The Original BFFs

Not many people have affected my life the way Michael has. We are, as he likes to call us, the original BFFs.

My life was forever changed when our last names placed us in homeroom together at DuPont Junior High in Belle, WV. No sooner had I placed my Mead Trapper Keeper under my desk and smoothed out my Forenza sweater over my stirrup pants with Chuck T. high tops, when Michael turned to me and said something sarcastic. In that moment something happened.

I’ve heard people talk about love at first sight—but this was more than that. This was humor and wit at first sight: I had found my soul-mate. Michael and I hit it off right away. Immediately, I liked him and the way he could keep up with my sarcastic banter, giving it back as quickly as I could dish it out. Our first order of business was to rename everyone in the class. I still occasionally wonder how “Spiral McPermison” and “Mary Jane Von Stonerton” are doing.

We had fun together. Once, convinced that I should learn to cook after I caught a bag of microwave popcorn on fire, Michael donned an apron and set about my kitchen with my mother’s avocado green mixer. Another time, he hid in my bedroom and scared the bejesus out of me when I got home from school. We spent a lot of time at Taco Bell and TCBY. We may or may not have belted out Taylor Dayne tunes into a hair-brush microphone in his car. One of his shining moments of BFF greatness came on my 18^th birthday when he showed up at my grandmother’s house, after our family dinner, with a birthday cake for me, because he knew no one else had a cake for me. I loved him for that. Even if the cake did say, “Happy Bar Mitzvah, Steve.”

We’ve endured some heavy-duty issues in our lives, too. We’re 40 now people—we have jeans older than some of you. So, we have encountered some crazy juju, the most notable of which was a rift between the two of us that lasted the duration of the 1990s and took us all the way past the birth of Shiloh Jolie-Pitt.

Alas, the original BFFs hit a major snag somewhere around the early 1990s. About the time Vanilla Ice was hotter than hot, our epic friendship cooled off. As in: frozen. Stone cold. Brrrrrr.

It is a long, complicated story whose details don’t need re-hashing. But during that rift, we missed out on so much: Ross/Rachel, Clinton/Lewinsky, the unfortunate onset of “japris,” my wedding, his coming out, the OJ trial, the SNL Spartan Cheerleaders, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, Ace of Base, Titanic, and Y2K. While Will Smith was “Gettin’ Jiggy With It,” we were nowhere near a much-longed-for reconciliation.

During our junior year of high school, Michael and I had the good fortune to end up in the English class of Carol Recco, teacher extraordinaire and all-around fabulous person. She, more than anyone, was privy to the genius of our wit when she poured over those weekly journal entries wherein Michael and I penned, with Pulitzer-like finesse, all the teenage angst and euphoria of (depending on what was being served in the cafeteria) our young lives.

But one big thing wasn’t being written in Michael’s journal: he is gay, but he wasn’t telling anyone. Why, I’ve wondered? But the truth is, it was Belle, WV in the late 1980s and life was not an episode of Glee. (If only!) An adequate safety net did not exist for Michael the way it may today. I think back on that hilarious, attractive, smart, wonderful boy that I loved for all the right reasons and my heart hurts that he couldn’t feel safe telling even one person—even me—that precious part of himself. We were Will and Grace before Will and Grace were cool.

And that is exactly how our reconciliation happened. One blessed day about six years ago, at different times, we both had similar conversations with our beloved Mrs. Recco. She casually mentioned to each of us how much the other would love to reconnect. (Mrs. Recco has always used her super-powers for good instead of evil.)

Finally, we connected in a phone conversation that lasted a few hours. There were tears, there were apologies, and there was story after story in a remarkable reunion that brought us back to that friendship we had so missed.

“This is so Will and Grace,” I said to Michael.

“I’m signing us up for the Amazing Race right now,” said my BFF.

And just like that, we were back, settling into a comfortable banter just in time for me to deliver my third child and Michael to find the love of his life.

Today when I crack open my senior yearbook I see the once and future BFFs, now two grown-up friends.

I see a strong, still-handsome, still-funny, good man unafraid of who he is. He is blessed to be in relationship with an equally good and wonderful man, and it is my great pleasure to know and love them both.

I see a younger version of myself and want to tell her, “Wait until you see the wonderful gifts life is about to hand you. Also, the late 1990s involve knit pants and matching vests. Try to avoid that.”

I’m not sure I believe that everything happens for a reason, but I do believe people are in our lives for a reason and I am so grateful to have Michael in mine.

And thank God for the reunion because there is always so much for us to discuss.  With the fleeting drama of an election year, a divorce for Tomkat and—God, help us—Honey Boo Boo, it’s nice to have a BFF that endures.

Zero is (still) not a size

Ladies, yet again we are being judged for our physical appearances.

In the last few days, Wisconsin news anchor Jennifer Livingston has made headlines for confronting the rude author of an offensive email targeting her weight. Livingston, who aptly pointed out that she is “much more than a number on a scale,” took the high road by using the uncalled for remarks about her appearance to bring attention to Bullying Prevention Awareness Month, which happens to be this October. Livingston admonished viewers who may be experiencing ridicule for any reason, to stand up for themselves.

The email Livingston received not only called her obese, but also a poor role model. Come on, crass stranger, really? The man who sent Livingston that dim-witted email wasn’t privy to the inner-workings of her life and soul. She is a mother of three young girls. You can bet that as she got ready for work that morning, before getting to her office and finding the vile  email, she was packing lunches, signing permission slips, tying shoes, brushing pigtails, giving hugs, fixing boo-boos, settling arguments, scheduling meetings, and asking herself if she remembered everything. She likely shared a brief kiss with her husband, fed the cat and grabbed a Luna bar on the way out to the minivan—because that’s how real women function. No one gets to accuse her of being a poor role model, least of all someone who admittedly doesn’t watch her news show. How would he know what kind of person she is?

But to me, the most heinous part of this whole thing is that a perfectly competent, lovely, smart woman—who does not mirror society’s concept that physical beauty is borderline anorexia—is being called out for her size at her job as a television news anchor.

Since when should a woman have to answer to a random stranger—or anyone— for her size?

Since always, that’s when.

Aren’t you tired of it, ladies?  Isn’t enough enough? And while it’s a complete travesty that Livingston was judged, not by her ability, but her appearance, perhaps an equally deplorable reality is that most of us still try our damndest to stay engaged in some ever-illusive pursuit of a “better” body.

Don’t misunderstand—I’m not discarding the benefits of a well-rounded plan for self care that includes physical activity, rest, nourishing food and some kind of balance between our physical, mental and spiritual selves. I’m very invested in mine, and encourage sane, healthy behavior as much as possible.

Unfortunately, our culture still judges women on the way we look. Just last week, there was a scuttlebutt around Lady Gaga’s admission that she has struggled with an eating disorder since she was 15-years-old. Simultaneously, she was being raked over the coals for gaining weight. Duplicitous media messages about her alleged weight gain flew all over the web prompting critics and fans alike to speak out, and Mother Monster herself to post pictures in her skivvies with a message to fans:
  “To all the girls that think you’re ugly because you’re not a size zero, you’re the beautiful one. It’s society who’s ugly.”

Amen to that. Besides, zero is not a size. It’s just not. One, five, eight, twelve, sixteen, twenty—all sizes. But zero? Not so much. I recently voiced my concern about this to a very nice sales associate at Anne Taylor Loft, which not only offers a size zero, but a double zero.  A double zero! Less than nothing!

Last night I cruised by the magazine rack at the grocery store. I saw 33 magazine covers featuring women who would qualify as supermodels. Only one was a woman of color; most were blond. I’m certain none of them were even average-sized, which is somewhere around a 14. Designers for Hollywood starlets make samples in sizes 2-4. Maybe Livingston’s critic spends too much time in the magazine aisle at Kroger.

Like many women, I can’t remember ever thinking I didn’t need to lose weight: not when I was 10 years old and far too young to be concerned with such issues; not when I tried (another) fad diet at 13, and threw up at the dinner table; not when I weighed 112 pounds and was as bootylicious as I’ll ever be; maybe not even today. Even as I write this, I’m fresh off a high-intensity workout with a friend. But I do remember what happened to my body to change the way I think about it.

I had three babies. I got pregnant, grew these human beings inside me, ate to nourish both of us, and miraculously delivered them into this world safely, un-medicated and in complete awareness. Then I used my body to nurse them—each of them for more than three years, giving them the best possible start, and if you want to get technical, a boost toward avoiding obesity later.

That changed everything about the way I see my body: every curve, every stretch mark, every gravity-controlled part. Remarkably, it brought about a new confidence, a sense of “I’m pretty frickin’ awesome!”

So, I will continue my frickin’ awesomeness and try not to let the detractors emailing inane comments get in my way. I have things to do. I have to counteract for my kids the idea that they should fit into some cultural idea of acceptable beauty. They are already pretty frickin’ awesome the way they are.
 
And to Jennifer Livingston, keep that spam folder in your email active, and keep doing a great job.
You’re not a disgrace, you’re not responsible for the physical health of La Crosse, Wisconsin and you’re most definitely not alone.

Extreme Makeovers: Cheaper than marriage counseling?

Someone once told me that if a couple could survive painting together, their marriage would survive anything.

True, that.

We’ve just spent most of our kids’ college savings on an Extreme Bedroom Makeover: Walker Edition. (Ha, ha, kids! Just kidding! Of course we didn’t, really. We don’t even have a college savings for you. Keep those grades up, smarties!)

We’ve spent the better part of three weeks re-arranging, re-assigning and re-decorating rooms for the kids. Now, the boy has a room of his own and the girls are shacked-up together. They look great. I’m talking Pinterest-worthy, people.

An interesting dynamic unfolds when people start decorating together, which is really just a microcosm of real life. In our case, one of us (okay, me) likes to think and ruminate on how things should be. The other (guess who?) hears me say out loud that I might like the idea of stripes, and has the entire room taped off and ready to paint before I can return from the other room with my color swatches.

You have to be careful what you say out loud around a man of action.

“Hold on a minute!” I said, when I happened upon my beloved, poised and ready to stripe the girls’ room in a Parisian Pink. “Dude, Parisian Pink was yesterday. I’m leaning toward Perfectly Pink now.”

He looked at me sadly, brush in hand, as though I was supposed to rush a decision like this. Hello?! These things take time. When I told him I may not even want to do stripes anymore, he seemed to have a small aneurysm.

I get him. He’s a do-er. Maddening as it is for a big-picture gal like me, his detail gets the job done. This is part of the delicate balance that we’ve learned to achieve.

And he gets me, too. I need to ruminate. I’m not just pondering where to put the new bookcase. I’m grieving the stack of board books that will no longer be on the shelf. I’m not just practicing serious Feng Shui with that gimormous van load of donations for Goodwill, I’m weepy that the little size 3T Osh Kosh Halloween sweatshirt, photographed on little Walkers at pumpkin patches all over middle Tennessee, has been relegated to the “give away” pile. It takes me a minute, y’all.

There is also a tricky equilibrium in how to decorate. What I mean by “tricky equilibrium” is I have to reign in my sarcasm—a lot—when other people like to have opinions about my decorating ideas. More than once, I’ve had to take a deep breath and remember it’s not ALL about me. Mostly is it, though. I’m the one pouring over Pinterest and practically getting slapped with a restraining order from Nate Berkus. No one else knows the delicate placement options of a chevron stripe. Well, do they?

I’m barely used to the idea that my husband has an opinion about home decor, but now the children are depositing their two cents. I get it: they live here, too. But do they have to have their own thoughts, ideas and preferences?

Oh, wait. Of course they do. That’s how we’re raising them: to be “independent thinkers” and “individuals” and “self-possessed people.” Damned good parenting. Now look what we’ve done! We’ve gone and taught them to think for themselves!

Now that we’re in the home stretch, everyone is very pleased with the results of their new rooms. My current challenge is letting them actually USE their rooms. I mean the new digs are so organized and pristine. Yesterday I almost cried to find a pair of dirty socks on a brand new hot pink rug. A pair of ill-placed Converse All-Stars gave me dry heaves.

Thinking ahead, I went to share a new idea with my man of action to find him putting the finishing touches on the final room. “I’ve been thinking,” I announced, which always yields a look of sheer terror on his handsome face. “Would this be a bad time to tell you how I think we could re-model the den to include another room?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Okay,” I said, content with keeping it to myself for a while, or at least until the paint dries.

That’s the beauty of ruminating. The idea will still be there when it’s time to do anything with it. And, thankfully, so will my man of action.

9/11 and coffee cake

On September 11, 2001, as the center of the universe lost its pulse for a minute, I baked an orange coffee cake.
   I was getting ready to go to Hana's house for our weekly lesson. Hana, my friend and student, was a young Muslim mother from Iraq and a refugee to the United States; I was her ESL teacher.
   Baking a cake was all I could think of to do. Frankly, it was the only thing I had all the ingredients to bake. (How do I offer some comfort, I wondered? Is there protocol for the world falling apart?) I pilfered around for orange peel. I pulled the cake from the oven--maybe a moment too soon. Oven off and towers down, I rushed to Hanna's. I never did find orange peel.
  We spent the remainder of the morning watching the news, side by side, on her couch. I want to remember us huddled together, holding on to one another--Christian and Muslim, American and Middle Easterner, mothers, sisters, daughters--but I think we probably just sat sort-of close to each other. Our young daughters were playing with toys. We shared a slice of coffee cake and Hana offered something to drink. We shared a lot more than that, too. She was afraid for her family in Iraq, who like so many, had suffered under Saddam Hussein. I wondered silently what it was like for her husband at work that day. I was struck by her gratitude to be in the U.S., despite the distance it put between she and her family left in Iraq. We mourned the losses unfolding in front of us.
   In the coming years I would remember Hanna and that morning spent on her sofa. When people talk about what they were doing when the towers fell, I remember, too. I think about how significant it is to me that, on a day that served to create division and ineffable pain, community happened--on the edge of a sofa, over a slice of orange coffee cake, while our very futures played together on the floor.

Adventures in Babysitting, circa 2012

The Walkers are on a quest for a new babysitter. Our beloved Rachael is off to college.

Rachael has been our official go-to girl for a few years now. For her 16^th birthday, my husband printed off and gave her Map Quest directions to our house. My oldest child gets some of her cute hand-me-downs. My youngest child thinks she’s as pretty as Barbie (in fact, she’s much prettier and far more real). The rest of us just think she’s cool. The thing about Rachael is that she’s just enough of a kid that my kids don’t realize their being supervised; but she’s just grown up enough to get all of my pop culture references.

We’re all a little sad to let her go.

Who will let the kids play games on her phone and watch too much Disney channel? Who will build forts in the den floor that the kids insist on leaving there for days? Who will let them wash her car with lots of soapy water, then let them slide off the hood into the grass? Oh, wait…NO ONE will do that. We have to draw the line somewhere. Epic night for the kids, though. It’s still talked about neighborhood-wide.

And how, oh, how will we manage date night without her?!

But I’m not one to procrastinate. Just kidding! Of course I am! I’ll avoid finding a new sitter as long as I can, possibly even texting Rachael’s college advisor with an emergency request for her to return home to help avoid a close call with WMD (Walkers Missing Date night).

And while I would love to keep Rachael around to maintain Most Favored Babysitter status, I know what waits for her.

I know she is about to embark of the time of her life. I know she is about to meet lifelong friends and have priceless experiences. I know she’s about to step out into that magical space between childhood and adulthood that will shape who she becomes. I know she’s about to challenge every belief her family holds dear and examine what she’ll keep and what she’ll let go.

I know she’ll head east in a few days, her trunk loaded down with all the stuff she thinks she will need, which I imagine to include some camouflage bibbed overalls, some rocking heels, a flat iron and a volleyball.

I know she’ll do great, and I want her to. I want her to shine her sweet, funny, smart light all over east Tennessee.

Incidentally, I had a brief conversation this morning with a potential new sitter. (Let’s not call her a “replacement.” As if.) This person is someone who already works with children, is capable and comes well-recommended.

So when I let her know of our next planned night out, she let me know she would think about it and get back to me.

What’s that, now? THINK about it?! Don’t you know who you’re dealing with here, sister? Not just anyone gets to watch the Walker kids. They’ve come to expect a certain quality in a sitter.

Sure, this new change will be all right. On paper, she fits the bill just fine. She’ll take care of our kids with expertise and vigilance.

But will she let them soap up her Honda?

Alfred Hitchcock said, “A good film is when the price of the dinner, the theatre admission and the babysitter were worth it.”

With Rachael, they always were.

To Do: Stop Obsessing On "To Do" List

Oh, those lazy, hazy crazy days of summer! They’re over, people.

School starts today, and that means one thing: my “To Do” List is, again, over the top.

Fueled by good intentions and crippling perfectionism, I, like most mothers, have an epic “To Do” list that Franklin Covey couldn’t tame.  It’s at its worst on the first day of school. While we want to use it as a guide—to bring order to that important first day—sometimes we expect too much from ourselves. Nothing gets a mother’s perfectionism stirred up like the first day of school. We all want to make the day go smoothly for our kids and start them off just right, but face it, we’re human.

That, my friends, is why I have constructed TWO “To Do” lists for your perusal. Perhaps we can manage to find ourselves somewhere in the middle.

First day of school “To Do” list (how we want it to be):

1.      Wake up at 5:00; Preheat griddle for homemade spelt pancakes; tap maple tree for syrup; go for a run before waking kids and hubby.

2.      Wake kids at 6:00 by singing original Good Morning Song composed during previous run; smile and kiss each sleepy head.

3.      Shower and change while kids are getting dressed and hubby is flipping pancakes; be amused that he’s wearing an apron; snap random candid pictures.

4.      Review last minute supply list for each child, being sure to include hand-written note in every organic, super-healthy lunch.

5.      Gather kids on front steps for official “first day of school” picture; remember to mail it to Pottery Barn Kids for cover photo contest.

6.      With 15 minutes to spare, gather everyone in the Odyssey and head to school; hand deliver homemade “first day teacher gifts” to each classroom.

7.      Blow kisses and marvel at those precious people you made.

And for the rest of us:

1.      Wake up at 5:45, hit snooze; wake in a panic at 7:25; run to fridge; curse like a sailor when it’s empty.

2.      Wake kids by screaming that school starts in 20 minutes. Hand them breakfast: half a bag of donuts and a 2-liter of Sprite.

3.      Pull on running shorts, bathing suit top and cowboy boots; tell hubby to pull the pillow off his head and find youngest child’s other shoe; curse again when the shoe is the only thing in the fridge; take batteries from TV remote and add to camera.

4.      Scrounge for school supplies; hand everyone seven sheets of wrinkled, college-ruled paper and a highlighter; pass out lunches: tuna on saltines and a baggie full of potato chip crumbs.

5.      Gather kids on front steps for official “first day of school” picture; insist that they smile, damn it, it’s the first day of school!

6.      With no time to spare, gather everyone in the Odyssey and head to school, screeching on two wheels into the parking lot, just as the Pledge of Allegiance begins; walk kids to class while reciting the Serenity Prayer.

     7.      Blow kisses and marvel at those precious people you made. (Because some things are the same, no matter what kind of "To Do" list you have.)

Have a great first day, friends. May your lists be checked in all the right places.

Why I'm NOT reading 50 Shades

 

This summer, you can’t throw a rock without hitting some sister pouring over a clandestine copy of the Fifty Shades of Gray trilogy. I get it. It’s all the rage. Christian Gray and what’s-her-name are all anybody talks about anymore. Poor Tom and Katie must feel so bad; barely anyone is even paying any attention at all to the demise of their marriage and Brad and Angie haven’t been mentioned for weeks. Even poor Bella and Edward, the tamer-but-just-as disturbing teenage version of Shades main characters, are being put on a shelf. It’s all about the Shades.

But I’m not reading it. Now, I anticipate a giant, collective, breathy gasp when I say that (or maybe that winded panting is from a whole slew of people having just read through chapter five and are just beside themselves about the latest pulsating curiosity of the protagonist's nether-regions.)

If you are the singular human left on the planet who hasn’t heard of Fifty Shades, here is, from what I’ve gathered, a basic run-down:  22-year-old virgin and college graduate Ana meets mid-twentyish billionaire Christian and is, at first, really turned on by his brooding gray eyes, unfriendly stand-offishness and complete lack of emotional availability. Later, despite her constant questioning that something isn’t right, notably her fear of being punished (and I do mean actually beaten) by Christian Gray she continues to sacrifice her good sense and judgment, her intuition, her own preferences and wants, and her will in order to achieve orgasm with a man who refuses to let her touch him and insists on “fucking hard” instead of “making love.” I know. Charming, huh? Well, we have to give him that one. I mean being tied up and flogged by a riding crop doesn’t necessarily conjure tender images of sweet love-making, does it?

Or does it? Maybe for you, it does. And if so, you go girl, I guess. But I don’t get it. I just can’t really understand that the sight of a huge “playroom” stocked with paraphernalia to facilitate rough sex wouldn’t send any self-possessed woman packing. Readers, such a room existed in fictional millionaire Martin Vanger’s basement in The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and we hated him for it. Why is everyone in love with Christian Gray?

I know, I know. People keep reassuring me that it’s a love story. Fine, whatever. Ana saves Christian from the darkness of his past and, hopefully, goes on to be a soccer mom to his sexually-repressed little billionaire spawns who will no doubt be well-behaved, ’cause, "Damn! Have you seen that thing Dad beats Mom with?!" Six years from now, we will peek into the life of Ana Steele-Gray to find her musing about what gets her motor revved up, and hear something like this: “My inner goddess has been doing the running man all morning because Christian actually took out the garbage AND threw a load of whites in the dryer! But I better get to the grocery right after work, or it’s the belt for me!”

Now, the real reason I haven’t read the books is that I just cannot stomach the inner dialogue of a 22-year-old virgin and her companion, her “inner goddess.” I picture the marginally attractive Ana Steele with a teeny, tiny, tap-dancing libido deep inside her vagina just clambering to get out every time Christian’s angry, gray eyes look her way. There is enough hype online that I feel like I have the Cliffs Notes. I join the banter for this reason (other than to wallow in sarcasm): to ask the hard questions. Are we really okay with all this domination/submission business? Is this what women want, to be dominated by a controlling sex maniac? To give away their power? And finally, do people still say “Jeez” all that much anymore?

Not reading Fifty Shades has nothing to do with being prudish or frigid or morally opposed to a good steamy scene between two people, or for that matter, mind-blowing sex. As a writer and a lover, I adore a great love scene that sticks with readers, and have conjured some doosies in my own prose and marriage bed. I really, really do not wish to judge anyone who has read the book. Actually, while I was on the fence about reading it myself, I recommended it to my own mother, a decision that will effectively secure my seat at a therapist’s office for a long time. I simply wish to explore the phenomenon that throngs of women are identifying with a weaker-than-Bella Swan-Cullen female character and are practically giddy at the thought of being beaten into submission by the first adorable, brooding billionaire/sex offender that comes along.

It’s not that I didn’t want to read it. I tried. Kind of. Almost everyone I know is reading it. Every single woman I passed on the beach while on vacation was reading it. Based on the restocking needs at my local bookstore, the entire population of the tri-county area and their sneaky kids are reading it. But even if I could (and I can’t) get past a woman doing sexual things that hurt her, things that she isn’t even sure she wants to do, so that she can ensure a man’s pleasure at the expense of her own, the writing wasn’t great. It just wasn’t good writing, and that is an offense of another kind. A book that has sold over 10 million copies should be better written than Fifty Shades is.

Call me old-fashioned (not 16th century-sex-chamber-and-women-as-property-old-fashioned, just regular old-fashioned) but I like my men thoughtful, available, and capable of intimacy. I don’t sign contracts spelling out every detail of my physical care, nor do I spend time “in my head” second-guessing whether or not my actions—from food to friend choices—will anger my lover enough to beat me, the way Ana does repeatedly. That is abuse and should not be confused for a loving, mutual sex act between two adults.

I’ve known a lot of women who have suffered unspeakable abuse at the hands of men who wanted to control them, objectify them, use them, own them. Some of them went along with it for a long time to please their man. Who knew all they needed was a contract and a safe-word to make their complete submission a sexy and desirable thing? (No need for thinking here! No need to have your own needs and wants! Someone wants to spank me with a leather belt and have an orgasm over it, and it makes my “inner goddess” tingle, so I must be attractive and wanted in some way!)

I have friends who have read the book and absolutely love it, and I do not cast aspersions on the conditions of their sex lives, nor do I think everyone that reads it needs sex therapy asap. Reading therapy? Maybe. A literature class? Sure. But their sex lives are their business. Further, I see no problem with spicing things up, either. I just hope they’re reminding themselves that sex is not the greatest sign of love. Sex is a wonderful, fulfilling, beautiful, important thing—but it’s the sex that is the thing, not the girl.

E.L. James, is somewhere lighting up a cigarette every time she gets off (ha!) the phone with her accountant because her story is practically outselling the Bible. (Incidentally, the Bible has some pretty illicit stories, too. Check out that Old Testament. Yowza!) But here she is, in the literary world whether we like it or not.

Now let’s just see if we can get her change the name of her genitalia. Jeez.