Newspapers, as you may have heard, are declining rapidly in value.
To take a recent example: In 2000 The New York Times bought The Worcester (Massachusetts) Telegram-Gazette for $296 million. This year the paper was sold for an undisclosed amount that industry analysts estimate was less than $15 million. That sort of decline in value hasn’t been seen in Worcester since the Chevrolet Vega I drove as a reporter there in the ’70s began leaking oil.
This isn’t news. In 1981, when The Real Paper, an alternative newspaper in Cambridge, Mass. that I wrote for, folded, I submitted an article to The Columbia Journalism Review on its demise. The rejection letter I received said, in essence, thanks, but we get too many stories like this.
Those of us who saw the deluge coming were like William Shatner in the “Twilight Zone” episode “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet,” the only passenger who sees the gremlin out on the wing of the plummeting plane.
You — sitting there in front of the computer — are part of the problem. You’ve apparently decided that you’re tired of reading the same Boston Globe story about tattooed professional women three times in the past 18 months, in each case with fewer facts than before. Funny, the female accountants, lawyers and MBAs I meet tend not to have “Wellesley MA 02481″ scrawled on their necks, a reminder of “where they came from,” as one NBA player said of his return-address neck tat the other day.
Instead, you get news online where you can click a link and watch two guys dropping candy into Diet Coke bottles when you get bored with the two-civic leader op-eds the Globe likes to run.
I’ve been writing for newspapers off and on — mostly off — since high school, when a cracked vertebra tragically brought my football career to a premature conclusion. I wrote for free back then, so to me writing on the Internet is like coming home for Christmas.
I can’t imagine a world without print. There are some places where you just can’t go — at least not yet — with a laptop. This week I got a haircut and was trying to imagine what a normal colloquy with my barber would be like if newspapers ceased to exist:
BARBER: Canna you tilta your heada justa little?
ME: Sorry, I was doing a site search for “lacrosse” and “Blazers” to see whatever happened to Boston’s indoor lacrosse team.
BARBER: Why donta you justa reada the sportsa page? Thatta way I don’ta get little hairs in your computer when I blow dry.
ME: Enzo — print — it dies.
BARBER: Too bad. You want gel on that?
I, for one, am not going to stand idly by while a way of life comes to an end. What follows is my guerilla plan to save print through hand-to-hand combat that you, dear reader, can you join anytime you want.
Buy two copies, throw one away. During the first Reagan administration humorist Roy Blount, Jr. suggested that we reduce the national debt by buying postage stamps and throwing them away. Maybe if writers bought two copies of every newspaper they wanted and threw one away, we could save print. Of course Blount’s plan didn’t work, but that was before there was the Internet to spread the word. If you wanted to read Blount back then, you had to buy Esquire. Not any more. Now you just log onto the Internet, type his name into your search engine and…never mind.
Pets. Pets are one of the key demographics that publishers neglected when advertising revenues were strong and things didn’t look so grim. Try lining your parakeet’s cage with a laptop, or house-breaking your Portuguese Water Dog using an Amazon Kindle — it’s a mess! You’ll be begging the nice telemarketer for The New York Times for a two-week free home delivery trial the next time she calls.
Diminished civility. Next time somebody at the soup ‘n salad place where you eat lunch asks if he can have your paper when you’re through with it, just say no. As you make your way out of your commuter train in the morning, pick up the discarded papers that other riders leave behind and throw them away.
If somebody complains, tell them if they want to read the news for free, they can buy a laptop, which is way more expensive.
— Con Chapman
Con Chapman is a Boston-area writer whose works includeThe Year of the Gerbil, a history of the 1978 Yankees-Red Sox pennant race, and two novels, Making Partner and CannaCorn(Joshua Tree Publishing). He is the author of 30 plays, 10 of which are published. His articles and humor have appeared in national magazines and newspapers including The Atlantic Monthly, The Boston Globe, The Boston Globe Magazine and Salon.com, and he’s a frequent contributor to The Boston Herald.
