To The Wilmington Star-News, Go Fuck Yourself!

I am truly appalled at the Wilmington Star-News's inability to report THE NEWS. Their lack of keeping us informed of our fair city is nothing short of criminal.

Yesterday I was at a friend's house where we watched the news. It informed us that the suspect in the case of the woman who was stabbed 9 times and raped downtown was on the loose. Supposedly there is a lax connection between that suspect and one that sexually assaulted (which I'm slowly beginning to learn means RAPED by the Wilmington Star-News standards of reporting) a woman and stole her car early Saturday morning. This same suspect, supposedly, later that morning tried to attack and "sexually assault" another woman who was out jogging. The stolen car was discovered in Onslow County missing an Onslow County police officer's uniform. The girl who owned the car, her boyfriend was a cop in Onslow County and he had his uniform in the car.

In light of all this, I did not want to drive home alone from my friend's house.  This made me feel upset in my own city. I expected there to be more details or information regarding this suspect in the newspaper Sunday morning. As far as I can tell it didn't make the front page, or even the local & state page. When the initial attack happened downtown it was in the papers two days and then was swept under the rug. Heaven forbid we start a panic. You'd think they'd have enough sense when there's a rapist/stabber lose in the city to at least have an article on how best to protect yourself.

No, No this city's main newspaper decided to focus on other important issues this morning, like on children killed by ATVs and car crashes, while there is no mention of even the two attacks that took place Saturday morning. I had to go online to find a little blurb about the attacks and how they might be linked to the downtown rape and stab.

This is absolutely disgusting to me. The news is supposed to inform and report anything the public needs to know. I think an at large "sexual assaulting," car-jacking, stabber is a valid thing for the public to know about. I feel unsafe in Wilmington, NC and it is a truly horribly feeling and until our local newspaper decides keeping us informed is more important than keeping us entertained. I will continue to feel the Wilmington Star-News only hands out half-truths to people like free sample cookies at the grocery store. Until you can give us a real meal Wilmington Star-News, I will not be dining.   

Correction: The Star-Newws finally put something about the attacks on the Front page of MONDAY's paper. It's a small byline and it left women exposed and unaware all weekend to the serial "sexual assulter." Way to go, Star-News.

3:02 AM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

For the Parents or Soon-to-be-Parents

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12:11 PM - 5 Comments - 5 Kudos - Add Comment

Good Dog Gone
Current mood: done

She was my mother's dog. My mother picked her out from a bundle of puppies. They were cocker spaniel-lab puppies, as far as we knew. We all wanted the little black one, but my mother demanded the tan one. She named her Ki'i, Hawaiian for the color of sand. We all loved that dog. She was our surfer. We'd take her down to the beach and she'd swim out to anyone with a surfboard. She loved the water.

After my mom died, no one really took proper care of her. Because she was a cocker spaniel mix she had that long wavy hair on her and it tended to get matted and dreadlocked. Making her a true local dog, but also making her look a little homeless. I'd cut off her dreads for her and try to bathe her and remove the ticks. Hawaii dogs are different than mainland dogs. Our ticks and fleas don't carry diseases. We don't have rabies. And very few people keep their dogs indoors. Despite her lack of upkeep, Ki'i was always happy to see you. She came bounding out from behind bushes at the slam of our front gate. The most beautiful welcoming party I've ever seen.

Ki'i was a very lovely dog, she wasn't big, she wasn't small, she was just right to still fit in your lap. She had huge, soft brown eyes with light, tan eyelashes. She was kind. She barked mercilessly at my Uncle Peter, we never figured out why. And even after she had gone stone-deaf she barked, randomly with the neighborhood dogs. It was as though she could feel the vibrations through the air. I think she really just had selective hearing.

Often times, we would be watching TV inside and hear a loud thump on our screen door. Ki'i was fond of throwing her entire body into the door, just because. People who were not used to her loud outbursts of attention would jump at the sound and ask what it was.

"Oh, that's just Ki'i, she does that."

I don't think there was a person, other than my Uncle Peter that this dog did not love whole-heartedly. Just as she threw her entire self against our screen door, she would throw her entire heart and soul into spending time with you. Her eyes, mouth and tail were all coordinated to smile at the sight of you.

