Lara Zielin

As I’m sure we can all agree, the Penn State scandal is tragic, and it shows what happens when people in authority — the people who are supposed to do the right thing — don’t.

Often with cases of bullying, the same thing happens. Adults turn a blind eye or, worse, blame it on the kid, telling them to change and/or stop “attracting so much attention.” If that rhetoric sounds familiar, you’re probably a woman whose been told to change the way she dresses to prevent rape versus, you know, telling men not to do it.

In a recent article, Jezebel.com showcased bullied kids who aren’t waiting for adults to help them out of a bad situation. They’re fighting back with one of the most powerful tools they have — technology. Recording abuse, then showing it, gets results that just talking about it won’t.

Writing about it can be a powerful thing, too. Recently a group of young adult authors completed an anthology of essays about their personal experiences called Dear Bully. More essays not in the book can be found on their website here.

Having both been bullied and been a bully, I can tell you it’s awful, scarring stuff. It’s also easy to use the word Bully like you might use the word Stranger (when you’re ten years old) and picture this person who’s Super Evil and is going to Kidnap You in a Van, or, in the case of bullying, Ruin Your Life. The thing is, bullies can be anybody. They can be a sibling sitting next to you at the dinner table. They can be bosses. They can be neighbors. They aren’t always bad, nor are they always easy to spot. A bully can save a puppy from a flood, or attend church, then turn around and call you a slut on your Facebook page.

My point being, bullies wear a lot of hats. They are coaches who are revered. They are teachers who are lauded.  And they are us — you and me  — if we ever see or hear something and don’t do anything about it.

[Image credit: Somewhat ironically, this comes from Penn State]

You guys remember that character from He-Man, Trap Jaw?

Well, pretty much I’m becoming him.

I am experiencing TMJ — and, I’ll be honest, I have no idea what that acronym stands for. In my world? It stands for Tight Mother of a Jaw. Because that’s what I have.

Om nom nom — ow.

I went to the dentist, and they gave me muscle relaxers to try and make things loosen up. They work, kind of. The problem is, they make the world a little bit wobbly.

My tongue tastes like glitter! Our address is peony!

I’m a little bit stumped about what to do here. The square root of nine is hammer, and the dentist said I might have trouble lifting heavy things. Which I do anyway, but what if Amos gets trapped under the couch? What then? Who is thinking of the beagle?

No one, that’s who.

You see? This post isn’t even making any sense anymore.

Which brings us to the moral of the story. The square root of nine is three.

Stay in school, kids. And don’t buy this shirt if you’re a girl.

Math rules.

The end.

So, every writer needs fodder from their past to inspire them, right?

Well I have some fodder, let me tell you.

And this fodder has a name:

HUBCAPS.

When I was little, my parents decided to start collecting hubcaps. Like, the things that cover the wheel of a car? Yep. Those.

At the time, my ten-year-old’s instinct was telling me that this was very, very wrong. I mean, hubcaps are dirty. And from what I could tell, there wasn’t exactly a huge market for the used kind. What were they doing collecting them?

But it gets worse. My parents didn’t just go around buying choice hubcaps from reputable hubcap dealers. Oh, no. They liked to find hubcaps. And you know where you find hubcaps, don’t you?

The highway.

The roaring, screaming, busy highway of death.

We’d be driving along and wham, my mom’s hubcap antenna would go up. She’d think she’d spotted one in the median. On the shoulder. In a tree. It didn’t matter. She’d caught the whiff of hubcap and, like a tiger tracking its prey through the jungle, she was going to tirelessly pursue that shiny prize until she had it firmly in her claws.

My dad would cross lanes of traffic, weave in an out of cars, blast his horn, flip people off, gun it then brake — all to get to a hubcap that may or may not turn out to actually be a beer can.

These everyday, practical Midwesterners were transformed into aggressive hunters at the prospect of that sweet, sweet metal. My brother and I would be in the backseat, holding on to the headrests in front of us (because you didn’t wear seatbelts back then) praying just to make it out alive. This was a fight, and we knew our prospects were grim. Hubcaps were our ‘Nam.

In the end, my parents amassed quite a collection. I mean it wasn’t this,

but it was close. I remember we’d have garage sales and those shiny hubcaps would be out there glinting in the sun like they weren’t nearly paid for with blood. In fact, bloodcaps is what we should have started calling them.

I still don’t know what the crap my parents were doing collecting those things.

When I was growing up in the shoulder-padded 1980s, we didn’t eat much unless it was either a.) on sale or b.) my mom had clipped a coupon from the paper to save $0.15 on it. This was especially true of breakfast cereals. When General Mills or Post or Quaker wanted to push a new product, they’d put a coupon in the Sunday paper, my mom would find it, and blammo — my morning meal was born.

Did I mention this wasn’t exactly a … discerning process? The logic went a little like this: Saving money = good. Nutrition = meh, they’ll be fine.

Which means I ate some crazy crap. No, really. Like, Sunflakes for example.

Dude, they substituted sugar with Sweet & Low. Which causes cancer in rats. I shoveled those sweet, sweet flakes into my face like I couldn’t wait to grow a third ovary.

Another special treat was Gremlins cereal. As if the movie wasn’t totally and completely horrifying enough (dude, dead dad in the chimney for Christmas, wth?!), I somehow now want to put Gizmo in mah belly?

But I did. I ate him. Because it was either that or an apple and fresh fruit was way stranger.

Also in the commercial vein of things was Smurfberry Crunch. Again, the eating with the little creatures!

I can still sing the song from the commercial. “Smurfberry crunch is fun to eat, a something, mmphf breakfast treat…” Here’s a link to it on YouTube if you want to hear it for yourself (with the correct lyrics).

Nothing, though, bastardized breakfast as much as Donutz cereal. Spelled with a Z. Now, I love me some donuts. But this was literally like mixing powdered sugar and cornbread together and pouring whole milk over top of it.

I was so high from all the sugar that I could barley walk straight to the bus. Five minutes into the ride and I’d already crashed hard — asleep, mouth open, getting spitballs pelted at my molars while I napped off the buzz. At school, I could barely register whether Mr. Popper had penguins or prostitutes. The capital of Wisconsin is orange.

I guess this was the era of cocaine love, so a white powdery cereal that made you high might have been par for the course. But to this day, if I see the word donuts spelled with a Z, I shudder a little bit inside. Deep, deep inside where the Sweet & Low still resides and Gizmo is blinking in the dark, wondering what in the world happened after the movie wrapped.

Last night, I had barely dozed off when I bolted awake and saw the biggest spider that ever lived — bigger than a tarantula, even — climbing behind the blinds in my bedroom. I screamed and freaked out, and the spider scurried away. I frantically called Rob, who was out of town last night, but couldn’t reach him. I started to panic. This spider was the size of my fist. It was hairy. And it was going to eat me.

In a flurry of hysteria and tears, I called Rob over and over.

No answer. I threw slippers and magazines at the blinds to try and flush the spider out, so I could take a picture of it with my phone and send it to Rob to convince him (once I got a hold of him) to come home right that second.

The spider refused to come out, but I knew it was only a matter of time.

And no Rob yet.

I was going to die alone if something didn’t happen fast.

Finally, I dialed my friend and neighbor Ange. Now, mind you, it’s almost midnight. It’s late, and I’m calling about an arachnid that may or may not have escaped from a local terrarium and made its way to my bedroom. I recall the conversation as going something like this:

Ange: [sleepily] Hello?

Lara: omgtheresaspider! *sob* itshugeandrobsnothereiknowyouthinkimcrazy *hiccup* zomgimsoscaredandfreakedout *cry*

Ange: It’s okay. I understand. Do you want me to come over?

Lara: gahyespleaseimsosorrytoaskbutrobsnothereandicantseeitwherediditgo? *fresh tears*

Ange: Okay, calm down and I’ll be there soon.

Lara: diofidosafphdspiuaghraezxcxvkghfisodg <– blubbering with relief

So Ange, true friend that she is, got in her car and came over because I’d called about a spider. It wasn’t until she walked in the door and I was able to breathe again that a small voice in the back of my head asked, “Is there any chance you dreamed this?”

See, I sort of have a history of night terrors. I often have vivid dreams (usually involving small rodents, insects, and sometimes furry woodland creatures) that will have me panicking and telling Rob to do things like “please make the badger quiet down.” I see these things. They’re real. I have conversations about them and sometimes with them.

And usually, after a while I wake up and know it’s a dream.

But not always.

Braving the potentially poisonous bedroom, Ange and I commenced an inspection armed with bowls from the kitchen (our sophisticated spider-trapping mechanisms). We shined the flashlight on just about every corner. The spider was nowhere to be found.

Which, let me say, this thing was huge. It was going to have a hard time hiding — making me think a little more that maybe this thing wasn’t quite real.

But Ange was here! Surely I wouldn’t have dragged her out of the bed for a pretend spider?

Right?

Erm …

People, I confess. I think that spider was a figment of my imagination. I think I dreamed it in one heck of a night terror. And I think I dragged Ange out of bed for nothing.

If I’m wrong, I’ll update this post accordingly. Wait, actually, no I won’t … because I’ll be dead.

But, okay, if we’re assuming that this was a dream (and I think that’s a pretty safe assumption at this point), let’s just say right here and now that Ange deserves a medal of honor. Probably two. Not once did she get mad. Not once did she look at me sideways. She just gave me a bunch of really awesome hugs and told me I could sleep over at her house if I wanted.

I guess the moral of the story is if you dream about a huge spider the size of your fist and are convinced it’s real and going to eat you, Ange is the gal you want living a few houses down.

Also, Happy Valentine’s Day.

I loved the Super Bowl. The Packers won, and all was right with the world.

Mostly.

Of all the dud commercials that aired during the Super Bowl (and there was no shortage of them this year), the ads from Go Daddy were the ones that left the worst taste in my mouth. I had to stop and really think about why that was — what made these commercials so much worse to me than, say, the horrific Pepsi ads?

I finally figured out it was because they’d taken three empowered women — Danica Patrick, Jillian Michaels, and Joan Rivers — and stripped them down to, well, literally almost nothing. Which, look, I get it: sex sells. Fine. But these are some of the few women (and I mean few women) in the public eye today using their talents and skills for something other than fighting, drinking, and sexygoodtimes. Jillian and Joan especially, I really admire. I was bummed they’d been reduced to this.

I was pretty needled. So I wrote Go Daddy a letter yesterday. (For the record, I’m a customer and do business with them.) I’ve pasted it below in its entirety, word for word. Admittedly, it’s kinda harsh. But then again, so were those ads:

I just wanted to let you know that I thought your Super Bowl ads were sexist and ridiculous. Perhaps the bulk of your customers are male tech geeks with fat wallets for whom dressing up empowered women like sluts is a turn on and a sales-booster. Fine, but by targeting them, you thus forget your other customers — smart, tech savvy women like me, who are going to take their business elsewhere because you clearly don’t respect us. Epic fail to you, Go Daddy. #ick

I didn’t really expect a response. I had a friend who got a call from Go Daddy on Monday because her domain names were expiring, and when she said her relationship with them might be expiring because of the Super Bowl ads, the response was, “The commercials were meant to be controversial. Some people liked them, some didn’t.”

But I got a response. And to Go Daddy’s credit, it was both addressed to me and addressed my concerns. Or tried to anyway. Here’s what they sent:

Dear Lara,

We appreciate you taking the time to contact our staff to share your opinion about our television commercials. Although we wish your opinion of our commercials was a favorable one, please know your feedback is highly valued. At GoDaddy.com, we strongly believe that the freedom to express one’s opinions is one of the defining factors that makes the United States a great nation.

We hope you can appreciate the need to attract and please multiple customer demographics, and we invite you to view our other commercials on our site.

To view, please go to the following URL and then select the “Our Customers” option in the middle column under Archive:

http://videos.godaddy.com/ads.aspx?isc=biggame08&ci=11207

Once there, you’ll see that GoDaddy.com produces a wide variety of commercials, several of which feature testimonials from business men and women who have used our products to build and expand their online presence. We hope these examples will be of assistance to you in making your final determination about your relationship with GoDaddy.com.

Regards,

Dan F.
Online Support Lead

So, they definitely get props for writing back. I mean, they didn’t have to. Also? I’m greatly amused by their reference to the United States being a great nation because we all have the freedom to write letters to customer service representatives.

Ultimately, I’m glad they have other commercials that don’t feature women dressed like sluts. But I don’t have a sense that they want to change their  approach because I guess, to them, having one offensive commercial isn’t so bad when you have a few that aren’t. Except here’s the thing: I read recently that a brand isn’t a logo, or a corporate strategy — but rather a gut feeling that someone gets when they think about a product. And right now? I still get that icky feeling when I think about Go Daddy.

That doesn’t sit so well with me.

Part of female empowerment is being able to dress and act in whatever way reflects genuine self expression. But this doesn’t feel like it’s the women who end up in the driver’s seat, enjoying themselves. This just feels like they’ve been reduced to eye candy — again.

So here’s my final thought, and then I’ll step down off my soap box for a good long while. Part of the reason I write and love young-adult novels is because it features so very many girls and women who are just plain kickass. If you hated the Go Daddy commercials too, then I suggest clearing your palette with books that convey the opposite of those commercials: ladies who are smart, and know they have the power to make a difference in the world.

I suggest The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, or The Silver Phoenix by Cindy Pon. If you’re looking for more real-life adventures, then I say try The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (smart, capable girls who love and support each other — what a concept!) or The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott.

Let’s all turn off the television for a while, and dive into an awesome book.

FAVE LINKEY-POO RIGHT THIS SECOND: The only attire appropriate for reading this post is the Forever Lazy. (Yes, it’s real.)

The older I get, the less tolerant I am of the cold. Every winter as I’m scraping off the car or crossing snowdrifts just to get to work I think, “This is too hard. People weren’t actually meant to live like this.”

In the late-spring, summer and fall, the Midwest is the best place in the world. But winter? For those months, I’d much rather be elsewhere.

When I fantasize about where to live during those months, several options come to mind. Savannah, for example, with its amazing food (Paula Deen!), rich history, and ample haunted walks. Or Surfside Beach, South Carolina, very near the gorgeous and inspiring Brookgreen Gardens, not to mention lovely sandy beaches. There are a thousand places I’d adore living in California (Santa Barbara or Napa would be amazing), but I’m completely petrified of earthquakes. So, count me out of the “Eureka” state. I love the desert and Arizona used to have lots of appeal before all the crazy started down there. Zomg, nuts much?

So, the jury is still out as to where I’d “winter” if I had the opportunity, but I definitely am looking forward to spending January through May somewhere besides the Midwest. No salting the driveway; no scraping windshields; no hats that ruin hair; no walking the dog with bitter wind biting my face; no changing from shoes to boots to shoes to boots again.

Of course, no roaring fires and no steaming hot tubs, but I’ll take sunshine and palm trees over that any day.

If you had the chance, where would you winter and why?

FAVE LINKEY-POO RIGHT THIS SECOND: My awesome agent sent me this Reddit thread on culturally untranslatable phrases. So. Hilarious.

Breakups usually suck, but sometimes they’re entirely necessary. And not just with romantic relationships, either. For example, I am thinking about breaking up with my hair stylist. I know someone else who is thinking about breaking up with her therapist.

What about a veterinarian? Or a dentist?

Gah! It can get so awkward! And is there any good way to do it?

No, really. I’m asking. How do you break up with these peeps? I’d love to hear some suggestions. Cuz I’m in a pickle. And my hair is looking worse every day.

Lara, where you at? Hey dawg, I’m on a writer’s retreat to South Carolina to finish up a draft of The Vortex Game, which is due to my editor November 1. Look, this is my view!

Fun, right? Totally! Except, see, there’s this one tiny thing. It’s the end of the month and Rob and I sort of had to, um, pay these property taxes I totally forgot about for some land we own (oooopsie) and it all but zeroed out the money I was going to spend down here. Not totally, but almost.

So, of course I rent the absolute cheapest car evar online (thinking, how bad can it be, this is 2010, they can’t give me an Escort) and I get to Enterprise to find they haven’t given me an Escort. They’ve given me a KIA Rio.

I have nothing against KIAs. No, I don’t. But this one doesn’t even have power locks. So, when I’m at the grocery store? I have to go around to each door, one by one, and manually lock the them because that‘s fun. Also, my left bicep is slightly bigger now from having to roll down the window by hand.

Do I sound like a princess? I am. I am a totally spoiled princess and a terrible person. I admit it. But you know what? You weren’t there when the truck pulled up next to me, looked at my leeetle tiny car, and laughed.

Also, there is the small issue of having forgotten my swimsuit.

At first, I thought, I can’t believe I forgot my swimsuit. I should go buy one.

But I quickly realized, no, I shouldn’t. That’s financially very, very bad. And besides, I’ll spend all day trying to find one that fits and by the time I get back to the beach it will be dark. I’ll just go down there in my workout shorts and a tank top. (*imagines the tan lines, sighs*)

Okay, you know what? I’m going to write. That’s what I’m down here for, and that’s what I’m going to do.

After I sell my body so I can go buy Haagen-Dazs.

Kidding! I’m kidding. Jeez.

Love Week continues!

Except today, like that old Nazareth song suggests, we’re talking about how love hurts.

But Lara, you say, love is butterflies and rainbows and unicorns! Love doesn’t hurt.

To which I say p’shaw. Love is salt and lemons in an open wound. Love is drifting in the open ocean with sharks circling. Love is that moment in Indiana Jones when the bad guy sticks his fist into some guy’s chest and pulls out his still-beating heart.

Here’s why.

Last night, I pitched a hissy fit in my head because I did not want to go to my writer’s group and do more work on my next book. I wailed and gnashed my teeth (mentally) and was pretty much in a craptastic mood the whole day because of it.

I hated the idea of writing.

But I love writing.

When I got to the writing group, my writing partner, Susannah, put it my mood into perspective. She talked about how the girls on the volleyball team she coaches were recently complaining about having to train in hot weather. To which Susannah replied that anything you’re passionate about doing, and doing well, is going to drag you out of your comfort zone. You don’t get better at something unless you work hard at it. That’s as true for volleyball as it is for writing.

For the record, I shut my yap and finished an entire chapter last night. But I didn’t want to. No I did not.

But that’s love. Love means shouldering through something even when it pisses you off. Like, you can be so mad at your spouse (or beagle) or best friend, but because you love them, you’ll figure out a way to work it out.  If you didn’t love them, you’d walk away.

And for me, I could no more walk away from writing than I could Rob.

What (or who) do you love so much that you’ll power through the bad times for it (or them)? What makes you wail and gnash your teeth, but fills you up at the same time?