The Book Club

Shy and lonely. Those are two words I have often used to describe myself. I could start a conversation with the cashier at the grocery store but not with a stranger at a party. Being timid made it difficult to make friends. And the few friends I had quietly disappeared over the years I was married.

My life revolved around my daughter.  When I wasn’t focused on her, I worked a lot of overtime and I read a lot of books. These were my escapes to avoid facing reality. I was miserable. My marriage was troubled and my husband was emotionally abusive and controlling.

Eventually I could no longer deny my sadness. I was becoming angry and it was affecting my daughter. I knew I needed to be a role model of a strong, happy woman for her. I filed for divorce and we moved to a beautifully sunlit apartment in a suburb with a great high school. Life was going to be wonderful. We were just two girls in the world making a fairytale life.

Boy was I wrong! My loneliness grew steadily. Although my daughter was the center of my world, she was a teenager and her life did not revolve around me any longer. I had a boyfriend I saw occasionally and I made friends with a cashier at the local gas station. The cashier worked in the evenings and my boyfriend was busy raising his own kids so I still spent many nights on my couch watching TV in the dark.

Loneliness sounds like it should be so easy to fix. Just make a friend. That’s effortless in kindergarten. You see someone on the playground and you talk to them. If only it were that easy as an adult.


My boyfriend and I were enjoying a picnic lunch one summer afternoon when – in a melancholy moment – I described my loneliness. I wanted friends and a social life. I needed someone I could call just because. I longed to be a part of the groups of women I saw at the restaurant while I was picking up my take-out. I ached to share descriptions of the butterflies this the caring new man stirred in me with another person who would understand.

My beau suggested a book club as the perfect solution. Book clubs are usually formed by friends who read rather than by readers who become friends but I was willing to try anything. I spent that evening at home researching book clubs online but I could not find one. Instead, I found a social networking site that helps facilitate meeting others with similar interests in real life. I signed up!

That same evening, there was a knock at my apartment door. I opened it to find a process server. My ex-husband was taking me back to court to renegotiate his visitation schedule with our daughter. I took this as a sign and searched the newly discovered social networking site, found a divorce support group, and immediately joined. Someone in this group must have experienced this return to court before.

My beau was concerned when I described this group to him. He worried the group was going to be a bunch of people sitting around on metal folding chairs, drinking coffee, and talking about their problems. He was also concerned this might be a hook-up group. I wasn’t interested in either of those things. I told him I would try it out and leave if it wasn’t what I was seeking.

I signed up to join a group of about 20 others at a comedy club in the city. When I arrived, the club was wall-to-wall people milling about with drinks in hand. I didn’t know anyone and I couldn’t find the group I was meeting so I left. I sat in my car in the parking lot and submitted to my melancholy feelings. I sobbed from the pain of loneliness.

I don’t tolerate self-pity so I wiped my tears, blew my nose, and vowed to try again. I returned home and emailed my apologies to the group for being a no-show. I explained I could not locate them but I promised to try something else.

Eight of us arranged a small gathering for a trivia competition a few days later at a pub near our homes. I found this small group with ease. We did not mope about our divorces. The topic never came up. Instead, we spent a couple hours laughing, talking, and enjoying ourselves. And we won the trivia contest! The very next night I joined a much larger group for bowling. They were easy to spot because I already knew a couple people from trivia the previous night. I was greeted with hugs that made me feel like I belonged.

I decided this would be my year. I mentally committed to spending 365 days with this group. I participated in every activity that fit my budget. I introduced myself to every new person and I embraced every new experience.  Jim Carey’s movie “Yes, Man” was released halfway through my year. His character was doing the same thing and I hope he enjoyed himself as much as I did.

This was a year of bowling, trivia, and football parties. It was a year of dining out with large groups and meeting for drinks with small ones. There were picnics and holiday gatherings. This year of friendship and fun continued well beyond my initial 365 day commitment. I met about 200 new people and I grew my circle of close friends from one to more than thirty.

The most surprising transformation was the shift in my boyfriend’s attitude. When we first began dating, I spent a lot of time waiting for him – waiting for his phone call, waiting until he had time away from his kids, and waiting for the ten minutes he had to meet me on our drives home from work. Suddenly I wasn’t just waiting. I was out expanding my horizons and living my life. He began to treat me as a prize he did not want to lose. Instead of finding time to spend with me, he made time.

