The Right Thing to Do

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Forgive me for getting political. Here at the Stiletto Gang, we try hard to write entertaining and informative posts about a variety of topics. For instance, this week, my choice for a topic was between “Spanx” and “health care.” As you’ll see, I’ve chosen the latter and I apologize, in advance, for ticking anyone off, something I apparently have gotten very good at lately.

It seems that you can’t go anywhere these days without hearing the words “health care” or “health care reform.” Never has a topic, in my lifetime anyway, engendered such passion and heated debate and I was born a year before the Civil Rights Act was passed. I don’t remember this kind of inflammatory discussion when brave men and women were shipped across the sea to liberate a little country called Iraq. But hold the insurance companies’ collective feet to the fire, or offer health care to a child, or someone with a “pre-existing condition” and we get threats and potential violence against our lawmakers.

Is the health care bill perfect? Not by a long shot. But neither was the Constitution. That’s why we’ve got amendments, people.

Some other things that weren’t perfect? Medicare, the Social Security Administration, the Works Progress Administration, the ERA…need I continue?

A few friends were over the other night, including a friend who has muscular dystrophy. He recounted that because of the arcane system under which we are all laboring (and getting sick), he cannot get treatment because he has the dreaded pre-existing condition. Yes, he’s had MD since he was eighteen. Did it exist before that? No. He already had it when he became an adult, though, and when he went on his own insurance. So he can’t be treated with certain drugs that could possibly minimize the discomfort that he feels from his illness. The insurance company won’t let him. He hasn’t quite figured out how to get around this Catch-22 and he’s forty-five years old living with a chronic disease that he’ll be living with for the rest of his life.

Then you’ve got me. Five years ago, I was diagnosed with Stage III melanoma, a deadly diagnosis at best. There was one surgeon with whom we consulted who would even attempt to remove the tumor from my groin. He felt that the operation would be successful, unlike the other surgeons we consulted. He felt that he could cure me. The only catch? The hospital where he performed my surgery didn’t take my insurance. The cost? Upwards of six figures.

Fortunately, I come from a family with the means to help me pay for what turned out to be a life-saving surgery. The operation was successful. Not a day goes by, however, that I don’t think about the mother, sister, aunt, or daughter who has to make the decision either to not have the surgery or go with the surgeon with the shaky hands who isn’t confident that he or she can get the tumor out never mind have the patient survive the surgery. I met that surgeon, incidentally, and he didn’t inspire a lot of confidence.

Can you imagine having to make that choice?

The Iraq war will cost the American taxpayers close to three trillion dollars by the time we finally get out. I haven’t heard a peep about how much the war is costing the average “Joe and Jane,” but I hear about how we’re going to be paying for someone else’s health care for as long as we live and into future generations. Guess what? We’re paying for it now. Just because we’re not currently insuring the uninsured, we’re still paying when they have an x-ray, or go to the emergency room, or have a strep test at a clinic. We pay every single time.

By the world’s standards, I’m a pretty rich person, even if by the standards of this country I fall solidly into the middle class. It is because I’m a pretty rich person that I am here today. I have the means to pay for the best health care money can buy and I’m not even one of the “Cadillac plan” holders. Without health insurance, and the ability to pay for the difference between what my insurance would cover and what my doctor would accept to take out a five centimeter lump from my groin, I would be dead.

That’s not putting too fine a point on it. That’s the truth. And I can’t bear to think of anyone saying to one of the most sought-after cancer surgeons in the world that they’ll have to pass on the surgery that could save their life because they can’t afford it. I can’t even think about what it would be like to sit around and wait to die, because that would have been my fate. I would not be writing this post—and possibly ticking you off—if I hadn’t had health care. I wouldn’t be here.

Back in 2000, I watched a debate between Al Gore and Bill Bradley, both of whom were vying for the Democratic nomination. I had always been a Bradley fan and hoped that he would win the nomination, an outcome that was not to be. I remember one of the moderators asking him why we should strive for universal health care in this country. Why, the moderator asked, should we insure the uninsured?

His answer? “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

The plan isn’t perfect. Politics prevail, and not in a good way. As a nation, if we focused on the saying “because it’s the right thing to do”—and made our decisions based on it—as opposed to which side of the aisle someone sits, we’d all be better for it.

I promise to write about Spanx next week.

Maggie Barbieri

Passover and Easter

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This is the garden at the bookstore where I did a signing this weekend–thought it looked appropriate for Spring.

Not being Jewish, I don’t celebrate Passover, though I certainly know the Passover story. As a Christian, and a Sunday School teacher, I’ve read the Bible and heard about and taught what happened the night the Jewish people put the blood of the lamb on their doors, and the angel of death passed over and none of the Jewish children died when the first born of the Egyptians did.

I’ll be celebrating Easter on April 4th. Our little church always has a Sunrise service at 6:30 a.m. Suprisingly, we always have a crowd despite the cold and the early hour. We see people who never come to church, but want to participate in an Easter sunrise service. We sit outside and our praise team leads us in Easter songs and our pastor gives a short sermon. Afterward, we enjoy a breakfast provided by different members of our church. At the usual times, Sunday School and our regular worship service begins.

Again, because it’s Easter, we’ll have folks turn up to the regular service who haven’t been to church since Christmas and even a few new people who are just looking for a church to attend on Easter.

In earlier days, women wore new dresses and often a fancy new hat. Now it’s different, people come as they are. Little girls might have a new outfit, but not even many of them do. That’s something that seems to have gone out of favor–or maybe it’s because our church has so many poor people who belong.

I’ll probably have to figure out something to fix for Easter dinner–something easy, because I won’t be up to cooking anything big since I’ll be up so early to go to the Sunrise Service. (Since I first wrote this I ordered a honey-baked ham and plan to make potato salad and macaroni salad. Invited family members to bring something to share.

Tell me about what you do for Passover or Easter, if you celebrate one of the other. Or any rituals that signify Spring for you.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Welcome to the Matzoh Ball

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Tonight is the first seder. I’ve been cooking and cleaning for weeks. Even the recent Noreaster that tore through my town and left me without power for five days couldn’t put a dent in my holiday spirit. I confess I was momentarily panicked when the lights first went out. I had gallons of chicken soup in the freezer. I could put up with reading by candlelight, freezing showers, and indoor temps of 40 degrees. But lose my soup? Heck no. Thankfully a friend had an extra refrigerator in her basement, an empty freezer, and best of all, power. Passover was saved.

This year we are having 25 family and friends join us for the first seder, 14 for the second one. It’s a bit daunting, but the part that keeps me going is the joy and love I feel when I look around the room. I delight in all the singing, praying, laughing, and eating! I kvell, Yiddish for swoon, at the wide-eyed enchantment on the faces of the children.

The search for the Afikomen (a piece of matzoh that is hidden during the seder) is one of the highlights of the night. The matzoh is put in a little pouch, made by one of my sons when he was in nursery school, and then hidden by the adults. Once the kids find it, they hold it “ransom” because according to tradition, we cannot complete the seder without it. “Heavy duty negotiating” ensues, until a “fair price” is set – usually either a few dollars or a small gift. As the kids get older, you’ll see the teenagers “help” the younger ones hold out for a good prize. My husband and I often joke that we knew two of our sons would be good lawyers given their Afikomen negotiating skills!

And the food – Oy, the food. Five courses and my kids would seriously object if I attempted to eliminate any of them – even if they personally don’t eat some of the delicacies. Two of my four wouldn’t touch a piece of gefilte fish with a six-foot pole, yet they’d be the first to express horror at the very concept of omitting that course from the seder menu. Listening to my kids, I can almost hear the chorus from Fiddler on the Roof singing “Tradition!” I ask you, Stiletto Faithful, regardless of which holidays you observe, do your children cling more to tradition than you do?

And it’s not just the age-old traditions. I mean the ones that I added a couple of times over the years and have now been informed are set in concrete. Luckily, I looked back at my blog from two years ago and found a recipe for Persian Charoset – something I had entirely forgotten, but which son number two told me was always a family tradition (um, what family was he in?). Anyway, I’m making it, as always!

