The high school from where I graduated has always had a cross country team that does daily runs in the area around the school. There are many times I have seen them running in the heat of summer, as I sat safe from the sweltering temperatures in my air-conditioned car, and I’ve thought they were just as crazy as the people in the office park where I work, who go jogging around the parking lots during their lunch hours.

LUNCH HOURS! I mean, really? How do you do that kind of workout and not have to spend an extra hour scrubbing the funk that has to be emanating from your skin? And don’t even tell me they go back to work without taking a shower because… da-yum… that’s just gross. I would get fired if I did something like that.

Anyhoo, today I had a change of heart toward one of these high school runners. A young girl was trailing the pack of stick thin girls. She wasn’t dead last, but she was running by herself. What did me in was the fact that she was the only chubby one of the group — plugging along… in the rain… wearing a sports bra that probably wasn’t quite strong enough for her — and I had this flashback to my 8th grade Field Day. Gawd, how I hated Field Days. Always between 10 and 20 pounds overweight, I was never a sprinter, and these dreaded events never failed to put those athletic weaknesses in the spotlight.

For this particular field day, we had to sign up for different events, and we HAD to sign up for at least one. I looked for the shortest race, but by the time I got to the sign-up sheet, the 100-yard dash was taken, as was the 110 relay. But I noticed there was a 220, and I thought, “Oh, okay, another relay.” It wasn’t until the day of the event that I realized that it wasn’t a relay. I had to run 220 YARDS! 220 YARDS! Who DOES that to a 15-year-old??? Bunch of sadists…

Not only that, but in the first heat round, I got paired with THE FASTEST GIRL IN THE COUNTY. Seriously, they should have made her pee in a cup. When the race started, I was the moped and she was the sports car — not even in third gear and her blond ponytail was a blur. That was the longest 220 yards of my life — running in the burning sun of a late May afternoon, cheeks burning even hotter with embarassment about my poor performance, about my appearance, about my vulnerabilities.

All that came back in an instant when I saw this courageous girl running in the rain. I wanted to ride (not run, though) along side of her and cheer her on, but the way some people can be cruel these days she probably would have thought I was teasing her. So here I give the girl props for doing something I was too afraid to do back then. She doesn’t have to break the tape to be the winner. She’s awesome in my book.

Tonight… Front Desk… 7:55 pm

Phone rings.

Me: Thank you for calling (place where I work). This is Carla.

Female Caller: (in drugged out southern drawl) Did y’all call here?

Me: Apparently so. Are you a student here?

Female Caller: (pause) Mmmno.

Me: Are you interested in becoming a student here?

Female Caller: (pause) Mmmmno.

Me: Is anyone in your house interested in attending (place where I work)?

Female Caller: (pause) Yeah… my sister.

Me: Is she home? Perhaps I could transfer her to someone who can talk to her about the school?

Female Caller: (pause) Mmmmno.

Me: Okay then. Just tell her that we did call, and she can give us a call back when —

*click*

Here’s hoping her sister is more eloquent.

Brother-in-law #1 (the older one): (talking about Brother-in-law #2) I look better than him.

(pause to let us stare at him for an explanation)

Well, I’m 50-60 pounds heavier than him, but you can’t tell.

Brother-in-law #2: This is success to him — “I don’t look nearly as fat as I really am.”

It was a Saturday evening during the summer of 1982, I believe. “Billie Jean” was huge, and I had just gone to the Greenville Mall with my mom and stopped at Peppermint Records (Can I get a moment of silence from my fellow Greenville natives who remember that wonderful record store?) where I bought a Duran Duran pin and a Michael Jackson pin. I proudly wore that pin over to my grandmother’s house that night for dinner. It was tradition that every other Saturday night we went to MaMa Grant’s house for hot dogs, (with steamed hot dog buns!) baked potatoes (with ranch dressing!), chips, and apple pie with ice cream for dessert. Doesn’t that just scream “America!” or at least “Heartattack!”

Hrmm, bad word choice there.

Anyhoo, as I sat there munching on my hot dog, MaMa Grant (bless her heart) looks across the table at my shirt and asks, “Is that a picture of a black man on that pin?”

Oh to have been able to tell her, “It’s okay, MaMa, in a few years he’ll be white!”

(Disclaimer: I loved my grandmother dearly and do not mean to paint her as a racist. She was a beautiful woman who treated everyone as wonderfully as they treated her, perhaps even more so. So don’t go thinking I came from a racist family. That is all.)

Well, my pen is — or I guess I should say pens. Because I have a lot of them. Really. A. Lot. I was in STAPLES yesterday and improperly fondled a twenty-something pack of Sharpie colored, fine-point markers.

I felt compelled to talk about my pen addiction because of an article I read this week in the New York Times. (Thanks to Matt for the link.) The author complained that the concentration on the handwriting curriculum in schools is useless because how many of these kids will even need pen and paper in the future? Of course, it didn’t help her case when she lamented the fact that her child was making poor grades in his handwriting lessons, but she (…a …writer) goes on to add that the only time she picks up a pen is to sign her name on a credit card receipt. That admission just saddened me. Here’s a published author who can’t be bothered to slow down and submerge herself in the process that helped her hone her craft.

I still love the feel of a pen in my hand as it scribbles across the page. I’m comforted by the sound of the metal tip as it scratches along the paper. I feel an immense pride and a swell of satisfaction in seeing my handwriting fill page after page of black, spiral-bound journals.

That’s not to say that I never write from scratch at the screen. At my last job, I wrote almost all my articles at the keyboard. I’ve written that way at home as well, but when I need a jump-start, when words can’t appear the way I need them to, I pick up a pen.

Those who’ve had less than stellar handwriting probably welcome any technological advances that reduces their need to compose by hand. Kids definitely have embraced texting as a way to deliver notes instead of the old-fashioned, cleverly-folded, handwritten letters. But each invention makes me a little sadder because I fear we take one step toward going paperless.

Edward Bulwer-Lytton thought the sword was a lesser foe to the pen. Oh, if he could only see what he was up against in the future!

(Yes, I’m aware that the title is not the right spelling of the term…)

Four years ago today, I started this blog. Two months before I published the first entry, the Powers That Be at my place of employment took me out of the writer’s department for the second time and stuck me back on the desktop publishing assembly line — the same position where I had started almost ten years before that. I was dying to talk about that whole debacle when I began blogging, but after reading the stories of people (namely Heather Armstrong of dooce.com) who were fired because they talked complained about work in their blogs, I decided I probably shouldn’t. Plus, anytime I was tempted to vent on the Web, Cinlach shot the idea down gently reminded me that doing so wouldn’t be prudent.

Now, of course, it’s been nine months since corporate closed up shop, so neener neener.

The last three years at that office were mentally and emotionally oppressive at times. I had to watch writing work completely bypass me and go to others (a couple of whom were actually hired from outside the company to write) because our VP had his own way of wanting to do things that didn’t include a writing department. He wanted to outsource freelancers. As more new people were hired, I could feel the resentment rising inside of me, especially when some people were getting positions they wanted after screwing up million-dollar accounts. I felt like people began to forget that I could write, and I was afraid of being drowned out altogether.

And don’t even get me started on the marketing rep who once sat right behind me. Granted, she didn’t know I had been on the writing staff, but when showing the former layout/content of our company’s main marketing piece to a new sales assistant, she said, “Scary, huh?” At the first opportunity, I wheeled my chair over to her desk and told her that there were those of us who worked hard to make that book valuable to our customers, and we were proud of that work. What I would have liked to have added was that just because the doofus VP* said that the majority of it was useless doesn’t mean it was trash.

Could I have left? Sure, and I tried. Did I try hard enough? Probably not, and that’s something I’ve lived with and learned from and tried not to regret.

So when I first started blogging, I said I was doing so to create another outlet for my writing, and to a point that was true. Now, however, I realize that deep down the bigger reason was the fear of my ability being forgotten, and incidents like the marketing rep — along with just the gradual surprise of newer employees when they found out that I was a writer — made me believe that could happen. It’s the same fear I have now as I scan job listing after job listing and as I apply for writing jobs and end up being under- or overqualified.

What I learned after I began blogging, though, was that I am the one who needs to remember that I’m the writer. I can’t let other people define who I am, and that’s a fact that’s hard to remember in this frustrating time. But what helped bring me to this realization was coming to this site, sometimes every day — publishing writing prompts, the occasional poem, a draft of a short story or novel excerpt, a song or book review, and a lot of random stuff. So you’ll probably see more stuff around here, and hopefully, you’ll stick around.

*The doofus VP (who eventually and unfortunately became P)  was instrumental in running the company into the ground. He was strongly urged to leave resigned four months before corporate announced they were selling us to our competition.

I don’t think of myself as having a feminist flag to wave. I don’t mind if a guy opens a door for me; however, I don’t mind if anyone holds or opens a door for me, especially if my hands are full. I don’t consider it chivalrous; I call it GOOD MANNERS.

However, Thursday night as I watched “Private Practice,” I was struck by the situation of the 12-year-old girl who was pregnant. Granted, this is TV, so the circumstances to follow can be controlled by story’s writers, but I suddenly remembered that a few weeks ago, headlines all over the world talked about a 13-year-old boy who had impregnated his 16-year-old girlfriend. But I don’t remember the last time I saw a news item about a 13-year-old girl who got pregnant — unless the father was HER father or other relative, or if she delivered the baby and stuffed it in a Dumpster.

When I was in middle school, I remember a seventh-grade girl who got pregnant, and there were no news crews following her around. The only attention she got came from other students — as well as a concerned teacher, who had to pull her aside because the girl had no idea how she had gotten pregnant. (TRUE STORY!)

Are we sending the wrong message by giving all the attention to the young fathers? I don’t even remember too much being said about the 16-year-old mother of the child. It seems as if we’re almost patting him on the back. What does that say about us?

On sort of a flip side of this situation is the Octomom. Yes, I’m going to bring her up even though I do believe she’s got more than just a few loose screws. She’s got screws that have fallen into a sewage drain somewhere. Still, would we have all these discussions and scrutiny if she were married or if the father were at least a participant in her and the children’s lives? The extra income would probably relieve some of the concerns because she wouldn’t need as much taxpayer money, and of course, there is still the issue of having another six kids at home.

But people have accused her of having babies for celebrity status, yet society has made that possible thanks to reality TV, free swag for advertisement, and endless positive media attention. Do we really think that there’s no possibility of someone who’s unstable seeing all the attention and free stuff and thinking, “Oooh, I want that, too!” However, no one seems to say anything negative about COUPLES who have experienced multiple births, and some of them had other children (granted, not six).

Is it that precious male appendage that can bring or take away all the attention or scrutiny? How fair is that?

I don’t have the answers here, and I’m sure I’ll get all sorts of controversial or confrontational comments, but I just wanted to ask these questions because I haven’t seen anyone else tackle them.

During break time at the place where I’m taking computer classes:

L (president): (to our instructor) I’ve got a customer who wants to take a class in Publisher, and she wants to know how to “punch up” her newsletter design. How can she do that?

Me & M (former coworker): Use InDesign instead.

I thought that was you back in July when less than two weeks after being laid off I fell and broke my ankle for the second time, and then at the end of January, when the severance ran out and I tucked my tail and took money from my mother to help with bills, I could have sworn the hard spot I was sitting on was you.

But no, I think you finally arrived Tuesday night, when, in yet another bout with digestive troubles, I missed my trusty, yellow throw-up pail and sent puke onto my nightshirt and the floor. Yes, the sobbing that came after realizing that at that particular moment I was nothing more than an unemployed woman sitting on the toilet with vomit on her clothes who was going to have to ask her husband to come clean up after her was enough to make me see your filthy, uninvited hand extended for me to shake to make your acquaintance.

However, I shook your hand, Mr. Rock Bottom, because I have to believe that something has to get better. Now that we’ve been formally introduced, I think you should know that I don’t plan on staying around here long. I’m not a big fan of your decorating, and your housekeeping regimen is worse than mine (and THAT’S saying something). You will also find that I’m not going to be a pleasant guest as well. I have already started devising plans to hoist myself out of here, and I’m sure they’ll all entail something noisy that will (hopefully) keep you awake at night.

You might have looked all smug and sinister Tuesday night when you drug me down here, but I assure you that you will end up as a blip on the radar screen of my life. Good day, Mr. Rock Bottom.

I said, “Good day!”

At Publix this past Sunday morning:

Cinlach: (after reading the tabloid headline) Oh, good grief… is Jennifer Aniston really pregnant? I hear enough about that bitch. Now I gotta hear about this too?

Me: I think that’s a rumor.

Teenage Checkout Girl: She’s too old to have kids. Isn’t she, like, 40?

And then I smothered her with a plastic bag…