Five years later he proposed to me and we married less than a year after that. Six people stood up in our wedding. Three of those wonderful people can be tied directly back to that first trivia night and that first bowling night.

My life was transformed by a book club I never wanted to join.

I am a Brand

Hi. My name is Aviva and I’m a brand.

That sounds like the typical introduction at a 12-step meeting. Much like an addict, this is not something I ever intended to become. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to create this persona but this is where my choices led me.

It all started innocently enough. When I began writing for fun and profit, my topics were mainly my personal life – my horrible first marriage, my incredible second marriage, and the antics of our beautiful blended family of seven. My husband and our kids did not sign on for this life and everything it could entail so I selected a pen name to protect their anonymity.

When I established this pseudonym on social media, I was very clear about how I wanted to portray myself. Politics were immediately off the table because it could turn off a large group of potential readers. The same was true for religious discussions. I do my best to remember to post about all the groups major holidays but I could certainly be better. Swearing was an absolute no on my social media. Unless I hit my thumb with a hammer or I’m around a small group of very good friends, I don’t typically swear in real life. Doing so under my pen name would be a major turn off for the parents who could potentially purchase my children’s books.

As I connected with other writers on social media, I discovered a large group of potential authors who feel they can self-publish a book without editing. The most common reason given is they can’t afford an editor. Rather than saving up for this service, they rush a poor product to market. One man even said he didn’t care if the reader didn’t finish the book because they can’t return it and he still has the reader’s money.

I was shocked by this cavalier attitude. I tried explaining that an error-ridden book damages your brand. You may have the reader’s money now but you won’t dupe them into buying a second book. The author’s brand may never recover from this rush to market with a less than stellar product.

Brand? That was a light bulb moment for me. Although I’m not a Kardashian, I am still a brand. Every action is carefully thought out for how it may damage my brand. My reputation.

This is how real life goes. Even if you aren’t marketing a product, you are still selling yourself. Your social media can be viewed by potential and current employers. Your family and friends judge you by what you post and how you act.

Call it what you will – brand, reputation, or character. One bad decision will impact how others perceive you for a very long time. Think about your actions and decide if that is really how you want people to know and to remember you.

I am as proud of my personal reputation as I am my professional brand because, even though they are different names, they are both mine.

Butterflies

Remember your visits to the butterfly house? The employees always tell you not to chase or pick up the butterflies. They suggest sitting quietly and letting these creatures come to you. GirlChild is like a butterfly – beautiful and free-spirited.

She has dated men who try to keep her by making unreasonable demands of her. She has always darted away; sometimes more quickly than others. The right man will be the one who recognizes her beauty and her need to be free. He will not try to capture her and damage her wings. He’ll remember his visits to the butterfly houses and know if he is patient and does not startle her or make demands, she will alight.

Guest Blog from GirlChild

THIS IS VERY LONG, BUT VERY IMPORTANT FOR ME TO GET OUT:


Two years ago today, I was sitting at my laptop playing league of legends when I got a call from my aunt around 10pm on a Sunday.


I thought it was a butt dial, since she was usually in bed before that. But then I saw a voicemail. So I called her back.


"Your mother has had a heart attack, come to CSM Ozaukee."


I hung up, screamed bloody fucking murder, and sped to the hospital. To this day, I don't remember the drive there. I just remember getting there and flying thru the hospital, into her room. Everyone was reassuring me she was okay, but they still needed to take her to surgery.


It didn't matter. That was my mom. That was my lifeline. As an only child (biologically) and a female... she was my first best friend. I was sobbing. I was losing my mind. I'm sobbing writing this now. I hugged her and told her I loved her before they sent her to surgery.


One of the last things she said before going under was "Someone needs to make sure Rebecca makes it to her dentist appointment tomorrow." This woman... whose heart was ready to give up... was more concerned about my goddamn dentist appointment. (Yes, that still bothers me.)


My stepbrother and I left the hospital and went for a long walk and long drive to get my mind off of it.


My family sat in the waiting room for hours overnight. I don't think anyone slept.


Around 6am, we were able to go in and see her. My stepfather went first, and when he came out, my aunt and I went in. I was sobbing again... those tubes and machines, hair matted to her face, breathing tube down her throat... I couldn't handle it. I held her hand, but it was limp. I was still scared. Yeah we made it thru the toughest part, but what if the woman that woke up was not the same woman that I grew up with and loved?


