I didn’t want him to. Not only did I see this man as a Real Writer, but I wasn’t crazy about the essay CNF had chosen. I felt like a bit of a fraud, to be honest. I hemmed stammered out something that probably came across as false modesty, when in reality it was a fear that I would be exposed as a total hack. I was relieved when the conversation turned to another friend’s hatred of jazz and brass instruments in general. I instantly knew her confession would bring about enough scorn amongst the people at the table to distract Real Writer and therefore cover me.

A few days after the dinner, he asked again if he could read the piece, and I confessed that I thought that it wasn’t really my best work. I said that they shouldn't have picked me at all, and that I had other favorites that they likely should have chosen if they were desperate. I was not really interested in having him read it. It was then that he made me a deal. “Why don’t you let me read the one that’s going to be in the book, and the one that’s your favorite, and that way you’re covered?” Logical and well published this one. I agreed and printed out both pieces, still certain that he would shortly send an e-mail to the entire staff:

To: Cleveland Agency
From: Real Writer
Subject: Cold Coffee

Fellow workers…It has come to my attention that one of our newest employees thinks that she’s a writer. As you all know, I am a Writer, and I am here to tell you that she is nothing more than a no-talent ass-clown. She uses too many commas, is overly wordy, and is mostly stupid. Please meet in the lunch room at noon to talk about her complete and utter lack of potential whilst we point and laugh. There will be popcorn. Thank you.

I cursed myself the minute I left his office for even mentioning the book in the first place and wondered not for the first time why I can’t seem to keep my goddamn mouth shut at dinner parties.

When I checked my e-mail after returning from a meeting later that afternoon, I saw his name in the From: line. I panicked. This is it. The office-wide memo declaring me a fool.

Instead, the subject line stated: “You are a really good writer.” I opened it to read:

I don't say that lightly. You have a really clear voice, which is so rare. I got the same feeling I get when I read David Sedaris, that I'm being let in on a secret that he is both making fun of and celebrating at the same
time. Maybe I could say that better. He is both detached and intimately involved with his material. Your writing has that quality.

Holy shit. I fooled him, too. He compared me favorably to David Sedaris.

On the way home that night, I told The Boy about the e-mail. He said that was pretty impressive, especially considering the Sedaris reference. “Oh yeah,” I mumbled. “I meant to ask you about that. Who is David Sedaris?” He gave me a quick sideways glance to ascertain if I was joking, and when he saw that I was not, he focused on traffic again with a bewildered, slightly bemused look on his face. “Um, he’s a writer. He’s got a few books out now. I’m sure that you’ve heard him on NPR and just don’t remember.”

I began wondering if I could somehow make my choice to listen to Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl” over NPR sound the slightest bit intellectual. I could not, however, get over the notion that in doing so I might come across as even dumber, so I skipped it. I instead turned over the idea that there was someone out there who thought that my writing reminded him of someone who people who listened to NPR and therefore must know things.

It wasn’t until over a month later, however, that I got to know Mr. Sedaris. Thanks to CDs I hijacked unwittingly from a friend, I have been cruising in my rental car to the nasally sounds of “Me Talk Pretty One Day.” And although he would hate both the confession and the revelation, I am nothing short of awed. I make a left at the light and merge into traffic while he tells me about his time in Paris, and I start imagining that I am there watching the movie in the darkened theater with him, ignoring the wonders of Paris together. He makes it seem so goddamned easy. You listen to or read one of his essays and you instantly think, “Well, hell. I could do this. Look how easily it flows from his pen/mouth.” I imagine that I am EXACTLY like him because he makes it seem so easy to do.

Up until the moment that I sit down in front of the keyboard. Once I do that, I'll no longer be able to say "We'll always have Paris, David," because that’s when it all starts to fall apart and you end up with this crap.

Did I mention that I have a friend who hates jazz? How could that be even possible? Who doesn't love jazz?

Spencer Tunick, the photographer known for his mass nudes, broke a record this past Sunday by photographing 18,000 people in Mexico City .

Before he was in Mexico City, he was in Cleveland. Some of you may remember his stint here in town a few years ago. I know I haven’t forgotten. In late June of 2004, nearly 3,000 people gathered beginning at 4 a.m. on Pier 9 down by Lake Erie to bare their souls -and their asses- in the name of art.

When my alarm went off at 2:30 that morning, I almost backed out. I was tired. It was cold. And I was supposed to be naked shortly for the entire world (or at least a good part of Cleveland ) to see. I rolled out of bed, grumbling, and got in the shower. I wondered as I was drying my hair what the protocol was for make up when you are to be naked in public. Just to be safe, I brushed some mascara over my lashes and swiped on some lip gloss. You never know, right?

