I am unfortunate enough to have Coventry Health Care as my provider. “Provider…” ha, that’s rich. All they provide me with is headaches and a monthly bill for healthcare that I can barely use.

I learned my lesson the hard way last year when I called to find out if a specific test was covered, told it was, but was NOT told that the cost of that test would not be paid for, but rather, would be applied to my deductible. Had I known that little nugget of information, I would have not had the test.

So now, I call to check on everything. That being said, before my daughter went back to college I wanted to get her eyes checked, so I called Coventry and asked. The man on the phone told me that my girls are covered through the age of 19, at which point I said, “Great! She turns 20 next week, so I can just get her in under the wire.” He laughed and agreed that it sounded like a good plan.

I had to jump through quite a few hoops to get her an appointment before her 20th birthday, but I got it done. I get her to the appointment and hand over my insurance card. A few moments later the receptionist calls me over to tell me that under my insurance, the eye appointment isn’t covered.


I immediately get on the phone with Coventry, where they once again, cannot even find my insurance via my member ID. The woman on the phone informs me that under my plan, pediatric eye care ends at 16. I explain to her that I had called just the week before and was told that she was covered through her 20th birthday. She says, “Sorry! That’s wrong.”

So I have to go in and cancel the appointment. I felt like such an asshole, but there was no way I was going to chance having to be responsible for the cost of this eye exam. After apologizing profusely for wasting their time, my daughter and I left the doctor’s office and headed back to my work.

I was pissed. I had just blown my lunch hour and wasted my daughter’s afternoon. I called hubby who was equally pissed – he had to take time out of his day to drop my daughter off at my work so we could make this appointment. He said, “I’m calling Coventry.”

To which I replied, “Don’t waste your time. I can’t get the appointment back, and they’re not going to do anything anyway. They are the Healthcare System….they make it their business NOT to care.”

But he called anyway, demanding that they pay for my daughter’s eye exam, because they had told us we were covered.  He kept upgrading to supervisors and managers until he finally got a woman who was willing to pull the tape of my initial phone call too see if this guy had misinformed me. She assured us that someone would call us back within 48 hours.

That was August 18th.

My husband, refusing to give up this fight, called several more times, wasting countless hours, and each time a Coventry employee assured him that a manager would be back in touch with him. Guess how many managers called back? Zero!

It all came to a headthis past Friday afternoon. Without taking up too much more of your time, I will tell you the two lies Coventry told us.

LIE 1: Had we just gone ahead with the appointment, Coventry would have paid for it in the long-run. I will wait for you to stop laughing before I continue.

I have a feeling someone finally did listen to that tape and heard the guy tell me she was covered up to the last day of her 19th year. That is the only reason why this person would be saying this, other than they really wanted to get us the hell off the phone. This is like 4:30 on a Friday afternoon, and my husband and I are RUINING the start of their weekend.

There is no way in hell I would EVER had continued on with the appointment. I know how these asshole companies run – I learned that last year. I’m still paying off a $550 cardiology bill for services they said were “covered.”

I argued this point saying that I had called Coventry while AT the doctor’s office, and was told that she wasn’t covered, so why would I be so stupid as to go ahead with the appointment? And this is where lie #2 came in, just minutes after we were told that she would have been covered,

LIE 2: Because I made that phone call asking if she was covered from the doctors office, I was no longer misinformed about my coverage, thus freeing Coventry of any wrong doing. Because in their eyes, during the second conversation I had with a Coventry employee, I was told correct information. Therefore I was aware of their policy and have no platform on which to complain.

Except I was already AT the doctor, and I had lost hours of my time because someone on your end is a fucking idiot and told me I had until the day before her 20th birthday to get her eyes checked. In other words, because I did my due-diligence TWICE, Coventry was free and clear of any wrong doing.

Yeah, I hate Coventry. And before any of you get on an Obamacare soap box, know this. I LIKE that I can get relatively affordable health care. I pay $365 per month, which absolutely kills us financially. It leaves us with little to no money for anything fun at the end of the month. But if it weren’t for the President’s plan, I’d never be able to afford anything, because it would most likely be $700 or $800 per month for the same shitty coverage.

At least with this coverage if I get hit by a bus, I may not lose my house. I will close with this…If you have a job with an even marginal health care plan, be very, very thankful.


You know those Facebook friends you have that aren’t really friends of yours? Maybe they’re someone you worked with ages ago, yet never see anymore, or someone who went to your same high school, but were a grade or two above or below you?

I have a ton of those. A lot of them I’ve unfriended, either because their narrow-minded views have offended me, or they post a lot of bullshit meme’s that I don’t want to see.

But one girl that I barely knew did something super cool for me yesterday.

I didn’t know her at all, really. I knew of her family, who lived about 4 blocks over from me. I went to her brother’s wedding back in the early 90s, only because I was dating a good friend of his and I was his date. I got food poisoning at that wedding too, but that’s another story.

I don’t know if I friended her, or she me. All I know is she’s been in my feed for years now. I’ve seen her son grow up. I’ve seen her cats grow up. I know she’s into rescuing animals. But again, we don’t really know each other personally.

A week or so ago, she posted photos of her son and his friends enjoying ice cream at Bischoff’s – a fantastic ice cream parlor in Teaneck, NJ. We used to go to Bischoff’s often when I was a child, so I commented on her photo, asking if they still had the candy counter in the front of the store. She said they still did, and it’s as if time had stood still – it still looks the same. I then commented on how my dad used to get the best button licorice there, and how it came in a white box with a “Bischoff’s” label on it.

I came home from work yesterday, tired and annoyed, and my daughter says, “There’s a package for you.” I know I hadn’t ordered anything, but sometimes my friend John will send me little things in the mail – a book, a magazine – so I figured it was from him.

What was inside was a white box with a Bischoff’s label on it, and inside that box was an assortment of licorice swirls. I checked the return address on the envelope, and there was my Facebook friend’s name and return address. She had read my reply to her post and actually took the time to buy me licorice from Bischoff’s.

I barely know this woman…I may have briefly spoken to her over 20 years ago at her brother’s wedding…yet she sent me licorice. I’m not sure how she got my address, but she sleuthed it out of some mutual friend, went to the post office and mailed me licorice.

It’s astounding.

I PM’ed her via Facebook, profusely thanking her, and telling her if she wants ANYTHING from Virginia to let me know. Her response was…

Hearing how happy it made you is all its about!! Glad you liked them, wasn’t sure what licorice buttons were, they called them wheel but I figured like everything in life they just got a bit larger!”

In my book, this gal is solid gold. Anybody who is nice enough to do something like this is a very special kind of person. And regardless of what she posts on Facebook, I won’t ever unfriend her.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “First Crush.” Who was your first childhood crush? What would you say to that person if you saw him/her again?

I liked boys early. By the first grade I had my very first crush. His name was Bruce…he was blonde, and cute, and, of course,  had no clue that I existed.

And he turned out to be my brother-in-law.

Yes, almost 25 years later, I married the brother of the boy I had my first crush on…which to me is mind-blowing because Bruce was someone I had held a grudge against for years. Yeah, that first grade crush didn’t last for too long.

When I was in high school, I was very aware of my social status in the hierarchy of cliques. In short, Bruce was a popular jock, and I was a nobody. That alone could cause me to foster resentment against him. The fact the was dating Brenda, a girl I did not care for from my days on the volleyball team, did not help his case any.

One day in gym we were playing softball. I was pitching, and he stepped up to the plate. I threw one in the strike zone, which he caught in his hand, and as he hurled it back to me said, “Can’t you throw any harder than that?”

What a turd, right? That pretty much sealed the deal – I hated this guy.

My sophomore year I had to have surgery. I had an ovarian cyst, and had been cut open from hip bone to hip bone. I was not allowed to participate in gym for 6 weeks in order to allow my incision to heal. My first day back we were playing ulitmate frisbee under the guidance of a substitute, who looked just like Sam the butcher from the Brady Bunch.

I was taking it easy. However, at one point Bruce had the frisbee and I managed to corner him in the gym, my arms blocking him as he pivoted to try and find a way to throw the frisbee. Next thing I know, he leans into me, and jabs me with his elbow right in the gut….and my incision.

The area of the surgery was still pretty tender, and I went down fast and hard. I told the teacher I needed to go to the nurse, explaining that I had just had surgery and that Bruce had elbowed me hard. Yes, I was hoping to get him trouble, but this was a substitute, who really didn’t care. The incident pretty much went unoticed.

As I sat in the nurse’s office with an ice pack on my abdomen, I was seething with anger. In my eyes this was a deliberate attack. Didn’t he know that I just had surgery? Hadn’t he noticed that I hadn’t been in gym class for almost two months? Did he need to win a game of ulitmate frisbee that badly? Plus, he hadn’t even gotten in trouble! These are the thoughts that swirled through my 15 year old head as my belly throbbed. And Bruce? He was now officially an enemy.

Years later I would see Bruce from time to time. My sister’s husband played on a softball team with Bruce, and a majority of his six brothers. I’d sit in the stands and watch him will a cool eye of hatred. He’d say hi to me sometimes, and I give him a nonchalant “‘s’up” in return, not really wanting to acknowledge him at all. Part of me felt stupid about it. After all, the frisbee incident had happened years and years ago, but I just couldn’t seem to forgive and forget.

Then a few years later, I met his brother Brian, who eventually became my husband. I’ll never forget when we planned a trip down to Florida to visit Bruce for the first time, before we were married. I was so nervous! I’d told Brian about the frisbee story, and he just chuckled at it, saying it would be good for a laugh when were were down visiting Bruce.

Let me tell you, it was super surreal staying in the house of a guy I had hated so vehemently in high school. But he was really nice, and very friendly. I met his wife and his two children, we went to the beach and had a nice couple of days. During a night filled with “remember when’s” I told him the story of how he elbowed me in gym.

He had absolutely no recollection of it. At first I found that astonishing. How could he not remember the act that I had harbored such indignation towards for all these years? But then I really thought about it.

Had he known I’d had surgery? Probably not – I was totally off his radar. To him, all he was doing was playing frisbee, and trying to win. What I saw as a deliberate and mean-spirited attack was nothing more than an offensive maneuver to him;  something so insignificant that he did not store it in the old memory bank.

Funny, right? Funny how two people could view the same incident in totally different ways. Now? Out of all my husband’s brothers he’s one of my favorites. And when I think back to Bruce cockily throwing the ball back to me and asking if I could pitch any harder, I want to laugh out loud. Because if you had told me that he was going to be my brother in law one day, I might have just fainted in disbelief.


Every morning when I take my 3 mile walk, I see no less than 5 people walking their dogs. There is the old lady with the shih zu, the couple with the hound dogs, and the man with the 3 crazy white shnauzers. He knows his dogs are crazy, so he crosses the street when we pass.

This morning I learned how thankful I am that he takes his role as a dog owner seriously – especially when you know your pets are high strung.

As I was rounding a corner this morning a woman with two very large dogs was attempting to walk them. I say “attempting” because both of these animals were somewhat maniacal, and she was getting yanked to and fro like a rag doll. I was a little concerned, but she was on the other side of the street, so I figured I’d be safe.

But once the golden retreiver noticed me, and saw that I was turning onto “his” street, he jumped towards me. Not only was his leash freakishly long, but the woman had absolutely no control as she was getting yanked in the opposite direction by the other very large dog on a very long leash.

The golden retreiver jumped up on me, and I put both hands up and simultaneously pushed away with a “hey puppy!” – trying to seem friendly rather than threatened. I immediately felt a sting on the side of my boob as I quickly walked away. I figured he must have gouged me with a claw – but you know what? I think that little turd actually bit me.

When I got a little further down the road I checked out my boobie – sure enough I could see the beginnings of a bruise. But once I got home and in the shower, I noticed a smaller red mark higher up, which to me indicates a bite rather than a claw.

I’m thankful that I had one of my heavy-duty bras on this morning – I think had I not, he may have broken the skin. I also noticed his leash was the kind included a strap that went over his muzzle…that might have saved me a little too. If his mouth was unrestrained I might be talking stitches…and lawsuits. Cause my insurance sucks.

I’m telling you, if I see this woman with her lunatic dogs again, I am stopping dead in my tracks with my arms up until she is safely past. Because unlike the man with the 3 crazy schnauzers, she seems totally unaware that not only are her dogs nuts, but that they need to be walked one at a time and on a very short leash.

Or maybe if I see her, I’ll just turn around and walk someplace safer.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Take a Chance on Me.” – What’s the biggest chance you ever took? Did it work out? Do tell!

This one is sort of a “no duh” for me.

My freshman year at the University of Delaware was less than stellar. As I entered into my sophomore year I realized I wasn’t very happy there. I had few friends and felt as if I really didn’t fit into this semi-Southern, über Preppy atmosphere. Remember, I’m a loud-mouth from New Jersey.

I was seriously looking into transfering when I saw a flyer in the student center for the study abroad program. You could travel to Costa Rica, London, or Vienna. That sounded wonderful to me, so I attended the interest meeting. After gathering all the financial/travel information, I called my parents and ran the idea past them.

Dad was willing to let me go, but only if I went to Vienna because it was a hop, skip & jump to his homeland of Czechoslovakia. If I got accepted into the program it was decided that I would spend 3 weeks after the semester at my cousin Stello’s house in what is now Slovakia. I was so excited at the prospect of travelling to Europe and attending school! Seeing art and culture outside of the Eastern US was a dream come true!

But I was also scared. And I got more and more scared as the spring semester drew near. There were times when I seriously doubted whether or not I should go. I was going to be totally alone for months…no trips home, no familiar faces, and let’s not forget the language barrier. I was required to take at least one German course before leaving.

There was also a problem with credits. It turns out that the courses I would be studying while in Vienna would largely not apply to my degree. So it would almost be like a waste of the entire semester, except for the fact that I would be having a life-changing cultural experience.

Lots of the other students attending the program were equally miffed about the credits not being applicable and complaints were lodged. The University was going to decide if an acception could be made, and that’s when I made the deal with myself.

If the University allowed the credits to be used, I would go. If not, I’d back out.

Eight weeks later, with a month of German under my belt, I flew out of JFK airport on my way to Vienna. It was the scariest thing I’d ever done, but to this day, the most rewarding.

Not only because of all the sights I saw, and the people I met, but because I really learned that I could stand on my own. I could manage my own money, I could make my own travel plans, and I could get along in a city where I didn’t really know the language all that well.

I came back to school a junior, and a much different person. I had travelled. I was worldly. And the folks around me? They had spent their spring in Newark, Delaware. I’d been in Vienna, and Rome and Basel.

Oh, yeah, and Czechoslovakia. I really learned how to stand on my own there.

And here’s my parting advice…if your school offers this opportunity, TAKE IT.


Thoughts & Prayers

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “No, Thank You.” which asked…If you could permanently ban a word from general usage, which one would it be? Why?

Let me start this off by saying I am NOT against prayer…or thoughts for that matter.

I am just against the banal (def: so lacking in originality as to be obvious and boring) use of the phrases shown above.

These phrases have become a Facebook phenomenon. If someone is sick or has lost a pet their Facebook post becomes a never ending feed of varying forms of the phrase “thoughts & prayers”…kinda like this:

My thoughts and prayers are with you!
Thoughts and prayers…
Thoughts and prayers :(
Thoughts and prayers.
So Sorry :( Prayers!
My thoughts and prayers are with you.

Which is great…it’s fabulous in sentiment. When something lousy happens to a friend, you are thinking about them…and you might even send up a silent plea to whomever you call God. And that’s great.

But come on… it’s not really original, is it? I mean, isn’t this your friend? Couldn’t you come up with something a little more personal than echoing the 19 posts that came before yours?

Uff – maybe I just sound like a bitch – but to me simply writing “thoughts and prayers” is a total cop out. It takes zero thought.

For instance, when someone has a birthday on Facebook, I almost NEVER write “Happy Birthday!” I always strive to make it personal and funny. Sometimes it takes me most of the day to find the right birthday greeting for that particular person. Any slob can write “Happy Birthday.” That’s just as easy as saying “Bless You” after a sneeze.

But I know the people I send birthday greetings to really appreciate my special touch…they comment on them, and tell me that they always look forward to seeing what I’ll come up with this year.

So, if God forbid something catastrophic happens to a friend, take the time to craft a nice personal message. Don’t just type in “thoughts and prayers” and then scroll on down your page and take a BuzzFeed quiz. Even if it’s bible scripture, or part of a poem, it’s going to be more heartfelt than another warmed over serving of “thoughts & prayers!”

Take the time, and make them know you are really thinking of them.

Oh, and if this doesn’t fly then my vote is for the Bachelor to go through an entire season where nobody uses the phrase “looking for love” or “I’m here to find love.”

and it that doesn’t fly, then everyone needs to stop using the phrase “At the end of the day.”

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This morning on the news, I saw something that really disgusted me to my core. Do you see the above photo? These signs were hung outside the Sigma Nu house at Old Dominion University right here in beautiful Virginia to “welcome” the incoming Freshman girls.

It raises a few questions for me, first of which is how the hell is this fucked up behavior still tolerated? Was there not ONE frat brother who was like, “Doood, this is NOT a good idea?”

Apparently not, because while we live in a world where political correctness runs rampant, having respect for women is seemingly off the table; it’s behavior excused as boys being boys! It’s just college fun n’ games! Whoo-hoo! Par-tay!

Let me tell you something. When I was a Freshman at University of Delaware, my roomates invited me to go with them to a party at the ATO house. Some guys they went to high school with were members. I was excited to be going…my first week at school and here I was going to a frat party!

I talked with one boy for an hour or two, and when he asked if I wanted to see his room, I said sure. Once inside the dark room, instead of the light being flipped on, the door slammed behind me and I felt several pairs of hands reaching out for me. Seems this little frat boy had a plan of attack with this other ATO brothers – namely get a girl to your room and let the gang bang begin!

Luckily I was able to claw my way out the door, but not before I was given a very hard shove to my back which sent me stumbling down a small set of stairs on the opposite side of the hallway. My shoulder strap on my dress was torn, and I had the start of a bruise on my knee.

I found my roomates and told them what happened and that I was going home. I also told them that I was going to complain to whichever dean I needed to in order to get these guys in trouble. They begged me not to, as their association with me, if I caused trouble, would mess up their great connection to one of the biggest frat houses on campus.

I was a freshman and wanted to make friends, so I stupidly allowed myself to be placated. After some kind words from the ATO house mother and apologies from the president of the chapter, I made my way back to my dorm feeling stupid and ashamed.

If this story sounds familiar, it’s because it is the same scenario as was in the now famously debunked Rolling Stone article. You know what? You will never be able to convince me that that story didn’t have any truth to it. I bet you there are tons of UVA alumni who could attest to some serious sexual assault at the hand of those darling little frat boys.

And what about that case going on in New Hampshire? More priveledged little jackholes who are smart enough to get into a prestigious school, but somehow don’t know the meaining of the word “no.” It boggles the mind the license boys and men feel they can take with the opposite sex. Senior Salute…sounds like a fine fucking American tradition!

To this day I despise the Greek system. So when Bill Maher made this speech in a recent episode of Real Time, I was practically giving him a standing ovation in my living room. In today’s society there is no room for this type of bullshit. Period.

And let me say this, if your son attends Old Dominion, and is a member of Sigma Nu? You need to take a very long look in the mirror and try to figure out where you dropped the ball in raising your son.

Now scroll back up and take another look at that photo. See the guy standing at the front door? If there is such a thing as Karma, he is a very pissed of father.

Epilogue – 9/1/2015

Just found this picture from the University of Delaware move in weekend. I am so ashamed that my alma mater has not changed since 1982 – they still let in priviledged shit heads.

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Green-Eyed Monster.”

So, you know how on Facebook you can unfollow a person, but remain friends?

Yeah, I use that feature a lot. First, I use it to avoid people who constantly post nothing but inane meme’s about “Bein’ American” or “Obama is the devil! Share if you Agree!”

Oh, and it’s also really good for those people who post 12 old photos of themselves everyday, even though it’s not #TBT. It’s like, ugh – how many photos of you do I have to see back when you had a smoking body, even though you still have a smoking body?

But the folks I’ve been unfollowing lately? They are the well-travelled Facebook Friends.

These are folks who usually don’t post on Facebook unless they are in France, or Italy, or some other great vacation destination. When they are not clogging up my wall with scenes of Venice and Bordeaux, they are showing off their thoroughbreads, or their pedigree dogs, or their 4th car.

And it drives me nuts.

Am I a jealous douchebag for unfollowing them? Maybe yes, maybe no. All I know is as I sit at my desk, having spent my one week’s vacation already, and knowing I have like 46 more weeks of sitting at my desk before I get to go somewhere that will ultimately not be terribly exciting, I feel no remorse for unfollowing them.

So there.


Since the beginning of the month, I decided I would try to walk at least 3 miles each day. I came up with this plan when I realized that in order for me to hit a total of 1,000 miles walked by end of the year, I’d have to really commit to going out every day, AND walk a sizeable distance.

I know it’s a long shot, because it gives me little wiggle room for sickness or just plain being too busy. And let’s face it…walking can be boring. But I have found the solution to making walking up and down the same streets every single day less monotonous.


Not Risk the game. No, I’m talking about the podcast. I discovered it at the beginning of the summer while searching for a new story-telling podcast. I got hooked on this wonderous form of entertainment when librivox ran out of interesting (and dated) audiobooks for me to listen to. After years of Eleanor H. Porter, Lucy Maude Montgomery, Horatio Alger Jr and various books by the Brontë sisters, I needed some fresh material.

I had discovered a few really good podcasts, which I wrote about here, but eventually I had run through all the episodes. My favorite of the bunch was the Porchlight Storytelling series, which was comprised of fairly average folks standing up in front of an audience to tell a true-life story, not lasting longer than 10 minutes.

Screen Shot 2015-08-19 at 1.16.44 PMAfter exhausting every episode, I had to find a new place to hang my podcast hat. After a quick Google search and the following BuzzFeed recommendation, I quickly plugged in my iPod and subscribed to several of the suggested podcasts. I don’t know why I started with Risk! Maybe because it was adverstised as “Bold Stories from Bold People.” Perhaps it’s because I am decidedly “unbold.” (see yesterday’s post)

Anyhoo – after the first episode, I was hooked. Now I am officially binge listening. I loaded my little iPod with as many episodes as it could possibly hold.

Many of the stories can be quite kinky – there’s a lot of very frank stories about sex and body parts. But it’s not all cock, balls, tits and ass. There are stories about personal growth, and abuse; stories about shitting your pants, having a child, or making a friend.

I never know if I’m going to bust out laughing or shed a tear – both of which can seem odd when you are just walking around the neighborhood. All I know is that for the hour it takes me to walk the 3 miles every morning, I’m am usually so engaged in the stories these wonderful people are sharing with me, that before I know it, I’m back home. And thanks to this podcast, it all seemed so effortless.

Eventaully I will run out of RISK! episodes and be stuck waiting for a new episode like every other shmoe out there. Sigh. Thank goodness there’s still at least 10 more seemingly good podcasts to go.

I’ve got a lot of miles to cover.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Break the Silence.”

The other day my daughter and I were doing some food shopping, and as we turned to go down the bread aisle, we came across a family of four. Mom and dad were selecting pull ups while their older son (I’d say around 5) was mashing their younger son’s (I’d say 2 1/2) head into the bread shelves.

Now when I say mashing, this kid has his brother, who had a pacifier in his mouth, by the back of the neck and was forcing his head into the shelf while his body pressed fully against his back. This little fucker meant business. The little brother, head facing towards us, was grimmacing in pain and crying.

My reaction? I looked at the older brother and said, “awwwww” in sort of a “how could you do that to your little brother?” fashion. Then the mom looked at me, and told her son to “quit it.” As I grabbed my bread, I quietly said to my daughter, “I feel so sorry for that little boy – he doesn’t stand a chance with a bully like that for a brother.”

The scenario I just laid out is about as involved as I get when there’s trouble around. I rarely push my nose into other people’s business to add in my two cents mainly because I don’t like it when other people do it to me. Had I said something to the mother, she’d more than likely would have told me to piss off and I would have spent the rest of the day feeling like shit. Or, I would have said something snotty back.

I won’t start it….but I certainly can finish it.

For instance, once a lady got all in my grill as I was getting in my car for not returning my “buggy” to the cart corale. I had instead, leaned it up against a post next to my car. (And sorry, but in my eyes only a dipshit calls it a “buggy”). I looked at her and said, “You know what? I have cramps and am currently bleeding through my pants. Tough shit.”

While I had no trouble talking back to her, I find it near to impossible to initate something like this. It is not my place to school people on how to live their life. I hate people who do that – but I gotta say, I admire them as well.

One time at work, many years back, I had to speak up about the lack of work that was being done by the people in my department. I was doing the lion’s share of the work, and I knew I had to confront them. But my trouble lies in being the accuser…I just can’t seem to do it. I could barely get the words out – it was as if my throat had closed up, and I began to cry.

Yet if the tables had been turned and someone pointed the finger at me? I would have had no problem opening up a can of whoop ass. I guess because when you defend yourself, you are justified. But if you point the finger? You are a bitch.

Here’s an example; I could sit on my front porch and watch a guy let his dog crap on my lawn and I would not yell at him to pick it up. That’s how I roll. Afterwards I’d think of all sorts of scenarios where I tell the guy off and come out the big hero, but in real life I’d never actually confront him.

On the other side of the coin, if I have something good/helpful to tell you, no problemo. You drop your wallet? I’ll hand it back to you. Left your gas cap open? I’ll honk and point it out. Have one item in the check out line? Of course you can go in front of me.

But if you have something in your teeth or your tag is hanging out, my lips will usually stay zipped because although helpful, that could cause you embarassment and that’s where it all falls apart for me. I’m so odd.

Last fall a UVA student, Hannah Graham, was murdered in our town. You may have heard of her. There were several witnesses that saw her drunk and saw her being taken away by the man that eventually (I should say allegedly, but I won’t) killed her. All these people saw her, and nobody questioned who this man was, or asked if she needed help. And off she stumbled to her death, with her killer’s arm around her.

But who am I to assign blame…had I been there, she’d still be dead. I wouldn’t have said anything either.

Yep, I am as spineless as they come. Maybe that’s why I never went very far in life.


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