The last time I saw Ki'i my aunt and I were talking about "the dog." She had grown strangely thin, losing 10 pounds in a little under a year. She rarely ate. But her eyes were still bright and her tail still wagged. Other than her thin exterior you would have never known she was suffering. I was still not used to the fact that she was deaf and would catch myself calling her name out several times before remembering. I hadn't lived at home for almost five years. My aunt and I talked about when we look at Ki'i, especially at her eyes, we see my mother. Because my mother was so buoyant and happy and that was exactly how Ki'i was a bubbly, joyful, bouncy dog. You could look into her big supple brown eyes and see traces of the love my mother put into this dog. Even though Ki'i lived without my mother for 10 years, there were dashes of all kinds of memories. I petted Ki'i's skinny belly and she rolled onto her back to better receive it. I scratched her behind the ears and got on my plane, to leave Hawaii. In my mind, I was positive I'd see Ki'i again, the dog was 15 years old, she made it this far.

A week later, I got a text message from my little sister with a short concise message "Ki'i died." I didn't believe her and when asked why I didn't get a phone call my text was answered with "because I can't stop crying." Sure, the dog was slightly under-cared-for but we all loved her the same. She carried with her a little piece of everyone in the family, not just my mother, even those who weren't related by blood.

My little sister told me I should be grateful I left when I did, because things went into a downward spiral for Ki'i from there. She stopped eating entirely and when they took her to the vet they gave her a type of dog food actually called Anorexic Dog and taught my little sister and my grandmother how to force feed her. Three days later, on a Sunday morning, Ki'i was found dead under the picnic table, she had been dead a few hours. My sister told me Ki'i's eyes were open and my father had to close them when he got home from work (a fire fighter working 24-hour shifts). My dad wrapped Ki'i in a sheet and they commenced to bury her, in her yard, underneath the red Plumeria tree. Everyone cried. My dad erected a mini-monument to the outstanding old dog and they went to church. At church, a song that is rarely ever sung in church commenced. It was one of the songs played at my mother's funeral at the same church. My little sister cried. We found out Monday that Ki'i had liver problems and could not actually process any food, which was why she stopped eating.

She was the last living piece of my mother for us. I think that's why she lived so long. She survived almost 11 years without my mother and yet we all swore that if we looked in her eyes we would see this wonderful, shining human being that used to light up a room with her laugh.

3:15 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Fat Girl Walking
Current mood: a delightful blend of elevated heat levels and col

The earth does not tremble when I put my shoes on. I have not fallen through any floors and remained lodged. I do not cause mini-earthquakes when I run. However, I have been called thunder thighs. I have been asked if I have a license for that trailer I'm carrying and in high school my butt had its own name.

RA. My butt's nickname in high school was RA – capital letters. It stood for Rubber Ass. How this all began was me thinking I was hot enough to go out in a leather mini skirt. By the end of the night I was curled up in a corner, my head leaning intently on a wall. My friend, who was passed out in a chair for hours, suddenly stirred, moaned, stared in the corner and screamed "THAT LOOKS LIKE A GIANT RUBBER ASS," and proceeded to pass back out. This caused everyone else in the room to stare at me and laugh. I hastily changed into shorts and pouted the rest of the night.

There is no shame in the fact that my hips are wide, my ass is huge and my thighs touch when I walk. I've accepted the fact that diet and exercise will not change the fact that I am a genetic code predisposed to be an A shape. Even at my thinnest, my butt had its own zip code.

Bigger girls are regarded differently than our skinnier counterparts. My body weeps when a skinny friend slides on her jeans without so much as struggling. Pants and I have issues there is rarely enough room to encompass all of my rear end and still withhold from giving me a lovely muffin top where my excess weight spills out over the brim of my jeans. In general, clothes and I have the same relationship as Al and Peggy Bundy. We do not get along very well. We have a long and tiresome relationship. Thinner girls can find cute, flattering clothes very easily while me and my bovine friends must fight and scrap over anything remotely our size and trendy. Thinner girls get more attention, at least wanted attention. Bigger girls tend to get tongues clicked at them as they pass. A reaction that signals why would you let yourself get THAT big? Here's the answer we didn't "let" ourselves get this big we just so happen to love food and we just so happen to not care what you think. How often do you see a thin girl power eat a set of luscious baby back ribs? It's not that we have let ourselves down, it's that we've let ourselves LIVE. I enjoy food, I love food, I eat food everyday and food in return gives me more comfort and padding than a Bugatti.

Obese is not the same as being a big girl. Obesity is a medical debilitating fatness. A big girl is more of a fluffy fatness. Our edges are soft instead of the sharp lines of a girl with skin stretched tight over taught muscles and bone. We have exaggerated curves, baby. Obese is where there are no curves, please don't confuse the two.

I go to the gym three times a week for a minimum of an hour and a half. Two days out of the week I walk my dog around the rich neighborhoods I'll never afford to live in for a minimum of 40 minutes. I am not the peak of fitness but I work my heart out and am not sitting on the couch constantly stuffing my face with various forms of fried goodness. There is an attempt made on my part to lose weight but sometimes you've just got to sit back, kick your size 10 feet up in the air, let out a sigh of relief and enjoy the fact that big girls are they're own wonderful class of human beings.

