Once upon a September...

...and so it begins.

In precisely 91 minutes, the clock starts ticking on my self-imposed deadline. It'd be just like me to overthink how I'm feeling at the moment, so I will describe it in the simplest possible terms. I feel... good. It's only now, as the last few minutes of pre-noveling tick away, that I'm starting to get the jitters. I'm about to dive headfirst into a journey through the backwoods of 16th century Virginia (which is now part of modern-day North Carolina), a barren and unforgiving land to the unwary pioneer. Various dangers abound. Wild animals. Savage Indian warriors. Plague. Disease. Pestilence. Poverty. Writer's block. Which begs just one question:

What am I getting myself into?

I'm not worried. Even if I am, I'm going to bend over backwards to convince myself that I'm not. I always overpack for any and every trip I embark on. And in this case, I've prepared the best way I know how, armed to the teeth with photos, notes, research, background music (see above), and a bit of imagination... the literary version of sunscreen and bug spray, if you will. I've only got a very crudely drawn map, which, ironically, is akin to the prospects of some of my protagonists, the members of the Roanoke colony, venturing into a place unlike any other they'd ever known, abandoning the safety of home for a place that offered unlimited possibility and no guarantees... and why? This was one of the many questions I found myself faced with as I dug into my research, trying to imagine the lives of the characters I ventured to create. Mostly, the answer I found was the desire to follow the path of a formidable faith, one that led them across stormy seas to a place entirely alien to them. For anyone who'd never taken the journey (which was... well, pretty much everyone, at the time), it was a fool's errand. History tells us that those souls who braved the Atlantic did in fact make it to the shores of what is now Hatteras Island and founded a colony, eager to build their lives in the vast and mystical land across the sea. Eleanor White, daughter of the colony's governor, John White, gave birth to the very first English child born in America, Virginia Dare, named for the province on which they landed. After that, however, members of the lost colony somehow disappeared, lost forever to time. To this day, historians have no solid answer to the colonists' fate. Among the most tangible of clues is a gold insignia ring, inscribed with a crest registered to the Kendall family of England.

And that's where the story begins.

That was the seed of my idea, anyway. And what a sapling it has sprouted since then, I'll tell you. Four months? Five? At this point, it's hard to say. I've honestly lost track, myself. I'm not really good with specifics. Which is what makes this all just a little frightening.

1500 words a day, more or less. That's what I've committed to. That's what I need to get me to the 50,000 word count that defines my stumbling creation as a "novel," for the purposes of National Novel Writing Month. For better or worse, I'll cross the finish line on September 30th, with a fledgling manuscript clutched in my fist. Make no mistake - I don't intend to have a copy of Homer's Iliad in my hands at that point. The idea is to have a first draft completed. Historical inaccuracies and plot holes will abound at that point, I'm quite certain. But what I'm banking on to get me through to a finished product at that point is little more than faith.

Faith. (Hold your jokes until the end of the post, please.) A little concept I was named for (that admittedly was my mother's, not mine), a truth that carried a ship of 92 men, 17 women, and 9 children across a fierce ocean, and now, a little something I'm going to hang a very big hope on. Oh, cripes. I must be crazy.

Too late now, though. I've done the homework. I've shared my inspirations with dozens of people. And the funny thing is, no pipe dream I have ever had has been met with as much enthusiasm and support as this one. When I told people I wanted to major in theatre in college, for instance, I was met with a number of quirked eyebrows, polite smiles, and a heaping helping of rather unconvincing enthusiasm. "Oh! Well, that's... nice." This time, though, I'm getting a large amount of fascinated stares, optimistic smiles, and a lot of "Wow? Really?" "Good for you!" "I want to read it!" No one should bank their success on the encouragement of others, but knowing that so many people are behind what I'm doing... it really helps to solidify the thought that I'm doing the right thing.