I jumped in the car and headed north, the highways still empty at that early hour. Shivering from the cold as I got out of the car in the parking garage, I wondered if it was really June. It was really cold. At around 50 some degrees, this was not the weather you were hoping for if your intention was to disrobe. (Although, as things progressed, it dawned on me that cold weather is really good for naked women. Really bad for naked men. The females were shivery and perky. The men ...uh… were a little more introverted.)

Just as dawn broke, Mr. Tunick (who doesn’t use flashes or artificial lighting) called to the crowd to gather for the first shot. The clothes came off. The people scurried. It was surreal. I fought the urge to not stare, but quickly gave up as it was impossible to have your eyes open and not see a nude body. So many bodies, too. Maybe I thought somewhere in the recesses of my brain that everyone would look like something out of a Playboy magazine or a strip club. Not even close. There were all types of bodies – old, young, fat, thin. There were pregnant women, men with scars running down the length of their chests. There were cancer survivors missing one or more breasts. There were bruises and bumps. There were perfect men and women that could be in the pages of magazines. We had it all. Instead of being repulsed or turned on, the overriding emotion I felt was humbled. There was so much beauty in even the traditionally ugly right at that moment that it was overwhelming. I was lost in the fantastic bizarreness of it all when I heard the very thing that you don’t want to hear in a sea of nakedness … “Hey Kelly! How are you doing?!”

Oh. My. God. Someone I knew was calling out to me. I turned to look at the barer of good cheer (pun absolutely intended) and saw an old friend walking along beside me. We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments. I was awkward. He was not. And the reason? I had already seen him naked. Photographed him that way, in fact. Yes, the subject of the very first nude shoot I did was standing next to me in some kind of divine back-at-cha retribution.

There were some amazing shots taken, though. I was awed at the unveiling (again with the puns) of the piece months later at MOCA Cleveland. I have a print of the main piece and saved newspaper articles recounting the event so that when I am eighty, I can sit in my rocking chair and remember that I did something Cool.

But my favorite part of the day came early on when the bare-assed participants greeted and waved at a garbage truck sitting at a traffic light near the Rock Hall. I wonder what he thought as he honked at the thousands of naked people so early in the morning. It’s just not something you see every day on the Shoreway. Or at least, I don’t think you do.

Which is why, in part, I am so stupid.

Allow me to explain.

About, oh, 30 years ago, the five year old version of Hot Coffee Girl (she was known then as Demi-Tasse back then) was swinging on the swing, enjoying a beautiful Spring day, such as today. She smelled the sweet air, looked at the blossoming flowers, swung so high that the slack of the chains clicked in her hands…all with an innocence and purity that only an unsuspecting tot can possess.

The pleasantness of the day was short-lived, however. For there, coming towards her on the swing was a vicious, ferocious beast. The sun was clouded over by its shape, and its fangs dripped with blood. A ziggety flight path belied its very target…it was headed in the most bloodthirsty way to feast on my delicate five year old flesh. A bee. A yellow-jacket, to be more specific. But like none you have ever seen or heard about. No ordinary insect, this. Zipping towards me with unrivaled speed was a spiky-furred, blood-fanged creature with death and destruction on his mind. Weighing my options, I did the only thing a young child could do in such a situation.

I screamed at the top of my lungs.

For a very long time.

So loud and so long, in fact, that it brought my mother, the neighbors next to us (and the neighbors next to them) out running. Sensing that he was outnumbered, the monster flew off just before they arrived, leaving me to try to explain the situation to the crowd that had now gathered.

“Big.” <Sniffle> “Bee.” <Cough. Gag.> “Gonna. Get. Me.” <Gagcoughsniffle.> It took me a few minutes to get my breathing under control enough to see the skepticism in their faces begin to register. Which brought tears of a different sort. Indignation. “The BEEEEEEE. You saw it. It was gonna KEEEEEL ME.” Then fear all over again thinking what I had been through.

My mother grabbed me and took me upstairs to my bedroom, assumptively to protect me from future bee attacks. In reality, it was me…not the creature…that her irritation was directed at. Apparently, screaming loud and long enough to empty the neighborhood was not good behavior. I plead my case, “But the thing was soooo biiigg! It was going to kill me!” When that didn’t work, I tried playing the sympathy card. “My head. It really hurts.”

Her response? “Well, of course it does. You probably screamed out part of your brains.”

Which is why every Spring I think of how the bees made me stupid.

It’s a right of passage.

   There are some days you just need a hat. 

Me: So, have you, like, been in a good mood in the last month or so?
Her: No. Not at all. I mean, there are moments of happiness. But a general good mood? Nope. No way. How about you?
Me: Hell no.
Her: Yeah. I know.
Me: Although knowing this makes me feel a little better.
Her: Don’t worry. It’s fleeting.

