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Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Summer Lovin'

So you know how I've been ranting about porn for women?

 No?

Well, I did it here AND here, just in case you missed it. But lest you think all I do is rant, I'm going to put my money where my mouth is and give away some non-porn for women.

That's right, non-porn. And by that I mean a book that, for what it lacks in graphic sex, makes up for it with good writing, romance, and actual story-telling. Pretty novel (get it? Novel. It's a play on words) idea, right?

So here's the book and the blurb:

A Ghost of a Second Chance (Rose Arbor series)

An eastern wind carries more than dust and ashes; it uproots secrets and everyone knows that once one secret is told, no secret is safe. Laine’s haunting secrets--the estrangement from her husband—the unknown body laying in her grandfather’s coffin—the sudden and strange appearance of a difficult ghost—take her to the tiny town of Rose Arbor, her grandfather’s hometown and the place of her grandmother’s death.

As Laine unravels the mystery of her grandparents’ marriage she is forced to face one more question of the heart—Can love live even after it has died?

Sounds pretty good, right? I can verify that it is since I've already read it. And it's only the first in a series written by Kristy Tate set in the little town of Rose Arbor, Washington which is chock full of all kinds of interesting characters.

So, you want to read it? Well all you have to do is comment below to be entered into the drawing I'm having as part of the Summer Lovin' Giveaway Hop I'm part of starting July 11 and ending on July 17. If your name is chosen I will send you a signed copy of Kristy's book.

But if you don't win, you can go here to order Kristy's book on Kindle for only $3.99.

As an added bonus I've included a list of all the other blogs participating in the blog hop where you can go to find--and maybe win--more non-porn. It's a win-win for everyone! So get to commenting and hopping and ignore all the porn for women hype!


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Friday, July 6, 2012

I App, Therefore I Am

Here's a new segment for you:

Philosophy Phriday


If a person goes on a 32 mile bike ride but forgets to start the app that tells everyone on Facebook how far she's gone, did the ride actually happen?

My legs tell me it did, but the fact people can't "like" my ride kinda lessens the thrill of accomplishment.

And if part of that ride included a really long, steep hill, but my Facebook peeps can't see how long or steep, was it really that long or that steep?

You'll just have to believe me that it was, even without the elevation posted.

And if I can't see how many calories I burned, did I actually burn any calories?

I'm going to assume yes and go ahead and eat half a jar of nacho cheese.

View from the top of the hill I biked.
No stats, but it's the only proof I've got. 

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Tuesday, July 3, 2012

A Rant for America

Okay, so I will be the first to admit I'm not openly patriotic. I mean, I do love America, but I don't find it necessary to cover my lawn with flags or station a giant blow-up elephant holding a Vote Republican sign in the middle of my yard. Mostly because I'd rather people didn't vote Republican and also because somebody else already did that and I draw the line at being unoriginal when it comes to tacky lawn decor.

I did wear red, white and blue to church on Sunday--on purpose--in honor of our country's birthday this week. So remember that before yelling "Brittany hates America!" after I tell you that I think we're in trouble here, folks. And not because of Obamacare. Nope. I don't think millions more Americans having access to health care is the thing that's going to bring down this great nation of ours.

No, that would be Katy Perry and porn for women.

Let's start with Katy Perry. I know, she's cute. And "weird" in the way only someone who has producers, handlers, promoters, costume designers, song writers, agents and changing hair colors can claim to be. Plus, I can't think of another performer "edgy" enough to include a line about PMS in one of her lyrics. P.M.S! Can you believe it?! And... AND! She's singing about a boy having PMS! That Katy Perry (shakes head and smiles), she's so crazy. No wonder millions of parents let their kids stay up past their bedtimes and go to the mid-night premier of her movie.

You know what else Katy Perry has been up to? If you got Parade magazine in your newspaper this past Sunday you do. She performed at New York's Fleet Week.