9:08 PM - 9 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

A Picturesque Proceeding

It was a beautiful divorce. An achingly sweet dismemberment of love. It was seamless how we divided up our household, everything from couches to dogs. He got the brand-new computer; I got the king-sized, pillow top bed. He got the leather couch set; I got the slightly destroyed velvet couch set. He got the big dog; I got the lap-sized dog. It worked out fine and there was no bitterness lingering in either of our mouths.

Within a month, we lived in separate homes, in separate towns. We decided to take me off the joint checking account. I agreed to this simply because I never had a card to the account in the first place. Instead, I had to submit a letter of request to my husband regarding a pair of shoes, a sweater, or an eBay purchase.

We walked into the bank holding hands and sat down next to one another in a woman's office where we politely discussed our marriage's dissolve. The woman sat in shock at our civility. With hands held, I opened my own checking account and removed myself from now, his.

And while we never actually had serious problems in our marriage it still seemed better to cut our losses and continue life sans one another. It was the little things. It's always the little things. You might survive one deep stab wound but surviving 200 little nicks makes you bleed out. We were bone dry. We took our little box cutter blades and we slashed away ripping out little pieces of our marriage chunk by chunk.

For every summer that went by, and the promise of traveling was unmet, I took a chunk. For every two week time-frame he made me wait for sex, I took a chunk. For every large purchase he made for himself, I took a chunk. For every restriction he put on my interaction with friends, I took a chunk. For every mention of child bearing, I took a chunk. For every lackluster emotion, I took a chunk.

Our ending rationale was he wanted to follow his career and I wanted to follow mine. Simple, sweet and clear-cut. He had his expectations of the marriage and I had mine. When neither expectation was met we parted amicably and moved on.

I, however, am not a robot. With my husband all things were black and white, grey areas were non-existent. I not only lived for the grey areas but in them. Nothing was black and white to me everything was shades of grey. I lived in a veil of grey, while he lived in a world of sharp contrast. White, black, grey they are all shades not a single one of them is a true color. There's no grey, white or black in ROY G BIV. Neither one of us could've been right in our conviction to leave the other because we were color blind.

My blindness did not make walking away from five years of devotion any easier and while we were in alliance for our separation the actual papers were stained with my tears. Because the thought of giving up on him, of leaving something I thought was going to last forever was a deep, deep knife wound. One that hasn't healed properly yet because it's still fresh. Every story I tell regarding my ex-husband, opens the wound to infection. At this point in time, the wound is a little over a year old it hasn't even scabbed.

I do not know if his stories involve me, I know nothing of his side of the divorce. But from my side, I feel as diplomatic and required as the divorce was it seems to have stolen a huge chunk from me. It was me, that initiated the divorce but my ex-husband who jumped on it full-throttle. He found the lawyer, he drew up the papers. I gave him a seed and he made it bear fruit.

Perhaps, it's the fact that it was such a clean break that made it so difficult for me. I had a crazy notion that even though we were parting, he should have fought for me. Even though the divorce was completely mutual, we still talk on the phone once a week and his stepmother and I still go shopping, he should have fought for me.

If he had tried, if he had fought, I might still be married but instead he let me go. He is a fisherman well acquainted with the catch and release program. By no means would I prefer to be married, but that last effort to save a marriage, even if the end was inevitable, would have meant the sun to me.

He could have shown that last stitch of love while I stained pillows, sheets, divorce papers with tears. It would have shown me the last five years meant something to him. It would have kept one more chunk a part of me. He'll catch another fish, and maybe this time he won't let her go so easily.

1:57 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

I Saw DKM and All I Got Was a Lousy T-Shirt

            It made me realize I was growing up. I didn't dress to fight or dance. I dressed comfortably and confidently. The crowd was mostly young; flailing their arms to nothing at all. A few aged souls braved the juvenile, screaming, bucking tornado known as the pit. I kept my distance. I learned better. There was no need to get drenched in other people's sweat for the off chance a band member might shake your hand. It wasn't worth the bruises.

            This was the first concert I had been to since my husband and I parted. The last time I saw this band my husband was beside me telling me to calm down and stop leaning over the railing. I got hammered drunk and couldn't tell you what happened that night.

            I didn't drink at the concert this time. Not a drop. Instead I was mainlined on adrenaline and excitement.  When my friend Shannon and I first arrived at the House of Blues in Myrtle Beach, my legs and hands were shaking uncontrollably. I was eager to get the night started. My body shook and rattled with anticipation. It subdued itself when the opening bands spent too much time on stage.