All best wishes for a Zissen Pesach (a sweet Passover) – and a wondrous spring.

Marian (the matzoh ball-making Northern Half of Evelyn David)

Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David
Murder Takes the Cake by Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com

In My Mind, I Run Like a Kenyan

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Rachel Brady

Lee Child made what I thought was an interesting remark at Left Coast Crime earlier this month. Paraphrasing, it was that the fun part of writing is the daydreaming, and that the hard part is getting the words onto the page.

Ain’t that the blazing truth.

I’ve been thinking about that remark for weeks. Somehow I’ve had the notion all this time that getting words onto the page is easier for everyone else than it is for me. Given a choice, I’d rather visualize scenes hundreds of different ways than actually sit down and write one down. Why? Because the version I choose might not work, and then I’d have to cut all those pages.

I know: “Get over it.”

But still.

It takes a long time to put down thousands of words. Cutting them is hard. Why not decide first how I want the book to go, by daydreaming through dozens of plot lines, and then writing down the version I decide is best? For me, daydreaming is oodles more fun than typing words. Many writers say they have to write, that they are addicted to writing. Not me. I’m addicted to daydreaming.

A few years ago, David Morrell shared an interesting story about daydreaming that I’ll never forget. Coupled with this new statement by Lee Child, I grow hopeful now that my Writer Imposter Complex might possibly be unfounded.

The keyboard does not call me. I don’t get a charge out of putting down the words. My charge is always in the imagining.

In this regard, I fervently hope that my future as a writer will parallel my history as a runner. There was a time I did not enjoy running. The only thing I liked about it was how I felt afterward, and fortunately that feeling was good enough to keep me lacing up and coming back. Writing, the actual act, is a little like that for me now. Making a synopsis, staring at a blinking cursor, struggling for a word, or figuring out the best way to express an emotion is often frustrating. As with my running years ago, writing is frequently painful while I’m doing it. But, like the running, I feel an indescribable sense of accomplishment when it’s over. Huge. It’s the buzz that keeps me coming back.

Twenty years later, I’m still running. Now I actually love the run while I’m doing it. I feel disappointed when I miss a run and I’m always looking forward to the next one.

Today I’m daydreaming about a time when writing will feel like that.

70 MIllion What?

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I saw this video last week and loved it. I posted it on The Naked Hero and I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to share it with The Stiletto Gang, too! It’s by a band called Hold Your Horses, and the song is called 70 Million (lyrics are below).

What I love about this video is the imagery. The were SO amazingly creative in how they used the artwork…how they became the artwork…and that alone makes it a standout to me.

But then they also talk about novels and heroes… and novels and heroes are two of my favorite things!

Hope you enjoy!!

70 Million by Hold Your Horses ! from L’Ogre on Vimeo.

Hold Your Horses! 70 Million lyrics

And it hardly looked like a novel at all,
I hardly look like a hero at all
And I’m sorry, you didn’t publish this
And you were white as snow; I was white as a sheet

When you came down in this black dress
In your mom’s black maternity dress
And so,
Though it hardly looked like a novel at all,
And the city treats me, it treats me to you
And a cup of coffee for you
I should learn it’s language and speak it to you

And 70 million should be in the know
And 70 million don’t go out at all
And 70 million wouldn’t walk this street
And 70 million would run to a hole
And 70 million would be wrong wrong wrong
And 70 million never see it at all
And 70 million haven’t tasted snow

And we dance dance dance like the children dance
Imply thought are we taking the chance?
With the light still on, and will we ever reach the tower

And after you came down in this black dress
I don’t know what took so very long
And this,
And this isn’t a war, we don’t have to ration
Now wave white flag, and you kept it at home
And words I wrote from a foreign land
You’re holding my no longer foreign hand

And 70 million should be in the know
And 70 million don’t go out at all
And 70 million wouldn’t walk this street
And 70 million would run to a hole
And 70 million would be wrong wrong wrong
And 70 million never see it at all
And 70 million haven’t tasted snow

So, how many paintings did you actually recognize in the video? Do you have a favorite?


Happy Thursday! Oh, and don’t forget to stop by Books on the House and Books on the House for Kids and Teens!


~ Misa

The Oscar “Curse”

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Sometimes I think that we haven’t come very far in the fight for equal rights women. Then, I see something like a high school production of Annie Get Your Gun, and I am reminded of just how much has been accomplished since 1946, when the play was first produced. Annie, however, was pretty prescient in its treatment of the celebrity marriage with all of its ups and downs.

For those of you who don’t know the story—and I didn’t before seeing the show—Annie is a girl from the country who is illiterate but can shoot a gnat off a pig’s nose without hurting the pig. She meets up with “show biz people” in the form of sharpshooter Frank Butler; his snotty sister and assistant, Dolly; and Buffalo Bill who produces and bankrolls the show. Naturally, she falls in love with Frank, but in order to get her man, must hide from him the fact that she is a way more talented sharpshooter than he’ll ever be. But what’s more important? Fame or love? Accolades for one’s accomplishments or the warm embrace of a guy in a white satin Western suit? You can only imagine which Annie chooses.

Throw in a bunch of politically-incorrect “Indians,” who sing monosyllabic songs of love and act as something of a Greek chorus and you have the makings of the most racist and sexist show I’ve ever seen. Annie makes last year’s production of South Pacific seem like “Do the Right Thing.”

Child #1 played in the orchestra pit, as she did last year. I asked her about the content of the show and she responded that all of the kids—from the actors to the orchestra members—were commenting on just how ridiculous the show’s plot was. How it was racist and sexist. At least the kids have the good sense to know what’s what.

Child #1 said that it was hard to believe that people actually believed that a woman should hide her talent to spare the feelings and ego of her partner. Although I’d like to think that this kind of behavior is no longer common place, consider the “Best Actress Oscar” curse, as it is called.

Seems that almost every Best Actress winner from the past decade has seen her marriage or relationship break up shortly after receiving the highest award an actress can be given for her film work. There was Halle Berry who kicked sex addict Eric Benet to the curb after winning for “Monster’s Ball”; Julia Roberts, who broke up with hunk Benjamin Bratt shortly after winning her Oscar for “Erin Brockovich”; Charlize Theron who ended it with Stuart Townshend shortly after being recognized for playing serial killer Aileen Wuornos. And who could forget Hilary Swanks’ tearful acceptance speech where she thanked everyone from her cleaning lady to her dental hygienist and forgot poor Chad Lowe, her husband a talented actor in his own right? Had he not been such a talented actor, he never would have been able to stand by her side for one red carpet interview after another remarking about his wife’s talent and how it was really ok that she had forgotten to thank him at the Academy Awards. But a frozen smile and a clenched jaw are dead giveaways, and that was a man who cared.

The list goes on. Talented women with husbands who can stay in the shadows for just so long. Our most recent example, Jesse James, betrayed America’s sweetheart Sandra Bullock, revelations about his extracurricular activities (available in paperback at bookstores near you!) coming to light from a woman who can probably hear the clock ticking on her fifteen minutes of fame as I write this. According to the tabs, Sandra has moved out and if she has any sense, she won’t move back in. (Side note—saw a celebrity psychologist on television talking about the James-Bullock marriage and she said that the only way they could come back together is if he reestablishes trust with Sandra. To which I say a big, fat, “DUH.”)

Maybe we haven’t changed all that much since Annie Get Your Gun came out. Is it just show biz marriages? Because I know plenty of married couples who share in the excitement of one another’s accomplishments. Isn’t that part of the deal?

What do you think, Stiletto faithful?

Maggie Barbieri

Celebration of the Whales

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This past weekend, hubby and I were in Oxnard, CA–our old stomping ground. Yes, back in the day we did do quite a bit of stomping. Hubby was in the Seabees, stationed at Port Hueneme Navy Base for many years. We lived about two blocks from the main gate for over twenty years in the same neighborhood with many other servicemen, police officers, and firemen. (Most of us bought our homes for $100 down. Now you can figure out how many years ago this was.)

The occasion that brought us there was the Celebration of the Whales at Channel Islands Harbor. Every weekend there is a Farmer’s Market at the harbor, but on this particular weekend they had a craft fair, and that was why I came, to sell my books. We always jump at a chance to do any activity in or around Ventura County as we have two daughters who still live in the area with their families.

We arrived at our eldest daughter’s home on Friday afternoon. Had a great visit, Saturday morning we met youngest daughter and granddaughter at the movies, and all of us went out to dinner together that night.

Early Sunday morning we traipsed down to the harbor and the area where the Celebration of the Whales is held. The place bustled with cars and trucks and people putting up their tents and displays. We had the same spot as the year before and quickly set up. Actually, we’re not very good at the tent, but someone always comes and helps. The rest is easy, two chairs, a table, tablecloth and my books. I always do well with the Rocky Bluff P.D. series in Oxnard because the books actually came to life because of the Oxnard P.D. While we still lived in Oxnard, our son-in-law was an Oxnard police officer and always told me tales about what went on. And of course we were also friends with our neighbors who were on the Oxnard P.D. and their wives–all material for that series. The latest, of course, is An Axe to Grind.

Before the starting time of 10 a.m., people began strolling by. Hubby and I took turns asking people if they liked to read mysteries and handing out cards. For a good while, though it was an overcast day, it was fairly warm. We talked to many people and sold enough books to pay for the spot and then some.

Eldest daughter, hubby and Archie, their golden retriever, arrived to keep us company. Wasn’t long after that the wind came up and blew in off the ocean and it turned chilly. That was the end of people being interested in books–or much of anything else. We packed up about an hour early and headed back to our daughter’s.

Was it worth it? Of course. Hopefully I’ll have made new fans for both my series who will seek out the other books.

Besides, we had a great time while we were down there.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Some Basic Rules

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I know that my daughter (and yours) already understands these concepts, but apparently Rielle Hunter did not, so I’ll spell them out.

1. If you take off your pants in front of a photographer, he’s not shooting a headshot. It makes you look even dumber than dirt when you then complain that his focus was elsewhere.

2. If you have an affair with a married man and get pregnant, don’t then tell the world in an interview that he wanted you to have an abortion. It makes you heartless when you consider that an already rocky, if not impossible, father-daughter relationship will forever be tainted by the information you provided. (Corollary Rules: anything put in print is in print forever; if it has ever been on the Internet, it can always be found. Kids, stop sharing stupid photos on Facebook).

3. If you have a child, and this applies to homewreckers and politicians alike, don’t photograph her for a magazine spread as part of a campaign to “humanize” you. That’s not your kid’s job. Bad enough she has to grow up with the craziness of two self-centered parents.

4. If the man is still married, don’t describe your love affair as “till death do you part.” It’s just tacky (although you may not have a clear grasp of what’s tacky).

Since I’m in a judgmental, but helpful mood, I’ll add the following: if the rumors about Jesse James, husband of recent Oscar winner Sandra Bullock are true, here’s a tip: if your intended extramarital love object has more tattoos on her face than eyes, don’t expect her to be discreet. Corollary Rule: If she is featured on an adult web site, don’t be surprised if nothing is “sacred” between the two of you.

And last rule for the day for those who stray: If your annual income has more than six figures (or you’re married to someone who earns that much), and you troll in bars for company, here’s the bottom line: money talks, fast and loud. Are you listening, Tiger? There may only be fifteen minutes of fame allotted to those who have sex and tell, but they can be a lucrative 900 seconds if you play your cards right. Ugh.

Judgmentally yours,
Marian (the Northern half of Evelyn David)

Murder Takes the Cake by Evelyn David
Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com

Why Life Should Be More Like Hockey

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by Susan McBride

I’ve been going to hockey games ever since my first date with Ed, which was five years ago this November. I used to think of the sport the same way Carla Moss does in The Cougar Club:

“You’re equating hockey with fun?” Carla looked at Kat like she’d lost her mind. “Watching a bunch of overgrown boys pummel each other with sticks? Do any of them still have their own teeth? How does that saying go, ‘I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out’?”

Since Ed has season tickets to the St. Louis Blues games and since he plays in a local league, I’ve seen more hockey than I ever thought I’d experience in a lifetime. I still don’t understand all the rules completely, but I do get why so many love the sport. And the better I grasp the finesse involved, the more I think the world would be a saner place if it borrowed a few rules from ice hockey. I know, I know, that sounds bizarre, but stick with me. Listen to my suggestions, and I think you’ll see the logic, too.

First off, dealing with other human beings can be tough as not everyone’s on the up and up. Life is a giant playground where bullies thrive on ruining everyone else’s fun and plenty of folks try to skirt the rules. The older I get, the more I’m convinced that most adults aren’t grown-ups any more than Alexander Ovechkin is a choir boy (he plays for the Washington Capitals and got a two game suspension for smashing a Chicago Blackhawk against the boards, breaking the dude’s rib and his collar bone). Two politicians from opposing parties can’t stand within spitting distance without name-calling these days. I’ve watched parents fight over hard to come by Christmas gifts in Target. I’ve seen grown women cry after board meetings where finger pointing has replaced honest debate.

At least hockey players are outfitted for the rough stuff, unlike the rest of us who don’t suit up before we leave the safety of our homes to interact with society. We’d be smart to put on pads and helmets before we get in our cars and deal with idiots on cell-phones behind the wheel who seem determined to run us off the road. Or to confront the “ladies” in the supermarket who learned cart etiquette from the demolition derby and seem intent on running over our feet or banging into us, no matter if we’re sticking to our side of the aisle. Wouldn’t it be nice if there was a ref on the road or in the produce department who could blow a whistle and call a foul when appropriate?

Instead of hearing that so-and-so lied about you or whispered nasty gossip behind your back, wouldn’t it be great to just throw down your gloves and start pummeling each other until there’s blood drawn or someone ends up on the ice…er, the floor? It would feel so much more sincere to just man-up and take care of business face to face; then, once you’re finished, you get up, shake it off, and go back to the rat race. No harm, no foul (unless one of you is uber-nasty, then it’s five for fighting in the penalty box).

And for times when folks are just taking the game of life too danged seriously and need to lighten up, how about a little intermission, like in hockey when the Pee Wees appear on the ice and skate around to “Peanuts” music? Maybe we should all be forced to take a break and run around with pre-school kids who haven’t realized how stressful their lives are going to get once they graduate, get jobs, get married, have kids, get fired, lose their house, et al. A couple quick games of hopscotch or a few times across the monkey bars, and perhaps we’ll remember that life should be FUN sometimes. It isn’t all about working and struggling and trying to prove ourselves. We can listen to their laughter and remind ourselves what joy and passion feel like and vow never to lose them.

See what I mean? If the real world were more like a hockey game, we might all have less angst to carry around in our over-sized purses. Just remember to dress appropriately and, if you break any rules or just plain don’t cooperate, you will be tied to the middle of the ice and flattened by the Zamboni.

Happy Friday!

Sleeping on the Job

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Do you ever get so overwhelmed that you can barely see straight ahead of you? Mountains of laundry, kids home for spring break, taxes, bills, family visiting, a disaster of a house, yard work, teaching a new class, and, oh yeah, writing! These are the things filling my days. And nights.

Sometimes I can remember what was for dinner the night before, or what we even did that morning! Time seems to blur and the days pass and there’s nothing significant that is accomplished.
I hate that feeling! I like to check things off my lists. Of course, I have lists scattered all over the house, so I can’t always find the one I’m looking for, but you get the idea. I like to accomplish things. Concrete things that show I’ve done something productive, made strides toward a goal, or at least put in the effort.
I’ve been lagging in the accomplishment arena lately. Organization is a big issue for me. I try. I envy those who are super organized. I have organization envy. But no matter what, I just can’t seem to orchestrate my life or my house in the organized way I’d like. It’s like it’s not in my genes, only it IS in my genes. My dad is super organized. That’s the only way he knows how to be. Why, oh why, didn’t a smidgeon of that rub off on me?!
So that’s my goal for the summer. Get my house, and my life, organized.
If you have any tips, I’d love to hear them!
~Misa
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