aka THE D.I.A.L. STRATEGY FOR DEALING WITH CYBERBULLIES
I feel really fortunate that I’m in a career, finally, where I write whatever I want. Nobody is standing over my shoulder saying “Nope. You can’t say that.”
Author • Poet • Advocate
I feel really fortunate that I’m in a career, finally, where I write whatever I want. Nobody is standing over my shoulder saying “Nope. You can’t say that.”
This one is for the guys, but I encourage all chicks to read. You’ll see why in a sec.
By now you’ve probably heard all about #MentionMonday over on Twitter or seen my posts float by on Facebook with that number sign thingy (it’s called a hashtag in the Twitterverse). It’s something we crazy tweeps use for a few reasons I won’t bore you with now.
Well now that I’m THIS CLOSE to my next book, The Mancode: Exposed coming out (less than a month), I thought it would be fun to do something completely away from Twitter and start a fun conversation each week over on my MANCODE: EXPOSED Facebook page. Where we have more room to stretch our legs, drink our wine and martinis, and discuss a topic fully.
Now, you know me. This will not be the politics in China. Though it may be the politics of dancing.
So today’s topic is something I’ve often wondered about. Something that has always perplexed me. Something I really, really want to know the answer to:
I’m gonna go out on a limb here, but I don’t think men are the big babies women make them out to be when they’re sick.
Nope.
They’re big babies when WE are sick.
When we’re sick, I mean really ill, it’s hard on the little guy.
Not because he feels bad for you. I mean, he does. He loves you and all. And not because he sees his beloved in pain and he can’t do anything to help her. Which hurts him, too.
No. You being sick is hard on your guy because now he has to do all your shit.
And that terrifies him.
I recently had a bout of strep throat, followed by pneumonia and laryngitis. I’m sure this was brought on by the aligning of the planets conspiring against me to meet a deadline for a new book I’m coauthoring with my Indie Book Collective cofounders on self-publishing. The writing gods decided nope, enough was enough and I needed to rest. (Well, actually that was my doctor.)
Two days complete bed and voice rest. No work, no speaking. Not even a whisper.
Do you know how hard it is not to whisper to your husband and two small children when you have a house to run? Clothes to wash? A kitchen to clean? Little bodies to bathe? A five-year-old with non-stop questions? (But where IS your voice exactly, Mama? Did you throw it away?)
My body and voice may have needed rest, but my mind was on overdrive. So much to do!
JP was also on overdrive…freak out overdrive, that is. He kept peppering me with questions I LITERALLY could not answer and that, to be honest, shouldn’t he have known? The butter is in the frig. Yes, honey I promise. The Children’s Tylenol is in the cabinet where we always keep it. Yes, honey, it’s a good idea to bathe the five-year-old after he’s been out in the muddy backyard.
Why was his Refrigeratoritis acting up when I was the one in bed?
I’m thinking he thought the same thing because later that evening I came out to make tea and he was sound asleep on the sofa at 6:30pm. The kitchen was a complete disaster and neither child had been fed dinner.
My two days of bed rest were over in four hours.
Sigh.
Really, it’s just so important for husbands to have a routine.
(I hate to think what a walk on the beach might have done.)
Apparently, the added burden of him taking on basically everything (for those four hours) was more than he could handle and he was done for. Don’t get me wrong. He’s a good dad & I give him major dad credit for effort.
Here is my @IndieInk challenge from xander
Describe your day job in the style of a 1950s film noir. Bonus points for using the word “gams” in the appropriate context.
CLICK
Janey was sure the right guy was going to walk through her office door any moment now. Yep, any moment.
At least, that’s what she told her ma every time she called to ask why Janey was no longer working for that nice man down at the newspaper, typing up his little stories. She didn’t have the heart to tell her mother the so-called nice man had the roving hands of hungry bear and the mouth of a sailor on leave and she wasn’t gonna put up with it any more. Besides, the man was her neighbor Ethel’s husband and they often gave her mom rides to and from her job at the library. She didn’t want to mess things up for her ma. Life is hard enough as it is.
So she very quietly gathered her things when the prick was out drinking his lunch one day with the office lushes, conveniently forgetting to type up the day’s top story about the bank robbery around the corner. The very next day, she opened her own typing shop, advertising a hundred words a minute to any and all customers. The diner across the way was a goldmine—lots of cute fellas in there with no clue how to type up job applications, or songs for the gals they were sweet on.
Janey wasn’t rolling in it, but she was doing all right. At least, that’s what she was thinking as she lit a cigarette for a long-needed break. She hadn’t realized how late it was or how dark it had become in her small, cramped office. She switched on her desk lamp, mentally avoiding the files and scraps of paper piled up next to it.
She enjoyed the click click click her new black heels made as she moved to open the small window that looked out onto main street. Cold and foggy again, dammit. It was fairly quiet outside today, but apparently loud enough that she missed hearing the door open and shut quickly behind her. When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she screamed.
Turning around quickly, she looked up into the most gorgeous baby blues she’d ever seen.
“Sorry, ma’am,” said the stranger, a handsome man about her age in a dark suit and charcoal fedora. Janey could see his lips moving but found herself having trouble concentrating. She was sure he could hear the extraordinarily loud beating of her heart.
“I’m sorry, Mr…?” Janey asked, as she attempted to regain her composure. She crossed the room and sat on the corner of her desk, giving him a nice view of her gams. She noticed his momentary eye flick and quickly realized she had the upper hand. Her heartbeat slowed measurably, her voice dropped, and she asked, “Now, what can I do for you?” with a shy hint of a smile.
The man stood closer, still staring at her legs. He took his time, his eyes slowly working their way up the length of her body. When he reached her eyes, he said, “I think we need to work together, you and I.” He took a card out of his pocket, laid it gingerly on the desk next to her, turned and left.
Janey, realizing she was holding her breath, exhaled and grabbed the card: