PEOPLE.

People like nicknames, right?

I work with the public, serving them . . . items. Sometimes they make me laugh. For example:

CTG: repeatedly asks for the same item each time he comes in, assuming that I'll forget what he gets, mess it up, or that I am just an idiot in general that needs reminding. Occasionally when certain items are not to his temperature specifications he accuses us of trying to either poison him or scald him. Also very conscious of cleanliness of hands making his items and other people in the place of business who might be acting in a peculiar way. And by peculiar, (as a coworker aptly put it) I mean smiling, laughing, or making eye contact in conversation. Mission in life: to get more hot water. Hasn't been seen in a while.

Garnet: An offensive guerrilla artist/musician. Constantly shouts from the back of the line to register at a certain employee about art showings, expects "artist treatment" when his "pieces" are on display, also threatened another employee and customer before befouling sink in men's bathroom. Mission in life: to collaborate with Lady Gaga (who comments on his MySpace *often*)--this was straight from the dude's mouth. Also hasn't been seen in a while.

Bus Driver Bob: At each visit, complains loudly that internet is either malfunctioning or is not free, but then gets confused as to whether it's at our location or Galleria that this is a problem. A coworker once posited the idea that the trouble may lie in the fact that his laptop is a bit outdated. Mission in life: Free Wi-Fi for Etch-A-Sketches.

Comb-Around: Lovely gentleman, kind, and polite, but has unfortunate hairdo (not a comb-over, but a comb-around) that shows off no shortage of head scabs. Loves conspiracy theories, and presidential administrations before 1950. Mission in life: properly-arranged tables and chairs.

MegaBeast: A large, tall woman; not friendly. Mission in life: Using the restroom for free. Also missing in action.

The Man Who Enjoys Taffy: Only because "Meth-Mouth" had already been taken. Mission in life: unfortunately not able to be communicated. Nice guy, though.

SA Cup Guy: Gets sprung from rehab, comes in with SA to-go cup (pre-filled with vodka) and drinks it until pass-out in comfy chair by window. Occasionally asks to use phone; occasionally confrontational; occasionally forgets cup inside store after we close and beats on door until passing out (again). Mission in life: to avoid the MPD, which has not been successful thus far.

Dick Pupil: The crown jewel of customer service nightmares. Has been ejected from other locations in metro due to harassing employees, complaining about speed of service, or other staffing issues that occur when made to wait longer than 48 seconds for product. Was thought to have been on medication or enrolled in anger management classes between 2009-10 but is either off meds or has discontinued treatment. Sighs loudly, throws money and gift cards often, extremely impatient, exceedingly short-tempered, and explosively, unabashedly rude. Mission in life: product prepared for him instantly, on site, no waiting, preferably free.

Crazy Evangeline: Seen mostly on Mondays, disheveled, and extremely manic. Sits down next to other customers and starts up weird, inappropriate conversations with them, or laughs or makes comments while eavesdropping on others' conversations. This sometimes works for her, because though disheveled, she's a cute, bubbly girl. Usually present for 6-8 hour stretches. Talks on cell phone to people who may or may not be legitimately on the other line. Mission in life: Lithium?

Pat Bateman: Only seen once (so far) but had a complete conversation on cell phone that went on for nearly an hour about glycolic index, juicing, and carbs, very much in the style of his namesake---"Let me tell you, there are definite do's and don'ts, good buddy, of starting a protein-based diet." Mission in life: nutritional guru of Pierce and Pierce.

Not to be outdone: ICEPICK TAKES THE LEAD

Here's an idea: Christmas vacation can be optionally only one week long. Let the teachers keep their breaks, because they deserve them, but for families who (ahem) need their kids to return to school a bit earlier, have an option where anyone up for student teaching for the semester gets pro-rated in by taking students for the second week.

At this point I'd be willing to pay for it, myself.

And this is not even remotely a joke.

Yesterday, B:

1. stole cookies, which is not a big deal normally, but in a house of 3 other kids who make it their business to know/rat on/complain about not getting any themselves, this was an issue.

2. smacked Vin, probably 35 times throughout the day.

3. whined, a lot.

4. elected not to take her nap, encouraging (by volume) her brother to do the same.

5. thought it would be a good idea to sponge paint WITH BUTTER.

6. decided to clean the tub WITH THREE DIFFERENT B&B CHRISTMAS-SCENTED HANDSOAPS. It's still a goddamned slippery mess in there, but smells lovely.

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Adventures with Minigun: IKEA

So when you have a child that's going through an unpleasant phase, the key is to never assume they're out of it or God forbid say it aloud to anyone (unless you actually enjoy it when the universe proves to you that you're clueless). We had a few really decent days, maybe even a couple weeks with Vin, then after I answer "I think so" to someone's asking if he's grown out of his asshole stage, (and as Emeril Lagasse is so very fond of saying) BAM.

It was at IKEA, and things began innocently enough. It was just him and me, cruising around in a cart, counting all the clocks, having a great time. All of a sudden, in the middle of the bedroom display section, he OUT OF NO WHERE smacks me right across my rack, open palm. I wasn't ignoring him, I wasn't annoying him, there were no other children there to take away my attention, he just did it, I assume to get a reaction. Which I provided.

ME: Um, NO. We don't hit. And you NEVER hit me.

VIN: (giggles)

ME: (scowl) You think hitting is funny?

VIN: Yeah.

ME: It's not funny. Hitting hurts people. Don't ever do that again.

I take two steps and BAM, smacks my business again. I stop the cart and hold his hand away from me, as I see he is fully winding up to do it a third time.

ME: ARE YOU KIDDING ME? NO! NAUGHTY! NO HIT!

VIN: (giggles).

Again we start walking. Again he makes as if to slap me. I anticipate it and take a step back from the cart. He does not appreciate me one-upping his bastardly little two year old bullshit, and screams, loudly.

Now first off, none of my other kids ever tried to mess with me physically, not ever. And if they did, telling them once to knock it the fuck off would have been enough, but this is MINIGUN I'm dealing with here, so the only course of action I really had was to either completely distract him from the tit-slapping game he was so enjoying or to wheel him the hell out of that place; I initially chose the latter but since the remodel they did maybe a year or two ago, I had no idea where the Christ I was and was stuck going through the entire loop with no shortcuts because I didn't know where any were, all the while, stopping and backing up each subsequent time he tried to smack me (again) or catching his hand each time. He was being a complete little fuck and I was extremely mad and embarrassed. When we get about halfway through the loop and I finally begin to recognize surroundings, he gave up a little and started counting clocks again, on his own.

VIN: CLOCKS! CLOCKS, MAMA! NOTHER CLOCK!

ME: (under my breath) Fuck your clocks. You broke my heart, Fredo.

VIN: I'NA EAT! I'NA EAT!

Okay, so he was hungry. I whipped out the bag of trail mix I packed for him and let him have at it. We make it to the lower level and I find a couple of curtain panels that were on clearance. I stop for approximately eight seconds to check them out and he upends the baggie of trail mix onto the floor. Cashews and craisins are everywhere (as of course he's already eaten the mini-marshmallows first), so I quietly take the bag, hand him the curtains to look at, and scoop the rest off the floor. Luckily, this entertains him, and we see the big, big fans, get to the check out, buy the shit and leave without any further incidents.

And as I'm wheeling him through the parking lot, he suddenly gets this look on his face that is the very definition of the light-bulb-going-on-look and SMACKS ME IN THE CHEST, AGAIN. As we were outside, and I had pretty much had it (and there was no one really around to hear me) I finally said what I'd been meaning to say all along . . .

ME: OH MY GOD, WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT? WHAT THE HELL? STOP!

VIN: (responds with a combination of Mickey's smirk/shrug in Snatch when he knocks the first guy out in the ring and a few seconds later Darla's creepy psycho-laugh in Finding Nemo when the dentist tells her he's giving her a fish for a present). After I get him strapped into his car seat, I just stood there and stared him down, scowling. He looked back at me the whole time, like "what?"

He's woken up a few times in the middle of the night the last few (which I thought we were over), managed to destroy at least two florescent light bulbs in the last week, flushed a pull up down the toilet, and pulls B's hair on average thrice per hour. But he also sings, plays legos with his brother, draws (scribbles), hugs, screams in excitement anytime football is on, and loves to read. You know damned well that in a year's time I'll think everything he did was adorable.

In the meantime, I'm not saying dick about any more of his phases.

November.

I made it through Thanksgiving (without killing anyone, poisoning or scalding anyone, or without going completely crazy) . . . I did eff up the stuffing, which ended up way too dry and, I don't know, kind of crumbly, but the turkey was decent, meatballs were remarkably close to my mother's, and would I be a total snot if I said MY COOKIES WERE THE FUCKING BOMB? They were. I had so many leftover that I got to become the coolest person at work by bringing in a tupperware full (which were gone the next day).

How's the saying go? To compliment a mother, notice her children; to compliment a Schwanke, eat her cookies all gone.

Here are the ones I made, if anyone's yearning for recipes:

Cowboy Cookies, Martha Stewart

Maple Leaf Cookies, Martha Stewart

Chocolate-Ginger Cookies, Martha Stewart (the dough on these was a *bitch* but they looked dynamite, and are pictured up there).

I also made my mother's cutout cookies; LL told me the recipe came originally from a woman named Lorraine Gaffney. Whoever she is, she has the proverbial golden ticket of cutout cookies (because not even Martha's are this good). If you want the recipe I can write you out a copy.

The kids went back to school today, things were great until they came home and all hell broke loose. They were tired and hungry, messing with each other and getting on my nerves the moment they walked in the door. I mean, it's one thing to make dinner with 4 kids hovering, asking me questions, wanting things, trying to dig in the refrigerator, and getting under foot, but add the elevated volume of Lego Star Wars blaster guns, unwavering for approximately 19 minutes straight and I kind of lose the ability to think rationally. Matt came home with a migraine and insisted every light in the house be turned off while he laid on the couch with a washcloth over his eyes----Bubby and Zizzy had just gotten into a physical fight (which rarely happens) so he was sent to his room, Zizzy was sulking on the couch, and B began whining about Zizzy not playing with her. "She won't play Bittys with me!" I won't reveal what my response was, although the neighbors probably heard me yell it, but it wasn't nice or proper. Language was clean, but ahem, a threat was made. And the playing that commenced actually lasted about twenty-seven seconds before the next issue, so I'm thinking they didn't hear a word I'd said anyway.

Other stuff is good, although I've been plagued with seriously disturbing dreams the last two weeks and I don't know why. A few nights ago I dreamed the chicks from Sucker Punch snatched my mother from my yard and hauled her away in an eighteen wheeler, and later that night I was hunting vampires with a co-worker (who kissed me). The week before that it was large scale disasters and snakes, one huge, thick, eel-like bastard that I flung into the bathtub but then it launched back out, directly into my chest. I thought I only had nightmares when I was overheated, but it's been happening too often for that. I mean, granted. I've been watching waaaay too much American Horror Story, and I forced Matt and Leah to watch Insidious the other night and ended up freaking myself out in the process, but I don't like this. Sometimes I think my inner anger gets out of control and seeps into my dreams, but really, the only thing I've been angry about lately is the whole Penn State situation; without actually spelling out a threat (myself) I would be *intensely* satisfied if Jerry Sandusky just happened to be stricken with an incurable case of something awful, or fell into the Grand Canyon . . . ugh. Anger over things like that is really hard to reconcile, no matter how zen I try to be.

Wow. So, to lighten it up before I sign off, I'll just maybe swing things back over to coffee, okay? This is generic, non-affiliated, ANY COFFEE SHOP IN THE USA, any branch, any store, not one in particular (wide, sweeping disclaimer).

Coffee Shop etiquette:

1. When asking for free items (water, cups, half-caf beans for the price of regular, etc.) the correct verbiage would be first "please," and afterwards, "thank you."

2. If you're going to stare at my rack, try to be subtle, okay?

3. Straw wrappers? I've discovered this new, exciting, *special* place for them----the freaking garbage can! (I'm talking to adults here, people. ADULTS.)

4. The highchairs have wheels on them. This does not make them battering rams.

5. Consequently, (see above) YOU BREAK IT, YOU BUY IT, MY FRIEND.

6. Your kids might be adorable (no, they're not) but this doesn't give them the right to run around barefoot in here (also see 4. re: GLASS SHARDS).

7. Coffee that's better than Folgers tends to cost a bit more (when Bonnie goes shopping, she buys shit).

8. You don't really care if it's a light or a dark roast if you're going to dump a bunch of shit into it, so DON'T FRONT ABOUT THE MEDIUM ROAST WE ALWAYS BREW.

9. Something to keep in mind: that decaf button on the espresso machine is mere centimeters away from the regular-caf. Certain acts/offenses could just skew physiology enough to earn a lifetime of decaf . . . (not that I've actually done this, of course).

Mama Lion

Vin's sick with some respiratory junk in his chest; he'll be fine but I hauled him in nonetheless because he was really having a hard time breathing. Got a healthy dose of what I like to call THE MAMA LION during this ordeal . . . I was worried about him, I had never seen a child struggle to breathe like he was doing, and since someone stole our seven year old Eddie Bauer stroller from the alley last week, I trucked him (manually) from the parking lot to the ER with my bum back and thanks to the adrenaline, hardly felt a thing. Hadn't eaten a thing all day, really, but didn't feel that, either (which normally would be a majorly huge issue). I didn't think about anything but the air that clearly wasn't making it into his lungs. When they checked his pulse ox it was at 90, which they said they "didn't like."

They gave him stuff and fixed him up good, and throughout the whole experience I was fine because I trusted them and knew he'd be all right, but on the ride back home I got to thinking about mama lion and the times I've had it in the past.

It was born really with Bubby; from the moment they put him on my chest and he took his first breaths, cried, then looked at me with huge almost black round eyes (and stopped crying) I knew then and there, seconds after his birth that I would split an atom for this infant boy if it ever came to that. It was such a clear, defining moment in my life, becoming this kid's mother, that in seeing him, being not the least bit surprised at how he looked or acted or reacted, and that despite being a clueless, first timer----it all made perfect sense. "Of course you're Quentin, just look at you!"

It was different with Zizzy, as it probably is slightly with all second children . . . I felt joy and love and pride immediately (not to mention surprise at her having been a girl) but not until the next morning when they took her away for a weighing and then brought her back did it become fierce. "She spit up a little and it upset her," they said as she came back in the isolette crying; I snatched her back into my arms and didn't let her out of my sight the rest of the hospital stay. Later, when she was about sixteen months old and had never made a violent move toward any living creature, a nasty little toddler bitch at Edinborough Park came at her, unprovoked, with all ten of her bitchy little toddler talons, just completely came at her, scratching and throwing punches. I came running toward her as soon as I saw what was happening, and she broke away from the girl and came running to me with her arms outstretched with this *utter* look of confusion and hurt on her tiny face, pleading, "Mama?!!" She had a crescent shaped scrape just under her right eye where one fingernail had obviously gouged way in.

I know kids mess with each other, I knew it then and I know it now. But that event still to this day absolutely infuriates me, not just that it happened, but that I didn't stop it in time, and that Zizzy's confusion was so raw and heartbreaking, and still is each time I think of it. I picked her up and comforted her, of course, but you know damned well a part of me wanted to physically yank the little girl's wrist, hands, and claws away from my girl's person and march her back to her own mother, wherever the hell that woman was during all this (I never found out). DON'T. YOU. FUCKING. TOUCH. MY. KID. is what I kept thinking, over and over. I can try to empathize and be realistic and as pacifist as is proper, but the honest truth, my honest reaction was one of anger and violence (again, see above statement in all caps).

B was quite a different experience as she kind of came out as a Mama Lion herself. Her birth was fast, like all the others, but somewhat more difficult because the morphine intrathecal stick I got made me violently ill right about ten minutes postpartum. I was nursing her, knew I was going to be sick (fucking anesthesiologist wouldn't give me fentanyl like I asked), barfed probably thrice and then got so dizzy I couldn't even sit up. They moved me up to a nursery suite and the motion made me even more ill, I had to nurse her lying down and could barely even turn my head and they kept worrying about me having to pee . . . this went on until about five that morning and the night nurse asked if I wanted them to bring her to the nursery for a little while so I could try to sleep and I agreed, reluctantly, but only because I couldn't stop throwing up. The minute they took her out I wanted her back, but I couldn't even lift my head up, so I just laid there and tried to sleep (and couldn't). When they finally brought her back, I (again) didn't let her out of my sight for the rest of the stay. I wanted to be angry at the doc, angry at the stupid morphine, and angry at myself for letting them give it to me, but the second day when I could look at her and hold her properly, I forgot all about it.

I've probably had these moments more with Vin than with any of the others because he's unfortunately had the most number of illnesses at the youngest age (with all the rest of them bringing it home from school). He passed meconium in utero and was whisked away from me before I even knew he was a boy. He had the swine flu before he was five months old, quit nursing, refused bottles, quit verbalizing for about a week, and had red dust (urate crystals) in his diaper from dehydration. He teethed early, he walked early, he talked early, he did everything early and was a baby for the least amount of time. Today, while he was struggling to breathe he kept writhing and repeating, "Mama? Mommy?" and then later, "I need have something?" Yes, but what? I couldn't do anything. When we got home I told Matt that he looked different, like a different child; Matt said, "he looks like some college kid who's been up drinking for two weeks." These things happen, are bound to happen, and there's nothing I can do about them, and I get angry.

I once heard a story about a guy I used to work with whose infant daughter needed a spinal tap, and that after it was completed his reaction was 1. to go into the hospital bathroom and barf his guts out and 2. call his parents immediately to apologize for anything he'd ever done to make them worry, as now he had a firm grip on what it must have felt like. I thought that was a very sweet reaction. Mine would be to simply find meningitis and eliminate it, violently. And forever.

Some Events

A lag (again).

Things are still happening, I'm just without a computer or time or both to record them most days. A few weeks ago the kids had their conferences, or I did, with their teachers (except Zizzy's, which I had to cancel because I was sick). But all is well, which is good. B is doing very well in her school, Bubby also, but his was the conference I was sort of nervous for, due to a little thievery that happened at the beginning of the month.

To make a long story short, he and two other kids stole prizes from the prize box and got busted by another kid who told the teacher. The Teach told me that Bubby was (admirably) the only kid to not only give his spoils back immediately but to cry and say he was sorry. (!) I stole stuff when I was that age, I even told Bubby stories of the times I did it, but he seemed to take it seriously when the teacher caught him and he took his punishment very seriously (ineligible for further prizes for rest of month). I can't remember how we punished him; I think maybe he was cut off from the television for a week and not allowed to play with his friend also . . . this whole thing was really unpleasant.

It hardly took a second's worth of time during the conference, however, she wanted to discuss his speech. His science, art, reading, and math scores were all above average, but his spelling and the way he sounds out words were very much below average. She said his r's, l's, and any combos using other letters with those were really difficult, and said he should probably be in speech. The trouble is, getting him evaluated and then placed in a class might be hard because it's not terribly noticeable, and because his vocabulary is pretty decent. She said while we wait we should work with him at home on letter combinations. In doing this I've found that his s's are almost the same as his th's, which I suppose would also explain his trouble in sounding out words with those sounds too. I wrote out a list of words and phrases for him to practice, and in just a week his l's are much better, but the other two are going to take some time. Anyone have experience with this that they'd like to share? What worked, what didn't? I'd love to hear from you.

In other news, and after a few seriously weird situations in front of our house, Matt finally told the creepy lurker ("this doggie's name is Sebastian") from down the street that he needed to stay away from our property. GET YOUR DOG AND GET OUT OF HERE. It was just getting too bizarre, more bizarre than he normally is, even . . . (sprinting down the street with the dog when he sees the kids playing outside, again and again introducing them to the dog but never talking to the adults or even making eye contact with us, standing stationary in front of our yard staring toward the back where the dog just miraculously happened to get loose, and then meandering back to get it after about ten minutes, taking pictures of "the trees" near our front yard on his dog walks, etc.)

If this doesn't "take" it may actually be a situation where I take out the real Officer Daniels' business card and make a call . . . since of course I still have it.

Matt is working, all the time. He works all day, comes home, does the nighttime with the kids while I go to work, and then works more, usually is still at it when I go to bed. It's good that he has jobs, some of them for pretty big name companies, and this time of year is always busy for him but it can get difficult. I'm just thankful all of his limbs are still functioning, intact. When I look back at last year . . . well, ugh. Count your blessings.

The kids are sick with some disgusting shit/barf business. I don't know where they picked it up, but this seems to happen every year. I am beginning to reevaluate the preschool field trip trick-or-treating at the nursing home that happens every year; it'd be funny if they weren't, you know, related. Plus I went along to it this year, and damn. I want it down on paper somewhere that if I turn Livia Soprano in my old age (with or without dementia) I *will not* be put in a home. Just take me to Split Rock and push me off; problem solved. One final note on this which I found interesting---Zizzy is the world's most courteous barfer. Got up in the middle of the night, told Matt she felt like she might barf, took the pepto, barfed directly into the bowl (quietly, on her own later in the night) and then took the bowl of barf and put it next to the sink in the kitchen. My experiences with B and her barf were far less smooth and much more dramatic (and filled with feces at the same time, just for good measure).

And Vin has stopped napping. Completely stopped, as in NONE naps. He gets up at about 8, does everything we normally do, then drinks his sippy of milk in his crib and is quiet for maaaaaybe six minutes during our previously slotted nap schedule, and then pitches the cup onto the floor (bringing my CRINGE with the telltale thud that confirms my afternoon is fucking *done*) and then hollers for me to get him out. I tried just leaving him in there, hoping he'd give up after a while, but no, he kept on for a full hour and twenty minutes the other day. Funny, Matt has told me how EASILY he's gone to bed these last few days . . . My response was something like, "Yeah, that doesn't help me when I've been chasing his ass around here for ten hours and then go to my physical on-my-feet job for four additional," (yes, I realize that I've just stated above how hard my husband works all day, but some days if it came down to a delirious two year old for ten straight hours or a WOW and linux-obsessed coworker in a cubicle, honestly, I'd take the latter). . . I need to find something, I don't know, hands-on and involved to maybe start teaching him during these 2.5 extra hours he's now awake, again I ask, IS THERE A LINEMAN'S CAMP FOR TWO-YEAR OLDS? Please contact me if you've heard of anything.

Also, I'm doing Thanksgiving this year, my first SOLO, ever. Well, Solo in that I'm doing most of it myself but will probably need to rely on the help of my culinary brother, also, just to make sure I don't totally eff it up. I'm so geeking out over it it's not even funny. The photo up there is of THE TURKEY CUTTER, of Lois's Turkey Cutouts fame; after I snapped the picture I ran it *immediately* back to its secret place in the cupboard which only I know about . . . there have been times throughout the year that yes, I have checked the spot compulsively to make sure it was still there. Jesus, just having it almost makes me want to scream out in proclamation GLORY AND HONOR TO THE HOUSE OF SCHWANKE, I HAVE THE TURKEY!!!!!!

(food is love).

On Writing

I haven't been spouting my personal rants and topics lately, and if anyone's honestly lonely for them, I'm sorry. October is always sort of reserved for my media rants---this year since I'm writing for Examiner I've been able to reach a wider group of people than I would by just doing blogs, and it's been really awesome already. For those of you who enjoy horror films and want to check out what I've been doing, here are some links to the series, titled My Life In Horror . . . For those of you who have already read or enjoyed them, thank you ever so much . . . (you complete me).

The Shining

A Nightmare on Elm Street

The Exorcist

Christine

Creepshow

Anyway, in addition to watching different media events O' the season, I'm rereading many of King's short stories, and was struck by the opening chapter of what I think is a great collection, Skeleton Crew. He basically explains how a neighbor or friend (or whatever the guy was) sat and hemmed and hawed with him about the exact dollar amount he was paid for one of the short stories that was published in Playboy (in the mid-eighties). I had a few thoughts.

1. Anyone who spends that much time obsessing over SOMEONE ELSE'S MONEY seriously needs to get a life.

2. The whole conversation between the two guys gave very much the feeling of the friend/neighbor taking a paternalistic tone (with King). I'm reaching here, obviously, but I've known people throughout my life, non-creative people who see creative people as . . . I don't know, talented, lucky, yet untrained, undisciplined children who really just need to be taken to task. This whole situation felt that way to me, like this douche was just one-upping King over and over about how much money he was really making from his writing. Hey, the fact that he's making money from his writing should be enough, man, ask anyone who's tried to do just that and you'll see just how precious $2000/$1800/$1790/$785 for ONE SHORT STORY ends up being. Prick.

3. King responds by doing what a truly introverted writer would do----saying nothing, agreeing, even, and then blasting the cock-knocker back in the introduction of the book where the short story later appeared. And I have a very weak sort of idea of where I originally wanted to go with this rant, and here it is . . . a writer will remember *everything* that happens to them, sometimes issuing all the way back to early childhood. If you're a douche (like King's "Steve-O"-calling neighbor), don't think for a minute we won't remember your douchery. Moot point, really, (for me, at least) since I don't think any douches actually read this, but King perhaps suspected that the guy would read his intro, adding brilliantly that bit at the end about actually having more beer in the fridge that he refused to share with the dude and then drank later, himself . . . (!)

Most of the time we just smile and nod. And file shit away for months, years, decades down the road when we get a chance to sit down and sort through it all. You know damned well no one forgives and forgets, not really. It's all still there. And the thing that floors me the most about this whole situation is that even someone as solid, as talented, as recognizable as King (in the eighties, anyway) still had to what, prove himself? Take shit from someone? Part of life, I guess, but come on. I know how I feel about my own writing, and I'm just me. This dude, pissing on King's story like that (over logistics) seriously got under my skin . . . most of us see our completed projects as not only extensions of ourselves but nearly akin to living, breathing beings that we've spawned. It's not something to take lightly.

I got going on this initially, months ago during that Mad Men episode where Pete Campbell becomes insanely jealous of his coworker whose short story gets published---he assumes that any moron can obviously do it and sets out to get his own work published as well (which is successfully placed . . . in Boy's Life Magazine). That whole bit really got to me, because I know exactly what that feels like, having someone assume that they can easily do what I do, that it's easy because I'm not constantly screaming or pulling my hair out over it, whether it's a film degree, mothering four kids, or writing, people have these assumptions. It's like every move you make, every word you write, you're going to be asked to prove yourself over and over again, but most of the writers I know, myself included, aren't good salespeople and any ego we have goes into the writing, not the self-promotion.

When I first decided to go to school for film, there were a handful of supportive people, mostly my husband and his family, but damned if I don't remember two extremely rude and condescending comments about it, one made to a friend and another right to me, directly. I've given stuff I've written to other people to look at and have had them say point blank, "I don't like it." I've had the things I like criticized, my music, my films, my shows, repeatedly. I've had well-intentioned people (who know me as a person but have no idea what I'm about professionally, if you can call it that) compliment me after reading my stuff or watching film projects I've done by saying, "I had no idea you were so articulate/intelligent/artistic/creative." You don't just go out with a megaphone and scream to the world, "HEY, I'M GOOD!" but it feels like it's required, these days. Giving my absolute all as a parent isn't easy, and neither is writing, but it's what I do.

I honestly love everything I've ever written---most of the serious reviews I've submitted to Examiner I am so utterly proud of I have to read through them at least a few times a month JUST FOR MY OWN ENTERTAINMENT AND ENJOYMENT. Am I going to race up and down the street, begging for you to read them, too, or sit out on my front step discussing the finer points of film theory and artistry (also reiterating the fact that I didn't just sit on my ass and watch American Pie over and over for my film degree)? No. When someone dogs my playlist, do I feel the need to explain to them the comfort I get from the I-IV-V chord progressions in house music, that I had damned near absolute pitch during my years as a music major, and that I . . . oh, orchestrated (single-handed) The Devil Went Down To Georgia for myself, a vocalist, a violist, and three guitar players who could hardly read music? No, I don't (but I told you, so there).

Don't get into a land war in Asia.

A writer's head= Asia.