Good Gravy, A little Help Here?

I hate shopping.  I particularly hate shopping for clothes. This is because the fashion industry has joined ranks with the diet industry and, through the insidious use of media, has waged a secret, evil war on my self confidence.

Before you start fitting me for a nice jacket that buckles in the back–I say “fitting” because, depending on the brand, I could be anywhere from a Medium to a Women’s XXXL– please be so kind as to indulge me in a little game.  All you have to do is match the shirt I’m wearing in the following pictures to the size listed on the label.  Easy, right?

One of these shirt is a Large, one is an XL, and one is a XXL.  Which is which?

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No makeup…

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No photoshop…

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All woman, baby.

Here are the tags in the same order that I am wearing them.

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Tightest.

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Best fit.

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Loosest.

How is it, you may ask, that the tightest frikkin’ shirt is also the one listed as the largest size?!  I know why.  Because it is a “ladies” 2XL.  It is not a shirt for a man.  It is not a shirt for a woman.  It is a shirt designed solely to fit some fictitious “lady,” who, it seems, is now under the false assumption that she is much larger than she thinks she is and should probably eat nothing but rice cakes and water until she’s beautiful again.

Still think I’ve got my tinfoil hat on too tight?  Take a look at the quality of women’s clothing in comparison with men’s clothing.  That Ladies XXL up there is made of thinner, less sturdy material than the other two shirts.  But don’t take my word for it.  Go to any clothing store and compare sizes, workmanship, and materials for yourself.

Then, compare the prices.  It seems insane to me that while women are still paid less than men for the same work, we are charged more for inferior clothing, health care, and even something as innocuous as a haircut.  In 2015.

While you ponder that, I’ll be over here eating my daily allotment of rice cakes, brushing up on my curtsies, and plotting the downfall of the fashion/diet juggernaut of evil.  M’lord.

Dragons, Excitement, and Fortune

Yes, I am fully aware that I am cheating by catching up with my A to Z Blogging Challenge by throwing three letters together like a shame omelette.  As I have not officially signed up to take the challenge, I’m going to give myself a pass this time.  And probably next time.  And the time after that, I’m not gonna lie.

Just how do the words dragons, excitement, and fortune go together, you may ask?  Like this:  I will be signing my books (dragons), all of which will be available for purchase (fortune), this May at Anime Central (ACen) in Chicago (excitement)!

When Darkling Drake was released, I had the incredible experience of having my first book signing at Wizard World aka Chicago ComicCon.  I expect this one is going to be just as much fun now that I have three titles to offer, including my latest release, Dragon Defender: A Pirate Princess Adventure.

If you’re in the neighborhood, stop by and visit with me in Artist’s Alley.  I promise I don’t bite.  Well, not hard anyway.

Censorship

I got into an internet argument today about censorship.  Well, originally it was about the Clean Reader app that blocks “offensive” words in books and replaces them with a “cleaner” version but it suddenly devolved into a discussion of the merits of trigger warnings.

This gentleman’s opinion, if I’m interpreting it correctly, appears to be that trigger warnings are a form of censorship because they force an author to censor their own work in the event that a stray word would make someone feel “slightly uncomfortable.”  His used the example  of college professors being mandated to use trigger warnings for certain classes.  My opinion is that a warning of potentially harmful material is not the same thing as a product that actively alters the words in an author’s work.

Unfortunately, the discussion devolved from there, and to be fair, I was the one who initiated the downward spiral of nastiness, as his even tone and elegant turn of phrase began to filter into my mind as condescension.  In my defense, I was on my phone which automatically made having any kind of reasonable discussion a hundred times more difficult, but I took offense to his assertion that trigger warnings have become a matter of faith in the same manner as black cats and broken mirrors.  One can’t argue with faith, so why bother?

And then I typed this:  Maybe because your accusation that my viewpoint is superstitious nonsense triggered me.

Yes, I was trivializing a serious subject with flippant use (which I should not have done), but I was also reacting emotionally.  I have experienced a traumatic event, and I would definitely appreciate the kindness of a warning that gives me the choice to proceed or not as I see fit.  This is not coddling or censorship.  The material doesn’t have to be altered or hidden from me by any arbitrary set of rules, I just want a heads up.  Is that too much to ask?