There are an awful lot of things I'm just not sure about right now. As is so often the case in life, I've got more questions than answers. I'm not sure who or what I can depend on, and I'm well aware that I'm balanced on a precarious ledge, knowing that anything or anyone that surrounds me right now might well drop off without warning. But not this. This is my creation. It's something I've built, something I've got full control over. And while it's a blessing knowing that for once, I'm able to choose how it turns out, it's actually frightening to realize that this all rests on my shoulders. If it all falls flat, I've got no one but myself to blame. I'm relying upon no one and nothing but myself to get through this. That's both a comfort and a threat. I've never been the sort of person to rely on my own thoughts, opinions, or abilities. I always looked to someone else to show the way. I've never taken it upon myself to leap so far into an unknown without a safety net, without someone else there to catch me. But hell, nothing much else that I've tried has worked out entirely so far.

This is about more than just me, though. While I've been researching, thinking, and scribbling notes in a spiral-bound book, somehow, a vivid cast of characters have come to life. Some have stepped straight out of the history books, others have sprung entirely from my own imaginings. My very first character, for instance, leapt straight out of the dark patina that surrounded the oldest known relic ever found on the shores of America. And as that almost unrecognizable lump of metal was polished to its original golden sheen, so, too, did the refined and headstrong young man I imagined had once worn it, a certain Captain Kendall, as the registry aboard the ship bound for the Americas in the spring of 1587 confirms. Without my dedication, this captain Kendall is a brief mention in a ship's manifest. Should I drop this thing altogether, he'll be lost entirely to the shores of time. And while I've known him for the briefest period of time, I feel I owe him more than that.

I guess that's why it's really, really important to me to get this done. For as long as I can remember, I've always wanted to do something with my writing. You can guess how many times I've actually done it. I don't know why it's important to do it now, other than to prove to myself that I know where I'm headed. There are a good deal of things that I get frustrated with because I'm of the mind that I can't do anything about them. If only I can conquer this one thing, it'll be one thing that I managed, one big, huge, 50,000 word thing. I guess to a lot of people (you know, Shakespeare, Keats, Shelley, Bronte), it's not such a big deal at all. To me, though, who never really thought I could do anything... well, it's a hard, swift boot to my own arse.

In short, here's the plan: 1500 words per day. Some more, some less. (Thank God I've got a guidebook in all this.) I'm going to post my word counts periodically. I've got a network of supporters that I'm relying on to keep my head in gear. I may even share passages of the story from time to time. Enthusiasm and a "what happens next" from the potential readers is probably what's going to be the best fuel to keep me going. I know it's not going to go as perfectly as I'd planned. There will be moments of panic. There's probably going to be times when I fall drastically short of the daily 1500 word mark. And there will, undoubtedly, be more than one moment when I'm tempted to shrug my shoulders and offer a halfhearted apology to those who invested their confidence me and silently admonish them (and myself) for ever thinking I could do it. Although I'm banking on the threat of major embarrassment to save me from complete abandonment.

After all, as of the end of this sentence, I'll have already composed 1539 words.

The world may never really know what happened to the lost colony of Roanoke. But if I manage to come through the next 30 days unscathed, I'll have at least one theory. As for what happens to me, I'll have an even better idea.

Two minutes and counting. I'm definitely ready. Let's go.

Chances are...

"If I gave it all
If I traded it all away for one thing,
Wouldn't that be something?"

I often wonder why it is that people do the things they do.

It's an awfully broad statement, to be sure, but when one is attempting to conjure up fictional characters, it's an important thing to consider their personalities and motives, in order to be able to plan what they're going to do next. You know you've got a fairly developed concept of your characters when you write a paragraph for them and delete it, thinking, "No way, he'd never do that." That's the beauty of fictional characters, though. When my fingertips hit the keys, I am ultimately given the power to decide whatever it is they're going to do. Even if at times I don't agree with their actions, and don't like them, it is paramount that I do understand them.

Real people, however, are rarely so easily understood.

Most people who know me well will tell you that I rarely turn down any sort of social invitation, barring severe illness or prior obligations (and even in those cases, I've been known to make exceptions). However, beginning in just over 48 hours, I will be prepared to do exactly that. Parties, movie dates, romantic entanglements (har har har), and any completely non-essential outings will be taking a backseat to an endeavor I still think I'm crazy for undertaking.

