I had heard about all the controversy surrounding the Tim Tebow ad today and I have to say that it was understated and classy. And I see where they were coming from with the commercial, and it is great for him that his mom decided not to go ahead and have an abortion.

However, curiosity did get the better of me, so I went to the Focus on the Family website to see the whole story. And just like I expected, it was not as understated and classy as the ad that showed during the pre-game show today. Once I heard Tim Tebow's missionary father start talking about how he had been "crying about the deaths of millions of unborn babies", I couldn't watch any more of it.

What a lot of pro-lifers believe is that pro-choice obviously means that you're for abortion, and that's not the truth. When I was a teenager and I was a straight arrow Christian, I had one mindset and my mindset was quite simple. I was grateful that my birth mother decided not to have an abortion. Roe vs. Wade had been in place for over five years by that point and God knows that she certainly could have. And don't get me wrong, I am damn grateful that I'm here and I am thankful that she didn't make that decision.

When Mike and I went to Spokane this summer, he and my mom got into a discussion about politics and religion while I was making jello salad for the family reunion the next day. "Well," Mike says, "let's say that metaphorically, Corrie got raped and she decided that it would be best for her to have an abortion. Would you be there to support her?"

My mother turns and looks at my husband. "I would try to talk her out of it. I would tell her to weigh her options - adoption vs. keeping the baby - but if she still decided to have an abortion, I would not be there to support her. I would not be a party to that."

I lost respect for my mother's beliefs on that day. My mother had blatantly stated that she would leave me alone to go through that. She had also said that she felt that that little girl in Brazil, raped by her stepfather and pregnant by the age of ten, should have gone through with the pregnancy and given the baby up for adoption, because it would have been okay for her to have a c-section.

When I say I'm pro-choice, what I mean is that it's my decision what to do with my body. And that is an option that every woman should be able to have. The government or the church should not be able to say "You can't do this". I am the custodian of my own body. Every woman should be able to have that option.

Pro-choice does not mean that you're for abortion. It does not mean that you advocate abortion as birth control

Pro-choice means exactly what it says.

Pro-choice means that you have a choice.

I cannot support anyone or any thing who wants to take that away from me or anyone else.

/soapbox

I work in a call center. For those of you who have been reading my journal for the past year or so, you probably already know this. I started out in a department that answered calls for a partcular big blue retail store, which basically consists of annoyed, lazy people without the energy to get in their car and drive down the street to the mall or old people whose children haven't visited in years and they just want someone to talk to.

And luckily, I was able to advance in my job. It was incredibly exciting to me last Monday when one of my supervisors called me aside and asked me if I wanted to move into escalations. With my overall ratings at #8 in my department, my sales at $42K for the month of December and my quality and empathy through the roof, I was apparently a given choice for advancement. Or at least according to Deb the TM, I was.

The thing about escalations is that you get a lot of people who begin demanding things RIGHT NOW AT THIS VERY MINUTE. I've been y-jacking (which is a polite way of saying that I've done nothing but eavesdropping on other people's calls while they're taking them) for the past week. Here's an example of the kind of things that you hear in escalations.

"HELLO? I AM SO FED UP THAT YOU'RE TAKING ME SO LONG TO GET MY CREDIT BACK! YOU TOOK MY MONEY FOR THESE $500 PEARLS RIGHT AWAY AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN I CAN'T GET MY CREDIT NOW?!? I AM SUPER SPECIAL AND MY TIME IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOURS! WHY EXACTLY CAN'T YOU IMBECILES FIGURE OUT HOW IMPORTANT I AM AND DO THIS FOR ME RIGHT NOW?!"

Hey, lady, you know what, you put your pants on one leg at a time just like me. You are not as special of a snowflake as you seem to believe that you are, and I am certainly not going to move heaven and earth to accomodate you, especially not when you've basically implied that I am merely a pathetic peon situated here in a call center in Tucson only to refund your money.

Now here's the thing.

I do not care about this. I don't. My apathy here is overwhelming. In fact, the minute that I have a customer start in on that "I'M THE WORLD'S MOST SPECIAL-IST SNOWFLAKE THAT EVER LIVED AND YOU ARE MERELY HERE TO DO MY BIDDING, MINION!" song and dance, I start playing the world's saddest song on the world's smallest violin.

But here's the thing.

I am supposed to care. So this is how the conversation is supposed to go if I want to keep my job - which I do.

"Oh my goodness, ma'am, I'm sorry that it's taken..."

*this is where I check my screen to see how long it's been since their last call demanding credit*

"...less than forty-five minutes to get your credit back!"

This is where I check my notes on the previous call.

"...and you've called four times already today. Oh, my goodness! I can certainly understand why you would be upset, because I know if I were in the same situation I would be just as discouraged, frustrated and irritated as you clearly are now. Let me see what I can do for you here so we can get this credit back on your account."

I imagine all these customers to be like the pre-amnesia Goldie Hawn in Overboard, flitting around in furs or lying out on the deck of their yacht in a skimpy swimsuit while sipping vodka and papaya juice, demanding that the "little people" cater to their whims. No, thank you. And to quote Walter Matthau in Grumpy Old Men, I'd rather kiss a dead moose's butt.

Now granted, not all my customers are like this. I get a lot of good people who are genuinely frustrated because they've been waiting since before Christmas for a gift that didn't arrive, that was canceled because my flawed system did not realize it was out of stock until after the order was placed. Those are the people that I understand, those are the people that I can relate to and truly do emphasize with. When they call me and say that they have four kids at home, their spouse just lost their job and they've been helping take care of a parent with Alzheimers, then you bet your ass I'm more than willing to help. When it comes to those people, I will move mountains for them. If there's anything that I can do within my power, it will be done.