"So, I give it two stars for the content and for having the potential to be a great blogger, but the short bus for being 70% mundane and 30% great. Oh, and for the stupid ugly buttons in the sidebar. Get rid of bust, get rid of Avitable's fat face, get rid of all the other stupid blog promotion buttons, and focus on giving us a little more soul in your writing. You've got it. You've got a gift. Stop squandering it, and start honing it. There are ten million bloggers out there who would gladly rip your gift for words/soul out of your fingers and throw you into the dust for 1/10 of the writing talent you're wasting in most of your *space filler* posts."

Sadly, she's right. (About the writing...Avi's fat face stays.)

That's a little hard to admit. But I appreciate the honesty.

And my buddy Bitter Bitch will be happy to know what LB thinks of the color..."The blog design is nice and clean, although I must say I'm not a fan of green. Particularly that shade of green. It makes me bilious."

She should've been here in October for the Pepto-Pink.

• Trick or Treating with your Dad trailing close (but not too close) behind. Then going home and spreading out all of the candy on the floor before trade negotiations began with my brother.  ("I'll trade you three Bazookas and one Tootsie Pop for that Kit Kat." ... "Okay, but not root beer flavored, okay?")
• Jumping in a pile of leaves taller than you are and being swallowed up by that crunchy, fall smell.
• Pink Erasers.
• Cheering for your high school football team and then going to the Homecoming bonfire after the game.
• Playing for fun...not exercise or transportation. ("Hey-wanna go ride bikes?" ... "Sure!")
• Stretching the phone cord all the way across the kitchen so you could talk to That Boy in Private. Then calling all of your girlfriends to repeat every word that was said.
• Pizza Day in the Cafeteria.
• Notebook paper. Sharp pencils. Homework. Trapper Keepers. Book covers made out of brown paper bags.
• Stuffed animals. My pink canopy bed.
• Not worrying so much all the time.

It's been a fun little problem for me for a while. My best friend Ali has some good stories to tell. She and I used to work together, and she would come into my office on numerous occasions to find me in various states of comatose. Drooling face-down on my desk was the most frequent...but there was the one time where I slid out of my chair and onto the floor-under my desk. She actually thought I had left until she saw my purse and had to search around for me. This was before I was diagnosed, to be sure. Now when she finds me sleeping on the job, it just means I'm drunk.

The diagnoses was a long time coming. I have always seemed to need more sleep than most. I loved naps-even as a child when you were supposed to hate them. As I grew older, though, I suspected that there was something wrong. I would doze off all the time. I would feel sleepy-even after a good night's sleep. I grew a little ashamed - only really lazy slobs slept as much as I wanted to. When I was married, I would sometimes leave work early to take a nap, taking care to set the alarm for 15 minutes before he was going to be home. I would even make sure I used a satin pillow so there would be no tell-tale crease marks on my face.

I was a junkie hiding a nasty little habit. Naps.

I had what seemed like every test known to man. Blood tests for sugar, protein, all manner of levels. I had my thyroid tested. I even went and saw a shrink because everyone kept saying, "Oh, you're just depressed. That's why you sleep so much." Well, after about 4 sessions, she confirmed that I was, indeed, a whack-job...but not a depressed one. No help there. It finally dawned on me that if there was no other medical problem that was causing me to sleep too much...that maybe it was the sleep itself. I scheduled an appointment at a sleep clinic.

A few weeks later, I had my bags packed for "Sleep Camp" (my name, not theirs). I was to check in in the evening, and get hooked up to a fuckton of electrodes. Then I settled in for bed with a camera trained on me (and not in the fun Paris Hilton video way) and machines quietly measuring me. (A Multiple Sleep Latency Test-or MSLT for you brainy types.) The next morning, I was woken up at 7:00 a.m. and was scheduled to take naps at 8, 10, noon, and 2. They basically say, "Go to sleep"...and you try. Being the overachiever I am, in two of the "naps" I fell asleep in under 30 seconds...the other two in under 15 seconds. I entered REM Sleep every time. Yeah, I'm that good.

The nurse informed me upon leaving that the doctor would call me within a few weeks and I would come back for a visit. To my surprise, he called the next day asking, "Um...how do you function?" I actually think I cried with relief at the diagnosis. It is so hard to know that there is something wrong, but not be able to name it. It makes you feel a bit nuts, to be honest. He called in a script that night for Provigil, and said that I needed to start on the medication the next morning. I did, and the change was immediate.  Like many users, I thought that it wasn't working-there was no "high"...no buzz...nothing that I could feel. Until it was 6:00 that night, and I was still awake. And then at 10:00. I fought the urge to stay up later, but had no problem sleeping once I did settle in. It was amazing. I could go on in greater detail about how this diagnoses-and this expensive little drug-changed my life.

But perhaps another time. Because...I told you that story to tell you this story.

I got a pretty good night's sleep on Monday-turning in at a fairly early hour for me, anyhow. I woke up, drank my coffee, and even ate breakfast. As I settled in to work on a client's site, I washed my face, grabbed a Coke, and a Provigil. I was coding away when I heard from the next room the little dog that lives with me having a little dog nightmare. I went over to her, woke her up, and petted her until she calmed down. When I woke up two hours later still curled up on the bed, I was stunned. What the hell? I immediately started to worry. Maybe I am getting worse. Maybe the drug isn't working. Maybe this is all happening again. The mind reeled.

It wasn't until I walked out to the kitchen to grab another Coke that I saw the untaken pill sitting on the counter where I had left it. 

I had to take another nap after that because I was exhausted from kicking my own ass. What a fucktard. 

But who's really afraid of that? Not many. Here are the top 5 most common phobias:

1. Fear of snakes (ophidiophobia)
2. Fear of giving a speech (glossophobia)
3. Fear of heights (acrophobia)
4. Fear of rodents (musophobia)
5. Fear of flying (aviophobia)

I suffer from none of the above fears...but I have a few of my own.

  I am afraid that this man will continue to breed.
(Hasselhoffiphobia) 

I am afraid this man has bigger tits than I do.
(Gnarlestitaphobia) 

I am afraid that the latest Nobel Prize Winner is actually Fletch.
(YunusFletchaphobia) 

I am working through it.
Thanks for your support. 

This is what I believe: 

• Forcing woman to stay pregnant by a matter of law is incomprehensible to me.
• Abortion should not be used as a primary birth control. It should be determined based on the circumstances of the pregnancy.
• It is interesting to observe that the most staunch opponents of abortion are the often stingiest when it comes to supporting social programs to help millions of unwanted children who are born each year.
• People don't simply get pregnant because they are under-educated or careless. Accidents happen.
• Pro-choice does not mean pro-abortion.

I was faced with a choice.

I was on the pill. I had sex with a man who I had just recently broken up with. Three weeks later, I found out that I was pregnant. I called my ex and told him. He said, “Hey, you don’t want to be with me. You take care of it.”

So I did.

I chose to keep my pregnancy a secret, even from those closest to me. Not out of a shame that I was pregnant, but out of a desire to stick with my choice to not keep the child.

During the early stages of my pregnancy, I made two different appointments to have an abortion. I chose not go to either. Instead, I kept an appointment with a lawyer. I chose a family to adopt my child. I chose to fight in court not to name the father, because the moment he told me to take care of it, his rights to any voice in the matter ended. I chose to never subject a child to that kind of indecision and indifference.

I chose a private adoption, meaning that there would be no contact between the adoptive family and myself. I imagine that there are plenty of people that can successfully maintain an open adoption. I knew I could not. I forced myself to admit that if I were going to do this, I needed to do it all the way. This was a serious act, and my life would forever be changed because of it. I chose to continue to keep the secret to ensure that I would not be talked out of my decision.

On the morning that my water broke, I drove myself to the hospital. I made two phone calls while I was there. To my lawyer and my doctor. That afternoon, I delivered a healthy 7 pound girl. She was lovely. I went home the next day, and she remained in the hospital.

Her family flew in early the following week for the court proceedings. Because of the nature of Ohio courts, I did not see them there. I had to fight for what seemed like a very long time in the judge’s office to not name the father. There is an Ohio law, however, that states that any time a man has sex with a woman, there is a Knowledge of the Fall, meaning that he understands the result of the union could produce a pregnancy. Beyond just knowledge, I argued, this man knew exactly the result, and chose not to participate. I chose to deny him further access to this child by naming him.

After the court proceedings, I went to the hospital. There was nothing that required me to do so, as the adoptive family would be able to pick her up shortly after their time in court. I, instead, chose to be there to give this child to them. I sat in a small room with her, waiting for their arrival. As I held her, I tried to fit a lifetime of understanding into her tiny body. I told her that I loved her. That I had every hope in the world for her. And that I was doing this with the hope that she would someday understand that.

Her family arrived and they were as lovely as I was incoherent. Through my sobs, I tried to explain to them that I was really a very nice person and I was sorry that I seemed like such a mess now. They understood. A young boy of three with them, also adopted, was standing on his tiptoes to see his new sister. He said she was pretty. I placed her softly in her new mother’s arms and said goodbye.

I made a choice.

I made a choice because I was lucky enough to live in a society where I had a choice. It was a difficult one, to be sure. But I believe that the choice is never an easy one. Nor is there a single one that is right. I would never presume to think that the choice that I made is right for all women, or even that it would be the right one for me again. If I were faced with a pregnancy today, I am not sure what choice I would make.

I do know that I stand up with the thousands of woman who had their names published in that magazine, with the thousands more that didn't, and with woman everywhere who deserve to be able to make that choice freely, privately, and legally.

I am Pro-Choice.