            No one could have understood me that night. It was freeing to be able to go to a concert without a bound-by-a-commitment bodyguard. Shannon was with me but I was defensive more so over her than I was worried about myself.  I was all alone out there and it felt good because when Dropkick Murphys finally played I was ready to sing loud and proud. I did just that screaming lyrics that mingled with other voices and was blasted back to us by the band itself. It didn't matter, none of it mattered, Shannon could have left the building and I wouldn't have noticed. Because this was my time with my band and everything melted away but their music and my screaming.

            My fist smashed the air with malicious intent and no one dared tell me to calm down. I had the freedom to dance, stomp, kick, scream and thrash. Towards the end of their session they started pulling girls up on stage. I ran, unaware if Shannon was behind me or still on the steps staring in utter shock. I hoisted myself on stage in wedge heels and a mini skirt.  I began screaming the words to the crowd and animatedly dancing in accordance to the lyrics. At one point, I turned around and flashed a throng of young thirsty, sweaty boys my knickers. Shannon was hesitant to join me and eventually after almost losing a shoe met me on stage, where I was once again oblivious to her presence.

            Assumptions can be the death of you and I assumed with my oblivious personality that Shannon had a bad time. The opposite was true. The whole ride home to Wilmington was a booming of Irish music and concert talk. I was happy she was happy.

               All alone I felt surprisingly okay. I was thrilled Shannon could come with me but in the end I threw myself into the pit and walked out without a scratch on me.

9:52 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Cowards.
Current mood: I'm sore all over

For the Weak Ones,

There are many sayings that come to mind when I think of those who cannot take criticism. For writers "if you can't take the heat stay out of the kitchen." What I mean by this is if you intend to write intend to be insulted. Someone, somewhere is not going to like your style, your subject matter, your voice, your technique and/or your tense. This is bound to happen. My advice: Do not pick up a pen/pencil or raise your fingers above a keyboard/typewriter with the expectation that it will be the greatest work ever, that everyone will love it. This is rarely if ever true. When your piece gets criticized, no matter how excited you were about it, or how great you thought it was, take the comments in stride. Take the comments even if they come across as harsh and dare I say "mean." You look over what other people thought and you build upon it. You expand or contrast your writings. Your eyes cannot catch what another person sees.

I am not saying there aren't mean critics that are only out to maim. I'm sure not every critique is unbiased and a true method of assistance. If you receive a comment that does not point out specifics, but uses terms such as "bad," "horrible," "fuck," or other vague adjectives then it is probably safe to discard.

To those who write stories well: I salute you. To those who think they write stories well: Think again. To those who want to write stories well: Keep up the hard work. To those who cannot write well but insist they are geniuses: Take the criticism.

Writing is all about revision. Revise, Revise, Revise until you bleed. If you don't have the stomach for revision, then get out of the kitchen.

To veer from writers, there is another breed of cowards out there: Those that use the shield of anonymous to grow balls. I am talking, of course, of those internet crusaders of boredom and irritation, which use the lack of a face and name to spur nonsense into cyberspace. Those individuals who have nothing better to do but scour the internet for people, places, or things to ridicule.

These individuals, I am convinced, specifically make themselves vague so as never to be known. How very sad that you need to rely on your invisibilities to promote your own self-esteem. Calling someone "fat," "ugly," "horrible," "stupid," "pathetic," or other such terms makes no difference over whether they can shoot you with a gun, or beat you in a spelling bee.

Everyone holds different values. Some may see education as an accomplishment, while others may see chugging 16 beers consecutively as a real accomplish. Getting your name in the history books could be a goal, but being a weak man or woman will never get you there. 

Currently reading : Tender at the Bone : Growing Up at the Table By Ruth Reichl Release date: 02 March, 1999

10:36 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Those Bitches.
Current mood: Bored and kinda horny

            I am not convinced by the bumper stickers that state "Marine Wife: toughest job in the core," or "I heart my Marine." I think what grates at my nerves the most with these blatant displays of "affection" is the fact that these women are defining themselves by their husband's careers. I will never understand how a woman could be so in love with a person that they will be willing to fork over their own lives and proudly submit to the idea that they are, and only are a "marine wife." I am my own person.

            This is not about feminism. This is not some political stance that women need to be away from the home attending to careers. This is not about a lack on a woman's part to get off the couch and grab life by the balls. No, what I am trying to discuss is the fact that these women, who so proudly display their allegiance to their husband's jobs are giving up on their own lives. Don't leave the house, stay in the house, and raise the three kids you popped out between the ages of 17 – 22, because you didn't realize the military gives away birth control pills like candies. Stay home that's fine. But do you have to show the world how absolutely submissive and reliant you are on your husband's income?

