Welcome to 1984 (and Not in a Good, Footloose-is-Back-on-Top-of-the-Charts Kind of Way)

Sometimes I worry that I could easily become aconspiracy nut. (I realize that most people probably don’t have this on theirlist of concerns, but my worry list has always been longer, and stranger, thanmost.) I blame some of it on the fact that I spent most of my childhoodwatching soap operas, Phil Donahue and Unsolved Mysteries. There was even abrief – and unfortunate – period when I believed that Elvis faked his own death.

And despite what my occasionally rational braintells me about accidents and coincidence, I think I’ve watched far too many politicalthrillers as an adult, too. (I still find it odd that one of the most liberalmembers of the Senate, Paul Wellstone, died in a plane crash shortly beforesome key votes under the Bush administration, but I try to keep this mostly tomyself.)

However, I do not think I’m paranoid when I saythat we are, at present, on the verge of living in the world created by GeorgeOrwell in 1984. But, it’s not big government we need to be afraid of -– it’sFacebook.

Even without the latest issues Facebook has hadwith privacy, revealing information to other web sources, etc., social networkinghas always had the potential to implement a kind of social control that noinvading army or government entity is capable of. And the key to that societalcontrol rests entirely in surveillance.

For an anthropology class nearly a decade ago(when I sat down on the first day and saw that half the room was full ofathletes, I knew I’d found a good place to be), I read a book called Depraved andDisorderly. It’s a study of women in penal colonies in Australia (aka, thefounding women of Australia), and for the large part, the book discusses howconstant surveillance and the removal of all privacy was used to turn these “wildwomen” into the model citizens the English government wanted them to be at thetime.

For most of any community, it’s not the threat ofpunishment or pain that keeps us in line -– it’s the threat of discovery or exposure. We don’twant our innermost thoughts judged, nor do we want our most intimate actsexposed.

If you think about it, can you be yourself onFacebook? The answer most of the time is “no.” Facebook, Twitter, Ning, MySpace,etc. are not places to express what is really going on with you. They areplaces for the cleaned-up, civilized you. The you without too strong an opinionor emotion. The you that doesn’t want to alienate or offend -– especially onceyou allow co-workers, colleagues, clients and Grandma into the mix. So, whileseeming open and connected to everyone around us, in so many ways, we’ve simplyjoined the herd.

When I Twitter, I constantly wonder about thelines of how much is too much and what goes too far. If I want to do any sortof business or promotion on Facebook (which as a writer, of course, I do), whatcan and can’t I say? If I say what I really think about the Bible (be it theliteral word of God, a historical document or the creation of aliens -– I’m notgiving the real answer away just yet), how many readers did I just lose? Whoisn’t coming back? Are there those who will never want to hire me again? Did Ijust assign myself to one and only audience?

And the same questions are with me when it comesto my views on politics, sexuality or even which brand of deodorant I likebest.

In another way, we’ve also all become our own brands -–only allowing the crafted Laurel Mills or the character of Laurel Mills outonto the Internet , rather than the real one. Even the vulnerabilities we showon Facebook are the ones we choose to show -- our calculated and approvedfoibles.

So, in many ways, just as we’ve embraced our own constantsurveillance and societal control, we’ve also become the ultimate consumers. Webuy what we’re sold on TV or the Internet (I’d say magazines too, but we all knowwhat happened to those), and we buy each other at a constantly alarming andescalating rate.

An example? We don’t even watch scriptedtelevision anymore. We watch reality stars/the people that could be ourneighbors.

Facebook profiles weren’t enough? Add statusupdates. Not enough of those? Twitter. Away from your computer? iPhones, iPads,Droids, Blackberries –- whatever it takes to be constantly consuming the words,actions and whereabouts (I’m looking at you Four Square) of those around you.

We watch each other, all the time. We are our ownjailers. And the more we watch, the less we do.

So, while I’m just as guilty as anyone ofeverything I just talked about, I think the end result could be something noneof us are prepared for –- an international community without identities stuckbehind screens unable to react to any threat or injustice in any way moremeaningful than starting a Facebook group that hopes to eventually be 1,000,000strong.

The pen may be mightier than the sword, but westill have to live lives in addition to just watching them for it to matter.

If after reading this, you’ve ended up branding mea conspiracy nut, so be it. I’ve been called worse, and I just might have earned it.

* While I'm sure there are people with similar views, I haven't read their specific thoughts on the topic. If you've stumbled upon similar or dissimilar thoughts, please leave me some suggested reading material in the comments.

* I really think that, in an odd way, Nathaniel Hawthorne tread similar themes in The Blithedale Romance (1852), and yes, I once included reality TV in one of my graduate level English papers because of it.

The New Age

When I was 10 or 11, I went through what can best be described as a "New Age" phase. Now, being a pre-teen from the suburbs with limited means as well as transportation, my "new age phase" probably pales grossly into comparison to anyone else who's ever truly embarked on a different spiritual path. (I never even got to burn incense.) But I did develop a rather unhealthy obsession with The Nature Gallery catalog (crystals and wrapped-dolphin rings) and dream interpretation. (At the time, all I dreamed about were tests that I had forgotten to study for, so it really wasn't worth the seven dream dictionaries, but I suppose bygones are bygones.)  

Also, and I say this with a little more shame, during this time I decided that I really needed to explore my past lives. (Side note: this is what happens to an impressionable younggirl left alone with daytime television. Between guests of Phil Donahue andSally Jesse Raphael and the musings of Shirley Maclaine, I had a lot ofunanswered questions.)

Since, my parents always let me read whatever I wanted(“She’s reading, what more do you want?” as my father would say), after my last tome on dream interpretation, I switched to books with titles like Uncovering Your Past Lives and How the Worlds You Lived Before Affect The World You Live Now.

In my imagination, I was a princess or incredibly sassy innkeeper's wife along the lines of the character from Les Miserables. (I was obsessed with musicals, too. And as I've said before, and as I'm sure I'll say again, yes, elementary school was not easy with these kinds of interests.) I also figured I was bound to figure out my fear of heights once I discovered which of my past lives had led to a disastrous fall off of Mt. Kilimanjaro or a horrible push from the Brooklyn Bridge.

(These days, I imagine my fear of heights came from falling out of a tree house at nine and breaking both of my arms, but past lives were so much more romantic.)

One of the books I picked up at this time had very detailed instructions on to how to hypnotize yourself and discover the mysteries of the "soul's journey." (Having to stop, open your eyes and read the next step in the quest for deep relaxation and inner exploration of the mind seemed a tad counter-productive to the goal even then, but I gave it many a go anyway.) For at least a week, I dimmed the lights of my room, sat in the quiet and tried to access the hidden corners of my brain where these past life memories were stored.

The closest I ever got to a past life "revelation" was a recurring image of a red-headed woman in a gauzy white dress who bore a striking resemblance to the cover of another book I was reading at the time.

My truest epiphany was learning to spend my weekly allowance on The Babysitter's Club books instead. If nothing else, Claudia offered better fashion tips.   

Romance

You would be hard-pressed to find a copy of Love Story or The Bridges of Madison County in my house. The only romance novels I have would fall under the category of gag gifts, and while I know many people who love the books, I don't read Nora Roberts. I'm also not touchy-feely, I don't hold hands and sing in the round and I've never been a fan of Grey's Anatomy.   

That being said, apart from Nights in Rodanthe, I have seen every movie ever made from a Nicholas Sparks book. In the theater. Multiple times. And cried. 

It's easy to see why I'd like The Notebook. I think Rachel McAdams is awesome, and I think we all know that Ryan Gosling is hot. I also have a not-so-secret old man crush on James Garner. Judge me if you want, but that man is still darn charming. And if you doubt me, find some pictures of Mr. Garner circa 1962.

In a few words: Hubba. Hubba.

I didn't know what to expect with A Walk to Remember, but something in my gut told me that this was a movie I needed to see. At the time the movie was released, I had two male roommates (platonic) and was living in D.C. While one of my roommates had accompanied me to Legally Blonde and Unfaithful, I was still pretty sure that A Walk to Remember would be a hard sell. So, one Saturday afternoon, I snuck out of the house without telling anyone where I was headed and made my way to the movie theater at Union Station.

I started seeing movies by myself the summer after my sophomore year of college. I was going through a bad break-up and was worried that what I would miss most about my relationship was not having anyone to go to the movies with. I figured a head-long dive into one of my biggest break-up anxieties would help with the heartache. It didn't, but I discovered a new favorite past time.

I like sitting in the dark by myself while a fantasy unfolds on the screen. I find it relaxing. When I'm very stressed, I try to find time to escape and see a movie by myself -- cell phone off and no thoughts beyond those related to the story in front of me.

"Most people go to church for that," a friend of mine once said. Maybe they do, but I prefer the movies.

As I took my seat in Union Station that day, I noticed that most of the crowd was women about my age either in small groups of two or three, or also by themselves. There wasn't a man in sight. The theater went dark, and we all watched as Mandy Moore and Shane West fell in love.

As the movie progressed, we, as a crowd, also got girlier and girlier. We aaw-ed during particularly touching moments. ("You're in two places at once. Scratch if off your list!") There were audible sobs during the important reveals. ("I'm sick, Landon.") And when Shayne West proposed to Mandy, a woman in the back yelled, "Yes!" and we all clapped. A bunch of jaded, city-dwelling 20-somethings fresh off The Rules and too many Cosmopolitan articles about dating like a man letting their inner eight-year-olds (complete with drugstore bride costumes and teddy bears filling in as the minister) out for a few hours.

It was the most fun I've ever had in a room full of strangers.

Where am I going with all this? Dear John comes out soon, and I can't wait. So, if you find yourself at the theater, sitting next to a mysteriously veiled woman who travels with a lot of Kleenex in her purse, I may not acknowledge it in public, but we're both there for all the same reasons. 

This photo: because it's relevant, and because I can.

My House is so Cold

How cold is it? you say.

My house is so cold, I've taken to closing off rooms so that I can try to concentrate the little heat I do have into a couple of rooms where I spend the most time.

Closing off rooms for the winter makes me feel like I'm in some fabulous 18th or 19th century Victorian novel. Of course, I don't have help I can order to re-open the rooms in the spring. (Picture maids taking the sheets off my chaises and settees and throwing open the shutters.)

I also don't remember any classic novels taking place in 3/1s just down the road from JoJo's Gun and Pawn, but maybe that's just me.

I Don't Do Lines

I believe there are certain attributes we're allotted fixed quantities of each day -- cleanliness, courtesy, tolerance for TNT promos. No matter what we do, only a new night will refresh our stores and allow us to again be thoughtful, caring members of the human race. I think patience is one such attribute.

I usually have a wealth of patience for children and animals. For everyone else, it's a crap shoot. Normally, I can allot my patience throughout the day -- an extra five minutes waiting in traffic, a few more minutes for the cashier in training at the BP station, deep breaths when someone asks how I ever expect to earn a living as a writer. But, if anything exceptionally time-consuming happens, my patience for the whole day is shot.

If the pharmacists takes 45 minutes to fill a prescription he or she promised in 10 minutes, I'll be perfectly cordial to that pharmacist. (Should I be worried that all of my anecdotes take place in the pharmacy? I guess we all write what we now.) I'll thank him or her and take my meds without complaint.

However, the next person to slow me down is out of luck.

Ruby Tuesday: "You said I'd have a table in 15 minutes. It's been 16, and I want some freakin' sliders!"

Intersections: "Are you color blind? Because that's the only reason to still be sitting still on a green light!"

Neighbors: "Of course, you had my mail for two days. Because Laurel Mills printed on an envelope looks just like your name you crazy b*&%^."

(I rarely get quite as bad as that last one, but it's not entirely outside the realm of possibility.)

On those days when my patience is gone, nothing from meditation to a cocktail can get me back on track, but I wake up the next morning feeling reset to zero and ready to cope with a world of lines, muzak and lagging Internet connections. I might be weird, but all I really know is that I don't get the appropriate daily store for a career in social services or mental health.

Despite what patience I have or don't have, as the case may be, for others, I tend to have no patience when it comes to myself. I often feel like Barbra Streisand's character in The Way We Were, I want, I want, I want, and I usually want now, now, now. I want a career and a family and thinner thighs. And when they're not right in front of me, I worry they'll never come to me. I call it a question of patience, but there's a lot of trust and faith tied up in there, too.

The scary thing is that my impatience often makes me hold onto things not worth having. I'd keep the wrong job or the wrong boyfriend because I didn't want to start all over. (Just think of all that lost time!) Because, if it was a question of will, I'd find a way to make it work. After all, I'm a smart girl, surely I could find a way to make someone love me/advance my career/bend the universe to my agenda. And we all know what pushing and holding on too tightly can do.

Oh, control, or the lack thereof, why must you taunt me always? Even in line at Ruby Tuesday?

I should probably do a little more waiting. Or, at least, a little less rushing.

In my struggles with patience and control, I like to think of something Terri Cheney wrote in her memoir, Manic, " ... My greatest victories have always been surrenders." Surrenders to the universe, to time, to fate. The surrender of letting go. Of trusting a little more and not forgetting to enjoy the ride. Easier said than done, but I'm trying.

I'm sure my pharmacist will be appreciative.

Controversial Subject Matter

After thinking back to my adventures in the library the other day, I also remembered how difficult term paper time was. Some kids might have been content with topics like Yosemite National Park or the First Thanksgiving, but not I. When it came to research papers, I liked my topics rich and fascinating -- and in the mind of my sixth grade teacher, that also meant controversial. 

In the fourth grade, my first experience in the world of research papers, we were all supposed to choose a country. Naturally, I picked China because my grandmother had recently visited there. I also really liked egg rolls, so it seemed like a great fit. In addition to writing the paper, we also gave presentations. I wore the pajamas my grandmother had brought me as a souvenir, and after a trip to the Asian market with my father (a fascinating outing to what I thought was a secret underworld, but was really just a strip mall in a part of town people from Mountain Brook didn't shop), my mother and I made chicken fried rice that we served to the class. 

(I also remember not being able to understand who in the world came upwith the rules for a bibliography. Were the strange rules and offpunctuation really necessary? Reverse indentation? Seriously? I'm notsure I get it to this day.)

In the fifth grade, the field was wide open, so I chose the rain forest as my subject matter. While this might have seemed pretty innocuous -- and maybe it was -- I had just read about deforestation and had to know more. So, really, I like to think of that term paper as the first manifesto of a budding environmentalist. 

But, the sixth grade was the most difficult year of all. Our teacher kept up with our papers at each stage of the process, so we earned points for a certain number of note cards, an outline, the rough draft, etc. While it seemed tedious at the time, there was no danger of the college research paper written the night before its due date.

The first step to the process was deciding on a topic. When the time came to earn those five points, I scribbled "Roe v. Wade" on a slip of paper and handed it in.

The teacher called me over after class. "Is this really the topic you want to do?" I nodded yes. "Why on earth is this what you want to research?" she said.

"Everyone talks about it all the time. And politicians always bring it up. I just want to know what it's all about."

"OK, then," she said, "but you're going to have to get a signed permission slip from your parents."

I had no idea why I needed permission to research a topic that was on the news and in books. I figured that if something was in the library, it was fair game. (Naive? Sure. I didn't really get what "controversial" was all about yet.) I went home, gave my parents the exact same reason for wanting to look into the topic, and being the liberals that they are, they signed my permission slip and sent me back to school the next day. 

Reading and research were OK in their books.

When I went to actually research the topic though, I realized I was in a bit over my head for a 1,200 word paper. (An opus at the time, but not exactly enough room to cover the intricacies of one of the Supreme Court's most influential rulings.) Plus, the same librarian was still around, and I knew better than to ask her for help again. 

Never one to back down from my school work, I prepared to tell my teacher that I needed to change topics, and I already had a back-up in mind. The next day I gave her a new piece of paper. "Really?" she said. I nodded again. "I'm going to need another permission slip."

I went home and had yet another conversation with my parents. They, of course, agreed to my wishes. My mother just had one caveat, "Please don't ever tell your grandmother you're doing a research paper on witchcraft. I don't think that will go over well."

On the bright side, by the next year when I chose Rev. Jim Jones and Jonestown as a topic, my teacher actually seemed relieved.

Banned Books

My grandmother believed that as long as my father was reading, he could read whatever he wanted. This is why, when an elementary school teacher "caught" him with an Ian Fleming novel and demanded "Does your mother know about this?" my father thought, "Who do you think bought it for me?"

My parents took a similar approach to my own reading. I was never told there was a book I couldn't read. And I can only remember being forbidden to watch one TV show. (It was "Married ... With Children," and now that I can watch it as an adult, I can't help but think the ban had more to do with the fact that the show just isn't funny than anything else.) As long as I was reading, I could pick out whatever book I wanted.

Now, of course, this philosophy wasn't understood by all. I can still remember being in the local library the summer before fifth grade. I had my summer reading list in front of me and had circled all of the books I was interested in. The one at the top of my list was "Death Be Not Proud." (I thought it sounded very adult.) But, since I was having a hard time with the Dewey Decimal system -- it's something I still struggle with -- I had to ask a librarian for help. I took her my list and asked her to help me find the books.

I knew I was in trouble when she turned away from the adult section of the library and headed towards the brightly-colored, way-too-much-construction-paper-on-the-walls "young adult" section. "Oh, you don't want these books," she said. "I'll find some much better books for you."

Then, she put something called "The Lemon Dog" in my hands. I can rarely recall feeling as powerless as I did in that moment. The cover was illustrated for God's sake, and I hadn't read a book with less than 100 pages an in illustrated cover in over three years. "But ..." I began.

Before I knew it, six more books with illustrated covers were piled in my hands. "Will that be all for today?" she said.

I nodded and went back to find my housekeeper who had driven my sisters and I to the library. "Did you get what you needed?" she asked.

I shook my head and showed her the books the librarian had "helped" me find.

"Are these the books you wanted?"

"No," I said. "Do I look like I want to read "The Lemon Dog"? "The Lemon Dog"?!?! I'm ten, Esther, not stupid."

My housekeeper then took my list from me and marched back to the same librarian. "These aren't the books she wanted to find," she said.

"Oh, well," the librarian said, "I didn't think those were good books for a child her age. I picked out more appropriate titles."

"I think we'll let her decide what she wants to read -- not you," Esther said. "Now what shelf is this one on?"

I walked out of the library that day vindicated and clutching my very own copy of "Death Be Not Proud." (I was also more in love with Esther than ever.)

Admittedly, I'm not a parent, but I still wonder why random adults have such strong opinions about what a child should and shouldn't be reading, watching, doing. I think this is especially true when they're asking for books. I wanted to read, after all, not have the librarian show me the best spot in the library for smoking crack.

And, it's also amazing to me how easy it is for me to feel like that powerless child again whenever someone questions my authority -- you're having another glass of wine? you're buying that? you let your dog do what?. As I near 30, I wonder if this feeling will ever go away, and I'm guessing that, unfortunately, the answer is probably "no."

David Sedaris, Botany and Fairness

Last Friday night, I went to hear David Sedaris speak here in Birmingham. My friends and I also arrived an hour early to get our books signed, and as such, had the good fortune to be fourth in line. As a literary celebrity fiend, this was thrilling. My friend Becky and I couldn't get over the fact that he wouldn't be tired or have a sore hand by the time we met. Dorky? Sure, but I take my thrills cheap.

(I also must admit that I got into a little spat with a staff member before the signing. I don't want to dwell -- or do I? -- but,at one point, he came out to tell us that if Mr. Sedaris didn't have time to sign our books before the reading, he would be able to sign them after. "That sounds great," I said, "I assume we'll have numbers to get our places back in line." Said person then a)gave me a dismissive look and b) implied that no such thing would happen. Both of these actions were mistakes. If there are four things I can't abide, they're unfairness, inefficiency, waiting and standing in line. I arrived early just to avoid the chaos of getting in line after-wards (efficiency), and I had no intention of waiting or standing in line again. Plus, that fairness thing. My conversation with this man went on much longer after that. It's good that Mr. Sedaris did show up shortly thereafter. I'm not sure I would have gotten to stay for the show otherwise.)

In my first book, David Sedaris wrote the following:

He started off trying to draw Laurel leaves to go with my name. "What does that look like to you?" he said, pointing to the first drawing.

"Basil," I said.

"That looks like basil?"

"No," I said, "I thought you asked what Laurel looks like. I think Laurel looks like basil."

"OK," he said, "but what does that look like?" and he pointed at his drawing again.

"Thyme?"

At that point, he gave up, wrote basil next to the bananas (?) and drew a marijuana leaf and a dime. We could both agree on those representations. Then, in my next book, he wrote:

Now, I'm pretty sure that I told no good stories. Other than the discussion of herbs and my compliment to his tie, I don't think anything close to "touching" ever happened. Yet, at the same time -- even though I know this has no bearing on reality -- I found myself incredibly moved by the sentiment.

The moral to this story: I'm a sucker. And what I choose to believe/remember is so much better than what actually happens.

What Makes Me Cry

We all have our emotional hot-buttons.

A close friend of mine is particularly moved by stories of the mentally challenged as well as tales of children being taken away from their parents. These are the two topics most likely to turn him into an emotional wreck -- and the reason I Am Sam is his kryptonite. 

I'm a complete sucker for reunions (adoptive family members, long lost loves, foster children who just want to see the one woman they ever called "Mom"). And I cry like a baby whenever a man shaves his head because the woman he loves has lost her hair to chemo. (Bald heads break me.)

But, what probably gets me the most are stories of the "I am Spartacus" variety. I find myself in some bizarre emotional plane of joy/despair over the world's shortcomings/touched by the human condition whenever a group or mass stands up with someone who is usually at his or her end in a fight against corruption, greed or evil.

I blame this on two main components:

1. There's no hero I love more than the lone individual doing the right thing simply because it's the right thing to do. The higher the cost of doing the right thing, the more I love the hero -- To Kill a Mockingbird, One Good Cop, Radio.

2. I absolutely love the moment in a film or story when the bad guy, who is usually quite smug about his ability to abuse the system or get away with evil, realizes that s/he is, pardon my French, completely f$%*ed. (Think of the warden in The Shawshank Redemption when he hears the sirens coming for him.) I almost went to law school because of how much I love this moment when it occurs in a court room -- The Accused, A Few Good Men.

For me, there's absolutely nothing else like that moment when a hero, convinced s/he is going to meet his  death and overwhelmed by the futility of his fight, finds that others are there to support him and stand with him. (A hero triumphs and a bad guy is screwed = Awesome.) Because of this, I'm most likely the only person who ever cried during Thunderheart, but I just can't help it. (SPOILER ALERT) When the members of the Native American tribe rise up along the edge of the canyon to defend Val Kilmer against corrupt members of the FBI, I just lose it.

When I was younger, my father was always trying to teach me that "life wasn't fair." I may be almost 30 years old, but it's still my hardest lesson. I want the world to be fair. I want good guys to be rewarded and bad guys to be punished. I want the most creative and original ideas to succeed. I want equality.

But equality is hard to find, it seems that the mediocre often trumps all, and it can even be hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.

I think I'm fated to spend my life in a constant struggle with what I deem to be fair and learning how and when to let go. And as long as that is my cross to bear, I'm glad there's at least something that represents the fantasy of what I want the world to be like -- even if that is Thunderheart.

Pat Conroy, Writing and Family

Last night, my mother graciously invited me to go with her to hear Cassandra King, Rick Bragg and Pat Conroy speak. (I also saw Brett Butler of Grace Under Fire fame in the stairwell. I'd try to stretch that story into another "celebrity" encounter, but I've pretty much covered all the details already -- Brett Butler, stairwell, and I'm out. Sigh.)

I enjoyed all three speakers immensely. All were quite funny, and I loved being able to hear their thoughts on writing and the South.

Pat Conroy, in particular, spoke about how his mother raised him with a love of literature and how she really raised him to be a Southern writer. In his words, she taught him "to never be ashamed of where he came from -- except on his father's side."

That anecdote reminded me of a conversation I had with my grandmother (my mother's mother) when I first decided I wanted to give this writing thing a try.

"You have so much material," she said. "You really ought to write about your family."

"I don't think Mama would like that very much," I said. (For years, my mother's greatest fear was that I would write a book. Hopefully, some of that anxiety has abated in recent years.)

"Oh no, Dear," she said. "I was talking about your father's side. That's where all the good stories are."

First Love, Vampires and Cynicism

After numerous recommendations, I finally read Twilight this month.

While the book snob in me tries to avoid "popular" fiction, I happen to not-so-secretly love young adult fiction and some sci-fi. Plus, I also have a really-not-secret love of vampire lore. (This does not mean I've ever bought a cape over the Internet, but it does mean that I've seen every episode of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. I've also seen everything the History channel has to offer on Vlad the Impaler.)

With Twilight, I thought the stage was set for me to fall in love with a book. And boy was I wrong.

* SPOILER ALERT* For those of you who haven't read the book and don't want to know the ending, I suggest you stop reading now.  

Truth be told, I was doing great with Twilight for most of the novel. I liked all of the snuggling and touching. Edward sounded hot. It was all good. 

Then I got to the part where Bella wants Edward to turn her into a vampire, and I just started to feel pissed off.   

At 17, this girl is ready to die to be with the boy she loves, and that's considered romantic? I'm sorry. I just can't get on board with that. What about college? A job? Kissing other boys? Not living eternally among the undead?

Now, maybe I'm being too hard on the story, but I feel like Bella is the opposite of the role model I would want for my unborn daughters.Call me crazy, but I think a girl should have dreams beyond her high school boyfriend. And I'm not thrilled about romanticizing death either.  

I do wonder if my experience with Twilight was so negative because of how I feel about my first relationship. My own experience with first love wasn't exactly rosy. I don't have fond memories of my first real boyfriend that make me smile. I don't keep love letters or mementos. If anything, I'm immensely grateful for the fact that my first love didn't last and that I went on to have other boyfriends and other loves. 

If I'd made anything about my first love permanent, I'd be a very unhappy person today. I would also be a person without her own voice or identity and what fun would that be?

What do you think? Am I being too hard on Twilight? Did you like the book or not?Am I missing out on the romance? Has my own experience with first love jaded me too much?

For coming of age love stories, my money's still on Forever by Judy Blume.

Not Something I Recommend

When Iwas still working for Lipstick, my former co-workers and I decided to do “research”on an upcoming profile story we were publishing about Southern Magic, the localchapter of the Romance Writers of America. (Sidenote: these ladies are awesome!I think about joining their group all the time, but I’m too intimidated.) Inthe name of “research,” we walked down to the Birmingham Public Library to seewhat romance books were around. (Hey, we were thorough journalists, after all.)

And that’s the short version of how I ended up in thepossession of what might be the worst book I’ve ever read. (Which was not written by a Southern Magic writer, by the way.) I warn you now.From here on out, there will be lots of spoilers, and this post will not beappropriate for those below a certain age.

What itall comes down to is that I should have known any book mentioning an “ass-toe”in the first 100 hundred words wasn’t going to be any good, but it was a trainwreck that I couldn’t turn away from.

Trippin’tells the story of seven Kansas City denizens: Madetra, Kaylantra, Darryn, Finesse, Destanie (please not thealternate spelling), E’An and Gerald St. John. At first I thought, “Who thehell thought of these names?” and “E’An?!?!” but then I got to page two and theass-toe, and I had bigger questions on my mind.

Madetra is a psychiatrist with a once-passionate,now-floundering marriage to Darryn, her college sweetheart. E’An is a fellowpsychiatrist in Madetra’s office who regularly refers to her as “Dr. KillerBody.” (According to the discussion questions in the back of the book, because,yes, Trippin’ COMES WITH DISCUSSION QUESTIONS, E’An’s treatment of Madetra ismeant to provide some insight about workplace sexual harassment. I can onlyassume that Trippin’ is to the issue of sexual harassment as Paris Hilton is tothe Protestant work ethic.) Kaylantra is Madetra’s identical twin sister, butwhile her sister pursued medicine, Kaylantra took the path of stripping andInternet porn. Finesse is a local news anchor who used to date Destanie, hisproducer with a history of stalking exes, but now they’re apart. And, last butcertainly not least, is Gerald St. John, Madetra’s massage therapist who makesextra money by giving female clients happy endings and selling drugs. (Ofcourse, Madetra does not receive happy endings because she honors her marriagevows, and Gerald is in love with her, so he wants Mad for more than just anhour’s joyride + tip.)

How thesecharacters know each other is explained, but it’s a sucky explanation, so let’sjust go with the idea that a woman would spend time outside of the office withthe man who sexually harasses her while a cocky news anchor and his certifiablyinsane ex would do that same. Long story short, these seven form a travel clubcalled Destination Anticipation Travel Club, or DAT Club for short (as ismentioned throughout the book to the point of absurdity) and proceed to visit Minneapolis, Lake Tahoe, Hedonism III in Jamaica and Las Vegas over the next year.

Kaylantraand Finesse quickly become an item. But, even though Kay is really falling forFinesse, she doesn’t stop sleeping with her boss Eddie in exchange for $100 andher job at the strip club (she’s been fired by all the other strip clubs forher bad attitude.) She also still sees her mystery customer, who comes in everyThursday and pays Kay $1000 for a naughty lap dance with one catch — she has towear a blindfold the entire time. So, even though Kay has been sleeping withthis man for a year, she’s never seen his face. (Remember this because it’sgoing to be important later.)

Destaniecontinues to go off the deep end once Finesse finds another girlfriend, so shetakes to leaving him some incredibly disturbing voice mails. I’d say more, butit would make this post X-rated. Let’s just say that I almost wished I wasilliterate having to read that part of the book. I didn’t learn the Englishlanguage to have to know things like that.

Madetraand Darryn just can’t seem to get their relationship back on track. Madetra isconfused by her husband’s disinterest, but it probably has to do with herhusband’s growing crack problem. His need to feed his addiction causes him tomug and murder a stranger for money and turn to male prostitution. (Darryn isalso the one with the ass-toe. It seems he needed some reconstructive toesurgery after a frostbite incident in college. Whenever his ass-toe itches,Darryn is either going to have great sex or be in trouble. And I know what you’rethinking because I was thinking it, too: Keeper!) If it weren’t for Madetra’saffair with Gerald, I’m sure she’d be lost. (Oh, I should also mention thatGerald is the one supplying drugs to Madetra’s husband because he wants Hubbyout of the way so he can have Madetra.)

E’An justcontinues to be E’An, and this mainly entails making inappropriate comments toMadetra whenever they’re in the same scene.

Anyways,about halfway through the book, we end up with not one, but two, instances ofblackmail. E’An has photographic evidence of Madetra’s affair with Gerald, sohe threatens to tell her husband unless she starts sleeping with him.Humiliation sex ensues.

Meanwhile,Destanie has photographic proof that Kaylantra is not faithful to Fineese, andwill expose her to her newly-live-in boyfriend if Kaylantra refuses to be asurrogate for her baby. (Back in the day, Finesse made Destanie get anabortion. She is now sterile, and in addition to wanting a child, she thinksKaylantra and Finesse will break up once Kaylantra is pregnant because she’llbe fat. No joke. She verbalizes this logic. Also, as per the discussionquestions, “The issue of surrogacy is an important one in the novel. If youwere asked to carry a child for someone else, would you do it?”) The doublewhammy is that Destanie has photos of Kaylantra with her mystery customer whoturns out to be …. Drum roll please … her brother-in-law Darryn. 

Shockedand appalled, Kaylantra agrees to be Destanie’s surrogate. Only, once she’spregnant, she learns that she’s actually carrying Finesse’s baby. (You see,early in the book, Finesse and Destanie have some ex sex, and she throws himout of her house because she has to get to “the bank.” Finesse tells her not toworry about the ATM. But, Destanie wasn’t talking about a financial bank. She’soff to the sperm bank with the condom that Finesse used that night. Check andmate!)

Kaylantracan’t hand over her and Finesse’s baby to crazy Destanie, so she decides totell Finesse about the blackmail (leaving out the stuff about sexing up herbrother-in-law, of course.) Finesse becomes enraged, and takes off withKaylantra in the car to confront Destanie.

Only hedrives too fast.

The carflips and Kaylantra, Finesse and their unborn baby are killed. Arriving at thescene of the accident, Madetra is horrified to find that her sister is dead.Then, as if by some divine hand by the name of too many absurd plot twists, sheis handed the only thing that survived the crash (bodies and car included) —photos of her husband knocking boots with her sister.

So,somewhere between her husband’s downward spiral, degradation sex with acolleague, her sister’s death and having to remember how to spell the names ofall the members of DAT Club, Madetra has a homicidal break. Her only goalthroughout the rest of the book is to sex the remaining members of DAT Club todeath. “Mad is mad,” as the books says. (Both her nickname and an emotion! Bothcrazy and angry! Oh the double entendre!)

Shepoisons Darryn and E’An with dioxin (she is a doctor after all), so that theyhave heart attacks mid-coitus. Then, after a bout of switched-teams sex withDestanie, she shoots up pure, uncut cocaine into Destanie’s bathing suit area. (Ifyou saw that one coming, I think you should drive to the nearest psychiatricfacility immediately.)

Her finalcoup de grace, and proof that not a single police officer in Kansas City ispaying attention to the amazingly-similar deaths in town of people who ALL KNEWEACH OTHER FOR YEARS, is to get rid of Gerald.

WhenMadetra arrives at Gerald’s home, he is happy to see her because the fact thatthey’re the only two surviving members of DAT Club means that they must be soul mates.

Here’s how it would go if I was part of a group thathad only two surviving members:

Other Living Soul: Can you believe we’re the only twoleft?!?!

Me: Silence – because I’m running as far away from you asI can get.

If I was in a club where everyone had been killedexcept for me and one other person, you can bet like hell I’d be staying awayfrom that other person. I know I’m not the murderer. Odds that the only othersurviving club member is also not a murderer? Not good.  

So, inher last act of sex death, Madetra eats a peanut butter sandwich (to whichGerald is severely allergic), covers the smell on her breath with cinnamonAltoids and tongue lashes Gerald until he goes into anaphylactic shock anddies.  

"ForMadetra, it was finally over.”

I onlywish that it could be over for me. Since reading this book, I feel like I havebeen Trippin’ is the worst possible sense.

Chapter 7

           “Drinks tonight?”        