I squeezed her hand. She squeezed back. Then they kicked us out. My stepdad wasn't too happy that I got a response out of her when he got nothing, but hey man, that's my mom. She knows it's me.
When we were able to go back in, she was more awake, but still had a breathing tube. And even she will tell you... thank god i was there.


My mom taught me sign language growing up, and while for the most part I don't remember it, I remember enough. To communicate with the nurses while in her room she was supposed to use her oxygen monitor to hit the railings on the bed to get their attention. With me standing right there, she signed to me, and I took care of her. I was the only person she could communicate with for a bit.


I spent all week at that hospital. I didn't want to be away from my mom. When she got out and needed to be walking, we would walk around grocery stores or targets so she could stay in the AC where she could breathe. I'd leave one job and drive 20 minutes just to go walk around a store with her.


I was lucky to still have my mom.


And I'm still lucky to still have my mom.


Hug your family a little tighter, today.


You never know what could happen while you're busy playing a video game.


I love you mom.




(You can find GirlChild here: https://www.instagram.com/rebeccablazeofficial/)

Why Do You Write?

“Why do you write?”


This question has been asked many times in writers groups and my answer is always the same: I have a story inside that needs to be told.


For as long as I can remember, I said I would be an author. Every book report ever written or presented in school asked why I selected the book I did. My answer was always the same. “I selected this book because I will write one like it someday.”

I would see things in everyday life and make up stories to explain them. I’d give people names and personalities. They would have conversations. (A stroll down the Vegas Strip is full of inspiration.) My brain and my notebooks are filled with scenes, stories, and characters.


As with many people, life got in the way of this childhood dream. There was a spouse, a child, a mortgage, and a string of energy-sapping jobs.


That spouse discouraged me so I got rid of him. The child and jobs did not leave much time for anything else. A new spouse entered the picture – one who encouraged my creativity and my silliness. Eventually, the child grew up, moved to New York, and became a writer. Still, I wasn’t writing. I can do that any time, right?


Two years ago today everything changed. I suffered a heart attack and had emergency heart surgery - either of which could have easily ended my life. It took almost a year to for me to finally understand how fortunate I am to be granted this additional time. It’s a gift many people don’t receive. I owe it to myself to fulfill the promises that schoolgirl made 30 years ago.


And THAT is why I write.

Each Day is a Bonus

Have you ever pondered the meaning of life? The meaning of your life? I find myself doing this often.

My pondering comes from survivor's guilt. Survivors guilt occurs when a person believes they have done something wrong by surviving a trauma. I survived a heart attack and emergency heart surgery at a younger than normal age. It's an unsettling feeling to know you're losing consciousness AS it's happening.

A month before my heart attack, a high school classmate suffered a fatal heart attack. At the time, I was shocked. She was young. Like me. For several months after my surgery, I wondered why I survived and she did not. If I was a religious person, I might think a supreme being has a bigger plan for me.

This question intensified a few months after I returned to work. A surgeon I worked with spent two weeks providing needed medical care in a poor, South American country. On his way home, he suffered a fatal heart attack at the airport in Chicago. He spent his career improving others' lives. He was a very kind and giving man. I tend to be selfish. If I was a religious person, I would question the supreme being's judgment on this.

A few months ago, GirlChild's friend and classmate suffered either a fatal heart attack or an arrhythmia. He was 24-years-old and just beginning his adult life. He should have had many years of life and happiness stretched out before him. If I was a religious person, I would be pissed at the supreme being.

So why am I here? I have no answers to this question but I've come to understand that I have been given an incredible gift and I plan to use it. I travel more. I experience life. I promised myself in eighth grade that I would write a book. I'm doing that now. Each day is a bonus and I'm making the most of them.

Catcalling

Do you know what it’s like to be a woman? The catcalls and the public groping are out of control. This problem occurs everywhere but I think it’s more prevalent in large cities where most of the population utilizes public transportation.

For this writing, I will define catcalling as any comment or whistle of a sexual nature made to a woman passing by. This definition makes it clear that a catcall is very different than a compliment.

GirlChild experiences this every day in New York City. When she ignored a catcall, she has been followed and called vile names. When she responded with a New York, “Fuck off!” she has been followed and called vile names.

I’ve been catcalled in the Midwest. I would wait for my bus and men would drive past yelling all sorts of repulsive things. You know who responds to that? Hookers. I am not a hooker but this behavior sure made me feel like one.

