New Nest

Hello Everyone!

Dropping you a line to let you know we've moved!

The blog consolidation is complete, and you can now find me at

http://rorschachcoffee.typepad.com/

Hope to see you there!

Blog Consolidation

No more feeling like two people!

(Photo by Sophia Arvizu)

Hello, everyone! I just wanted to inform you that I will be moving and consolidating both of my blogs soon. I've decided that with my limited amount of time, and my varied interests, that it would be better for me to change platforms. I am exploring my options at this point in time, and I will probably be going with a TypePad blog, as I enjoy their format and themes.

I love fashion, food, writing, and my family - so it's going to be nice to have them all in one place. I will feel slightly less schizophrenic that way. :)

I will post when I have completed the transition, and inform you of the new URL! I hope that you will follow me there, and I will make a new Bloglovin' account for the blog when I move. Thanks for your support and patience with my infrequent blogging. I will be much better about posting in the future!

Paulette

An Open Letter to my Husband on Our First Anniversary

You had kind eyes. That was the first thing I noticed about you - that and your horn-rimmed glasses and smile. All of those things. The next thing I noticed is that you were nervous.

Your shyness is something that was and is still irresistible to me - the slight way your back tensed and then relaxed when I hugged you hello.

"Whoa!" I imagined you thinking, "This girl is forward and she smells a bit like pomegranate martinis."

A little while later, you were drinking a pomegranate martini just like mine, instead of trying to impress me with single-malt whiskey. I was saying to myself  - "This boy is different."

Because, at that point, I'd had my fill of the guys with the scotch and the great lines.

You ask me to dinner three days later, followed by coffee and lots of talking. I find out that you are a little bit jaded, a tad nihilistic - but in a vulnerable way that makes me realize that you're not fake. You're not into the big show. I love this about you, because what I see is what I get. I don't think you really understand how important that is to me. You open doors for me, and you always thank me for the evening. You have a Michigan accent and a careful kiss.

Four months in, I know I love you.

You meet my daughter. You hit it off immediately, but then she throws a fantastic tantrum just two weeks later. It's a test. She's been through a lot, and she isn't always an easy child. I think you're going to run. You don't - you come closer. I kind of know, at that point, where this is going - but I'm a little jaded too.  At some indeterminate point, I stop waiting for red flags and shoes to drop.

You start sleeping over, and I get to hear you in the morning. Your head makes a dent in the pillow, and we fight over the covers. Mostly, we lay very still, listening to the sounds of the street through the open windows of my bedroom. The best nights are when it is raining. Sometimes you laugh in your sleep.When you aren't there, I'm restless.

We are getting more comfortable, and we take our first trip, walking around the city that owns my heart. A year later, you will propose four blocks away from where we are standing, dropping a ring of diamonds into my hand on the Rue Royale.

You tease me about my ridiculous shoes, and my inability to tighten a lid. I make big breakfasts on Sunday mornings, and we drink too much coffee while watching B-movies. You tell me I'm spectacular. I've never heard that before.

I remember all of these things.

I am fascinated by your mind - something that you are incredibly humble about. Needlessly so. I confess one night my fear: I will die never having written something of value. You confess your fear that you'll never create something that will use all of your potential. We promise each other we won't let that happen.

Now, we sit across from each other at our kitchen table, laptops like bookends. You are programming, I am writing. There is intimacy in moments like this, even though we seldom speak during these times. Each of us does not completely understand what the other is doing. I think that's the secret of it all - the formula.

You are patient with my moods, with my habits and my tics. I love watching you when you are unaware that you are being watched. You rub your neck when you are thinking. You get excited about Physics, James Bond, and what I bring home from the grocery store. I get excited when we talk about paint chips, Irish beer, and future vacations. You prefer Tanqueray in your martini, and I prefer Bombay. We still fight over the covers, and also the thermostat.

We have our moments of frustration - me in another room, trying to sort out thoughts and stop words before they leave my lips, never to be taken back. You have your insomnia and Type A perfectionism. And your logic - something which I lack in the heat of anger. We are both oldest children.

You are a natural father - you doubt this, but in so many ways you are a much better parent than I.
I am sometimes selfish. I can confess that. You are anything but, and you don't know how grateful I am that you are here. You have made my daughter, our daughter, laugh again. You are steady ground for her feet.

Today, we celebrate our first anniversary. They say that you won't truly know who the love of your life was until your final moments. I don't really believe them. I just want you to always look at me the way you did the night I wore a blue dress, when things were new and possibility hung in the air like a question mark.

I hope to forever make you nervous.

Photo: Arvizu Photography

Sunday Mornings

I'm trying to be a less self-conscious blogger. It's hard for me - because even though I love reading other bloggers' personal style posts and slice-of-life vignettes, I am a bit reserved about posting my own. This blog's traffic is beginning to increase, so the expert blogging powers that be say that readers are interested in what you look like, what you do, etc, etc. Ok - fine.

 Sunday mornings are spent with lazy lounging and lots of coffee at our house - my husband and daughter and I never make set plans for Sundays. It's our only day off together as a family, so this day is sacred. This morning, we are watching re-runs of "Firefly" as a storm rolls in from the West. The windows are open and the air smells like autumn leaves. 

My daughter always says: "I wish every day was Sunday."
Me too.

I'm From Missouri

One of my best friends and I recently went to Vegas for our birthday weekend.  One of the most unique cities in our nation, Las Vegas is one of the few places you can go where you can be assured that almost all of the people around you are tourists themselves.  And that's where it gets interesting.

I met people from all over the world - New York, California, China, and France.  It was fun making small-talk with all of them - even the German guy who didn't share any of his chips with me when I kept shooting 9's for him at the craps table. No hard feelings, dude. We're cool.

So, the one common element that kept emerging was this simple question: "Where are you from?"

I would proudly say, "Missouri!"

I would get one of two responses - A pause, with a vacant look, and "Where is that?" or "Really?" with a surprised look.  I guess this one came from the fact that I had teeth and shoes with soles.

I don't like generalizations, so I won't make them in turn. But I did get the feeling that I was experiencing Flyover Country-itis. I would find myself describing the location of Missouri on the map - basically saying that it was right in the middle of the country. Most people thought it was closer to Minnesota or Wisconsin. A few times, the mention of Branson would bring them around. I avoided mentioning Todd Akin.

 Even when I did hit it lucky, they thought I was from St. Louis or Kansas City - as those are the only two cities in Missouri. I was fine with that - they're great cities, and at least they were in the same state and country.

I love big cities and their people, I really do. Everyone was nice, and no one was hostile. I do wish they had paid a bit more attention in geography class, but that's fine. Do I ever think the people I talked to will visit our state? Probably not. So, if you are from somewhere else and you are curious about Missouri, here are some factoids and things I personally love about being a Missouri girl:

*We are the birthplace of Harry S. Truman
*Mark Twain was from Hannibal, MO.
*The St. Louis Cardinals.
*Many actors have called MO home - Brad Pitt, Steve McQueen, and Kathleen Turner to name a few.

Here, you can experience a crisp Fall evening - warming your hands at a bonfire and telling ghost stories about the Joplin spooklight. Fall in Missouri is spectacular - the trees turn to crimson, gold, and blazing orange almost overnight. You can float down a river at your leisure, a drink in your hand and nothing on your mind but the whirr of tree frogs and crickets. You can hunt for fireflies at dusk, and go to barbecues where we drink sweet tea and eat fried chicken. We are the perfect combination of Southern hospitality and hard-working Midwestern values. We say "excuse me," and "thank-you."
We are more cosmopolitan and sophisticated than we get credit for.

My Back Yard

We still have General Stores and bait and tackle shops. Driving down Old Route 66, you will see these things, in small towns that have only one street. You will see the shadow of clouds racing across fields of fescue, wheat, and corn. You will smell lilacs and freshly-mown clover in the Spring. When you DO fly over us, look down - you will never see a more beautiful patchwork quilt.

We tend to be skeptical of people who talk a big game. This probably comes from the fact that we were a Border state in the Civil War, and there were many betrayals and feuds in our history. You have to show us, not tell us. That's how we got our nickname. Sometimes we are set in our ways, and we like things predictable. We can get a little comfortable, so change comes slowly - but it comes. And when we want something, we work damn hard to make it happen. The mule is our mascot.

There are many things I love about my state. I get tempted by the siren call of the big city at times - and get frustrated by misogynist politicians, slow-moving social change, and the sometimes close-minded attitudes of my fellow Southwest Missourians. But, even still - I remain. I love the seasons. I love the sweet smell as I follow a hay truck down a gravel road, and sledding down a snowy hill in the wintertime.

Bright lights and fancy hotels will never take the place of my Missouri. She's home.

How Awkward

We all have them. Those moments when you want to pull your coat over your head, and lurch off like Quasimodo. Sure, you may have been blessed with a charismatic personality and good looks, but I am still willing to bet that you've had toilet-paper stuck to your shoe at least once. Now, even the most self-assured are serving up their embarrassing moments - from Olivia Wilde admitting her geekdom to Jane Lynch farting on "Glee," awkward is the new black. I have experienced many of these moments, and have learned it's best to laugh. And then hide.

1. Right Text, Wrong Person, and the Auto-Correct Fail.

There is an entire website dedicated to this. Accidental texts run the gamut from the "blqytuiuipos" butt text to your boss, to the sext meant for your boyfriend that gets sent to your mom. Most of these are just funny. But sometimes, you are venting to a friend about another friend, and get confused about which one you are talking to. This one is bad. One should never use technology to talk about other people on your favorites list.  Do so at your own risk!

2. Hugs Gone Wrong

Hugs are a socially acceptable form of greeting someone, right? Well...maybe. Most of the time, hugs go well.  But, when they go wrong it is so, so BAD. You might come in too fast, and bump heads. Maybe the person doesn't like you and doesn't hug back. Or maybe you like them, but you forget to hug back, and now you feel bad. How do you apologize for that one? "Hey man, I'm sorry I forgot to hug you back. Arms aren't working today." Yeah. Don't. When in doubt, go for the Pentecostal Side-Hug. For those of you NOT from the Bible-belt, this is the hug that church people do. You hug from the side, squeezing just around the shoulders, similar to when Can-Can girls get ready to do the leg-kick thing. This minimizes the contact zone, and keeps your thoughts chaste in the process. Gotta leave room for God in the middle. 

3. Falling in Public
 Here's the thing: if you're clumsy, this is gonna happen, over and over again for the rest of your life. Get up as quickly as possible, looking around and smiling as if you did it on purpose. If you're really feeling chipper, and know nothing is broken, do a quick mid-air heel click. That'll make them think you were just rehearsing for "Singing in the Rain." Try to ignore the blood. I once lost an entire toenail in the grocery store. I kept smiling. Send in the Clowns, baby.

4. Shopping Mishaps

Mostly there are two things that happen when the socially awkward shop. The first is not seeing anything you want to buy at a boutique, yet feeling bad about not making a purchase. This is coupled with the fear that people will think you stole something. So, with crazy darting eyes and body-language  like Snidely Whiplash, you creep out, hoping the sensors don't go off. Now, you are so worked up and concerned that the security guard is right behind you on his Segway, that you have forgotten where you parked. Yep. Fake it, as getting frantic will add to your aura of guilt. Hold that head up and walk with confidence. You'll find your car eventually, right? You may even get lucky and fall in the parking lot.

5. Laughing at Inappropriate Times

Yeah...this is the thing I do the most. I am that person sitting by herself in the waiting room, laughing out loud and scaring people. All it takes is a random thought about something funny I watched or read to get me going again.Or I'm the only one laughing in a movie when everyone else is somber. Or someone is telling a really serious story in the background, and I am laughing at a stupid meme on the computer. Shopping carts rolling by themselves or the Head Crabs video will  make me bust a gut. What the hell is wrong with me. Moving on...

6. Reply All 
I really shouldn't have to explain this one much. But it's in the same vein as Number 1 up there. If you're gonna talk shit, probably best not to hit "reply all," mmmkay? Plus it makes you completely obnoxious, just like people who forward spam like: "SEND THIS TO TEN FRIENDS OR WHETTLE SEALS WILL CHEW YOUR EYELIDS OFF" Also, please stop using all-caps. And don't use Comic Sans for an obituary. People judge you for those things.

7. Those 3 Little Words

You hang up the phone, and all color drains from your face. You just told the principal at your daughter's school that you, gasp, love him. But you don't! You're so used to saying it to your husband, your mom, your cat. The dude is married. His wife works at the school. You have to go to open house in three days. Fuuuuu..... Disappear to Mexico. Now. 

8. Saying "Thank-You" when you get a ticket.

Why do we do this? Really?

9. Pretending You Know it All

This one is a recipe for disaster. It usually happens when you fall in love with someone. You are so anxious to impress them, that you fib about having already seen a movie, or about having read "Anna Karenina" or about being an opera singer. Normal people shouldn't lie. Socially awkward people definitely shouldn't, because the gods of humility will come after you, full-on like a linebacker. 

10. Snot. This one needs no explanation. 

The most ironic lesson I've learned from all of this humiliation is confidence. Being the biggest dork in the bunch has made me own my humanity and be OK with my many failures. We all screw up. Owning up to your mistakes, and realizing that most of the time, no one even noticed in the first place is really a gift. The best thing you can do is to shake it off, get up... and run to the closest costume shop to buy a mask. 

Things Men Don't Have to Deal With

 "I just don't understand!" 

Sometimes being a girl isn't all about pretty trinkets, ruffly dresses, and pastel coconut macaroons. It gets ugly. There are things we envy about you guys - things that you probably aren't even aware of. (NO, it isn't what you're thinking, so get your mind outta the gutter.) Mostly what we envy is what you DON'T have to deal with. This could get a little gross, so keep that in mind. 