What I found most disturbing about the entire conversation was his viewpoint that because people are already misusing trigger warnings, it’s next to impossible to know what will trigger an individual, and psychologists assert that avoidance is a poor way to deal with a traumatic event, that we shouldn’t even try to create a way to alert people to potentially harmful content.  While one person may be triggered by a particular color, which is obviously impossible to foresee, there’s a pretty good chance that a graphic description of a gang rape would trigger a victim of sexual abuse.  Yes, that person should definitely seek professional help, but what if they can’t afford it?  Or are too embarrassed, the trauma is too recent, or whatever their own personal reason might be for not getting help?  As for those misusing trigger warnings, stop.  Just stop it.  You know who you are.

At the end of the day, my internet argument was a good thing because it made me consider something about which I didn’t originally have an opinion.  It also reminded me that even though I become almost incoherent when I’m upset, my feelings do count and I have every right to express them, just as you have the right to choose not to agree with me or even read what I have to say.  That’s not censorship.  That’s a perk of being an adult.

Bravado

I am a big fan of the fake-it-til-you-make-it philosophy.  As a teenager, I learned that if I looked like I knew what I was doing, no one would question whether or not I possessed a hall pass.  For me, that same bravado has also worked in a myriad of other social and professional situations.

For example, I have successfully given the impression that I had been paying rapt attention to a  lecture delivered in the most mind-numbingly boring staff meeting this side of the Andromeda galaxy, bluffed my way through a surprise FAA inspection, and even scored an author interview.

Bravado?  I say, “Bravo!”  You are whatever you imagine yourself to be.

Guest Post: V is for Vino

Yet another installment from my favorite ghostwriter.  I have a feeling this one may sound as familiar to you as it did to me.  Enjoy!

We take so much for granted these days. Turn on the switch and you get light, twist the handle and you get hot water, walk into any kitchen and find a corkscrew.

I grew up camping. Partly for the tradition, partly because it makes for a cheap vacation, and partly because it makes you appreciate modern conveniences. When you have to cut the wood and make a fire to heat water so that you can wash your dishes, that becomes a great reminder to turn off the hot water at home when you’re not using it.

Last week, I found myself “camping out” in yet another hotel room. In many ways, hotels aren’t that different from camping. You have a suitcase instead of a backpack, and a microwave instead of a fire; but it’s still a version of “you” with a handful of “your things” in a foreign environment.

I had a full 24 hours off, so for dinner I elected to go buy a can of almonds, some cheese, and a bottle of wine. The one thing I did not have – and did not think to purchase – was a corkscrew.

I should probably set the stage in a little more detail. On this trip, I didn’t have a car. This meant a two-mile walk to the nearest Chevron, which took over an hour and involved two trips across a four-lane highway, which is tantamount to playing “Frogger” but with one’s self as the frog. Therefore, going back to the gas station in hopes that they might have a corkscrew was not an option.

I am a trained aviator. In flight school, they drill in the edict to “use your resources”. But unfortunately, the front desk, the housekeeping staff, and the maintenance department didn’t have one corkscrew between them. And let’s be honest here, you can only ask for a corkscrew so many times before people start offering you 800 numbers.

If you’ve never Google’d the phrase “open a wine bottle without a corkscrew,” I highly recommend it. Mankind is an ingenious – and largely alcoholic – species.

The first option was simplicity itself. I don’t know if it actually works, but apparently if you strike the wine bottle firmly and repeatedly against a wall the sloshing will gradually work the cork out.  Since I was in a hotel room, several hours of slowly and rhythmically pounding a wine bottle against the wall seemed an inconsiderate choice.  Amusing, but inconsiderate.  All those years in Boy Scouts I carried a Swiss Army knife with what I thought was a completely useless corkscrew on it, and now here I am.

Another option involved converting a wire coat hanger into a pair of tiny claws.  I also found detailed instructions on creating a six inch long, ½ inch diameter dowel, and tapping it with a hammer until you drive the cork into the bottle. Then you “up-end” the bottle so the cork will float away from the neck while pouring the entire bottle of wine into the decanter.  But this begs the question: who has – or can fabricate –  a six inch dowel, a hammer, and a decanter; but no cork screw?

