Merry Chick Lit

Here's the trouble with ta-tas...

Or, if you prefer, tits.

Boobies.

Knockers.

Hooters.

Breasts.

They’re functional, decorative, and like just about any other aspect of women’s bodies, most of us aren’t happy with the ones we’ve got.  They’re too small.  Or they’re too big.  They’re the wrong shape.  Or they were fine until they hit that unfortunate point in the gravity + age equation.  Whatever the aspect, we’ll find fault with ‘em.

Right up until we run into their universal flaw: their susceptibility to cancer.

My first experience with the death of a loved one came courtesy of breast cancer.  I had just turned twelve when I learned my Nana had been diagnosed with cancer and would be having a double mastectomy.  In other words, while I was anxiously awaiting the arrival of my breasts, my Nana would be losing hers.

And while it was odd to see her without her breasts, she would ultimately lose far more.  After battling valiantly, my Nana lost her life.  She was only 60.

Today, there is good news about breast cancer.  Early diagnosis and more effective treatments are saving lives.  I have three friends who are currently celebrating more than a decade cancer-free, and others who have every reason to hope they will hit that milestone, too - and then keep going.

These improvements are the direct result of tireless fundraising, and every chance I have to help raise money to wipe out breast cancer, I am on it.  Which is why I was thrilled when I was asked to contribute a story to Merry Chick Lit - Celebrate the Season With Six Sassy Shorts.  This compilation features brand new holiday-themed short stories from a great group of chick lit authors:  Carolyn Ridder Aspenson, Sarah Hitchcock, Francine LaSala, Nikki Mahood, Holly Martin - and little ol’ me!  I am very happy to be in such talented company, and better still, ALL of the proceeds from sales of this Kindle exclusive e-book will go to New York- based breast cancer charity Rocking the Road for a Cure.

My Nana was everything a grandmother should be.  She hosted countless sleepovers where we’d snuggle in her bed and watch The Love Boat or the Miss America Pageant (both forbidden at home, and in hindsight, my parents may have been in the right on that one).  She’d tuck me in and send me off to sleep with “angel kisses” planted lightly all over my face - the absolute best way to drift into sweet dreams.  She’d let me have Cookie Crisp or Lucky Charms for breakfast, and she’d feed me Spagettios for lunch.  She felt a swim in the pool was an acceptable alternative to a bath.  She could stop me from behaving badly with a single glance, and she could relieve the greatest of hurts with a hug.

Whatever you call them, breasts are great.  Take care of ‘em.  Feel your boobies.  Get your annual mammogram.  Stick around long enough to spoil your great-grandchildren with sugary treats, questionable television, and angel kisses.

After her surgery, my Nana showed me her scars where her breasts had once been.  She told me they didn’t hurt.  But I’ll tell you this.

It hurt like hell to lose her.

{Click on the link here to read more about Merry Chick Lit.  The e-book is just $1.99, and all proceeds go to Rocking the Road for a Cure.}

Manic

I can type way faster than John Ford.

This makes sense, because he can lift, press, row, bike and Burpee circles around me.

In other words, we both love what we do for work - and therefore we do it well.

As those who follow me on social media know, I’ve been spending three mornings a week getting my butt kicked in an effort to be stronger.  (And, yes, to look better naked.)  I’ve been learning more new exercises than my brain seems able to hang onto.  I’ve been trying like heck to overcome fears inspired by my general clumsiness and lack of balance.  I’ve celebrated small victories - like jumping and landing both feet on a box simultaneously.  (It’s tougher than it sounds, yet there are folks braving boxes three times the height of the one to which I’ve barely graduated.)  And don’t get me started on “Bunnies” - pure evil right there, giving an exercise requiring so much strength, coordination and memory a cute, fluffy name.

Welcome to the world of Manic Training.

John Ford graduated from URI with a degree in physical fitness and wellness, but as so often happens in life, the career opportunities that came his way were not in his field.  He worked in the restaurant business and various sales jobs, then - as so often also happens - the stars aligned and things fell into place.  John earned his personal training certification around the same time Dave Barnes was working to open the first Rhode Island Manic Training location in Wakefield.  After taking his first class at Manic, John knew this was “it” for him.  He taught for free for months, waiting tables to help support his family, and ultimately he bought the Wakefield franchise.

As his wife Nicole says, “I have never seen John happier - this is truly a matter of someone finding the career that is a perfect fit.”

I’d have to agree.

I’d also have to admit I was slow to give Manic a try.  I mean, I’m a self-employed single mother.  “Manic” is a word that could be used to describe my daily routine.  If anything, I was looking for something entitled, “Chill” or “Zen.”  So while friends joined Manic, loved it, and urged me to give it a whirl, I went about my usual routine: running, swimming, biking, SUP boarding and taking yoga.  I mean, how was I supposed to find time for one more thing anyway, right?

Then one of my good friends was battling cancer and fighting to keep her local business going.  John Ford donated two 6-month Manic Training memberships to the auction held to help defray her medical bills.

“We’ve been saying we should try this,” another friend and partner-in-crime (a/k/a The P.I.C.) said at the auction.  “This is a win-win.  We try Manic, and the money goes to a good cause.”

The P.I.C. and I were the winning bidders.

Barely six weeks ago, we went to our first Manic class.

And now we’re hooked.

It’s not just the fun, supportive atmosphere John fosters for people of all ages and abilities.  The variety and complexity of the workouts makes it the fastest, most challenging hour imaginable.

And then there’s the results.

Here’s what’s happened to me since starting Manic Training that short time ago:

• I’ve lost four or five pounds, depending on which scale you believe.  And I think we all know which scale I will choose to believe.

• When I wave, I no longer have granny-arms waving back.  As my massage therapist and fellow Manic devotee Stephanie will attest, should I need to cock a pump-action shotgun with one arm Terminator 2-style, I could totally do it.

• My butt, which I’d previously accepted as a typical flat WASP-girl rear end beyond aesthetic help, seems to be gaining definition.  It won’t break the Internet any time soon, but I’m OK with that.  Because there are only so many occasions where a girl needs to balance a champagne glass - or Kanye West’s hand - on her ass.

• I’m faster when running.  And by ‘faster,’ I mean tortoises and old folks are no longer leaving me in the dust.  Still: improvement of nearly a minute per mile?  In the space of little more than a month?  Hell, yeah.  This is me now:

Best of all?

Manic Training really is all about community.  It’s a family endeavor for John and Nicole, and they envision it continuing to grow in a positive, healthy way, as it supports more and more people on their road to fitness.  They are in the process of implementing a program for youth, so it can really be fitness for the whole family, and Nicole - a nutritionist, yoga instructor, and avid athlete in her own right - is using her skills to help round out Manic’s offerings.  

So stick with me, and I’ll keep you updated as I try to work past my two left feet and that ironic nickname, Grace.  Just don’t expect me to be able to do a perfect Bunny any time soon.

Interested in Manic?  Check out their web site here.  Black Friday deals are coming - keep your shopping local and healthy!

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Waking the Merrow

Remember the over-the-top-crazed-fan-girl enthusiasm I oozed in 2013 when I finished reading Anthony Paull’s Desperation Lingers?

Mere weeks from the end of 2014, I’ve found this year’s equivalent.

Heather Rigney’s debut novel, Waking the Merrow - adapted from her short story “Mermaids Are Not Nice” - impressed the hell out of me from the very first sentence to the last.

Evie McFagan is just the kind of heroine I love.  She’s a pudgy, unattractive and friendless funeral director steeped in alcohol and the lies she tells her acquaintances at the local bar.  Utterly unreliable, she has trouble finding allies who’ll believe that her daughter has been kidnapped…by an evil, man-eating mermaid.

From there, Rigney weaves a tale - or tail, if you will (sorry - couldn’t resist) - through the waters of Narragansett Bay.  She earns major props from this child of Hog Island summers when she touches briefly, poetically, and violently on the nearby islands of Prudence, Hope and Despair.  Werewolf and vampire battles have nothing on Ms. Rigney’s imaginings.  Trust me.  The combination of warring merpeople and artful writing makes this a page-turner.

Then there’s Rigney’s sense of humor:

“Naked, tattooed men meandered around, lit torches, congregated in groups, spoke in hushed voices.  It was like pictures I had seen on the internet of ComicCon, except no one was wearing a cape.  And there were no females.  So, yes, it was just like ComicCon.”

Yeah.  I know you just LOL’ed.

Last but not least, there’s, well, the end.  Which I can’t discuss because I don’t do spoilers.  Suffice it to say I am waiting for the sequel.  (You hear that, Heather?  Hurry up!)

In the meantime, my only gripe with Heather Rigney is that I’ve now got one more creature to worry about when I swim in Narragansett Bay.

For more about Heather Rigney and her work, visit her web site.  Or click here to buy Waking the Merrow.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Forecast

I sometimes find it’s good to be grateful for things that don’t turn out the way I planned.

Here’s the scoop for those following my post-divorce dating escapades: The Weatherman has left the building.

Nope, he didn’t turn out to be an Asshat after all.  He was something very different.  Something that illustrated for me some important truths.

For one, there are all sorts of guys out there.  Having been an Asshat magnet in the past has not doomed me to an Asshat-laden future.  However, the mere absence of Asshattery does not a successful relationship make.

I mean, I had my anti-Asshat checklist, and The Weatherman ticked nearly all the boxes.  Bingo, right?

It seems lists (even those typed, single-spaced, and two pages long) will only get a girl so far.  Relationships are by definition reciprocal agreements.  I needed to tick his boxes, too (why does that sound naughty?).  It became apparent fairly quickly that there were some crucial ways I couldn’t.

The interesting thing was that he was able to communicate this to me.  I mean, he actually made it clear that there were things he needed that he felt I was unable to provide.  To borrow a phrase I use with my small nieces and nephews, he used his words.

And I listened.

I pondered.

I realized that while our differences may have been few, they were significant.

I recognized that I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to compromise on some important points - and that the same is true of The Weatherman.

I acknowledged that maybe a girl who is still hanging out and drinking beer and walking dogs with The Ex on a regular basis isn’t quite ready to give her all to a new relationship.  Or that maybe I just need someone who understands that I am not one to carve people I’ve loved out of my life.  I favor evolution over scorched earth.

The strangest part of this breakup?

I could be feeling hopeless, disappointed, a bit like Sisyphus in heels chasing a great big ball of relationship fails up and down an endless hill.

But I don’t.

Instead, I feel a sense of surrender to what is and a hopefulness about what is to come.  There are real, good men out there.  I can enjoy getting back on my feet again; I don’t need to immediately be swept off them.  Life is not a Disney film.  I am not Sleeping Beauty: kissed, redeemed, happily-ever-aftered into submission.

I am wide awake.

Whole.

Grateful.

Safe, sound, and forecasting ever-smoother sailing ahead.

{Need to give Asshats the boot from your love life?  Check out Shannon Bradley-Colleary’s super-awesome, funny as hell Asshat Recovery Program.  You’ll be glad you did - or I will listen to Justin Bieber nonstop for 12 hours.}

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Love Thy Neighbor

If Arnold P. Abbott has wasted a minute of his 90+ years on this planet, I’d be amazed.

That his lifetime of service and good works could culminate in jail time is simply unfathomable.

Born in Massachusetts in 1924, he was a pre-med student exempt from military service in the wake of Pearl Harbor.  He chose active duty, served as a combat infantryman in North Africa and Italy, and was awarded two purple hearts.

After his discharge from the military in 1945, he earned degrees in Journalism and Political Science.  He worked in sales, wrote and published poetry, fiction, and book reviews, and embarked on a political career through local and county offices.  He was elected a delegate to the Democratic National Convention in 1964 and caused a stir when he insisted - in defiance of the convention - on the seating of the duly-elected Negro Mississippi Freedom Delegation.  Some must have seen the wisdom of his stance; he was again elected to the Convention in 1968.

In 1970, Mr. Abbott moved to Florida, and with his wife, Maureen A. Abbott, he cared for the homeless and championed their rights.  When Maureen passed away in 1991, Mr. Abbott founded the Love Thy Neighbor Fund in an effort to keep his wife close to his heart and to build on the foundation they’d established.

He and his volunteers have succeeded.  Weekly they feed upwards of 1,400 people what are likely the only healthy, balanced meals they will receive.  And in keeping with Mr. Abbott’s philosophy of offering a “hand up, not a hand out,” Love Thy Neighbor offers a nine-week Culinary Skills Training Program.  Participants are provided with temporary housing, and they graduate with knowledge of all aspects of food preparation and sanitation.  They can then go on to continue their culinary education at McFatter Technical College - without cost - or apply for jobs in the food service industry.

What does that mean in Broward County, FL, where the tourism and restaurant industries are paramount?

There are over 45,000 jobs for the taking.  Love Thy Neighbor gives homeless people the tools to succeed in these jobs.  They forge relationships that prepare people to move from the streets to gainful employment and safe, productive lives.

How has the City of Fort Lauderdale responded?

With an ordinance onerous enough to make public sharing of food virtually impossible.

Now, I admit, I say this without having seen a printed copy of the ordinance.  I exchanged a series of email messages with Mayor John “Jack” Seiler regarding the situation, and while he at first seemed genuinely interested in working with Mr. Abbott, my requests for a copy of the ordinance and my offer to provide whatever is necessary to bring Mr. Abbott’s public feedings into compliance with the ordinance were ignored.  Personal communication was replaced by a form email, and I got the message: the homeless in Fort Lauderdale are supposed to interact only with the government for assistance, not with their fellow citizens.

This is where I get cranky as all hell.

There is a clear shortfall in the services the City of Fort Lauderdale is providing to the homeless.  If they’re doing such a great job, how are there so dang many people for Mr. Abbott and his volunteers to feed?  And why can’t the city pitch in and help so there are none of the public safety issues with which Mayor Seiler seems so concerned?

Look, I’m a Miami native and I understand that the sheer number of homeless people in this area has caused problems.  The homeless migrate to warmer climates so they won’t freeze to death.  And yes, some of them are criminal and/or mentally ill.  There are some ugly reasons people end up without a roof over their heads.  Also, if you feed them, they stick around.

But these are not seagulls we’re talking about - they’re human beings.  If you choose not to help them, fine.  But Mr. Abbott is doing a selfless thing from the heart, and he’s doing it well.  It’s wrong that his personal liberty and well-being should be compromised as a result.

My belief is that, in the United States of America, if one feels compelled by conscience or religious conviction to provide aid to others, his freedom to do so should be protected. Mr. Abbott has successfully sued the city once before, securing the right to feed the homeless on Fort Lauderdale Beach, and he’s determined to do so again.

That he is even in this position at age 90 is wrong.

If you agree, here are a few things you can do:

Contact Mayor Seiler.  Email him: jack.seiler@fortlauderdale.gov  Or call him: 954-828-5003  Be positive.  Be respectful.  Anticipate a good outcome and believe we can make it happen.

Sign the petition to have the ordinance repealed.

“Like” the Love Thy Neighbor page on Facebook.  Stay informed and share with your friends.

If you’re in the Fort Lauderdale area, volunteer to help Love Thy Neighbor.

Get informed and have a laugh at the same time with this clip from The Colbert Report.  Satire at its best.

Celebrate Veterans’ Day by letting Arnold Abbott know his service to his country and his fellow man - during WWII and since - is appreciated.

Thin, Rich Bitches

Janet Eve Josselyn really likes school.  She graduated from Colby College, Harvard Graduate School of Design and Boston College Law School. She is an attorney and an architect - and also an author. Her novel Thin, Rich Bitches is accurately described as "an uproarious romp through the minefield of female one-upmanship."  In today's book blog post, she responds to the prompt I've been having fun posing to my writer friends: tell me about a book that had a significant impact on your life...  

The Verdict (1980) written by attorney and author Barry Reed (and made into a movie nominated for 5 Academy Awards, starring Paul Newman) was a novel about a down-on-his-luck trial attorney who takes on what appears to be a losing case against two prominent doctors whose negligence may or may not have caused a pregnant woman to go into a coma. 

At the time I read the book, I was practicing as an attorney in the city of Boston working with a large team of lawyers trying to recover the cost of every railroad tie ($700 each) on the Northeast Corridor from Boston to D.C. After the case dragged on for a couple of years in multi-district litigation, our client (the MBTA) entered into a settlement with the defendant and we all went out to dinner to celebrate. A month later, we were all laid off, as the partners in the firm were unable to secure enough new clients to keep us all on the payroll.

So I hunkered down in my Back Bay apartment and read a lot of legal mystery novels and novels about trial attorneys. Although I enjoyed them (as a distraction from the depressing task of job hunting), it occurred to me that I could write a legal mystery novel and so I labored at it for the next six months. Conflicts of Interest was the first novel I wrote and I was anxious to get some feedback on it. I called Barry Reed’s law office (also in Boston) and asked if I could speak with him. The answer was no. So I wrote to him and sent him the first 3 chapters of my novel, not knowing if he would ever read it or get back to me. A month or so later I received the three chapters back with a hand written note that simply said that, “It needs more sex.”

Say what? His acclaimed novel, The Verdict, had only a few sex scenes, and frankly, they were embarrassing lame ones that seemed inserted as afterthoughts, so I was confused. Nonetheless, I decided to put some sex scenes in anywhere I could. That’s when I realized that writing from a male point of view was a mistake for me. If my heterosexual main character who was a man was going to have sex with a woman, then I was going to have to write about what it was like to have sex with a woman which I had never done and didn’t want to do. Thank you, no. So I couldn’t do it and didn’t do it. The manuscript just took up space on my computer until the computer eventually died.

Soon after I finished the manuscript, however, I started working as an attorney for the City of Boston. Working in the public sector was the most interesting job I’ve ever had and between my new job and my new marriage, and a year later my new baby, I was too busy to do any writing.

Still, I always wanted to write another novel - but with a female protagonist. A couple of years later we moved out of the city so I had to give up my job with the City of Boston Law Department due to residency requirements. We moved to a suburb west of Boston where I found myself surrounded by moms who “used to have careers” but were now competing to be “the class mom” of their kid’s elementary school class (a high honor).

All of a sudden I had thrown myself out of the competitive, professional working world and into the competitive, stay-at-home mom world. But I realized that I wanted to write another novel and this time I was going to write about something I knew about from my own perspective. So I wrote Thin Rich Bitches, which I perhaps foolishly set in the town I actually still live in (Dover, MA). Well, that was brave of me, and for the most part, the book has been well received in my town - though not by all!

So I credit Barry Reed and his novel, The Verdict, with teaching me a valuable lesson about writing about what you know. Since that simple lesson encouraged me to write my only novel on Amazon, I would say that that book had a profound impact on me as a writer, albeit indirectly.

For more about Janet Eve Jocelyn and her work, link to and "like" her Facebook author page.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Hollaback

I generally try to stay out of the fray on hot-button topics, but sometimes I just can’t help myself…

Unless you live under a rock, you know that a young woman named Shoshana Roberts spent ten hours walking the streets of New York City while being filmed for a public service announcement for the anti-street harassment group Hollaback!  The resulting video - which pared the experience down to a two-minute glimpse at the catcalls and intimidating behavior - went viral.

And?

Ms. Roberts has been inundated with everything from messages of support to criticism to threats of rape and murder.  On Fox News, Bob Beckel said, “She got one hundred catcalls, let me add one hundred and one. Damn, baby, you’re a piece of woman.”

Way to underscore the point, buddy.

But look, the only thing that surprised me about the video was that people found it surprising.

Well, that, and the way a fair number of my male friends seemed to feel compelled to apologize for the behavior of the men in the video.

Some of the posts from guys on Facebook:

“Well, now I need a shower.  Is that really my species?”

“Wow.  Totally embarrassed by my gender.”

“Shocked and disgusted.”

There are so many ways these well-meaning comments miss the mark.  That the video went viral is telling - there are things we need to talk about, folks - but I’d hate to see it devolve into an exercise in man-shaming (or man-self-shaming, as the case may be).  Let’s discuss some important points, shall we?

I’ll start with the much-discussed race issue.  The Hollaback! video makes it look as though all the men harassing Ms. Roberts are black or Latino.  Whether this was a case of poor editing or something more sinister, I can’t say.  But any woman can tell you catcalling and street harassment know no racial boundaries.  It’s equal-opportunity ugliness, and yes, what you see in the Hollaback! video is actually pretty mild.  If you want to see a better, more well-rounded, and waaaaay funnier treatment of this issue, check out this video by Jessica Williams of the Daily Show.  The very end of it cracks me the hell up - and when you can do that on a serious issue, amen.

Next let’s talk location.  When I walk or jog around my little New England town, I smile and say hello to everyone - even the guys whose remarks may be cringeworthy or make me uncomfortable.  Maybe especially so in those cases.  I make eye contact in a way that could be saying, “I’m friendly and appreciate that you are, too” or “I can identify you in a police lineup.  Have a nice day!”

But when I go to the Big Apple?  Bitchface all the way.  Stone.  Cold.  Bitchface.  Why?  Because I’d prefer not to end up raped and dead in a gutter somewhere.

Which brings me to my next point.  Women have to move differently through the world, and we know it.  We are aware that, in some environments, ending up raped and dead in a gutter is a real possibility.  We have to wear the bitchface and screen out the catcalls while simultaneously calculating whether or not there is any real threat.  We have to be aware of our surroundings in a way men rarely do.  Is that right or fair?

Hell, no, but (here’s where I offer a little dose of tough love) welcome to life.  Suck it up, sisters.  Gender is but one of the lines along which unfairness and injustice occurs.  That deserves attention, yes, but personally, I feel that all the progress that’s already been made practically guarantees we will get to a better place.  The ball is rolling in the right direction.  There’s no stopping it.  I’m aware, I’m proactive, I am proudly feminist - but I hope I am never so busy being outraged at the crap I and my contemporaries endure that I miss the sweetness in life hard-earned by the women who came before me.

And men?  God, I love men, and I hope all the great men in my life know just how awesome they are.  Those men who make catcalls, who harass and intimidate women with their words and their body language - just like those trolls threatening Ms. Roberts in the wake of her video - those are not the men I know.  Those are small, ignorant creatures.  I suspect there’s a lot of pain and hurt going on in the world of any man who enjoys bullying women and making them uncomfortable in the public sphere.  Those are men who don’t know how to be real men.

To my guy-friends who feel compelled to apologize on their behalf, I say: don’t.  I am grateful that you are dismayed when you consider some of what women put up with in this world, but you’re already doing your part by empathizing, engaging in dialogue, raising your sons to be kinder, your daughters to be bolder.  Don’t apologize for lesser men.

Whatever your take on her video, Shoshana Roberts did something she clearly felt was important and hoped would help to make the world a better place.  Too often those are the very sorts of actions that are misunderstood.  I hope she’s not discouraged by the fallout.  I believe life is best lived by taking risks.  She did that.

And if she needs a laugh - or if you do - here’s one I’ve shared before and probably will again: Wanda Sykes’ ‘Detachable Pussy’ standup routine.  Because sometimes this world is so frigging crazy, the best we can do is just laugh at it.

www.kcwilder50ways.com