If you don't know what Fleet Week is (I'll admit, I didn't) you can look it up on Wikipedia. That's what Katy Perry did anyway. Here's a little excerpt from her interview:
Performing for the troops was special, Perry says. “It wasn’t just another show. It’s such a tradition, and it felt very vintagey,” she explains. “In the back of my mind, I was like, ‘Marilyn Monroe did this. Of course I want to be a part of that.’” Skilled as she is at working a crowd, she did her homework as well. “I Wikipediaed ‘Fleet Week’ because I wanted to know the history. I don’t want to look like a complete idiot.”
And that pretty much sums up why Katy Perry is emblematic of the decline of America. She can't take all the blame, of course. That falls on every person who thinks that doing his/her "homework" on a subject begins and ends with Wikipedia.

BECAUSE YOU KNOW IT GETS THINGS WRONG, RIGHT?  AND THAT ANYBODY CAN ADD TO THOSE ENTRIES? NOT JUST PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY KNOW THINGS.

Moving on...

You know what millions and millions of people--mostly the ones who give birth to and raise this nation's children--are reading?

If you guessed Pride and Prejudice, you're wrong. If you guessed Twilight, you're wrong again. If you guessed erotica or romantica, give yourself a pat on the back. Then wave good-bye to the dignity of women because ladies, we have sunk to the level of men when it comes to sex. (Not all men, just the ones who like porn. I know, there are a lot of those).

I've already ranted about this once, but it's an even bigger problem than I thought. According to Time magazine:
S & M has gone mainstream... [just] ask publishers of erotica and "romantica," which adds graphic, often S&M-tinged sex to traditional romance-novel formulas. These books have spiked sharply in popularity since Fifty Shades fever hit this spring, suggesting that for readers new to erotica, James' work isn't a one-off experiment but a gateway drug.

So basically, people are spending a lot of time reading for titillation as opposed to education. And that's my real problem with porn for women. There are SO many books with really beautiful words in them, but this is not what we're choosing to read. Millions of women in the world can't read because they're forbidden to or they couldn't afford or weren't allowed to go to school and never learned how to read. Yet in America women are choosing to read crap. Fellow American women listen...

FREEDOM DOES NOT COME FROM SAYING YES TO SOMETHING JUST BECAUSE WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO MAKE THAT CHOICE.

And if anyone can answer this for me, I'd appreciate it.

WHY WOULD ANYONE SPEND HOURS SLOGGING THROUGH BAD WRITING JUST TO FEEL ALL TINGLY DOWN THERE? WHY NOT JUST HAVE SEX? (If you 're married, of course. And only with your spouse). WOULDN'T THAT TAKE A LOT LESS TIME?

Just wondering. Sorry for yelling. I only do it because I think we can do better, America.

And if you think maybe I sound like an old prude, I did just celebrate my 39th birthday. So, I am, in fact, an old prude.

I only wish America was too. (But not in a burka wearing kind of way).

Happy (early) Birthday, America!
Love ya! 


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Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Because I Forgot to Send a Card for Father's Day...

The summer I turned thirteen I earned my first real paycheck. My dad worked at a small press that printed educational materials and marketed them to schools and when they needed some extra help, I'd go with him. My job was to shrink wrap the packets of materials, which was super fun for about the first five minutes until I burned myself. I also got to count things like toothpicks and safety pins that went with the packets and somehow taught important lessons about self-esteem and honesty.

Obviously child labor laws in Idaho are a little less lenient (at least 25 years ago they were) than in some other states. And clearly the job sucked. But, man, that paycheck did not. I think I got paid about $1.25 an hour and when the secretary handed me that first check for around $90.00 after I'd been working for two weeks straight, I asked her to make a copy of it so I could keep it forever.

The paycheck wasn't the only good thing about that job. I'd ride with my dad from Burley to Twin Falls every morning and he'd tell me what the different crops were as we drove past field after field. I remember being amazed that he knew so much, even though I was on the cusp of believing he didn't know anything. Once we got to work I didn't see much of him until lunch time. Then we'd go to the Arctic Circle where I tried a mushroom burger for the first time and the curly fries were to die for. Sometimes we'd eat there but most of the time we'd eat in the car and listen to Paul Harvey on AM radio. I fell in love with Paul Harvey that summer.

