself loving these much less modest rings with deeper emotion than when my husband presented me with the original engagement ring all those years ago. 


I never liked flashy things. Why do I constantly look at my new rings and feel more appreciated by my hubby? There’s no difference in our relationship.


The new rings are of a mature style-one I wouldn’t have chosen if my fiancé had the money in 1981 to afford bigger rings. Is that it? Did I feel juvenile wearing rings a teenager had picked out? Did I feel I deserved better jewelry after years of marriage? I’m a different person now, but that doesn’t have anything to do with jewelry. I shouldn’t need a fancy set of rings to prove to people or myself how much my husband cares for me. 


Before hubby bought these new rings, I had thought about what else that money could go towards: Renting a vacation house for a week of fun with family at the beach; Saving ourselves another monthly bill; Making an improvement on our old, needy house. I thought I’d regret the purchase. I feared guilt would attack me every time I looked at the rings. They’d be a reminder that so much money was spent on me alone, with no one else benefiting. 


Why do I enjoy these rings so much? They clash with my usual casual dress and require maintenance that my smaller rings never did. That means they come with responsibility during a time where I’ve been shedding responsibilities to simplify my life. 


At night, while sitting together watching TV, my hubby takes my hand and kisses it near the rings. He had taken a picture of my hand wearing the rings and showed the picture to people he works with. That’s when it hit me. The rings bring joy to him too. He’s planning to buy a matching ring for himself. And he doesn’t even wear jewelry. With tears of emotion I’m realizing that these seemingly shallow, unnecessary things are physical symbols of the precious life we have; A mature reality that’s beyond young love and bright hopes for our future. They represent materialization of those hopes and love. A reward for a job well done.

Juliette Writers' Group Meeting

"Portraits of writers and photographers (Esquire Russia)" by Pavel Mishkin is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0 

September 17th @ 7:30pm

Barnes & Nobles

1311 Nixon Dr.

Moorestown, NJ 

Topic for discussion: Sub-plots

Join this 20 year strong group of writers in our think tank environment. Networking afterwards. 

I'm a Bigot and Don't Know It

I laugh at the old situation comedy All in the Family. Archie Bunker is its star character. His reactions to, and expressions regarding, people who aren’t like him have made him an icon. I prided myself a progressive person like Archie’s son-in-law. I’m not an Archie Bunker. Or am I?

The movie The Green Book assured me that I didn’t need the lessons learned by one of the story’s main characters. I know better than to promote withholding rights and freedoms I have from someone else. But I was dumbfounded when my writing partner had to point out that a Native American character I created had stereotypes I never heard of. Which means my bigotry runs so deep, it’s woven into my subconscious. I need to comb bias from my core through myopic censorship. The last time I spewed the saying from my childhood ‘Don’t be an Indian giver’ the conscious part of my brain flashed a vision of suffering and dying Native Americans walking the Trail of Tears.

As a child, I used “colored person” in a conversation with my sister. Her response, “What color were they, Dawn?” jarred me to realize I wouldn’t want to be referred to by my skin tone. Or have my appearance, sex, or age pointed out when someone speaks about or to me. These are personal aspects I have no control over that shouldn’t pigeon-hole me as a person. Referring to an individual by something other than their name or merits they’ve earned gives the speaker entitlement they have no right to. Another expression I no longer use in describing people is ‘white trash.’ It infers that most trashy people couldn’t be white.

YouTube has an MTV show called Decoded, hosted by Franchesca Ramsey. It shocked me. Certain episodes explain the origins of stereotypes throughout American history that still affect America today. Francesca’s video on cultural appropriation made me re-think costumes, clothes, and jewelry I wear as a white European-American.

The saying, ‘Don’t be a baby’ is age discrimination in lamb’s clothing. I admit to parroting this saying. Babies cry and tantrum because they can’t talk. When children can talk, they aren’t mature enough to express their feelings and needs accurately. Have you ever heard a 3-year-old say, “I’d like to stay home from daycare this morning, I need a mental health day.”? To reference someone as acting like a baby demeans a group of people who haven’t had enough time being alive to be able to act otherwise.

Children understand who provides their needs and comforts. They mimic and give devotion to their providers for survival and social acceptance. Adults who laugh at a joke targeting marginalized people are acting out their fears of the unfamiliar. This not only teaches and reinforces stereotypes, it fans fear into a child by building suspicion around those who are not in or around their circle of providers. I wonder what my children brought into adulthood from their early years.

