To the Max
2018 just before Valentine’s Day, I lost a my constant companion. Of course he was tall, dark and handsome-that was my type as far back as I can remember. But he was also funny, engaging and attentive. He was a terrific father, always great with the kids and a gentle soul. He was one of my best friends, always happy to spend a quiet evening at home or go out on a road trip. He got along with everyone he met-I don’t remember a single soul saying a bad word about him. And there wasn’t a better business partner out there. He was such a workaholic! He loved his job and was very good at it. His loss was a tragedy I regret to this day and I wish with all my heart that I could take back every step I took that made it possible.
I was still in mourning over the death of my dear Doberman Sylvester when I heard from a member of a local animal group asking for a favor. They had been contacted by a couple of teens looking to surrender a husky. They named him Max. They said they found him-rather he found them-when he was wandering around the streets. They discovered he belonged to a gentleman who didn’t take lightly to Max’s walkabouts. The man beat Max every time he returned home. So what was a husky to do? Max would simply run away again. The teens called the authorities who got the man to give up the dog. The teens handed the dog to the animal group.
But the animal group wasn’t licensed to house huskies so they reached out to another animal group in a neighboring town who agreed to put him on the next adoption convoy in Colorado. That would take care of his long-term housing needs. They just needed to find him a short term place to stay. Since I had a spot on my bed open up, they asked me if I would take him. I agreed.
It wasn’t love at first sight, but I won’t deny I was hooked. I was at once struck by his beautiful blue eyes, his salt and pepper hair with silver highlights, and his infectious smile. He was toned and in good shape-obviously running had been a large part of his life. He was quiet and standoffish but you could tell he had a sense of humor. I figured I would put him up and let him couch-surf over the weekend and tell him goodbye by Sunday. Max spent the next 24 hours fasting and testing the stability of my fence. He hardly acknowledged the other four-legged members of my house at all except to complain when they became unruly. And he slept with one eye open, popping to his feet if he saw movement.
When Sunday rolled around, the convoy wasn’t ready and I was asked to keep Max for another day. Another day wasn’t fatal so I said it was fine. One day drug on to two and three and Max began lifting his leg and marking nearly every vertical surface he could reach. While he was still stand offish and playing hard-to-get, he made it quite clear he did not like to be alone. When I left for work or for an assignment, he would reward my desertion by chewing up my shoes, purses and books. In fact, he would chew on just about anything that would fit in his mouth. His refusal to quit chewing made him very unappealing but every time he would smile with those nasty bits between his teeth and gums, I would always forgive him.
In between spot cleanings, I contacted a friend of mine who had mentioned wanting to add a husky to their family. Ignoring his obvious quirks and lack of social graces, I pitched his great personality and what a hard worker he was. My friend shot down every attempt to hook up with him-saying that she was too busy with the kids to concentrate on a new relationship right now.
Not seeing any better options, Max reached out to me one night. Actually, he spit several mouthfuls of kibble on my feet, then laid down to eat them in the living room. That was the first move he ever made to cuddle with me. He curled up next to me and watched a movie that night before falling asleep. He slept peacefully. I think I even heard him snore.
One week turned to two before the out of town rescue group contacted me to let me know the convoy was ready. By that time, I made up my mind. Max was staying. In two weeks, he had adjusted and grown more comfortable in the house. I had gotten to know him better, stopped trying to change him and accepted him for the guy he was. In turn, he rewarded me by not eating a couple pairs of shoes. I took it as a win for both of us.
My ex didn’t like Max hanging around. He felt I gave him too much attention and forgave too many of his transgressions. He insisted Max was being rude and trying to pick a fight with him, by picking and choosing the items he wanted to destroy and ignoring him. It wasn’t long before he insisted I kick Max to the curb and even demanded I choose between him and Max. I still don’t regret my decision.
Max came with me when I moved into my little yellow house but he didn’t initially stay. After we made our relationship permanent, Max seemed to have commitment issues. He began running up to the local bar at all hours of the day and night, spent some evenings at the track without telling me. He was even picking up girls! I have found as many as eight selfies on Instagram and Snapchat of my blue-eyed guy smiling with a younger woman. As humiliating as it is to have the town talk about my guy and his wandering ways, I could never bring myself to dump him. I just love him too much.
Last summer my daughter and I arrived home just in time to see Max try to slip out the back, headed for his favorite bar. Erin slipped on her running shoes, ready to chase him down. I stopped her, knowing he had to grow up sometime. I simply called him and told him it was time to come home.
I think we had a moment! He hasn’t run the streets since!
My name is Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.
Writer, Researcher and Max’ed out!
Red Dawn or Red Herring?
There is little more painful than watching the remake of a movie that was perfectly fine the first time. Maybe not, it’s awful to listen to someone with a vague idea on a topic overlook common sense in favor of something alarmingly stupid. I heard my share while handling regulation and legal compliance for federal firearms license (FFL) holders as a freelancer. It’s just gotten worse as the last few years have passed and everyone under the sun thinks they are in the know.
That’s because gun legislation reform and efforts to reduce gun violence have become ridiculously polarized. Instead of discussing practical measures we can take to respect people’s rights and make our communities safe, discussion is skewed towards a few select arguments proposed by card-carrying wackadoodles. They are pointless distractions that waste everyone’s time. And what’s worse, they reinforce the misconception that the divide among us is too great to ever resolve, allowing the dangerous situation to continue.
Let’s look at gun registration. At its core is a simple idea that a weapon commonly used to inflict harm upon another breathing being should be recorded and tracked as is passes from one owner to another. Thanks to a small group who spent more time watching 80’s movies than perfecting their critical thinking skills, the standard argument remains that to do such would put lawful gun owners lives at risk of being oppressed by local government entities who would scour these records, identify gun owners, and impose repercussions.
I hate to break it to you, law enforcement already has access to this information-from every background check, concealed weapons permit and firearm they retrieve. The only people that face repercussions are the bad guys you bought your gun to defend yourself from. And they don’t need you to fight for them.
The other argument comes from a deep subconscious fantasy held by apocalypse junkies. Aside from stock piling canned goods, learning field triage and downloading instructions on how to drink one’s urine off the internet, these LARP’ers believe that during an impending a military invasion, the enemy will move to gain this presumably loosely kept information to identify those most likely to revolt. Under the plight of a full-scale incursion, these hapless gun owners would be snapped up and placed in re-education camps, just like in the movie Red Dawn.
I was a teenage girl when the movie originally came out in theaters and had a huge crush on C. Thomas Howell. I don’t know what ended up being scarier, the evolution of his character in the movie or the way his looks declined.
Have you seen the man lately? He did not age well.
Aside from preserving Tom’s ability to protect our democracy against the Cubans, is it really necessary to neglect gun laws and put our own lives at risk? Does that really make sense?
We already register most important belongings. Every bank account you hold, including debit cards, are registered with the bank issuing the account. Banks share this information with the Treasury Department, IRS, FDIC and all sorts of state government agencies all the time. This practice has remained very secure and has not been found to put ordinary, law-abiding citizens at risk. In fact, the only people that have to be worried about this are criminals themselves. If you use your bank account responsibly, you have nothing to worry about. If you use it to harm others, worry.
We register our kids-not just for vaccinations and schools but for taxes too. I must admit, I am just about over all those ‘privacy activists’ that insist they keep their children off the gird. They are all full of crap! As a humble public servant, I see them all the time. Every time a stimulus payment is merely mentioned, they come out of the woodwork in droves to make sure the government knows they are out there. Just give it up already!
We register our homes. A record of your home existed before you were ever able to turn on a light. And that’s probably an understatement. Between the city, county and state municipalities as well as revenue departments at all levels, your residence probably has a provenance similar to Ancestry.com.
Probably the most accurate view of what gun registration looks like is sitting in your driveway. Vehicle registration is something most of us are familiar with. It’s an old, established practice managed by the states for decades that has never been known turn anyone into a political prisoner. And no matter how you feel about it, it works.
Let’s say your car is used to run a red light, drives on a toll road, or happens to run into the Capital Building. Because the vehicle is registered, law enforcement knows immediately who it belongs to and where to find them. After running the tag through their system, they will pull you up and notify you. In the case of the first two, your contact will be in the form of a ticket or a fine, the latter will probably be a knock on your door. In any case, the incident will be brought to your attention and your memory will be immediately taken back to the date as you recall where you-and more specifically your car-were that day.
It’s an invaluable tool for law enforcement, saving them untold amounts of time. You recall the date and you weren’t behind the wheel? You probably have a good idea who was. Was it a stranger? Your spouse? Maybe it was your kid? Even that little bit of feedback saves police the trouble of figuring out how to address the problem-before actually addressing the problem.
No matter who is behind the wheel, vehicle registration places personal accountability square in the hands of the owner. The idea of saying, “Sorry, my vehicle has been put up for a while and I have no idea why it would be parked illegally” is simply unheard of. When we register, we take responsibility for how its used. It also makes the owner more vigilant. We check on the vehicle more frequently. We lock our vehicles more often, watch who we loan it to and make sure our kids use it safely. Shouldn’t guns be treated the exact same way?
Surely it’s not as difficult as changing your religion and it’s not like Tom Howell needs one more thing to do right now.
I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.
Writer, Researcher and Registrant!
Pro-conversation
The other day, a friend of mine took to Facebook with a post that read, “I don’t see why you can talk about your support for abortion but I can’t tell you abortion is wrong.” Naturally, my friend is a guy and in reward for his bravery, he was showered with ten hate-filled comments in the span of an hour. Most of them included personal attacks, none of them had any real discussion points. All of them included a phrase like ‘keep quiet’, ‘stop’ and ‘shut up’.
I couldn’t help but feel bad for him. I also couldn’t help but like his post.
Abortion is a hot-button, high-emotion topic that gets everyone so stirred up that its mere mention has become even more taboo than the activity itself. In order to keep peace and harmony, or just to avoid the erratically misplaced attacks of others, most of us don’t talk about it. When backed into a corner, we choose our words carefully, knowing full well that they may be held against us later. We watch who we take into that confidence more carefully than we disclose our address and teach our children to do the same. I admit I have, and that’s a frightening thing for someone who values self-expression the way I do.
Reading the comments posted from his anti-fan club only reinforced the message of don’t ask/don’t tell. They were filled with insults about his intelligence, his compassion and his gender. Many challenged the validity of his religion although he never mentioned it. His political affiliations, personal philosophies and mental fitness were also called into question. It was a lot of damaging information to draw from one sentence. And with every one of them came the thinly veiled threat to stay down and avoid friendly fire.
I was ready to heed the warning when my friend reached out to me and thanked me for my support. I was the only one who stood up for him, he said, and even though it was only a tiny thumbs up that took me a fraction of a second to push, he appreciated it more than I could know. But I knew. I knew…no, I know that he is right. So without further ado, let me introduce myself to the masses and invite any bomb-throwing to come my way:
My name is Jennifer Ritter and I have had an abortion.
My relationship with abortion is quite complicated. I was raised in blended families with a liberal mother (a nurse who fancied herself a born-again hippie) and a father (who to this day avoids topics regarding lady-parts like vaginas are contagious). Like most people whose adolescence coincided with the emergence of Ricki Lake and Kurt Cobain, I was educated under a system that took a scientifically casual approach to the subject. Abortion, although never presented as a lifestyle or political view, was never seen as anything more than distasteful. It was merely a surgical procedure to group of cells. That always made sense to me. I had lots of experience with surgeries like that, having struggled with endometriosis my entire life. By the time I was considering having an abortion, I had already been cut into multiple times to remove other invading cells that caused an equal amount of inconvenience and discomfort. Describing abortion as no more serious than removing ones tonsils made the choice very easy.
The event that precipitated my abortion was a common one-unprotected sex with a boyfriend. While I felt I was not ready to take the relationship to a legally committed level, my boyfriend and I were certainly not opposed to putting ourselves in a situation where we could create another person. My home life at the time was terrible and to come home pregnant would have put me at risk for violence. I was certain I would have no support and no way to provide for a child. I remember panicking when I told him of our situation and my quick decision to surgically make it all go away. And on his part, he didn’t bat an eye, repeating the same adage of the fetus being no more than a group of cells and offering to make the trip with me. I had the abortion in a local hospital where my UAW insurance paid for the entire thing. It always struck me as odd, that my father’s autoworkers medical insurance covered the complete cost of an abortion when performed in a hospital. They didn’t cover birth control that well. I paid for The Pill every month. After the abortion, I wasn’t even charged a copay.
As time went on, I put the abortion behind me but not the memory of the lost child. It has been nearly 30 years. The child would have had their own family by now. But that boyfriend (Liam) and I did stick together and eventually married. We even felt comfortable with our decision because we knew our marriage was not just for the sake of a child. That child would have seen us divorce years later and perhaps even seen irony in the fact that we remained in a failed marriage for years for the sake of the other children. That child would have also seen me go through nearly a decade of infertility problems-spurned on by the endometriosis as well as the advancement in education which allows students to see fetuses as they develop instead of just a random bunch of cells. Now as an adult, the child would have been privy to the revelation that Planned Parenthood sells the fetuses it collects instead of disposing of it like other medical waste. I wonder what conversations we would have had about it?
What I would like to say, if I had ever given the child a chance to hear me, is that I question the decision I made all the time.
And that is because all available information about abortion is skewed, colored and distorted by politics and religion and good old fashioned spin. The decision, the procedure and the resulting consequence is dripping with so much emotion that it is next to impossible to make any kind of honest decision at all. Both the pro-choice and pro-life sides engage in a high-pressure winner-take-all battle, neither is truly interested in the woman’s best needs, the unborn child’s or the family’s. If they were, we would see a dramatic change in the way we view conception, pregnancy and post-pregnancy options. But neither side is noble, all they are after is power, control, and a quick buck.
Take the pro-choice side, the one that provided me and countless others their primary education on as developing fetus. For decades, members of their team have been responsible for a public marketing campaign that put abortion on the presidential ticket as a vital issue right up there with national security. They described the gestation process in the coldest terms and they alone decided when a generation of men and women could consider a beating heart a sign of life. While publically calling threats to their funding a threats to women’s health in general, some big names in the abortion game try desperately to hide the fact that they sell surgically collected fetuses to the highest bidder. The mother (or tissue donor) getting nothing. And about that whole ‘women’s health’ scare? There are plenty of free health clinics that do not provide abortions and they do not seem to be hurting for it.
But let’s not forget the pro-life side, which is happy to guilt trip the women electing to have an abortion, but don’t do enough to help support these families taking care of another child. Lower and middle class families are struggling, divorce is still prevalent, countless other social struggles are still very real, and this club expects the woman to keep her toes tapping with one more child. That can be a very unfair burden to ask. Yes, adoption is an option, but it is often complicated and filled with social pressures themselves. Where is the pro-life side when the mother needs them later? Off at another rally to pressure more women.
Don’t get me started with politicians on either side of the aisle. I cringe at the idea that any of these Bozos should have a say in my medical choices when they can’t even pave roads!
I think that everybody with a financial interest needs to be pushed out of the examination room and let the patient and doctor have a talk. I think that an abortion should be considered and handled as the serious procedure it is-at the very least it should involve the same kind of counseling and education we require for bariatric surgery. And why is that so horrible? We are talking about more than a couple extra Big Macs, you know. I also think it is perfectly okay for a woman to consider the ramifications of that particular solution to her short-term problem. Why shouldn’t she consider whether or not someone else should die as a result of her actions? That’s exactly what happens when you climb in those stirrups!
On the other side, I think that very few women make the decision to have an abortion recklessly and certainly do not need the unsolicited advice of strangers. No matter your faith, it is difficult to ignore the fact that most organized religions had their roots set deep in a male-dominated society where women didn’t have the ability to refuse intercourse much less the option of carrying a child. So no matter how righteous and peaceful your intentions are, unless you actually have a relationship with the women in question AND attend the same church, I don’t think you should force your calling on her any more than you would with the woman in line ahead of you at McDonalds. Of course, if your McDonald’s happens to be like mine on a Saturday afternoon and you happen to make friends with the people in line, talk about it. I assure you, I’ve had weirder discussions than that!
And that brings me back to my Facebook buddy. He may be a few friends lighter than he once was, but he’s right. We should talk about it, and anything else that we want to without fear of threats and intimidation if someone we barely know (or maybe not at all) disagrees. As long as we have had the ability to speak, we have had the ability to disagree. Me, I have never found anyone with whom I agree on everything, but there is no need to start a Go Fund Me page just yet. Just take the time to listen to each other. We may discover we are not that far apart after all.
I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.
Writer, Researcher and probable target!
Fundamentally Cheeking
A buddy of mine got into trouble at the office the other day. He grabbed a beer and his phone to tell me.
‘A lady walks in as I’m utterly not paying attention. She started speaking before she entered my doorway, so in between that, the overly positive sound of her voice, and my lack of attention she says, “Are you sick of me yet?”
To which he replied, “Yep!”
In my mind, what I had thought she said before my brain actually absorbed the reality of her words was something about ‘Are these ready yet?’
I was wrong. Very, very wrong.’
I know exactly how this feels. As one of the bajillion people out there who are just hard-of-hearing enough to get myself in trouble but not hard-of-hearing enough to force me to do anything about it, I’ve heard a lot of entertaining things-all of them completely wrong!
Take the other day when I heard my daughter in the other room talking to a group of girls about having her grandmother ‘cut her snatch’. Imagine the look I received when I bowled her out for the obviously inappropriate comment, only to learn she was talking about ‘finding another patch’!
Or the time I was at a comedy club when I clearly heard one of the performers say “I kill people for money.” What he really said was “I find people funny.” I really should have known better. The guy never has more than twenty dollars to his name, but I’ve decided to watch my back just to be on the safe side!
I have no idea what combination of words left me thinking that my son said his ‘gender is Batman’ but since then he has insisted that he prefers to sexually identify himself as an Apache helicopter. So I guess that’s one for the scrapbook either way!
It’s not limited to out of the room comments either. I have heard my car dealership page the Terminator over the loudspeaker, received phone messages to return Grandpa Munster’s call, and even been set up with an appointment to be seen by Doctor Casino. I also sat in the pews in shock as my priest cautioned the congregation about the ills of neglecting chocolate. That surely must be a sin!
Imagine what it was like to hit on a teenage Jennifer with the same hearing problems! I must have been fifteen or so when a hot senior named Dean McWhirt (not really) was trying to charm his way into my pants. With his big blue eyes, a polished Harrison Ford grin and a blonde mullet (stop cringing kids, this was the 80’s!) I admit he had my attention. As to avoid the detection of nearby parental supervision, he kept saying softly, “I want you.” All I heard was, “How are you?” Then I took his looks of confusion as a sure sign he was either drugged up or socially retarded. Either way, Jennifer easily kept her virginity for another two and a half years!
I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.
Writer, Researcher, and suspicious listener!
The Game Winning Shot
WHO SHOT JR?
Since the pandemic began, I have been eagerly waiting to get the vaccine. It’s an odd experience for me, I’ve never looked forward to getting a shot. I’m a trypanophobic-or a needle phobe. It’s a crippling irrational fear that I never look to confront.
It’s not the pain that gets to me but the idea of a foreign object inside my skin. Instead of spending the whole time gasping or crying “Ow, ow, ow!”, I get lightheaded and start screaming “Get it out, get it out, get it out!” inside my brain. That’s actually quite a break-through for me. I spent over thirty years literally screaming-in doctor’s offices, hospitals, labs and the occasional vaccine clinic set up at the mall. I remain on the banned list of two of them and a third won’t see me without an escort.
But I’ve also seen first-hand the effects of the virus, not only in the number of people we’ve lost but the impact on the lives of the survivors. I would do anything to help return our communities back to normal. And with that resolve, I got on the CDC website, checked out the locations in my area with available vaccines, and scheduled an appointment. Walmart could get me in the very next day at six in the morning, giving me plenty of time to get poked, almost stroke and return to work without anyone being the wiser of my little quirk.
There wasn’t much of a line at such an early hour this morning but I wasn’t the first appointment they had. The pharmacy manager and a desk clerk were already busy checking people in and scheduling their next appointments. The only shot my Walmart has in stock is the Moderna one, but that’s just fine with me. They all feel the same when you are trying not to hyperventilate.
I filled out the paperwork (four questions) and offered my insurance card. The pharmacy manager put everything in their system and then sent me into another room. He administered the shot in minutes-giving me very little time to panic. I adjusted my sleeve, sat in the waiting area for fifteen minutes, and then reported back to work. Noting my condition five hours later, I wasn’t uncomfortable at all.
For me, the most painful part has been hearing the excuses others have come up with not to get the shot. The effort and creativity involved is really impressive. There are some whoppers! And there’s no denying game has to recognize game.
Here is a countdown of my favorites I have found online just today:
#4 “I don’t want fear to rule my life.”
But what about debilitating heart damage, lung damage and cognitive impairment? These are just some of the effects covid survivors are reporting long after the infection has subsided. We don’t know all the long term effects yet, but any of those three would be enough to affect one’s life expectancy and quality of life-not to mention your standard of living, personal finances and erectile function.
Are you telling me you wouldn’t endure a little prick in order to save another? I know better!
#3 “Who knows what is in those shots? I don’t want chemicals and unnatural materials inside my body.”
Do you know the ingredients of a bag of Doritos? Chapstick? How about your preferred cannabis delivery system? You take foreign materials into your body every day and to believe otherwise means already you are on something you should question.
#2 “Getting the vaccine goes against my political party/affiliation.”
I find it curious that so many varieties of this excuse are present on Twitter, but so few claiming the vaccinations violate religious principles. Act of God? No. That’s an omission that is hard to ignore.
It's a shot, not a party declaration. I just don’t see your getting vaccinated as high a priority as removing a blockade in the Suez canal. Besides, no matter what your political leanings, every party wants you to live. If nothing was proven during the last election, it was that every living voter counts. Right?
That, and not to listen to the pillow guy!
Which brings us to Number One. In this case, it’s a two-fer!
#1 “I have heard there is a tracking chip contained in the shot.” Or “The vaccine is really the Mark of the Beast.”
Full disclosure: a close family member of mine buys into all the Q Anon bull feathers, which (as a humble public servant) really drives me crazy. It’s the mental equivalent of having a rock in your shoe. During the course of performing my ‘real’ job, I hear every cockamamie conspiracy theory out there and the only dumber questions than those posed by this online joke is the one that starts with “So if Thanksgiving falls on a Wednesday…”
Tin foil hats aside, you are tracked all the time! A shot changes nothing. You have a smart phone, email and Snapchat. You just verified your identity and location when the latest stimulus payment was announced. No one needs to track you with a shot when they can wait for you to check in at Starbucks.
And the bible may have been vague about whether there is a Mark of the Beast or what it would look like, but it is very clear that it will be a mark. Sure, it could be in the form of a tattoo, piercing, facial hair or something yet to be designed but I don’t think a band aid applies. I just think the powers of darkness can do better than an adhesive that sticks better to my laundry than my skin.
If there was truly a Mark of the Beast coming in the future, my bet is that it would be a mullet. Any haircut that makes your head look like a Borg battleship is certainly suspicious.
Now almost ten hours later, the injection site is a little tender, but no more than a tetanus shot or depo provera. I returned to work timely and able to keep up with my writing demands without a problem. And it made a difference. I’m reducing the spread of transmission to those I love and I’m not occupying one more bed in the ICU.
So go take the shot!
I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.
Writer, Researcher and covid novelist!
Feminine Independence
My afterlife has been an empowering journey. Since Erin and I left and ventured out on our own, we have found the courage and strength to do so much we never thought possible. “Who needs a man?” became a mantra of ours and a reoccurring theme in the Little Yellow House.
But I am a realist. I cannot do it all on my own. There is one thing I will never be able to do that permanently ties me to the opposite sex.
Opening jars and bottles.
It’s embarrassing, but I just can’t do it. My hands and fingers are very dexterous but they aren’t very forceful. They are certainly not talons. Instead of manipulating the lid, my hand ends up sliding around-and not in a good way.
And let’s face it, the jar and bottle industry is completely male-dominated! Jars are designed for man hands! There is a reason cosmetics come with lids that pull off or only slightly unscrew, how else are we supposed to open them with fingernails? Yes, I am deliberately going to ignore nail polish bottles-you know those are a man-vention!
I know all the tricks, running the container under hot water, tapping the opening on a counter, popping the bottom. I’m sure there is a very good reason to suggest that as a strategy, even if it escapes me. Popping the bottom always seemed to me a bit more punitive than helpful. What kind of society defers to corporal punishment to resolve a problem like that?
To that end, Dave has become my designated opener. He has adapted to his role well, saying nothing when I hand him a jar-even when he is in his office, watching TV or in the shower. I have even violated the man while he was on the toilet, not like Date Number 3 and a half but by storm trooping in with a jar demanding his services at once. He merely shook his head and complied, can you believe it? And he’s all mine!
So I’ll stick with conquering my career, building my side gigs and being the best high-heeled Bob Villa I can. I’ll outsource opening stuff to my guy.
I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.
Writer, Researcher and farmer!
A Novel Idea
You might have heard that I have recently released my first literary novel The Dead of Wynter. If you missed it, you now know where all those reports about me running naked on rooftops doing the happy dance came from! I am really excited to add ‘Serious Author’ to my list of credentials, but I’m even more thrilled because my new work is available as both an e-book and a paperback.
Paperback is important, follow along with me on this.
I have been a published author for the better half of a decade, releasing silly picture books like How to Tell the Difference Between a Zombie and the Cable Repair Guy, Is That a Mummy in the Drive-Thru and You are Not Special And Other Harsh Realities. They have been a very rewarding experience and have taught me a lot-namely what little artistic talent I truly have and what kind of weirdos are fans of that kind of thing.
When I came out as a writer, I experienced a lot of publication fright. It was almost identical to stage fright, but without the crowd and the spot light. Each time my work was released, I’d be a wreck for the next few days-something that became a kind of ritual. So I suppose the e-book platform became a bit of a pacifier. It allowed my audience to read my work and still gave me the opportunity to edit or pull back as I wished.
After writing about such memorable topics as city commission arrests, throwing up in Veronica and my blue ribbon vagina (hit up JenuinelyJennifer.com if you missed them!) I’ve successfully tamed that tiger. It’s time to conquer another milestone: having my work housed at the Library of Congress. I’m sure it sounds a little geeky, but it’s always been a dream of mine to have a book included in their collection. And in order to do that, a book must be in paper format.
Stay tuned for update on my progress but in the meantime, here’s a few fun facts about the Library of Congress you may not know:
My book will be in good company. The United States Library of Congress is the largest library in the world. Holding massive collections of books, recordings and Twitter posts, it is an information repository for Congress and one of the locations I want someone to drop my ashes one day!
I’m not worried about it being too unconventional to be admitted. The library already has a very diverse collection including a Gutenberg bible, a rough draft of the Declaration of Independence and a copy of Rosa Park’s pancake recipe. So the occult mystery/thriller novel will be right at home on their shelves and I won’t have to give up my secret for fluffy omelets.
My submission will put me in the ranks of all my favorite legendary authors-and probably yours too. Authors like Stephen King, Dominic Dunne, Ernest Hemingway, Oscar Wilde and Will Cuppy all have books on its shelves. That makes it more exciting than the time I snuck over and sat in Toby Keith’s booth at one of his bars and a waitress asked me to leave!
It won’t be a quick process. Over fifteen thousand submissions are received by the library daily with twelve thousand added to the collection. But I figure so long as I follow submission guidelines to the letter, The Dead of Wynter has a good chance.
And the best part is that once it’s there, YOU can go to the library any time you want and see it. The public can apply for a library card which permits you to read and view a majority of its collection for two years (after which, you need to re-apply). Members of Congress are the only ones allowed to actually check out books and remove them from the facility, but you can always buy a copy of my book for your own collection and save the trip!
If you don’t want to wait to make the drive to Washington DC, The Dead of Wynter is available at Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble and your favorite bookseller. Or check out our merch page. Autographed copies look great on your bookshelf!
I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.
Writer, Researcher and Literary Novelist!
It’s Fundamental
The news covered a story about the Governor of Minnesota’s decision to out proponents of defunding the police, releasing their names and addresses. Naturally, this ticked off more than a few people so protests were mounted. By the time it attracted media attention, the Governor was making halfhearted justifications and her neighbors were pointing guns at the crowd.
There kinds of reports frustrate me because they show just how low the most mild-mannered person can stoop when they feel a loss of control. I presume neither of them have ever committed a murder, and yet there they were acting like Rambo or something. It makes you wonder how they acted the last time a girl scout came by to sell cookies.
I’ll go into the numerous reasons why the castle domain and self-defense laws don’t apply in this situation later, today we are going to talk about the idea status quo advocates would like to rebrand as a great, big sin: defunding the police department.
Often associated with wackos and anarchists, opponents would like to see the idea of reducing state and local police department budgets as potentially threatening and intimidating as leaving your phone number at a bus stop. Why else would Minnesota’s governor publicize a list of supporters? And that’s exactly why the protesters came marching. They had enough retaliation at the hands of those charged with public service.
Releasing personal information is a common tactic to discourage people from speaking their minds. It’s one of the ones the government cites ANTIFA of using. I find it ironic when both sides are guilty, but either way the intent is the same. They put you and your offensive beliefs out there with your contact information in hopes that public harassment soon follows.
When states started issuing licenses for concealed carry, different interest groups toyed with the idea of making lists of those applying public. That’s the main reason I have one. I figure if someone wanted to go digging, they should know I may be packing. It’s also why I don’t mind putting myself on another list.
I support defunding the police.
Now before I get accused of being snowflake or just a plain flake, let me repeat that I am a big supporter of the police. Many of my buddies have either served or currently serve in a number of departments and jurisdictions. I am not naive to the fact that their jobs are dangerous and sometimes next to impossible. And it’s because of my back-stage view that I feel the way I do.
You see, a police officer’s time is taken up by plenty of things besides protecting and serving. They are often backup for emergency medical, disaster response, and public works departments. Does a bitey dog roam your neighborhood? Call a cop. How about a disruptive kid in the lunch room? He/she gets called in for that too.
Your local police department is also the go-to place when you need a wellness check, a credit breach or lock your keys in your car. They are the first called when the homeless population gets a little unruly downtown, just ask them. They also put in an appearance at any of a number of local community meetings as well as the City Council.
They don’t just arrest and detain child abusers-they often look after the children themselves. They also monitor cross walks and do locker and car searches when schools suspect on-campus drug use. And as if that weren’t enough, they are often responsible for finding young victims overnight and temporary placements, providing transportation and even acting as a drop-off or safe space location for exchanges. But you won’t find any of that in a city’s charter anywhere.
In the middle of all that, they are called to physically detain the mentally ill, locate missing elderly, and mediate disputes. They give medications for people who are overdosing, inspect properties for ordinance compliance-even detain animals that escape from the zoo. No big deal. They are well trained, right? Sure they are. The minimum requirement is a high school diploma.
For decades, the local police department has been the catchall for all needs not otherwise met. Imagine administering medication without a license? Disciplining special needs students without formal training? Heck, most departments will not allow their officers to perform lockouts on vehicles for fear the airbags could go off but still expect them to respond every time that sweet little old lady up the street gives her social security number to a scammer on the phone. Nation-wide, the fact is that most police departments are so busy doing everything else but the job they were hired to do that by the time they do get to act like police officers, they end up treating a neighborhood traffic stop like Mogadishu. People get hurt and lives are lost.
So instead of continuing to dump more and more money into the police budget to handle things they were never trained and prepared to do anyway, let’s shuffle those funds to the people and departments that are. Let’s give the money used for school security back to the schools and let them hire their security. Why is that unheard of? These same kids go in and out of businesses staffed with security officers all the time and not one of those officers has ever been reported for hog-tying and tasing an elementary student.
Let’s funnel the funds used to talk to those who are mentally ill, suicidal or just plain lonely to the local community mental health agencies. There is solid evidence that a licensed trained professional dedicated and educated in the field of mental health and human services can serve those populations much better than an overworked cop who is late for his patrol. The same conclusion can be drawn between the number of traffic stops police make over the ones performed by social workers. Let’s let them do the jobs they are good at.
Let’s give back the portion of money to EMS and animal control so that the police don’t have to administer oxygen or chase stray dogs. Maybe then they won’t feel so stressed and overwhelmed much less be walking the streets stressed, overwhelmed and armed? It just makes sense.
With the money we save in manpower and providing redundant services, let’s invest in our officers’ mental health, provide better health care, compassionate training and more education. We expect police to recertify their ability to fire a gun every year-why don’t we require the same kind of competency when it comes to knowing when not to shoot? Then let’s arm them with non-lethal training and armaments. They are not licensed to kill, why are those the only tools issued?
Then while we are at it, let’s give them housing stipends to live in the neighborhoods they serve. Let’s encourage them to be good neighbors, join a church, join a club and send their kids to those schools. Let’s put every extra dollar we can into making them members of their community instead of just its protectors. It’s a lot harder to choke your neighbor than a perp.
These guys signed on because they were called to a service, let’s them do it. And feel free to share that, I won’t protest!
My name is Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.
Writer, Researcher and heretic!
Mulch Ado About Nothing
Mowing the lawn is a process for me. With a little electric mower that has a tiny little deck, it can take me several hours to mow my expansive yard. So it was no surprise to me that it was nearing dusk the other night and I was still out finishing the job.
My neighbor was out the other night too, mowing on her large zero-turn radius mower. She had probably finished the job within twenty-minutes, then spent some time puttering in her driveway. She is an elderly woman who lives alone with her dog, a little collie mix. I’ve never seen any visitors to the house. And since the dog is always running free about the neighborhood, I am willing to bet he has a more active social life than she.
In spite of the time involved, one of the many things I like about my mower is the bag attachment that collects grass clippings which I use to mulch around my yard, compost and fill in holes. I was in the process of emptying the bag and spreading it around when my neighbor approached me the other day for the first time.
I saw her dog cross over into my yard first. At first, I thought she was going to shoo him back home-which would be a first. Normally, I have to acknowledge the pup and tell him to scoot on home but the woman merely walked past her pet to engage me. Assuming a deliberate stance, she put her hands on her hips and asked me if I knew there was a drain under my house.
I should hope so, I said, taking note that she didn’t introduce herself. Being the first time we had ever met, I noticed that was missing from our exchange. There was no time for me to correct this though, she was off and running.
There was, she said. She said she lived in that same house when the former owners of my property lived here and they needed to get special permission from the city to put in their driveway.
At this point, I feel it’s fair to explain that there is a drainage system under my lawn. It is routed along the buildings and draws water away from the gutters and farther out into the lawn where the ends are buried. The system is made up of PVC plastic-the same kind you can find at Lowes or Home Depot, and over time has become perforated from age and being struck repeatedly by a lawn mower. It serves a purpose of diffusing water as it enters the ground but doesn’t carry it anywhere close to a drain. But she was speaking with so much excitement, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
In hindsight, perhaps I should have for she went on to comment that there were drains all through my property and around the perimeter as well-and that my grass clippings were clogging them, leading to her yard becoming flooded with the next rain.
I don’t want you to think that I didn’t care what the woman had to say or that I wasn’t aware (if not sensitive) to her concerns. She did take the time to come over and speak to me about this. But the fact is that the drains she was worried about me bunging up don’t exist and so I gently pointed out to her that the only thing on the edge of my yard were a couple ditches and that as they are a couple feet deep, she was in no danger from my yard waste.
She seemed less than convinced, and dare I say a little impatient with my disagreement. It’s true, she insisted, those grass clippings were already clogging the (non-existent) drain. And what’s more, it was against city ordinance to put them there.
Now, I have covered my local city council meetings for years and during that time, I have learned a couple things. One is that it is illegal in my town to blow your grass clippings into the street-not into your yard. Second is that my increasingly annoyed neighbor hasn’t set foot in a city council meeting in at least five years. In a moment of Christian charity, I decided to remind her of the first.
But they could still make rain run into her yard, she insisted.
I tried to explain to her that my efforts were actually in an effort to improve the soil around my yard, not to harm it. By adding the additional material, I was working on firming up the clay under my lawn, allowing it to prevent the kind of run-off she feared. It had been a problem for me too, I added. When the yard was wet, it was impossible to park over there and the ruts were not helping.
Well that wasn’t a problem until I started parking in my lawn, she said-hands on hips with a satisfied told-you-so smile.
Well, it was my lawn so I could do as I liked, I replied.
Still, she said, the yard and the ditches were too close to the drains and there was always a possibility that they could be clogged with my mulch.
Seeing this was going nowhere, I made a concession. I promised not to put any grass clippings in the drain under my driveway.
She was pleased with her victory. To my surprise, she smiled, thanked me and left-never once hearing a word I had to say.
I suppose I will have to scrap those plans to dig a mulch-tunnel under the drive!
I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer
Writer, Researcher and avant gardner!