I swear I’m not making this up.

There were ideas involving shoe horns, butter knives, and drills, but the one that caught my attention was “the screw method” – pure genius. The individual behind this must have been as desperate as the guy who ate the first lobster.

Now this method assumes you have a Leatherman Multi-Tool, which I do.  In a nutshell you find a screw, twist it into the cork, and use the pliers to pull it out. The hard part is finding the right screw. You obviously need one with a pointy tip and large threads. But in a hotel room you’re only option is to “borrow” a screw from something else, and unfortunately, you don’t know what kind of screw it is until it’s out.

Take the humble outlet cover. No good. Every one of them, it turns out, has a flat end.  And the “screw” that holds the handles onto the dresser drawers? Also a bust – those are actually bolts.  I’d also say that 75% of the screws in the window frame, air conditioner and bed are either decorative, or have that stupid little swale (the window frames in particular) to prevent removal.  The majority of the screws in the phone, TV, and fridge are either plastic, or too short to be worth a shit. And the ceramic bastards that hold the commode to the floor break REALLY easily.  The little gold balls on the lamps aren’t screws at all, they’re nuts. But whatever that metallic thing is that falls off inside the lamp when you remove the nuts sounds a lot like a screw. We’ll never know.  The fire detectors don’t make use of screws at all. They largely use epoxy to hold them to the ceiling.

BUT… If you look under the coffee table, those things are held together with good old wood screws.

Cheers!

Next time I might try tapping it on the wall for a few minutes just to see. If nothing else whomever comes to the door to complain might have a corkscrew.

Guest Post: “Ustedes Me trae de papel”, Uncle Bill…

A dear friend of mine has offered to “ghost write” my U – Z posts for the A to Z Blogging Challenge so that I can take my time to get back into the swing of things. I don’t feel comfortable accepting credit for another’s work, so I decided to present this to you as a guest post. Enjoy!
 

 I’ve always wanted to learn a foreign language. Of course, I haven’t wanted it enough to actually do it, I’ve just coasted through the past 15 years saying,“I want to learn a foreign language,” so that I could forestall the actual task of doing it.

I did take one semester of Spanish in college, but that was primarily because the T.A. was incredibly cute. Consequently I paid attention to entirely the wrong things. One thing I do remember is that without “context or need”, learning progresses slowly.

Fast forward 12 years. I find myself in the unlikely position of flying to and from Chihuahua, Mexico on a weekly basis. And when I say “weekly,” I mean that I’m flying down on Monday, staying the week, and flying home on Friday. Chihuahua has become my home away from home.

As the corporate pilot I have little to do in Chihuahua except wait. The best corporate pilot resume I ever saw listed 12,000 hours of flying experience and 36,000 hours of waiting for passengers. At the end of the day, we’re paid for readiness, not productivity. An airline pilot (like a city bus driver) can take the number of miles multiplied by the number passengers and come up with a value that approximates their contribution for that year. But a corporate pilot is valued more like an ambulance driver or EMT. As far as I know, no city out there judges the worth of their rescue-squad by the number of passenger-miles logged in a given year. We’re paid for readiness. Consequently, I find myself with hours and days to pass in Chihuahua, Mexico.

To many people and all-expense paid week in Mexico sounds like the prize of a lifetime, and in Cabo, San Lucas or Belize it might be. But Chihuahua is not a resort town. Chihuahua is a gritty, industrial city in the high desert of the central highlands of north-eastern Mexico. It’s the Allentown, Pennsylvania of Mexico. Working class and working poor side by side in a utilitarian march to produce cement, auto parts, and grain. That said, Chihuahua is also the state capital, and home to most of the history between the U.S. and Mexico.

But for now, my concern is the Hampton Inn, Chihuahua. This could be any Hampton Inn anywhere in the world until you call the front desk. Given that Chihuahua is not a tourist-town, there’s not impetus for the general population to lean English. In other words, I’ve finally found the “context” within which to learn Spanish. And I’m determined.

Now, before I finish, I need to tell you a quick story about my late Uncle Bill. Once back in 1963, he went to Paris on business. He was as determined to learn and speak French as I am determined to learn and speak Spanish. In those days, most European restaurants did not bring a glass of ice water to the table as is now the custom. Uncle Bill thus found himself with the opportunity to practice his French by ordering “oeuf de la glace,”which he thought was “water with ice.”

Unfortunately for Uncle Bill, he’d missed the subtle but important difference between “eau” (which is water) and “oeuf” (which is egg). After several insistent exchanges, the waiter retreated to the kitchen, and 15 minutes later, my uncle received a bowl full of ice with a boiled egg on top. “Oeuf de la glace” instead of “eau de la glace.” His attempt to become a suave and debonair, cross-cultural attaché’… had instead made him that guy.

Now, if you recall, I’m on day number two of my first week-long stay in Chihuahua. The lady responsible for room service is at the door, and I’m confronted with my first attempt to communicate in Spanish.

“No necesito el servicio de cuarto,” I fumble out. This means “I don’t need room service.”

“Si,’” she replies.

“¿Dos botellas de agua?” I add, hoping to get one bottle to use for brushing my teeth and one to use for coffee.

“Si,” she replies and hands me two bottles of water. Victory!

As she starts to push her trolley down the hall, it occurs to me that they give you microwave popcorn at this hotel – which I like – and that I’ve already eaten my one bag. Maybe she has more!

“Un Momento Senoria…” I blurt out.

She stops.

“¿Puedo tener un bolso de…” I can’t remember the name for “popcorn,” most likely because I never bothered to look up “popcorn.”Honestly, when have you ever seen “popcorn” on a “most used list” for foreign language training?

She’s waiting…

I punt, “Papel?” That sounds like popcorn right? Surely she’ll figure it out.

She looks confused.

I start to pantomime the many tiny explosions of popcorn.

She looks more confused.

I add the over-exaggerated grin of a clown, somehow hoping that “overt happiness” will somehow convey “popcorn.” I try again, this time with grin, handgestures, and a few small jumps in the air. I add, “Puedo tener unbolso de papel?” followed by numerous small popping sounds with my mouth. Pop. Pop. Pop

Suddenly, her eyes widen. The moment of comprehension – we’ve communicated! I’m very happy. She turns and runs down the hall. She’s yelling to a co-worker, “Papel del armario… Papel del armario!!”

I can’t imagine why the request for popcorn is so urgent, but I’m pleased that I was able to communicate my desires. A minute later she comes rushing back with… six rolls of toilet paper and a look that says “you poor man”.

I’m now that guy.

Instantly, I realize that I’ve managed to get the words for “popcorn” and “paper” mixed up. All I can see is Uncle Bill’s bowl of ice with an egg on top. As I recall the hand-gestures, the little jumps, and the enormous grin, I am mortified. I don’t dare try to fix it now. All I can do is take the arm-full of toilet paper, and offer “Gracias” with a look of relief. What must she think is going on in that room?

Part of me chooses to believe that Uncle Bill is looking down on me, smiling. Part of me knows the room-service staff is shaking their heads and smiling at me (while they laugh uncontrollably).

And so the family tradition continues, “The crazy American wants what?!” Every trip since then, that one particular room service lady always gives me a look that can only be described as a knowing glance. (eye roll)

——

Epilogue: Its two months later, my Spanish is better. I’m again trying to sally-forth with confidence. Today we arrived very early, so early that our rooms were not ready yet, so we retreated to the Applebees across the street for breakfast to pass the time. I ordered eggs, beans, and tortillas and my partner ordered French toast.

After the food arrived, I wanted to ask for a bottle of Tabasco. I know that “salsa” means “sauce,” that “caliente” means “hot,” and that in Spanish the modifier precedes the noun- instead or “Red Truck” you have “Truck, Red”. So in my most confident tone possible I asked: “Tiene salsa Caliente?”.

To which the waiter replied: “…que’? “

I repeated my request until he relented.

Several minutes later, I was presented with a bowl of ketchup that had been heated nearly to boiling in the microwave. It turns out that in Spanish, “hot, spicy” and “hot, temperature” have entirely different nouns. (“The crazy American wants what?!” Uncle Bill, where are you!?)

My partner looked up from his French toast; “This is like the popcorn thing, isn’t it?”

I raised the bowl of hot ketchup, “Cheers”.