Recently I listened to an author speak about controversy over her successful children’s book series. She sounded like a nice person who means well. However, the author mirrored stereotypes in her fictional characters. Her answers to accusations of bias resurrected things I had said but then buried, hoping no one remembered. I wanted to reach into the podcast, shake her, and say, “You’re embarrassing yourself.” It concerns me that stereotypes depicted in her books slipped through a publishing house. Children learn from children’s books.

If the US military could welcome the LGBTQIA+ community and heterosexual women with as widely open arms as it has heterosexual men, would a draft ever be necessary? I’m a selfish mother, grandmother, sister, aunt, cousin, friend. I’m proud of loved ones who are in the military but hope the military will only and always be made up of those able and willing to accept that challenge.

I scratch my head at huge audiences in the stands of sporting events who are mostly white, yet the teams on the fields are not. PBS has a documentary on the 1969 Woodstock Music and Art Festival, a massive gathering that promoted equality. It showed footage of diversity on the stage, but not in the ocean of faces below the stage.

Why have I heard poor marginalized people called lazy? I was poor growing up. So, of course, I entered adulthood poor. I received WIC benefits when pregnant. I qualified for a grant from the city of Philadelphia for improvements on my home. I’m not lazy because I came from a family who didn’t have resources to empower me when I became an adult. But I wonder how much my white skin has been an asset when I needed assistance on the road, in a job, and for an apartment or loan. The worse I’ve been called is a bitch. My value as a person wasn’t attacked. The verbal assault was easy to ignore.

Diversity on social media, TV, billboards, and in magazines is starting to reflect a more realistic view of America. People who look and sound different from me are shown doing the same things my family and I do. Experiencing this purges ignorance by exposing reality. I prefer the whole picture to a limited misinterpretation. Why not? It’s comforting. It assures me I shouldn’t feel threatened.

The above doesn’t mean I expect a pass for slanted views. I have no right to be excused. I must continue combing through myself for destructive biases that may run deeper than I even now realize.  

Juliette Writers' Group Meeting

"pictureaday025" by dvdc165 is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0 

August 20th @ 7:30pm

Barnes & Nobles 

1311 Nixon Dr.

Moorestown, NJ 

Join our think tank environment of writers to discuss Modern Slang in Writing.

BOOK EVENT

"Hooray for Books!" by assortedstuff is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.


This event was great. Thanks for your support.

August 3rd 1-4pm

 Barnes & Nobles 

1311 Nixon Dr. 

Moorestown, NJ 08057

Stop by and say hi to me and other 

Chicken Soup for the Soul contributors. 

Stolen Jesus

Typically a man of quiet spirit, my husband morphs into Mr. Christmas after we take down our Thanksgiving decorations.  It's like he's saved up all his playful fervor behind a mask of reserve all year.  And then, bam!  Passing neighborhood children stop to gawk at his obsession—oversized hollow figures that light up, including a complete nativity scene.  The baby Jesus is his most challenging piece, requiring not only a stake of wood like the larger pieces, but also wire to strap him in.

I've seen dormant competitive streaks awaken during this time of year, and it peaks with my husband Joe.  “Kathleen's got her manger scene out already,” he said coming home from a drive by his sister's lawn.

I played along, taking my husband's side of course.  “Yours is always bigger and brighter.”

“She didn't strap down the baby Jesus.  It might blow away.”

“You've told her before and she didn't listen.  When she has to pay $50 for a new one like you did, then she'll learn.”  I am jealous of his sister.  They have a shared childhood history in a tight Philadelphia row home neighborhood cementing their relationship. It sometimes makes me feel like an outsider.

December is always a blur of happy busyness.  But come early January, the excitement of retro childhood fantasy dissipates as the decorations come down.

We were leaving Kathleen's home on January 6^th one year, after a 50^th birthday celebration and reminiscing.  Joe checked his sister's nativity scene as we passed it on our way down her porch steps.  “She's lucky no one stole her baby Jesus.  She didn't zip-tie him tight enough to the manger.”

I hated to see my husband's playful side go back into storage for another eleven months.  His antics with his sister back inside the house was infectious, inspiring me to become an accomplice.

“Take it,” I goaded as we strolled along Kathleen's driveway to the sidewalk.

Joe laughed.  “No.”  He stole a glance to see if his sister had gone inside.

“Why not?”  I pushed.  “I dare you.”

He stopped and said, “She'll need it for next year.”

“Joe, you'll give it back.”  I knew he was thinking she'd be as upset as he was when our original one was stolen.  “And you can leave a note or call her in a disguised voice saying you're holding him for ransom.”  I could tell he was interested.  “Come on.  She'll know it's you right away.  And she'll love the fun you'll have with her.”

St. Joseph said no more and adopted his sister's plastic doll for a year.  We hid it in our home and took it out for photo opportunities.  The first photo I snapped was of Joe behind the wheel of his pick-up with the doll atop the truck above his head.  He's smiling as if about to drive away unaware of it.  He left the picture inside Kathleen's mailbox.

Joe works in a rail yard, so he brought the poor baby to work and put him on the tracks.  Click.  That photo arrived at his sister's with a playfully written suggestion.

We also used the doll to lighten up a serious family situation.  Our daughter was admitted to the hospital and needed emergency surgery.  We brought the doll to her hospital room.  I saw a twinkle in her eye as she mustered a smile while posing with the abducted plastic.  Her smile gave way to chuckles when her dad took another picture of the thing on the windowsill as a helicopter landed on its pad just outside.  The note attached to this picture was most fun because our recovering daughter and her visitors helped write it.

There's a picture of the baby Jesus presented to the camera by Kathleen's own teenagers, taken at Easter time when they stopped by to visit our teens.

Kathleen responded to the fun by taping a poster of her missing decoration to a milk carton and passing it around to family who knew all about the prank.

The year of the missing nativity piece extended family playfulness in such a uniting way that surrendering the hostage was almost sad.  But as preparations for the next Christmas began, Joe returned the decoration with gratitude for the love—and mischievous streak—of his family.   

             

              "Merry Christmas!" by Mr. Ducke is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0 

Juliette Writers' Group Meeting

This meeting was great. Look for next month's meeting.

July 16th @ 7:30 pm

Barnes & Nobles

Moorestown, NJ 

Join this seasoned collection of writers as we discuss

Patriotic Story Writing

Needle Phobia

"IMG_4580" by robertgeiger1 is licensed under CC BY 2.0

An invisible clock quickened as I watched my children become young adults. How could I preach to them to get preventative medical care if I didn’t? I needed to find a way to cope with my fear of needles. I was a ticking time bomb of cancer waiting to burst its polyp and spread.

Just thinking of someone inserting a needle into flesh shoots my phobia to an elevation that ignores, among other health issues, my risk for a rare type of colon cancer that my dad died from at 30. I even wince and close my eyes when a commercial for a diabetic test kit pops on the TV. My dangerous break from dealing with the anxiety of getting a simple IV could keep me from seeing my children grow into adults.

I rescheduled an appointment with my gastroenterologist I canceled three years before. He performs regular upper and lower endoscopies on me as a cancer preventative and has removed multiple polyps from my colon.

My strategy was to tell myself that the IV only took seconds to insert, and the nurse would take it out soon after I woke up from the anesthesia. Then, I could spend the rest of the day at home napping off the remaining Propofol in my system and doing whatever I wanted. The whole procedure only took minutes. We’d be back home in less than two hours.

On the way to the surgical center, I attempted a mental time jump sitting in the passenger’s seat of my husband’s S-10 pickup truck. But, as Joe crossed the highway, blocks from the center, I didn’t leap in time far enough. In my head, I was in pre-op where a nurse was poking a needle into my vein. My mind trick had backfired. I defaulted to perseverating on the IV, which shot me into a full-blown panic attack.

“I need to get out,” I said, jiggling the door handle, distracting Joe’s driving. Grabbing my arm to make sure I didn’t fall out, he missed the turn for the center. When we finally got there, and into pre-op, the nurse gave up after three sticks. I tried breathing through my nose and holding it for five seconds to keep from hyperventilating. My body writhed between the hospital sheets. I groaned with pain that I can’t describe because it wasn’t physical but very real to me.

The anesthetist took over for the nurse. “I can’t stop freaking out,” I said to him.

“Don’t freak out. It’s just a pinch,” he said, with a chuckle. My anxiety was so high that I hadn’t felt the nurse’s three attempts. The doctor’s lightheartedness dropped after his first stick failed. I couldn’t stop moving my head. “Now you’re making me nervous.” Horrified he’d reschedule me, I reigned in enough self-control for him to get it on the next try.

Hitting panic mode at a level where I struggled for control over myself made me determined to deal with my phobia in a way that wouldn’t put stress on those around me. It was clear that Joe’s presence hadn’t helped. Even as he had sat quietly in the chair next to me, I sensed his anxiety as we waited in admissions. Never strong around my doting mother, I realized Joe had become a sit-in for her. His attempts at humor and small talk irritated me. I apologized later and didn’t allow him to come with me again.

Our oldest daughter had received her driver’s license by the time I was due for my following procedure. I was better at controlling myself around our children, so I had Sarah drop me off outside the center. I said, “Honey, the surgical center will call you when I’m ready for you to get me.” Waiting in the center next to Sarah might have given me time to pick up on concern she may have had about her mother’s procedure.

In pre-op, I put on a hospital gown, non-slip booties, and shoved my hair into a disposable cap. Then, I climbed into bed with The Count of Monte Cristo, my classics book club read of the month. A nurse came to my bedside with her IV caddy as I read the same paragraph for the fourth time.

“I can’t look while you do that,” I said. “I have a phobia of needles that I’m embarrassed about.”

As she put the tourniquet on my arm, she admitted, “I’ve started hundreds of IVs, and still have a problem with getting one myself.”

That got me thinking. “Maybe we don’t like putting our bodies in someone else’s hands.”

The nurse rolled off her gloves. “Maybe.” She picked up her caddy and left. The IV was in. I hadn’t panicked or embarrassed myself. I still couldn’t look at the needle in my hand. But I was proud of my success.

A few years later, I had our younger daughter drop me off, and insisted she also not come inside the center. The nurse got me talking as she set up her IV materials. This time I didn’t just rattle on about my fear like I did with past procedures. I focused on the nurse. Heidi. Her name was Heidi.

“I love your name,” I said. “I almost named my daughter Heidi.”

The nurse had a son. She chatted about the internet being great for him to do research for school projects, but also how difficult it was to monitor what he was exposed to online. Focusing on her situation switched my irrational thoughts to something more important than anxiety over a needle puncturing my skin.

When it was my son’s turn to take me to the center, I wasn’t up for a ride on the back of his motorcycle after my colon prep the night before. So, he dusted off Nessy, a lifted, lime green Ford F-150 pickup truck with monster-sized wheels, and we were off.

“You need help getting down, Mom?” he asked, after shifting into neutral and stopping in the center’s drop-off/pick-up zone.

“Nope.” If he took Nessy out of neutral, she might stall. I slid from the passenger seat, laughing as I dropped three feet. “Thank you for the ride, honey.” I was actually laughing outside the dreaded surgical center.

I take Uber to my procedures now, and only need a family member or friend to pick me up afterwards. Chatting with the Uber driver grounds me in someone else’s situation, keeping my irrational fear from controlling me. At my latest procedure, I was reading the classic Riders of the Purple Sage. I understood what I read while waiting for the nurse to escorts me to pre-op. I talked with the nurse, but still didn’t watch the needle go in. Feeling so empowered after the nurse left, I peeked at the IV stuck inside my hand for the first time.

My next endeavor is to watch, without passing out or getting sick, as the nurse puts the IV into my hand. I’m not there yet. It took me twenty-two years to get this far, and that’s okay. Now that I’m continuing my regular procedures, I may have twenty-two more years to reach this new goal.

Juliette Writers' Group Meeting

picture from Lee Harper's website

This was great. Thanks to Lee Harper for a great presentation.


June 18th @7:30pm

Barnes & Nobles

1311 Nixon Dr.

Moorestown, NJ 

I'm honored to have award winning children's author and illustrator Lee Harper speak to our group. Come join us.  

Thank You, Drag Queens

Photo by Elizabeth Barrineau

Drag queens fascinate me. How can men be more comfortable in a woman’s body than I am?

During a performance, four brides-to-be in the audience, and their all-women entourages, celebrated with male inspired table décor. I’m an old married person, so I thought young brides-to-be enjoyed bachelorette parties with live male entertainment of a different kind. Why did our audience of heterosexual women have an appetite for this art form? The show’s effect on me explained why.

As a teen, I walked and took public transit around Philadelphia. Daily, men and teen boys hooted, whistled, and yelled comments from corners and cars. I felt threatened on my way to school, especially in the early morning when men threw open car doors and, “Need a ride, baby?” echoed from inside. It crushed me with powerlessness. Harassment and disrespect from strangers added to my male biology teacher wanting to photograph me. Another teacher congratulated me on my engagement ring with raised eyebrows and a grin saying, “There’s only one reason why you won’t wait to get married. But that can work. It’s enough to keep some people together.” These experiences rocked my fragile self-confidence. On elevated trains, and buses, I ignored someone standing over me looking down my blouse and the creepy nods and leers as eyes scanned my body. Towering over me, someone penned me in by putting his knee between mine as I sat in a sideways-facing bus seat. I said, “Excuse me.” He must have thought I was getting up for my stop. “Of course,” he said, and moved to let me get up. I switched to a forward-facing seat. That bus wasn’t crowded.