I say I don't understand the things that people do. This remark is spurred mostly by the fact that I know people who have done things like this - not exactly of the ilk that I'm doing, but similar things all the same. I know folks who have quit their jobs, invested their life savings, and generally overthrown their entire lives because their faith in something was so strong that they saw no alternative. Most of these were flights of fancy that many would consider outlandish and foolhardy. Some failed and returned to their normal workaday lives. Some succeeded and are on to wonderful and brilliant things. Some are just beginning to take flight, and it remains to be seen whether they'll crash or soar. It's the hell of a chance to take. I've never been the sort of person who was willing to take a gamble like that, so I'm kind of baffled by people who do. Like I said, I've never really understood them.

But I do admire them.

I don't take chances. Hardly ever. I don't play the lottery. I back away like a frightened child at even the slightest hint of conflict. I'll take the blame for something that isn't even my fault because I think it's simpler to take my lumps and get it over with. I always wear my seatbelt. (Admittedly, though, that last one is just good lifesaving sense.) Most of the chances I have taken have ended badly... more often than not, I've fallen flat on my face. Maybe that's why I shy away from them these days. Nobody likes losing out all of the time, and I can't imagine that I'm all that unlucky. I figure that maybe most of the chances I took were just plain ill-advised. Maybe it took getting nixed all those times to help me figure out which opportunities were truly viable, and which were better just let go. Which brings me to my latest venture.

I don't give myself credit for very much. At all. I'm constantly downplaying my abilities and good qualities, and if anyone ever compliments me on any of them, my typical response is along the lines of "Nah... not really," or "It's nice of you to say, but I don't really think so." If someone compliments me on my outfit, I shrug my shoulders and tell them that nothing else was clean. When I receive a compliment on one of my cakes, I start bringing up a list of things I wish I'd done better on it. It's very difficult for me to just say thank you. A lot of people misinterpret this as ingratitude (nobody likes having a compliment thrown back at them) or modesty... it's really not. While I do consider myself modest under most circumstances, what it really boils down to is a lack of confidence in anything I am or set out to do. I'm very aware that I don't give myself much credit at all, although it's something I'm definitely striving to work on. I've worked on several crafts... most notably acting, my first love; and photography and cake decorating, which I discovered later. My writing, though, has always been a little something different. At the risk of sounding like a bit of bad poetry, it was something I always pulled straight from my soul, for better or worse. Most any time I took a chance on my writing, it succeeded. That was the one thing I could (almost) always win at, the one thing I never felt any reservations about.

I am a good writer. Somehow I've always known it, and while I know that there are certainly those who are far better at it than I am, I am completely content in my own ability. While acting was always my first love, and my parents weren't always thrilled about it, mostly owing to the instability of such a profession, they were always uber-supportive of my writing. Maybe they knew something I didn't, at the time. Truth be told, I've always wanted to do something with it. God knows why I never studied it in school. I've received various lauds from professors for my essays, and won a fair number of local writing contests... I even recall an analysis of the lyrics in the song "American Pie" for English class in my freshman year of college that earned me glowing praise from my professor (granted, she was something of a hippie, and I was banking on that to earn me a decent grade when I chose that particular song). Words always, always came easily to me, moreso on the page than verbally (on the page, I've got time to think), which is probably why I tend to prefer emails and text messages to phone conversations. I don't much like having to think on my feet. All this considered, it's really no wonder that I'm taking a gamble on something like this.

For those who don't know, I had surgery four months ago. While it was something that was pretty significant to me, it wasn't what one would refer to as major surgery, although it earned me about a week of downtime. During the pre-surgical consults, I'd already made the decision that I wanted to use this time constructively, and after the initial Percocet haze cleared, I'd gotten a few things done for myself. One of them was to purchase a book called "No Plot? No Problem! A Low-Stress High-Velocity Guide to Writing a Novel in 30 Days." The author was the founder of something called "National Novel Writing Month," colloquially known as NaNoWriMo. I'm not 100% sure when the seed of the idea took root, but I do recall that on that same day, I also purchased a book called "Strange Kingdom: The Brief and Tragic History of the Lost Colony of Roanoke." I'd always been fascinated with the story, and it wasn't long before the purchase of the book that I'd decided I wanted to write something about it. I'd largely forgotten the idea altogether until about a month ago. I imagine that I was searching through the attic of my mind for long-forgotten thoughts when the beam of my flashlight struck the box containing this particular dream and thought... okay, let's do this. It was early August when I picked up the NaNoWriMo book again and began to read it in earnest. I began turning down social invitations to spend my Friday evenings in the Barnes and Noble cafe, hunkered down with a latte and my research. I began filling a steno pad with my thoughts and learnings, and I went to Amazon to purchase books on daily life in colonial America. I even purchased a pendant that I determined early on would play a significant role in my story. I faced obstacles such as writer's block, historical inaccuracies, and potential plot holes. Each was easily plowed through with a bit more thought and study. For every question, with a few days' thought, I had an answer. Nothing had come so easily to me. On or about August 15th, I made my decision: my novel-writing odyssey would begin on September 1.

The ensuing weeks have been consumed with further research and brainstorming, and now, 48 hours before my self-imposed start date, I feel ready. Truly ready. So many other ideas and pipe dreams I've had and have felt committed to have fallen away with little ceremony, so naturally I felt some trepidation in the beginning that the same would happen here. At this point, though, I doubt I'm going to abandon it, partially because I've mentioned it to several people, and my fear of letting them down is keeping me going, but also partially because I've invested so much in it already, and haven't yet let it go.

So at the 2-day mark, I stand on the precipice of something really big, and I'm not really afraid. Sure, I've got some jitters that I'll run into writer's block, but overall, I'm very happy, and very excited at this thing that I've built for myself, and I'm fairly certain that I'll overcome any stumbling blocks I hit along the way, because it's important to me, and because I've already begun fashioning characters in my mind who have become so interminably real to me that I see them as actors waiting in the wings, eagerly awaiting their opportunity to take the stage. I'm quite certain that at the end of this 30 days, I will have, at the very least, a 50,000 word rough draft as the NaNoWriMo book suggests, because my characters demand at least that much from me. And I'll endure a lot of sleepless nights, a lot of turned-down plans, maybe a few discerning glares from friends. But I'm going to see it through, for a few reasons. First, I owe it to my writing. I've never dedicated myself to my writing, and I want to give it a shot. But mostly, I owe it to myself. I've rarely kept promises that I've made to myself, and this is one that I want to keep. As of late, I've let myself be used, devalued, and generally stepped all over because I figured I really didn't merit much more than that. For this one thing, though, I do figure I owe myself the effort.

So... as the final 48 approaches, I'd like to ask you all for one very big, very small thing: your support. For all those who have pledged to get on my case on a daily basis about my word count, for those who have pledged to read my manuscript once it's done, for anyone who's ever told me I had a gift... I beg you for your confidence, and your patronage. The road I've planned for myself is a difficult one, and more than anything, I want to prove to myself that I can do it, but it certainly wouldn't help to have a few kind souls cheering me on along the way. And for everything I've sacrificed in the next thirty days, I can only hope that some of it will still be waiting for me when it's all through. Because for every dream I've sacrificed everything for, there are still so many other things that mean a great deal to me. On the converse of those big dreams I've seen come true for folks I know, they've also sacrificed a lot in the bargain. I don't want to be one of those people. Still, I've got to be a little selfish. This is the road I've chosen.

"They were the best years of my life;
It's true the suffering shapes you
I didn't know it at the time,
But it's about the journey
And without your love
I would never have made it
That's the truth."

P.S. - As promised, the bit of trivia I found during my research: in colonial times, it was not at all uncommon for a homeowner to drop a chicken down his chimney to clean it out; the frantic wingbeats were highly effective in cleaning out the flue.

Five Commercials That Suck (And the compelling reasons why.)

I initially brought this up as kind of a half-assed idea, and since I'm kind of tired of a.) talking about big deep life thoughts and b.) the idiotic commercials that are on the airwaves nowadays, I figured I might write a little something about that for a change. Most of my beef with awful commercials is the fact that it wasn't just one idiot who thought these things up - a whole boardroom full of stuffed shirts sitting around a glossy conference table watched this and said, "YES! This is the image we want to represent our product!" Adding insult to injury is that there are actually people out there who are paid handsomely for coming up with dreck like this. Partially inspired by a recent conversation with a friend over dinner, I threw out a post on my Facebook about dedicating a blog entry to it. To my delighted surprise, my buddies seemed all gung-ho on this idea. Some are my choices; some are theirs. In the case where the commercial was a suggestion by someone else, I've screened and reviewed it for submission (yeah, you're welcome). But if it's here, I hate it, and I'll explain why.

#1: Heidi Klum's Light and Fit Yogurt Commerical



The Premise: Heidi Klum sits in the lobby of what appears to be a gym or spa, slurping and humming and generally making inappropriate noises into a tub of yogurt. An unfortunate-hairdo'ed fellow patron turns and expresses her disbelief... not at the supermodel's unceremonious behavior, but at the fact that the snack she's going practically orgasmic over is only 80 calories.

Why I Hate It: For one thing, it's being played out ad nauseum on Investigation Discovery (ID), of all places. It's one of my favorite channels, and I'm getting bloody tired of seeing this commercial pop up at every break, to the point where I'm about ready to start deliberately throwing my clean clothes in the mud so I have a convenient excuse to get up and do laundry so I can avoid seeing it. Second, it's yogurt. No human being who is not infected with a scorching case of pellagra is going to get that fricking excited about yogurt. Adding insult to injury is the fact that the fine folks at Dannon expect me to believe that Heidi Klum actually eats.

#2: The Free Credit Report.com Commercials



The Premise: I hate each and every one of these spots without prejudice, but for the purposes of this discussion, I'm choosing the one that irks me the most. A shaggy hipster in a zip-up hooded sweatshirt stands around playing guitar with two similarly-looking wastoid buddies and bitching about how he didn't know his wife-to-be had lousy credit, and as a result he's now living in her parents' basement. Had he only had the foresight to (invade her privacy and) visit freecreditreport.com, he would have never married her.

Why I Hate It: Where do I start? First of all, his testimonial is factually incorrect on two levels: for one thing, he's whining about being stuck in a basement apartment, which is funny considering behind him are two large windows with sunlight streaming in. I know that those of you who live in Florida are unfamiliar with basements, but having lived in one myself, I can tell you that if they have windows at all, they're about the size of a porthole and are at the very top of the wall near the ceiling, because the rest of the dwelling is (you guessed it!) underground. Second, I'm pretty sure it's illegal to check another person's credit report before marrying them (and perhaps even after, I'm honestly not sure how the law works) without having a legitimate business-related reason. And all the while this useless slob is sitting around complaining about his situation, his financially unstable wife is seen bustling around doing the laundry. You can really only see her from behind in the ad, but I'm pretty sure she could have done better than a bedheaded tone-deaf mook who thinks it's a far better idea to sit around playing guitar in his sunlit basement with his doofy friends than to get his lazy ass a job and save up for the down payment on the house that he's complaining he can't get. The only freecreditreport.com commercial that I even marginally enjoy is the one where he's driving around with the aforementioned loser buddies in a crappy old jalopy, and that's really only due to the fact that he's getting laughed at.

#3: The Huggies Jeans Diapers Commercials (Suggested by Jagoda)



The Premise: Early afternoon in a posh neighborhood in Beverly Hills (or somewhere of the like). A pair of swankily dressed ladies cease their conversation and pull their designer sunglasses down their noses. A man loses his grip on a batch of balloons and stares. A classic convertible pulls up and a tuxedoed chauffeur opens the door to admit the new arrival. Is it a Hollywood A-lister? A rock mogul? A professional athlete? No... it's a toddler in a pair of Huggies stylized to look like denim.

Why I Hate It: I'd never seen this commercial before, so when I started watching, my first reaction was... damn, I can't include this one. It's really not that bad. The kid was cute and stylishly dressed (I hate it when parents dress little kids in ugly clothes, it's just unfair), and the ad was just alive with color, which is always a plus. Then the voiceover started. It sounded suspiciously like that stupid Antonio Banderas-wannabe bee (wannabee?) who does the Nasonex commercials. -1 point. Then he starts spouting out gems such as "my diaper is full... of style" and "when it's number 2, I'm number 1." Oh, hell no. Listen, the only voiceover artist who could ever get away with spouting out crap (no pun intended) like this was Isaac Hayes, and he checked out to join the aliens in the volcano a little over two years ago, so the folks at Huggies really should have taken that as a sign that this spot never should have been made. The closing line of the ad: "The coolest you'll look pooping your pants." Hey, Huggies, you made three mistakes here. Mistake 1: Talking incessantly about poop is only funny when Adam Sandler lights it on fire and throws it on Old Man Clemens' porch. Mistake 2: I hate to disappoint, but nobody's going to want to spend extra money to get a denim pattern printed on something that their kid is going to take a dump in, and is most likely going to be covered up by clothes anyway. Babies running around in diapers with no pants on in public just look like little mini-rednecks. The only way you could possibly have made this worse is by making Huggies Overalls diapers. Mistake 3: Your tagline deludes children into thinking that sh*tting themselves is going to somehow elevate their popularity. Some six year-old kid is probably going to watch that and deliberately crap in his pants and end up utterly humiliated at PS 322. That's not only bad television; it's socially irresponsible.

#4: Quizno's Singimals Commercials - Starring Kittens (Suggested by Blaser)



The Premise: I can't describe this one too extensively without giving myself nightmares, so I'll try to be brief: three kittens in 18th Centuryish garb sing in horrible falsetto voices about Quizno's new 5-4-3 deal, to the tune of "Three Blind Mice."

Why I Hate It: For starters, I learned nothing about the product during this commercial, due to the fact that I was so horribly fixated by the godawful assault on my eyes and ears that was taking place. I think it was at about the 0:17 mark that I started hugging my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth and crying for my mommy. For my second reason, I'm going to pull the "factually inconsistent" card again. There are three kittens singing to the tune of "Three Blind Mice." Would it not be more logical to have three mice singing about Quizno's tasty (if overpriced) toasted subs? That would at least explain the gratingly high-pitched voices. Rodents selling food are economic gold - haven't you seen Ratatouille? Somewhere out there are a bunch of unemployed animatronic blind mice who are mightily pissed off that they got passed over on this deal and are going to pick up their Braille phones and call up the Equal Opportunity Employment Commission and demand retribution. Between that and my psychiatrist's bills, I can't imagine that this is going to be very cost-effective for the toasted sub-selling conglomerate. Yo, Quizno's - you might want to rethink that 5-4-3 deal. You're going to need the extra income for your attorney's fees. (And you might want to add a "for a limited time only" disclaimer while you're at it.)

#5: The Honda "Mr. Opportunity Sings Opera" Commercial



The Premise: An opera diva made up like a two-bit hooker sings an aria bemoaning (in Italiano, naturalmente) a missed opportunity, when who should come knocking at her door but Mr. Opportunity himself, come to save the day with amazing deals on Hondas and an impressive vibrato to boot. As he hits the final resonating note, a single tear rolls down his cheek. Aaaaaaaaaaand... scene.

Why I Hate It: I was really torn on this one, hence saving it for last. I've got a lifelong hatred for car commercials in general (there's just too damn many of them), although I've always kind of had a soft spot for Mr. Opportunity, since he's kind of a stud. He's really the only cartoon character I've had a crush on since Johnny Bravo (no worries, Johnny - you're still my number 1). However, this latest ad just takes it way too far. As anyone who's heard my recent bitching about Gilbert and Sullivan can confirm, I hate opera. If my friends are in a production, I will gladly go in support of them. But to be forced to watch opera in my own home, and about Hondas? Dammit, a line has to be drawn somewhere. Mr. Opportunity, I'd like to see you in your trailer. Immediately.

The Shameless Art of Self-Promotion

GAH!

Okay. Now that I've gotten that out of my system... is it just me, or are there way too many out people out there who are utterly enamored with the sound of their own voice? I don't know if this is something I've failed to notice before, but it seems as though the world is suddenly swamped with attention whores run amok. Are we just now seeing the products of working class parents who didn't have the time to hug their kids enough finally come of age? Or perhaps a generation of Sesame Street, Barney, and Mr. Rogers followers who took that whole "love yourself for who you are" thing just a weebit too far?

Being a part-time actor, I suppose it makes me a bit of a walking contradiction, but I was never one to cry out for attention. I'll stand in the aisle at the supermarket for a solid five minutes waiting for the person blocking my path to move before I mutter so much as an "excuse me." I'll wait until I'm practically bleeding out my eyeballs before I'll go to a doctor. If I'm wearing a top that shows even the slightest bit of cleavage and somebody comments on it, I'll spend the rest of the evening berating myself for dressing like a whore. Meanwhile, I dodge cranky shoppers who'd sooner mow me over than excuse themselves, listen to friends drone on and on about whatever ache, pain, or illness they've got lately, and watch girls who spend their evenings alternating between spilling out of their tops and stuffing themselves back in, all the while narrating about stuffing themselves back in. I try to keep moaning about my problems to a bare minimum and discuss them with very few people at that, and I find myself sitting silently and waiting for twenty minutes while those selfsame confidantes shoot me apologetic looks while taking phone calls from other friends who have no such reservations.

I'm pretty sure the biggest part of this whole thing is my own fault. By and large, I'm of the mindset that there's no use in sitting idly by and wishing for things - if you've got the power to do something, make it happen. If you don't, you're just going to make yourself miserable. You've really got no right being jealous of skinny people while you're stuffing your face with Big Macs. At some point you've got to ask yourself... is it worth it? Do I really want to be a size 2 if it means I have to spend my life in a gym and never get to indulge in a slice of pizza or a mug of beer?

Which begs the question... what's the drawback in being an attention whore? Constant doting from others? Getting free drinks at bars by showing a bit of leg? Cutting ahead in line at restaurants because the staff would rather deal with the silent resentments of the more patient patrons rather than hearing you complain? Come to think of it, it doesn't sound so bad, does it? Sure, you're going to get an awful lot of quiet seethers like me who are just going to hate you. But by nature, we're really not going to say anything about it. I've never cried to get out of a speeding ticket. I'll scour a department store looking for a stepstool before I bat my eyelashes at that 6' tall hot guy in the next aisle and ask him to get something off the top shelf for me. I'll choke down a meal at a restaurant cooked the wrong way rather than flag the waiter down and send it back. Similarly, I have a hard time dealing with histrionics. Unfortunately, it precludes me being friends with the sort of people who engage in them like it's an Olympic sport. Part of it is just me being incredibly bullheaded. The rest, I suppose, is some overabundance of dignity, and God knows where I picked that up, but I just can't seem to shake it. Funny how those who are in love with themselves have so little self-respect, and vice versa.

Like so many other things, it's all about balance. It's okay to send the food back if it's going to make you sick. It's fine to wear something that shows off your ::ahem:: attributes, so long as folks don't spend their entire evening wagering on your cup size. And hell, everybody deserves to whine a little bit if they're sick or brokenhearted. But those on the other end of the spectrum would do well to remember that if you're stranded at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere with a flat tire, batting your eyelashes and bursting into tears is not going to get you rolling again. So take a bit of seasoned advice from anyone who's ever had to suck it up and be their own hero: tuck your breasts back into your bustier, wipe your eyes, get your ass on the ground and get to work. As for me, I'm just going to have another bite of my Big Mac and keep my big mouth shut. For the most part.