Usually I was the only kid at the office, but one day two other girls showed up. Their mom worked there too, but since they lived in the big city of Twin Falls and I lived a whole thirty minutes away, I didn't know them. That didn't stop us from becoming fast friends and comparing how different things were in our respective cities/towns and schools. We talked about Girls Camp, complained about the boredom of counting small objects and took turns at the shrink wrapper.

Then summer ended. I bought my own school clothes and felt very proud. My dad got a new job and my work friends were forgotten. I can't even remember their names now. And maybe I would have forgotten them all together if not for what happened a few years later.

One morning I opened the newspaper--because even in high school I enjoyed reading the paper--and there on the front page was a story about my two friends. To put things into perspective, this wasn't the front page of our local paper The South Idaho Press. This was the front page of the Boise paper, The Idaho Statesman, which my parents still took even though we hadn't lived in Boise for many years, but they, too, loved the newspaper.

The story went as follows:

The girls were home one day when they heard a gunshot. Their dad had shot their mother (the article made sure to point out he had been a Mormon bishop only a few years earlier). Then he came for them. One of the girls called 9-1-1 and as the operator listened to the girls pleas for help, he heard another shot. The pleas stopped.

When the paramedics arrived at the house they found the mother and two sisters dead. Their father was sitting in the bathtub with his wrists slit open. But not enough to kill himself. He survived.

I read the article in shock because I knew these girls. I pointed it out to my mom asking if she remembered them. "I know," was all she said. Until I asked her why their dad would do that to them. She knew that too. She knew the accusations he was too cowardly to face.

And then I remembered the day their dad came to the office. We had been laughing, but they stopped when he walked in. I didn't get why they wouldn't even look at him. He made silly jokes and looked goofy in his socks and sandals, so I chalked it up to embarrassment that he was their dad.  I got that. But it still didn't explain the tightness in the air and their relief when he left.

The day I read that article was the first day I had any inkling that being embarrassed because my dad made me put on a life jacket in front of a bunch of older, popular boys before I could ride on my cousin's boat, wasn't the worst thing a dad could do.
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Thursday, June 14, 2012

No Fear

This post is a stop on the Virtual Book Tour for The Gift of Giving Life. 
Remember a few weeks ago when I said my Girl 1 has been giving me hell since pre-conception? No? Well read up, then come back. Or just keep reading. Whatever.

So--as I was saying--Girl 1, not so easy. Our most recent flip flop "misunderstanding" was only the latest in a long line of Battles for Control. But I don't want to bore you, so let me see if I can sum up the past twelve years in a paragraph.

Miscarriage; clomid; miscarriage; clomid; raging hormones and much craziness from said clomid; ectopic pregnancy; clomid; pregnancy; progesterone; frequent blood-letting to track hormones; fainting from said blood-letting; puking, puking, puking, and more puking; pounds, pounds and more pounds despite the puking; worrying, worrying and more worrying; then swelling, really a lot of swelling; more worrying because of swelling; much crying and begging to be induced early; hospital check -in; cervical gel to induce labor before my body/baby was ready; baby-less check out to make room for mothers actually about to give birth; hospital check-in; pitocin; repeat of baby-less check-out this time with a shunt sticking out of my hand making it impossible for me to look at said hand until next hospital check-in; more pitocin; raging sinus infection but only mild contractions; more pitocin; another sleepless night; water breaking; contractions; epidural (ahhh); impatient doctor; move to operating room but not before nearly choking to death on anti-nausea medicine; c-section...

Perfect, beautiful, miracle that I have to wait too long to hold.

And most of those things took place over a period of nine months. But those nine months have affected how I parent this kid ever since. A parenting technique can be boiled down to one word:

FEAR.

I hate fear. I'm always trying to conquer it. I fear the ocean, so I learned to scuba dive. I fear getting in a car accident if I'm not driving, so I let my husband drive. I fear rejection, so I started writing.

But one fear--aside from my fear of snakes--I haven't been able to let go is all the fear surrounding Girl 1's conception and birth. First there was the fear we'd never have her, then the fear we'd lose her, and finally all the fear on the day(s) (four to be exact) of her birth.

I probably should have let go of my fear after everything turned out okay and I had a healthy baby. But I didn't. I've held onto it and it flares up whenever things get rough with #1.

It manifests itself in the What Ifs? that make me a crazy mom. What if she throws a fit if I say no? What if she throws fits because I yell too much? What if I'm the cause of all her insecurity? What if she never leaves home? What if she does leave home? What if she does all the bad things I can imagine a teenager doing? What if she does all the bad things I did as  a teenager? What if something bad happens to her? What if I'm that something?

You see what I mean?

I don't have the same kind of fears with my other two. Maybe it's because they're not my oldest, but I also had much better births with both of them. And you can call me crazy, but I think our experiences giving birth can have a bigger impact on us than we realize.

Which is why I wish I had this book twelve years ago:
The Gift of Giving Life  takes the fear out of childbirth and puts the focus back on the sacredness of it. So many women--like me-- get caught up in everything that can possibly go wrong or having everything perfectly prepared for baby, including the timing of his/her birth. Most of the books about childbirth (I'm looking at you What to Expect When You're Expecting) leave you looking for any and every sign that your body is not doing what it's meant to do rather than encouraging you to listen to and trust your body and your spirit.

The Gift of Giving Life fills that gap. And while it is very much LDS oriented, I think every woman can learn from the personal stories in it. You might think that since one of its authors is my friend Sheridan who I've told you about here and here, the stories would all be about natural childbirth involving hypnosis. But they're not.

There are stories about miscarriage, adoption, emergency C-sections, planned C-sections, water births, hospital births, headstand births. Okay maybe not that last one, but you get my point right? Pretty much every method of childbirth is covered in this book.

You might also think if, like me, you have no plans to EVER be pregnant again that you don't really need this book. Wrong. I have learned so much from reading through these stories. This book is an awesome reminder that Heavenly Father has not only blessed us with the ability and privilege of giving birth, but also to nurture and raise our children. All of it is pretty stinkin' hard most days, but if we'll put our trust in Him and ourselves, we can do it. We have no need to fear.

Visit The Gift of Giving Life site to sign up for their newsletter and to receive a free Meditation MP3 as well as tips to help increase spirituality in your pregnancy and birth. 

For my readers I have a coupon code for 10% off a copy of The Gift of Giving Life.   Click here and after you add the book to your cart use this coupon code.  GWFWXR3F  This code is good until Father’s Day 2012.



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Wednesday, June 13, 2012

I Want to Hide All of My Eleven Year Old's Shoes

I want to hide all of my eleven year old's shoes. Every last pair.

I went out of town a few weekends ago, but as I drove away from my house on the way to the airport wearing my very favorite outfit I thought to myself (because who else would I think to?), "Really, Brittany? Is this what it's come to? You can't even put on real clothes to leave the state?"

To which I meekly replied, "I changed sweatshirts."

But I couldn't fool Myself. "That sweatshirt came with pajamas," she kindly pointed out. "So technically it is sleepwear. Which means you are about to cross the line to become one of those I-couldn't-bother-to-get-dressed-today-so-I'm-wearing-my-p.j.'s-in-public people. You need to step back, girlfriend."

And so I did. I turned the car around, went home, changed clothes, and left my flip flops--my favorite pair--at the bottom of the stairs.

I returned home three days later as excited to be reunited with my flip flops as I was to see my family again. And more excited to see them than I was to see the dog. I'd been going through some serious flip flop withdrawal (I'm sure Mitt can relate, except with a different kind of flip flop).* My pedi needed some air time and my soles longed for the feel of soft rubber beneath them. I'd missed their comforting whispers of  thwak thwak when I slipped them on to walk across my dirty kitchen floor. They're more than a pair of sandals. They're a trusted friend and protector, always there for me in times of need.

Except now they were missing.

I searched for them, thinking maybe I was misremembering where I put them or perhaps dear husband had put them away somewhere for me.

"Has anyone seen my flip flops?" I asked.

"Not me," came the all too familiar reply from three little girls.

"Girl 1, did you wear my flip flops? The ones I asked you not to wear."

"No."

A very definitive answer, so surely it must be believed.

But as day passed into night with still no sign of my favored flip flops, I began to worry. Morning came and I asked again. "Girl 1, are you sure you haven't seen my flip flops?"

"Which ones," was her innocent reply.

"The black ones with the little jewel," I said, hoping my description would jog her memory.

She thought carefully, but her confused look left me little hope of recollection.

"The ones I told you not to wear ever again. Three times."

Now she remembered. "No, I haven't seen them."

Her answer seemed a little cagey, but I let it go. Even if she had worn them--and I was pretty sure she had--I had little doubt I could find them in one of the usual hiding spots.

But as one flip flopless day faded into the next, I lost my cool.

"Girl 1, do you know where my flip flops are?" I asked with significantly less patience than I had asked the previous one hundred times.

"I don't know! Okay?!" she yelled.

Which meant I know I should know where they are but I can't remember and I know you're going to be really mad at me so I'm going to go ahead and get mad at you first.

"Did you wear them?" I asked while debating whether to start with consequences or go straight to water boarding.

"I don't remember, okay!" she yelled.

No, not okay.

"Can't you just wear a different pair?" she asked, I'm sure, with every intention of being helpful. "Why do you have to have those flip flops? It's not like you don't have others!"

Well, she asked. So, of course, I had to tell her. "BECAUSE I LIKE THAT PAIR. AND I TOLD YOU NOT TO WEAR THEM. BUT YOU DID. AND NOW THEY ARE LOST. AND YOU DO NOT HAVE ANY PRIVILEGES AT ALL UNTIL THEY ARE FOUND. NONE! GOT IT?"

Maybe I could have told her a little less loudly, but I can't be held accountable for my actions when I'm in the midst of flip flop withdrawal.

"I think they're at BFF's, okay!" she responded in kind before grabbing her backpack and stomping to the door while muttering, "You are so unfair. Why do you care so much about a pair of stupid flip flops anyway?"

The door slammed shut and she stomped her way to school, but I could still see her eyes rolling.

And that's when I seriously considered ransacking the entire house until I had found every pair of her shoes so that I could hide them. Maybe at my BFF's house.

But I didn't. Because then she'd just wear my shoes and we'd be right back where we started. So instead I rolled my eyes and muttered, "When is eleven going to be over?"

Then I longed for the days that I thought would never end when I couldn't get her to wear matching clothes, let alone shoes.



*Seriously, it's a post about flip flops. You had to know there'd be a Romney jab somewhere, right?




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Friday, June 8, 2012

Band-aids. Dislike.

Ten Reasons Why I am Not Stuck on Band-aids and Why They Don't Stick on Me. Ever.

1. They're gross.
2. That brownish color they come in is even grosser.
3. I know there are Band-aid options now. I don't have to buy the gross brown ones when there are neon, sparkly, Princess, and every other kind of Band-aid available. But that's kind of like putting lipstick on a pig. No matter how you dress it up, a Band-aid is still a Band-aid.
4. They're sticky. I know that's the point, but it doesn't change the fact I don't like sticky things. Not even stickers.
5. They leave behind that gross, sticky, black residue that you have to scrape off.
6. They're hiding something and I don't like secrets. I can handle the truth. I can't guarantee I won't pass out if there's lots of blood involved, but that's preferable to looking at or wearing a Band-aid. And by "lots" I mean not very much.
7. The only way a Band-aid will come off is if you go swimming. The only thing grosser than a working Band-aid is a floating one. I don't think any one wearing a Band-aid should be allowed within ten feet of a swimming pool.
8. The only thing grosser than a floating Band-aid is used Band-aids stuck to the wall so the bloody part shows. I had a friend in high school whose little brother did this with all of his old Band-aids. I never saw the room, but every time I see a Band-aid I imagine what those walls looked like and it makes me gag. I avoid the possibility of my children ever doing this by never buying Band-aids nor allowing them to bleed.
9.  Band-aids never get thrown away. They just end up sticking to something else and then you find them and you have to unstick them from whatever they're stuck to and then they're stuck to you and eww. I'm feeling nauseous thinking about it.
10. Did I mention Band-aids are disgusting? No? Well, they are.
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