            Ava looked up from her desk to seeLibby standing in the doorway of her office. “It’s ten a.m. and you’re alreadytalking about alcohol. Have you ever considered that you might have a problem.”Ava smiled.

            “You need to get out.”

            “Thanks for reminding me,” Ava said.“I’m always so thankful when my married friends point out all of myshortcomings.”

            “I’m buying.”

            “Then I’ll be there,” Ava said.“We’ll leave from here?”

            “Works for me.”

            “Our usual spot?”

            “But, of course,” Libby said. “Iwouldn’t want dear Francis the bartender to think we’d been swallowed by ablack hole. We haven’t hit him up for obnoxious amounts of extra olives inalmost two weeks.”

            “Do I hear something about a girls’night?” Much like an early period or a tax audit, Harriet appeared unexpectedlybehind Libby in the hallway. It wasn’t until Ava saw that Harriet was wearingbright blue Capri pants, a bright blue turtleneck and a blue turban that sherealized it was only Wednesday. Wednesday was Harriet’s blue day.

            “Just making time for a little girltalk, Harriet,” Libby said.

            “That sure sounds like fun.”

            “Would you like to join us?” Libbysaid. Ava would have pinched Libby if she weren’t so far away.

            “Thanks for the invite, but Ican’t,” Harriet said. “I’ll be working late.”

            “That’s really too bad,” Ava saidand Libby shot her a look that said she wasn’t doing the best job of keepingthe glee out of her voice.”

            “Idon’t know where you girls find the time,” Harriet said, and she tsk-ed a bit. “Youmust not have enough on your plate, Ava. Why don’t you send me some ideas forthe holiday issue then?”

            “No problem,” Ava said. “What wereyou thinking?”

            “Oh, five pages or so should besufficient.”

            “I’ll have it in your inbox by theend of the day.”

            “Lovely,” Harriet said.“Single-spaced, please.” Then she turned and walked back down the hallway. Avabent over her desk and began banging her forehead against the keyboard over andover again.

            “At least we’re having drinkslater?” Libby said.

            “At least.”

            “I’ll meet you in the parking lot at5:30.” Libby said, and she scooted the other way down the hall towards heroffice.

            With a new assignment on her plate,Ava abandoned her pity party (and head banging) and decided to start thinkingof holiday story ideas: Makeup to Giveand Receive, Holiday Parties With a Purpose,Glossy Gastronomy …

            At least there was the promise ofthat drink – or three – or five.

            “You notice Harriet didn’t feel likeloading you down with work as a punishment for having a life,” Ava said. Sheand Libby were at their usual spot, Sparky’s. It was a terrible bar with aterrible name, but it was close enough to the office to provide easy accessafter work and the low-brow establishment also had the bonus of being a spotneither Harriet or any of their other co-workers would be willing to be caughtdead in. Plus, the liquor was cheap, there was an air hockey table if the womenneeded to blow off some steam and Francis the bartender waited on them hand andfoot. (It helped that Ava and Libby were the only women and the only patronsunder the age of 50 who ever visited Sparky’s.)

            “She’s jealous of you. She couldcare less about me.”

            “I’m sure,” Ava said.

            “I’m a writer by trade. You’re oneby vocation,” Libby said. “Harriet is just like me. She can put words together,but she doesn’t move people. She’s just like me, but she’s always wanted to belike you.”

“So, in her admiration she decides to make memiserable,” Ava said. “Awesome.”

“And you make it look easy, and she hates you forit. So, she punishes you. Sorry O Gifted One, but you do have a sensibilitymost writers like me would kill for.”

“Talent or no, we’re still all working for the samemagazine.”

“Harriet and I work there because we have to. Youwork there because you’re scared.”

“Right,” Ava said.

“You’re scared to fail, and you know it,” Libbysaid. “As soon as you decide to believe in yourself, you’re out of there.”

“It’s funny you should bring that up,” Ava said.“I’ve wanted to tell you more about that meeting I took for you on Monday.”

“Is this where you kill me?”

“No, I actually learned a lot from your contact,”Ava said. “I think I might spend some more time with her.”

Libby almost spit out her drink. “You can jokearound all you want Ava Carson, but at least have the decency to wait untilI’ve swallowed. I refuse to waste perfectly good vodka because you’re pullingmy leg.”

“I mean it,” Ava said. “She had some reallyinteresting stuff to say. I may even want to write about it.”

“Really? What would you write?”

“Well, we started talking about the family courthere in town …” Ava was just about to share the finer points of what she’dlearned in the past few days when Libby’s eyes went wide and Ava could tell shewas no longer listening. She followed Libby’s gaze to the front door ofSparky’s and saw two young, attractive men in business suits enter the bar.“Shit,” she said, under her breath.

“Do you know them?” Libby asked.

“Not exactly,” Ava said.

“Well, I think you should then,” she said.“Good-looking men never walk into this bar. It’s a sign.”

“It’s a strange, random occurrence,” Ava said asshe turned her back to the door and put her head down.

“It’s a sign,” Libby said. “And the single cannotafford to ignore the signs.”

“Really, Libby,” Ava said, but Libby had alreadybegun waving frantically at the two young professionals. “What are you doing?”

“I’m married. I can make a complete fool of myself.Besides, complaining about your embarrassing friend is a great ice breaker.”

            Ava saw the men approaching andslunk even lower in her seat.

            “What brings you two to Sparky’s?”Libby said. “And, by the way, I’m Libby, and this is my incredibly talented andavailable friend Ava.”

            “Hi,” Ava said.

            Both men wore dark suits. Theshorter one was  blond with brown eyes,and the other was a brunette with incredibly piercing blue eyes.

            “I’m Mark,” the blond said. “And wecame to Sparky’s because we never thought we’d be discovered here.”

            “What a coincidence,” Libby said.“We like this little bar for the very same reason. Do you work around here?”

            “Not really,” Mark said. “Butfinding an old school air hockey machine isn’t as easy as it used to be.”

            “I had no idea,” Libby said. “Andwho’s your friend?”

            “I’m sorry,” the brunette said toAva. “But do we know each other?’

            “I don’t think so,” Ava said,avoiding eye contact – which was pretty damn hard with the baby blues on thatone.

            “Do you read Gloss magazine?” Libbysaid.

            “Sometimes,” the brunette said.

            “Ava here is the features editor,and I’m the beauty editor. Maybe you’ve seen our photos in the magazine.”

            “I don’t think that’s it,” thebrunette said, and he continued to study Ava’s face.

            “Are you an animal lover? Ava’salways volunteering at some sort of Humane Society event or other.”

            “I do like animals, but that’s notit either.”

            “Where’d you go to school?” Libbysaid.

            “Geez, Libby,” Ava said. “Give it arest already.”

            “That’s it,” the brunette said, “NowI know how I know you – you’re the one who called me a jackass in open court.”

            Libby turned to Ava, mouth openwide. Mark wore a similar facial expression.

            “Guilty as charged,” Ava said.

            “You called him a jackass?” Libbysaid. “In court?”

            “It’s a long story,” Ava said. “And,in fairness, you know it is one of my favorite words.”

            “I’m Eric, the jackass, by the way,”he said, extending his hand to Libby.

            “Nice to meet you,” Libby said.

            Eric turned and extended his hand toAva. “Eric – in case you’d like to know how my friends usually refer to me.”

            “We like jackass, too,” Mark said.

            “Ava. Ava who can’t keep her mouthshut.”

            “It’s nice to meet you, Ava,” Ericsaid.

            “Is it too late for an apology?” Avasaid.

            “It’s never too late for an apology,but I might mull it over a bit before accepting.”

            “Fair enough.” Ava couldn't help but think that this was just her luck. Not only did the stranger she insulted show up at her favorite bar -- making it forever again uninhabitable -- but he also had to be attractive, wedding ring-less and accompanied by an equally attractive friend.

            Mark and Libby seemed to think thisexchange was just a hysterical and delightful way to begin a conversation, butAva couldn’t get over her humiliation. And from the very little that Eric addedto the group conversation, Ava was pretty sure that Eric didn’t think theincident from the day before was quite so funny either. Libby and Markcontinued to talk about the upcoming college football season, city councilelections and the latest in reality TV, but Ava found the first possible excuseto leave when she finished her drink.

            “Why such an early night?” Francissaid as she paid her tab.

            “I just think it’s time to go beforeI do or say something I’ll regret,” Ava said. She left off the “else.”

            “Have a good night, sweetheart,”Francis said.

            “You too.”

            Ava felt Eric’s eyes boring a holeinto the back of her head all the way out the door.

Chapter 6

“I miss my babies so much.” A woman with croppedbrown hair was speaking from the head of long linoleum table. She wore a purpleblouse and small, gold hoop earrings. As she continued speaking, tears sprangto her eyes. ‘I don’t even know how this happened. I’ve never done a thingwrong, but there has to be someone in the room when I spend time with my ownchildren.”

            “I haven’t seen my kids sinceSeptember,” a woman across the table with shoulder-length blonde hair said. “Myex keeps cancelling my visits, and no one does a damn thing about it.”

            Ava sat on the opposite end of thetable from the brunette. Mexico Lindo 2 looked like any other Mexicanrestaurant you’d find in a strip mall. The décor was very red and green andhorse-y (as in carved horses and painted horses covered every spare inch ofwall space). While it wasn’t the best food Ava had ever had, she could see whythis particular group liked the restaurant. Anonymity was a given. No oneseemed to take any note of who came and went or what business was beingconducted at the dining tables.

            “I know you’re all frustrated,”Rachel said. “There are plenty of reasons to be sad and angry about what’shappened, but if we want to do something about it, we’ve got to stay focused.How have you all helped your cases this week?”

            Ava wanted to take notes, butthought that might make her less approachable to the women of Divorce Busters,so she had decided just to listen this first time around. She had been anxiousall day waiting for this meeting and this opportunity to pursue a real story,but now that she was here, Ava felt both a little sad and a little let down.These women were in real pain, and she felt for them. At the same time, a tableof women at a Mexican Restaurant hardly seemed like the group to bring downcorrupt judicial officials.

            “I’m looking into getting a newattorney,” a curvy brunette said. “Mine still hasn’t filed the appeal Irequested nearly six months ago.”

            “And how are you looking for a newlawyer?” Rachel asked.

            “Well, I started by scratching offthe names of any lawyer this group has.”

            The whole table laughed. “What’smost important right now is to stay the course,” Rachel said. “We are fightingan uphill battle, and this won’t be easy, but I do believe that together, andwith dedication, we’ll be able to prove that the family court system is notdoing right by women.”

            The woman with cropped brown hairspoke again. “But how?” she said. “We’ve been meeting at this crappy restaurantfor months, and it seems like all I’ve accomplished is finding a place to cryevery week and risking my job by making so many personal photocopies of mycourt documents. If paper and frustration were commodities, I’d have enoughmoney to buy my kids back.”

            “That’s one of the reasons I’ve triedto expand our resources,” Rachel said. “I’d like to introduce you all to AvaCarson. She’s a reporter.”

            Ava had been buried in herhalf-eaten burrito and had a mouth full of tortilla and cheese when all eyes atthe table turned to her. She had not expected to be introduced to the group,and she certainly hadn’t expected to be introduced to the group as a reporter.

            “I don’t want to get you ladies tooexcited, and I’ve told Ava that we’re not ready to go public yet, but I’m justso happy to have a reporter on our team,” Rachel said. “With her sources andresources, I’m sure we’ll get somewhere. We will be heard!”

            The women at the table clapped.

            “I can’t believe we have an actualreporter on our side,” the curvy brunette said.

            “What paper are you with?” theblonde asked.

            “I’m actually with Gloss magazine,”Ava said as she struggled to swallow the last of the bite still in her mouth.“And I’m more of an editor than a reporter.”

            “What other big stories have youworked on? Would I know your work?” Geena said.

            “Actually ….” Ava started hersentence, but was pretty sure that credits like 10 Ways to Lure Your Loverand  How to Get Red Wine Out of MostAnything wouldn’t do much for her cause.

            “Now, Ladies,” Rachel said, “There’sno need to overwhelm Ava right now. I’m sure she wants to get her bearings.Observe first, right Ava?”

            Ava nodded. It sounded like a goodexcuse to her.

            “When she’s ready, I’m sure she’llwant to interview all of you and see your documentation, but let’s let her moveat her pace. All reporters have their own method, I’m sure.

Untilwe know how she wants to proceed, let’s go back to talking about yourindividual cases and progress until we have to get out of here.”

            Ava sat in stunned silence for thenext half hour listening as the women at the table shared more details abouttheir skewed custody arrangements, ex-husband troubles and seemingly unjustjudge’s orders. Were these women telling the truth? What was the other side ofthe story? And, perhaps most importantly, what did this group expect from hernow that Rachel had outed her as an interested and respected “reporter” of allthings?

            When the group broke up for theevening, Ava pulled Rachel aside. “I thought you said we were going to keep myinvolvement in all this quiet?”

            “I know that’s what I said,” Rachelsaid. “But these women needed hope. And I’m so happy to have you here. Do youhave any idea how many journalists have turned me down when I’ve tried to getthem to take interest in this story?”

            What a great sign, Ava thought. Shewished she’d known this last part before. “But, I don’t even know if I’m goingto write a story about this, and if I do, I certainly don’t know what the storywill be yet.”

            “Allright, allright, I get it,”Rachel said, winking at Ava, “you’re just here to hang out for now. There mightnot be a story.”

            “Exactly,” Ava said. “I’m not makinga commitment to you or this story just yet.”

            “Of course, of course,” Rachel said.“No promises.” She smiled. “I can’t help the fact that I just have a feelingthis is all going to work out.”

            “You can have all the feelings youwant,” Ava said, “but you just said it – no promises.”

            “See you next week then?”

            “See you next week then,” Ava saidand headed towards the door. Realizing she’d left her cardigan on the back ofher chair from dinner, she turned around to go back to the table. As shestooped to reclaim her sweater, Ava left a hand brush against her shoulder. Shelooked up to see the blonde woman from Divorce Busters at her side.

            “I’m glad you’re here,” the blondesaid.

            “Thank you for saying that,” Avasaid, “but I was just telling Rachel that I’m not comfortable making anypromises about the resources or attention I can offer right now.”

            The blonde nodded. “I’ve been soalone since they took my kids, any news is good news right now. And it looks tome like you have an honest, kind face.” Before Ava could say another word, theblonde was out the door.

            At home later that night, Ava pulledout her laptop to jot down a few details on the meeting at Mexico Lindo 2. Shealso made a note to ask Rachel about the married and maiden names of the womenpresent that night. She might as well start looking into more of the details onthese cases.

            Ava was also pretty sure that “real”journalists were supposed to leave their emotions at the door when looking intostories, but Ava couldn’t help but think about the blonde who had found her atthe close of the meeting and the pain in her eyes.

            Whether the allegations of DivorceBusters were founded or not, people were being hurt, and if she could doanything about that pain, hell, it’d be more than she’d accomplished in twoyears at Gloss.  

Chapter 5

            Afteran extra long lunch and lots of retail therapy – retail therapy that stilldidn’t manage to erase the embarrassment of cursing out loud in a court of lawand being chastised by an actual judge -- Ava returned to the office around4:00 that afternoon.

            With Libby at the dentist andHarriet still tending to her spiritual duties, the building was nearlydeserted.  Ava kicked off her shoes underthe desk and sighed with relief that at least she had an hour to herself beforethe meeting with Harriet that would cap off an already fabulous day.

            “Knock, knock.”

            Ava looked up. “Hi, Bill.”

            “How’s your day going?”

            “Swimmingly.”

            “I hear you,” Bill said. “We avoidedyet another network crash today.”

            “Oh, no,” Ava said. “Did somethinghappen to my computer while I was gone? Do you think I lost any work?”

            “Ava, Ava, Ava,” Bill chuckled. “Myjob is a lot like national security. If you knew how close we came to a networkcrash every single day, you’d stop storing any information on the computer. Yourmachine is just fine.”

            “Thanks, Bill.” A comparison tonational security? Ava didn’t have a response for that one.

            “Yep, every day is a battle againstthe viruses and spyware.” Bill looked the part of an IT geek in every way,shape and form. He wore pleated khakis and one of three short-sleeved, striped,button-down shirts every single day. He also wore glasses and was so stickthin, Ava was pretty sure she had at least 10 pounds on him.

            “I’m glad it’s your job and notmine. If I was in charge of tech in this office, we’d all be out of thepublishing business within days.”

            “And the user errors … Don’t evenget me started on the user errors.”

            Bill was lingering. Ava didn’t likelingering. “

            “Ted in accounting loves to playaround with the program settings …”

            “Bill, I hate to interrupt, but Ihave a big meeting coming up soon.”

            “Of course, of course,” Bill said.“I didn’t mean to bend your ear. I’ve been a little shaken up all day. My excalled. She says she needs some space again.”

            Ava pushed her computer keyboard tothe side. Even though this was the same spiel she’d heard over and over againfor nearly a year, and she found Bill to be mostly annoying, she still didn’thave the heart to throw him out of her office. If nothing else, at least this shouldstave off her boredom until Harriet got back.

            “She wasn’t saying she needed spacewhen I slept over on Saturday.”

            Dear Lord, this was not going to bean easy conversation. Then again, Ava knew all too well that the road to hellwas paved with good intentions.

            After 45 minutes of coddling andcomforting, during which Ava yet again learned way too much about the personallife of her co-worker, Bill finally stood to leave.

            “You’re a good listener, Ava.”

            “Any time.”

            “I don’t know why some man hasn’tsnatched you up yet.”

            “That makes two of us,” Ava said.

            Bill walked out of the door to Ava’soffice, but then turned around.

            “Bill, I really do have to get somework done this afternoon.”

            “No, all this talk about Alyssa mademe forget the real reason I came in her in the first place. They brought mesome of your mail, and I thought you might want it back.”

            “Thanks, Bill.”

            “No problem.”

            Ava began to sift through the pileof papers. There were a few submissions from freelance writers, notices about conferencesin the area. But, it was the society page of a local magazine that reallycaught her eye. There was a very familiar face in a group of photos from someribbon-cutting or other, even if she had only seen that face just a few hoursbefore.

            Mr.Stuart Newson, CEO of Dexco Industries, steps out on the town with a businessassociate.

            It was always nice to have a name togo with a face. And Ava also thought that the stunning brunette standing nextto Mr. Newson didn’t look like any of the business associates she’d want hernot-yet-ex-husband to have.  

Knowing she had about 30 minutes to spare beforefighting traffic, Ava turned to her computer and searched for the DexcoIndustries company home page.

            “Dexco Industries specializes inurban renewal and development. We strive to uplift and maintain standards forthe community befitting progressive, modern neighborhoods. Where others seefailure, we see opportunity.”

            Ava was pretty sure that all of theDexco jargon meant Mr. Newson snapped up low-income housing or foreclosures andturned everything he saw into condos. Whatever the specifics of his industry,it seemed to be working for him. The Dexco site was credited to the top graphicdesign firm in town, and Ava recognized at least three condo developments Dexcohad built she knew were well out of her price range (or that of anyone earninga salary less than the high six figures). Moving away from the main page, Avaclicked on About Us.

            “Stuart Newson, M.B.A. WhartonUniversity, founded Dexco in 1994after a successful 10-year career in commercial real estate … Dexco was afamily-run company for the first 15 years of its existence … In 2009, Mr.Newson decided to take Dexco public and Eleanor Franklin, M.B.A. ColumbiaUniversity, joined thecompany as CFO …”

            A quick glance at the latest companyportrait allowed Ava to confirm that Eleanor Franklin was indeed the attractivebrunette socializing and working with Ryan Newson’s husband. Ava also couldn’thelp but wonder about the switch from a “family-run company” to a publicentity. She had a sneaking suspicion Ryan did a lot of uncredited work gettingDexco off the ground, and somehow managed to lose her marriage and much of hercareer to her husband’s ambitions.

            Ava would have loved to spend moretime on the Internet, but a quick glance at the clock told her there wassomewhere else she needed to be.   

Chapter 4

            The next morning, Ava walked intoher office, sat down behind the desk, opened a Diet Coke and pulled up here-mail inbox.

            Just a friendly reminder about Boss’Day. – Harriet

            Lose belly fat fast!!! –skinnyminny465768

            Ava, my group gave me the OK. See youat Mexico Lindo 2 tomorrow night. – Rachel

            Ava leaned back in her chair. Couldthis really go somewhere? Would she actually be able to tell a real story?

“Oh, Ava!”

            Ava looked around her small officeand realized, for the umpteenth time, that she still didn’t have a properescape route. There were so many reasons to have an office with a window thathad nothing to do with status or daylight.

            “Oh, Ava, there you are,” Harrietsaid. “I’ve been looking for you.” Harriet was dressed in a black pant suit.There was no silk scarf today, but there was a beret. When Harriet cocked herhead after addressing Ava, the beret looked like it could slide off at anymoment.

            “Well, you found me,” Ava said. “Inmy office.”

            “Now you’re in your office,” Harrietsaid. “I don’t think you were here 10 minutes ago.”

            “Sorry, I couldn’t find a thing towear this morning,” Ava said, attempting to excuse her seven minutes oftardiness.

            Harriet looked Ava up and down fromthe waist up as Ava stayed seated behind her desk. “I can see how that would bea problem for you,” she said. “But it’s been a long morning without my numbertwo you know.”

            She probably forgot where the powerbutton was to her computer again, Ava thought. “I can’t apologize enough,” Avasaid. “What did you need?”

            “I wanted to move our meeting up.The temple called and there’s no one to manage the office during today’s yogaretreat.” Harriet was an occasional Buddhist. “I’ve got to get out there, butsince you weren’t around, I’ll guess we’ll have to move our meeting back. Howdoes 5:30 work for you?”

            “Nothing like an end of the work daymeeting,” Ava said. “I’ll see you then.”

            “Wonderful, I figured you didn’thave plans.”

            Ava forced a smile.

            “And plan on staying a little late,I’ve had some thoughts on cleaning solutions since we spoke last.’

            The forced smile became a grimace.

            “Toodles!”

            Without the go-ahead for any of herupcoming projects or stories and no idea what Harriet’s new ideas were, Avasoon realized her day would be emptier than most. She picked up the phone.

            “This is Libby.”

            “The cat’s away. How about aridiculously long lunch followed by makeovers at the MAC counter?”

            “No can do,” Libby said. “Sorry tolet you down kiddo, but I’ll be spending my lunch break and most of theafternoon in Dr. Dickson’s chair getting a new crown.”

            “No fair,” Ava said.

            “That’s me being selfish again. Iplanned my day around novacaine and drilling just to frustrate you.”

            “There’ll be gas involved. Don’t actlike it’s all pain and suffering.”

            “Fair enough.”

            “OK, I’ll go back to being borednow.”

            “Sorry, Ava.”

            “I’ll make do.” She put down thephone and went back to her computer screen. Nine hours left until the meetingwith Harriet, and Ava had no solitaire, no Libby and no Facebook access.

            Then she re-read the e-mail fromRachel. If these women really were losing their kids because of corruption inthe judicial system, they deserved someone to tell their story. And theydeserved someone to tell their story well. Ava was about as far removed fromher days at journalism school as she thought she could be, but she still knewshe owed this lead far more than a Google search. There had to be another wayto find out more about Jack Shaw.

            The city courthouse was only a fewblocks away. Ava grabbed her purse and locked her computer screen. It was timefor a field trip.

            The courthouse was an attractiveenough building. The façade was crafted of limestone that could use a goodpressure wash, but the six-story structure seemed formidable. Once Ava wasinside, surrounded by marble and the echo of footsteps down the long tiledhallways, she felt like someone was watching her and that every move was beingscrutinized. This was not a building she’d ever try to escape.

            Ava was also intimidated by themetal detectors. While she knew that she had every right to be in this publicbuilding, she still expected someone to pull her out of line: “You’re the womanwho wants to write bad, bad things about us,” she imagined the guard screaming.“Straight to lock-up!”

            Instead, Ava passed through thescreening without even making eye contact with anyone and went on her way. Shestudied the directory and she learned that family court was on the 4^thfloor. She boarded the elevator.

            Stepping out on the fourth floor,Ava felt another wave of intimidation. What was she doing here after all? Shewasn’t a real reporter. She didn’t cover beats. And she was no good withconfrontation or tough questions. She couldn’t even ask her ex-boyfriends wherethey saw the relationship going.

            Ava could pretend all she wantedthat it was just circumstance that had landed her at Gloss magazine, but it wasa case of fear, too. She went to the water fountain hoping that something coolto drink would calm her nerves and give her time to think.

            “You know what he’s up to, don’tyou?” Ava heard a woman behind her raising his voice. “Can’t you see what he’sdoing? He’ll say whatever it takes to hurt me.”

            “Ryan, you have to calm down.” Itwas a man’s voice this time. “If you lose your temper, you’re not going to helpyourself or your kids. Let’s step back for a second.”

            Ava kept her head down but turned itslightly to get a better look at the two people in conversation. Both werestanding just a few feet away by the window.

            “You heard what they said in there.”The woman was practically screaming now. Even with her face twisted in anger,she was very pretty. Her blonde hair was cut in a bob, her skin seemedflawless, and her tailored suit couldn’t have been anything over a size four.

            “It’s a custody trial, Ryan,” theman said. “I tried to warn you that a lot of nasty things were going to besaid. But, we haven’t called a single witness yet. You have to trust my trialstrategy.” The man, who Ava took to be an attorney, was quite nice looking aswell. At just over six feet tall, he had a rounder face, broad shoulders anddark brown hair. Both wore the dark suits one expected to find inside acourthouse – or at a funeral.

            “This is about your kids, Ryan,” theman went on. “Take a couple of deep breaths, and we’ll get back in there. Thereare only two minutes left to this recess, and Judge Shaw watches the clock likea hawk.”

            “OK, Eric. I’m paying you the bigbucks for a reason, I guess.”

            “Or, the not so big bucks, as thecase may be.” The woman finally cracked a smile.

            Ava couldn’t believe her luck. ThankGod for her anxiety attack – it had landed her in just the right spot forobserving Jack Shaw. When she stood up completely, Ava saw a slightly oldergentleman standing down the hall. He was graying and tall, but would still beable to turn plenty of heads. Next to him, was a label-clad blonde woman –Gucci bag, Chanel suit, Christian laboutin heels. Ava recognized the clothesfrom a fashion story she’d researched in the fall. At least a half dozen men insuits and well-dressed women stood nearby. She guessed that the soon to beex-husband of agitated Ryan was somewhere in the crowd. Unlike Ryan and herattorney, the group down the hall smiled often and even let out the occasionalgiggle. 

            “Court will resume.” A bailiff hadentered the hall, and the first two people Ava had eavesdropped on walked intothe courtroom. Ava waited until the husband’s entourage made it down the hall,and then did her best to appear as if she was with the gaggle of friends and relatives.Sure, there was a clear difference in dress and socio-economic level, but maybeshe could pass for their charity case of the week. She wandered in just behindthe last label-clad woman and took a seat in the last row on the plaintiff’sside.

            “All rise. Court is now in session.”

            An attractive man in his mid-fortiesentered the room. “Judge Jack Shaw presiding.” Even 20 years after his collegehey day, Ava could see why her sister had has such a crush on Mr. Shaw.  He was blond, blue-eyed and had the lean lookof your typical Golden Boy. Ava flashed on Robert Redford’s character in The Way We Were almost immediately.

            “Now, where were we?” the judgesaid.

            “Your honor, for the sake of myclient’s time and that of the court, I see no reason to go on with theseproceedings,” the husband’s attorney said. “My client is an excellent parent,and the defendant, well, isn’t.”

            “Objection,” the wife’s attorneyrose. “I hardly think it’s fair to assume anyone is an unfit parent at thispoint in the hearing.”

            “I think it’s unfair to allow thesepoor children to spend one more minute wondering if they’ll have to live with …with that.” The attorney pointed towards the mother.

            “So, it’s better to send them homewith a drunk?”

            “Now, now Mr. Stevens, you are anofficer of this court, and I expect you to behave as such,” Judge Shaw said.

             “Yes, your honor,” the defendant’s attorneysaid. “It’s just so hard to sit here and listen to the plaintiff’s nearcanonization of this man.”

            “Your honor,” the plaintiff’s attorneysaid.

            “I just can’t help but think that Mr.Newson didn’t attract all of those girlfriends by being a great father who washome every night with the kids.”

            “Objection!”

            “We could always ask the doc whoprescribes all of his painkillers what he thinks.”

            Judge Shaw raised his gavel.

            “What a prick.”

            A hush fell over the court, and alleyes turned to the back of the room.

            “Is there something you’d like toadd, young lady?”

            Ava turned around as well.

            “Young lady?” Judge Shaw stareddirectly at Ava. 

            “Was that out loud?” Ava tried tosmile.

            “It was indeed,” he said. “Would youcare to say something? I’m more than happy to give you the floor.”

            “I’m fine,” Ava said. “Really.”

            “Are you an attorney, Miss?”

            “No, sir.”

            “So, your business here would be?”

            “Observation.”

            “I see,” the judge said. “Well, thenif you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you could observe without commentary.’

            “Yes, sir.”

            “And I’d also like to get back topresiding over my court now, if that’s OK with you, of course.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Well, everyone, it looks like wecan get back to the actual business at hand now. Maybe we could all focus onthe law and the welfare of a family, here?”

            Everyone in the courtroom nodded.

            Ava gathered her things and moved asinconspicuously as possible towards the door. So much for her stealthy fieldwork. Just before Ava slunk out of the room, she turned around and saw thatEric Stevens was staring at her.

            She guessed that calling someone aprick wasn’t exactly the best way to make friends. Oh well, at least there wasone more piece of advice for her next relationship column.   

Chapter 3

            Back at the office, Ava decided to turn to hermost-trusted research tool, the ace in the hole for any investigativejournalist: Google.com.

            Asshe typed jack shaw’s name into the search field, she sipped her third DietCoke of the day and kicked her shoes off under her desk.

            “JackShaw – technology specialist.”

            “JackShaw – Sculptor.”

            “JackShaw Ministries International.”

            Avarealized that she should have known better than to type such a common name intothe world’s largest search engine. She tried again with “judge jack shaw,”“jack shaw family court” and “jack shaw springfield.”Finally, some results came through that seemed like they might be on the righttrack.

            “JudgeJack Shaw takes home state bar award ...”

            “JackShaw endorses Myers for Governor ...”

            “Formercollege tennis star finds success on another court ...”

            NowAva knew why the name had sounded familiar when Rachel mentioned it overcoffee. Jack Shaw wasn’t just a judge, he’s been a great tennis player. Ava hadheard about him from her older sisters who were at the state university aroundthe same time. Lily, her oldest sister, referred to him as “dashing” and evennursed a crush for some of her sophomore year. If Ava remembered correctly,Jack Shaw even played on the pro circuit for awhile, maybe even made it to theopening rounds of the U.S. Open.

            “FamilyCourt Judge Jack Shaw knows that love can mean nothing ...”

            Avagroaned over the umpteenth cheesy tennis metaphor. These were the kinds ofheadlines she herself would have written and then hung her head in shame.

            Fromwhat she gathered, this Jack Shaw was the same local hero and golden boy she’dremembered. Scholar Athlete at State. A couple of respectable, but not stellaryears trying to play pro. Law review. Family practice. Married to a formerhomecoming queen. Appointed to a judge’s seat three years prior. The perfectsqueaky clean, everybody-loves-him politician type.

            “Areyou going to kill me now or save the fate for later so you can torture me somemore?”

            Avalooked up to see Libby standing in the door.

            “Killyou?”

            “Formaking you have coffee and listen to story ideas from some whacko?”

            “Itwasn’t that bad.”

            “Notthat bad?” Libby said. “Have you traded rage for making me feel guilty?”

            “No,really,” Ava said. “It wasn’t that bad. I actually kind of enjoyed it.”

            “You?”Libby said. “You enjoyed talking to a stranger? About the magazine?’

            “Yes,I did,” Ava said. “She had some interesting things to say.”

            “Hmph.Well, I guess I don’t owe you that bottle of wine after all.”

            “Iwouldn’t go that far,” Ava said. “Any chance I can redeem that IOU tonight?”

            “Nocan do.” Ava heard a lower pitched voice coming from the hall. “My wife is minetonight. You’ll have to pick another time for complaining about me and solvingthe world’s problems.’

            “HiJake,” Ava said. “I didn’t know you were back there.”

            “Idecided to surprise Libby with dinner and a movie tonight,” Jake said. “Ithought she might enjoy a little pampering.” Ava never thought musician-loving,late-night-partying Libby would ever fall for a balding accountant with twochildren from a previous marriage, but Jake and Libby had seemed to be thepicture of happiness throughout their two-year union.

            “Aren’tyou a little early for that?” Ava said. “Most people wait until the end of thework day for surprises. You two going to play hookey?”

            “Hardly,it’s 5:30 Ava,” Libby said. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

            “Ididn’t realize,” she said. Ava looked at the clock on her computer’s monitor.She couldn’t believe she’d spent the past four hours looking up info on JackShaw.

            “I’dask you to join us Ava,” Jake said. “But I have devious intentions for our dateonce the movie is done.”

            “Sayno more,” Ava said. “You two love birds ought to get out of here. I’d hate tohave to hear any more graphic details.”

            “I’llget you that bottle of wine,” Libby said. “I promise. Maybe Wednesday?”

            “MaybeWednesday,” Ava said. “Now go have fun.”

            Libbywinked at Ava as Jake put his arm on the small of her back and guided her awayfrom Ava’s office.

            “Yeah,”Jake called. “Maybe Wednesday.”

            Turningback to her screen, Ava book marked a few key pages that she wanted to re-visitin the morning. Then she checked her bank balance to make sure there was enoughcash for a quick run to the Publix on the way home. Milothe wonder dog needed more dog chow, and his owner could use some red wine evenif there was no one to share it with.

            Lastbut not least, Ava sent Harriet an e-mail to remind her of a Friday meeting. Avacouldn’t care less about the meeting, but she wanted Harriet to have an e-mailfrom her with a time stamp so close to 6:00 p.m. Harriet thought of that asdedication.

            Thenshe shut down the computer and headed home. 

“Hi Honey, I’m home.” Avapushed the door shut behind her, dropped her purse and grocery bags on theentry table and bent down for all of the kisses Milohad to give.

            “HelloMister Milo. Did you miss Mommy?” Milo, theultimate mutt, sat happily at Ava’s feet and wagged his tail. “Mommy broughtyou something special from the grocery store.” Ava picked her grocery bags backup and proceeded down the hallway of her apartment to the kitchen in the back.

            Avauncorked a bottle of cabernet, popped a Lean Cuisine in the microwave and put anew rawhide bone in front of Milo, after making him sit for it.

            “That’smy boy,” she said, rubbing the top of Milo’shead before her ran off to the living room, new bone in tow.

            “You’reall the man I need Milo Carson,” Ava said, in her usual custom of talking outloud to the dog. “Libby may have a husband, but I doubt he’s nearly as obedientas you.”

            Avaput the rest of her groceries away – cheese cubes, pretzels, Snackwell’scookies and a 12-pack of Diet Coke – and grabbed her microwaved lasagna andglass of wine to join Milo on the couch.

            Afteran hour or so of VH1 programming, Ava grabbed her laptop. She couldn’t imaginethat the Internet only had good things to say about Jack Shaw. The Internetdidn’t only have good things to say about anyone. 

For 19 search pages, she read about Judge Shaw’sathletic past, his numerous honors and generous charity affiliations. “Thegolden boy shines again, Milo,” Ava said justbefore she took another sip of her wine. 

            It wasn’t until the 20^thGoogle search page that Ava stumbled upon a story sharing any differentinformation about Judge Shaw. The article itself was no more than a fewsentences, and it was buried in a slew of Metro briefs from two years ago.

Due to a family illness,Judge Jack Shaw of the 3^rd district family court plans to take a sixweek leave of absence from his seat. A replacement to handle his caseload inthe mean time will be named within the week, court officials say.

            Ava thought about what kind offamily illness would cause a man to take time away from a time-consuming andhigh profile career. Cancer? Was he sick? His wife?

            Ava kept reading and discovered thatthe paper’s online format allowed for comments on most all of the stories, nomatter how mundane. And, there it was. The fourth comment on the story, aftertwo spam messages and a seemingly unrelated plug for one of the state’s collegefootball teams, was about Judge Jack Shaw.

DMP2642 wrote: I hope JackShaw’s vacation is permanent. That man needs to be removed from the bench. Inever see my children. They’re always with their father. I worry that he hitsthem -- like he used to hit me.

            “Aha,” Ava said out loud to no onebut Milo the Wonder Dog again. Maybe there wassomething to this story after all. As Ava read DMP2642’s last comments, shealready knew that following this lead was about more than her off-coursecareer.

No one will listen to me. Ineed help – for me and my children. Can’t anyone out there do something?

Chapter 2

“A grande non-fat latteplease,” Ava said. She scanned the tables at Starbucks while she waited on herorder. A guy with wire-rimmed glasses on his laptop in the corner. Twothirty-somethings in tennis skirts poring over a photo album by the window. Emokids with purple hair in the back. So far, no one on in the coffee shop evenremotely fit the bill of the contact Libby had described.

“So what am I looking forwhen I meet this coffee date of yours?”

            “I’ve never met her, but she’ll probably be a soccer mom, butnot a soccer mom, if you know what I mean,” Libby had said. “Think corporatesuit meets minivan. At least, that’s the impression I got from her e-mails.

            One she got her coffee, Ava took a seat by the sugar stationand pulled a notebook from her purse. With one eye on the door, she scanned herto-do list to pass the time.

1. Research for Harriet: “Could separate bedroomsbe the key to putting passion back in your marriage?”

2. Dog food.

3. Purpose.

            One and two were easy. Three was going to pose a problem.Especially for the features editor of Gloss magazine. Ava never couldseem to find much purpose in writing about throw pillows or the perfect holidaycocktail.

            “Libby?”

            The spell of Ava’s ennui was broken, and she looked up to seean attractive woman in her early 40s. Slim, with shoulder-length brown hair anddark eyes, the woman before her looked both professional and stylish in a blackpantsuit with a chunky green necklace and teardrop earrings.

            “Libby Weathers?”

            “I’m Ava, Libby’s colleague.”

            “You seemed like you were a reporter, but I wasn’t sure whoto look for.”

            “Libby wanted to be here, but something came up,” Ava said.She never thought of herself as looking like a reporter. Actually, she didn’teven think of herself as a reporter. Lifestyles journalism seemed to put herfar, far away from the Pulitzer she’d once dreamed of in college. “I’ll do mybest to fill Libby’s shoes. If that’s OK with you, of course.”

            “I think that should be just fine. I’m Rachel. RachelMerriweather.”

            “It’s very nice to meet you Rachel. I’m Ava Carson.”

            “And what do you do with the magazine, Ava?” Rachel said.

            “I’m the features editor.”

            “Features? Very nice.”

            “It’s not nearly as glamorous as it sounds.”

            “Still. For a magazine, and at your age.”

            At 29, Ava was somewhat young for her position, but in truth,she just looked far younger than her age. With a round face and a dispositiontowards ponytails and lip gloss rather than coifed locks and eye liner, mostpeople guessed her to be no more than a few years out of college.

            “I’m grateful to be where I am,” Ava said, cutting her eyesto avoid eye contact. “Would you like to sit down and we’ll talk about yoursituation?”

            “That sounds lovely,” Rachel said.

            “Libby didn’t give me too many details about this meeting.”

            “I wanted to talk about story ideas,” Rachel said. “I justdiscovered your magazine, and I have so many great ideas for articles.”

            “Wonderful,” Ava said. No wonder Libby had shirked thismeeting off onto her. She was going to owe Ava far more than a bottle of wine.There was little Ava disliked more than listening to other people’s storyideas. She thought of it as the poor man’s version of being in the moviebusiness. Everyone had the next big idea to share.

            “Safe food. That’s a good one. People want to know how not toget salmonella.” – her pharmacist.

            “What your dreams mean. I had this one about my third gracescience teacher the other night ...” – a terrible first date.

            “What about a story on online dating for the overly picky?” –her mother.

            “Divorce,” Rachel said. Then she paused and Ava wasn’t surewhether or not she expected shock and awe from her or just needed a breath.

            “What about divorce?” Ava said.

            “Oh, anything and everything.”

            Ava sighed. The odds that this woman really had an angle fora story on divorce that no other woman’s magazine had covered? Slim to none.

            “I thought it might make for a good series.”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “There could be profiles of divorced women. What happened tothem. What their ex-husbands did. How they’re doing now.”

            “I see.”

            “There could even be more practical stories – how to file fordivorce, what assets you’re entitled to, who the good lawyers are.”

            “Yep,” Ava said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you tellingme what you do. Why are you son interested in this topic?”

            “Well, I’m a divorced woman myself,” Rachel said.

            Surprise, surprise, Ava thought.

            “I also council a lot of divorced women through mynon-profit. I help women get back on their feet after divorce – findapartments, get property back in their names.”

            “A non-profit?”

            “We’re called Divorce Busters.”

            “And the money?”

            “Well, I do most of the funding myself. I’ve fared well in mydivorces, but I thought that some greater exposure for the organization mightmean I could expand, take on some more clients, get outside funding.”

“I see. And that’s wherethe magazine stories come in, right?”

            “Exactly.”

            Something else that Ava had learned during her time inmagazines was that most people didn’t know the difference between “stories” and“free advertising.”

            “You would not believe some of the stuff going on in thecourt system around here. There are so many women in this town fighting toothand nail just to see their own kids.”

            Probably the ones too busy dallying with the pool boy andtaking too many prescriptions, Ava imagined. “I guess there are just as manyunfit mothers here as there are elsewhere.”

            “Oh, it’s not unfit mothers,” Rachel said.

            “What do you mean?”

            “Men are getting more and more power in the courts.”

            “Isn’t that a good thing? We can’t ask for equal rights and thenbe upset when we see the downside of our own equality.”

            “It’s not a balanced power.”

            “I don’t think I see your point.”

            “Some of the divorced women I counsel haven’t done a thingwrong. They’ve stayed home for years. They make lunches, drive carpool andteach Sunday school. But for some reason, none of it matters when they getbefore the judge.”

            “There must be something else going on. Secret affairs?Addiction?”

            “Nope, none of that,” Rachel said. “One woman I met lost herkids because she was told it would be too traumatic to break the strong bondthe kids had built with dad during baseball season.”

            “How can that be?”

            “That’s the same question I’ve been asking for the last sixmonths.”

            Ava flipped to a new page in her notebook and beganscribbling down notes: lost custody, local courts, not unfit. “What else do youknow?” she said.

            “I’ve seen at least three or four mothers who lost primarycustody of their children to their exes – men with full-time careers, some whoeven had affairs. The first woman I met without her kids, I was suspicious. Ifigured there was something she wasn’t telling me,” Rachel said. “But, by thetime I met the fourth woman, I was more trusting.”

            “Is there anything these women share? The same attorney?Something from the past?”

            “I’m glad you asked that,” Rachel said. “They’ve all had toappear before Judge Jack Shaw.”

            Ava stopped writing. “Are you saying what I think you’resaying?”

            “I’m saying that I believe there is corruption in the familycourt system. I haven’t figured out the specifics, but I know something isn’tright.”

            “What’s your next move?”

            “Off the record?”

            “Off the record.”

            “Every other week, these women and I get together. They bringtheir court documents. We’re trying to establish a paper trail. When we haveproof that something is wrong, I want to go public.”

            “Media public?”

            “Media public,” Rachel said, her voice lowered. “But we’renot there yet, and I don’t want to risk giving anyone time to destroy evidenceor cover their tracks.”

            Ava’s head was spinning. This could be an actual story. Astory that would affect people’s lives, that would get people thinking,something that might matter. But what were the odds that an actual news-worthystory would just drop into her lap at a Starbucks on a Monday afternoon? Andwhy was this woman so willing to spill her guts? She should be giving a realreporter these kinds of details

            “I’d love to meet these women, if you don’t mind,” Ava said.“I wouldn’t print anything before you said it was OK.”

            “If I can trust you,” Rachel said, “I think that might be agood idea. Let me talk to my partners in crime and see how they feel about it.If they give the go ahead, clear your calendar for this Wednesday at 6:30. I’lltell you the location once I know it’s all kosher.”

            “That sounds great to me,” Ava said. Then she glanced at herwatch and realized that an hour had passed since she left the office. Harrietdidn’t like Ava to have too many lengthy excursions during the day, even if theintent was business. “I have to rush back to the office -- my editor will havemy head if I don’t scoot on back.”

            “Of course, of course,” Rachel said. “I can’t believe youcould take time out of your busy schedule on such short notice. Thank you somuch.”

            Ava smiled. She wished she was as busy as everyone alwaysassumed she was. “It’s been lovely to meet you.”

            “And you as well.”

            “Here’s my card. I’d really like to keep having this conversationwith you. I hope we can help each other out.”

            “Me too,” Rachel said. She tucked Ava’s card in her purse.“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to visit the restroom before I leave. I’ll bein touch.”

            Rachel walked to the back of the coffee shop while Ava headedfor the door. She knew better than to get her hopes up, but Ava’s hopes hadoften been her Achilles Heel. Maybe that Pulitzer wasn’t such a pipe dreamafter all.

Chapter 1

            “Outof my way jackass,” Ava called as she honked and passed a silver Audi. Shesailed through the intersection just as the light turned red.
            “Your rudegesture doesn’t scare me either.” Ava said. She could see the Audi’s iratedriver flipping her off in her rear view mirror. “Learn to drive and we’lltalk,” she screamed. Then she took a quick look at her passenger side window tomake sure that it wasn’t cracked open. 
            Five minuteslater, Ava pulled into the parking lot outside of her office building. 8:58a.m. If she sprinted up the stairs, she should have time to grab a cold DietCoke before joining the rest of the staff in the conference room for Monday’splanning meeting.
            If she didn’trush up the stairs, she’d have to skip the Diet Coke or endure Harriet’sinterrogation as a punishment for tardiness. Harriet was a big fan ofpunctuality, and since Harriet lacked both an understanding of appropriate eyecontact and a sense of humor, these grillings were the bane of Ava’s existence.
            “How would youromance a new lover, Ava?”
            “What do youthink women most want to know about the cervix?”
            “Is douchingreally a generational issue?”
            As the featureseditor for the regional women’s magazine, Gloss, Ava’s working liferevolved around women’s issues. Only, when she’d taken the job, she hoped formore women’s political causes, business advice and health concerns. What she’dgotten was terrible puns on that time of the month, too many headlinescontaining the word “diva” and many, many manuscripts on potty training.
            And Harriet.
            “Nice of you tojoin us, Ava,” Harriet said. She stood at the helm of the large conferencetable, a cup of herbal tea in hand. “Rolling out of bed at the last minuteagain?” Now Ava was stuck with Harriet’s attention and without a Diet Coke.
            “Sorry,” Avasaid, “traffic was a nightmare.”
            “Well, as thelast arrival, why don’t you jump start the meeting. Let’s have an Ava-ledaffirmation everyone.” Harriet kept her bleached hair in a bob that went justbelow her chin. Her skin was ivory and she often wore tapered pants, flats anda knit turtleneck with a silk scarf draped over one shoulder for some color.
            As Ava reachedout to grab the hands of the co-workers to her right and left, she spottedLibby rolling her eyes across the room and stifled a laugh. “I want this weekto be a positive one,” Ava said as she began the patented Harriet-enforcedaffirmations. “I strive to be the best features editor I can be. I will help mybrothers and sisters as we work and live together.” Then she squeezed the handof Steve on her right, signaling that it was his turn to add some work orpersonal goal to the group discussion.
            Ava couldn’tremember if Harriet had picked up this predisposition towards affirmations andanything that sounded like a Successory during her time at the ashram in Indiaor on one of her “spiritual retreats” somewhere in Californiawine country. Regardless, she wasn’t a fan.
            Once everyone inthe room had contributed to the circle of trust, Harriet resumed the meeting.
            “Wonderful,” shesaid. “Now what do we all think about the placenta this morning?”

            An hour later,the meeting was over, and Ava tried her hardest to be the first one out of theconference room, as per usual.
            “Oh, Ava,”Harriet said, calling her back into the room. “Since you were so relaxed aboutyour arrival time this morning, I assume you’re not very stressed about thathousekeeping story you’ve been working on.”
            “No, no, notstressed at all,” Ava said. “It’s coming right along.”
            “Wonderful. I’dlike to see it in my inbox within the hour.”
            “Of course,Harriet.”
            Ava picked up herstep and dashed down the hall to her office. The more time she spent in thehallway, the more time she had for Harriet to ask questions or for Bill the ITguy to corner her and ask for advice on his on and off girlfriend of eightyears.
            “You know,Bill” she’d told him once. “Just because I write about dating doesn’t mean Iknow how to do it.”
            “But she keepstelling me she loves me, but isn’t in love with me,” he’d drone on. “Do youthink she’s only in it for the sex?”
            “Again, Bill, inmy case, those who can’t do, write.”
            Once she was tuckedbehind her desk, Ava switched on her monitor and stared at the half-finishedstory she’d been working on for a week.
            SpringCleaning for the Sassy       
            Ava groaned ather own creation. She also died a little on the inside knowing how much Harrietwould love this title.       
It's the time of year to throw open the windows and sweep beneath the rugs.Gloss brings you seven ways to instantly feel like you've conquered the messand dirt in your home.
        1. Holiday Hangover
Holidaystress is tough, and we all have our excuses for not getting all of our choresdone. However, if it's time for spring cleaning and you have the remainingvestige of any holiday other than Easter in your home, it's time for it to go.There should be no jack-o-lanterns, pilgrims, Christmas trees, Valentine'shearts or St. Patty's clovers evident in your home once it's April.
        2. Paper Pandemonium
From junk mail to the reminders you write yourself about picking up the drycleaning or buying more milk, your house is probably a refuge for lost papersand publications. As you're spring cleaning, it's time to toss the oldmagazines, newspapers, catalogs, circulars and assorted scraps that amass onthe counters and tabletops of your home. We promise you won't miss yourNovember copies of "People" magazine come July.
        3. Pantry Peace
Surely you're all too familiar with the adage that if you haven't worn anarticle of clothing in a year, then it's time to toss it. The same is true ofyour pantry. Old foodstuffs are only taking up valuable space in yourcupboards. Combine dry pastas and rice if you have too many half-empty boxesand bags, and feel free to toss food gifts you know you'll never consume. Ifyou didn't like fruit cake this past Christmas, you're probably never going toenjoy it.
        4. A Rank Refrigerator
It's always a good idea to periodically check the fridge for old take-out orspoiled milk, but when you're spring cleaning, take special time to cleanunderneath and behind your refrigerator. Cleaning the coils behind yourrefrigerator actually saves energy and shaves dollars off your monthlyutilities. And those of us who tend to snack standing up might see how crumbsand other bits of food could find themselves underneath the fridge, growing androtting one day at a time …
            It wasn’t thatAva couldn’t finish the story. It’s just that she didn’t really want to. Everysince she’d written “Cat Scratch Fever: Furry felines sure to bring fun to yourlife,” her will to live had been dwindling by the day. But the awkward eyecontact and after-work meeting that would come along with not meeting a Harrietdeadline were hardly worth this kind of pain.
            She began totype:
        5. Range Residue
        Ah, the rule of journalism noone taught her in school: when all else fails, turn to alliteration.
Have you ever started cooking dinner only to realize that some of the odorscoming from your kitchen have nothing to do with what's on the evening's menu?Just as food can find its way underneath the fridge and cabinets, crumbs falldown into your burners as well. (Not to mention the sauce spills that happenthere.) Cleaning your oven and your range is an absolute necessity for a cleanand pleasant-smelling kitchen.
            “I only wish youhad just rolled out of bed right before the meeting. Maybe that would havemeant someone was sharing yours.”
            Ava looked up tosee Libby leaning against the doorjamb. “Other than Milothe wonder dog, no, there has been no one in my bed,” Ava said.
            “A girl candream, can’t she?” Libby moved inside Ava’s office and shut the door.“Sometimes I think you don’t date just so you won’t have to hear Harriet askabout ‘your lover.’”
            “Ha ha,” Avasaid, tossing a balled up sticky note in Libby’s direction. “I thought bestfriends were supposed to be supportive, not snarky.”
            “Please,” Libbysaid, “like you could handle having a best friend who wasn’t at least half ascynical as you.” With her red hair and hazel eyes, Libby was a truly beautifulgirl. Today, she’d worn a green dress with patterned hose and heels. Ava was inher standard twin set and slacks. Whether they were in the office or at happyhour, Ava often thought of Libby as the Ginger to her Mary Anne. Only, in theirworld, the Professor always wanted Libby, too.
            “True enough.”
            “Hard at work orhardly working?” Libby said.
            “The usual,” Avasaid. “Hardly working.”
            “Hold on just asec.” Ava went back to typing.
        6. Window Wipe-Downs
Let all the light of spring in by giving your windows the royal treatment.Clean them on the inside and the outside. Wipe down the sills. Get between theglass and the screen to clear out the cobwebs. Do it for summer's mosquitoesand houseflies – they want a clean place to die.
            A moment later,she erased the last sentence. Harriet rarely appreciated the macabre.
            “Still lettingyour existential crisis interfere with your ability to serve the women of Glossmagazine?” Libby said.
            “Just a little,”Ava said. “Trust me, I wish I could be happy only writing about this stuff.Life would be a lot simpler.”
            “One thing lifeisn’t is simple,” Libby said. “Plus, you’d find a way to make anythingcomplicated and meaningful and tortured. It’s just in your nature.”
            “That’s whatmakes me a good writer,” Ava said.
            “Yeah, yeah, Iknow that your deep thinking makes your writing better. I just don’t think ithelps you keep a boyfriend.”
            “The rightboyfriend will like me for exactly who I am.”
            “Yes,” Libbysaid, “but when who you are keeps you home on the weekends reading andresearching literary journals, it’s going to be really hard to meet thatperfect boyfriend. Unless he’s a delivery guy for Amazon.com and literallyknocks on your door, I don’t know how he’s going to find you.”
            “Enough already,”Ava said. “Did you come in here only to harass me about my love life?”
            “That and Iwanted to say how meaningful your Monday morning affirmation was to me.”
            Ava glared.
            “But seriously,I’ve got a favor to ask. There’s some woman who I made a coffee date with,something about divorced women, potential stories, blah, blah. Anyway, I said Icould meet her at lunch today, but this list of summer camp tips isn’t going towrite itself.
            “Why me? Youknow I don’t like people.”
            “Yeah, I know. Nopeople, no small talk, no Republicans ... But, if I know you, you’ll finishyour story for this week and the next by noon. I think you can tear yourselfaway from celebrity gossip and dreaming of better jobs for an hour or so. Someof us have to work for our ideas. For some of us, this is a struggle.”
            Ava looked at hernearly complete housekeeping story and knew that “Color Your Mood: An in-depthlook at your wardrobe and how it affects your happiness and success” wouldn’ttake more than a couple of hours.
            “Please.”
            “Oh, Libby.”
            “Pretty please.”
            “Fine,” Ava said.“Send me the details, and I’ll take care of the meet and greet.”
            “You’re thebest.”
            “Yeah, yeah. Youowe me.”
            “Agreed. Our nextbottle of wine is on me.”   
            Libby opened thedoor and left Ava’s office. “I don’t want you to have time to change yourmind,” she called from the hallway. “Thanks again.”
            Ava went back toher computer screen.
        7. Product Pile-up
Unfortunately, all of the elements and tools meant to keep our houses clean canactually cause too much clutter and mess themselves. Pare down to one mop andone broom. Get rid of cleaning supplies that only have a few drops left in thebottle and combine same cleaners if you have multiples. Also, unless you havean army of help, there's no need for bags and bags of rags when a few heartycloths will do.
            Her 600 wordsfinished for the week, Ava looked over the story one last time, attached it inan e-mail to Harriet and hit send.

Reading Out Loud

I suppose I'm on a kick this month, but I'm going to another reading by an author I greatly admire this evening, and I couldn't be more excited. (I'm trying to plan for potential small talk in advance on this one. I really don't want to tell Ann Hood that I'm socially awkward or have her think that I'm mute.)

For those of you who haven't read Ann Hood, I highly recommend picking up one of her books. My personal favorites are her essays, which I will warn you in advance are both beautiful and tragic. Comfort is her newest book, and it is nonfiction.

Many of Ms. Hood's essays are on the subject of grieving her daughter, who passed away at the age of five. In her grief, Hood began knitting as a form of distraction and comfort. The Knitting Circle is a fictionalized account of a woman learning to knit while she grieves.

I discovered Ann Hood during a period of grief when I really was worried that I would not be able to write again. Finding Ann Hood's essay "Love Me Do" in The Honeymoon's Over: True Stories of Love, Marriage and Divorce was a gift to me, and it brought me what I needed most at that time -- someone who had the words that I didn't, and hope that if she could write something so lovely and touching after the pain she had endured, maybe, just maybe, I could write again, too.