1. Putting on Spanx and/or Tights, especially after a shower. 

I dried off.  REALLY WELL. I swear I did. Yet, I find myself contorting into all kinds of weird positions and breathing heavily and sweating. I tug, pull, twist, take it off, and do it all over again. I know I burn more calories in the 4 x 3 shower stall at the gym than I do during 30 minutes on the elliptical. Finally, success! All chub is put in its place, and I have a lean line in the mirror. And then I feel it. The waistband rollllllls back down over my belly, and I now have a nice muffin-top sitting on the waistline of my pencil skirt. Sexy. Start again.

2. Tampons on the Lam

OK - there are two categories of this. The first is when you are carrying them around before you need them for your womanly time. Every woman I know has had the embarrassing tampon moment. Usually it happens in front of men, of course! My last event was when I tripped up the stairs at my daughter's school, sending my purse flying. The contents were distributed at the feet of the confused male school janitor. One item was my birth-control pills, and the other was a tampon, which had magically migrated out of its oh-so-clever bright pink camouflage package. Why do tampons do this? Why do they turn on us? They are supposed to be a helpful invention. Yet, they strive to break free and show themselves to the world. Maybe they're just tired of being taken for granted.

Which brings me to the other scenario: The Missing Tampon. Dunh-Dunh-Dunh! (Scary suspenseful sound clip insert). TMT will happen to you eventually, trust me. You put it in, you know you did. But it isn't there anymore. Perhaps you had a few too many adult beverages the night before, and don't remember taking it out. But where did it go? Maybe it is stuck to the bottom of your shoe, or on the sidewalk somewhere, or even worse-maybe it has SOMEHOW migrated to your abdominal cavity. You are terrified to put another in, for fear of the dreaded Toxic Shock Syndrome. People die of that! You make a frantic call to your doctor. She tells you one of two things: it's still in there and she's gonna have to fetch it out, or you're stupid and you are wasting her time.(Not really, but that's how you feel.) Damn you, tampons.

Poor Eva

3. Boobs

We know you men love boobs. Boobs are great. They're a nice shape, they feed babies, they save the world. But did you know that they can really piss you off? Yes! Boobs CAN do that. For one thing, if you are well-endowed, they become a shelf that catches food. Not a week goes by that I don't spill some kind of food item on my girls. Usually someone else points it out. They also hurt sometimes, especially when you run without proper support, or you have too much salt and caffeine. They leak when you are breast-feeding, and finding a properly fitting bra is like finding the Holy Grail - elusive and expensive. The straps dig into your shoulders, and the underwire pokes out to stab you repeatedly. Don't even get me started on strapless bras and the quadra-boob. Also, finding a shirt that doesn't gap, but that fits you everywhere else is fun, only the opposite. I know that some men have moobs - perhaps these are the men who can sympathize. Otherwise, you just don't get it. 

4. Back Fat

Enough said. Combine an ill-fitting bra and tights that continually roll down, and even the slimmest girl has this problem. 

5. THE YEARLY EXAM

I won't go into details here. I know guys have to do the bend-over-and-cough routine. But let me just say, the paper gown and sheet dance is no fun. There are scary instruments, cold hands, and antiseptic fragrance. And oven mitts. 

 I like being female, don't get me wrong. There are the ponytails and shoes, the trips to Sephora, and the excitement over wedding and baby showers. I like wearing dresses and skirts. But acting like a lady is hard work, and sometimes I just wanna burp in public, wear swishy pants, and not cross my legs.  

A Case of the "Hads"

One of the best rules I have made for myself as a writer is to read my words aloud. It's the only way I catch errors in syntax and grammar. For some reason, my eyes go squirrely after looking at line upon line of TNR, and I just can't see my mistakes. But I can HEAR them, and they are LOUD.

I'm having one of those mornings where I feel like a terrible writer.

Last night, I wrote a scene that I was very happy with. And this morning, I am reading it, and discovering I had a case of the hads. There, I even wrote it in that sentence! My characters "had" done a lot of things. That word was unnecessary and distracting, most of the time.

The problem with writing Historical fiction, is that everything that happens in your book happened in the past. This novel is a polyphonic narrative, so there are a few voices telling the story. This can be a pitfall - and I am discovering that while it is an engaging way to tell a story, it is not the easiest path.

So today, I am enabling my software to highlight the word "had" whenever I use it.  Do you have words you stumble over in your revisions? Sometimes it takes another reader to see overuse of common words, like "she," "very," and the names of your characters on repeat - another reason to get feedback and critiques.

While I do believe that getting the first draft down and going back to edit later is the most effective way to finish a book, catching yourself making these kinds of mistakes early-on will save you time in your revisions later.

Shake It Out

"And every demon wants his pound of flesh. But I like to keep some things to myself. I like to keep my issues drawn. It's always darkest before the dawn." Florence Welch


Sometimes you hit the doldrums. Creative people face this a lot - we tend to be mercurial, running hot and cold with equal fervor. Some nights, I can pound out 5,000 words in what seems like an hour, only realizing that it is 4:00 AM when I finally hit "save" on my MS Word toolbar.  Other nights it's a struggle to get 500 words out.  I plod through, and usually end up deleting most of what I have written during my revisions.


It's during those times that you have to truly believe in what you're doing - whether you are a painter, a photographer, a dancer or a poet. It's easy enough to believe that you were meant to do this insane thing called "creation" when it is flowing like liquid silver from your veins onto the paper. It's so much harder when you are staring at a blank screen and chugging a Monster as you hope, with sleep-deprived eyes, that the muse will appear, just for a bit. You can't depend on the muse. She's half nuts and she doesn't like you - not really.


Because in the end, it comes down to work and passion - with anything in life worth doing. How badly you want to succeed is in direct proportion to how hard you work.  My favorite Florence + the Machine song, "Shake it Out" describes the creative process, and its inherent frustrations, so perfectly. This is what I listen to when I get a rejection letter, my inbox remains empty after sending out queries, and my phone doesn't ring:

"And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope. It's a shot in the dark and right at my throat. Cause looking for Heaven, found the devil in me. But what the hell, I'm gonna let it happen to me."

5 Men You'll Meet at a Bar

Single girls, listen up. There are archetypes. Archetypes in literature (think the fairy-princess Cinderella story); archetypes in country music (dog, truck, Coors); and archetypes in film (girl meets bad boy, ignores nice boy - regret ensues.) There are also archetypical bar men. While I don't miss the dating scene, many of you are in it. Let me just say, I technically met my current husband in a bar - after being set up. He is not here, on this list. MOST decent boyfriends are not on this list, although there are exceptions! While sitting and discussing men with a single friend at a ballgame last night, the inspiration to write this blog emerged like a wisp of...something. If you are navigating the landscape of the Saturday night bar-scene, you will begin to see a pattern emerge.

1. The Douche Bag - DB for short.
DB is convinced that he is the hottest thing in Abercrombie and/or Hollister. He works out 6 days a week, with the 7th reserved for hangover recovery and tanning. He may be identified by his knowing smirk, and the  lift of his cleft chin when you walk in the door. Other monikers include: player, manwhore, ladies' man, and "triflin' good-for-nothin type of brother." Thank you Destiny's Child. You may be deemed "lucky" enough to be acknowledged by the DB if you look desperate and hot. DBs travel in packs - sometimes pairs, and they are always the loudest group at the bar. A good way to fend off the advances of the DB are to claim that your STD panels checked out THIS TIME, and you're ready to go! Since they have a horde gallivanting across their bedsheets, DBs are terrified of STDs. Don't make the mistake of thinking you're gonna change him. This guy has an attention span the length of his pinky finger.

2. Newly Divorced Guy
This guy can be recognized by his over-eager smile, his wardrobe that would've looked hot 15 years ago (when he last dated), and his brave attempts at clever conversation which fail - hard.
Some friends and I encountered NDG just a couple weeks ago. We had gone to see THAT movie, featuring a certain, ahem, dance revue.  We decided to pop into the pub for a beer afterward. NDG approached us, stealthily, from the side. Now, this takes moxie. Approaching a group of women is difficult - good for you dude. Then, it all quickly goes pear-shaped for him. "I just got divorced!" he says cheerily. Oh geez. Red-flag number one. Then he asks us (as there are 4 of us) - "Is this like Sex and the City?!" His perky comparison DOES give us a giggle. All women are SATC fans, pretty much. He takes this as a cue to RUN WITH IT, and starts trying to figure out "which" character we are. I make it easy for him, and say - "The bitchy one." We leave shortly after. I think he's still confused as to why.

3. The Wallflower
Ok, I was once in this category myself, so I have a tender place in my chest for the socially-awkward guy at a bar. Sometimes, young hipster boys fall into this category. It may appear to be sullenness or snobbery, but mostly it is just the inability to maintain eye-contact with someone of the female persuasion. Perhaps with some coaxing, WF COULD become good boyfriend material. He probably is there with a wing-man, against his will.  He may be dressed in an ironic t-shirt, or somewhat overdressed for the occasion - like an undertaker. If you are at a karaoke bar, he will sing something sweetly sentimental. Sounds pretty good, right? Bad news - this guy has potential stalker written all over him. He will send you poems by John Donne and flowers - EVERY DAY. Tread lightly here.

4. Married Guy
Ugh. They are so good at hiding it. They really are. I mean, what's the catch? This guy is good-looking, smart, likes kids, AND you find all of this out in the length of time you can finish your caramel appletini. If he's dumb, he tans, and you can see the marks of his wedding band (could also be a sign of NDG, but without the awkward convo starter). Most of them aren't that dumb. This is the biggest pitfall out there for a single girl. They have perfected the puppy-dog look, and your conversation sounds like something out of a blockbuster chick flick. That is, until his wife walks into your work with eyes like daggers and you figure out that you aren't a girlfriend, you're a mistress. If you're a mistress, you don't meet his friends, you don't go to public places, and he has two cell phones. If the dude wears pleated pants, be suspicious. Watch this guy - and always trust your gut. Being a home-wrecker isn't as sexy as it sounds - you're not Angelina Jolie, and there are lots of people who could be hurt here. As soon as you find out, ditch him like that pair of stilettos that look good, but kill your feet. Not worth it. Take it from one who knows, all too well.

5. The Bartender
Danger! The script for a successful bartender is:
a. Ability to mix a killer drink.
b.Ability to talk to anyone.
d. Flirting = tips. They are pros. Plus, they are in control of something you want: booze. It's not the first time they've seen a well-formed rack, honey. This guy is the "it" guy at the bar. Watch out! He may be cute, but he is well aware of that fact - in a self-effacing way which women find irresistible. 

That's the quick and dirty list of the typical breeds you will find at your local watering hole. While you may get lucky and find a nice, normal guy NOT listed in the DSM IV criteria at an establishment that serves Delirium Tremens, it's pretty rare. Please drink, and date, responsibly.

Poor: A Memoir

I was VERY poor as a child. There's an art to flipping over couch cushions and cutting open the ends of toothpaste tubes, but I've led a fairly charmed adult life, and only had to do the check-out line "dance of shame" a few times. (You know, where you have to choose the thing you need least from your would-be purchases, and have the cashier put it back.) Here, in no particular order, are the funniest and most poignant memories of my Appalachian childhood - and that's not really an exaggeration, since my dad was born in Tennessee:

1. Speaking of the check-out lane, you haven't lived poor unless you or your mom had to RIIIIP!!! the food-stamps out of the booklet in front of God and everyone. Now, if you've got the nifty EBT card, that's great! It spares you some of the dirty looks and judgment. I was well-fed as a child because of the US government. I am thankful for that every day of my life, and I certainly don't take the fact that I can afford to feed my child without food-stamps for granted. I would if I had to, you better believe it.

2. Gov'ment Cheese. Yes, it exists. It is as yellow-orange as a caution cone, and goes perfectly well with gov'ment pork in a can. Once a month, we'd line up outside a church on the West side of town and wait for our box of goodies. Who knows what was in that meat? Maybe Jimmy Hoffa. The Jimmy Hoffa meat-grinding scare was a big deal in the late 70's. I didn't know what the hell my mom was talking about - I just wanted a burger. I'm also pretty sure I've eaten enough preservative-laden foods in my lifetime I doubt they'll have to embalm me.

3. Shopping at Wal-Mart was SPECIAL.  We got our clothes from one of two places as kids - Grand Oak Mission, or Wal-Mart. (There was that one year we got our back-to-school clothes at Venture. I felt like Princess Di shopping at Harrod's.) We got the Social Security check at the beginning of the month. That was Wal-Mart day. Boy, we felt rich! We felt like the luckiest kids on earth, in fact. We could maybe get a Malibu Barbie or some new shoes. Never both!  My mom would ask the sales girl if they carried "husky" sized jeans for us, because she could afford to buy them. Husky! No, they didn't. No fat girl jeans at Wal-Mart.

4. I learned how to thrift shop from being poor. We got some GREAT things at the Mission. Like my super awesome 70's disco jumpsuit. Chubby girls shouldn't wear onesies. That didn't stop me! We could stuff an entire trash bag full of donated clothing, and it only cost a couple dollars. My favorite part of the Mission was the free magazines and books. I got lots of Readers' Digests there. Our biggest fear was seeing someone we knew from school at the Mission. Then logic clicked in, just like it does for every guy who has ever been to a strip club and worried about someone from work being there. "Hey asshole, you're here too! I got your back! Shhhh!"

5. 5-Gallon buckets are good for many things. Here is a list!
a. Catching water from your leaking roof that your dad never could fix right.
b. Flushing the toilet when the pipes freeze.
c. For cleaning fish after a day at the lake.
d. Puke bucket!
e. Ummm...emergency toilet.
f. Carrying ashes from our ancient Ben Franklin stove.
g. All this and MORE.