This backstory may be why seeing a man dressed as a woman has always struck a sensitive chord. The drag show’s fun music and comedy kept me from crying as I watched men allowing themselves the same vulnerability as women. In exaggerated hair, make-up and body suits, their message, This isn’t real. There’s more to a person than what you see, was refreshing coming from males. Its novelty rocked me.    

The queens spoke to that scared girl on her way to the pharmacy for her disabled grandmother. In tight jeans that were comfortable and stylish, I blamed myself when someone pinched me from behind and ducked into an alley before I turned around. Drag theatrics shout how ridiculous it was to be ashamed of cleavage or height, or to have enjoyed make-up I bought with my transit and lunch monies to feel like the woman I was becoming, with hopes of being respected by appearing older.

I felt more dignity dancing along with men dressed as women than I did around men dressed as men. I wanted to hug the performing artists like other woman did who held out money to get the dancers to come within reach. The queens’ fun exaggerations celebrated me and the other women. No one laughed when Brittany Spears entered the stage in a parochial school-girl uniform. Her girth exposed not only female sexual stereotypes, but also body bias.  

The next show I attend, I won’t hug a performer, even though I’ll ache to do so. I’ll simply hold out a ten and say, “Thank you” and try not to cry.

Juliette Writers' Group Meeting

"Cheerleaders girls lego" by jamezleeshunter is licensed under CC BY 2.0 

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This meeting was great. Click here for the next meeting.

May 21st @7:30pm

Barnes & Nobles

1311 Nixon Dr.

Moorestown, NJ

Join our circle of seasoned and newer members as we discuss:
Sports Fiction

Error or Scam

"Police Station" by Dushan and Miae is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

Daily, my home phone rings with nuisance calls from various states and local numbers. Mailings are worse.

My husband received a statement dated April 9^th from AssetRecovery Solutions, LLC saying he owed $4,79.68, and that the account had been referred to their agency for collections. Friends cautioned me to follow up on it.  

I worried the erroneous bill would affect our credit rating, so I went to our local police station. An officer took my name, listened to my complaint, and went into the back of the station, probably to run a check on me. He returned for the mailing. The second time he came back into the lobby, he asked, “What year is your car?”

“Two thousand twelve,” I said.

He left again and returned a third time. “Are you leasing a car?”

“No,” I replied. “We bought our Focus at Rice & Holman, but it’s paid off. We bought my husband’s truck from a friend.”

He sat down at the table in the lobby next to me. As he scanned at the back of the mailing, I said, “We’ve never had any dealings with Providian Bank or those other companies.” Thirteen businesses were listed under Resurgent Companies.

The officer said, “You should call them.”

“I didn’t call because I don’t want them to have my phone number or any more information about us.” I was tired of scammers, spammers and incorrect billings.

He stood up and said, “Come with me.” I followed him into the back and accepted the seat opposite him at his desk. “If you call from here, they won’t get your number.”

While looking at the mailing, he punched at the old school phone with extra buttons on his desk, then turned the dinosaur around to me. It rang without me touching it. It was on speaker-not so old school.

I was put on hold and expected to be sitting in a police station for the rest of the morning. But, after two seconds, someone answered. I told them what I had told the officer. The person asked for my hubby’s name and the ID number on the mailing. Then said, “Do you know the last four digits of your husband’s social security number?”

I looked over at the officer typing on his computer. He shook his head.

“No,” I lied.

“Is your husband’s birthday April 9^th -?” I didn’t pay attention to the year.

“That is incorrect.” No lie.

“We must have the wrong person. I apologize for the mistake. You won’t receive any more mailings regarding this.”

The officer hung up, and I said, “Thank you so much for your help. If my mother had received that mailing, she’d be very upset.”

He turned his desk phone back around to face him. “That’s a problem. Older people sometimes pay it.”

I said, “I get calls all the time too.” Could the officer do anything about those?!

“Everyone does.”

I guess that was his way of telling me he couldn’t stop the calls. He added, “Never put money on a card and mail it to a solicitor. Ignore IRS calls. They’d just take what you owe them from your account.” I appreciated his concern, even though his information wasn’t new.

Had the police station come up on AssetRecovery Solutions, LLC’s caller ID? Maybe that’s why they didn’t put me on hold for long. Thinking over this possibility, I left the police station empowered.

Until I got home. Diagnostic Pathology Consultants had sent me another erroneous bill. I picked up our home phone and called my health insurance company, again.