Holly Jahangiri's blog

Dare to Dream

A response to What rejection tastes like... (once again, inspired by Redzilla):

Dare to Dream

Lara’s hands shook as she handed the carefully boxed and wrapped manuscript across the counter to be weighed and metered. She dug around in the bottom of her purse for the crumpled dollar bills she’d scrounged from under the couch cushions to pay the postage, and dropped a handful of loose change on the floor. “Omigod, I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her face flushing crimson. Could the man tapping his foot impatiently behind her see how desperately she dared to hope that this time, this book, would be the one?

As her box disappeared on the conveyor belt behind the counter, Lara had a fleeting urge to leap across and snatch it back. “It’s not ready yet!” wailed a small insecure voice, one Lara barely recognized as her own.

“It’ll never be ready,” scoffed a deeper, more cynical voice. Her father's. “Might as well find that out sooner than later.”

“There, there, Lara. There are so many other things you’re good at. Why don’t you find a nice young man and settle down? You could still write for fun, you know.” Ah, mom. Always ready with a backup plan.

“It’s terrific, hon,” whispered a faint voice, struggling to be heard over the din of traffic outside the post office. “I always knew you could do it.” The voice faded like an echo on the wind.

Lara tucked her head down and turned her collar up against the chilly autumn breeze, and hurried home to fix a nice pot of tea. “Try not to think about it,” she told herself. “If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.”

Three months later, having succeeded in pushing her hopes and dreams and fears into the back of her mental closet, Lara opened her mailbox and let out a little gasp of surprise. It was a big, thick 11”x17” envelope, creamy white, with a return address of Doherty & Linnert Publishing. A rejection? Lara felt sure they wouldn’t have wasted so much postage on a form letter. A returned manuscript? The envelope wasn’t heavy enough. Lara clutched it to her breast and ran back into the house.

She carefully placed the unopened envelope on the dining room table. She hardly dared to hope – yet hope she did. And as long as she resisted the temptation to tear open the package, she could hold onto that hope, savor it, and cherish it as surely as if it were real. Lara wrapped her arms around her body and hugged herself. Doherty & Linnert Publishing. What a delicious feeling!

Lara made a pot of tea. She grabbed an old mug, then quickly put it back. She reached up for the good china – the special-occasion set her mother had given her when she moved out on her own. She had some imported shortbread in the pantry. Although she was on a diet and had sworn off empty carbohydrates, Lara decided to splurge and made herself a little plate of cookies to go with the tea. She sat down at the dining room table with her tea and cookies, and pondered the envelope. No, surely this wasn’t a rejection. Lara had had plenty of those, and they inevitably arrived in slightly sullied and very ordinary No.10 envelopes. She ran her fingertips across the package – the expensive stationery had a delicious, expensive feel to it. Daydreaming again, she imagined that it contained a three-book contract and a six-figure advance.

Suddenly, Lara broke out in a cold sweat. A three-book contract? Oh, dear God! How could she ever write two more books so quickly, and hope to do as well as she had with this one? Panic engulfed her, swallowed her whole. She felt sick to her stomach and wished she hadn’t eaten the shortbread. She stared at the envelope in horror and dismay. “I can’t! I can’t do it!” she cried. She pushed herself back from the table so quickly that her chair tipped precariously on its back legs.

Lara could swear she heard the voices laughing. “Be careful what you wish for,” whispered one.

“You’re just a one-trick pony,” said the other with a derisive snort.

“I can’t... I can’t...” sniffed a tiny voice, barely audible over the beating of Lara’s heart.

“You’ll never know until you try,” sighed the last, so softly that Lara wondered if she’d heard it at all. 

Save the Internet!

Save the Internet!

Hey, look, Dad - I've gone from "Save the Whales" and "Save the Seals" to "Save the Internet!"

I've become such a geek.

Tim Berners-Lee (M.I.T.), father of the World Wide Web...

See? It wasn't Al Gore. It was Tim Berners-Lee. So there.

Ohhhhh...you knew that, did you?

Cold Showers Beyond the Grave

I could keep this up indefinitely. Clad only in a terry-cloth towel, armed with nothing but a spritzer of ice cold water, I outsmart the phantom. I lure it into the cellar. I feel its malevolent passions rise; I shiver with a chill from beyond the grave. Alienated from its corporeal self, it reaches out, tickles the base of my spine like a lover, raises zombie goosebumps along my arms. Quickly, I turn and - spritz! The phantom howls. "Take a cold shower, creep!" I run back up the stairs and bolt the door. Sunlight floods my kitchen, warms my naked flesh like a kiss. I laugh.

From Here....to Eternity

Wedding-kiss

Awwww, don't we make a cute couple? Twenty three years ago...but it seems like only yesterday.

Initially, we'd planned a long engagement. Twelve months, or so. We didn't even set a date. But like any eager young bride, I enthusiastically shopped for the gown, perused all the bridal magazines, tried to arrange everything according to some schedule laid out by the so-called experts - in short, I was well on my way to driving my mother nuts. "I don't want to hear about this for the next twelve months," she said. "Daydream, plan, shop all you like - but don't drag me into it this early. Give me six weeks. I can pull off any wedding you want in six weeks."

We called her bluff. Decided not to wait a year, after all. Gave her twelve days.

Okay, so that was partly her fault. I wanted a special date. J.J.'s birthday was just a few days earlier. Mine was nine months away. (Don't ask me why I wanted it to have some sort of dual significance; perhaps I realized, even then, that I was not the best at remembering important dates...but I like to think it was some sort of superstitious nonsense, like wanting a date that had already proven itself to be "good.") My mother narrowed her eyes at me. "You two really mean this? You're in it for life, right? You're not going to screw it up?"

"Um...right. Why?"

"If you promise not to screw it up, I have a date in mind that you might like."

"What?"

"How about our anniversary? We'll share, but only if you keep it a happy date. No divorce. Nothing to make it a sad date."

"Deal."

Our Wedding, Their Anniversary

To put things in perspective, we were married on my parents' twenty-second anniversary. I am now two years older than my mother was, then, and two years younger than my dad. I shudder to think how old and grown up I thought they were, at the time.

My parents were four years apart in age; so are J.J. and I.

What do you think? Are we holding up...okay? Do we look...old, and grown up? To be fair, do they?

Get Over It!

Blame Redzilla...again.

I have never been a breastfeeding fanatic. I firmly believe that what's best for mom is best for baby; if breastfeeding doesn't work for you, so be it. I turned out just fine on Enfamil from day one. I had a great bond with my mom and managed to grow up tall, healthy, and smart.

But breastmilk is especially designed by Nature to meet each baby's unique needs. It doesn't get any better than that, if you're a healthy mother who can nurse an infant and wants to. It should be a right - and there shouldn't be any unreasonable restrictions as to when and where you can feed your child when he or she is hungry. If you wouldn't ban a bottle-fed child from eating at a particular place and time, then you shouldn't ban a breastfed one, either. Period.

You think God wouldn't want a woman baring her breasts in public? Then why didn't He, in His infinite wisdom, put the nipples on her fingertips? Hmm? Would the conservatives dare argue that God should have designed women better? Or was it some nefarious cosmic plot designed to prove that women shouldn't be allowed to leave the house, to work, to travel? I don't think so.

If the sight of a nursing breast offends you, don't look. How hard is that? I've long suspected that the only reason for requiring Muslim women to cover themselves head to toe is because men think men cannot control their animal lusts, and would somehow like to place the blame for that on us. Well, I know plenty of men who can exercise control over their lust - so I find this notion grossly insulting to real men. I know there are some men who can't, and they should probably be locked away somewhere. Women shouldn't be made to suffer because a man is weak-willed and undisciplined.

Back in November 2006, a woman was kicked off a Delta Airlines flight for discreetly breastfeeding her child. Here's an article on it: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/15720339/?from=ET

That's just nuts. Sorry, but I recall a flight when my son was a year old - if I hadn't been "allowed" to breastfeed, I'm fairly sure they'd have thrown the screaming terror out the rear exit at 35,000 ft. Or stuffed him into an overhead compartment in the back, with an oxygen mask over his face to muffle the yelling. If I hadn't been his mother - and loved him dearly - I'd have been tempted. The only thing I could do to calm him was to nurse him. I'm surprised the other passengers didn't keep an eye on me to make sure I didn't stop. Believe me, I didn't plan on nursing my child until he was almost four years old. Comments from people who think that's "gross" or somehow inappropriate have no clue - let's face it, would you rather see moms doling out Valium to their tots? I didn't think so. Besides, breast milk is just so much more effective, anyway.

Ban a nursing mother from the plane? You've got to be kidding me. With all the complaints people make about crying babies on airplanes, you'd think they'd make mothers sign an agreement promising to nurse them on demand.

But oddly enough, it's usually other women who complain. I would be willing to bet this nursing mother didn't simply rip off her top or flop out a boob and go for it. I'd almost be willing to bet the other passengers couldn't see a darned thing that wouldn't be revealed in a low-cut top or bikini, if that. Why the sight of a mother breastfeeding her child in public bothers anyone is beyond me. I have never seen one who flopped out a boob and was anything but discreet.

I can't say that for all breastfed babies, of course. I do remember breastfeeding my son in the waiting room at NTB, once, while they kindly fixed yet-another-nail-hole in one of my tires (I lived in a construction zone, so I was a monthly customer for a while). He began to make what I liked to call "my compliments to the chef" noises. My son was anything but discreet in his vocal appreciation of fine mother's milk. Not my fault - no, I had on a nursing top, he was tucked completely into a sling, and I'd thrown a receiving blanket over us for good measure. Finally, the man sitting next to me couldn't take it anymore. He broke into a silly grin and said, "That must be a fine lunch. He really likes that."

I was a little taken aback at provoking comments from a stranger, but I looked the guy over and laughed. "You have kids, don't you?" I asked.

"Three of them, all grown now." He smiled, and went back to reading his magazine, a nostalgic grin on his face.

*SIGN THE PETITION TO SUPPORT BREASTFEEDING: http://www.momsrising.org/breastfeeding-petition
Join me in telling Delta Airlines to get a clue and be supportive of breastfeeding mothers; and also in telling Congress it's time to pass the Breastfeeding Promotion Act, which amends the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to protect breastfeeding mothers. Clearly this law is needed now!

If you doubt the power of action, see the update: http://www.momsrising.org/node/430?comments_per_page=50&page=38

And, I hope you'll also join me and tens of thousands of others in one of the most exciting grassroots movement on the Internet: MomsRising.org.

SIGN ON WITH MOMSRISING AT: http://www.democracyinaction.org/dia/organizationsORG/momsrising/signUp.jsp?key=1682&t=longsignup.dwt

MomsRising.org (http://www.momsrising.org) is working to build a massive grassroots movement big enough to impact the outcome of the 2008 elections and beyond. The time has come to break the logjam that's been holding back family-friendly legislation for decades. It's going to take all of us--and then some--working together to get there.

Thank you!

A Bright Little Spot of Color...

One of my "43 Things" was to create comfortable, inspiring, productive writing area.

Now, not only have I decluttered and cleaned my little corner of our shared home office, including the overstuffed and unsightly bookcase (which now houses only books I haven’t read and might actually WANT to; reference books; books on philosophy and religion; and books on language), I have brightened it with two huge and colorful silk flower arrangements I made myself. (The third arrangement, the red roses - those are real. My husband surprised me with those first thing this morning. He also surprised me with "breakfast in bed" - a box of chocolate-covered strawberries from Godiva. They're huge. Each one's practically a meal in itself, and there were six of them! This is in deference to the diet - the traditional gift being a one-pound box of truffles. I do love this man. He could've been a real smart-ass and given me a bunch of carrots - nothing like a healthy Valentine's pun to cheer a girl up, eh?)

My first thought was to go out and buy real flowers. That was immediately followed by the saner, more self-aware realization that they would simply die – and then sit there on my desk until they turned black and brittle and started to grow things not meant to be grown in lovely bouquets. Fresh flowers are nice – delightful – but they are not always a pack-rat’s best friend. They are just as expensive as the silk flowers, but they only last a few days. Let’s get real; I needed stress-free, effortless, colorful decoration to boost my spirits, inspire creativity, and improve my moods on dreary days. I did not need to create a corner of the office that smells good for five minutes, then begins to resemble a funeral parlor on an off day.

A Bright Spot of Color in a Dreary World

 

Office Space

Just a Little Peace and Quiet

It would take him a while to find the body; by then, she would be long gone.

 

“Dammit! I don’t have anything to wear!” A pair of hand-tinted Christina Velati jeans flew over the railing and hit the floor in a crumpled heap. Angie yanked open her dresser drawer and threw it on the floor.

Charlotte cringed at the drawer’s high-pitched, grating squeal of protest—just before the loud thump overhead shook the ceiling light fixtures. “Angie, just find something to put on and let’s go! You’ll be late for school!”

“I don’t care. I’m not going. I have nothing to wear.” Angie stood in the doorway wearing nothing but a flimsy, nylon kimono to which she’d helped herself from her mother’s closet. The sullen teen threw herself melodramatically across Charlotte’s bed and sighed.

“You are going. Now get dressed. You have a closet full of clean clothes; go find some and put them on. Now. You have five minutes.” Charlotte bit her lower lip hard to rein in her temper. This little scene was merely another encore in a year-long run of bad performances by her daughter. Charlotte massaged the back of her neck and pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Christ,” she muttered, half curse, half prayer.

“Fine. Why don’t I just go in this?” Angie stood in front of her mother, feet planted defiantly apart, hands on her hips, and let the kimono fall open to reveal last summer’s barely-faded tan lines.

“Why don’t you, Ange?” Charlotte shrugged and grabbed her car keys. Angie would not have the satisfaction of shocking her mother or hearing one smidgeon of outrage or indignation in her voice. “If that’s the look you want to be remembered for in the yearbook, let’s go.”

“God, you are such a bitch. Mother.” Angie practically spat the word “mother” and added to it under her breath. She snatched up the discarded jeans and tugged them on, hopping first on one foot, then the other, as she struggled to pull them over her hips. Charlotte noticed that her daughter hadn’t bothered with underwear, but she said nothing. She just closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten. When she opened them again, Angie was dressed. The girl’s eyes were like smoldering coals burning into her mother’s heart, searing her at the very core of her being. This child she had loved so completely, so unconditionally, so fiercely from birth now seemed, more often than not, her bitterest enemy. Charlotte craved a respite from the neverending war their relationship had become. She felt sure that Angie craved it just as desperately, but neither of them knew how to bring about a truce.

The two of them rode in silence to the high school. Angie got out of the car as quickly as she could, slamming the door hard on her way out, just for good measure. Charlotte burned rubber in the school parking lot; it had been hard to hold the anger in check, and she felt an immature need to make a statement.

Angie looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes, then linked arms with a lanky, sloe-eyed boy and headed to class. “She’s insane,” the girl confided in her friend.

~=*=~

Charlotte had an idea. It seemed a brilliant idea, but she knew that she could never share it with another living soul. She drove to the hardware store, smiling to herself as she tuned the car radio to the Oldies station and started to hum along with the Beach Boys.

~=*=~

After several productive hours spent in the dim light of the old cellar, Charlotte emerged in the kitchen covered in sweat and light gray powder. She had never imagined she had any talent for remodeling, beyond choosing trendy wallpapers and countertops for others to install. She definitely had a talent for spending Peter’s money, but for the first time in her life, she had built something substantial with her own two hands. Thinking back on the transformation she’d wrought in the cellar, Charlotte grinned with pride. She would have to finish the job later, of course, but the hardest part was done.

The thought of ending a life brought her nothing but a sense of peace.

~=*=~

“Hi, honey, I’m home!” Peter’s voice carried up the stairs, clear as a bell. “Charlotte? Angie?”

“Up here,” called Charlotte, straightening up from what felt like a permanent crouch after spending the last thirty minutes cleaning junk out of the hall closet. Charlotte massaged her lower back, kneading tension knots with her fingers as she flexed her spine. Aches and pains in muscles and joints Charlotte didn’t know existed were the fruits of her day’s labor.

Peter met her at the top of the stairs and gave her a perfunctory little peck on the lips. “I invited Joe Johnson and his wife over for dinner tomorrow night – you don’t mind, do you, Char?” Peter surveyed the mess on the landing - the unsorted odds and ends that spilled out of the closet and defied explanation as to how they fit in there in the first place.

“Oh, no, of course not,” snapped Charlotte sarcastically. She was hot, sweaty, and aggravated. The thought of entertaining the Johnsons tomorrow night on short notice was just icing on the cake. “Shall I cook a standing rib? Whip up a little crème brulée?”

“We could do burgers on the grill...”

“Oh, that’s sure to impress your boss, Peter.”

“I’ll call and postpone.” Disappointment was evident in his tone. “I’ll tell them Angie’s sick, or something. Where is Angie, anyway?”

“I don’t know, Peter. Out. Wherever it is teenage girls go to defy their embarrassingly horrid mothers.”

“Isn’t it a little late for her to be out?” asked Peter. He was concerned for his daughter’s safety, but something in Charlotte’s voice set off alarms in the back of his mind.

Charlotte gave Peter a look guaranteed to wilt lettuce. Imitating her daughter’s all-too-familiar, scornful expression, she rolled her eyes and said, “Duhhhh.”

“I’ll go look for her.”

“You do that.”

Peter frowned, started to say something, then shut his mouth quickly as he thought better of it. He hurried downstairs, grabbed his keys, and went to comb the neighborhood for Angie.

~=*=~

Charlotte stepped back and gave a small nod of satisfaction, pleased with the work she had done. The stones fit together perfectly. The mortar was smooth and even; it dried quickly, and the wall was good and solid.

It would take Peter a while to find the body; by then, Charlotte would be long gone. Charlotte smiled.

~=*=~

One by one, Charlotte lit the fat candles she had brought with her. Their soft radiance cast dancing tongues of light and shadows upon the walls. The silence was so complete that Charlotte could hear the sputtering of the wax as it was sucked up the wick and drawn into the flame.

Charlotte opened a bottle of Satterfield Chardonnay. It was the bottle Peter had given her for Mother’s Day. Feeling decadent, she swigged it straight from the bottle. There was no one around to care, or to be grossed out about the backwash. She cracked open the new Sharalyn Feltzer novel she’d been saving for—for what? Six months? Waiting for a quiet afternoon, when she could read for a few hours, uninterrupted?

Ahhh, thought Charlotte. This was better than a hot bubble bath. She stretched and turned, cradling the book comfortably on her forearm, losing herself in the story. There was no one to disturb her, now. Charlotte read until her eyelids grew heavy. Her arms felt like they were made of lead, and she let sleep overtake her. The book fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Charlotte, who had never known an uneventful night’s sleep, slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion. A smile curled the corners of her lips. One by one, the candles hissed and died for lack of the oxygen needed to burn. Charlotte could not hear the voices on the other side; she could not hear the soft, fleshy fists pounding on the unyielding stone fortress that she had built around herself. She could not hear her daughter, who had been hanging out and smoking pot with friends – could not hear her apologize. Charlotte could not hear Peter’s desperate attempts to smash through solid rock and well-made mortar. She would have told them, if she could, that her walls were built to last.

"Just a Little Peace and Quiet"
Copyright 2002 H. Jahangiri.

~=*=~

If you enjoyed this story, you might enjoy these, as well:

 

Hidden Lies and Other Stories

Vivian Gilbert Zabel and Holly Jahangiri

How to Win a Million Bucks!

The Secrets to Winning Big

My mom used to win sweepstakes all the time. I mean that - all the time. A car, a ski boat, a trip for two to Spain, cash, a walk-on part on HBO's "Dream On" (including a trip for two and chauffeured limo service to and from the set)... One year, my dad had to say, "Please stop now" due to the tax implications. (I mean, a free car is nice, and all, but you do still have to pay the taxes on it.) People ask me, "What was her secret? How did she do that?" According to her, it's simple:

• You have to enter. You cannot win if you don't enter. Well, "Duh," you say. But you'd be surprised at how many people say, "Oh, I'm not going to bother with that. I never win, anyway." That, right there, raises your odds.
• You have to believe you're going to win. This is a toughie for most of us. You can't just think you might win. You can't rely on hope alone. You have to believe in yourself and a benevolent universe. "That new car they're giving away? That's mine. They might as well just give me the key now and have done with it. It's mine. I'll be driving it off the lot this coming Sunday."
• Be grateful, no matter what you win - no matter how big or small the prize. My mom used to get just as excited over a canvas tote bag or a six-pack of Coca-Cola (which she didn't drink, by the way - couldn't stand carbonated beverages, but could happily share with me or my dad) as she did over a car, a trip, or a large chunk of change. Always thank the sponsor and support them by buying their products.
• Be generous with those you love. Share your winnings whenever possible. One day, my mom had plans to go bowling with my dad. There was a radio contest running that night, and she'd have to miss out on that or skip out on bowling. She called and asked if I would listen for it - you had to be the ninth caller when they played a certain song, and you'd win $1000. With my mom's track record, I think of that as the $1000 bowling night; she was giving up $1000 to go bowling with my dad. (It never occurred to me that she might not have won it, had she stayed home. Never.) Anyway, I halfheartedly said, "Sure, why not, but no promises." (Wrong mindset right there, but she had enough positive energy for the both of us, right?) The deal was, I'd keep enough to pay the taxes and split the remainder with her (since of course I wouldn't have bothered, if she hadn't told me about the contest). Damned if I didn't win it, too.

So, there you have it - the secret to winning a fortune in sweepstakes. Simple, eh?

My reply to Honoring Filters...

My reply to Honoring Filters:

As I keep trying to explain to my teenager, very few people in your life will keep your "secrets." Why she's surprised, anymore, when her "BFF" spills the beans or shares a confidence in her ten other BFFs is beyond me. Trusting someone is always a risk. A better rule would be "Don't post anything publicly, even 'filtered,' if it's going to cause you heartburn in the morning." (Imagine growing up to be a writer - your mom encouraging you, at every turn, yet saying in the same breath, "Never put it in writing, lest it come back to haunt you!" Oy. There's a recipe for schizophrenia.) As corporate ethics classes teach us, "Will it pass the headline test?" If you see your post on the front page of the morning newspaper, will it cause you to spew your coffee? Will you be humiliated? Feel guilty? Start thinking up far-fetched explanations to your boss or your spouse?

Another co-worker put it well: "If you don't respect your own secrets and keep them to yourself, why should I?" Few people are this honest about it, but she makes an excellent point. If your secret is sacred, don't share it.

That said, I do keep confidences. I find that's the only reliable way to continue being let in on them. ;) I like being "in the know" as much as the next person. I suppose it's a little unfair that the rumors stop somewhere between my ears. I know I'm expected to share in return, but I guard my little treasures selfishly. I hoard them. This means that, over time, the only rumors I'm privy to, I got straight from the horse's mouth. Gossips don't like it when you don't reciprocate, so I'm out of the loop with the office rumor mill, for the most part. Now and then, someone just can't contain themselves, and little tidbits spill forth from their lips within earshot. But I see them furtively look my way and clam up. My sister-in-law once said, "That's the bad thing about you only children. You don't know how to share." Sometimes, that's a good thing.

I'd have made an excellent priest, lawyer, or psychologist (though admittedly, there comes a point in all this where I'm struck by an urge to cover my ears with my hands and sing out "La la la la la - I'm not hearing this!") But that's just me.  There's another, less noble, reason for my trustworthiness: I have a remarkably short memory and I just don't give a damn. No, really - I care about you and your heartaches, but by tomorrow, I'll have forgotten the juicier details and I've simply no desire to cause you heartache in the first place. Look, if I hate you so badly it'd be worth my time to spread rumors and tell tales in order to hurt you, you already know - because I've told you to your face, in clear, simple, direct, monosyllabic words any moron can understand. Takes a lot to get to that point, and trust me - you'll know. At that point, I just can't see you sharing confidences with me - but if you do, all bets are off.

When sharing confidences, I follow my parents' rules for Las Vegas (no, not "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas"): Never gamble more than you can afford to lose.