 6. The Joy of a Welfare Christmas. Yes, it IS real. THIS is what you got:

7. Yard Cars.  If you do not know what this is, then I'm sorry, you're missing out! These fine pieces of equipment once ran, but have suffered the fate of a blown motor or locked transmission. It costs more $$ to haul them to the salvage yard than you have in your pocket...thus, the phenomenon. A yard car is convenient storage, a way to keep your grass from growing in strategic areas of your yard, and a handy platform when you are grilling or having people over. Doubles as seating. We had at least two or three at all times. Can also be used to chain a yard dog to. Gotta protect your shit that no one wants.

 26 Things I Have Learned:

a. Save money. You're only ever one paycheck away from poverty.
b. People don't mess with crazy. Act crazy, and no one bothers you.
c. OWN that homemade outfit, and wear it with a bullet bra and a hair-bow that looks like a paper towel.(I may have pictures.)
d. Stay away from Carnies.
e. Vacation Bible School is not the same as Summer Camp.
f. If you've got cash, spend it or save it in a coffee can. Don't trust the bank.
g. Do NOT take air-conditioning for granted. I never had it until I was 17.
h. If you throw your rotisserie chicken out with meat still on it, you are a wasteful, shameful person. There are three meals in that chicken!
i. Never blow-dry your hair when the generator is running. Overloads the circuit. (Generator was used A LOT at our house. We didn't have public utilities.)
j. Never underestimate the power of electrical tape, baking soda, and bleach. (Mends frayed cords and holds many things together, cleans your battery terminals on your car, fixes everything else-from poison ivy to anthrax.)
k. Never turn down an honest job. Especially nowadays.
l. Always check for head lice.
m. Perspective: Even if you are very poor, you are still better off than 90% of the people on this earth, because you live in a developed country without diseases like dysentery and polio. Thank the free clinics for that.
n. Be nice to your pets. Spay and neuter. Too many kittens are a problem when you're poor.
o. Give something back, and keep the karma wheel rolling.
p. Family reunions are always a crap shoot. Who is in jail this month?
q. Your brain is the most valuable thing you own, as well as your health. With those two tools, you can go anywhere, do anything.
r. Nothing hurts as much as gathering frozen sheets off the clothesline in January.
s. Every kid loves to play in mud puddles.
t. The library is free. Just don't forget to turn your books in.
u. I am not better than anyone else, and neither are you.
v. Take care of your teeth!
w. Our circumstances don't define us.
x.  Biscuits and gravy are damn good.
y. I want more for my child than I had, but I want her to be rich in love and compassion more than in THINGS and money.
z.  I am not a victim. I am not embarrassed by having been poor, and I am glad I learned the character-defining things that I needed to learn at a young age. Everything I have, while I am certainly not wealthy, I have worked hard for. I'll take that over a silver spoon, any day.

Learning - It Never Gets Old

Prolific Author Leigh Michaels at ORA Con

Photo: Jill Slack

I'm still digesting everything I learned at ORA Con yesterday, and just so thrilled I attended. The organizers did a fantastic job of arranging the conference, and I felt welcomed by their members and attendees. The professionals were friendly and encouraging, and I enjoyed basking in their expertise and advice.

My pitch went well - I wasn't as nervous as I thought I would be, and agent Cori Deyoe was very gracious and seemed enthusiastic about "Relative Truth." I'm hopeful that she will read the first three chapters, as she requested. She was truly lovely, and professional.  I am beginning to edit the book, and the tips that we learned yesterday are really helping with that process. Again, I am going into this with no expectations, and I'm just grateful to get my work in front of an agent.  I wasn't even expecting to get that far!

One of my favorite speakers was Jennifer Brown, the author of YA novels "Hate List" and "Bitter End." She is a flawless writer, represented by Ms. Deyoe, and I appreciated her subject matter on writing with emotion. Writing your characters' emotions can be a hazard, and it is easy to get caught up in adjectives and unrealistic descriptions. People do not "sigh" words!  I especially appreciated her advice on creating character profiles - much like an FBI agent profiles a criminal. She also asked us to consider physiology when writing passages containing lots of dramatic narrative. She told us to "experience what your character is feeling" by physically reacting in the same way as you are writing them. If your character takes three deep breaths, do that and see what happens! She got dizzy. So should your character.

Steven Law was very knowledgeable about publishing and publicity. I enjoyed his straightforward delivery, and his information on blogging and promoting online through social media. You must be your own cheerleader in the publishing industry. Marketing takes confidence and being able to step out of your comfort zone. He told us about his book tour for "Yuma Gold" and how he traveled across the Midwest to Hyvee stores doing book signings. He said it was exhausting, but the connections he made were so vital to author recognition. It can be difficult for writers, many of whom are natural introverts, to self-promote. Your agent and publisher do some of this, but they are busy people. You must advocate and brand yourself if you want to be truly successful. Writing a great novel is just a third of the equation!

We had so much fun talking about our projects, registering in contests, participating in fun exercises like "Plotting Without a Net," and just enjoying being in a roomful of word people. We writers can be a quirky and strange lot, and there is safety in numbers! I cannot wait until next year to see some of the writers I met again, and learn even more.  Thank you ORA for the opportunity.

Getting Serious About the Voices in my Head

This weekend, I will attend my first writers' conference. I am looking forward to learning more about the craft of writing, networking with other authors, and learning how to market my writing. The conference is the Ozarks Romance Authors' Conference, or ORA Con. The group meets on the first Saturday of each month at the Library Center.  The conference is in its 25th year, and at the encouragement of my friend Jill, I am attending. It is open to writers of all genres, and is a great way to meet and hobnob with both aspiring writers and industry professionals.

I am also very nervous.

For the first time, I will be pitching my work to a literary agent, in the flesh.  I have sent a few query letters and plenty of short-story and poetry submissions in the past. (I'm a terrible poet, by the way, and don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise.) All of this motivation occurred during my youth, when my prose was horridly purple and self-important. I am hoping that I have lived enough, and learned enough that my voice has matured. At the very least, I hope that it won't shake.

I am looking at this as an opportunity to learn - nothing more. It may take me many, many years to get published, and I have no illusions. I appreciate the encouragement of my family and my friends, but I hope they also realize that this is a complicated process, and something which isn't as black and white as the letters on a page. It's a business, and I have a product to sell. There has to be a market for said product, and that is what it's all about, folks.

Writers can get very attached to their creations, just like any artist. It's your baby, and sometimes you've just gotta know when to let it go and look at it objectively. I love Elisabeth Turner, my protagonist in "Relative Truth." She has kept me up many nights, and she is pretty much writing herself at this point. Not everyone is going to love Elisabeth Turner. I have to be OK with that.

So, I bought myself a new green dress(my lucky color), and I'm talking to myself in the mirror to get the words right and not look like a dork.  If I'm going to do this writing thing, I might as well REALLY do it, right? At the very least, I'll meet some new friends, realize that agents and publishers aren't scary minotaurs in a maze, and have some fun with creative writing exercises. For a word nerd like me, this should feel like recess after a day of long division and multiplication tables - my personal purgatory.

People Watcher

Personality types are fascinating. It's one of the things I love most about my work. The surprising, and at times shocking, details that people share with me is something that has become an intrinsic part of my job. Maybe because when left to choice, I am an introvert, I am very much intrigued by watching those around me. It comes from being in the back of the class, my nose in a book. No one knew I was watching.  

It's funny how telling body language can be - it speaks much more fluently than any vocabulary.  You can tell how close friends are by how they mirror one another when they speak, or how their heads tilt when they are listening. You can tell when a woman is flirting with a man by how her hands draw attention to her more becoming features - her hair, her eyes, her breasts.  You can see when a couple has been arguing by the defensive thrust of a man's shoulders, or the crossed arms and set jaw of his lover.  You can spot a liar by their inability to make eye contact - or even more disturbing, their unwavering stare.  It's all there, and is seldom able to be hidden.  

You may be a flamboyant extrovert, and revel in being the center of attention.  There are those who remain silent, until there is something important to be said, like Silent Bob, who drops that morsel of truth at just the right moment. There are those who do better one-on-one. There is the chronic interrupter.  There are the academics, who may tire others and seem arrogant.  There is a whole world full of people, all saying something, even when they do not open their mouths.  It's all interesting. 

I am pretty inarticulate vocally - I am the person who thinks of the witty saying two hours after it should have been said.  Instead, I watch.  I observe, and I learn. I store it away.  People can be creative fodder for characters in a novel,  or help me learn more about the world around me. Some people teach us how to be a better person, or make us feel not-so-bad after all. There are positive things, and negative things - and then there is our perception of such.  

Now that I've gone all Hannibal Lecter, and succeeded in weirding-out my friends, I just want to say that this isn't a malicious thing.  I enjoy the company of kindred spirits, and I'm really not a crazy stalker - well, maybe.  I just think one of the best things about being human is listening - not only with our ears, but our eyes.  

On Motherhood

                                                 Mother and Child, Klimt
                                                   
I am not cavalier about motherhood. It has not always been easy for me. As my daughter reaches the twilight of her early childhood, and comes closer to adolescence, I am both amazed at how much she has learned, and frightened by how quickly the years have flown.  She'll be eight in just a few weeks.  It seems like just a few months ago that I could hold her small, infant head in the palm of my hand.

With Mother's Day approaching, I was inspired to write a blog about what being a mother means to me, as well as what it has taught me about life. I know that I have touched on this subject in other blogs, but this is the tug that pulls me out of my bed as the early morning hours tick by.  I should be sleeping, but my muse is a tireless wench who seems to subsist on caffeine and gin. So, here we go.

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Any mother will tell you how fragile her life, and the life of her child seems at any given moment.  Fevers and bee-stings are compounded to epic proportions, and I still go into my daughter's room at night to check  to see if she is breathing. I have heard mothers of teenagers say they do the same. Just read the book, "I'll Love You Forever" if you doubt the bedroom creeper phenomenon. I HOPE I won't ever resort to dragging a ladder to my grown kid's window, but hey, you never know. People without children think this is insane. Mothers, on the other hand, will have a handy jar of Vick's Vap-o-Rub and a thermometer in their pocket, and nod in complete agreement. I guarantee if I called my mom right now, at 2:18 AM, and told her I was sick and needed her, she would pull her braless self out of her comfy bed, and drive to my house to take care of my 37-year old ass.  That's the power of procreation, people. Shudder in horror if you must.

That leads me to skydiving. I have always wanted to jump out of an airplane. My husband has done it, several friends have done it. I will, too. But not until after my child is grown, with a job, and not without double-checking the status of my life insurance policies. (That's right, it's plural. I have three). Because, it is my duty to live long enough to see this child up. Nothing is allowed to happen to me. I had the cancer scare a few years ago. I was a single mom, and it was terrifying. Even though it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, I felt the weight of my own mortality. I came through it, just fine.  I guarantee it was mostly because I refused to let something like a disease take me away from my spawn.  I was all she had, you see.  Your love for your child is an insanely humbling experience. It will make you feel vulnerable, and complete. It will bring you to your knees.  It should.

And about my own mother - I saw her through new eyes the moment Avery was born. Wow. She really loves me.  Like, she would claw through a jungle for me, with mosquitoes the size of elephants for me. She's made some grand mistakes - we all do.  But when I felt my heart open like a lotus the moment they laid my bloody, screaming baby on my abdomen, I knew that I hadn't loved. Not like this. There are no words. That's not to say that some days, I dislike the way she behaves. I  wonder who replaced my sweet, innocent baby with this mouthy little girl with cornflower blue eyes that mock me. I have my Betty Draper moments when I want to render my liquor-cabinet barren. But, just like my mom, I endure it; because of that love.

Avery and I on my wedding day

Life opens up in other ways when you become a parent. Birthday parties, trips to Disneyworld, Christmas morning - you get to be a kid again. Sure, it's kind of vicarious, but there is nothing much better than seeing your kid dig a chocolate orange out of her stocking, and break off a piece of it to share with you.  Or seeing her dress up in some horrible excuse for a costume, and perform the most adorable, off-key singing routine ever in her school assembly.  It's the little things that make each day special. It's the way she snuggles next to me on the sofa, her legs getting longer each year. Soon, there won't be room for that. And I have to take a sip of  my gin and tonic to quell this sudden lump in my throat.
                                                     
 One of the best things about my daughter growing up is the increasing depth and maturity of our conversations. An only child becomes an old soul at a young age. The company of adults leads to amazing philosophies and sophisticated logic at a young age. I need to hear her voice; I always will. Listen to your kids. Listen to them talk about frogs, and bugs, and that boy who takes their seat on the bus. There will be time to vacuum and keep house when they are older. Make a mess, together. I forget this sometimes. Especially, as a working mom who also loves her career, it can be a juggling act.  Sundays are sacred at our house. We unplug, we stop, we breathe and we reconnect.  Avery and I recently had the deepest conversation about the work week and the weekend. She told me that she loves Sundays, because we can be lazy, and there isn't an agenda. Do this for your family. It means the world to them.

 See the world through your child's eyes. Remember what it feels like to be bored, now and again. Blow the spores from a dandelion. Make a mud-pie.  Chase your kids through the house and let them jump on the furniture, for God's sake - well some of it.  You'll have your House Beautiful centerfold someday. Now is not the time - you won't get this time back. You can't inventory these moments, but you can make some great memories that your child will cherish.  They'll probably forget the expensive gadgets you bought them for their birthday, but they will not forget the times you kissed their battle wounds and made them a milkshake to take the tears away. What do you remember?

Call your mom. If you haven't seen her for months, drop by with some flowers, or better yet, a drawing you did of her in kindergarten. Let her do nice things for you - she still needs to feel needed. It breaks my heart when I hear stories of estranged children and mothers.  I realize that not all children are lucky enough to have good mothers, or their mothers have already passed on. It's not always easy, being a son or daughter.   I know she can annoy the hell out of you, and she may go through your mail when she house-sits for you while you are in Cozumel. But whether that woman gave birth to you, or signed some papers that made you hers for all eternity, she loves you.

Why I Run

                 


When I was six, I was fast. This is one of the best memories of my childhood. I remember running a race in kindergarten, falling and twisting my ankle, getting up and continuing to run like it was nothing, and still coming in first. There was a lot of congratulatory back-slapping and high five-ing from my gym teacher and my classmates. Pretty much after that, all athleticism disappeared from my life.

Fast-forward to age thirteen and every fat kid's nightmare: the ever-loving Presidential Fitness Test. This was a whole bundle of fail for me, every single time. From hanging like a blob of overcooked pasta from the chin-up bar for the requisite three seconds, to eke-ing out a few sit-ups and trying not to fart in the face of my partner, I dreaded this. But nothing could compare to the dreaded 1-mile run that capped off this gauntlet of pain.  Inevitably, the Mile would take place on the hottest day of the year.  About a quarter mile in, my side would start aching and I would hyperventilate. I would pray for it to be over as I rounded the final stretch.  Finally, I would cross the finish line with all of the other chubby kids, and we would groan in a Greek chorus of shame as we tried to keep ourselves from covering our Velcro shoes with vomit. These are my memories of running.

So, why do I do it now?

It really makes no sense; I'm not a natural runner, I am not a natural athlete.  But here I am, training for a half-marathon.  I've ran countless miles between those embarrassing school days, and I can tell you this: I LOVE running.  Everything about it is infinitely appealing to me now - from choosing my next pair of shoes to researching the best training programs for my next race, I look forward to my tri-weekly run just like I used to look forward to a Big Mac.

The shift happened a few years ago. I was going through a divorce, and was incredibly unhappy with how I felt and how I had allowed myself to become so unhealthy. I cleaned up my diet and began exercising. Within a year, I had dropped over 35 pounds. I still wasn't running, but I was feeling pretty good. And then my world collapsed in on itself.

My ex-husband, who had struggled with depression for many years, took his own life, leaving our daughter fatherless at age 3.  We had remained friends, despite our divorce, and I still cared for him as the father of my child.  Suddenly, I had no partner and I was the only person that my daughter had. I vacillated from feelings of extreme helplessness and fear to an intense anger that made me physically shake.  I had a choice - I could be strong and care for my child and find a way to carry on, or I could crumble.  I'm not a crumbler.  I started lifting weights, and I started to run.

The first quarter mile hurt, like it always had. But this time, the hurt was a sentient "thing" that I could battle. I made the pain a monster that I had to destroy. That made it easier.  That monster got driven farther, and farther back as I advanced.  I saw it again at the 1-mile mark, then the 2-mile, and then again at 5 miles. Most runners call this the Wall.  The Wall is real, and you have to run through it, or you quit.  At a time in my life when I felt helpless, running made me feel like a warrior.  I battled shin splints, plantar fasciitis, and aching joints. My counselor said I was handling my grief better than any patient she had ever had. Running was my drug, and the cocktail of endorphins it served me helped me more than any anti-depressant.

When I was training for my first half-marathon, I torqued my knee so badly while running on a local woodland trail, that I was out of commission for over a month. I had to ice, wear a wrap, and miss my race. It was devastating. I had been running for over two years at this point, and was up to a 7 mile long run.  I went to the elliptical, and stayed there. But it wasn't the same - not even close.

A few months ago, I started running again. I was slow, and memories of that chubby adolescent girl haunted me as I huffed and puffed my way through the Couch to 5K program. (This is an excellent program for beginning runners, by the way.)  It was humiliating that I had to start all over.  But, I'm glad that I did. I'm training for the same half-marathon I didn't complete two years ago.  My life is happy and full now, and I no longer need the Pain Monster to push me. I am excited as I feel my body beginning to change and grow strong again.   Even though running makes my calves so big that my boots don't fit, and makes me turn twenty shades of red(not a pretty runner, folks), it makes me feel alive. There's nothing like it.

13.1, here I come.

 Image courtesy of yaletownkeg.com

Feminism or Fishnets? Must We Choose?

                                                           

What does a feminist look like? When someone says the word, what is the image that your mind conjures?  A Birkenstock wearing, bra-less, boho chick with a book by Gloria Steinem under her arm? There's nothing wrong with that - of course not. There's also nothing wrong with the feminist who wears lipstick and patent leather stilettos.  They exist!  I may be one of them.

The truth is, part of being a woman is the conundrum of balancing our femininity with our desire to be treated equally in society.  Sexism still exists - it may not be as pronounced as it was in the 1950s, but it is more subversive.  Women are still objectified in advertisements, pornography, and Hollywood. It's difficult to be taken seriously nowadays if you like dresses and ruffles.  Men still think it's OK to whistle and catcall to women that they do not know.  What's even worse, is that women sometimes encourage the behavior and are flattered by it.  My friends and I were at a bar recently, and a young man walked past us, and felt it was his privilege to touch us on our buttocks as he went by.   He was stunned when I called him out in public.  Perhaps he had gotten away with it many times before.

That's not to say I dislike men; I love men.  I am married to a phenomenal man who treats me with respect, and understands that I am independent and opinionated.  He doesn't feel threatened by that.  I worked with a man once who told me that "an independent woman is unattractive."  Really?  I certainly can appreciate the gentlemanly desire to care for and lovingly protect a woman, and I am not necessarily turned off by that.   I AM turned off by men who assume that I NEED that protection.   A man that can give me the space that I need to pursue my ambitions and support them is very masculine, because he is secure.  My husband realizes that my desire to be successful is not emasculating to him.  I also am secure enough to let him open doors for me.

It really bothers me that young women are beginning to turn to a culture of superficiality.  I have heard about pre-teen girls posting videos on YouTube asking viewers whether they are "pretty" or not.  Having a daughter myself, I worry about this.  Not only because of the potential for predatory behavior (YouTube needs filters and controls, who's with me here?), but what this says about our culture. In her book, "Quiet",  Susan Cain explains how society has moved away from a culture of character, into a culture of personality and superficiality. Our opinions of ourselves are dictated by how others perceive us. How damaging this is! It is ironic that we, as women, have made so many strides toward equality in the workplace over the past 30 years, yet we care more about if others like us.  I've been guilty of that, in my younger years. Thankfully, that matters much less as I age.

But, back to my main point. Since when did I have to quit being "girly" to be a feminist? I am an unabashed admirer of fashion and beauty, in its many forms. I work in the beauty industry. I love helping women, and men, feel great about themselves.  I also enjoy being an Oriental (Belly) dancer. One of the most rewarding things in my life has been teaching women how to control their muscles, fat, and limbs to become one with the music.  I also love a great burlesque show.  See, to me there's a difference in a woman who knows that she is being comical, confident, and sexy in an intentional way rather than a woman who has been beaten into thinking that her body is the only thing she has of value to offer.  I know when I get on stage, and I am putting on my glitter, I am not thinking about stealing anyone's husband, or the attention I am getting from men. I am thinking about how I go into a "zen bubble" when I dance, and how free I feel.  I do it for me, and for the ladies - for that teenage girl who is self-conscious about the little bit of belly she has, and who feels she's clumsy and awkward.  For the mom who has stretch-marks and roomy hips, and for the grandmother with her wrinkles.  It's OK to feel pretty.

I DO have a real problem with objectification. I have a problem with women being brain-washed into thinking they have to be a 00.  Women turning into Fiats, bottles of beer, I could go on and on...Jean Kilbourne's excellent "Killing Us Softly" series is a fine example of how the media influences us.  I was an unwitting victim of this when I found myself in the check-out line with a box of Magnums (ice-cream bars, not condoms). Those racy ads featuring Rachel Bilson had sunk in more than I realized. Although the ice cream is good, the pseudo-sexual image of a beautiful young woman salivating over a phallic shaped ice cream novelty is just another example of targeted advertising.  Sure, it's successful, but at what cost?  I am not a prude, by any stretch of the imagination.  But, the mystery of sex is gone.  Where do we go from here?  Sex sells; always has, always will.  But, I would rather innuendo than soft-core porn in my ads.  "Save some for later, Augustus!"

I worry about our young women, especially if they are confused about their sexuality and their place in this world.   We owe it to the giants of our history - the Elizabeth Stantons, the Eleanor Roosevelts, and the Marie Curies, to do better. We have to...otherwise we will regress into self-imposed misogyny.  Think of fat-shaming, slut-shaming and thin-shaming; these are things that we women do to one another.  And this time, we won't be able to blame it all on the patriarchs, because we will have become willing participants in our own downfall.   It doesn't matter if you wear overalls, a frilly dress, or a bikini.  Be yourself - be a woman.  Whether lesbian, straight, transgender or bi, let's try to not hate on our sex.  We've worked really hard to get here.  Don't take it for granted.

Photo: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Girls on Film

A good heroine can make a movie feel like a snapshot from a moment in your own life.  Think of the time when you almost got the guy, when you gave that rousing speech, or how you felt when you misspelled the word "exercise" at your local spelling bee during the final round of competition. (That was me, 3rd grade.) Movie heroines can inspire us, make us laugh, and help us recover from any number of wounds that life may dole out.  Here are a few of my favorites.

Photo Courtesy of http://cogerson.hubpages.com

Katharine Hepburn as Eleanor of Aquitaine "The Lion in Winter."
"It's 1183 and we're barbarians."
Oh, Kate. I could watch her for hours. Even when her voice started to shake and she was a caricature of herself, I loved her.  This movie, in my opinion, is her penultimate achievement; the only other movie close to surpassing it during her career was "The Philadelphia Story."  She delivers her famous monologue with a fervor and passion that makes me want to smack a table or something. Hard. As the estranged and imprisoned Queen, she shows us a dignified and conflicted figure that has been broken, rejected, yet still remains regal.  That's what we all want to be after a breakup, ladies.

                                       Photo Courtesy of http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/

Elizabeth Taylor as "Cleopatra"
This movie is ridiculous. From the hoards of warring Romans and the decadent excess and pageantry of ancient Egypt, this movie is a cinematic Titanic that almost sank 20th Century Fox. This is the most expensive movie ever made.  And then there is Liz. The chemistry between she and Richard Burton makes Brad and Angelina look like kindergarten sweethearts. The sight of her creamy skin, black hair, and flashing eyes as she lounges about in pure seduction-mode would bring the strongest man to his knees. Well...actually it did, if you check your history books,(as well as the tabloids, in Liz's case). Ladies, you are lying to yourselves if you don't want to be that for your man.  Remarkably accurate, this is one of the best, and longest, films I have ever seen.

                                                Photo courtesy of http://www.listal.com/


Thora Birch as Enid, "Ghost World."
"I just hate all these extroverted, obnoxious,  pseudo-bohemian losers."
In complete contrast to la Liz, we have fragile and socially awkward Enid. She can be thorny -  her attitude is her protection in a world where she feels like an outsider. This was me; so much so that when I first saw this movie, I wanted to do a little sprint through my living room and high-five myself.  Finally, someone got me, us; all of us sarcastic, creative, shy and quirky girls. From her love of vintage clothing (before it was cool), blues records, old movies, and self-deprecation, Enid is a jaded Gen-X girl to her core. Sensitively and ironically, she is allowed to develop and explore within her movie world.  I wanted to find Steve Buscemi a date and jump on a bus to anywhere, too.  If you were a homecoming queen, you'll probably think Enid's a raging bitch.

Anne Bancroft, Mrs. Robinson, "The Graduate."
"May I ask you a question? What do you think of me?" Ah, Mrs. Robinson: the original cougar. Anne Bancroft is luminous, as well as hilarious in this movie. Plus her hair, her clothes, her throaty laugh...perfection. She explores the dichotomy between confidence and the vulnerability of being an aging beauty. Oh, and  Dustin Hoffman is adorably awkward.  Every woman still wants to know they've got it; even if they have a lifetime membership to Betty Ford.

                                     Photo Courtesy of http://larkabout.wordpress.com/

Audrey Hepburn, Princess Ann, "Roman Holiday."
While most of her fans love "Breakfast at Tiffany's", this is my favorite Audrey film. It is the sterotypical girly movie, with sweet clothes, romantic strolls, and scooters. Scooters and Italy go hand in hand, no? I love the scene when she takes her shoes off during the ball.  Gregory Peck is a perfect gentleman in this movie, and sweeps Ann off her feet. This is an all-around feel good chick flick for those days when you're PMS-ing and want to be transported by chocolate, carbs,  and frothy cappuccinos.

                             Photo courtesy of  http://themoviemistress.blogspot.com

Cate Blanchett, Queen Elizabeth, "Elizabeth", and "Elizabeth:The Golden Age."
 Wow. These movies are epic. True, there are some liberties taken, but both movies are tastefully done, and I believe they honor the greatest Queen in world history. Elizabeth's story was always my favorite; the daughter of a misogynist King and his unfortunate paramour, she rose from a civil war, near-execution, and assassination attempts to become England's most respected ruler. This woman was feminism incarnate - way back in the 16th century, when most women couldn't even read. Ms. Blanchett is spectacular. The scene in the second movie where she rallies her troops in full armor is breathtaking.  You'll want a sword and a steed. This movie is a must-see for every woman, and as a redhead, Elizabeth is our unequivocal mascot.