And here I close with a word of warning.

The very minute that you choose to don that hat of entitlement, my cloak of apathy is draped over my shoulders just as quickly.

and you know the drill.

Well, actually it's a bit different this week.

This week we're matched up with partners - mine being the kickass phoenixejc!

And just in case you haven't read it yet, you can find my post on banning really subversive books like the dictionary here. You can read my partner, phoenixejc's post, here. Fair warning, may not be NSFW, so if you're at work with a boss that likes to look over your shoulder, be careful.

So please, go here to vote!

Thanks!


see more Lol Celebs

The article that inspired my post is here

I have to come the conclusion that the world is coming to an end when parents are trying to take dictionaries out of classrooms because the definition of a sex act is well...too sexy.

Yep.

Apparently, in California, a parent of a kid who attends Oak Brook Elementary is up in arms because the definition of oral sex in the Merriam-Webster dictionary is too explicit.

Now here's the definition of "oral sex" in the Merriam-Webster dictionary, if anyone's interested.

oral stimulation of the genitals

More specifically, here is the definitions of cunnilingus...

cunnilingus, New Latin, from Latin, one who licks the vulva, from cunnus vulva + lingere to lick; cunnilinctus, New Latin, from Latin cunnus + linctus, act of licking, from lingere — more at lick

and fellatio.

fellation-, fellatio, from Latin felare, fellare, literally, to suck

Now granted, there's one very vocal but unidentified parent who is upset that the dictionary descriptions of those forementioned sex acts are pretty descriptive. And it's got to be traumatic for Little Tommy, who's trying to look up a word like "cunning" or "felt" and then all of the sudden goes home and asks Mom, who's trying to cook dinner, exactly what a vulva is and why someone would want to lick it.

I can imagine that it may create a dialogue that neither Mom nor Little Tommy is quite ready for at that particular point.

Many, many years ago I was also a fourth and fifth grader. When I had to use a dictionary (which I seldom recall doing because ever since I was a kid I've been a voracious reader), I would look for the word that I was trying to find the definition for and that was that. Now maybe there are some kids who actually read the dictionary, like Poindexter Jones over there, with his horn-rimmed glasses, pocket protector and short pants. But that’s a different story for a different time.

And here’s a quote from a spokeswoman from the school district.

"The dictionaries have not been banned," said Betti Cadmus, a spokeswoman for the Menifee Union School District in conservative southwest Riverside County, on Monday. "There was a growing concern by parents that some of the words were not age-appropriate."

Age appropriate?

I do understand the importance of these things being age appropriate, but let’s look at this way. Odds are that these kids are hearing far worse and offensive things that “fellatio”, “cunnilingus” and “oral sex” while watching South Park in their room at night when Mom & Dad think that they’ve gone to bed.

Have we really reached an age of such political correctness where we are trying to take dictionaries - the same dictionaries that schoolchildren use for spelling bees, mind you? - out of the classroom because the definition of a word is offensive? Should we be printing out special dictionaries just for grade school kids that DON’T have the forementioned words in them? Or should the definition be child-friendly?

cunnilingus, New Latin, from Latin, something that you’ll find out about when you’re older and in high school or junior high at the least, or from watching a particular SNL sketch with Christopher Walken as a retired colonel named Angus*.

fellation-, fellatio, none of your business, see cunnilingus and you‘ll find out when you‘re older.

I over-exaggerate in order to get my point across.

And it seems as though the only person in this whole debacle who can understand both sides of the situation is the school board president, Rita Peters.

"I think it's absurd that we will remove dictionaries from our library, especially because these dictionaries are the same ones we use in our spelling bees," she said. "I think we are approaching censorship with this. If they ban this book, they better clean house and go through all of them. What's good for one is good for all. I think we will open a big can of worms if these books are banned. It's the dictionary, after all - come on."

Thank you, Rita. Thank you. What’s the next step, abolishing libraries because something that some kid reads may be considered to be slightly inflammatory?

To finish with a quote that I’ve slightly paraphrased from Field Of Dreams that I found especially accurate, I give you this.

They're talking about banning books again! Really subversive books, like "The Wizard of Oz"...”the Diary of Anne Frank - and the dictionary.”

This is the week's LJ Idol post. This week we are paired off with a fellow contestant. My partner, phoenixejc's post is here. And thanks for your support!





*Just in case anyone is not familiar with the particular SNL sketch that I've mentioned, you can watch it here

When I was a child, my favorite place in the world to be was at the lake. My father would call the four of us out of the house on a warm summer's day, and we'd crowd into Dad's '89 Ford Lariat, toss our overnight bags in the back, lower the tailgate for the dog, who would jump in enthusiastically (every time the truck came out, Bubba associated it with the lake. I can only imagine how much it broke his doggy heart when Dad had to use the truck for something other than a lake trip.)

With Garth Brooks on the tape deck singing about how he had friends in low places, or maybe about the dust and the mud and the heat and the blood and how they call the thing the rodeo-oh-oh,we'd roll down the windows and head down Highway 2, down Deep Creek hill, past the grange where I voted for the first time in 1996, shortly after I turned eighteen. The six of us would sing along with the music - whether it be Garth or the Forrest Gump soundtrack my youngest brother had hijacked from me and never returned, or maybe some Sam Cooke, we'd sing. Mom had the best voice out of the six of us, a high, true soprano that never wavered.

Eastern Washington is beautiful in the summertime. Deep green pine trees, fields of wheat, barley or corn, the sun shining brilliant and golden in the impeccably blue sky. I'd roll the window down on the back driver's side of the truck and let the wind blow through my fingers and toss my ponytail to and fro.

"There's your valley, Dad," one of my brothers would point out. We drove past a pastoral setting where there was nothing but an old wooden hay barn, half-heartedly stacked with bales that smelled like fresh grass and made me sneeze. The sky seemed to be wider and the sun brighter at that particular spot than any other. All through my childhood, Dad would talk about his dream of someday setting up a double-wide or buying an RV to set up there..."once you kids are grown up," he'd say, "your mom and I might just do that."

We're grown up. Three out of the four of us have kids. Dad's valley still isn't for sale. Maybe someday, he says wistfully as we drive past it. Maybe someday.

Winding back country roads take us to where we want to be.

As always, I take a childish delight in seeing the first sight of deep blue water through the trees. and it's equally magical when we come across the bridge and see the lake in all its glory. The houses lining the shore, those few fortunate ones with beachfront property, the ones that I had admired and loved for years. The blue cabin with the windmill facade, the log cabin, the 1920's style home with the stones and big windows, all familiar and reassuring. I see them, and it'sjust like coming home.

And now I am coming home. This time, with my husband. It's the first time that he's been able to go to "The Lake", the place immortalized in family lore and legend. The place where my brother Ken decided to, at the age of fifteen, goaded on by our brother Kevin and Kevin's friend Emery, to set off firecrackers in one of the upstairs bedrooms, therefore causing hysterics, screaming, and a houseful of adults trying to get my Grandma Schmidt out on to the deck before the cabin burns down.

"Let it burn!" my grandmother had hollered. "We're insured!"

It's the same place where I got the brilliant idea that I could jump off the top bunk bed in the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms onto the big bed, press record on my cousin's pink Sony tape deck just in time to catch 90% of "More Than Words" on tape. Needless to say, my plan did not work well...the top rail broke off the bunk bed and I was banished to sleeping on the bottom bunk for the rest of the summer.

It's the same place where my youngest brother Keith thought it would be funny if he decided to pee on my Aunt Connie's ex-husband. As Steve walked down the cement steps into the house, Keith decided to pee on him. "Hey, Uncle Steve!" Keith yelled as he answered nature's call, "It's raining!"

It's the same place where my parents brought their guitars back in the summer of '92 when my dad was first learning to play. He had his Guitar Player Companion book with lyrics to the 1970's folk-rock songs that I would later learn to love. We sat on the deck and Dad played songs like Greenback Dollar and Cats In The Cradle while the kids and his sisters and brother-in-law sang along with the ones we knew. We lit the citronella candles and looked out over the lake with with the amber harvest moon shining on the water.

"You're going to love it," I tell my husband, the two of us side by side in the back seat of the '89 Lariat. No Garth Brooks this time, the cassettes have been played out. Instead Dad turns it to the oldies station, and we sing along with the Drifters to "Up On The Roof", Dobie Gray to "Drift Away", Sam Cooke to "Chain Gang". Mom and I do our best imitation of Diana Ross and the Supremes on "Someday We'll Be Together", whereas Mike receives a round of applause for helping Stevie out with "Superstition".

It's as reassuring and comforting as a flannel blanket, these same familiar sights.

My creek, Dad's valley, the abandoned school at Ford, the white sign with red letters at Wellpinit that announces the availability of cheap fireworks and cigarettes, the Springdale rodeo grounds where my cousin Kristi and I sat at the age of ten, each of us wearing one of the crocheted ponchos that Grandma had made twenty years earlier, freezing, wet, cold and bored to tears. I want to hang my head out the window like a German shepherd.

I smell the pine, I breathe the air. It feels like I can touch the sky.

And under my denim shorts and cream spaghetti strap tank top, I wear my halter neck Nautica swimsuit. I've told Mike that when we get there, I'm going to do something that I always wanted to do as a kid but always lacked the nerve. I'm going to run right off the end of the dock right into the water, no matter how cold it feels to me. I'm going to let it wash right over me.

When we enter the cabin, our arms laden down with supplies for the next few days (burgers, hot dogs, toilet paper, a ridiculously sized bottle of light olive oil. "Because not everybody likes extra virgin like you," Mom says. I tell her she's crazy and she just rolls her eyes at me, placing placing the olive oil in a cupboard next to the avocado green Kenmore stove.

When the food is put away and I have my feet in a pair of plastic flip-flops that have
hung in the shoe rack on the back of the front door since before The Simpsons were on TV, I grab a towel from the stack in the bathroom and tie it around my waist like a sarong.

The cement steps down to the water are steep and precarious. I can't run down them the way that I used to be able to do as a kid, but I still take them with relative ease. And I see the water, I see the dock, and I'm going to do it.

I shuck off my sandals and my towel on the dock and start into a run. Instead of stopping a few inches before I reach the end of the dock and sampling the water with my big toe, I throw myself in completely. I shriek when I hit the water - holy crap, it's cold! - but I am glad that for the first time in my nearly thirty-one years that I kept on running until I touched down.


Disneyland is not the happiest place on earth...contrary to popular belief, it's Loon Lake, Washington.

"I'm looking for a pair of shoes," the voice says on the other end of the phone line.

I sit there at my desk at work, tired of the continuous beep-beep-beeping of my headset in my ear. Almost everyone else has left or gotten to leave early, and only a handful of us are left doing online sales tonight. There are fifteen minutes left of my shift and I am more than ready to leave for the night. I'm looking forward to the r & r, to my drive home listening to Nights With Alice Cooper, to my dogs leaping on me the minute I walk through the door.

"I'll be happy to help you find the shoes that you're looking for," i tell the customer. "Do you have a model number or an item number?"

"I do, in fact," he says. "I'm looking for..."

He rattles off the description of the shoes, something shock resistant and postal approved with a wedge heel. I search and find what he's looking for online, offer to set up the order.

"Well, that's the thing," he says. "I actually don't get paid until Friday. See, what happened is that I met up with a woman, and she just turned out to be no good. She screwed up my life, almost made me lose my house...she was just trouble. But you know what, I got something far better in the end."

"You got rid of her?" I crack, and he chuckles. "Well, that too," he says, "but there was something even better that I received in the end."

I smile, as if he can see me. And I wait.

"Our daughter is sixteen, almost seventeen now. And she doesn't want to live with her mama. I really can't say that I blame her, the woman's no good. But our girl...she's smart, she's beautiful, she's the most perfect thing that I've ever helped create in my entire life."

He continues to talk. I feel as if he and I are sitting at a Denny's, or maybe a Village Inn, sipping hot coffee out of white ceramic cups, cheap framed imitation paintings on the wall behind us, aqua vinyl boots and cushioned chairs surrounding us.

"I never thought that two ugly people could make such a perfect human being," he says. "And here's the thing...you said your name was Corrie, right?"

I lean forward a bit, engrossed in his story. "Yes," I answer. "that's my name."

"Great, Corrie," he says. "And anyway, here's the thing...I never spend money on myself. I mean, never. Ever spare cent I have goes to her. I would rather starve than see her go without anything. Right now, I'm sitting here talking to you and writing things down by flashlight because I'm trying to save money on the electric bill so that she never has to go without. She could have stayed with her mom, but she picked me. And I am so fortunate that she chose to do so. I can't imagine living my life without her."

I feel the familiar prickling of tears behind my eyes. I think about how lucky this anonymous teenage girl is to have a father who's willing to do all the right things for her, who's willing to go without a new pair of shoes that he desperately needs until he can barely walk because of blisters and calluses, who is sitting at the kitchen table writing on a piece of scratch paper while holding up a flashlight not because the power is off, but because the less money he spends on the electricity bill this month, the more money he'll have to put towards bettering the life of his daughter.

"I wish," I say, and the tremble in my voice surprises me a bit, "I wish that everyone with kids was as good of a dad as you are. It's obvious...I mean, I can tell from just listening to you talk...that you've sacrificed a lot for her. I hope she knows how lucky she is."

And I think of all the deadbeat dads that I've known or heard about. I think of my friend Nichole's ex-husband, who threatened her autistic son with a cast iron skillet and scared him to death. I think of my ex-husband's brother, who refused to get a job because his ex-wife demanded too much child support for their daughter...because it was easier to not work than to provide for the little girl he claimed he loved. Of all the crappy fathers that made the rounds on the daytime talk shows, who want to sign over rights to their kids because they don't want to be a father or aren't willing to put forth the effort.

And I take a moment to close my eyes and pray that my caller, whoever he is, can be an inspiration, to teach someone how to be a good dad, to give some child the gift of a supportive, loving, caring and sacrificing father, who does what they have to do and puts their child before anything else, before anyone else in this entire world.

On behalf of every man
Looking out for every girl
You are the god and the weight of her world

I love not being busy on friends & family night.

Especially since I know here before too long it'll taper off, with everyone taking advantage of the sales in the stores and people will stop calling.

I had this caller earlier who had an incredibly thick accent. Normally that's not a problem, I can generally work through it quite well, but he was not that cooperative. Apparently, my caller is a business owner.

Caller: THIS GOES TO 123 MAINE ST. THAT'S M-AS-IN-MATILDA, A-AS-IN-ALPHA, I-AS-IN-INSUBORDINANT, N-AS-IN-NEVERMIND, E-AS-IN-EXTRAORDINARY.

Me: OK, that's 123 Maine St, M as in Matilda, A as in alpha, I as in insubordinant...?

Caller: NO! AYE-AI-AI-AI, IT IS NOT THAT HARD! *curses in Spanish and I think he said my mother was a Chihuahua while referring to me as a puta.* Dude, I'm trying, but you're not making it easy.

Me: *befuddled*

Of course shipping was supposed to be free and didn't come off on the order right off the bat, so even after I sent him two emails saying that I had taken the shipping off, he still wasn't satisfied and demanded a printed receipt. I tried to figure out if there was a way to do it, and it turned out that since it was a frigging KMart order, it wasn't even possible. Fortunately, my friend Stephanie (who works in escalations) handled it for me after I asked her if she'd be able to do it. She couldn't, but said that it wasn't because I'd done anything wrong. That was reassuring. I've screwed up enough...LOL.

Baked potato soup & There Will Be Blood tonight. I'm also trying my hand at a starghan for Kat & Jason's baby on the way, but am not sure if I can follow the pattern. Printing out the directions and doing it that way may make things a bit more clear. We'll see how it goes.

Back to work. Woot.

I'm not sure about the quality on this since I'm at work and there is no sound, but I'm posting a clip from Girl, Interrupted in memory of Brittany Murphy. This one hit me hard. I know it's too soon, but I'm sure she's well on her way to that "eat in chicken" in the sky. RIP Brittany.



It's highly unlikely that I'll be able to persuade Mike into watching Girl, Interrupted with me tonight, but if I gave him the option between that or Riding In Cars With Boys, it would be a pretty easy decision, I bet. Or maybe not.

I got a commendation on my second call of the day. She actually ASKED to talk to my supervisor. Out of the year I've been here, I've never gotten that! At least not in such a positive light. Normally it's a pissy person who starts screaming that asks for a supervisor, so to Ms. McCann in New York, let me tell you that you are something fantastic and I want to thank you for recognizing me. I'm glad I was able to do good by you today. <3

On other fronts, one of the TMs took a sup call earlier, which is nothing out of the ordinary. You could hear her just getting more and more forceful but not necessarily louder, and when she lets out the "EXCUSE me? I have given you the opportunity to speak and I would appreciate it if you would listen to me" all eyes turn to her direction.

When she wraps up the call - finally - announcing that she'll be disconnecting because of hostility from the caller who will not stop screaming, Chantelle (one of the annoying girls at work, with a high-pitched whiny voice who's always snapping her gum) starts applauding, and the next thing I know, there's a whole passel of people who are just sitting there clapping.

Star (the TM) gets up and says, "Good to know I live up to my name."

Classic.

Back to work. Only two hours (and counting!) left. I have a three day weekend coming up (12/24, 12/25 AND 12/26 off!!!) and karaoke with our crew, plus my friend Stephanie from work on Wednesday night to look forward to. It should be a good week. Here's hoping.

When I was fourteen years old, I read a book called Katydid by Lou Willett Stanek, and there was one particular line what jumped out at me more than any other. And they clung to each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. At fourteen, feeling lonely, unattractive and unpopular, that was all I ever really wanted out of my life - was to have someone cling to me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Throughout my teenage years, there were a lot of those nights where I'd lie in bed, curled into a fetal position, my tears soaking the pink pillowcase as I cried. All I wanted was for someone to want to be with me, for someone to tell me that I was beautiful, that I was everything they could have ever wanted or would. I wanted to be someone's dream come true. The ache I felt was deep, it penetrated my soul, and it felt like someone had come up to me with a red hot poker and thrust it clear.

Even now, more than fifteen years later, that pain still stays with me.

When I was younger, I gave a lot away. Too much has been written here about the nightmare that was my first marriage, and that's something that doesn't need to be dredged up again. I do remember, though, when my ex-husband proposed to me, he told me that "I'm not the touchy-feely sort, no one in my family is, so don't start expecting lots of hugs and kisses and cutesy crap like that, because that's not who I am."

I didn't expect it. I settled, and life moved on without it. When he left, I did not miss those kisses on the back of my neck that I had read about in books or seen in the movies...because it's impossible to miss the things that you never had.

***

"Tell me," the voice says on the other end of the phone one hot August night, "what do you want?"

I am swaddled head to toe in a blue striped polar fleece blanket. It's not cold, but the feel of the fleece against my skin is reassuring and comforting. I pick up a glass of iced tea and take a long swallow.

"I want," I say, "for someone to kiss the back of my neck while we're doing dishes together after dinner. I want what I saw in the parking lot of a Denny's in Sacramento, for someone to hold me until we can't stand up anymore. I don't necessarily want to have sex, I want to lay my head on your chest and let you run your fingers through my hair. I want to be touched."

"If you give me the chance," he says, "I can do that."

In spite of the shattered dreams that had been scattered all around me, I threw myself in and chose to give him that chance.

On November 3rd, 2006, I stepped off a plane in Tucson, Arizona with hopes and dreams for my future. As I slung my bag over my shoulder and took the escalator down to baggage claim, there he was. Exactly as promised, the most beautiful sight that I had ever seen.

Classical music played in my head as I ran towards him, my bag thumping against my hip.

And we clung to each other as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

It has been three and a half years since that night I spent bundled up on the couch.

It has been just over three years since that day in the Tucson airport.

It has been over a year since we promised to spend the rest of our lives together, us dressed in "bride" and "groom" t-shirts, jean shorts and baseball caps with our closest friends and family there as we promised to love, honor, respect and obey each other until death do us part, amen.

Every day, there is a hug, a kiss, a nuzzle, a cuddle, a snuggle or a spoon. There is handholding, there is namecalling, there is cuteness galore in our relationship. The two of us are cuter than even baby ducks.

And to think, it all started with a promise from a thousand miles away.

A promise of just one touch.

"Honey, you deserve much better than this."

The words, typed in Comic Sans, twelve point font, danced across my Yahoo Messenger chat window. The avatar was that of a smiling, bearded giant with warm, wise eyes. My friend Glen, my "iDad", as he'd dubbed himself, was my rock of Gibraltar. After only a few years of friendship, he knew me better than I knew myself and sometimes, that was a frightening concept for me to try and grasp.

"No, I don't," I typed back. "I'm pretty sure that this is all I deserve. Why should I take the chance? Every time I do, I get hurt. What's the point?"

"You're a good person," he typed back, "and you don't need this. Believe me when I say that there is a good man out there who is just waiting to love you if you're willing to give him a chance."