No Stone Unturned

I lost something rather precious to me tonight.

I was in the middle of dinner, recounting a story about my day in my typical animated fashion, when I lifted my hands in a gesture and caught sight of my left middle finger. My jaw went slack. I found myself staring at an empty space surrounded by four gold prongs.

My mother has had this ring as long as I can remember... probably since before I was born. It's a square-cut yellow topaz, her birthstone (which also happens to be mine), set in a thin band of 10 karat gold accented by a small diamond on either side. I always admired it as a child, and I borrowed it from her a number of times in recent years. Then, about two years ago, she asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I said I wanted a birthstone ring like hers. When my birthday rolled around, I opened the small box she gave me and found my mother's ring. She rarely wore it, and she said she figured it would mean a great deal to me, since it had been a gift to her from my dad. Since then, it's been a constant presence on my finger. I only take it off when I'm baking (and I know my hands are going to get messy) or if I'm cleaning it. Needless to say, the loss of the topaz is pretty upsetting to me. I was very nearly to the point of tears as I crawled around the house on my hands and knees searching for it. I hardly heard my mother's reassurances that it'd turn up eventually. My mind frantically drifted over the number of places I'd been to today, wondering in which of those places it could possibly have gotten away from me. It's probably not worth much, monetarily speaking. Topaz isn't a particularly valuable stone, and not nearly as popular as a diamond or emerald. I doubt someone would find it and pocket it. More likely it'd be swept away unseen with a pile of garbage gathered in a dust pan or vacuum. Even if someone did see it, who in the world would they return it to?

With this in mind, I searched in every nook and cranny I could think of... under the seats of my car, on the patio, in the tub, the fridge, the drawer I'd gotten a knife out of to cut my chicken with at dinner. (Don't get me started on what could have happened if it had fallen into my plate while that was going on.) I even went so far as to give my hair the once-over, in case I had inadvertently deposited the gem while running my hands through it. In the end, though, I sat empty-handed, shoulders slumped in defeat. There isn't a place I can think to look that I haven't checked already, but that hasn't stopped me from doing it. Right now I'm feeling a little helpless. And I'm probably taking this a little too seriously. I've been in a place lately where I've been thinking entirely too much, and I was already feeling a little down when I noticed the stone was missing. And of course, to an overly analytical person like myself, it's very easy to take it as a bigger indicator that I can't be trusted with anything pretty or valuable, because it's a pretty safe bet that if you give me something like that, I'm eventually either going to lose it or break it.

There's an old saying that goes "If you love something, set it free..." I always thought that was kind of stupid. And there was a time several years ago when I was looking for my high school ring, and I mentioned it to a friend of mine that I'd lost track of it. She was a rather eclectic person, and she suggested that perhaps it wasn't meant to be mine. I thought that was rather stupid, too, especially since it seemed ridiculous that a ring I had planned the design of, that had my name engraved on it, and that I had spent a hefty sum of money on, was meant to belong to someone else. (For the record, I never found that one, either.)

I kind of doubt I'll ever see the little square topaz again. It's too small, and there are too many places where I could have lost it. I suppose eventually I might have another stone put in the setting, although it'll never be the one my dad gave to my mom. Still, I've got the biggest part of the ring. The band and the diamonds are still there. And sometimes, just having the empty space is unbearable. If the missing stone never turns up and I can find something to fill that hollow that was left in its place, I think I'll be okay with it. I could see it as a small consolation that I took something that had elements of both my parents and added something of my own to it, too.

There have been a number of things I've been trying to come to terms with lately. One of them is that searching and searching for something just because you want so badly for it to be there isn't going to make it magically appear. I've never been one to shy away from learning a valuable lesson, even from something as small as a vanishing gemstone. An empty space is not easy to deal with, but I'm not going to attempt to fill it until I've found something I'm happy with. There is always the possibility that the stone will turn up on its own, and if it does, I'm going to make sure I do whatever I can to keep it from happening again.

Until then, though, the little four pronged setting sits in my jewelry box, patiently waiting on its next occupant, whatever it might be.