            The humor, behind these bumper stickers is that military marriages almost have a 100 percent chance of divorce. They rarely last more than five years especially on the enlisted side. Oh, and let's not forget that many of the military spouses are firm subscribers to "when the cat's away the mice will play." The military has a horrible love affair with cheaters.  Fine; cheat, divorce, get married, pop out kids when you're 18 and knew the guy six months. But for God's sake can't you have some dignity in hiding the fact that you are nothing more than one of those women who can't live outside of their husband's accomplishments?

6:44 PM - 9 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Fuck UNC-W
Current mood: Pissed off enough to skin a squirrel alive

I swear to God, I want to be famous just so I can shun UNCW what a God-awful school.  So, I was in line to graduate in December, you know like a good little student, applied for graduation and everything, when lo and behold UNCW finally shoots me an e-mail telling me I'm short a few credits. Really? Well, Damn that would have been useful, oh I don't know say in the beginning of the semester. 

So I spent the bulk of yesterday crying, I have this insanely large bruise on my hand, my driver side window on my car was duct taped up for two days (I got it fixed dammit) and I'm running on minimal sleep. You've got to love the college life. So I'm graduating in May now because UNCW is nothing but a bunch of schmucks and don't tell them but one of these days I'm going to burn them down.

SHHHHHHHH, fuck dude, it's a secret. What did I just say? 

P.S. So I got a letter back from the teacher/advisor who told me I wasn't graduating her name is Kathleen Gould, she wrote:

"So you can be angry at me if you like, or angry at the school, or angry at your advisor, but you also need to grow up and accept that you, yourself, did not pay attention to the requirements and the information on your own degree audit."

Horray for Me!

Currently listening : Cheating at Solitaire By Mike Ness Release date: 13 April, 1999

10:36 PM - 9 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Screw Magazines
Current mood: I'm at Work I have no moods

I've come to the conclusion that I hate magazines. They indicate to me, waiting and waiting is what poor people do (joking, Jesus lighten up I am a poor person) I went to the dentist today. I usually don't mind the dentist it's usually a short wait. I always refuse, R E F U S E to read one of their outdated magazines. And they always have a selection of magazines that astounds me. People, Home & Garden, Time, and then there's the random magazine with a kid on the cover who looks like he just stepped off the electric chair and went back for seconds. One magazine caught my eye though, I was tempted. It said Kids on it, but I’m a big kid dammit. It was called Bridges and I kid you not it was a magazine of Bridges. Just bridges. I found that funny. Like there's some kid out there so enthusiastic about bridges he can't wait for next months issue so he can have sweet dreams of San Francisco.

Alright so where was I? Right, three people came into the office after me, they all picked up their stale magazines and just the way people read magazines irritates me they flip through them. They don't take the time or the effort to learn anything they just glance at the written words. Magazines are like picture books for grown ups. So I sit there regretting not brining in my Tolstoy book from the car. I’ve had that book for a year and never seem to get to the half-way mark.

All the people that came in after me glance over me, suspicious as though I'm going to steal the fake palms and run off. Maybe it was because I didn't have a magazine in my hands. In any case, they all get called before me. Bastards so that puts me in a sour mood.

When it's finally my turn to sit under that bright light and stare into the goggle covered eyes of a complete stranger, the person doesn't say a word to me not the entire time, it's like I was a leper. She only broke the silence twice. Once was because she angled my head and shoved so much water in my mouth I was drooling down the side of the chair. She said sorry. Then she asked me if I had siblings I said they don't live here and she said another family from Hawaii came in once and she wondered if I knew them. Yes, bitch I know everyone that lives in Hawaii we have big luaus where we discuss Hawaiian history and politics. I know it's an island but that's like me asking her if she's from North Carolina and if she knows my husband because he's from North Carolina.

One thing I can't stand is them scrapping your teeth it's like nails on a chalk board to me. Gives me goose bumps and make me want to clench my teeth, but I can't because she's got her fingers in my mouth. oh, and those pamphlets are hilarious with the like words Gum Disease on it and a couple smiling from the 70s they are perfect.

Almost done people, hold on. So finally the actual dentist comes in scrapes around says everything is good and leaves, fucking leaves. I waited 45 minutes, staring at my arm in the waiting room for me to hear everything is fine? Super, wonderful thanks for fucking up my day. You can take your stale magazines and you know what you should sit in your well-lit waiting room and be forced to read every single one. Except for bridges I fear the dentist might enjoy that.

1:57 PM - 7 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment