Vino-tines Day

I am involved in a passionate love affair with the man of steel!  Not Superman, that guy is a joke. My guy makes him look like a wimp!  Dave is courageous, fearless and damned near bulletproof!

Let me tell you about our first Valentine’s Day and you can decide for yourself.

For starters, Dave has a romantic curse of his own.  Before we met, Dave has never been in a relationship that lasted longer than six months.  On top of that, the man has never been in a relationship where he has been able to celebrate the holiday of love with anyone ever.  Not even those relationships that limp along until February 15th when the parties involved have dinner and part ways.  Dave had always been alone and so to that end Valentine’s Day has always kind of sucked.

But not so that year, or so I decided.  Having found my soulmate, my one and only, I was determined to make this first romantic holiday special.  I bought him some popcorn, a romantic horror movie (Don’t judge, we are into that kind of thing!) and some socks with little faces of Edgar Allen Poe on them.  I wrote him a valentine, telling him how blessed and grateful I was to have him in my life.  I even made a post on Facebook, sharing with our friends how much I loved him and couldn’t wait to see how our adventures together unfold.  I thought the post was a nice idea, he had never had anyone publicly declare their adoration of him like that before.  I just never imagined how that adoration or our adventures would reveal themselves that night.

It was Friday night and the start of our traditional weekend together.  Dave had taken it upon himself to make our plans for the evening.  We were going to go to a friend’s home where we would enjoy conversation and a couple’s dinner with the guys cooking an Italian meal for the ladies before retiring home for some time alone.  Dave volunteered to make the appetizers.  He found a recipe online for Italian kabobs and spent the afternoon cooking tortellini and skewering it with olives and marinated tomatoes.  

After finishing my work day, I left the office and met him in the kitchen.  We shared a kiss and I presented him with his valentine.  He was excited about the socks as I predicted.  He then gave me a gift-a phone charger for my car and a beautiful necklace.  He installed one and put the other around my neck-I’ll let you figure out which was which. We stopped by our favorite liquor store and found a bottle of Italian wine.  What luck, it was on sale!  Then we got back on the road and off to dinner.

The friends we were meeting were old theater buddies of Dave’s.  I adore these people!  They are just much as fun and quirky as comedians and writers so I fit right in.  We chatted and compared recipes and vinos until someone suggested we crack open a bottle.  One of the other couples had a better idea and pulled out a bottle of single malt whisky and offered the group shots. 

At this point, I should draw your attention to a few minor details that contribute to the following events that evening.  The first is my innate (or insane) desire to hold my own in a social setting, the other is the fact that I am a complete and total lightweight. In spite of being the product of an Irish-Catholic mother and German/French father, I have zero tolerance for alcohol.  I get buzzed on the first quarter of a draft beer drawn from a tap.  And my desire to prove just what a badass I believe I am has gotten me into trouble on more than one occasion, with the highlight being my one and only overindulgence on Jack Daniels which resulted in me throwing up for three days and never again being able to even stand the smell without my stomach turning.  

Dave knows this about me.  I also know he is a big fan of single malt.  So not wanting to miss out on anything he enjoys, I asked for someone to pour me a small shot and managed to choke it down unnoticed.

Then it was time for everyone else to show off what they brought, including that Italian red Dave and I brought.  Well, no wine can be properly admired while still in the bottle, right?  So we popped the cork and had a glass.  I kept mine small.  I was pacing myself.

When our host was finished preparing the main course, we sat down to dinner and the first toast of the evening.  Sitting at the head of the table, he spoke to those collected about this day of love, how happy he was to be sharing it with those around the table-and especially for Dave to finally have someone.  Dave looked into my eyes and gave me a kiss.  How I love that man!  The wine was gone as the toast concluded but it was not forgotten.  There were many other bottles to sample as well.

Now I admit by this point in the evening, the shot had taken effect and I was fuzzy.  The wine certainly did nothing to clear my head and all I had to eat prior to dinner that day was two protein shakes and a couple jelly beans.  Come to think of it, I may not have even eaten the jelly beans.  The office had been quite busy that day and my mind was clearly somewhere else and when it does that, I tend to forget things like that.  But there were two protein shakes ingested so I figured I would be okay.  I would have plenty of calories over dinner, right?  To ensure this, I had an extra serving of salad, pasta and Dave’s vegetarian appetizer along with another small glass of wine.  

The evening was filled with great conversation.  I love hanging out with those Dave calls his ‘Ride or Die’ friends!  I always learn the most interesting things about him.  That night was no different.  As wine glasses (and nine wine bottles) emptied, more bottles were opened and poured.  I knew I had reached my tolerable limit before dessert but we were having a great time and I was keeping my glasses small.  So I had a couple more breadsticks, hoping it would help. 

It didn’t.

The dessert was delicious and the wine was too!  So much so that by the time I realized that my glass was also being filled by another buddy at the party, I didn’t care less and kept right on drinking.  Afterwards, we retired to the living room to play a virtual version of a card game.  I navigated my way from the dining room to the living room just fine-fine being I didn’t end up wandering anywhere unintended.  Dave had to help me load the game on my cell phone but I wasn’t able to follow along with it because my screen kept timing out so I put the phone down and took a nap on the couch.

I must have been tranquilized with an elephant dart while no one was looking because when it was time to go home, I was hit!  I remember Dave helping me out the door, down the steps and out to the car.  I distinctly remember the ice on the deck and being grateful that Dave had my waist because had I been left to walk down them alone, I would have likely spent the night on the porch.  I have no recollection of our host or my sommelier helping me as well.  I also don’t remember spending quite so much time with my head hanging low but it would explain why I cued in on the icy deck so clearly.

As we got into the car, I told Dave that I was tired and flumped into his lap.  He said it was okay, patted me on the head and asked me to sit up so he could operate the gas and brake pedals.  I gave him some resistance at first, his lap was very comfortable.  But eventually he won out and I sat up, or at least upright-ish.  I was probably more diagonal than vertical.  I was also very nauseous.

Dave was very sweet.  He talked to me, asked how I was doing and reassured me that he loved me and that we would go home and cuddle.  I hardly noticed when the conversation started taking a turn towards whether or not we would be leaving town that evening.  

He kept asking me if we should go home or go over to his parents who lived in town.  I love Oscar’s parents.  They have welcomed me into the family and I feel as though I have known them forever, but the idea of snuggling up in bed sounded much better and so I told him I was okay and I wanted to go home.

I told him that many times, until I couldn’t say it any more.  I was rendered speechless as the vomit started rising through my system looking for an exit.  No worries I thought, I had everything under control.  I would just lay there with my mouth closed and not breathe for the rest of eternity.  See?  Problem solved!  Until it wasn’t.

Dave drives a beautiful car.  It’s a gorgeous mint condition jet black 1970 Ford Mustang fastback.  The interior is original.  He lovingly calls it Betty.  

I threw up all over Betty.

Not only did I throw up all over Betty, but all over my coat, my clothes and my shoes.  Dave pulled over immediately and ran around the passenger side to assist.  That’s when I threw up all over Dave, his coat, his clothes and his shoes.  In spite of everything, he didn’t bend under the gastric pressure.  He made sure I was finished, wiped my face and took me straight to his parents where his mother helped him get me stripped off, washed off, changed and in bed.  

I have no experience being a shitfaced guest in someone else’s home so I hope I did okay.  The last thing I wanted was to be seen three sheets to the wind, covered in vomit and crying over desecrated Betty.  I don’t think I said a thing to either of his parents without prefacing each statement with an apology.  They were so kind, saying it could happen to anyone.  

But poor Dave!  This was his very first Valentines date and here he was hanging out in his parent’s bathroom, covered in vomit, trying to wash chunks out of the hair of his date who had just violated Betty.  And Betty!  He kept that car in immaculate condition!  He washed it and detailed it weekly!  He loved that car and I soiled it!  I cried, “You’re going to leave me!”

No he wasn’t, he said.  It was just a car.  But in my near-pickled state, I wouldn’t believe it and continued to cry for the next couple hours about his impending dump.  Then that happened too.  I was so sick, inebriated, whatever that I couldn’t find my behind-and Dave had to take care of that too.  He put me to bed and went out to clean the car.  I slept it off with a trash can on one side and Oscar on the other.  How he ever closed his eyes that night so close to this high-heeled cannon, I’ll never know.

The next day, clothed in his mother’s sweater and armed with a trash bag of clothes covered with my stomach contents, we made our way back home.  He told me he loved me and he was glad I was okay.  Then he surprised me by saying that this was still the best Valentine’s Day he ever had.  

Wow, I said in between gags, he really must keep the bar of expectation pretty low!  Nope, he insisted, this was still the best Valentine’s Day ever.  We had a great time, up until my excellent imitation of the Exorcist girl, and even that wasn’t so bad.  And unlike Date #3, this one didn’t involve cargo shorts!  He even got to return the favor!  I told him I remembered being able to find my own butt just fine and how I thought he was exaggerating.  He just laughed, patted me on the head and said if it made me feel better I had his permission to keep right on thinking that.

A few days later, we ran into the same group of friends at a theater rehearsal and I was asked how the night went.  It was memorable, I said.  I threw up in Betty.  

“You did what?!” they exclaimed. One even apologized even though it wasn’t necessary.  I learned a powerful lesson in humility, the fact that I cannot run with the big dogs, and that when intoxicated I only have a sneaking suspicion of where my ass should be.

That lesson has come upon me many times since-especially when I think about wine, whisky or anything with chunks.  Betty has also recovered, although Dave spends even more time cleaning her now.  He claims he catches a whiff of something every now and then and is pretty sure he missed a spot.  Now that the crisis is over, I have been ribbed by my friends and others while he and I are out and about as well.  The other night at dinner, our waitress asked if I would be ordering anything from the bar.  No thanks, I said. Urp...I’m good.

It would seem even the cosmos have a joke or two left untold.  While trying to decide what to cook for dinner this weekend, Dave decided to use the ‘Dinner Spinner’ ap on his phone.  Shaking his phone and initiating the program, the results came back that we should drink our dinner and that it should consist of grain and no ice.

Not now, Google.  I have a headache.

I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.

Writer, Researcher, and (Urp! Ugh!)... lightweight.

Science Fiction

I just finished two projects using the last of my rough sawn oak. Rough sawn wood can’t be handled the same way one would use those perfectly processed boards you find at home improvement stores, so I used it to build a massive built-in wall unit and three simple book cases. I can’t tell you how pleased I am with the results.  The cases better utilize wasted space throughout my house, complement our existing décor beautifully, and add additional value to the home.  The fact that I crafted them out of a supply of wood I won in my divorce settlement makes them that much sweeter.  You can read more about that in The Con Game: A Memoir of Trust, Betrayal and Redemption-coming to a bookstore near you soon.

I had actually planned to share them on Face Book when they were finished and took pictures once they were in place. I had already drafted most of the post in my head.  But before scheduling that entry, I scrolled through my social media accounts to see what else was going on in the world and noticed a report that BLM protests have had an impact in the decreasing number of officer related fatalities against people of color. One of my bonus girls is deeply involved in the Human Rights/Equal Rights movements. She has been going through a really tough patch lately, so I shared it with her.  It made her day.

But some douche caboose couldn’t handle that, spewing his vomitus views in the early hours commenting, “But killings by BLM have increased.”

Did I ask him? No.  Was he involved in the conversation? No.  The mere idea that two people he wouldn’t know if he ran into us on the street would have anything positive to say about the movement was too much for him to handle and he had to put a stop to it.

It drives me crazy when low life jerk hammers try to use my platform as a way to trumpet their bullshit. It demonstrates a clear lack of respect and an unrealistic overvaluing of their opinion.  Men with obvious misogynistic malfunctions are overwhelmingly the biggest offenders. My mom also tried once. I’ve bounced and banned every one of them.

The fact that the statement is a flagrant lie aside, arguments to perpetuate and preserve bigoted, illegal and inhumane practices like police brutality are simply intolerable. Unless the Imperial militia on Star Wars is your vision of criminal justice, no one wants to live under a system where their very lives and personal liberties are at the mercy of storm troopers. It’s not that radical a concept. And to call upon police to change practices that have cost the lives of those who would never face the death penalty in the first place isn’t racial supremacy, it’s common sense.

That’s right, you flaccid pube jockey! I’m calling for police departments to change practices that make it possible to execute someone on the street before they are ever even charged for a crime. You got a problem with that or could it be that you are okay with it because you don’t think it’s your problem?  

And what exactly about the decreasing number of police officer related fatalities has dirt wads like this so upset?  Surviving an encounter with the police is a win for everyone, isn’t it? None of my buddies among the force’s ranks have ever told me they get up in the morning eager to shoot someone, most say quite the opposite. So the idea that these protests are actually effecting change is great news.

Unless the idea of people that look different from you speaking out offends you. In that case, shut your pie hole.

I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.

Writer, Researcher and Speak Easy!

And Christopher Lee Gets a Pass!

Dave is an amazing person.  One of the things that has always attracted me to him is his confidence.  He is gregarious, affectionate, and vivacious.  He is comfortable in any situation.  Put this man on any corner of the planet, and he will come away with a handful of anecdotes and a new friend or two.  He’s a genuine people-person.

And he’s so secure, not only of himself but of our relationship.  I’m not the easiest girl to connect with.  The Three-Date Curse has followed me for a reason.  And even when I’m involved in a relationship, I have a collection of friends and contacts that can rattle the most steady personas.  We talk about everything, and that can be a problem.  But Dave appreciates my relationships for what they are and even jumps right in.  He’s truly bulletproof.

The other day, he told me he was bothered by a dream he had.  Naturally, I asked him what it was about.  He said he dreamed of me.  So far so good, I thought.  Most of my dreams are about sex so I asked him what his was about.

We met Christopher Lee, he said.  I remarked that it was a nice start.  Both of us are horror movie fans so the inclusion of the actor considered the quintessential Dracula of the 1970’s (not to mention a couple Tim Burton movies for you poor souls not familiar with the genre) must have been great-if it couldn’t be one of my dreams, anyway.  

It was, he said.  At first he was really excited.  Until he learned Christopher Lee’s true intentions.

It would seem I was thrilled to make the acquaintance of such an iconic film star and didn’t make my enthusiasm a secret.  He in turn, happily reciprocated.  A little too happily, Dave said.  Or perhaps a little too reciprocatively.  I’ll let you be the judge.

Because I cheated on Dave with Christopher Lee!

As someone who dreams so vividly, I’m sure the dream rattled him.  It meant enough to him to mention to me and as such, I should have readily offered words of support and comfort.  Instead I smiled.  Maybe I smirked?  And when I looked into his eyes, try as I might I lost my cool.

I giggled.  He looked for reassurances, and instead I giggled.  And when he began to react, I laughed even harder.

Christopher Lee passed away a while ago, didn’t he?  And even while alive, he was still a very old man by the end.  Yes, he was a very old man with a voice as smooth as gelato, but he’s not my type.  Putting my arms around Dave, I said I am much happier stretched out on the couch watching him at home.  I’m still trying to break him in, I told Dave.  I’d hate to start again, film legend or not.

That’s just it, he said.  He wasn’t upset about me wanting to have a fling with Christopher Lee in his dreams at all.  He could completely understand the attraction if I had it.  He would have even given me a pass.

But he said Christopher Lee only approached me, not him and he didn’t know how to take that.  Why not him too-or a package deal?  It’s not like Dave didn’t work out all the time.

It’s okay, I said as I laughed even harder.  Maybe Christopher Lee was too intimidated by a beast like mine?  But if in his dreams Christopher Lee should ever change his mind and approach him, I told Dave I would give him a pass.

But not Jennifer Aniston, that’s where I draw the line.

I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.

Writer, Researcher and Final Girl!

My Dream Man

Dave is a lucid dreamer.  I’m not sure exactly what that is except he talks in his sleep a lot.  I talk in my sleep too.  I also walk, shower, make coffee and fold laundry.  I scared the crap out of some poor kid at Girl Scout camp once when I fell asleep with my eyes open.  I cleaned a lot of latrines as a result, the counselor thought I was tormenting her.

But Dave tends to remain in bed when he is sleeping, occasionally sharing a few private thoughts in the late hours.  I’m a light sleeper and my ears perk up when I hear him.  Sometimes I wake in time to listen to the sneak peek into his brain.

One evening as we slept, me prone on my chest and Dave flat on his back, Dave muttered something under his breath.  Then he announced loudly, “Two to three months into our relationship…” and smacked me on the ass.  

Not a pop or a spank, but a full-palmed bun-cupping that encompassed the full mass of the ham!

Immediately alarmed, the first thing I did was try to sit up.  But since I was sleeping on my face, the only thing I did was ram myself deeper.  So in case you were wondering, yes it is possible to smother yourself with a pillow!  Narrowly avoiding the most peculiar self-affliction ever, I nearly fell out of bed as I flipped over and sat upright.  The ‘immediate’ maneuver probably took five minutes.

When my gaze turned to Dave, he was still lying peacefully on his back as if nothing had happened.  

But two to three months into our relationship, what?  I spent the rest of the night thinking what the end of that sentence was.  I hoped he was thinking something nice, but I was too tired to be too positive.  Since 1994, I have abstained from caffeine for medical reasons.  Try that and then tell me you would be Pollyanna!

The way he spoke made it sound like he was speaking to someone, I wondered who?  As open and gregarious as Dave is, he could have really been talking to anyone.  I have watched him have the same conversations with his parents that he has with his friends, so it was very hard to tell.  His grandiose announcement didn’t leave many clues either.  He’s a theater guy, so he always has a flair for the dramatic.

On to his handiwork!  That too, was short on tangible evidence.  We are a physical couple; we pet, we wrestle, but usually behind closed doors.  Dave is very affectionate but doesn’t reach past PG-13 in public. I couldn’t think of a group or individual that he would be more likely to give me a pat on the bum than another.  Come to think of it, I was probably more likely to commit that PDA than him.  Nope, no hint there.

Getting nowhere with the act itself, I then thought about the timeline itself.  Two to three months, huh?  That took us into the holiday season, way past Date Three and a Half. (Shameless reference to my entry “When I Put My Finger On It”) It’s exclusion almost made the mystery deeper.

When the alarm went off the next morning, I asked what he was dreaming about.  Completely off guard and without the benefit of a few hours to reflect, he said he didn’t really know.  He gave me a peck and asked how I slept.  

Funny you should ask, I said!  

I'm Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer. 

Writer, Researcher and Mystery Lover!

Portrait of Eddie’s…no, Jennifer’s Father!

It may not come as a shock to you, but I was not raised by Mike Brady.  Come to think of it, my father wasn’t even Robert Reed.  My father is a curious mix of artist, musician and mad scientist with a singular focus and zero filter.  Those who love him-aside from his dogs-do so by ignoring about 80% of what comes out of his mouth and appreciate him for the good hearted person he is. 

That has not been easy for me over the years.  After decades of a cold marriage, my parents divorced when I was 12 and set in motion a tense, distant and often illogical relationship between my father and I that wasn’t remedied until the turn of the millennia.  Since then, we have been trying to make up for lost time and making the best of the time we have left.  I speak mostly to his wife (otherwise known as a SAINT!) who relays the points he would find most interesting in between cups of coffee and basketball games.  He gives me little bits of advice-like when I announced my hiring at a major governmental agency his reply was, ‘Whatever you do, don’t do anything stupid.’  He tells me all sorts of basketball stats of which I have absolutely no interest.  But when he’s not looking, he lets me peek behind the curtain at the man he truly is.

My father was the youngest of probably four children born into a German family-even though his last name has French origins.  That revelation put a smile on my face as my father is likely to reject body organs if the news were to ever reach him.  A man with an opinion about just about everything, I always found it curious that he also abhors confrontation and will run from it any chance he gets.  He was a band teacher, an electrician and an insurance salesman but never identified with any of these professions except as a means to acquire a salary.  He has no use for children but was also the first to teach Evan to soldier and Erin to play the flute.  And although he was a horribly inattentive father, he pulled himself out of bed after working the midnight shift for years to go to my baton twirling contests and concerts and also the first to buy my first published book-a horrible text that to this day, he avoids mentioning.

The thing is, my dad taught me to stand by your children and be there even if it was the last thing you felt like doing.  He taught me to feign interest in the most boring topics.  He taught me to shake off social faux pas with a smile.  He taught me to appreciate the unique and interesting, to pursue my passions headfirst and pay no attention to the ignorant opinions of others.  Unless you are a recognized expert in a field of his immediate interest, he doesn’t give a damn about what you think-believe me! And he taught me to be myself and let everyone else figure out how to cope with that. 

I joke about my long-term care plan for my father involves a microwave, mini fridge and a garden shed in my backyard.  And to his credit, he shrugs it off.  He is too busy thinking of his next project or experiment.  But it might also be because he knows that I have a long term plan for him that doesn’t involve dropping him off at the nearest nursing home. 

In a way, it’s probably a comfort to him not to have to be social.  He doesn’t have to.  He’s my dad and I’m with him for the long haul.

So happy Father’s Day-you grumpy, old goat!

I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.

Writer, Researcher and daughter.

Girl Talk

A while back, I wrote a piece that spoke favorably about a young woman whose profession involves selling pictures of herself. I received some blow-back from a handful of readers, concerned about my appearance to degrade women and how my stand would be interpreted by my younger readers-like those who follow The High-Heeled Guide to Global Domination. I appreciate the feedback, it’s nice to see my readers care.  

It’s also a great opportunity to talk about these topics, so let’s get it on!

In my piece ‘Leave it to Beaver’, I profiled a series of attempts small-town cons used against a victim.  While The Beav’ was probably unaware, he chose his victim deliberately as was each and every action taken by the Cleaver clan afterwards.  Read it if you haven’t already, I have to admit I’m pretty proud of it.  The particular incident I described was as close to text book as you could probably get and will undoubtedly be of educational value.

So I was surprised by the readers that chose to focus on the victim’s vocation-as if that mattered at all.  The small-town scammers made many references to it as well-even used it as a means to contact her and blackmail her in the first place.  But that was my whole point from the get-go.  Like all of their other moves, it was a con, a dodge and a distraction from the real objective: which was to continue the crime, control the victim and make off with the payday.  When all other details are eliminated, it’s easy to see how the methods employed are so successful and how trivial her occupation really is.  

Think about our friends the Nigerian scammers for a moment.  When they try to scam Grandma, they don’t check to see if she’s a stripper first, do they?

But Angel’s occupation is such a successful diversion because society has many pre-conceived notions about what are and aren’t respectable vocations for a woman.  In the case of our scenario, our victim is an artist who uses her body as her medium.  But the fact is, it really doesn’t matter.  She could have been a housewife, a soldier, a nun (or a high-heeled word artist like yours truly) and never been more or less deserving of the crime or justice.  The idea that a woman somehow ‘asks for’ worse treatment based on unorthodox activities is absurd.  To me, it’s a return of Liam’s invisible rules-only applied globally.    

So let me lay it out there: telling a woman she can’t do anything BASED SOLELY UPON HER GENDER is degrading to women!  It doesn’t matter how many women do it, how many men agree with it, or even whether or not she is clothed.  In our society, a woman is free to do anything she wants to within the law-except force her health insurer to pay for a prostate exam. 

That goes for representation before the government, seeking justice, education or medical services and living within her community.  A woman is free to do ANYTHING she wants and anyone who says different is degrading women. It’s just that simple.

So what is it about a girl in a g-string that gets everyone up at arms?  She’s not spinning plates on her cheeks, setting off fireworks or using her cleavage to do an imitation of Mister Hankey on America’s Got Talent.  It’s a pair of breasts and buns-we’ve all either got them or seen them before. And even the best set of each is hardly worth the bother.

And what is with the morality police, those self-righteous super heroes who decide it’s their responsibility to uncover, expose and publicize those who do? What do they get out of it besides a small taste of fake superiority?  I find the women who engage in this kind of slut-shaming particularly interesting, and how many of those who probably have at least a few nudes under their belt as well.  Screen-shotting pics for research?  If not, drop it.

So no, I’m not worried about appearing to degrade women or how my beliefs may influence my younger readers.  If anything, I’m worried about yours.  Are you sure your discomfort is with degradation or because I’m ignoring oppressive stereotypes and dogmas?  Are you uneasy because I’m placing the victim’s sexuality behind the actions that happened to her?  Is it because I am casually dismissing tradition instead of addressing it?

We as a species find it difficult to remain in the same room during a Twilight Marathon much less speak about equal rights.  And that is perfectly fine!  I, for one, don’t want to agree with all my sisters on everything.  That kind of uniformity would make us terribly boring.

Call it my woman’s prerogative.  

I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.

Writer, Researcher and She-Rebel!

A Little Bo Peep

Nowadays I’m known for dissecting cons, candid blog entries and disastrous dating history but I originally gained recognition as a writer by freelancing for local magazines and newspapers. My breakout piece was a story about a guy who blew into town eager to make his presence known.

He did just that.

Five years later, I am recognized for the piece that still goes down as one of the most peculiar city council meetings I have ever covered, from readers who said the detail made them feel like they were there, to law enforcement officials who appreciated my coverage as an example of what they were called to handle every day, to the subject who from time to time sends me threatening messages laced with legal babble derived from his latest Google search. But judge for yourself. I call the piece A Little Bo Peep.

“The city is a failure,” declared Bo Rupert -and that was not the only F-word the lad threw about at the Coffeyville City Commission meeting Tuesday, July 25, 2017. All members of the commission were present as well as many city officials, employees and a handful of observers.

Although conspicuously absent from the body’s previous meeting, Rupert arrived at the meeting well in advance, live-streaming on his cell phone. Dressed in a suit with freshly cut hair, worn and scuffed dress shoes and dirty, mismatched ankle socks, Rupert seemed full of energy as he seated himself in the front row center seat and described the activity for the ‘audience’. As each member of the commission arrived, first Martin, then Bauer, Williams, then Kastler, Rupert introduced them to his virtual audience with not-so complimentary nicknames such as ‘Sasquatch’ and ‘Crooked’.  City Manager Kendal Francis was not left under the radar, finding himself chastised by Rupert for not having a tie. Francis looking cool in a white dress shirt and jacket, commented he had plenty of them.

Minutes before the meeting was schedule to begin, Coffeyville Police Chief Kwin Bromley, walked in the door. He nodded and greeted a few attendees before taking his place directly on the left side of Rupert. Rupert seemed surprised but warmly addressed the Chief with a smile and a pat on the back. Engaging him in light conversation, Rupert could be observed rocking back and forth in his seat, like a nervous child awaiting his turn in the dentist’s chair. Commissioner Taylor arrived with a minute to spare, and the meeting was ready to begin.

Mayor Paul Bauer ran the meeting like a well oiled machine, moving the commission through approval of the agenda and consent agenda and approval of no less than 10 resolutions ranging from change orders to the electric utility to construction engineering services to the purchase of a replacement aerial bucket trouble truck.  The body even approved a resolution to amend the city’s procurement policy-with a descending vote from Martin, and an ordinance amending municipal court costs. 

All the while Rupert, rocked, fidgeted, filmed and texted, occasionally showing posts he found particularly amusing to Bromley and attempting to take a selfie every now and then with the officer. Bromley remained engaged but indifferent. Francis made a few quick comments about updates at his office and it seemed the agenda was progressing steadily towards the finish line including comments from the public.

It would seem this was the moment Rupert was waiting for. While the floor was turned over to the city manager, Rupert stood up and left the building, standing just outside the door. Although it was impossible to make out his words from the well-mic’ed voices inside, his voice was noticeably more excited and building to something more dramatic. He hurriedly came back inside and recovered his place, sitting on the edge of his seat.

And then…Bauer called a five minute break.   

The culmination of the evening’s accomplishments thus far seemed as good a place to stop as any and most in attendance seemed to welcome the chance to step away and stretch their legs. Most except for Rupert. Rupert waited until the police chief stepped outside to grumble to another spectator about their companion in the front row, calling it ‘Flat-out intentional’ that the officer decided to sit where he did. The gentleman, an elderly man said he thought Rupert had some distraction planned, Rupert was heard responding that he couldn’t with the police officer right there. By the time the meeting began to reconvene and Bromley returned to his seat, he found it scooted away from the other chairs to the left and occupied by Rupert’s left leg. “You don’t want me to sit by you anymore?” Bromley asked. Rupert shook his head and replied softly. The police chief shrugged and took the seat to the left of Rupert’s obstructing leg.

When Bauer brought the meeting back in session he turned the floor over to public comment, reminding those who wished to speak of the customary practices including limiting their comments to three minutes. Rupert leaped to his feet and quickly handed his still-streaming phone to the man sitting to his right before taking his turn at the podium. It was apparent this was the moment he had been waiting for.

He opened his address to the commission by stating that he was prepared to exceed the three-minute time limit and that if they wanted to have him carried away by the police, then so be it.  After giving the city a failing grade, accusing the commission of placing Bromley next to him in attempt to intimidate, and demanding Bauer produce his personal cell-phone records to prove his earlier statements about inviting Rupert to the last meeting were false, Rupert accused a majority of the body of being selfish and only out to serve themselves. The only commissioner spared his wrath was Taylor, who claimed to know nothing about a majority of Rupert’s allegations or the rationale behind Bromley’s choice of seats. He emotionally lamented his dismissal from the Juvenile Community Corrections Board, expressing that the decision to remove him from the appointment just two weeks after the body had voted in his favor was equate to stabbing him in the back. In between more colorful commissioner nicknames, he added that the decision demonstrated that the commission did not care about its at-risk youth nor the problems the city is facing.

After letting Rupert express his frustration for a time, Bauer regained control of the unhappy speaker by asking him to refrain from derogatory comments. Rupert asked for clarification before regaining his angry momentum and stating that he didn’t care what Bauer thought. He declared this was the last city commission meeting he would be attending and he had plans to leave town in early August. With ample time to spare, Rupert turned to the audience of curious onlookers and then to his camera phone and announced that none of the commissioners should be re-elected. It is unknown if Bauer or Williams were effected by this, they appeared to be as bewildered as most of the audience. 

With his piece said, no one else felt the need to speak and the meeting quickly concluded. The seats were stacked and hands were shook. Your faithful Dirt Road reporters made their parting comments to friends and contacts and gradually worked their way outside. Alas the evening was not over for Rupert. Feeling the need for more personal interaction, the still-fuming chap stood around amidst the bustle, making sympathetic comments to some, glaring looks and taunting comments to others. At one point quite out of the blue, Rupert passed by the stunned members of the local media (myself included) and exclaimed “Fake news!” Admittedly, that left us puzzled. Before leaving, he said the same thing as he walked past us and out the door.  Another attendee standing by made a joke about Russia and CNN.

But it would seem that Rupert had no intention of leaving reporters without a good story. While passing by Commissioner Williams and another attendee, Rupert told Williams to avail himself in an activity not beholden to his office-using one of a number of f-words in his vocabulary. As he chose the end of the meeting to hold his tirade, his actions were witnessed by several people-including Chief Bromley. Rupert was taken into custody and found himself hitching a ride from the meeting in the back of a police vehicle.

In an effort to avoid putting out fake news, I later verified that Rupert was charged with disorderly conduct for making rude and profane comments to the commissioner and a citizen. It should be noted that the someone that is arrested is considered innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. And his subsequent plea deal and conviction is an entirely different story altogether.

The Coffeyville City Commission meets on the second and fourth Tuesday of the month at 6:30.  The public is invited and encouraged to attend.

Stay tuned for the meeting minutes and what the commission was able to accomplish at this meeting.

Seriously, you really can’t make this kind of stuff up.

My name is Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.

Writer, Researcher and Reporter.

Give ‘Till It Hurts

Everybody has that fear, that nightmarish threat that keeps them up at night, that hides in the back of their mind, ready to pounce like a monster under the bed.  Maybe it’s heights?  Maybe it’s spiders?  Maybe it’s clowns-to which I shake my head at you weirdos and assure you we will talk about that later.

For me, its needles.

My fear of needles is way more of a phobia than just a fear born out of a childhood trauma.  Needles have always evoked a near panic in me.  My first memories of needles as a child involve getting my vaccinations from Dr. Frank, a sweet nearly-retired general practitioner who had much better things to do than chase my hysterical behind around his examination room.  So I would bravely stand still, hold my breath, and cry quietly while he gave me the shot and told me what a good girl I was.  If he only knew the strength it took to keep my knees from buckling the entire time the shot was being administered and how that three and a half seconds seemed like an eternity.

It's not the pain that bothers me.  Due to other medical conditions and some of my past misadventures, I have a very high tolerance for pain.  Nor is it the sight of blood.  I was a licensed EMT in a past life and have seen enough gore to appreciate the fact that calm is needed much more than panic in an emergency situation.  For me, it’s the idea that this foreign body is inside me and all I can do is mentally scream “Get it out!  Get it out!  Get it out!”

Full disclosure: I’ve been known to actually scream that too-as well as other colorful phrases not appropriate for a public place.  

Sorry about that, staff of Coffeyville Regional Medical Center and Mercy Hospital.

And the lab staff at Sparrow Hospital and Ingham Medical Center.

And the lab staff at St. Francis Medical Center and St. Lawrence Hospital.

You guys are great, and I’m terribly sorry to have announced a question about your paternity so loudly.  I had no prior knowledge to whether or not you came from Transylvania nor should I have accused you of taking pleasure in torturing people or fornicating with your mothers.

This is a fear I have lived with my entire life and have made adjustments in order to accommodate it.  I didn’t let it stop me from having children.  For the record, nothing was going to stop me from that, my children are my greatest accomplishment.  I did however drink enough water to float a boat before each blood draw and hold dead still while the agonizing three to ten seconds dragged on.  I too, volunteered for the American Red Cross-although I was sure to be busy any time an extra hand was needed in the collection center.  I’ve also known my share of insulin dependent diabetics and they can always count on me to give them plenty of privacy while they give themselves a poke. Insert nervous shudder here!

But my days of being a reluctant bag of excess blood are over.  As of Friday, I will be donating for the very first time.  My sudden and hell-freezing transformation is for two reasons-the most important women in my life.  In her pursuit to improve the overall health of our community as well as explore the impact one determined girl can make in the world, my daughter decided to organize a blood drive in our area.  It’s been a challenge to say the least, but it has taught her valuable skills.  One being that if all else fails, tap your mother for oil!

Another reason I have decided to go under the needle is for my very best friend.  Dusty and I have been inseparable since we were kids.  It doesn’t even matter that she lives miles away or that sometimes we go months at a time without talking.  We have always had a special bond that keeps us tighter than Siamese twins.  Earlier this year, my sister-from-another-mister was diagnosed with a condition that requires her to have frequent transfusions in order to stay alive.  So somewhere out there, some amazingly generous people have found the time and the nerve to give blood so my bestie can live.  To me and everyone who loves her, that is a very incredible act indeed.  So how can I continue to cringe? 

I have worked a little extra time at my ‘real job’ in order to be able to take off Friday afternoon a little early.  I have planned to have lunch at my favorite little coffee shop the afternoon before.  I have even invited someone special to come with me and hold my hand.  And yes, I have forewarned the poor guy of what he may encounter and he still agreed.  He should, he donates blood too.

So now I invite you to do the same.  Find a blood drive nearby (and trust me, they pop up around you all the time) or go to your local Red Cross donation location and give.  A few (agonizingly long) minutes out of your day not just can, but will save lives.  Think of this appeal like the tide pod dare or cinnamon-snorting stunt.  You will still come away a little uncomfortable, but you will be a hero instead of a moron.  The shortage of blood during the summer months really happens every year.  Let’s do something about that and give until it hurts.

I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer

Writer, Researcher and Blood Donor!

Little Miss Know-it-all

I still remember it like it was yesterday, the day my little girl realized she was the smartest person in the room.  At the risk of sounding like a proud parent, all of my children are exceptionally clever-as evidenced by the embarrassing things they have said to their friend’s parents, the stunts they have pulled in Hobby Lobby, and the moving cars they have leapt out.  But Erin is actually gifted with an IQ score to go with it.  One day when she was eleven, she decided to see what that little insignificant number meant when compared to the general population.  Her conclusion both astounded and disturbed her.  She put down her little Kindle tablet, marched straight into the living room and posed a question I will never forget.

“How is it that you guys are so damned stupid?”

She didn’t mean anything by it, she was still reeling from the shock.  That, and she had just begun binge-watching a bunch of cable network shows I really wish she had told me about before she begun trying out the language.  But we will save those stories for another day! This day, she was admittedly rattled.  She never felt particularly smart.  So how was it that her IQ score was significantly so much higher than the rest of the general population? My answer was less than comforting.  I simply explained that she was very bright and that her feelings had more to do with her well-rounded experience and perspective than any mental deficit.  

But it led her to question other things, such as the state of the country.  Everyone she watched on the news at the time was touting what a smart man the President was, no matter what political party was doing the interview.  But his IQ wasn’t nearly what hers was.  Was he seriously no smarter than a sixth grader? How far below her was his cabinet?

And then there was the situation with the economy.  Was it really ran by people that mainly scored so mediocre on their tests?  Wasn’t that a big risk to the global marketplace if these people depended upon calculators and computer programs?  She had been watching them too and trust her-she said, it was scary!

Which brought her not so gently to discuss concerns about her living situation. Having a firm idea of what my IQ was, she was full of questions! 

At first they sounded like she was impressed by our abilities-even if the compliments seemed a little condescending.  “You are responsible for keeping the lights on, the water running AND paying all the bills?”

“Yes,” I replied.  “That’s my job.”

Another day brought another question.  “So you decide what schools I go to, what college, and practically my whole future?” she asked with the sobriety of a judge.

“And I’ve been doing it for years,” was my response, although I have to admit the question perked my curiosity.

The next time she came down stairs with that look on her face, I could almost predict the question if not the topic.  “And you are supposed to recognize and meet all my medical needs, set up all my appointments and give me all of my meds?” 

“Yes Erin,” I said with a slight irritation.  “And I haven’t killed you yet.”

But when she came down stairs with the shocking revelation that I also prepared her food, it almost stretched my patience.  “Listen,” I said.  “Just because I count on my fingers sometimes does not mean I am a complete drool-monkey!” She thought about what I said with an adorable consideration.  

“You’re right,” she said as she patted my shoulder and walked back to her room.  “There are plenty of people out there way dumber than you and they are still surviving, right?”

That’s right, honey.

I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.

Writer, Researcher and Idiot!

Leave it 2 Beaver

Times are changing. That’s true for would-be con artists as well. Most don’t just buy themselves a server, a membership on the Dark Web, a file of stranger’s personal passwords and jump into business.  They start small and local, attacking neighbors and acquaintances.

Like a rejected episode of Leave It To Beaver.

Send me $500 or Ill post this everywere

Ive got mor

Ill make them go viral

FULL DISCLOSURE: Although inspired by actual screenshots sent to me by a reader, you will notice none have been incorporated into this article.  I make it a policy not to out kids-no matter how dumb they are.  So please don’t try to find Beaver Cleaver’s parents in the hopes of giving them a stern talking-to!

The novice scammer picks his/her victims largely as a matter of their age and gender.  Like most kids, these two qualities dictate much of their perception and experience.  In this case, we are dealing with an adolescent male just old enough to drive unchaperoned.  He’s old enough to think he’s street smart.  He’s also a dork.  He left his profile all over his message.

The person he picked is also fairly consistent with the typical victim of his demographic: a young, pretty girl old enough to be legal but young enough to draw his…attention.  She has lots of pictures in various suggestive poses.  He doesn’t know her, just knows of her.  He found her on Instagram because a lot of his friends follow her.   One look at her profile tells him she graduated from the same school he attends-or one nearby-a few years ago.  That means she’s local.

Since she’s local, our little baby Einstein thinks he’s got her pegged. She won’t want those pictures to get out-how embarrassing!  But she does have selfies behind the wheel of a Mercedes so she probably has money.  

And our young thug takes the leap into blackmail.

Aside from the glaring criminal and mental health issues in our scenario, the Beaver slipped up.  He picked a professional model to prey upon.  She isn’t embarrassed by the pictures at all.  In fact, she makes a living from them.  That living includes selling pictures like that all the time-pictures which are legally protected by copyright.

Successful models understand their business is twenty-percent visual and eighty-percent personal and Beaver’s quarry, we’ll call her Angel, remembers when she was his age not so long ago.  

She too was stupid, very-very stupid.  The boys her age were even stupider than that, so she decides to cut the kid a break but still show him whose boss.  She screen-shot the message he sent to her and circulated it on her personal Facebook page to see if any of her local pals know his mother.  Angel wants to have a talk with her.

Bad gas travels fast in a small town and Beaver’s mother is quickly identified.  Angel begins reaching out to her to inform her of what her little bundle of joy has been doing instead of studying and going to church.  She tells Mrs. Cleaver that the site the pictures were taken from is an adult site that is prohibited to minors.  She also tells her about the copyright infringement and how she enforces it.  She asks that Mrs. Cleaver intervene with the Beaver, encourage him to stay off sites like this while under age and take the images down. 

Your son has photos that should not be in his possession and is threatening to post them if I do not pay him. The photos are copywritten material and his threats are a crime. Please see that your son deletes them and stops. Thank you.   

At this point, June Cleaver has a choice.  She can either have a heart-to-heart with Beaver or she can defend the little creep.  Sadly, the Beaver’s pervy ways did not come by accident as our friend June decided to demonstrate.

Many small time cons lack the testicular fortitude to stick with a con by themselves.  They need encouragement, morale support, and even accomplices.  In our scenario, Beaver probably lacked the experience to follow through on his threats in the first place.  His strategy undoubtedly didn’t extend past I-threaten-and-she-gives-me-money.  But like the socks she has told him to pick up off the floor a dozen times, Mrs. Cleaver will try her best to clean up this mess too and thus show us some other tricks two-bit scammers employ against their targets.  Beginning with The Push Off: 

Who r u 2 tell me how to parent my kid? Don’t text me again

As the name implies, the push off is a deflection tactic in which the victim’s complaint is blocked while applying enough pressure to make a second attempt uncomfortable.  June wants Angel to know that she is not happy with the stunt-Angel’s stunt, not Beaver’s.

Much to the Cleaver’s chagrin, this is not Angel’s first rodeo.  Models are used to people mistaking femininity for weakness. Angel will have no part of it.  Instead, she remains very firm with June and issues a very stern warning.

The images are from a paid adult site. He does not have permission to view these much less distribute them. Blackmailing is a crime.

Have your son stop immediately and delete the images of I will contact the police.

And backs it up in case Mrs. Cleaver thinks she is bluffing.

Mrs. Cleaver begins to recognize that she is not going to be able to brush this under the rug like the potato chip crumbs from dinner under the couch the other night.  She will have to use more force and more vulgar insults.  

What kind of stupid slut puts pics uv themselves out 4 kids to find? U r nothing but a whore. I have nothing 2 say 2 u.

But Angel isn’t playing. She’s more than willing to back it up.

I’m talking to the police right now. I gave them your name.

They want your phone number.

All the while, Angel is sharing these shots on her personal Facebook page-a smart move.  It documents everything as it happens and brings attention to the conflict.  Since it is a conversation occurring via text, most times it will not be admissible as evidence anyway so Angel doesn’t have to worry about keeping it out of the public eye.  It records the conversation so Angel doesn’t have to worry about recalling it later.  It also evokes the timeless power of social media: public humiliation.  

Publicizing the Beav’s criminal activities also has the resulting effect of increasing consumer attention to Angel’s professional adult website, so thanks for that! But June is not thinking about that. She’s too busy trying to shut her down.

I know Jon very well. He has my #

In this response, June has illustrated for us another card in the con artist’s deck: the Beat-You-To-It.  Otherwise known as the It’s-Who-You-Know, the con attempts to undermine the victim’s confidence/conviction by making it clear that the police are in the con’s corner-usually with an exaggerated personal relationship.  June is warning Angel.  Keep going and my friend the police officer will do anything and everything to make this go away.

Angel isn’t someone who struggles with self-confidence and calls June on her bluff.  At this point, Jane has nothing.  She knows she has nothing.  So she pulls another card.

What did u think would happen when you spread ur legs? Grow up n deal with it

This is one of my personal favorites.  The Get-Over-It (and its twins, Grow-Up and Let-It-Go) are about the thinnest dodges ever.  It’s a lazy way for a dirt bag to say, “Yeah, you were victimized and that should be rectified but since it affects me and I don’t want to be bothered, you should just accept it.”  What could be weaker?  We’ll find out when Angel doesn’t budge.

If u have anything 2 say 2 me or my son say it 2 my face! Don’t blast it all over facebook like a whore!

She goes for the Sin Card!  The bad guy’s answer to that age-old question of why bad things happen to good people, the Sin Card places responsibility and blame squarely on the shoulders of the victim.  It makes about as much sense as defending a robber by saying the bank asked for it.  Poor Beaver is a victim too!  It’s not his fault he deceptively obtained access to an adult porn site, illegally downloaded pictures, researched the contact information of the owner, attempted to extort money and was refused!  He did what anyone would do under the circumstances, right? If Angel wasn’t anatomically correct, this never would have happened!

Ummm, no.

And with that, we see June retreat into the shadows to enlist reinforcements.  

Unable to deter Angel with angry words and pitiful deflections, June and The Beaver have run out of new material and are forced into re-runs.  

Enter Uncle Wally:

Im sorry Beaver did that. Hes a good kid n believe me hes nothing like June’s family. Im contacting his dad.

Please don’t tell the Beaver what Im doing. I want him 2 still come 2 me 4 help.

Uncle Wally sounds like a great guy!  Not only is he concerned about the trouble his nephew is in, he’s eager to see the situation resolved for everyone.

It would b cool if u could send me some pics

Yep, he’s really interested in everyone getting a piece! 

I sent screen shots of r texts 2 Ward. Ill tell u when he gets back 2 me. I would b so cool if u would send me sum pics. I won’t share them or anything. I just want 2 check them out. The Beav is a good kid. Ill let u know.

So interested that he’s willing to drop a little request or two in the middle of his message.  What a guy!

Yep, Wally must be the diplomat of the Cleaver clan.  Notice how he manages to insert both control over all communication and a silver of resolution with his next request for a pic?  I thought the inclusion of his promise not to share them was a nice touch.  Truly Wally must be a man of integrity!

But as we know, Angel is a professional photographer who does not give away her craft for free.  Well, we knew that.  Apparently, Wally missed the boat. 

If it's like that n u don’t want 2 ok. I wuz gonna help the Beaver anywayz

And doesn’t look like he can tread water with the ladies.

Actually if u want 2 b a fucken rich snot u can figur this out on ur own. Its ok 2 sho ur pussy 4 money but not 4 free? Ur kind of a snobby bitch. I aint as dum as u think. Ill inform the Beaver how 2 keep from gettin in trouble. N the person who did it payed 2 get on ur site 2

Recognize the resurgence of the Sin Card?  Wally’s one classy guy!  Not a particularly creative one, but classy to the end.  I wonder why there is no Mrs. Uncle Wally, don’t you?

As Wally slinks off to spend some quality time with an Avon catalog and a bottle of Jergen’s,  June gives it one last push.  I call this the Moral High Ground:

Sluts get what sluts deserve

If cons cannot control the victim or coerce the victim, the next best thing is to silence the victim-or try to.  At this point, they are admitting defeat in battle but not giving up the war.  Now they are no longer focused on beating the victim, but preserving their image and reputation among the community of other potential marks out there.  Now they are thinking about the long game, the other scams and cons they have in the works, and what kind of damage might result if Angel’s experience becomes public knowledge.

No June, you will be talking to her lawyer and probably a judge soon enough.

My name is Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.

Writer, Researcher and Critic. 

When It’s Better to Wait for Date #5

If the 3 Date Curse, in which no man I have ever dated has lasted longer in a relationship with me than three dates, has proven anything, it has clearly shown that dating me is not for the faint of heart.  It takes courage, strength and resilience.  To survive what my Production Assistant commonly refers to as ‘The Gauntlet’, potential suitors need be able to stare down a Doberman, succumb to the examination of my children and roll whatever adventures unfold in my day to day life-in combination and repetition.  It takes a solid effort boys, a rare mixture of scholar and rugged maniac. He who can survive is worthy of a reigning champion and an honorable mention in this blog. Cue the Rocky theme track!

From the beginning, Dave’s and my relationship has not gone according to schedule.  He dropped everything during our first meet-up to be my bullet-shield from teenage drama for the evening.  Next, I attended a party he threw.  While both occasions lasted to the wee hours of the morning, neither really felt like a date but couldn’t exactly be discounted either.  As a result, my 3 Date Curse was extended by fractions.  It gave us plenty of time to get to know each other and in a short time, Date Number 2 1/2 was at hand. Throwing caution to the wind, we retired to the bedroom for some heavy petting. 

Well,  that was the plan that night anyway!

So still mostly clothed, my guy and I shared a long passionate kiss.  He then sighed, looked me in the eye and smiled.  I love his smiles, they disarm me almost immediately-and he is very much aware of that because still smiling, he moved his hand from a holding pattern to a tickling one. Being of a hyper-ticklish nature, he no further placed his fingers near my arm pits before he sent me leaping from the bed in a style most recently captured on film by the movie Exorcist.

“You’re ticklish?” he asked.  He knew darned good and well but just wanted to rub it in. 

All puns aside, what’s a girl like me supposed to do when confronted by someone holding all the Kryptonite?  Lie!

“Of course not,” I said.  “I don’t know why you would think that.”

The desperate deflection was accurately interpreted as a bluff and was appropriately met with a volley of tickles that left me bucking and reeling in a giggling mess of gasps and protests.  I knew he had the tactical advantage and loved every minute of it.  But I don’t concede to surrender so quickly.  So I launched a small counter-attack, brushing my nails across his side. Success!  He cringed.

“You are ticklish too?” I asked in a tone that sounded a little more smug than inquisitive.  He admitted he was, he just didn’t expect me to return fire.  

With that, it was on and the once steamy scene was transformed into a tickling version of Wrestle-Mania with him straddling me now simply for a better tickling position and me squirming to get out.  Grinning from ear to ear, he immobilized me.  He had me and he knew it. Sitting on top of me with his hands on my wrists, there was no way for me to push up and break free.  But like the Death Star, there was one avenue which had not occurred to him.  There was one way out of my predicament, by reaching down.  I pulled my right hand out of his grasp and moved it along his leg until I found the flesh of his cheek, and moved my fingers along the line of his gluteus muscles. It was a play intended to get his attention. And to that end, it did. For noticing my escape, he too repositioned a little farther to the left and instead of my fingers traveling to the point of his seat, they slid right past his buttock and straight up No Man’s Land.  

Instead a playful gesture, I found myself with one-knuckle and four inches of cargo shorts imbedded up my date’s ass.

At once, all movement stopped.  His face turned pale white for a second, then morphed as if his skin was outfitted with LED lights, changing to an intense stop-sign red.  Earlier he had mentioned his troubles with high blood pressure and for a moment, I feared I had just given him an aneurysm.  We modified our assaults as the shock of our situation began to marinate.

“Hey now,” he said, remaining motionless.

“I’m so sorry,” I almost pleaded.

Then I realized the irony of my having the upper hand.  Although our physical positions remained unchanged, the tables had certainly turned.  And even though the attack from the rear was certainly NOT what I intended, what was I supposed to do when it succeeded?  Exploit it!

“Tell me Ghost Busters II sucks!” I demanded with a flick of my finger.

“Never!” he wailed with his eyes closed, his head thrown back and his buns clenched tighter than an inmate in maximum security.  

Though I could have easily continued the campaign and won the battle, I admired his grit and the way he was willing to go down with his ship. I removed the threatening digit and he rolled off, suggesting perhaps something that should have been saved for Date #5.  That fearless determination in the face of such paralyzing adversity is rare and that night as we kissed, I declared my search over.

The next day, my kids asked how my date went.  Not one to keep anything back, I told her and a curious friend about dinner, drinks, and the digital violation.  

“Wow,” Erin said with an impressive nod.  

Her friend shrugged, “I would have waited for Date #5.”

And so it was confirmed.  Dinner and drinks on Dates 1-4, digital penetration beginning no sooner than Date #5!

I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer

Writer, Researcher and hand-washer!

The Cookie Conspiracy

I love my readers and I love it when they send me posts.  I appreciate the tips and suggestions of things that interest them. It really makes my blog the conversation it was always intended to be.  

A reader recently shared a post with me about the Girl Scouts. It is a group of which I am somewhat familiar. My official scout record shows I was a decorated scout throughout my childhood. I was a camp counselor, a trainer and even the first my tiny town’s first Gold Award winner.  It’s probably more accurate to describe me as an evil-scout on account of in addition to those accolades, I was also an expert at flipping canoes, disappearing in the woods for days at a time and baiting tents for small animals.  The post featured a banner that urged the public to boycott the Girl Scouts by refusing to buy cookies.  I wondered what my alma mater did to piss someone off.  Apparently, the scouts have been charged with being pro-abortion and promiscuity and a call to action was sounded to choke them off.

I appreciate the reader who sent it to me and their passion to urge me to support it, but I’m afraid they are going to be disappointed.

You see, even though I turned to the dark side of scouting as a result of boredom and frustration, I still scouting as a great experience.  Even when a plan doesn’t go right, even when girls get stuck with a lame leader (which of course not all of them are but admittedly there is a wuss or two in the bunch), even when the amount of girl drama exceeds the amount of marshmallows, it is still a life lesson in the making.  

I assure you my words do not sprout from sentimentality.  I may have been a rebel, but I was still a seasoned veteran.  I have been on my share of campouts where it rained so bad we had geese swimming through our tents, have set plenty of pizza boxes on fire and cleaned countless latrines.  They come from having a first-hand view of the organization and the members that actually keep it alive-something that the author of the boycott campaign is obviously lacking.  Scouts don’t have a thing to do with abortion or lifestyle choices some may consider sinful. It’s true, there is no morality badge.  Like many who successfully work with girls, those kinds of instructions are seen best left to the front lines. It should also be noted that there has never been an underground brothel fundraiser, opium den or abortion jamboree.  In fact, compared to the energy used to attack the scouts, troop meetings seem boring in comparison.

Now that is not to say I do not have problems with the scouts, but my issues are rooted in fact and common sense.  I have a huge problem with the fact that the scouts have no policy that forbids those with sexual offenses or criminal backgrounds access to the girls, that they are the last national children’s service organization that does not require background checks and that the state and national administration is not require to lead a troop of their own.  I also have a problem with the share troops receive of cookie sales versus the salaries of the highest echelon.  No one’s compensation should exceed five-figures when it is derived from cookie sales.  If anyone wants to launch a protest about that, count me in.

I know that there are members of the scouting upper elite that envision themselves one of the priesthood and like to celebrate pro-life dogma and other liberal tenants that no doubt offended those calling for protest.  I assure you, this like many areas, does not trickle down to the troops.  It is a law of nature just like gravity and the wetness of water that it is empirically impossible to get more than three girls to agree on anything.  The scouts learned that a long time ago, others should too.  So yes, they are probably exposed to the idea but they are also exposed to religion, spirituality, economics, conservation, science, courage, responsibility, independence, and empowerment.  

And cookies?  They don’t have to sell them.  I was rotten at that too.

I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer

Writer, Researcher and wicked Brownie.  

The Threats of Pheasants

If you have been following my blogs for any amount of time, you have undoubtedly picked up on the fact that there are no skeletons in my closet, I don’t take myself very seriously, and I have no problem sacrificing my personal privacy for a good cause (like seeking justice or a good laugh). Now that my blog is getting a decent amount of attention, it is also beginning to draw a minor amount of backlash from a morally questionable segment of the population who would love nothing more than to shut me up.  The threats have been minimal.  I admit, that almost disappoints me.  I always enjoy turning the light on a human cockroach or two.  But every new entry comes the risk of offending another wackadoodle so that may again come to fruition in the future.

But I’m no stranger to death threats.  As a matter of fact, there’s another population that put a hit out on me years ago and have dispatched their thugs to bump me out a couple times.  No, it’s not the mob a group of petty felons.  They are a far more menacing threat.

They are pheasants and they are out to kill me.

I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true!  Those feathered bastards have been trying to do me in for years.  It first started when I was seventeen.  It was a beautiful summer day in Michigan and I was driving home from school in my first car-a 1977 Mustang fastback I named Jerome.  In spite of the age and miles, Jerome was all original-including a sparkling white vinyl interior and zero air conditioning.  So I had the windows rolled down halfway.  I wanted to be cool but I didn’t want my hair messed up.

I was just a few miles away from my house when I heard a loud ferocious burping noise coming from the left.  I turned my head just in time to see a green, ringed Jurassic football fly full speed into the driver’s side door.  I came face-to-face with the beaked monster, his head flew right into my window! Had my window been rolled down any farther, he would have flown straight into my car, landed on the passenger side, and surely eviscerated me!

I assure you the attacks are completely unprovoked. I had never even gone hunting much less hurt a pheasant. I may have dined on a furry neighbor or two as a child (I did grow up in the midwest afterall) but I hardly think that justifies taking me out in such a violent manner.

The next time occurred many years later in a completely different part of the country.  I was driving my family to a pow-wow being held out in the sticks on the Kansas/Oklahoma border.  We were running a little behind and the ex was already griping so I put the pedal to the metal in hopes of making better time. I was in the process of deflecting his industrial strength complaints when a menacing green and tan mass flew out into the street.  I had just enough time to center my car and lay on the gas, effectively dispatching my attacker and reducing him to an explosion of feathers. With the ex's mouth agape but silent for the moment, I drove on and over the body. 

I know there are other animals that also play havoc on drivers every year like the occasional dog, raccoon, possum and deer. I too have swerved to miss a wandering dog or cat, skunk or squirrel. I have even dodged snakes, tarantulas and armadillos. Encounters with these creatures are purely accidental. They don't mean to stray into your path, they are simply the victims of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

But those pheasants  are another matter. My buddies at the Fish and Wildlife Department say I had a better chance of running into a mountain lion (another animal they deny lives in the area) than a pheasant. So that could mean only one thing: the little bastard made the cross-country trek to take me out. Just what I would expect from a devil-bird!

I'm Jennifer Beck and I'm Jenuinely Jennifer. 

Writer, Researcher and pheasant fear-er!

The Potty Problem

I love a good coffee shop.  In spite of the fact that caffeine and I have had a complicated relationship for years, I love to go explore and sample everyone I see.  I love the variety, the unique atmosphere-and especially the brews.  I also enjoy the personality of little coffee houses. It is like being invited into a new friend’s kitchen each and every time.

What I don’t like is having to use unisex bathrooms.

It has been a growing trend over the last few years and has sadly engrained itself into my favorite hangout as well as diners, shops and boutiques all throughout my travels-one I admit makes me cringe.  I dread the idea of going up to the facilities and noticing the Unisex sign on the door.  It always makes me pause and reconsider my decision.  Who was in here last?  Do I really have to pee that bad?  Should I just wait until I make it to my destination?

Now before the hate mail comes rolling in, (which, according to Toil and Trouble Media policy must be in the form of a knock-knock joke!) understand that my feelings have nothing to do with intolerance or bigotry.  I have nothing but love and respect for my transgender brothers and sisters and happily share the bathroom with them anytime anywhere.

My issue is with our male brethren.  Namely, with their…aim.

It may not be politically correct, but sometimes conventional wisdom has it right.  Men and women simply shouldn’t share a restroom.  It’s not that I’m necessarily worried about being raped. I’m not worried about up-skirt photos.  It’s the idea of having to go in a stall covered in a stranger’s urine.  It’s gross, and for a woman whose hovering abilities are limited by her heels, it’s a real concern.

Everyone knows this is true.  I cannot understand why no one thought about it before they started such a disgusting practice.  After traveling on the road for years as a child, when bathroom breaks were few and gender-segregated ones rare, I can personally attest that the condition of the men’s room at your average gas station being a close second to one in hell is no urban legend.  Those things repel rats-do you know how many body fluids it takes to do that?  They are also the last place anyone will ever slip and fall.  Not only is the floor of those permanently sticky, but the average person would be more likely to levitate as opposed to striking that floor.  And God help you if you do make contact!  In the days before antibacterial soap, you were likely to be wearing a stain on your skin until you reach the hotel!

Men just don’t seem to understand the function and the purpose of the toilet.  It is a household receptacle-not a target.  The idea is to make sure your body fluids make it INSIDE the bowl, not around it, over it, or in its general direction.  Toilets also work better when they are flushed-preferably after one successfully makes a deposit.  And innovation has come far in the field of toilet technology.  The lids come with hinges so they can be raised and lowered.

I wish more people would relax about whether or not the person in the stall next to them was originally a Brian or a Brenda and instead focus on issues we can all agree on: the idea that NO ONE likes to sit in a pool of a stranger’s urine, smearing is not an acceptable cleaning technique and that one cannot rely upon bathroom pixies to pick up after them.

And as far as my fabulous friends on the other side of the restroom rainbow?  You are welcome any time!

I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.

Writer, Researcher and hover-er!

Words

Words have always meant something to me.  From my earliest experiences reading, I have had a special affinity and respect for that little group of random squiggles.  The idea that a series of symbols can represent sounds and concepts that when brought together can transform into an unlimited number of completely unrelated things. It’s really incredible when you think about it.

But with great power comes the great potential to botch it up and those letters, words and phrases have been the victim of so many bad chop jobs they could cover an entire season of Botched.  And as an admitted logophile, it is almost physically painful to hear. 

So let me share with you my personal list of the most annoying words and phrases of all time. Let’s see if you agree with me:

#10-Surreal

This is actually a word that landed on my radar about five years ago which in my humble opinion was overused and abused like a rental car.  Promotions and advertisings were describing everything from trips to Disney World to hair dye as surreal.  Evening news anchors began surreal’ing everything.  Entertainers and movie stars began calling everything surreal.  Soon after, everything was surreal! 

What always confounded me was that no one else noticed just how superficial and shallow ninety-nine percent of the applications of the word seemed to be-a phenomena I truly found surreal. 

#9 Ima

A relatively new word to the modern language, is the new, hip way to say ‘I’m a’.  In terms of practical application however, Ima has replaced two perfectly good words with one that no matter how you phrase it continues to sound like you were the recent recipient of a lobotomy.  It’s not a contraction, it’s not an abbreviation, it doesn’t even save any letters or syllables.  All it did was knock out an apostrophe and a space-and my phone does that when it auto-corrects all the time!  

#8 Any sentence which uses text speech instead of proper grammar. 

Full disclosure: I am one of those fogies that texts in complete sentences.  I know that there are only a few of us out there and that the rest of the texting populace never hears from us because it takes us so damn long to write a message.  But that doesn’t mean that you can throw your BRB’s, ROTFL’s and OMG’s on my side of the fence.  They are annoying, and what’s worse, they make me have to re-set my brain and translate hardly-English into the Queen’s English-or whatever language I happen to be working in. 

Hard-earned taxpayer dollars were spent educating you to be able to spell at least at a third-grade level.  For the love of Pete, make your messages worth the money and keep your POOS to yourself!

#7 Furgot

This word usage makes absolutely no sense to me at all.  How many shots of Mad Dog do you have to slam to misspell this word?  What makes it worse is that there is not a spell check on the planet that won’t pick up on it, so someone would actually have to go in and override the program in order for it to show up in emails, posts and articles.  Somebody obviously forgot that!

And I’m still not sure what exactly the user is trying to say they forgot, their education or their attention span.  Either way, unless it’s hairy leave the fur out of it.

#6 Narcissist

The reigning champion of the most annoyingly overused word ever has got to be narcissist and for good reason.  Now used to describe not only ANY activity that involves oneself, it is also now the patented way for other people to complain when one does something they do not agree with-so the Narcissist is the one running around accusing everyone else of the offense. 

The fact remains that not everyone who does something for themselves is a narcissist, not everyone has the first clue what that really means, and those who think they do may want to re-examine the definition with themselves in mind.  It is really all about them, after all.

#5 Puke

I think the definition of this word is pretty clear.  I think it just sounds gross.

#4 Literally

Although probably a close second in the Most Overused Word contest, my objection to literally is not in its proper grammatical application but when its used as punctuation.  You know, when it is used to conclude a sentence for added effect.  As there are many words, phrases and marks that were already designed to do the same thing, I think that adding a completely unrelated word to the end of a sentence just for kicks is irritating-literally.

#3 Sentences without proper verbiage

“Dog’s there.”

“Where’s kids?”

“True dat!”

What the hell is that?  Do determiners like ‘the’ really hold you back?  Seriously, in the English language we are talking about a little one to three letter word (a, an, the) that helps clarify whether or not I’m communicating with someone who is sober.  It’s true, so find the kids and throw me a bone!

#2 See what I’m saying?

No.  No, I don’t see what you are saying.  I don’t drop acid and therefore do not have spontaneous hallucinations about seeing your words.  Nor are you on an episode of the Electric Company-if you are old enough to understand what I’m talking about.  Do you see what I mean?

And the Number One most annoying word/phrase of all time…

Do what?

For me, this phrase is the equivalent to being trapped in a trailer with nothing but Hallmark Christmas romance movies playing 24/7, it’s awful!  And what makes it even worse is when the phrase is used to ask someone to repeat something that didn’t have a damned thing to do with the speaker doing anything. 

Sometimes if the winner wants to show an immediate need to correct their lack of attention span moment, they will place emphasis on the phrase, “Do what now?” Now you just sound like you are in a hurry to sound stupid.

The proper phrases to use when you couldn’t bother to tear yourself away from The Price is Right long enough to hear what I had to say the first time are “Excuse me?”, “Pardon me?” or “What did you say?”  And drop the Do-what’s.  No one is going to want to do you.

I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer

Writer, Researcher and Grammar snob!

Black Lives Matter!

On May 25, 2020 George Floyd had an altercation with a Minnesota police officer.  He did not survive.  Since then, people nationwide have taken to the streets, the airwaves and the internet in response.  Some want change, some want answers, some want status quo.  

Some want to argue whether ‘Black Lives Matter’.

Frustration and fear make for the stupidest arguments.  In the face of such tragedy and the many more like it, people argue semantics.  Verbally stepping over Mr. Floyd’s body, they debate a controversy that doesn’t exist.  Black Lives Matter, all Lives Matter, and anyone who doesn’t agree with them is either a racist or a fascist.

In my professional roles as a writer, researcher and humble public servant, I make a living breaking down complicated and confusing material into bites-sized, easy to understand pieces.  After years of listening to this crap, I hoped those involved would get tired and return their attention to the tragedy at hand.  I used to hold the same optimism when it came to misapplications of police force.  But seeing as we are right back where we were, allow me to work my magic and set this straight:

Black. Lives. Matter.  Put these three words together and you come up with a statement that a vast majority of the population agree with: 

Black lives matter. 

I’m surprised by the number of people that agree with the statement but are still offended.  Even the people who argue about it are not really arguing about its meaning at all.  Most non-black people agree with it, politicians, ministers-most police officers too.  

Yes there are some out there with such hate in their hearts that they truly don’t agree that black lives matter.  I’m not going to waste my breath attempting to educate an idiot and I suggest you do the same.

The sentence consists of three words, an adjective, a noun and a verb.  The statement is restrictive by design.  That is all the author wants to talk about.

And that is where the arguments fall flat. There are no quantifiers, no determiners, no additional descriptive qualifications.  It doesn’t say “Only Black Lives Matter” or “Just Black Lives Matter” or even “White/Yellow/Red/Brown/Non-black/Ethnic/Non-ethnic/Mixed/or What-Happened-In-Vegas-Stayed-Nine-Months-Later Don’t Matter.” 

It reads Black Lives Matter. 

And that is what makes the argument so dumb. It's not like we are literal thinkers incapable of understanding simple abstract thought.  We hear statements like this all the time and still function.  When you hear the Chili’s jingle “I want my baby back.” you don’t assume it is a child custody plea, right?  

What if we treated every catch phrase with the same sentiment?  

Save the Children would close for public safety to discourage supporters from putting a hit on Grandma in order to save those starving kids in Africa.

Save the Whales would also be dismantled by the EPA for its potential impact on sea turtles.  

An Executive Order would be issued requiring consumers to present a resume when buying a box of Wheaties. They are the breakfast of champions-not losers, right?

The Budweiser Corporation and the King of Beers would shutter for violating the constitution.

So why are the same people disputing Black Lives Matter not urging Coca Cola to cut Sprite loose? Obey Your Thirst? Where are the calls to overthrow the oppressive beverage regime?

But Nike says Just Do It. It's time to stop arguing about silly generalizations. Clinging to stupid arguments hasn't changed a thing. People are still dying.

No one should live in fear of being disadvantaged.  Those lives lost as a result of fear, bias, misunderstanding, misapplication of police duties or malpractice matter.  They died in spite of the lip-service and half-hearted assurances from decades of leadership that it would never be repeated.  That matters.  

It also matters that in spite of the number of decent, hardworking police members on the force today, innocent people still died, children have been orphaned, families torn apart.  They died even though most of the people questioning the validity of Black Lives Matter insist they are not racist.  They died after every riot, every protest, and every demonstration.  Every t-shirt, icon or Instagram post couldn’t save them.  Nothing has changed and people are still dying.  That matters.

To those normally decent, reasonably intelligent people who find themselves hung up on imaginary sentiments, supposed messages or omitted words, you are mistaken.  You fell short.  You are barking up the wrong tree.  You missed the pass. You are wrong.  Deal with it.

Black lives matter.

And until we correct this in every community, until each and every department puts the training, support and systems in place to prevent this from occurring again, nothing else matters.

My name is Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.

Writer, Researcher and believer that Black Lives Matter.

First Responder

FIRST RESPONDING

I love writing my blog.  Keeping it going has been a challenge not only of my creative abilities but to my priorities as well.  I’m constantly lamenting my beyond-rigid schedule and the fact that my publishing is so far behind.  But if writing is anything, it is a work in progress, so I take it in stride and enjoy the experience as it unfolds.

I’m glad my readers do too and I am reminded of this all the time with your messages and emails.  The thoughtful feedback has been invaluable as I work to flesh out my upcoming book The Con Game: A Memoir of Trust, Betrayal, and Redemption. The wackadoodles have been fun too. I’ll have do a piece about their colorful commentary sometime. (See! Here I go again!) 

Then there are those comments I receive by people who ordinarily have both oars in the water, until I strike a nerve prompting them to act like they have an elevated status which enables them to exert more influence over what I write.  For the record, that is called a publisher-we’ll go into that unusual animal another day.  But some without that particular distinction some still feel the need to reach out and chastise me for sharing my opinions.  

Like this guy:

“Your defunding story was very disappointing,” a reader replied. “It is the responsibility of all citizens to support law enforcement.  Accusing the police of racism only provokes more violence.  I thought you were more educated than that.”

Yeah, it was a guy.  As far as I can tell, he isn’t employed or directly affiliated with any law enforcement department-at least I certainly hope not.  I have had a couple law enforcement officers contact me in the past, one an active duty officer with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol who cited prison statistics in order to justify George Floyd being executed without trial or conviction.  But most of them offer their arguments in a more cohesive (and less authoritarian) voice.  We don’t agree on the subject of police brutality, but we don’t discuss endorsements for a police state either.  I can’t help but think that is just a couple bullets down on that fan’s talking points!

But I really thought my argument for re-funding other services to allow the police to get back to protecting and serving was pretty self-explanatory and it kind of gets me down that there are people out there that read what I had to say and found offense.  Did you just read it until you found something disagreeable? The criticism definitely lacked substance.

But that doesn’t mean my argument or the kinds of atrocities that inspired it did.  And that kind of systematic slaughter shouldn’t be ignored, discounted or normalized.  So for those in the back of the room just waking up to the conversation, let me give you a brief recap of what you have missed-namely the constitutionally protected rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

It amazes me how so many mindless opine-ers happily cite the constitution when justifying gun violence or police malpractice but forget those three tenants are granted to the entire citizenry-not just the ones you relate to the most. I certainly don’t dispute the Second Amendment, merely point out when its observation is a bit myopic.  I’m a big fan of the First Amendment, myself.

To swallow the fan’s charges, you have to assume my point was a generalized as his-which is just a pile of crap.  As a word artist, I spend a great deal of time crafting just the right statement or message to tolerate some idiot pigeon-holing my work.  It’s just lazy.  Then complaining to me about offending really takes the cake!  Perhaps you would be better off looking into the issue itself before you find fault?

Such as the fact that to this day, NO police, sheriff or highway departments give their officers a license to kill-even though the unions, blue-backers and even the law treats them like they do.  Nor are their state-sanctioned executioners.  Yes, their job involves sometimes being thrust into incredibly dangerous situations, but that job involves working with the same people the rest of us encounter every day.  No one else experiences the body counts they do, ever wonder why?

Because countless parents, neighbors and child care workers are used to dealing with children playing with toy guns.  Wham-O and Nerf have made entire industries out of arming them.  No one would presume the appropriate method of disarming a twelve year old boy would be to initiate a gun fight but that was the fate of Tamir Rice.  Given the number of kids that survive imaginary gun play every day, there are countless ways the police could have better handled the situation given their training.  Rice is rarely given the same courtesy even though he was six years too young to take a gun-carry class.

And because many of us don’t go hysterical at the sight of a black man.  We remember we live in a society that expects more from us than a sequel of Terminator.  Botham Shem Jean did that, its just a shame the off duty police officer that killed him didn’t hold herself to the same standard.  

Because store clerks and bank tellers deal with people trying to pass of counterfeit bills all the time.  They don’t throw those people on the ground and slowly choke them to death.  That’s probably the last thing that liquor store employee thought would happen when he called the police on George Floyd too, but then again that probably goes for most people.

And I cannot and will not accept an ass bag pressing me to be silent about it and I cannot and will not mindlessly throw my backing behind the force that refuses to publicly denounce and correct these atrocities.  

I save my respect, sympathy and prayers for the victims and their families.

My name is Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.

Writer, Researcher and first responder!  

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Most say that the hardest part of parenting is watching your kids grow up.  I disagree.  As they age, kids get more exciting.  And parents get to sleep more, too.

No, the hardest thing about parenting is watching your kids speak their minds.  When they open their hearts, open their mouths, and let the world have it.  There’s not a damned thing you can do about it.

Erin was the Valedictorian of her graduating class. You may have heard that, I’ve certainly bragged on her enough!  My little girl has had her mind set on graduating at the top since the age of three. Sure was about the award, the competition and being the best but what Erin most looked forward to was the speech-her chance to address the community. 

By the time she graduated, Erin had spoken publicly several times, addressing different clubs and organizations.  She has addressed the school board on a few occasions, sharing her ideas and suggestions, but the Valedictorian speech was especially important.  It would be the first time she spoke as an adult.

Erin didn’t want to waste her chance by just cracking jokes or empty minded cheers.  She wanted to talk about something meaningful, something close to her heart.  She wanted her speech to mirror her thoughts and challenge those around her to change the world.

Originally, she leaned towards an environmental message or a message of compassion and inspiration.  But as she has matured, her focus has shifted to community health and human rights-to the point where she is dedicating her life to the cause.  Now at the start of her journey, it was time to invite her classmates to come along.

While looking for inspiration, Erin came upon a reference in an obscure textbook from a university hours away.  It mentioned that in the 1920’s, Wark Park (not the town’s real name but inquiring minds can learn it with a few minutes of fact checking on Google) was the home of one of the largest KKK chapters in the state of Kansas-with numbers rivaling Wichita.  In 1922, the town hosted one of the largest KKK parades in the state’s history. 

Erin was stunned.  How could this be?  She had volunteered for both the library and the city museum and neither had any mention of it.  In her eighteen years, Wark Park was only a place one drove through to get to someplace else.

She reached out to a media buddy of mine who verified everything she had read was true.  Erin was crushed.  How could she stand there and represent the best of a community with such a history of hate? Come to think of it, how much progress had the Wark Park made since?  People of color still didn’t feel comfortable settling in town, minorities representing only a small fraction of the population.  Comparing current educational and criminal statistics suggested the town continued to be a hold out in the equality struggle well after the Klan disbanded.  Even today, more children of color are disadvantaged over their white counterparts, and yet this fact is largely ignored.

Finding her inspiration, Erin carefully crafted her speech and rehearsed it repeatedly in her bedroom, the car and the shower.  She gathered her data, anticipating someone would want to see her research.  And when the time came, she was ready.

Me, not so much.  With clenched hands and a nervous stomach, I watched my baby girl rise to her feet and approach the podium with the confidence and control of a seasoned leader.  I was not nearly that calm.  Although I knew the topic, she had never shared her final product.  A knot rose in my throat and I cast my gaze around the crowd.  No one brought any pitch forks or flaming torches. I didn’t notice any baskets of rotting produce either.  Dave smiled and took my hand.  I hope it wasn’t too sweaty.

Erin smiled as she approached the podium and addressed the attendees like she was presenting at a conference.  The results were…memorable.

The audience obliged when she asked for applause for those instrumental in helping the class attain graduation.  They were polite as she said how delighted she was to stand before them, and even chuckled when she mentioned her speech would be slightly longer than the Salutatorian’s. She declared her school was a special place, showering it with accolades of which nearly every attendee agreed, and added how it was a privilege to be educated there.  

Then she delved into what that privilege meant.

Immediately, the crowd overwhelmingly composed of white people fidgeted in their seats like a gigantic swarm of invisible mosquitos suddenly flew overhead. Some people covered their faces with their hands, as if it were somehow possible to deflect her words from approaching their ears.  While I didn’t see anyone looking for the exit, several looked down into their laps, hurriedly trying to compose their poker faces.

Some were only able to remain stoic for a few minutes.  An older gentleman seated in front of me began to grumble as Erin related school disciplinary statistics taken from our local area.  He found his composure again when the child seated next to him pointed out my location.  

That’s right, hide you jerk! You know I saw you!

Bud just shook his head and exaggeratedly laughed as if she were speaking about erectile dysfunction.  An enthusiastic conservative, Bud is uncomfortable with anything that may have the slightest hue of entitlement.  While he has no problem defending equality for people he knows that happen to be a minority, judging by his social media posts those sentiments do not extend to the general population.  His fiancé nudged him with her elbow and told him to zip it.

Erin had sufficiently worked over her audience when she revealed Wark Park’s KKK history.  The crowd was in shock. I almost smiled at the thought of all the attendees who remained romantically sentimental to their southern roots, yet denied the racism their heritage advanced.  She boldly pulled away that illusion like a band aid. You could practically see them wince with the sting. 

Many in the crowd were too busy dealing with their own reactions to see those of the non-white audience.  Imagine expecting to attend a harmless graduation and suddenly being dropped into a sermon amidst a group of white people struggling with their entitlement. They sat there quietly, listening to what was said.  Erin’s commanding stage presence aside, none of them took their eyes off her, almost fearful to catch the gaze of a stranger.  It was a well-learned response.  The people I was observing had lived the way Erin described for so long, they actually adapted neutral expressions to handle it.  Show no agreement, show no reaction at all, avoid any eye contact, keep focusing on the speaker-and protect yourself. 

Nope, no racism here, guys! 

Having reached the point of no return, she posed a question.  What did it have to do with her classmates, she asked?  Everything.

She told them now was not the time to be complacent, it was a time for action.  She challenged her peers to think about what she said, learn from their experience, and reflect on their gifts.  She asked them to use their education and degree they were privileged to receive and make a difference.  

She seemed satisfied as she left the stands to polarized applause, with some appreciating her talk and other appreciative that she had stopped talking. The faculty picked up where Erin left off and the rest of the ceremony proceeded without a hitch.  Less than an hour later, we had a high school graduate with a city-wide anxiety attack under the belt.  

To my relief, the reaction for Erin’s address was very positive.  Her phone blew up with texts of accolades and congratulations while we were at dinner to celebrate. People from so many parts of her life said she how proud they were of her bravery.  A leading educator close to us said he planned to refer to her address as he worked on the issues Erin so eloquently discussed.  Her new classmates at university used it as a launching board to discuss a whole range of topics from service delivery to housing, environment and community health.  It was encouraging to see more of her peers use the platform influence their future careers.

Naturally, she didn’t win over everyone.  A few classmates had their noses bent out of joint.  Being adults now, they were ready to have a constructive, mature conversation. Or maybe not. 

They created a Facebook post and griped privately.

Erin managed to hack off a couple KKK descendants, a former foster kid with mental problems and a handful of kids with Attention Deficit Disorder. The legacies didn’t like how Erin depicted the town’s founders, the foster kid made a confusing complaint about acne medication and parenting before she offered to meet someone outside Walmart for a fight and the ADD kids mistakenly thought Erin called them racist.  Either lacking the ability or unwilling to comprehend the meaning of her talk, they made up their own outrage, adding remarks one would find scrawled on a bathroom stall.

They were so sympathetic to KKK members operating in town ninety-eight years ago, that they saw Erin’s address as a personal attack.  It wasn’t the facts they objected to or even the history behind it, it was the idea that they had to hear about it. One kid believed himself so entitled that he tried to belittle her for talking about such an unpleasant subject at all. I question whether he heard most of it. The next thing he remarked upon was that he could see her nipples through her graduation gown, honors sash and Valedictorian medallion.

Erin took it in stride.  She expected some blowback.  But what she really wanted was to start a conversation and to that end she achieved her goal and then some.

Erin started playing make believe games as a toddler.  She would climb on her blanket chest, in nothing but a diaper, and address the masses of stuffed animals she would carefully arrange into an audience.  Her first word was “Attention”. Stretching out her arm and pointer-finger before them, she would pretend to quiet the crowd before babbling a crucially important message.  I used to call it her Emperor Game.

Watching Erin begin a new chapter of her life, I realize that her Emperor Game was only a preview.  There will be much more to watch as the years go on and she takes to the podium once again.  Every day, she learns and grows from her experiences and no doubt she will continue to make her voice heard.  And to that end, I am prepared.

I’ve stocked up on plenty of antacids.

My name is Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer.

Writer, Researcher and heartburn patient!

Who Shot JB?

When the pandemic began, I eagerly awaited the vaccine.  It was 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:

#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!

My Blue-Ribbon Vagina

I have a confession to make.  One of my favorite things to do is to read gossip.  It started as a marketing research project years ago to help me understand what people in my fundraising communities valued and found important.  It was all very innocent when I would come across a little blurb about my zombie walk here or there on social media or through the grapevine.  Some of them gave me a little giggle and I would even use ideas generated from the rumor mill  to improve my community reach and publicity.  I still use it today when I freelance and it rarely lets me down.  One of my favorite subjects to come across are rumors about myself.  They are always good entertainment.

When my local county attorney filed charges against a former friend for stealing money and jewelry from me, I heard plenty. 

“Hang on to your hubbies, ladies…”

“She’s sleeping with…”

“And she’s sleeping with…”

“And she’s sleeping with…”

At first, I found it sad that a grown woman who up until then called herself my best friend would take to Facebook in retaliation.  Retaliation for what? The idea was almost absurd.  I couldn’t help but crack a smile as the rants betrayed a maturity best described as a bastardized relationship between 50 Shades of Gray and Sweet Valley High.   

The conversation in the comments were even better.  I have wondered about these commentators-people I don’t know.  I even read with interest a heated exchange between two followers over whether or not my sexual partners were anyone else’s business.  It was entertaining to be sure but it also made one thing perfectly clear:

I have the best vagina in southeast Kansas!

If the catty comments on FaceBook are to be believed (and you know everything you see on the internet must be true) I have a line of potential lovers lined up outside my house, probably stretching around the block.  It explains the increasing cost of gasoline in my area (these guys need to fill their tank more often to make the trip!) and the persistent economic slump in my tiny town.  Geographic isolation? Lack of big industry?  No grocery store?  Nope.  The reason my town is so economically depressed is the fact that every man for miles is waiting their turn to tap this!

I assure you the title was not bestowed upon me voluntarily.  I never entered my lady-parts in a pageant, never submitted a resume of my carnal accomplishments, nor have I ever submitted a ‘head shot’. I do not recall parading its talent in any tournament in order to win such an honor.  I haven’t entered it in any agility contests, it’s never placed in any spelling bees nor has it ever performed on America’s Got Talent.   As such, I must certainly have been recognized for my diligence, perseverance, overall quality and hard work.  Just ask those who contributed their two-cents.  They certainly seemed to be posting night and day, but were they doing anything else?  Apparently not to my standards of excellence in the sack!

What makes me even more impressed by the ‘award’ is the face that my vagina is still so well behaved.  It has never gone off leash, never brought a fan home and never in the least acted like a diva.  I’m very proud of its humble, down-to-earth nature, never let it be said that success went to its…head.

As for the creator of the posts and other supporters?  Judging from the array, those other commenting must have placed far behind mine with obviously less than spectacular vaginas.  I can only guess they feel their loss was because the contest had been reduced to a popularity contest.  That’s probably true, as there are no doubt far more people following the exploits of my vagina than theirs!

So as the crowned winner of the title of the Best Piece of Tail in Southeast Kansas, let me assure the nomination committee on FaceBook that I will dutifully and faithfully carry out the tasks of my prestigious office until my reign is over and a successor assumes her rightful place.  Rest assured when the time comes I will put a leash on my vagina as a precaution and keep it restrained for the duration of the ceremony.  No need for a title match, right?

I’m Jennifer Beck and I’m Jenuinely Jennifer. 

Writer, researcher, and reining champion!

Update: Shortly after this piece was composed, I received a text from my angry ex which read in part: “Please share this with your boyfriend in Tulsa and KC or how many you have.  They should know what a narcissistic ass you are.” 

I think I just won a Tri-State title!