One woman likened catcalling to a war zone. Catcalls were like incoming bombs – each one causing a chink in your armor. A war zone. Let that sink in for a minute.

Two women recently shared stories involving their daughters. One was twelve-years-old and out for a walk in the sunshine with her mom when two different passing cars catcalled them. The daughter was wearing a flower crown. Nothing says "child" quite like a flower crown. The other was a 14-year-old who was catcalled and followed home when she was attempting to cross the street to buy some candy. Candy. These two innocent girls are quickly learning to be ashamed of their bodies.

Recently I asked a friend to post some questions on Facebook. She has a large, eclectic group of followers and the responses received using this completely unscientific method would be an accurate representation from society. The questions were:

1.       Why do some men do this?

2.       Why does it make most women cringe?

3.       If a woman takes it as a compliment, does it say something about her?

I learned from the responses that some women DO think this is a compliment. And some middle-aged women would give anything to receive catcalls on the street again. I wonder if these ladies would have a different response if they were younger and regularly on the receiving end of this harassment. In both cases, I worry about the lack of self-esteem exhibited by this desire for validation from a crass stranger.

I learned some people think catcalling is done only by groups of men – each trying to prove to their friends they are manlier than the last guy who hollered. I know from personal experience and by anecdotal evidence shared by GirlChild that this is not the case. As a woman on the street, I find the lone man catcalling to be the most intimidating. In most cases, the group of men will not follow you but the single man does not have his friends checking his behavior.

I learned that none of the men who responded to this Facebook discussion thought catcalling was acceptable. It was denounced with comments like “Real men don’t do this” or “My mom would have throttled me if she heard I acted like this.”

If most women don’t like it and most men find the behavior reprehensible, why does this boorish behavior still occur? Several reasons were mentioned.

We already mentioned the women who need this validation from a stranger. Because they need this validation, catcalling may have worked in the past. Perhaps they smiled at, said thank you to, or even flashed the catcaller. Also, remember how I said it made me feel like a hooker? If it works with a hooker, the less evolved male members of the species will try it with any female.

It was also mentioned that groups of men do this to prove their manliness. Testosterone fueled pissing contests. Are we lucky girls, or what?

My own research indicates this can be done for power. In an article published on Thought Catalog, titled “11 People Who Cat Call Women On The Street Explain Why They Do It” mentions the most terrifying reason of all – power. One man said, “A catcall or a car horn beep gives me a momentary feeling of power over them because I can see their discomfort.” That sentence should give you the creeps.

I firmly believe allowing catcalling to continue unchecked emboldens the men who are unstable or entitled. If they can degrade women verbally, how long will it take before they are the men groping women in the subway?

Our unofficial Facebook dialogue indicates catcalling should end. But how?

Several countries – including our neighbor to the north – have laws that make this type of behavior illegal. That may work for them but it will never work in the United States. We value our freedoms. We believe in the freedom of speech guaranteed by the first amendment. Any laws against catcalling would infringe on this right.

If a law is not feasible, what next?

As a society, we need a culture change. A lot of things used to be acceptable in the US in our past. Drunk driving, treating others as second-class citizens because of race or gender, even owning people. I know. Catcalling is not as extreme as owning people but the principle for change is the same.

If Rosa Parks had simply given up her bus seat, who knows where the civil rights movement would have gone. If Susan B. Anthony and company has accepted that women were less than men, what would have happened in the political realm? If Candace Lightner had quietly mourned the death of her teenage daughter, would we have the drunk driving laws that have saved countless lives in the past 36 years?

These three examples have one thing in common. Someone spoke up with words or actions. They banded together with like-minded individuals and they created the spark that ignited the flames of social change.

How can you speak up? One woman in the Facebook discussion mentioned she worked for a construction company. Her employer had a policy stating employees engaging in the behavior would be terminated. There were no second chances. As a business owner, why would you not have a policy like this? Anything less gives your employees permission to sexually harass and intimidate strangers while they are representing your company. Is that really the image you want for your business?

You can also speak up by speaking up. If you are in a group of men when this boorish behavior begins, you can refuse to participate. You can enlighten your friends.

If you are just a witness, that should not prevent you from standing up for women. You can tell a catcaller how offensive their behavior is. And if you see a catcaller escalating his bad behavior by following the woman, your moral code should require that you step in.

The women who endure this every day are somebody’s daughter, wife, mother, or sister. She could be yours.