Letter to the Editor

Dear Editor,

I was appalled at the image featured on the front page of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch this past Sunday, October the 17th.  As you know the headline read, “American dream is crushed as foreclosure crisis spreads,” with the subheading, “Idyllic suburban areas fall victim to stubborn unemployment, plummeting home values.”  The headings framed an image of a garbage dumpster containing the American flag.  This image is not a testament to the house market crisis, but rather a testament to the American value crisis.  

I speak of an American value crisis, as there must be one in order for an image of our flag’s desecration to be featured on the front page of a newspaper that is viewed across the country.  Regardless of the unfortunate circumstances of the original owners of the flag in question, I would expect no less than someone to step up and find an appropriate place for the apparently unwanted flag.  Find any local Boy Scout and give the flag over for a proper retirement.  The banner of our nation deserves absolutely no less.  

An additional problem with the use of the flag image is the implication that the American dream is contingent on the ownership of a home.  The claim that the “American dream is crushed as foreclosure crisis spreads” flies in the face of all that America has stood for over her life.  The Founding Fathers established this nation as a refuge from oppression and persecution.  Have we forgotten what is truly means to be an American?  It’s not in the value of our homes or their contents.  It’s not in even owning a home or a car or even a vacation home.  One can live the American dream in an apartment just as much as they can a stately suburban home.  

I know of people in other countries who risk contracting deadly diseases because they lack access to clean water.  There are children who cannot go to school because their families cannot afford it or because they risk being abducted and forced into slavery if they leave their villages.  There are countless instances across the globe where basic human rights do not exist.  Yet here in America we enjoy access to clean water.  It is unheard of for a child here in America to die of Malaria.  We do not fear abduction and slavery. 

It is true that we have difficulties in the United States.  I do not claim otherwise.  The bottom line is, however, we live the American dream simply by being Americans.  

I have held the St. Louis Post Dispatch in very high regards over the years.  I am gravely disappointed that such a blatant defamation of the American flag has been featured anywhere in the paper’s contents, let alone the front page. 

I seek the location of the flag in question.  If it has not already been removed and properly taken care of, I humbly ask for the opportunity to do so.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely...

What was that about pain and gain?

I hate running.  I hate running.  I freaking hate running.  Running is awful.  I hate it.  I hate it.  I hate it.


Ahem.


Okay, it's safe now.  The me from about thirty minutes ago was threatening my life if I didn't voice her pain. But she's gone now.  Crazy woman.  Granted, I'm now lounging in my super comfy bed in pjs with a stomach full of frosted mini wheats and bopping along to Bad Romance (don't judge me)...


I'm in the third week now of my running program.  It feels like it has been longer than that, but I have documented proof; I highlight each day as I get done.  I miss a day or two here and there, so that might account for some of the time confusion...  Oh well, I'm working on it.  That obnoxious running hating woman has slowly quieted down as the program as progressed, little by little.  Tonight was one of the more difficult days however and she made herself known.  I told her to shut up.  I can do this.


What I've noticed from the start is no matter how bad I feel while I'm running, give me a couple minutes to catch my breath and I love the way I feel.  It's the same way I feel after a rigorous karate class.  I love it.  I love it more than that other me hates running.  I love how I'm finally doing something that I always thought I couldn't.  Someday, I'm going to go back to my old middle school where I have (not so) fond memories of literally wheezing after running a half of one of the straight sides of the track.  I'm going to run a couple miles on that track just to tell that girl that she wasn't a loser.


I'm really excited to see where this whole reinvention process I've undergone is going to lead me.  I'm the kind of person who really loathes personal attention, I don't even like getting singled out at birthday parties.  I'm a no spotlight kind of gal but I must say, in my own way, I'm rather proud of myself for finally doing something about all the things about myself I didn't like.  That's all I'm going to say about that.  For a fun way to wrap things up for tonight, here's my current top 5 favorite running songs:


1.  Rawkfist by Thousand Foot Krutch


2.  Rebellion by Van Canto


3.  Watch Me Shine by Vanessa Carlton (cover)


4.  Headstrong by Trapt


5.  (most recently) Bad Romance by Lady GaGa


I still kind of loathe myself for liking that last song...but it's really catchy...and the music video I recently discovered (thank you Lakota!) is inspired by GaGa's views on Human Trafficking (hm, what's that? I've never read a single book or article or journal about that in my life... -_- ... do you get my joke? Because I've been buried in research... ahem... Not funny when you have to explain it... I digress).  In short, an unexpected turn of events leads me to accept my love for this song.  Hence the video.  Roll that beautiful bean footage!