Google “Benefits of Menopause,” and you’ll get 8,570,000 possible links. Over 8 1/2 million articles written on how menopause makes us stronger, sexier, more confident and more at peace with our bodies and our sexuality. Not to mention the exhilarating freedom from periods, bloating, cramping, PMS and the constant worry about pregnancy, however slim the chance.
What they don’t tell you in those same posts is that all that zen is achieved after menopause is over. It’s the prize at the end of a rather bumpy ride, during which you’ll start questioning whether you’ll ever be sexy again. Or if you’ll ever care.
Like most women, I like feeling attractive, sexy, desirable. I’ve spent more money than I probably should’ve towards that goal over the years, and although yoga pants and no makeup are my norm, I do clean up fairly well (which admittedly takes longer with each passing year). I have a tiny, but persistent, inner hot chick that still likes stilettos, little black dresses and the appreciative looks from Hubs at my efforts. Menopause crashed my hotness with a thud heard in three states.
Suddenly I was more “Ma’am” than MILF. Men stopped whistling at me from the street and started helping me through the crosswalk. People no longer commented, “You look so much like your mother,” and started assuming we were sisters. One unfortunate store owner in town asked me if I was my son’s grandmother. (As soon as I figure out how to hide the body, he’s going to die.)
In retrospect, I’m amazed that Hubs made it through my menopausal years. He married a reasonably confident, arguably normal woman, and woke up one day to an overheated, moody, questionably sane female sobbing uncontrollably over the sudden appearance of cankles. My MILF was gone. How menopause killed it:
1. Hot flashes. We were out at our favorite romantic restaurant, and instead of the coy flirting of our early years (“Gee, Big Guy, is it hot in here or is it just you?”), it became “Is it hot in here or what? I’m hot. Is anybody else hot??” Repeated requests to the uncooperative waiter to turn the thermostat down finally ended with a screeching “Can’t you turn the freaking heat down?!? It’s TOO FRIGGIN’ HOT IN HERE.” Hubs dragged my sweaty body out of the restaurant, and we haven’t been back since.
2. Metabolism changes. Actually, mine didn’t change. It stopped. Weight maintenance was now limited to one Fruit Loop and a Diet Coke per day. Weight loss required colonic cleansing and fasting. And if you like wine, no carbs for you. Ever. Carbs plus wine make you blow up like a puffer fish, so you have to choose. I haven’t had a carb since 2009.
3. Fatigue. I was tired all the time. Bedtime went from 10:30 p.m. to 8:30 p.m., effectively eliminating boogie nights on the dance floor, since it’s virtually impossible to find a band that starts at 5:30.
4. Night sweats. Yeah, nothing turns a man on more than being whacked on the arm at 2 a.m. to “Get up” because we have to change the cold, wet sheets. Again. After the first six months, we both got used to just tossing beach towels over the sheets and crawling back into bed. Take that, sex life.
5. Day sweats. I quit going to the gym after realizing my clothes would be soaked, with visible sweat pouring down between my boobs and my butt crack, and I’d only been on the treadmill for 3 minutes. It took me longer to wipe down the machine than it did to work out.
6. Incontinence. I’d laugh. A little squirt. I’d sneeze. Another little squirt. The actual need to pee? Now I’d be clenching my Kegals while I waddle-ran to the nearest bathroom, praying there wasn’t a line and fully prepared to bust into the men’s room if necessary. By the end of the evening, I smelled like Eau de Pee, sitting in wet undies, and wondering what the hell had happened to my life. Hubs, not surprisingly, was still not turned on.
7. Mood swings. Some days, Hubs would come home to find me sobbing over yet-another Hallmark commercial about the son returning home at Christmas to his adoring little sister and happy, teary-eyed parents. Other days, any and all comments directed at me, from anyone in the room, on any subject, were met with “What the hell is wrong with you??” accompanied, when the stupidity-level warranted it, by a smack up ‘long side the head. Hubs claimed later that every day was a crapshoot.
8. Physical changes. Under-arm twaddle, boobs headed towards my knees, and hips widening, irrevocably eliminated anything sleeveless or low-cut from my closet and would forevermore require military-grade underwear. Menopause underwear is designed to git ‘erdone, by pushing, lifting, and shoving defiant and migrating body parts back into their original shape and place. We no longer care about lace edging or cute bows. We need Kevlar underwire and the Spanx company on speeddial.
9. Body heat. More consistent than hot flashes, I was basically just hot all. the. time. We had the front door open year-round, and unless it was raining, I had the top down on my car. In December. I turned the house heat completely off every night and opened all the windows. Hubs repeatedly complained that he couldn’t perform in a meat locker. I reminded him once that it’s a bad chef who blames his utensils, but apparently he didn’t get my humor. Yeah, nobody got any that night.
10. Hunger. Suffice it to say that I was always hungry. And somehow, I have no recollection of craving carrots. I do remember threatening to bludgeon Hubs to death one night for eating the last of my Milk Duds. To this day, he’s never eaten another Dud.
11. Evening conversations tended more towards chronic menopausal-induced IBS than our mutual plans for our next vacation through the wine country. Hubs, who’s never seen me pee (not once in 15 years) because I want to maintain a modicum of mystery in our marriage, looked a bit stunned one night when I bent over and hiked up the back of my dress, asking “When I bend over like this, can you see cellulite on the backs of my legs?” He laughed so hard, he fell off his chair, but was smart enough to leave that question untouched.
Now, at the end of the tunnel, I’m approaching inner peace. But it was a humbling and often mortifying ride. And occasionally, when I’m doing my morning prayers and meditation, my thoughts will free-fall back to those years and I’ll ask God, “Really??REALLY??”
I’m still waiting for a response.
— Vikki Claflin
Oregon writer Vikki Claflin writes the popular humor blog, Laugh Lines. Two recent pieces have been published in Life Well Blogged: Parenting Gag Reels — Hilarious Writes and Wrongs: Take 26. In 2014, she received a BlogHer Voice of the Year award for humor.
Are you looking for a fresh, impartial critique to help prepare your manuscript for submission? An opinion from someone with years of experience in the literary world? Honest feedback from an author who has been published and has an intimate knowledge of the industry?
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Katrina Kittle, Kristina McBride and Sharon Short have 50 years of experience in publishing, and have spent a collective 40 years teaching various levels of English and creative writing. Kittle has served on the faculty at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop, and Short, who directs the Antioch Writers’ Workshop, has judged a number of writing competitions, including the 2014 Erma Bombeck Writing Competition.
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The goal of The Write Sisters is to guide writers in honing overall aspects of voice, plotting and narrative, as well as polishing the nitty-gritty details, all while staying true to the heart of the story. They hope to fuel the passion writers have for the manuscript they are creating, and to offer a final push to enhance the piece in preparation for submission.
For more details, including pricing, visit The Write Sisters.
Last year, for Halloween I decided to make something fun for dinner — you know something off Pinterest. For those of you who are not familiar with Pinterest, it’s where you go to get craft ideas and recipes for things like meatball birds in a nest of spaghetti, broccoli poodles and hot dogs that look like little octopi. You can learn how to turn rice into the head of Hello Kitty and eggs into zoo animals. On the non-food end of things, you can learn how to tie a scarf that looks like Rapunzel’s braid or turn ordinary household items into a castle.
So I went to the store and meticulously shopped for items to make my ghoulish gourmet meal. And, oh was I excited to unveil my Yummy Mummy Meatloaf!
Then . . . “What is it?” my guest asked.
“What do you mean, what is it?” I shot back. “Tell me what you think it is.”
“A goat?” she offered. “Yes, that’s it, it’s a goat wrapped in Swiss! How clever!” She took a fork and poked at it. “But a Halloween goat . . . I don’t get it.”
“Get away from my mummy!” I yelled.
“It’s a goat,” she insisted.
She meant it. Hours of wrapping white strips of cheese around the meaty body of a mummy had somehow morphed into a goat at 375 degrees.
It’s not my first Pinterest failure. Last Thanksgiving I made Pop Tart Tiramisu. I have no idea what I was thinking. It turned out to look like a rainbow. A rainbow that threw up. My nephew took one bite and announced “Um hello? Pop Tarts? Really?”
But that was nothing compared to my attempt at hedgehog cupcakes or bunnies driving motorcycle Twinkies.
So I was much relieved to find out recently that there is actually a website for Pinterest flops. It’s called Pinterestfail.com and its tagline is “Where good intentions go to die.” It turns out hundreds of other people have attempted Ho Ho houses and 82-layer Eiffel Tower cakes with less than ideal outcomes. In reality it turns out for every “Nailed it!” there are approximately 12 “This bad boy will never see the light of days.”
What, then, keeps drawing us back to Pinterest to undertake these challenges? I can’t even figure out how Velcro works and I’ve never turned my TV on because the buttons scare me. Yet, somehow I think I can master Yummy Mummy Meatloaf and wind chimes made of forks.
So after my friend adjusted to the idea that we were eating goat for dinner, I brought out a lovely dessert tray of darling little marshmallow ghosts to top off the meal.
“Oh look,” she gushed, “These are cutest snowmen ever!”
Keep that up and after dinner we’re knitting kitty sweaters and making bird feeders out of pop bottles…
— Holly Kelsey-Henry
Holly Kelsey-Henry is the owner of DownWrite Creative in Wisconsin and makes her living as a writer — some days more profitably than others. She is a former award-winning journalist and still writes for newspapers and magazines.
For as long as I can remember, my husband has been haunted by the ghost of old injuries. Although I’ve been dubbed the Queen of Klutz, my guy has ended up in the emergency room more often than I have. An accident on the baseball field in his teens left him with the knee caps of an 80-year-old man. They creak and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies cereal whenever he pushes himself off the couch.
It doesn’t help that this middle-aged man thinks with the brain of a 25-year-old. He never turns down a challenge on the basketball court and will gladly snap on a knee brace just to keep up with the young whippersnappers. One year when my son’s friends gathered in the front yard with their skateboards and BMX bikes to perform stunts, the hubs didn’t want to miss out on all the fun. He assured the boys that he was quite the cyclist in his youth, and that there wasn’t a ramp around that he couldn’t conquer. Sensing a challenge, the teens goaded the hubs into reliving his boyhood days one ramp at a time. He swaggered over to the bike with the confidence of Evil Knievel before hopping on and peddling full force down the street. Up he went, over the ramp, gliding through the air with the glory of youth shining in his eyes.
And then his feet slipped off the pedals and the bike landed with a resounding thud on the hard pavement. Good thing we were past the procreation stage in our lives since my husband lost his family jewels that day on the BMX bike from hell.
When my youngest daughter turned eleven, she invited a group of friends over for a slumber party. While the girls ate pizza and watched spooky movies, my husband came up with a brilliant idea that only a prepubescent teenage boy would admire. He donned a rubber monster mask and crept outside to give the girls a little scare. Just as they were settling down into their sleeping bags, the hubs popped up and pounded on the window to frighten them. The girls shrieked, glass shattered, and the “monster” became strangely quiet. That’s when I noticed the two red fountains pulsing from his wrists. My husband had inadvertently sliced both on the broken windowpane and needed immediate medical attention.
The paramedics found it hard to believe that a middle-aged man would skulk around his own backyard on a Saturday night with a mask. If they’d seen him the week before in a Velcro suit on a Velcro wall at Disney World after too many JELL-O shots, they’d understand.
Alcohol has always been the liquid courage that prompts men to do stupid things. My husband is no different. After a rousing game of beer pong with a group of college students, my overly confident husband challenged his two strapping sons to a wrestling match. Oh yes, he was once the captain of the wrestling team in high school. Thirty years ago. Which explains why he ended up face first in a nightstand drawer and woke the next morning to a deviated septum and two black eyes.
There have been countless knee injuries, sprained ankles, sore backs, torn ligaments, broken toes, fingers and black eyes since then. I can’t help but wonder if my husband’s coworkers have speculated on the nature of our marriage. Menopausal women have tempers, after all.
At this rate, I’ll need to buy stock in Advil or Aleve since arthritis is Mother Nature’s revenge on my middle-aged man.
Time to trade the BMX bike in for a motorized wheelchair.
— Marcia Kester Doyle
Marcia Kester Doyle is the author of the humorous blog “Menopausal Mother,” where she muses on the good, the bad and the ugly side of menopausal mayhem. She is a contributor to the Huffington Post, staff writer for In The Powder Room and HumorOutcasts.com and a contributing writer for What the Flicka. Her work recently captured first place in VoiceBoks Top Hilarious Parent Bloggers 2014, and her first book will be released in the spring through Blue Lobster Publishing. Marcia’s work has appeared on Scary Mommy, Mamapedia, Bloggy Moms, Messy Mom’s Radio, The Woven Press, the Life Well Blogged series and was voted Top 25 in the Circle Of Mom’s Contest 2013. In 2014, she was named a Blogher Voice Of The Year.
On Sunday, June 29 and Monday, June 30, enjoy a free Kindle giveaway of The Art of Opinion Writing: Insider Secrets from Top Op-Ed Columnists by author and EBWW faculty member Suzette Martinez Standring. Publisher RRP International, Inc. opens the giveaway to all, with no passwords or conditions required. On June 29 and 30, simply go to Amazon.com and look for the book to download a free Kindle version.
The Art of Opinion Writing features iconic columnists, such as Ellen Goodman and others who have earned the Pulitzer Prize and journalism’s highest awards. They share early career struggles, writing advice and strategies to create writing that stands out. At its heart, opinion writing is about persuasion, and any type of writing will benefit from the advice featured. The Art of Opinion is used in college journalism courses nationally, such as Johns Hopkins University.
Suzette Martinez Standring is syndicated with GateHouse Media for her spirituality columns, and teaches writing workshops nationally. Her humor and op-ed columns are featured on our blog, Humor Outcasts and The Huffington Post. Her previous award-winning book is The Art of Column Writing.
She steps into the exam room, staring at the chart the nurse shoved into her hands and quickly trying to assess my medical history in the five steps between the door and the exam table.
She looks up, squints at my forehead a wee bit too long, and then fixes her gaze just a bit lower.
“Your friends must be envious of your skin!” she proclaims, making me question either her eyesight or her medical credentials.
Apparently she missed the reason for my appointment that clearly states “25-year acne sufferer” and “what the hell can I use for these wrinkles” as reasons for my dermatologist visit today.
“Um, NO,” I say, maybe a little bit too quickly. “My skin is nothing to brag about,” I add, instantly wishing I were sitting in the dental chair instead.
With nitrous oxide.
“Your neck!” she exclaims, “The skin on your neck is smooth and firm, beautiful,” she says, with a glint in her eyes that almost makes me believe her. If she wasn’t young enough to be my daughter.
Maybe she had wine with lunch.
At this point, I am forced to ponder my neck… a part of my body I have never considered as a separate entity, I guess. The biggest job my neck has is holding my head up and supporting a necklace now and then. And even then I have been known on many occasions to simply rest my head on my desk after a particularly strenuous bout of editing. So even my neck can be lazy.
My neck? Never a point of conversation until now.
My babies have nuzzled my neck after midnight feedings, when the lure of sleep called to me from the bedroom but motherhood won and I stayed just a few moments longer on the couch to drink in their sweet, milky scent. My neck has comforted a little girl with a broken arm, a boy who lost his grandfather, kids mourning the loss of their first family dog and a dear friend who lost her husband too early and too tragically. My neck snuggled my mother when she lost her husband too many years too soon and cradled my husband when he lost not one but both of his beloved grandfathers.
I have craned my neck ever so slightly to see if a teenager’s car has pulled up in the driveway yet… at half past 11. My neck has betrayed me with osteoarthritis and sent me to physical therapy on more than one occasion.
My neck? It may not be much to brag about, or a part of my body that my much-younger friends will envy. But this neck — my neck — has proven to be an incredibly valuable part of my anatomy that I simply take for granted most days.
“Yes,” I stammer. “My neck is amazing,” I finally say.
And I smile a little bit bigger…
In spite of the huge zit on my chin.
— Sherri Kuhn
Sherri Kuhn is a freelance writer, copy editor, blogger, grammar junkie and social media addict. She loves playing with words, editing and writing articles about everything from nail polish to parenting topics. On her blog Old Tweener she writes from the heart — with an occasional side of sarcasm and humor. With a son in college and a daughter in high school, she always has something to write about. Her writing has been featured at Huffington Post, SheKnows, AllParenting, Moonfrye, Mamalode and BlogHer. She was chosen as a cast member for the 2012 Listen to Your Mother show in San Francisco. Sherri lives in Northern California with her family and crazy yellow lab.
In my 15 years of being a mom, I’ve had my share of tough questions.
The ones that induce the reddest blushes have to do with sex.
What is sex? Do you and daddy have sex? When do you ever find the time to have sex? These are the tip of the iceberg in a long line of questions from my three kids that I’ve fielded over the years. Usually while we are all at the dinner table and my mouth is full of tea or pasta.
I will never, ever, forget the time our eldest child needed the complete, don’t-hold-anything-back, tell-me-right-now explanation of sex.
We had already dealt with the basics of where babies came from. I always answered every question that was brought to me. But every time we would get to the nitty gritty part, Tom would change the subject.
This day was different. He wanted the truth, the whole truth. Nothing else would suffice.
Of course this was also on a day that my dad was over. I will spare you the details of our conversation, but let’s just say that six years later, I still haven’t completely recovered from having to explain ejaculation to my son IN FRONT of my father.
I give my dad extra points for remaining very calm and then patting me on the back for a job well done.
Some of the toughest questions I have had to answer have been about our beautiful 12-year-old daughter. Lizzy is beloved by her two brothers, but her brain disorder that still has no name stumps some of the top medical professionals in the world. How do I answer questions about what her future will be when I don’t know?
Being a mom means being prepared for anything. I get that. I am also fairly proud of my ability to appear calm and unfazed even when I’m laughing or dying inside.
But I have to admit that I was caught off guard last year when my then 8-year-old son, Peter, asked me if he really had to go to heaven one day, and if he did, could our whole family go at the same time.
“Can I at least go with Grandpa Warren?”
My beloved Aunt Fran, who died less than a year ago, was in the last stages of her illness. Peter loved Fran and he was really struggling with what it meant that she was dying.
What is heaven? Where is heaven? Can we all go at the same time?
Peter asked these questions as I was serving dinner.
I did my best to reassure him and let him know I believed heaven was a beautiful, peaceful place where we would be with God and all our loved ones that went before us. I stressed the fact that I felt it was a place where there was no pain or sadness.
I let him know that I loved the idea that we would all be together and that even if we didn’t all go at the same time, I believed we would ultimately be reunited with one another.
His face relaxed and he smiled as he asked for a hug.
I was relieved to know that my hugs still held their magical power.
It occurred to me that day that I am the filter that my children see the world through. Whether they are sad, scared, happy or not feeling well, I am the one they come to.
They adore their father. They love their grandparents, but I have been their constant from the day they each took their first breaths.
I am home.
All at once, I felt grateful, humbled and a little scared to be that important to not one, but three of the sweetest people on earth.
Motherhood is a strange job. The hours are crazy, the working conditions are not always optimal, and the people we work for can sometimes seem very demanding. I don’t always feel up to the job. Yet, on that day I was once again reminded that it is not so much what I do that means the most to my children. It is that I am there to do it. I may not be my ideal of the perfect mother, but I am theirs.
— Kathy Radigan
Kathy Radigan is a writer, blogger, social media addict, mom to three, wife to one and owner of a possessed appliance. She posts a weekly essay each Sunday on her blog, My dishwasher’s possessed! and has had her writing featured in What to Expect, BlogHer, Mamapedia, and other publications. She is a contributing author to Sunshine After the Storm: a survival guide for the grieving mother and The HerStories Project: Women Explore the Joy, Pain and Power of Female Friendship. You can follow her on Facebook, Twitter and Google.