Tears filled my eyes. Not because the words were particularly affecting - he'd told me the same thing so many times before - but because I did not believe him. It seemed like such a far-fetched idea to me...that there was someone out there who could love me. Me. With my fat ass, the cafe-au-lait birthmark doctors assumed was from my birthmother's supposed drug use, my strabismus...no one wanted a woman like me in their life. I was damaged goods, divorced and stuck in a dead-end relationship that I likened to repeatedly touching a hot burner on a stove.

The point was that the last few months had been a nightmare for me and for those who knew me the best. Ami had talked to me through many a sleepless night, trying to remind me that I was a good person and worthy of love. I'd spent night after night lying on my old wooden framed couch, a relic from my grandparents' basement, lights turned off, playing my Harry Chapin and Jim Croce albums and praying for something better to come around.

"I wish I could believe you," I typed back, tears clouding my eyes, "but I just don't know if I can."

"Just think about it, please," he told me before logging off. "Nite nite honey, I love you."

I turned off the computer and wrapped up in the blue striped polar fleece blanket that I could totally bundle myself into, and I thought about it. I was worthy of love. I deserved something better than sitting around by the phone like some sixteen year old waiting for him to call and saying that he'd show up for some tail, toss off a few pretty words and leave again. I deserved more than that. I knew I did.

The more I thought about it, the more Glen's words began to sink in.

And I knew that he was right.

There was somebody out there for me.

There was somebody who'd give me the love and respect that I deserved, someone who would tell me that they loved me too as opposed to responding that those were "dangerous words to say". Someone who would tell me how beautiful that I was instead of tossing off comments about how I needed to "fix that creepy lazy eye" or "tweeze those eyebrows, they look like caterpillars".

I crawled into bed and thought about what Glen had said.

Somewhere along the line, I fell asleep.

When I awakened, I looked out the window of my bedroom and saw the sun peeking out over the steeple of the old Catholic girl's school up the hill. As I gazed out, rapturously, and saw the pinks, blues, and oranges combining with the dusk of dawn, I knew that I'd be okay.

And even though he was on the other side of the world, I knew that somehow Glen knew it too.

But most likely, he knew it all along and was only waiting until I learned it myself.

She sat there in her old orange chair, the dog on her lap, the ugly pink, orange and green blanket that she was knitting in a laundry basket by her feet. On TV, Richard Karn yelled about how it was time to play the Feud. She laughs heartily. The day hasn't come where she'll willingly miss Family Feud.

"Where you headed?" she asks as I walk through the living room. I have on the new shoes I'd bought at Nordstrom Rack the other day, a pink Happy Bunny t-shirt that says "Hi, loser" and capri pants. My hair is brushed and washed and shiny, and I look nice. And I smell good, too...green tea body mist.

"Off to Ami's," I casually announce. "And then we're going to Sweet Old Bob's for karaoke. See you later."

I walk down the steps of the front porch and round the corner, off Desmet and onto Lee. The sun is setting, and the sky is cotton candy pink and tangerine orange. It's a gorgeous night, and I feel no guilt about what I'm about to do.

I count my steps as I walk down Lee, past Lorraine's house where I stop to pet the dogs. Simba and Peanut put their paws up on the gate as I walk past and eagerly await head rubs and ear scritches. The yellow dog a bit further down the street barks excitedly at me as I walk past, running up and down the fence line, trying to keep in time with me. I reach over the fence and rub her soft head, and she rewards me with a sloppy kiss on the back of my arm.

Time for a stop at the grocery store, I think. I walk in, say my hellos to Logan and Chris and pick up a bag of chili cheese Fritos, a pound of hamburger, some of the brambleberry Tazo that I like. The check is overwritten by ten dollars the way that I usually do, and with a grin, Chris hands me over the ten. "See you later, Corrie," he says as I walk out.

As I make it to Ami's, I open the gate and knock on the door. Just once.

Ami comes to the door, long dark hair loose around her face, still in a red night shirt and printed pajama pants. "Oh, hey, Corrie," she says. "Come on in. Did you bring food? That was nice of you."

I put the food away in the kitchen, except for the Fritos and the two sodas. Those I carry upstairs. The cats give me suspicious looks. I'm sure they know what I'm up to.

One knock on the door.

Just one.

And then I see him.

6'2, my high school jock fantasy ten years too late. His hair and eyes are dark, his smile is warm. "Nice...shirt," he says, his eyes not leaving my chest.

"Thanks," I murmur, stepping past him into the bedroom. The Scottish flag hangs over the bed, the Rush CD I'd gotten him for his birthday is on top of the stereo, sitting on top of the dresser.

He moves over to the bed, begins to pull his shirt over his head. Sits down, his back against the wall, legs spread-eagled so I can sit in the middle. I want to memorize everything about him, about this moment. Everything is perfect. It has been so long. It has been too long.

I slide the ring off quickly.

And he pretends not to notice.

It happens quickly.

Fast and dirty.

We lie back together, my head on his chest. Casually he plays with my hair.

Only a few minutes pass before he gets up and gets dressed again.

"Thanks, darling," he says casually, "that was great. You're amazing."

I hear a cell phone ring on his desk. He walks over and answers it. "Hey, sweetie," he says to the woman on the other ehd. "No, it's not a bad time. You know that. Yeah, I miss you too...I'll stay over next weekend. I love you too."

I slip downstairs as not to disturb his phone call. Can't make her think something's going on, he says, this is our secret. Ours and Ami's. No one else needs to know about this. About us. Especially not her. His real girlfriend. Her.

I spend the night on the couch.

The streets are nearly deserted when I let myself out at 7:30 the next morning, not surprising for this early on a Saturday. I walk back in the opposite way that I came.

And I slip my key into the lock and walk in.

She is sitting there in her recliner, waiting. It's like she's been there all night, just...waiting. To call me out. To tell me that I'm a liar.

"Karaoke fun last night?" she asks. I pick up a hint of acid in her tone.

"Yeah," I answer, "it usually is. We stayed up all night talking and I couldn't get any sleep because the roommate had his kid over watching cartoons at six in the morning. Figured I might as well walk home."

My mother-in-law knows I'm lying about karaoke.

And I don't care.

We all try to convince people that we're happy when we aren't.

Let's admit it, we all try to convince people that we're having a good day when all we really want to do is rip the face off of someone. That happens at least somewhat frequently in my line of work.

I work for Sears, doing online technical support and sales. It's not always the most glamorous job in the entire world. There are certainly times when I don't enjoy it - like when I have a customer screaming at me on the other line about how they've been waiting three additional weeks for a tool bench that they ordered off the website on the pretense that it would arrive faster that way.

Back when I started my job in August of 2008, Allen (the overall head of the department that I started in) read us a beautiful story about recognizing the people who pack your parachute.

Sometimes in the daily challenges that life gives us, we miss what is really important. We may fail to say hello, please, or thank you, congratulate someone on something wonderful that has happened to them, give a compliment, or just do something nice for no reason

I took a call last February from a woman in California. She called me trying to find a countertop water filtration system - nothing out of the ordinary. It was a day that my computer was being uncooperative and difficult, and it took fifteen minutes (at least) for anything to open. While I waited for my page, I listened to her talk.

I learned that she was a nutritionist, that the two best natural diuretics were (according to her) alfalfa tablets and lemongrass tea. That whey protein is better for you than soy protein. She suggested reading The Fat Flush Plan by Ann Louise Gittelman if I wanted to lose weight. She talked and talked and talked, and I listened intently. I completely forgot all about the water filtration system, and so did she.

"I'm originally from Joshua Tree," she said. "Do you know where that is? Oh, being from Arizona, you probably don't. I do love Arizona though, the heat is so nice! I miss Joshua Tree so much sometimes, it hurts a little. I had to leave a few years ago, though, when I got sick..."

Her voice trailed off.

I could see her in a big, spacious house in Murrietta, tall and slim with bobbed silvery blonde hair, wearing one of those Battenburg lace overshirts that I had admired in the Spiegel catalog as a teenager with a tank top and expensive jeans, pink painted toenails. I could see her padding barefoot across the tiled kitchen floor, getting a glass of water.

The conversation never got back to the water system. She talked and I listened. When I told her that my husband was the one who had done some voice work on Ann Louise Gittleman's podcasts, she was suitably impressed. "You know, I've LISTENED to those!" she exclaims. "And I thought, who IS that guy? I love his voice! I'd better stop, though, you'll think I'm trying to move in on your territory!"

Before I knew it, an hour and half had gone by and I knew that no matter how much I loved talking to her, it was time for me to wrap it up.

"I hate to have to do this," I say, "but is there anything else I can do for you today? I could talk to you all day, but I don't think my supervisor would like it if I did."

"Thank you, Corrie," she tells me. "You have no idea how much better you've made my day. I wish everybody was as wonderful as you are. My...my husband and I aren't happy, and my daughters and I aren't close. I haven't been a very happy person lately, so I just wanted...wanted to say thank you. Thank you for making me smile."

I don't know who packed the parachute there, whether it was me or her. Either way, we both benefited from it in the end.

And that's really all that matters, after all.

We've all heard it. If it wasn't from our parents, it was from a grandparent, an aunt, an uncle, some older neighbor or family friend. "You kids don't know how easy you have it."

"When I was your age, we didn't have CDs. We had to listen to records, and you know what, they were big and awkward and they'd get scratches on them."

"When I was your age, we could get gas for a quarter and I could fill up my tank for five dollars. And you want ten dollars to last you through the end of the week? Ha!"

"When I was your age, I could get a hamburger from McDonalds for ten cents. And sometimes, that was all I had to eat all week but you know what? I WAS THANKFUL THAT I HAD IT."

"When I was your age, we called sandwiches Flat Breadies and they cost four playing cards a bite."

(OK, so the last one is one of Grandpa Simpson's phrases from Simpsons Road Rage, but you get my point. Carrying on.)

Every generation has it so much easier than the one that came before. I mean, to hear my grandfather tell it, he had to fight off six hungry sisters to get dinner and was always the first one to get blamed for throwing change down the vents in the house when his parents had company. And it was a quarter - yes, a quarter! - to go to the movies. And you could ride the bus all day for the same price. (And about the change? Aunt Margie blamed it on Grandpa. Grandpa blamed it on Aunt Margie. Aunt Margie is dead now, and somehow I sense it was Grandpa all along. My Aunt Margie was a SAINT!) Oh, and did I mention that he used to swim all the way from the island to the beach at Loon Lake every day during the summer? No exceptions. EVERY DAY. Even during thunderstorms. Did I mention he was wearing a metal hat while doing it?

And then there's my father. He only had two sisters and not six, and he was the oldest, so it was a little bit easier for him to keep his belly full. He could eat at McDonalds for under a dollar. He was able to fill up the tank of his old aqua and white Bel Air for $5.00. It was only a dollar and a half to go to the movies. Now that must have been the good life, back in the golden days of yore.

Anyhoo.

Now where does that leave ME?

Gas, when I was in high school, was ninety-nine cents a gallon - if you looked in the right places. Most of the time it would hover between a dollar five and a dollar seven. It was six-fifty to go to the movies. A combo meal at McDonalds was about the same price as said matinee, by the way...but only if you got the medium size. A large would bump you up another dollar and make your life three years shorter, but as a chubby teenager who was craving salt and starch, I think there are times I would have sold my soul for those fries.

I don't have kids yet. Just dogs. I imagine sometimes that if dogs could talk, Cooper and Rascal's parents may have had conversations like this with them. "You know, boys, when I was a wee pup, we had to run miles to bring back a ball. We couldn't just run across the back yard and fetch it. And when we chewed up our toys, our humans didn't just leave for ten minutes and then come back with new ones. Let me tell you, pups, you don't know how lucky you are."

Now when I do have kids, what am I going to tell them?

I mean, it's scary just to think about it. Not the having kids part, because I can't wait for that, but my "when I was your age" lectures.

"When I was your age, we didn't have flying cars! We had to go ON THE GROUND and stop at traffic lights!"

"When I was your age, Google wasn't a verb! It wasn't even a WORD!"

"When I was your age, we didn't have computer microchips implanted into our brains at birth. You know what we had to do? We had to TURN ON the computer and open a browser and THEN find what we were looking for, and sometimes we had to wade through pages of porn to find it! And stop looking at me like that, it is NOT FUNNY!"

"When I was your age, we actually had something called change and paper money and we sometimes had to pay for things with it! And we had this thing called a penny, which was mostly just a huge pain in the ass and took up a lot of space in little dishes on convenience store counters all over the world. DON'T YOU MAKE THAT FACE AT ME, BUDDY!"

It's a little silly, really...but I have to admit that I'm looking forward to the eye-rolling and the groans that come along with those tales of years long past.

I think it's as much a landmark for us as the "older generation" as it is for the next generation coming up. Us to tell them about how easy they have it, them to just roll their eyes and wait for us to shut up.

and I'd appreciate your support.

If you didn't have a chance to read this week's entry on empty gestures, you can find it here.

Also, there are so many amazing entries this week, including my husband's, which you can find here, so please, go read and go vote!

I'm in tribe photodiva (#5) and finding_bliss is in tribe apisanthrop (#1)

And to thank you for your consideration, here is something amusing. Also, since I thought of eriksangel15 when I saw it, I want to make sure to wish you a belated happy birthday as well. :)


see more Lol Celebs

Coyote Ridge Corrections Center is in eastern Washington, in a small town called Connell. It's about an hour's drive from Spokane, about forty-five minutes from Medical Lake, where I grew up. You can take the freeway the whole way there, stop at Zip's in Ritzville for a sundae on the way home.

You have to stand outside to get in. Even on a nice day, it seems to be chilly. Connell is cattle country, and you can smell the pungent fragrance of fresh manure as you wait outside for a CO to open the door and allow you entry into the inner sanctum of Coyote Ridge. And make sure that you already have your ten dollars in change in a see-through recloseable plastic bag. No paper money is allowed inside.

( Today is my last visit. )

I was born a poor black man...



No, wait a minute! That was Steve Martin as Navin Johnson in The Jerk. There I go, getting confused again.

I'm thirty-one years old.

I laugh at the most inappropriate times.

I always have my crocheting out on my desk at work.

I'm married to the man of my dreams.

Grocery shopping day is my favorite day of the week.

I tried to chug ranch dressing out of a small plastic tub at karaoke tonight.

I named my dog after D.B. Cooper.

I can be connected to Gary Larson in two degrees.*

I got out of a terrible first marriage to find refuge and peace of mind in my second.

I make the best damn tropical banana bread you will ever have.

Every time I watch Pretty In Pink, I get all excited during the scene where Blaine asks Andie if she knows who she is. EVERY TIME.

My three favorite songs are American Pie, Different Drum and Only The Good Die Young.

Contrary to popular belief, my favorite book of all time is Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier.

If you find me wandering the streets lost and confused and lonely, please play me some Harry Chapin, give me a cup of English Breakfast tea with cream, and bundle me up in a warm blanket.

Hi, I'm Corrie.

I'm all these things and more.

Join me on my third LJ Idol adventure.

I can't guarantee that it's going to be worth your while, but I'll do my best to make it so.

Are you up for it too?


*Gary Larson and my mom went to Washington State University together. She said that he was a nice, quiet guy who kept to himself and was always drawing. Looks like that worked out well for him.

Come on in, invite your friends and make yourself at home!

There are cookies, coffee and other yummy things spread out around you, so help yourself, pull up a chair and get comfortable. Also, feel free to go check out mac_arthur_park's friendzy as well!

A little bit about me...

Hi, I'm Corrie. I'm a 31 year old transplanted Washingtonian now living in the desert with her amazing husband of just over a year, two chocolate labs named Cooper and Rascal (that's Cooper in the icon) and two great in-laws. I work in retail support for Sears, love to cook, crochet, read, write and go thrifting. I don't comment unless I have something to say, and I'm not one of those people who will unfriend you if you don't comment on every single post that I make. I like to think that I'm a lot more interesting than this makes me sound, so come on over, take a look at my LJ and see what you think.

:)

I hereby announce that I am doing LJ Idol again this year.