RF

The Excuse

From The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood: Write a scene in which the dramatic tension revolves around a misspelling: a road sign, the name on a birthday cake, the directions to a doctor’s office, a word in a spelling bee…

I was running late as usual.  I promised I’d get the twin’s cake and be at the party by noon.  I kept thinking how my anal sister Caroline was going to positively murder me.  I could see her sharp glare already.  I eyed the ‘new and expectant mothers’ parking space enviously, half convinced to just go for it when I saw a restriction-free space open up.  My tires squealed as I nabbed the space. 

            Should I text her and say I’d hit traffic?  I could say I was stuck behind a blue hair doing twenty down K.  Maybe there was an accident, or a cop, or a parade.  The parade mightn’t be that likely.  I scratched that off my list of ideas. 

            Panting a little, I reached the bakery counter.  I thought how only then would I find it annoying that the bakery seemed to be in the furthest corner of the store.  I rang the bell a little too forcefully. 

            “I’m here to pick up a cake for Edwards, please,” I said promptly.  I took in the fresh-faced, curly haired young woman who seemed to pop out of nowhere.  Susan, her name tag read.  Susan was wearing candy apple red lipstick.  When she smiled I noticed she’d gotten part of her teeth as well.  The shade looked better on her lips. 

            I didn’t bother checking the cake.  I thanked Susan, grabbed the sheet cake and my purse, and power walked back to the front of the store where naturally every line was either full or cashier-less. 

            “I can take you on five,” I heard the voice say and I bolted for it. 

            As I was collecting my card and my receipt, I lifted the cardboard window on the top of the cake box for a little peek. 

            Happy Birthbay Manby & Abam!

            My jaw dropped.  I had to read the words again, surely I read it wrong.  I hadn’t.

            Feeling my face grow hot, I looked to the cashier for help.  I opened my mouth to begin to explain when I realized what a waste of time that would be.  Instead I put my energies in hauling my already tardy rear end back across the store to Susan.

Yep, I knew Caroline was going to murder me.

            “My cake is misspelled,” I explained to Susan hastily, setting the cake on the counter and opening the lid. 

            Susan frowned a little.  “What’s misspelled?”
            I stared at her for a good two seconds, thunderstruck.  “Um, my niece and nephew are Mandy and Adam.  That says Manby and Abam.”

            “It looks fine to me—oh,” came Susan’s reply. 

Oh? What does oh mean?

“I’m a little dyslexic,” Susan explained simply, turning up her food coloring stained hands.  She bobbed her head approvingly. 

I take it my reaction, one of  dumbstruck bewilderment, wasn’t on par with what she was going for so she elaborated. 

“I sometimes mix up my ds and bs.”

You think? I wanted to ask how she got hired to be a cake decorator in the first place, but thought better of it.  Time was of the essence, after all. 

“Okay, well do you think you can fix it or is there someone else here who can? I really need this cake like now.”  I glanced around, hoping that maybe someone else was privy to what was happening.  It was just me and Susan. 

            “I’ll have to take it in the back really quickly,” Susan explained before disappearing. 

            I checked my watch, it was ten-til and I was at least that far away.  I tapped my foot impatiently and clenched my hand around the receipt.  At least I didn’t have to stand in line again. 

            “That should be better,” Susan announced brightly. 

            It was. 

            At 12:10 I came bursting across the grass to the park pavillion, Mandy and Adam’s cake in tow.  I had broken a fair number of traffic laws, but I made it.  

            There was Caroline, standing with her arms crossed near a wooden pillar and surveying the kids crowded around the picnic table.  She noticed me and her body flailed into action.  She started towards me but before she could ask or say anything, I beat her to it. 

            “Gawd, you will never believe what just happened.”